Arlo, Alice and Anglicans:
The Lives of a New England Church

Introduction
"If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it."-Toni Morrison
                                                                                  (Arlo Guthrie and the author)

When I first saw the movie "Alice's Restaurant" I was struck by two scenes.  The first was set at an old white church with peeling paint.  Standing outside were Alice and Ray Brock impatiently waiting to take possession of what was to be their new home while a de-consecration ceremony was taking place inside.

There were only a handful of church members left to hear the ceremony.  The camera cut briefly to an old woman, seated near the middle, perhaps in her regular pew.  Although she was only on the screen for seconds, her expression spoke volumes.  The ceremony, to her, was a funeral.  She was paying her last respects to a friend that was passing from her life. 

Had she been married at that altar?  Had her children been baptized there?  Had she met her husband at a church social when she was a red head and fond of dancing?  Had her relatives been there when they laid the cornerstone on the building?  Was her grandmother honored with the plaque that the character Shelly in a later scene uses as the backstop for a softball?  The questions never left me.

The second thing that caught my attention in the film was that the song's famous "27 8x10 color glossy photos" were in black and white.  This entertaining discrepancy led me to wonder how much the film, and the song for that matter, differed from reality.

Since I started working on this project, a number of people have looked at me and asked, "Why did you decide to write about this church?"  The answer, as best as I could phrase it, was usually, "I don't know."  Something about the old New England church with the curious modern history just captured my imagination.  I had hoped that someone else would write a book about its history, which I could simply read.  Unfortunately, no one stepped forward.  If I wanted to read it, I was going to have to write it myself.

  I was not raised in the Berkshires in the shadow of the Trinity Church.  I am not an Episcopalian or a student of church architecture.  I am not even a member of the Woodstock generation.  I was, in fact, born three days after a dazzled young folksinger stood on a stage on Yasgur's Farm and shouted "The New York State Thruway is closed man!"  Nor were my parents part of that long-haired, bead-wearing demographic boom.  The record player of my childhood home played "At the Hop" not "Alice's Restaurant."

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