Father Taylor

Growing up in a predominately Protestant county you wouldn't think that my favorite childhood friend would be a Catholic priest. In fact, most people in my county at that time probably didn't even know there was a Catholic priest.

My mother was the clerk for the local Kentucky Utilities office and met people from all over as they came in to pay their bills.  A talented and meticulous bookkeeper, she sometimes would pick up a little extra money helping with little bookkeeping chores. This combination led to her being contacted to do a job helping out a small, Catholic church at Ottenheim, a little community out in the county.  It seems that it was a small church, but they needed a little assistance in organizing their finances (before computers and Quicken people actually established budgets and ledgers by hand!).

The evening of her first visit came and she loaded me into the car and we set off to see what the job would entail.  I wasn't sure why I was along but was thrilled to spend the time with mother and get to explore a new section of the county.  We drove, for what seemed forever, on the little winding, narrow roads of the time into the hilly area settled by the Swiss in the early 1900's.  We eventually arrived at a small, white church on the edge of the little community.  Nestled next to the church was a small, frame house with the porch light on.  We exited the car and hand in hand approached the front door.  There we were greeted by a tall man dressed neatly in a black suit. 

Mother explained that she would be doing some work for Father Taylor and I was to play quietly with my books and toys.  I accepted this, as I looked around the neat room, all the while casting glances at the man she called "father".  Although his hair was white, he really didn't look old enough to be given the honorific of "father" or "grandfather".  In the south, particularly during this era, older people were often called by "uncle", "aunt", or "grandfather" to denote respect, as well as, friendship. 

Thus began my friendship with Father Taylor. 

On subsequent visits a routine was established.  We would arrive, mother and Father Taylor would confer about their project and then he would leave her to work and join me on the other side of the little living room.  His housekeeper would usually leave a snack ready and we would sit and visit while I ate.  He would listen as I prattled on about my interests and answer patiently the thousands of questions that a child can dream up.  I learned that he was "married" to the church and didn't have a wife or children of his own (which was ok with me --no competition.)  He could cook but it upset his housekeeper for him to mess up her kitchen, so he just let her do it all.  He grew up in a city but loved learning how to live out in the country. He loved books, music, and kite flying.  Our conversations were endless.

He hadn't always been a rural priest.  He had served during World War II as a Chaplin.  Many of my friends had fathers who had served during the war, so this wasn't that unusual.  Most of these men came quietly home and went back to work supporting their families.  Little was said about their time away, they just went on with their lives.  Father Taylor was one of the few I met who could talk about that time.  He would often tell me child appropriate stories of life in the military and some of the places he had been.  It was much later that I came to realize that there was much that he left out but he did his best to satisfy a child's curiosity.

Mother's struggles with the budget, finances and book-balancing came to a head when she sadly announced that there simply wasn't enough money coming in to support their little congregation.  Rather than seeing this as a problem, Father Taylor embraced it as an opportunity.  "Let's have a carnival as a fund-raiser!"  His little congregation, feeling isolated in so many Protestants, demurred.  Mother, fearing his disappointment, demurred. While I, sensing some fun, cheered!

Seeing an opportunity to encourage an exchange of ideas and understanding with their neighbors in the county he spent the next few weeks begging, cajoling, and bribing contributions and help from everyone he could corner. No one escaped.  The high school band was organized to come and play.  The school chorus was drafted to provide some songs.  Local businessmen found themselves donating prizes for the games and promising to bring their children out for the evening.  Various parents were sweet talked into bringing their kid's ponies in for pony rides.  Housewives baked cakes and pies, while their husbands fired up their grills for hot dogs and hamburgers.  Young adults were drafted to man the games, such as fish, ring toss, and darts,

The night arrived and I was about out of control with excitement.  Our whole family came, with daddy helping with the grilling and mother serving as cashier for the night.  My sister immediately took off with some older kids while I started on my round of the activities.  The object wasn't to make a fortune, since the games were anywhere from a penny to a dime.  The cake walk may have been a little higher, but since I had no interest in a cake, I took my carefully hoarded pennies, nickels, and dimes to the games.  In a short time I had amassed a collection of treasures.  The best being an ink pen of my very own!

That night stands out in my childhood memories as a moment of excitement and pleasure.  What I realize now is that it was a shinning example of the spirit and heart of small communities.  One man's vision and enthusiasm had created something special for the people involved.  Neighbor helping neighbor and having a bit of fun at the same time.

It wasn't long before the little church found a bookkeeper among their flock and mother no longer needed to make the trip to help.  My contact with Father Taylor was limited after that although I probably saw him occasionally, but like kids do, I had moved on to other things.  However,  the impression he made on me, as he talked to me as a person, not just a child, will remain forever.

Thanks, Father Taylor, for being my friend.