We were still living on Folly Mountain in early 1940. Father was plowing with the horses and a one‑furrow plow. The church was at the end of our property.
A car was parked in the yard and a man was talking to my father. After the man left, father began plowing near the house. I was in the yard playing, and he said, “Leslie, I asked the minister to supper so go tell your mother that Rev. Robinson is coming for supper”. It wasn’t “dinner” as we call it today, it was “supper”.