Note: Hart found an ancient book of his mother’s, in which was a poem: “The Old Fashioned Preacher.” It so reminded him of my dad that the three of us got together and did a little editing here and there. My sister, Evelyn, offered Hart help with the rhyme, and I added the story accompanying the poem. The poem at the end is my remake of the original, making this story poem a joint-effort.

Brother Splane, "The Old Fashioned Preacher” will have many “jewels in his crown.” I can picture him now, standing talking to many of the “drunks” he led to the Lord.

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Although Dad Splane was not an ordained minister, no one would deny that he was a “Preacher”. There was not a day in his life that he was not preaching the gospel of the Lord he loved so much. He wasn’t highly educated; his speech wasn’t eloquent; he did not use fancy words, but his message was clear. And he not only preached to people, both at his work in the train yard or around the neighbourhood, he practiced what he preached.

"Brother Splane" was not rich in worldly possessions; in fact, he lacked a lot of the amenities of life enjoyed by his neighbours. But that didn’t bother him. As he would tell his children, there was always someone worse off than they were. And he taught his children also, that whatever blessings the Lord had given, were to be shared. Many-a-time he would pick up a hitchhiker along the road, and pile him into his beat-up old car and bring him home for a meal, and if necessary, a bed. But never did the hitchhiker leave without hearing the OLD FASHIONED Preacher preaching the OLD FASHIONED Gospel.

On Saturday nights you would not find Brother Splane at the bar enjoying a drink with his friends, nor would you find him at the river fishing. However, it would not be unlikely for you to find him down by the riverbank, or outside the bar, holding a street meeting. Often accompanying him would be some of his children--who sometimes went unwillingly, not wanting to be seen by their schoolmates--holding little red hymnbooks, standing outside the pub, and singing along with the music of Brother Splane's saxophone.

More than once a patron of the bar would stagger out and join in the singing of “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” (Brother Splane's favorite song), or “Shall We Gather At The River.” On those occasions the "Old Fashioned Preacher" would give a one-on-one message to the willing listener, and lead his audience of one in a slurring prayer of repentance. Only God knows how many of those “prayers of repentance” were genuine. All that mattered to Preacher Splane was that he was doing what he knew God wanted him to do—Be an OLD FASHIONED preacher of the OLD FASHIONED Gospel.

Old Brother Splane, he used to preach, at work on the trains, and at the beach. A preacher of the olden brand, with Scripture verses right in hand. With half the Bible learned by rote, right in his head where he could quote. I’m sure the bells of heaven rang, both when he prayed and when he sang.

He raised a loud reproving din, against all shades and kinds of sin. He spoke aloud–-some said he raved--about the need of getting saved. In country schools he preached back then, where women, kids and grown up men, with tear-streams coursing down their face, sought pardon, purity and grace.

He thundered forth the truth–-the Word--in tones that were distinctly heard. He had one message meant for all, ‘twas “Seek redemption from the fall.”

Old Splane died at eighty-nine. He'd heard the "roll call": now's his time. His last words were, “It is His way. Good-bye, I’m going home today.”