Back in the middle of the 1960s, after I was a Boy Scout but before I was a dropout and Vietnam War resistor, I was in the Episcopal Youth Community. Known as “EYC,” The organization is worldwide, but the individual chapters have autonomy over what the local group is about. The group officially sponsored community service, gave kids a spiritual foundation, and had social events. In spite of this, it was, for our chapter, a lot of fun. The church was almost the same as it had been since the early days, same hymns, the mass still recited in Latin. Some of the Episcopal Book of Prayers stuck into the back of the pews were from the 19th century. Most of us had jobs within the church that we took seriously enough. I was an Acolyte and in the choir. My Mom, on the Altar Guild. But like I said, it was a lot of fun. When our bi-weekly EYC meetings ended for the evening, we’d promise our adult facilitators that we would lock up, they had a long ride home and were happy to go, they trusted us. After they were gone, we’d play spin the bottle and dance with the lights off. There may have been some sacramental wine involved. Teenagers.
Every summer there was a big gathering of EYC groups from all over the northeast, at Bard College, and one year I remember, at Storm King School. It was hormones and hymns summer camp, basically like our local meeting but on a grand scale. We prayed and partied with city kids, priests and bishops. The girls were beautiful and friendly. I was introduced to the beginnings of the anti-war movement by Daniel Berrigan himself who took part in some of the week’s workshops. I felt, at that time, that the Church was perfect.
One evening, I wandered into the empty dining hall. I wasn’t ready to sleep; my head was swimming with ideas from the day. There was a piano at the end of the hall, and I sat down on the bench and started to noodle away on the keys. After a bit, a wiry, bespectacled man came walking up, introduced himself as “Bill” and asked if he could have a turn on the piano. I let him have the bench, and he sailed away on it playing jazz like a pro. I was amazed and delighted. I said, “So you are a musician?” He said, “Writer and I teach some.” I told him I liked to write, and we discussed which books we enjoyed, both of us having a common interest in non-fiction and historical genres. He made me feel comfortable talking about writing and was very encouraging in a casual, friendly way. He continued playing and soon we were joined by Rev Paul Moore, the Bishop of St. John’s Cathedral in NYC, and the two of them excused themselves for a meeting. Bishop Paul suggested I go back to my dorm since it was getting late.
I shelved the conversation with Bill in the back of my mind, and it stuck there. I remember it vividly but only occasionally. His encouragement did more for me in half an hour than most of my teachers did all year long. I found out later that Bill was author and teacher William Zinsser, writer of the book I have in front of me now.
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