Morning Thanks--Louis of the Parsonage

The thing about George is, he's just about perfect from page one. He's one of those naughty boys you can't help but love because he's not really naughty but curious--curious and devout, devout beyond belief actually, but that's what little books like this are all about, in 1938 and yet today. George of the Parsonage is just another day at Sunday School--"kiddie lit for Jesus."

The story itself is kind of dorky. George of the Parsonage long ago lost its edge, if, in fact, it ever had it. It's a cute little story about a cute little boy in a cute little world that never existed, nor ever will, a world created for yet another cute little kid to enjoy.

It came to me from a third party, someone asked to clean out a retired professor's library because the retired professor and his wife were moving and needed to do slimming down. "You can have all of Lou's library," the professor's wife told my friend. "All" included slim, little George of the Parsonage, a gift from someone whose name isn't quite legible, Christmas, 1938: Marie Green, I think.

Back to the story. George's father is a preacher, who's just moved to a new church in a new place. Their adjustment is a little thorny, but not a horror. George, the baby of the family, innocently wanders down to a shady part of town to find new friends--worrisome maybe, but then you haven't met George or his brand of piety (not a dime's worth of self-righteousness). He's a perfect kid--not necessarily a good kid, but a perfect kid.

[Spoiler alert.] Mom and Dad don't know where he is exactly, and he's missing church--what will the people say? But George is out on his own, winning over a crowd of street toughs from across the tracks, creating his own Sunday School. When Mom and Dad find him over there on the bad side of town preaching to really naughty boys, they're overjoyed as they all together march off to church. It's that kind of story.

The charm of all of this is the story created by the book's inscriptions. The one above, front cover pages, was written twice--first in pencil, then in pen, as if to make sure the story stays alive. 

Who was Marie Green? I suspect we might discover her on the membership pages of the church where Louis Van Dyke's pastor/father held forth in 1938. Furthermore, I suspect--I'm guessing no one knows such things anymore--that this Marie Green (maybe with an e on the end) is a sweetheart mom herself--or grandma--who decided George of the Parsonage was a perfect fit for Louis of the parsonage down the street, a 10-year-old boy who had the misfortune of, once again, having to meet new friends in a new surrounding in a new church. I'm guessing Marie Green saw a little boy in need and thought maybe he'd enjoy the story of another little PK boy in need. 

Louis was ten. He makes that clear twice, once again at the end of George's story. Same handwriting, or so it seems to me.

So here's the storyteller's joy of George of the Parsonage (I have no clue if it's true). Once upon a time, Mrs. Greene, who attended a small-town church with a new pastor, ran across a darling little book about a preacher's kid, who'd just moved to a new town. Poor kid didn't know anyone, had to build up a whole new batch of buddies. A light bulb went on. She bought it, and gave it to the cute little PK as a Christmas gift. 

Little Louis liked it. His mother made sure he'd remember when he got it--and from whom. Books were a real luxury, late Depression. She told her little boy to write all that in the book, which Louis was happy to do, twice in fact, inside both covers. It was his book, not only because it was a gift either: Louis knew this George kid. They traveled some similar roads.

All of that was 80 years ago. 

These days the story is old and out of tune, the book's thick, yellow pages testify to its age. Susan McKinnon Miller, I'm guessing, hasn't picked up any fan letters for a long, long time, although if she's reading this right now from some home far away, I'm sure she's delighted.

No matter. There's grace here in George of the Parsonage, don't you think? This morning, I say thanks to Marie Green and the sheer delight of her very special Christmas gift so long, long ago.