This is a little story from “Depot Street Memories-The Lawler Stories” that still makes me smile. Periodically I intend to put one of these on the site or something else that I’ve written, but not part of the book. Hope you enjoy:
The Silent Bells of Mt. Carmel
I would like to be able to blame my buddy, George Timlin, who had a knack for getting me into trouble when we were kids. A year older than me, he always had creative ideas on endeavors that were fun but all too often led to a bad ending.
Truth told, however, this one was on me.
The custodian of Mt. Carmel Catholic Church of Lawler, Iowa in 1955 was Billy Cutsforth. George and I liked Billy because he would allow us to ring the church bells at noon if we were around. To be more accurate—there was only one bell with two ropes. One was responsible for tripping a mechanism to hit a smaller ringer against the bell and the other to emit a louder sound with a bigger ringer. Of course, we had no idea how any of that worked, incorrectly assuming that there were two bells in the tower.
The small bell had a skinnier rope and was to be pulled nine times for something called the “Angelus.” This was immediately followed by the big bell which was to be rung twelve times, and had a rope that was strong enough to lift an 11-year-old up in the air a few feet. It was great fun to pull those ropes and announce to the little town of five hundred that lunch time had arrived.
On this particular day it was my turn to pull the small rope. As 12-year-old George waited his turn for the big one, I began to wonder what would happen if we pulled them both at the same time, but I said nothing to him.
“…six…seven…eight…nine.” I was finished.
My friend began his portion of the gig by dutifully tugging on his rope when I began to say aloud, “I wonder what would happen if…”
But for some reason I chose not to finish my sentence aloud. Instead, in the middle of George’s sixth ring, I simultaneously pulled on the skinny rope.
Bad move!
Suddenly there was silence.
Sickly, deadly silence.
Deafening silence.
Painful silence.
Ear-piercing silence.
I looked at George.
George looked at me.
We both looked to make sure that Billy Cutsforth was not around and did the most logical thing we could think of—run for home as fast as our little legs could take us! I’m not sure what George did when he got to his house, but I hid under my bed and prayed for a miracle.
It has been fifty-two years since the unfortunate incident, so I can’t recall all the sordid details of crime and punishment. I mostly remember that the church bells in Lawler, Iowa did not ring for at least two weeks, my nick-name for the rest of the summer was “Dinger;” and we were never asked to perform that coveted chore again.
I also realize now that if I had not impulsively pulled that rope when I did, I would have missed out on a wonderful adventure to share with my grandsons.
(Bill Sheridan)