By: Nick Howard | Date: Oct 2020 | Contact the Author
As a kid, I found attending
church dull, other than
one particular Thanksgiving
Sunday service observing
a mouse ravaging a
display of gourds, corn and pumpkins
while our Pastor bellowed away. Besides
sheer boredom, I often recall a great deal
of clergy finger-pointing with dire warnings
of eternal damnation. Hey! I was just
a kid, innocent to the world’s darker side;
let me grow up first. I never grasped why
preachers often showed antipathy towards
the congregation. Still, there were
two principles I credit to church-going:
don’t lie and don’t steal. Perhaps I was not
alone, as decades later, I learned of another
kid with a similar experience over a
century earlier.
Fresh off the boat, a young Scottish lad
named John Thomson soon found himself
nailed to a pew at the Marion Presbyterian
Church just east of Rochester, New
York. The Thomson family, newly emigrated
from Foonabers, Scotland, sought
a new life and more significant opportunities.
From 1866 to 1869, the teenaged
Thomson, eyes glazed over, developed
two vexations. First, the pastor harangued
loudly. Second, he spoke with a strange
(Yankee) accent. The Scotchman’s
burr clashed with a Western New
York twang. The Reverend was a fiery
western New Yorker by the name of
Merritt Gally. Young Thomson
immediately disliked Gally, and this
hatred would survive both men for the
rest of their days.
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