Dogs

In the nineteen fifties my dad made his living preaching in small town churches.


Not the brand name brick and stone places on  tree lined streets up town.  Young man with limited experience, fresh out of school, he was damned lucky to land jobs in little white clapboard halls where a tiny group of dedicated folks struggled to keep the bills payed.  Relying on a few key families, the young pastor has to tactfully tend the flock.  Fifty dollar bill in the collection plate, you do not refuse an invitation to dinner.

Preacher sees some odd folks during his career.  My father ran his files through a shredder when he realized that it was only a matter of time until the Alzheimer's none of us had yet recognized took him out of the game.  I thought he should write a book or two, but he honored his obligation to keep lots of things he knew to himself to the last.

One unusual family that he openly talked about, is also part of my personal experiences.  Among the stories contained in the bags of shredded paper the old man gave us to use in our shipping boxes, the story of the Offits is almost certainly among the best.

I think their attendance at Sunday service may have been something of an occasion, not every week. Entering late, seating themselves prominently front and center, they made sure no one escaped notice of their presence.  Vesta showing off fine kid skin gloves as he carefully removed them from pale slender fingers.  Poppa not removing his black felt hat until everyone had opportunity to notice how fine a hat a rich guy could wear to church. Momma in fox shawl and dark pillbox hat.

Somewhere between teen age and forty,  Vista Offit* struck Justin and me as more kid than adult.  The three of them lived on a farm outside town like the Addams family,  independently wealthy from sources unknown.   Vesta occasionally called my mother on the  telephone.  I kind of remember something about long uncomfortable silences on his end of the line, perhaps mother could have said more.   When we went to the farm house for a visit Justin and I were entertained no end by Vesta's extensive comic book collection.

I remember he had a yarn about taking a trip by horseback way up  beyond the arctic circle.  Just him and my dad and the dogs.  Sargent Preston of the Yukon being popular on radio in those days, the trip probably involved panning gold or chasing bad guys.  Privately, dad expressed concern about traveling with the dogs.  

They lived in a classic farm house siting in the middle of a considerable parcel of land not far beyond the edge of town.  I don't know if they farmed the place.  My memories tend to center on the dogs.

Mostly its the teeth.  Teeth and the sound of dog nails on the painted porch.  Once the car doors clicked, Vesta had no control whatsoever over the pack.  They rushed around the outside of the house on the old style tongue and groove wood porch, reaching the front a half heart beat after the door slammed shut.

Dad had been given careful instructions.  Pull in the circular drive as close to the gate in the front lawn fence as possible. Do not open the car doors, do not roll down windows.  White picket gate opened into a narrow strip of yard between porch and driveway.  Pappa positioned himself there, baseball bat sized club in hand, measured his swing to make certain that it spanned the distance from our car to where Momma stood on the two steps leading from path to painted porch.  Holding the screen door open to block the dogs from attacking at the last moment before we made it in the door, she also measured the swing of her club, her husbands shoulder on the back hand, forehand swing reaching the edge of the open front door. I remember the heavy oak with oval bevel glass as the symbol of safety in the instant before we made our run. 

While Poppa and Momma got set up and gave us our last minute instructions, the dogs were around back with Vesta.  They said he gave them fresh milk to held their attention so we could get out of the car and up the garden path before the dogs made it back around to the front of the house.

With Mom and Pop in position, clubs tightly gripped in outstretched arms, the high sigh was given and the four of us ran for our lives. 

The sound of dog claws on painted porch boards is forever burned into my memory.  Hearing the car doors click, the pack, howling with trained in blood lust, bounded around the corner on the attack.    Throughout the dinner and subsequent visiting, the pack ran rampant around the outside of the house, upset over the strange car in the drive and letting everyone know their feelings with harsh barks and  howls.

Leaving for home at the end of the evening the process repeated.  Dogs distracted in back while the old couple stood guard with their well worn clubs.  As soon as the car doors slammed shut it was bared teeth flashing against  the back seat windows, Justin and I crouched on the floor in terror. Dad stepping on the gas to get out of that place quick.

 Not long after that dad landed a job in a town several hundred miles distant.

*  I found a reference to a  "Vesta Offit" who kept semi-feral dogs.  I trust my recollection of the folks from one of my dad's churches when I was a kid will not violate someone's copy right.