Dragging his stiff leg he creeped toward me. He wore a covering on his body that at one time may have been clothing, but now more closely resembled material stolen from a rat’s nest. His face was a scowl, with a beard growth varying 3-20 days, depending which part of the face we are talking about. Apparently his razors were a luxury item, not to be used in excess.

He had a full head of hair, and it was a glory. The matting was so severe, you could easily mistake it for steel wool, and judging by the grease adorning it, apparently someone had.

"Hey Boy!" He grunted, with gravel rolling around in his throat. "Where’s your grandpa?" His face made a pirate’s scowl at me, a 9 year old boy.

The sight always managed to paralyze my body with fear, stopping any ability I had to respond or run. "What’s wrong with you?" he gruffly demanded.

I stuttered and answered that I had not seem my grandpa today. "Well, tell him I want to talk to him." And he passed me, dragging that mysterious stiff leg, and bathing me in an odor that a dog would howl at.

I shuddered and headed on down the street. Only at his insistence, he was called Reverend Ross. I was not sure why.

Later I was visiting my grandpa and mentioned that Reverend Ross wanted to talk to him. Grandpa raised one eyebrow and continued to look at the newspaper.

I asked Grandpa why Reverend Ross called himself Reverend, and Grandpa explained that he had built a church, and was the self appointed minister.

I could not imagine that the same man that made little kids scatter like mice at the mere sight of him, could possibly get up in front of a congregation of people and preach. But, in Sheridan, many unusual things happen.

As the week rolled on, Grandpa had talked to Reverend Ross, who had invited him for about the 100th time to visit his church on Sunday. For whatever reason, Grandpa did not want to hurt his feelings, and had politely turned him down explaining he already had a church that he attended. Reverend Ross was insistent, and said he really respected Grandpa’s opinion, and would consider it an honor to have him come listen to his sermon.

Grandpa finally gave in, and Reverend Ross also talked Grandpa into bringing my mother, who was an organist. Apparently there was an organ that was just waiting for magic hands, resting quietly in Reverend Ross’s cathedral.

The next Sunday, I was riding in Grandpa’s oversized boat of a car, with my mother, sister, and brother, to make the obligatory visit to Reverend Ross’s religious establishment. The paved roads turned into gravel, and then bumpy ruts. I could just barely see out the window as we passed rusty barbed wire fences, rotting posts leaning every which way, and strewn auto and miscellaneous mechanical parts. It appeared to be the road to the city dump.

"Well, here we are." Grandpa’s words sounded like a dying man’s last. We all crawled out of the car, and I looked up the hill. It appeared to be an automobile graveyard. We had to weave our way threw scattered debris on the frozen, bare dirt ground. I asked Grandpa where the church was, and he just pointed. My eyes followed the leading of his finger and I saw an assembly of rusted metal that appeared to have once been an airstream trailer, or something resembling an airstream trailer, that had seen a better decade. In the words of Socrates, I said, "You’re kidding me!"

I believe it was January, one of our coldest months. The temperature that day was probably near or below 0 degrees. We entered the trailer, which had tiny pews, wooden benches cut down from regular size, leaving an aisle down the middle.

"Hello! Hello! Reverend Ross greeted us, vigorously shaking Grandpa’s hand. He was smiling. I had not seen that before. "I cut some extra wood for the furnace, it will be getting warm in here very soon. You could see his breath floating in the frigid air."

Reverend Ross had put on a suit jacket for the occasion, but it looked like it was used for a bed the rest of the week.

We all gathered in toward the front, near the wood stove. My mother went to the organ, a fine relic that still had most of the keys. Mom clicked the switch to start the motor, and waited for it to warm up.

Reverend Ross went behind the pulpit, and asked everyone to pick up a hymn book. Besides our family and Reverend Ross, the only other person in attendance was an enthusiastic elderly lady. I wondered how she had negotiated the rocky terrain to the chapel.

I looked in the book holder and noticed there were several types of hymn books from several different churches. I wondered if Reverend Ross had collected these on his missionary visits to the other churches in town. It seemed odd to have just one or two of each kind.

He then asked my Grandpa if he would give his church the honor of leading the singing of the hymns. Grandpa obliged and walked behind the pulpit as Reverend Ross had a seat. Whenever he would sit down, he would reach down to his left leg, the one that was stiff, with both hands and lift it up to prop it onto a footstool or chair. The leg was always straight. I never found out what was wrong with it.

Reverend Ross explained to us that for the first song, if we had a blue hymnal it was on page 12, if we had a red hymnal it was on page 15, and if we had the paperback hymnal it was not in there. He said it was also in the green hymnal, but was in a different key, but the words were almost the same.

The organ had warmed up, so my mother started to play by ear the hymn that had been chosen. It did not sound too bad, but of course with Reverend Ross’s loud gravelly singing, I could not hear the organ very well anyway.

After the hymn, Reverend Ross stepped back up to the pulpit to start the sermon. I don’t remember what it was he was preaching about, but I do remember looking at this man and wondering what would drive him to build a church in the middle of a junkyard, inside a rusted trailer house with hymn books that were questionably obtained. What was it that motivated him?

The sermon was a short one, much to my delight. I do not know what my grandfather had to say to Reverend Ross, but I was out of there. I remember looking at the smoke from the woodstove’s chimney as we pulled away in Grandpa’s car. It was strange indeed. A church in a junkyard.

I suppose there is a moral to this story. When I figure out what it is, I will let you know.

You can read all the chapters of "Tims Home Town Stories" by going to http://timshometownstories. com. Other stories written by Tim are at http://salessuccessmagazin e.com These stories are copyrighted by Timothy L. Drobnick Sr. 1995,1996,1997,1998,1999,2000. Any person using this article must publish it without modification and include authors bio and links.