In the fall of 1953, the Eastern Shore of Maryland was still a place very little changed from the old days of the south. The pace of life was a little slower than the rest of Maryland, and in the small town of Cambridge, by the mouth of the Choptank River, the good Reverend Harding tended his flock as dilligently as any shepard.
This particular morning, grey with a little light drizzel falling, he got out of his old Ford coupe and entered the dry shelter of his church. A white clapboard building, it had stood on the slight rise overlooking the river long before he had become the lastest Reverend.
"Good morning Reverend." Said the silver haired woman trying to get the heavy brown paper wrapper off a book size package. Mrs. O'Malley had been a church lady as long as the good Reverend could remember. "Do you have your little pocket knife on you? They wrapped up these new bibbles so well I can't get them out."
Like most of the men of his generation, the Reverend kept a pocket knife on him, and he opened the blade and Mrs. O'Malley handed him the package she had been trying to get open. Like a lot of the packages of the day, it was also bound in a white twine, and the sharp thin blade of the reverends pen knife made short work of the wrapping and twine. From a large shipping crate a truck had dropped off, Mrs. O'Malley took out a wrapped bibble at a time, handing each one to the reverend as he cut away the brown paper and twine. Soon the two person assembly line had unwrapped all the new bibbles and had them stacked on the table by the door.
Later that day, the good reverend went to lunch at the local diner, and ordered the pork chop. The pork chop came a bit over cooked, and the reverend had a hard time dealing with his meal using the issued flatwear. Looking about, he quietly took out the bone handled pen knife, and enjoyed his lunch. When he was done, he took his knife and carefully cleaned it with his napkin and noticed a few bright spots where the edge had come in contact with the plate. Drinking the last of his coffee, he turned up his coffee mug and honed his knife on the unglazed ring on the bottom of the mug.
"Planning on butcherin yer own lunch there, reverend?" came a voice from down the counter to his left. Matt Rankin sat with a mug of coffee in hand watching with amusement as Reverend Harding honed his knife. Matt Rankin was a known poacher and semi-outlaw of Dorchester county, and made a living out of selling wild game to local eating places. It was no secret in Cambridge that the Rankin clan considered LaCompt Marsh as their own, and even once in a while shot at the game warden in an open warning. The local warden usually found someplace else to be than Rankin land.
"No Matt, I was not, but that pork chop must have come from one of those feral hogs you have out in that marsh of your's. You haven't been supplying the pork to this place I hope?"
"If I had, it'd be the best eatin you ever git, reverend." said the tall lanky Rankin.
Reverend Harding deceided not to push the issue, being that all the Rankin clan were known to be unstable charaters. His knife once again sharp, he paid for his lunch and left.
Walking back to his church to do some work on his Sunday sermon, he found a young boy of about 12 years old waiting for him.
"Uh, have you got a minute, reverend?" asked the boy in a hesitant tone of voice.
The reverend was known as a friend to the boys in town, and many times they came to him in times of trouble, knowing the good reverend was a man of his word at keeping things private.
Once in the church, they sat down in a pew at the side and the problem came to light.
"It's about Mr. Johnsons window, sir. I didn't mean to hit the ball that hard toward his store, but it kind of got away from me. When he came running out with that broom, we all just ran like he...heck. Honest, I want to make it right, reverend."
They talked it over, and the boy agreed to pay for the window out of his allowence every week till it was paid for. The good reverend brokered the deal, refusing to tell Mr. Johnson who the boy was, but assuring him that every week he would deliver a payment on behalf of the boy. The reverend went back to the boy and told him he now owed half of his weekly allowence to him. But the good reverend was not done with the boy.
"Do you know what collateral is son?"
"No sir." said the boy.
"Well, that's what you put down to make sure the payment is made. You see, I'm going to pay for the window, so you are going to pay me back. But I need something from you to hold as collateral. What's the most valuable thing you own?"
The boy thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket and took out a scout knife. He held it out to the reverend.
"My dad gave me this scout knife for Christmas, and it's the most valuable thing I own. You can hold onto it till I pay you back, and I'm gonna pay you. You'll see."
Reverend Harding took the knife from the boy and made a show of looking it over carefully. It was an almost new Camillus scout knife, with the blade only having a light beginings of a patina. He felt the edge, and it was razor sharp, showing the boy had cared for the knife well. He handed it back.
"Well, that's a very nice knife, son, but it's not the most valuable thing you have. There's something way more valuable than that knife."
"What's that, sir?" asked the boy mystified.
The reverend smiled.
"Your word. You give me your word you'll pay me back, and you keep your knife. You see son, that knife is just a thing. Like a car, or even a house, just things. And things come and go. But a man's word and his honor is with him always. It's the one thing nobody, not even God almighty, can take away from you, you're word and reputation for keeping it. So you give me your word on a handshake, and we'll fix up Mr. Johnsons window and keep it between us."
The reverend held out his hand and the boy shook it, and the deal was made. The boy kept his scout knife, and every week, he stopped by the church to make a payment to the reverend on Mr. Johnson's window.
