Then my uncle asked a perfectly natural and innocent question.
“What are you aiming to be, Al, when you’re through with the schools?”
Tremblingly I whispered:
“A preacher, I think!”
If the world had cracked or the moon had leaped into the middle of our kitchen, my aunt could not have been more startled than she appeared to be at that announcement. She instantly rallied her powers of ridicule and sarcasm and indulged in the following monologue that had little savor of love in it:
“Oh, oh! That’s the lay of the land, is it? A parson! A Priddy a parson! A fawning, hypocritical parson! A tea-drinking, smirking thing in black. Why, at least, didn’t he choose to be a lawyer or a doctor or something worth while? I thought he had brains!”
“Millie!” thundered uncle. “Shut up! Do you want to crush the lad?”
But she was not to be stopped. She grew almost hysterical in her tirade.
“I suppose he’ll be hurling his sermons at us, so sanctimonious and pious!”
“Hush, aunt, please,” I pleaded, “don’t shout so loud, people will hear and wonder what’s wrong!”