I have trouble remembering what Dan and I said an hour or two ago—it’s true. But I remember Everson so clearly. We had a two-family house at the top of a hill at the edge of town—a steep enough hill that I had to walk my bike up it after I did my paper run, with all that money in my pocket to be divided: so much for the newspaper, the rest for me. One family rented the far side of the house, another family rented the basement. It was a big deal in Everson to own your own house, and have it be big enough for tenants. My parents got a lot of respect for that.

There was a back porch off the kitchen. From it, you looked down at the railroad tracks, and Joseph’s Creek beyond. The trains would roar by at all hours of the night, like they were going through our kitchen, but we liked the sound—and that piercing whistle. I had a lot of trains, and train whistles, in my dreams.

We were always warned not to swim in Joseph’s Creek; it might sweep us away. I don’t know how likely that was: Joseph’s Creek was pretty tame. Then again, none of us knew how to swim, none of my three brothers or me. So we stayed away from the creek. Instead, I liked to walk up the tracks, looking for berries. There was a lot more danger in that!

I was probably no more than eight years old when I started going with my father door-to-door, selling The Watchtower. My father was a great salesman. He had a wonderful smile, and when a door opened, he knew how to be friendly but not overly so: friendly but respectful. At some point, though, he changed his approach. Instead of knocking on the door himself, he stayed in the car and let me do the knocking. I’d be standing there, happy as could be as soon as the door opened, because I knew I was going to meet someone new. I’d start a conversation going, and at some point the person at the door would ask a question, and I’d say “Gosh, I’ll bet my father can answer that.” I’d give him a wave, and up he’d come, and soon enough we were inside, spreading the word. I remember my father giving out Watchtowers for whatever the people wanted to pay. I sold the Bibles—a lot of Bibles, to tell you the truth.

My father and mother were a great couple. I never heard either one say a rude thing to the other. They never fought. They loved talking in the kitchen as my mother made dinner, eating out on the porch on summer evenings, and singing to my father’s guitar.

Not long ago, my sister-in-law Lois sent it to me—my father’s guitar. I took one look at it and burst into tears.