I grew up a mile from the small country church I attended with my family.  Oak Chapel Evangelical United Brethren Church was about ten miles from the city on a narrow winding road on the way to no place in particular.  The parishioners were solid folks who, for the most part, worked their 160 acre quarter sections and drove the school bus or worked second trick factory jobs in town.  The church still stands with its front door just a free throw from the road’s edge.  The structure is unimpressive with a bell tower (I used to get to pull the rope) in front backed by a small sanctuary.  We sang all the standard hymns and when I hear the old church music start the words come back with some clarity.  The music steeled us for the excruciatingly long sermons which followed.  The memories are good.

In a small country church there was a high attrition rate of ministers.  We called them preachers.  I suppose it was a matter of economics and preaching being a part time job for most, or preachers aspiring to larger congregations closer to civilization.  They were not exactly itinerant preachers, but they turned over on a regular basis.  One constant was that they often seemed to have boys about the same age as my brothers and me.  And, because our state of sinfulness required us to attend church both Sunday morning and evening, these PK’s (Preachers’ Kids) often spent Sunday afternoon at our old farm.  Although I am generally against making stereotypical judgments on groups of people, I can say in this case it is absolutely justified.  These PK’s were wild men.  They would pull all sorts of crazy stunts on these Sunday afternoons and then turn meek as church mice when it was time for adults to assign blame.  I supposed everything got all pent up from living in the presence of a preacher all week.  What else could explain such aberrant behavior?

So, in 1968 when I heard Dusty Springfield (Man! That hair!) singing in her sexy moan of a voice about learning about the facts of life from a PK, I knew very well what she was talking about.  I can just hear her mother.  “Well Dusty why don’t you and the Reverend Haskel’s boy just go out for a little walk.  Billy-Ray do you mind looking after Dusty for a while?” “Why, it would be my pleasure Mrs. Springfield.  Come on Dusty.  Let’s go for a walk in the back yard and over in to the woods.  We’ll identify some of those trees for your biology class.”  Then it would start.  And, who would suspect the PK? I am certain that if the adults ever found out about the youngsters’ amorous dalliances that Dusty would have been assigned full blame.

Listening to Dusty sing, The only one who could ever teach me/ Was the son of a preacher man, always made me sweat just a little.  I was sure I could do the same for Dusty or any other willing girl, but didn’t have the same cover that a PK had.  In the song, Dusty takes us verse after verse to the lusty brink; Learnin’ from each other’s knowing/ Lookin’ to see how much we’ve grown/ And the only one who could ever reach me/ Was the son of a preacher man.  The beauty of the lyrics is that they are highly descriptive with little specificity about what was happening on these walks, but the brush strokes in my head painted a very clear picture.  I’ll spare you the details here, but let’s just say that those images the song stirred in my adolescent mind helped me through many a long sermon.

Now, when I hear the late Dusty sigh and moan about how, Being good isn’t always easy/ No matter how hard I try, I am thankful for the imagery she provided for me as a young man.  I wonder too, where all those PK boys are today that led me to trouble on Sunday afternoons.  Are they preachers themselves?  Have they turned in to responsible adults or did their orneriness turn them in to felons?  And why couldn’t our preachers have had daughters my age?  I wonder what PK girls were like?