I could easily see down the road toward the Swansea/Somerset line and having verified that, I went down to the belfry to make sure I could see out through the open slat of the window facing the street. The slat opened downward to keep the rain and snow out and also allowed for the continual exit and entrance of a great number of pigeons who called the belfry home. My presence caused the usual stir of discontent with the birds and there seemed to be an unusual number of them in the dimly lit area. In addition, there were several nests; some filled with newly hatched pigeons and others, containing eggs were scattered haphazardly about and resting on top of pigeons droppings that were at least a foot thick.

Having satisfied myself that all was in order and that I was ready, I returned to the rampart.

A few moments passed and into view came the headlights of the hearse. I returned to the belfry and faced this great iron monster that was just waiting to be tolled. The bell, and a very large one at that, sits in a cradle made of eight by eights, each square side which is constructed to look like the Roman Numeral X. I placed my back against a corner post and with my knee wedged up against the center of the X, I reached up and struck the bell with the sledge hammer. It wasn't a particularly good sound. I had hit the bell too close to the middle and then realized that the real bell clapper would strike the bell near the bottom. Ready for the second strike, I was unaware of the sound it made because I was more concerned with watching the hammer head of the sledge fly off and pass out of sight on the other side of the belfry. Somewhat surprised but not panicked, I made my way quickly to the far corner, jumping over and around the nests; fully aware the pigeons were starting to make a mass exodus. In so doing, they went into a flying frenzy with the beating of their wings close to my head. I recovered the hammer head, and thinking that 20 seconds had passed, I took in the palm of my right hand and struck the rim of the bell as hard as I could. It wasn't too loud, certainly audible, and it did play a part in the massive vibration that passed through my hand, through my arm and down to my buried toes in the pigeon droppings.

I was still holding the wooden handle and, as I made way back to the front window, I pounded the two pieces back together . I looked through the slats and could see the procession was still coming up Main Street but had not yet reached the church driveway. I turned around, struck the bell only to watch the hammer head fly up, bounce off the granite wall and come flying back just missing the bell and landing dead center beneath it. Head first, I made my way through the cradle and on my hands and knees crawled to retrieve the increasingly, elusive tolling device. Once again, I took the hammer head in my hand and swung upward to hit the bell from the underside and then, as fast as I could, I crawled to the slats to see what was happening. The procession was encircling the church since the driveway made a "U" around the grounds. Knowing that the results of putting the head and handle together was of questionable value, I grabbed hold of the head with both hands and tolled away....two or three more times... the 20 second interval didn't seem that important any more...however, I was still mindful and intent on providing a decent funeral sound.

I looked off to my right through the slats and could see the Masons standing behind the hearse, waiting for the coffin to be pulled out. I realized I had at least four or five more minutes before they reached the front door which would equate to at least twelve more vibrating blows to the bell. It occurred to me that there was a better solution. I crawled back underneath the bell and throwing the sledge hammer away, I grabbed the bell clapper by both hands and with renewed vigor, I slammed it against the ring. It was a beautiful toll...loud and resonant ...especially in my ears. The only problem was keeping the clapper from bouncing to the other side and in the course of preventing this, there remained a distinct amount of vibration passing through my body.

I had to return to the window. When I looked out I could see the Masons holding onto the coffin, standing a few feet from the steps but seemingly unhurried to enter the church. I had no reason to think badly of these men standing there with their white aprons, but it crossed my mind to reach down and throw a hand full of pigeon manure at them; the same stuff I had been wallowing around in. But, that would have been a gesture unworthy of a sexton. However, one more stinging bang and when I looked out, they had disappeared into the vestibule.

I'm not quite sure what the sequence of personal events were during the next few minutes. I think I stood up next to the granite wall and slowly slipped into a fetal position. I remember thinking that I am hyperventilating and that I had just passed through some sort of a horrendous happening...an experience almost out of body. Very faintly I could hear the mournful tune of the funeral hymn and somehow, it was soothing.

When I finally collected my wits, I went down to the room below the belfry from where the bell was normally rung. It was a brightly lit area. I looked down a my trousers and saddle shoes and I was mesmerized by the various shade that make up pigeon manure. I was covered, splattered and caked with reds, yellows and blues and browns and blacks and some pretty shades of purple. What in the world do pigeons eat? I thought. My white shirt looked like I had just completed a first grade class in finger painting.

The next day, my dad had finished his job as Superintendent of the Sunday School and was taking off his robes when Reverend Smith arrived. He casually mentioned to my dad that I had done a good job of tolling the bell the day before. He then added that he didn't know just how I went about it, but while waiting in the vestibule for the funeral procession to begin, he heard quite a bit of commotion in the belfry.

My dad laughingly filled in the details. He described how in the course of cutting the grass in our back yard, he watched me sneak out the cemetery end of the church cellar, run and jump over the stone wall and in some sort of clothes that was in a colorful disarray, disappear into the kitchen of our house. He went on to describe how, later in the day, he helped fill up the kitchen sink with ice cubes to start reducing the swelling of my puffy, tingling, hands.

Over the years, my dad repeated the story at appropriate family gatherings...like Thanksgiving, to the point where my young children would ask him to tell the "pigeon" story once more.

In my own memory, there were many times that eventful Saturday morning would flash through my mind. There was the time I was feeding some pigeons outside the Emperor's castle in Tokyo and it occurred to me that pigeons looked the same the world over; just like those in the Christ Church belfry. On another occasion, standing below the clock of Big ben in London and hearing it strike twelve, reminded me of a 14 year old, a long time ago tolling a bell...and almost invariably, seeing a funeral procession of automobiles with their lights on, causes me to remember.

It would not be out the realm of reason, that someday I would chose to have my own funeral held at Christ Church, just as my father did a few years ago... and if I did. I would probably jot down a few notes of how such a funeral service might be conducted, including my favorite hymns to be sung...and sometimes, I have one more, almost sadistic thought that smilingly enters my mind: "and I would like the sexton to toll the bell, at intervals of twenty seconds."