My dad was a United Methodist minister, after 1968. But prior to that time, when he went into
the ministry in 1959, we were Evangelical United Bretheren; the United in
United Methodist.
I thought he dealt me the worst deck I could have been given. I was a 7th grader, moving
out of the only house I had ever lived in, leaving the small town of Lemoyne, that had the roller
skating rink, the movie theater, the ice rink in the winter. I walked to school, walked home
for lunch. We moved to York Haven, 20 miles away, put me in the middle of agricultural land.
I had to ride a school bus to school. But it was the best gift he could have ever given to me.
We made life long friends. Watching him turn to a new profession, serving new people, loving God,
and I will forever thank him for making that decision even though at the time I was pretty much
unhappy as a teenager and didn't mind letting him know that.
But my father whistled. No one else in our family whistled, and I really miss that.
And when I hear a whistler, I always think of Fritzie (my dad's nickname).
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