The following day was Sunday, and Mrs. Hawkins invited us to the Methodist church where she’s a member. William declined, preferring instead to get an earlier start, so she and I walked over and listened to the sermon by “Glum the Preacher.” (I don’t actually know if that was his name, or if I named him that. My journal just notes:  “Glum the preacher/ironic because he said God doesn't want us to be sad") 

Although it was morning, I struggled to stay awake and started to nod off. Realizing how conspicuous I was as the only nonmember, and how rude it would be to Mrs. Hawkins for her hospitality if I concussed myself by slamming my head against the pew in front of us by falling asleep, I started to play a game:  I tried to guess the average age of the parishioners. 

My guess was 75. Of the twenty attendees (I counted) there was one woman about 35 years old, and definitely no one else under 60. I found it interesting that the preacher pronounced “savior” as “SAVE-yure” and wondered if that was the way he normally said it, or whether it was a homiletics device used by preachers in the South.  If he were talking with some friends before the first game of the season, I wondered if he'd say “We were 0-5 last year, and I think that Billy Kendall is gonna be the SAVE-yure for this year’s football team.”