Where I grew up the landscape was flat, the sky wide and Christianity, demanding. The nearest village didn't have a cinema but sometimes a travelling preacher came along and the meeting hall was full.
They were good the old preachers, spoke about sin, forgiveness and the saving of the soul. Many cried, came up to the podium spoke of their many sins and were forgiven, many came it was a good meeting.
Our neighbor was there being saved, the farmer told me that he was always saved but it didn't last long, he tended to look embarrassed for a few days, then he was back being his old sinful self.
The farmer's wife, Alice, stirred restless in her seat, her eyes shone she wanted to get up there and confess her sins; I still wonder what sins that might have been? But the farmer, Torvald, held her back.
Back at the farm Torvald had a dram his wife sat near him, and at milking time next morning she was half an hour late, said she hadn't heard the alarm clock; the farmer didn't get up before breakfast at eight
Yes, they had warm, caressing voices the preachers of old, and sometimes they thundered about sin till we deliciously shivered, and when the collection box went around we kindly gave more than old buttons.
