It’s 1956, and boys playing baseball on an oily asphalt street is a standing ritual in a middle-class American neighborhood.

Remembering that time from the vantage point of a grown man, Neal Rogers also fondly recalls the influence exerted on him by the Church and by the members of his ward during those formative years. The distinctive old rock meetinghouse with its gabled slate roof, stained glass windows, and parquet-floored recreational hall had a personality of its own, and the many heartwarming, humorous, and life-changing activities that took place there helped shape Neal’s perception of the world. But the overriding influence in those years was Neal’s modest father, Harold Rogers, whose selfless sacrifices in behalf of his family, church, and country only later became fully evident to Neal.

In a nostalgic description that calls to mind Norman Rockwell’s famous illustrations, the author takes us back to a simpler time in American history and lovingly recalls an unassuming father whose greatness was demonstrated ‘in small, simple, sturdy good deeds, repeated over and over again.’