Though my parents were not church-goers, they did not object to their children dipping their toes into whichever religious waters interested them.  Thus it was, beginning in the early fifties when I was ten or eleven, that I started attending the Sunday morning service at All Saints Episcopal Church on 46th Street, where Father George Knight was the priest.  

 

          After about six months of attending Sunday School and the church service, I was invited to join the Junior Choir.  I liked the long black cassocks and white surplices we wore, and I loved Miss Pratt who was the organist and choir director, and the first person to encourage me to give singing a try.  There was some discord in the relationship between Miss Pratt and Father Knight of which we were all unaware.  This came to light for me in a very dramatic way.

 

          One Sunday, Miss Pratt had not yet arrived at the church when the service began.  We got through the first two hymns without her accompaniment fairly creditably as we were familiar with both of them.  As time neared for us to sing the hymn for the collection, all of us were twittering anxiously because this was a hymn none of us knew at all.

 

          At the last second, the door coming from the sacristy burst open, and Miss Pratt rushed up past us on her way to the organ.  We all gasped with relief, and exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Pratt, thank goodness you’re here!”  As she passed by us, obviously distressed and distracted, she reached out blindly, and inadvertently administered a stinging slap on my cheek which resounded through the church with a sharp crack like a gunshot.  Quiet as it had been, with that one move, Miss Pratt brought even more attention to a situation she had unintentionally created in the first place.

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          Though very surprised, I was not much hurt, and realized pretty quickly that the slap hadn’t been aimed specifically at me, but rather in response to the general uproar.  We made it through the rest of the service and the recessional without further trouble.  Once back in the robing room, a very upset Miss Pratt, tears in her eyes, came and embraced me, apologizing profusely for what had happened.  I hugged her back, told her I understood, and left for home.  After a quick lunch, I walked to meet my friend Jane Saul for our weekly trip to the Bliss movie theater and the double feature showing that week.

 

          Arriving home again at about four, I was asked by my dad how church had gone that morning.   “Fine,” I replied, a little taken aback as I’d never been asked this before.

          “Anything unusual happen?” he asked.

          “No,” I answered warily, not wanting to get an adult I really liked in trouble.

          “Why are you lying to me?” my dad demanded.  “Didn’t you get slapped in the face by the choir director?  Wouldn’t you call that something unusual?”

          “How did you know?” I gasped, too surprised to pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about.

          “Father Knight came here to tell us what happened and to apologize,” he said.

          Now I was truly stunned and amazed.  “Father Knight came here?” I asked, incredulous.  “What did you do?”

          “He knocked on the door, and I said, ‘Come in,’ and he did.  We shook hands, and I asked him if he’d like a beer.”

          At this point, I was truly mortified.  The thought of Father Knight in our living room with my blue jean- and flannel shirt-clad, Sunday-Times-crossword-puzzle-doing, beer-drinking parents was more than I could bear, and I gasped out, “What did he say?”

          “He said, ‘Yes, please,’ answered my dad, moving into teasing mode and enjoying my discomfiture.

          Making sure I hadn’t sustained any permanent harm from my experience that morning, and completely understanding why I did not  tell my parents, my dad released me to the haven of the playground on our block.  A softball game was sure to be in full swing, and I went out to join my friends in more worldly fun.

 

          Miss Pratt did not come off so well.  She lost her job, and I lost the only person who encouraged me to sing until I got to ninth grade and the chance to be part of the cast of The Mikado.  But that’s a tale for another time.