Cambridge Chapel
When Rick was little, and an only child, he behaved himself very conveniently in church meetings. We got spoiled: this was no preparation at all for the challenges we’d face later. You could argue that we were guilty of showing off, just a little: our little family of three would normally sit on the front row in Sacrament Meeting, sweet, proper, and face to face with the bishopric on the stand.
Well, Sacrament meeting took place in the evening, and no regular meeting followed immediately afterward. The bishopric tried to hold the main worship meeting to an hour and a half, but if somebody got too eloquent or windy, it just happened.

One evening, an elderly brother who didn’t often get a chance at the microphone was called to offer the closing prayer for a meeting that had already gone beyond its customary limits. Rick was already fidgeting in my lap. The brother blessed the tribes of Israel, individually and by name; the General Authorities, likewise; the stake and ward officers, too. As he was launching into a plausible list of the nations of the earth, Rick sang out, “Amen!” Some tittering followed, and Bishop Bert grinned. But the brother at the mike just kept going. Just as some of us feared he was going to launch into the Periodic Table of the Elements, Rick stood up in my lap and called, “AMEN, ALREADY!!” Bert nearly fell off his chair.

The Vassall house, later Washington’s headquarters, then Longfellow’s house
The Cambridge Chapel’s distinguished across-the-street neighbor

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