The Sexton's Tale

Looking back at my childhood, it's apparent that we were somewhat poor as I was growing up. We never went out to eat...and I mean never. The first time we went out to eat as a family was when I was 16 or 17 years old and only because we had to as we were traveling in Canada to visit my older brother at school. I could give you some other examples, but you get the picture. One of the consequences of our economic status, was that my dad had to take on other employment besides his job at the brewery.
Since my dad was a porter at Ballantine (porter being the fancy word for janitor), he sought out similar work and ending up being the sexton at a church. (sexton being the fancy church word for janitor).

For a few years, he was actually sexton at 2 churches, the one we attended as a family as well as another one.

Cleaning the churches meant that almost all of my Saturdays for a good many years, were spent helping my dad, along with the rest of the family, getting these 2 churches clean on a weekly basis. While the other kids my age  were enjoying their Saturdays off, I was busy as one of my dad's helpers. At both churches, we were also responsible for the grounds-keeping, which meant shoveling snow and mowing the lawn, and most horrifically at one of the churches, raking leaves in the autumn. Most of the time I didn't complain about pressed into what we called around our house, The Communist Labor Farm.
I did get paid a very modest sum. Every other week or so my dad would give me a quarter. As in twenty five cents.  In today's terms, that was less than $2, for about 5 hours work every Saturday. Occasionally, actually very occasionally, he would take me out for ice cream.

 One particular Saturday when I was about 10 or so, my older brother and I accompanied my dad to one of the churches. I was in a rather foul mood, complaining about how I had to work while every other kid my age, was out playing with their friends. As we arrived at the church, I guess my dad had enough of my attitude that day and said that if I didn't want to help, that was fine. "Go home", he said. With that he and my brother walked in, leaving me standing outside the church.
The church was one town over from where we lived , about 3 and half miles away,  I contemplated my options, and decided I would take my dad up on his offer. Without telling my dad what I had decided, I started down the street, very confident of the route home as we made this trek twice a week. Right down the street there was some parking lot construction going on, and I watched that for probably a half hour. I then proceeded to walk the rest of the way home, taking my sweet time.
My mom was startled when I arrived at our house by myself. She asked where everyone else was and I told her what had happened. At this point, I was sure that I was in no trouble, as I had simply taken up my dad on his offer. Man, was I wrong.
My dad was really mad at what I had done. Corporal punishment back then was the norm. I got the norm, and then some.