Fun drive

No steeple, no sexton, and burst pipes, the vestry at All Faiths tries to fix things

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

In Tritown, spiritual hunger is dealt with the same brisk dispatch that the other variety is. Need an afternoon fix? Go to Happy's Coffee & Qwik-Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee). Need a spiritual oil change? Visit the leading religious edifice in town, All Faiths (formerly the "Presby-Congo-Metho-Baps" until the Unitarians and a small and ambitious Episcopal crowd joined). Now the hymns are all-inclusive every fourth Sunday. The Communion bread is homemade rye. And the wine is grape juice, except for Easter week when it's two percent alcohol. The service lasts anywhere from 45 minutes to two hours, depending on which sect is in the ascendancy. (The occasional liturgical scandal in nearby parishes invariably swells the ranks at AF.) Presiding pastor Washburn Henry ("Call me Wash!") is referred to as -- depending on your denomination of origin -- Reverend, Minister, or even Father; but you can call him anything ("Except late for dinner," he jokes).

Hollis the Mountain Man's Aunt Winnie (short for Winnepesaukee, though she can't swim) has long served on the vestry, where the intricacies of church/community relations have been her specialty. All Faiths is famous for the scale and scope of its fundraising bake sales, and the volume and variety of the bi-annual white elephant sale. Yet the physical plant (as referred to in the junior warden's report) is shabby and rundown. A squat, clapboard meetinghouse perched on Tritown's tallest drumlin, All Faiths reflects its spiritual goulash with a stained-glass rosette over the altarpiece and mullioned windows on the side walls. The magnificent belltower lost its steeple in the microburst of 1984, the kneelers are threadbare, and the asthmatic organ wheezes. This winter, the pipes burst during a lengthy freeze, and the resulting damage has put a strain on the furnace even Hollis can't fix.

"If only we had a sexton on the premises again," sighs Winnie at the monthly meeting. "Someone to check the fusebox and scrape the ice. Old Mrs. Harris nearly fell going to prayer circle, and she's already had one hip replaced."

Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) agrees. She has recently joined the vestry as part of her New Year's resolutions (which include gaining upper-body strength to deal with the home repairs since Hollis now has a girlfriend; visiting the sick, the elderly, and the stay-at-homes even more; and starting a mulch pile). Delia is so at home at the vestry, she wishes she'd joined years ago. A sexton would be a fine idea, she agrees. Traditional, yet helpful. But who would want to live in the tiny apartment in the belltower with chambers that are damp and flossy with mildew during the mud months?

"That Lorencz Higginbotham is always around," offers another vestry member. "I remember him being pretty clever with tools back when I was in school." In fact, Lorencz Higginbotham, a/k/a Lorencz the Hermit, specializes in mycology and explosives and has been living in the burnt-out shell of a school bus parked out back of Hollis's lair on Mt. Magoonamitichusimaug (an amalgam of Indian, French, and Algonquin that means "My idiot friend who lives by the bog -- he likes it").

Winnie catches Delia's eye. Decades separate these two women, but their mandate in Tritown is similar: to involve as many locals in community activities no matter how reluctant they may be. Lorencz has no regular job, just a mysterious monthly check from the federal government and a profound indifference toward people. What better than responsibility of a building to give him a sense of purpose?

Pastor Wash listens to the ensuing discussion with his long-practiced expression of benign interest. In fact, he finds these meetings quite useful for letting his mind wander and alight on the subject of his next sermon. Buildings, upkeep, roofing problems, shelter from the cold, spiritual succor . . . his woolgathering is interrupted by treasurer Horace Bosely, who runs the local insurance agency. "There's still the matter of the fund drive," he declares, clearing his throat noisily. "We have 250 families in the parish, but fewer than half give significantly. Perhaps we need to think about some special events to draw interest to the church."

"Not bingo!" snaps Winnie. "For one thing, St. Jimmy's has the lock on that. And I don't want to spend my Wednesday nights hearing `I-17.'"

"No," harrumphs Bosely, straightening his half-glasses more firmly. "I was thinking more along the lines of a `family night,' maybe with dinner and some games."

"You mean Las Vegas night," adds Miss Benson, who serves on the vestry almost as long as Aunt Winnie.

A clamorous discussion begins, and Delia finds herself in the same position she was in so many times in the fourth grade, when the class was willing to argue the relative points of South America's imports. She has the answer, and she speaks. "We haven't had a church supper in a long time," she says. "What about a bean bang-up? Doesn't cost much, and we could have a Yankee auction besides. But something different -- not the usual three-beaner."

"Five-bean supper!" adds Miss Benson. "Our Lady of Pity did a four-bean, and I heard they made hundreds."

"Why stop at six?" asks Pastor Wash. "Fava, kidney, string . . ." (Another sermon, on the variety of God's palette begins to emerge).

Winnie holds up her hand. "We could do something never before attempted in Tritown," she says. "We might even make the news. And wouldn't that help?" At once, all eyes are turned in her direction. She waits, and then speaks:

"A seventeen-bean supper," she pronounces. Shocked silence, and then a round of applause. That would give the town something to talk about.

CONDOLENCES TO the family of John Boursy of Lunenburg, who passed away recently. A 1947 graduate of Holy Cross (where his father taught modern languages) and longtime resident of the town, Boursy spent three decades working in the administration department of Fitchburg State College. He also volunteered his time for many organizations within Lunenburg, including the Library Trustees, the Zoning Board of Appeals, and St. Boniface. At the age of 60, he began teaching business administration at FSC, where a generation of students benefited from his experience and generous pedagogy. He is greatly missed.

Sally Cragin lives in Lunenburg, where she edits Button, New England's tiniest magazine of poetry, fiction, and gracious living.

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