Squirtguns in the Choir 2

The Church of the Holy Spirit in Orleans MA. was more than a place for our family to worship.  It was more than a place for my father to work.  It was a playground for a couple of kids who lived next door.  The backyard of the church was our baseball field, the grounds of the church were our hiding places, the interior of the church was our place to explore.  We did have a little church etiquette though.  Whenever we ran through the sanctuary, we always stopped to bow in front of the cross, then continued to zoom through to the other side.  Sometimes we didn't actually stop, we bowed while in high gear because we were usually chasing another kid and couldn't take the time to stop. 

By the time that Chris and I were teenagers, we knew every inch of that place.  We even knew about areas that only the original builders of the church knew.  Because the policy of the church was to stay open twenty four-seven, we were able to get into any area we wanted, except the offices.  The offices.  For two young boys who knew every inch of this church, it was very frustrating not knowing the ins and outs of the office building.  

We were about twelve and ten when we finally found it.  The key to our curiosity.  A hatch.  There was an attic hatch.  Could this be the big payoff?  We boosted each other up to see where it lead.  Sure enough, it went over the offices.  We were very excited.  My brother and I had not had allot of experience climbing through attics without floors.  We weren't up on the knowledge that staying on the ceiling joists was the way to go.  It was much more comfortable anyway climbing on that pink fluffy stuff.  And then it happened.  Boom!  Crash!  Chris's foot went right though the ceiling.  It was pretty obvious at that point that a hasty retreat was in order. 

But now what do we do?  There is a large hole in the ceiling of the new office complex.  Chris and I were usually in trouble.  The biggest reason for that is that I couldn't keep my mouth shut.  We made a pact that "we didn't know anything".  Then came dinner.  It was torture.  I was sweating at the table.  We had to tell.  I looked over at Chris and asked; " should we tell them?"  "NO" was my answer, but at that point it was too late.  "Tell us what?" asked dad.  I found out, in later years, that my parents were in hysterics for about an hour after they took the time to set up our punishment.  Carl Johnson was the handyman at the church.  He fixed the ceiling, we raked his yard, for two days.  That may be the reason that, to this day, I hate raking.