The boy went on in life, remembering the lesson Reverend Harding had taught him. There are more important things, than things.
This particular morning, grey with a little light drizzel falling, he got out of his old Ford coupe and entered the dry shelter of his church. A white clapboard building, it had stood on the slight rise overlooking the river long before he had become the lastest Reverend.
"Good morning Reverend." Said the silver haired woman trying to get the heavy brown paper wrapper off a book size package. Mrs. O'Malley had been a church lady as long as the good Reverend could remember. "Do you have your little pocket knife on you? They wrapped up these new bibbles so well I can't get them out."
Like most of the men of his generation, the Reverend kept a pocket knife on him, and he opened the blade and Mrs. O'Malley handed him the package she had been trying to get open. Like a lot of the packages of the day, it was also bound in a white twine, and the sharp thin blade of the reverends pen knife made short work of the wrapping and twine. From a large shipping crate a truck had dropped off, Mrs. O'Malley took out a wrapped bibble at a time, handing each one to the reverend as he cut away the brown paper and twine. Soon the two person assembly line had unwrapped all the new bibbles and had them stacked on the table by the door.
Later that day, the good reverend went to lunch at the local diner, and ordered the pork chop. The pork chop came a bit over cooked, and the reverend had a hard time dealing with his meal using the issued flatwear. Looking about, he quietly took out the bone handled pen knife, and enjoyed his lunch. When he was done, he took his knife and carefully cleaned it with his napkin and noticed a few bright spots where the edge had come in contact with the plate. Drinking the last of his coffee, he turned up his coffee mug and honed his knife on the unglazed ring on the bottom of the mug.
"Planning on butcherin yer own lunch there, reverend?" came a voice from down the counter to his left. Matt Rankin sat with a mug of coffee in hand watching with amusement as Reverend Harding honed his knife. Matt Rankin was a known poacher and semi-outlaw of Dorchester county, and made a living out of selling wild game to local eating places. It was no secret in Cambridge that the Rankin clan considered LaCompt Marsh as their own, and even once in a while shot at the game warden in an open warning. The local warden usually found someplace else to be than Rankin land.
"No Matt, I was not, but that pork chop must have come from one of those feral hogs you have out in that marsh of your's. You haven't been supplying the pork to this place I hope?"
"If I had, it'd be the best eatin you ever git, reverend." said the tall lanky Rankin.
Reverend Harding deceided not to push the issue, being that all the Rankin clan were known to be unstable charaters. His knife once again sharp, he paid for his lunch and left.
Walking back to his church to do some work on his Sunday sermon, he found a young boy of about 12 years old waiting for him.
"Uh, have you got a minute, reverend?" asked the boy in a hesitant tone of voice.
The reverend was known as a friend to the boys in town, and many times they came to him in times of trouble, knowing the good reverend was a man of his word at keeping things private.
Once in the church, they sat down in a pew at the side and the problem came to light.
"It's about Mr. Johnsons window, sir. I didn't mean to hit the ball that hard toward his store, but it kind of got away from me. When he came running out with that broom, we all just ran like he...heck. Honest, I want to make it right, reverend."
They talked it over, and the boy agreed to pay for the window out of his allowence every week till it was paid for. The good reverend brokered the deal, refusing to tell Mr. Johnson who the boy was, but assuring him that every week he would deliver a payment on behalf of the boy. The reverend went back to the boy and told him he now owed half of his weekly allowence to him. But the good reverend was not done with the boy.
"Do you know what collateral is son?"
"No sir." said the boy.
"Well, that's what you put down to make sure the payment is made. You see, I'm going to pay for the window, so you are going to pay me back. But I need something from you to hold as collateral. What's the most valuable thing you own?"
The boy thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket and took out a scout knife. He held it out to the reverend.
"My dad gave me this scout knife for Christmas, and it's the most valuable thing I own. You can hold onto it till I pay you back, and I'm gonna pay you. You'll see."
Reverend Harding took the knife from the boy and made a show of looking it over carefully. It was an almost new Camillus scout knife, with the blade only having a light beginings of a patina. He felt the edge, and it was razor sharp, showing the boy had cared for the knife well. He handed it back.
"Well, that's a very nice knife, son, but it's not the most valuable thing you have. There's something way more valuable than that knife."
"What's that, sir?" asked the boy mystified.
The reverend smiled.
"Your word. You give me your word you'll pay me back, and you keep your knife. You see son, that knife is just a thing. Like a car, or even a house, just things. And things come and go. But a man's word and his honor is with him always. It's the one thing nobody, not even God almighty, can take away from you, you're word and reputation for keeping it. So you give me your word on a handshake, and we'll fix up Mr. Johnsons window and keep it between us."
The reverend held out his hand and the boy shook it, and the deal was made. The boy kept his scout knife, and every week, he stopped by the church to make a payment to the reverend on Mr. Johnson's window.
The boy went on in life, remembering the lesson Reverend Harding had taught him. There are more important things, than things.
