I have always been (or tried to be) a good Presbyterian girl. It’s too late to change now anyway. Mainly because it always makes me a nervous wreck to take Communion in other churches — all the kneeling and hoping you don’t dribble wine from the cup all over your chin, not to mention the solemnity you have to muster when you walk back to your pew in front of everybody. In the Presbyterian church, they bring Communion to you — the grape juice (no wine for us) is in little shot glasses stuck in slots on a nice silver tray that is passed down each pew. Very, very civilized. Also, we pray in our seats, which is another huge plus since my knees are shot. The last time I was in an Episcopal church with my father, they passed the peace and everybody was speaking to each other and hugging, and I thought he was going to pass out.

Clearly, we Presbyterians are a self-contained lot, a trait that does not appeal to everyone. After the Vietnam War was over, my father was on President Ford’s Refugee Committee and he insisted that the Presbyterian church in our town in Mississippi adopt a family. Their name was Muon and they had five children, and they all lived in our pool house for about three months until the congregation could get their house ready. It was very jolly and the children were adorable and they were always thanking us by making fish head soup and other such delicacies, which my mother always threw down the drain as soon as they were gone.

Anyway, Mrs. Muon had another child just after they arrived and they were so overwhelmed by the generosity of the Presbyterians, all of whom had donated furniture and clothes, that they named him John Calvin Muon, which was, of course, hilarious. Muon turned out to be a bit of a racist, which is not a good thing ever, but especially not if you are starting your life over and looking for any employment in the Mississippi Delta. About two years into it, he packed up the whole family, including the young John Calvin, and went to join his cousins who’d been taken in by the Baptists in Texas. I have often wondered how much longer John Calvin was called John Calvin.

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