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71 Mother and I also got into the habit of going to the First Baptist Church Sunday evenings because they had a magnificent organ and organist, Charles Courboin, who was nationally well-known. Also, the pastor, a young fireball named Bernard Clausen was making a name for himself and preached interesting sermons; he was sort of a Veon type, our present minister at Covenant. I remember well a serman [sic]Clausen preached on Unitarianism as one of a series on various denominations. He mentioned that of the 48 (or whatever it was) Americans in the Hall of Fame, 25 were Unitarians, and then followed this up in a tragic voice, "What a pity that these people do not believe that Christ is God!" An event which used to stir my vanity during this period was a ride in the Crouse Packard. Lucia Crouse, the wife of millionaire Charlie Crouse, was a cousin of Mother's as well as a very close personal friend, whom I have mentioned previously. Once or twice a year, we'd [[strikethrough]]get[[/strikethrough]] be invited to take a ride with Cousin Lucia, maybe to Skaneatles for instance, and we'd go in a Crouse Packard touring car with the top down, a big seven-passenger jump—seat model, shiny—black with yellow wheels, and driven by their chauffeur, Stotts. I'd sit in the Packard as we drove through the streets of Syracuse, particularly, and imagine that the people who looked at us passing in splendor, probably thought that I was a scion of the rich, a Packard—owner son, one of the upper level. I would burst inwardly with pride and vanity at such moments, I fear a snob at heart at that time, at least. The Crouses had a Fleetwood Packard limousine in the late 'teens, a dark—green job that I believe was the most luxurious automobile in the city, and occasionally would drive us home from church in it; and there was no question of my vanity being aroused when we'd emerge from church and enter this magnificent car, Stotts holding the door as we did so, and when we arrived at 410 Douglas Street, delivered home in unparalleled luxury, and I'd hope that all the neighbors were looking. I guess I must have been pretty conscious of what we'd lost and this was a way of regaining just a bit of it, if just on a momentary basis. As I advanced into my mid—teens, I continued to learn more at first hand about the less-pleasant or even tragic aspects of life. A dark tragedy which made a deep impression on me was the case of Mary Potter. Mary, as I remember her story and it isn't too clear to me now, was a maiden lady of middle age who'd come from a good family but through many almost unbelievable misfortunes, was now completely alone and almost penniless. She lived in a rented room in a rundown neighborhood and had great difficulty in getting enough to eat, being too proud to become a ward of charity. Mother was among those who had Mary out to dinner periodically in an effort to help her and cheer her a little. The tragedy I'll never forget was the news one day that Mary Potter had committed suicide in her room by turning on the gas.