Bishop Strickland Becomes a Victim for the Church He Loves
I remember the evening my childhood died. It was cold and just before Christmas; the lights were strung up on storefronts. Far across the parking lot, I could hear the ding-dings from a Salvation Army bell in front of the K-Mart. A pay phone rang, and I reached for the receiver. Thereafter, the lights all around began to bleed.
My father used to take our growing family to Pappy’s Pizzeria for its two-for-one Tuesday-night pizza special. Pappy’s had a piano that played by itself and a large glass window that kids pressed their faces up against to admire the pizza-tossers.
Thirty steps away from Pappy’s was Foos Fun, a small arcade that offered a dozen or so pinball machines and an air hockey machine. It was tradition for my siblings and me to spend a few minutes at the arcade before the pizzas were ready.
Orthodox. Faithful. Free.
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A pay phone was situated between the …