Communion charmed me. It pained me to see the perfect little glasses and morsels of wafer in the gleaming trays pass me by. I suspect Mother’s thoughts weren’t sacred as she warned me off with dark looks and head shake. It seemed wrong to waste communion on adults when those cups were obviously child-sized. Glenda Parker boldly reached in and took two tiny cups right under her mother’s eye. She slurped the juice from one cup, then poured the juice from the other back and forth a few times before spilling it. Her mother sweetly wiped up the pew with a dainty hanky, never shooting her “the look.” With my head bowed during prayer, I saw Glenda stack and restack those cups and slip them in and out of the little slots on the back of the pew in front of her while her mother piously bowed her head in prayer. Why couldn’t God have given me to a good mother like that?
Baptism was even more interesting. The first baptism I witnessed took place in a pond. The congregation gathered around as the preacher led the candidates in one by one and dipped them backwards into murky water. I yearned to get in that line, but had been warned not to move from Mother’s side. The next baptism took place in our church’s new sanctuary. The curtains behind the choir loft opened to reveal a glass-fronted tank before a lovely mural of the Jordan River. The preacher stepped in and spoke a few words before assisting Miss Flora Mae down the steps into the tank. Miss Flora Mae’s full-skirted white skirt ballooned on the surface of the water as she descended, revealing chubby legs and white panties, an unexpected thrill for me and other less-holy onlookers. A few even snickered as Miss Flora Mae struggled to recover her dignity.
By the next baptism, the baptistry’s glass front had been painted.
H
Church was a trial for me. Daddy marched us into third pew from the front on the right side of church. He’d stomped out any hope of back- row giggling long before. I did look longingly at the lucky, wicked girls happily ensconced there, but had learned not to even ask to sit with a friend. We always filed in and took our seats in the same order. Daddy was first with Billy sandwiched between him and Mother. Mother held a baby on her lap. I was in easy reach next to Mother, with Phyllis and Connie, a toddler next to me. Sometimes during the service, Mother and Phyllis exchanged charges.
This happened not too long after she came home with the extra twenty dollar bill, claiming she messed up making change in the offering plate. I’d never have known if she hadn’t been talking to me on the phone as she changed clothes after church, questioning herself, “Now where’s my bra?” She finally decided she must have forgotten to wear one. Is that any better? At her age, imagine trying to incite all those poor men to “lust after her in their hearts” when all they were doing was trying to worship. Not satisfied with the previous commandments she’d broken by stealing from the offering plate, getting caught paying her tithe with a money order from “Mr. Thrifty” liquor store. She appeared to be bearing false witness by claiming to be a teetotaler. It looks likes she’s knocking out two more or she wouldn’t have lost that bra at church. Technically, she may not have committed adultery, since she’s a widow, but it’s fairly likely she was coveting her neighbor’s husband or her neighbor’s husband’s ass, since she came gallivanting home a little short on underwear. I can promise you, she wouldn’t have bought that ridiculous story “I guess I forgot to wear one,” when I was a teenager! I don’t think she’s going to be satisfied till she manages to break them all, at church no less!
The Swains lined the third pew from the front on the right side of the church. Daddy insisted on it. I might be a better person today if I’d gotten to sit on the back pew and write notes and giggle with my friends. I had a lot of time over the years to study those in front of me, the only thing that kept me from going bonkers during the long service.
The visiting preacher came home with us for Sunday dinner. He had a just gotten a new car and spent most of Sunday dinner talking about it. His wife had a bad heart and lay down for a nap after lunch. He whispered “She could go anytime.” This did nothing to lighten the mood. It was clear the new car was the only bright spot in his life. It would look nice at her funeral. They were from out of town so we were stuck with them until time for the evening service. The afternoon looked long and hopeless. The kids escaped outdoors as soon as possible. Our house was on the edge of the farm, sitting inside a larger fenced area where Daddy raised hay and grazed cattle, horses, goats. The driveway was several hundred yards long and fenced separately, enclosing several pecan and fruit trees, and space for parking. As goats will do, the goats had slipped through the fence and gotten in the drive. Brother Smith had parked his nice new car under the mulberry tree in full bloom. Goats love new vegetation and as it turns out, new cars. We saw several hop agilely to the roof of his new car. Before we could get to it, several more joined their friends standing on their back legs to reach the tree branches. There was a big metallic “Pop!!” and the hood caved in, leaving the goats in a bowl. They leapt off. Mother heard the racket and ran out just in time to catch the whole disaster. Her eyes were huge as her hands flew to her mouth. We hadn’t had a new car for years and now we’d be buying this preacher one. Not only that, his wife would probably drop dead on the spot and he’d have to drive a goat-battered car to the funeral.
Nutsrok 