“Why are you wannabe cat burglars sneaking into the house?”
When my overnight guest, Christopher “Chris” Blakley, and I crept through the back door of the church parsonage at midnight, John hit us with that very question — his voice muffled as he ransacked the snack cupboard.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” I exclaimed. “You scared the heebie-jeebies out of me!”
“Excusez-moi!” my big brother shot back under his breath. “You’re the knuckleheads breaking and entering into the house.”
“Hardy har-har,” this mild-mannered eighth grader mocked. “Since it’s only thirty-two degrees outside, Chris and I decided to come indoors — because we didn’t want to wake up looking like a couple of frozen Popsicle’s.”
“Do either of you even know what time it is?” the blond-haired minister asked, stifling a yawn as he appeared in the dining room entrance, wrapped in his bathrobe and slippers.
“Smooth move, Ex-lax,” the freckle-faced athlete quipped. “Now you’ve gone and woken up Mom and Dad.”
“Stop bickering and explain yourselves.”
“I was grabbing a midnight snack when these two clowns came busting through the back door,” the high school freshman muttered, shooting me a snide look.
“Enough with the colorful commentary!” Dad demanded, cutting off his firstborn son with a sharp reprimand before turning his attention to me.
“Since my clubhouse is freezing, Chris and I decided to crash on the pullout sofa in the basement,” I explained.
“Alright, Mister Smarty Pants,” the tall clergyman said, pausing briefly before laying down the law. “Grab your midnight snack and get back upstairs to your bedroom. As for you two — keep the noise level to a minimum.”
One afternoon in mid-January, while walking over to dad’s church office—tucked behind the left side of the sanctuary platform — to let him know dinner was nearly ready, I spotted his calendar desk blotter.
That’s when I discovered a week of evangelistic meetings were scheduled to begin the last Sunday of April—featuring my favorite family of musicians, The Blakley Singers.
Ever since the Canadian gospel ensemble began performing at our last pastorate in Bentleyville, Pennsylvania, accompanied by a few twenty-something musicians, I became fast friends with the lead singer’s son, four years my junior.
And as for his daughter, Josephine “Joey” Blakley—who was my age—let’s just say my on-again, off-again flirtatious crush was alive and well.
Now that Garnett and Victoria “Vicky” Blakley’s children had come into their own as musicians—Joey on piano, Chris on drums — the need for additional performers faded, and the band name more accurately reflected its members.
Eyeballing the quartet’s scheduled itinerary—an annual trek to Ellwood City, Pa.— I marked the days until their long-awaited arrival. One epic sleepover with the blue-eyed blond was officially set in stone on my very own calendar desk blotter.
The moment I spotted their familiar motor home cresting over North Street at the Line Avenue intersection, I knew—the wait was finally over.
Shortly after helping the weary travelers set up their equipment in the colossal red-brick building, adorned with stained-glass windows, Mom treated them to a home-cooked meal—the adults gathered in the dining room, while the kids filled the kitchen table with chatter and laughter.
As this excited young man confided long-held secrets to his intimate friend on one side of the table, his eyes kept drifting to the frizzy-haired teenybopper across from him — fully engaged in an animated conversation with his younger sisters.
Not long after the delicious meal was complete, our guest speaker and his family retired to their home on wheels for the remainder of the evening — whereupon, I was already on their doorstep, ready to whisk the 10-year-old away to my private oasis for a night of fun and games.
I’m here to take Chris off your hands.
“He’s been chomping at the bit to get this show on the road,” Vicky giggled, as her only son bounded down the steps. “I hope you’ve got your long johns on—it’s supposed to get mighty chilly tonight.”
You’ve got nothing to worry about — if it gets too cold, we’ll crash on the pullout sofa in the basement.
After retreating to the elevated fortress, Chris and I raided my very own snack cupboard and mini fridge, diving into a marathon of board games.
But as the night wore on, the chill crept in — shivers and quivers setting in like an unwelcome guest — until finally, we made our way into the house.
Following an unforeseen encounter with the cocksure gridiron baller—quickly diffused by the man of the house—these mischievous scalawags barreled down the basement steps, eager for one last round of monkey business before calling it a night.
“I have the perfect diversion,” I declared, leading the way to my personal weight room tucked behind the open staircase. “After a few sets on the bench press, we’ll be more than ready to saw some logs.”
“Gadzooks!” Chris exclaimed, “When did you get this muscle-building machine?”
It was a gift from the Big Man in Red, who came down our chimney this past Christmas.
Directly after completing a mini workout session, we looked at one another with bulging eyes upon hearing footsteps overhead.
Without a second thought, these would-be bodybuilders bolted from the makeshift gym, raced to the family room, yanked out the sofa bed, and dove under the covers.
What kind of trouble are you boys getting into down here in the dark?
“Oh, it’s just your annoying brother,” quipped the fourth grader with a snicker, jabbing me in the ribs.
“What are you doing down here?” I blurted, venom lacing my voice.
“I came down to check on George.”
“Likely story,” I spat, coiled like a viper ready to strike. “George is sound asleep in his doggy bed—just as you should be in yours, upstairs in our bedroom.”
“What’s all the commotion down there?” came our mother’s sharp question from the top of the steps.
Before anyone could respond, she pressed on. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re looking for another midnight snack.”
She was talking to “Mister Machismo.”
“Get back upstairs to your bedroom this instant before I get out the egg turner,” Mom threatened before turning it on my invited guest and me. “And as for the other two down there — your little workout session is over.”
Chris and I covered each other’s mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.
As John dropped his head in defeat, walking toward the stairs to do as he was told, he could hear our gleeful banter from behind.
“Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
Looking back, it wasn’t the games or the snacks that made nights like that unforgettable—it was the laughter echoing through a house that always felt like home.