family stories

Ten Commandments Especially for Us

The Gospel According to Daddy

ten

Daddy was “the Boss.” God put him in charge, so we didn’t have to worry about what God wanted.  If we had any questions, we could go straight to Daddy.  He always had a Bible verse at the ready to back him up, if needed.  Most of them sounded suspiciously freshly-coined and self-serving, lacking book, chapter, and verse. Not having memorized the entire Bible, it was hard to prove they didn’t exist, like the one that forbade men to milk cows, “You cannot take what you cannot give.” Please. You didn’t have to be a heathen to see through that one.  Actually, Daddy anticipated our needs, requiring no effort on our part.  Permission to visit a friend, attend a school activity, or socialize had to come from Daddy.

Well, this is not strictly true.  Mother was free to say, “No” any time she chose.  The answer for visiting or socializing was easy.  “No. You don’t need to go.  Tell so and so they can come here.”   “No you can’t go to that party.  You don’t know who will be there.”  Or even more emphatically, “NO!  ………..will be there!”

School activities were usually okay in theory…… 1. If we weren’t grounded.  2. If one of the other kids in the family wasn’t grounded.   3. If nobody in the family had C or lower on their report card.  How often would a family with five kids not have at least one doofus with a C or lower on their report card?  This ruled out most opportunities to attend school activities, and “It’s your own fault.  You shouldn’t have even have had to ask.”  Of course, the answer was “No.”

School dances were off limits.  We were Baptists, and at that time, in addition to preaching the Ten Commandments, Baptists preached against dancing, drinking, and wearing shorts.  Even asking to go to a dance was a sin.  The sermons didn’t hold the other Baptists back, Daddy always made sure we didn’t do those things expressly preached against.  I didn’t have too much trouble with the Ten Commandments, never having coveted my neighbor’s wife, committed adultery, and so far hadn’t killed anyone, but I wanted to go to dances.   There was no commandment forbidding dancing, but dancing would have incited lust.  If Daddy had bothered to check out the kids we went to school with, he wouldn’t have worried too much about lust. Most kids were hayseeds, skinny, pimply, and inbred.  In the early sixties, we had no access to mind-altering substances to make us look better to each other.

In the unlikely event everyone had perfect grades, the activity didn’t break a commandment, and our plans could still wash out at the last minute if Daddy was in a bad mood, or one of the neighbor’s kids had behaved outrageously, causing Daddy to require us to be a perfect example.  In addition to the opportunity to provide a perfect example, we got to stay home and luxuriate in the added bonus of their lecture by proxy.

As all parents do, Daddy invoked his miserable upbringing, replete with selective memories, to reinforce whatever point he was making at the time.  If he needed to point out we were being selfish, “Once we went three days with nothing to eat!”  If Mother didn’t want to make ice cream, “One thing we could always count on.  Mama always made ice cream on the Fourth of July.”  He looked injured and almost tearful.  He wanted dessert after every meal.  “My mother made a cake every day.”  He may have thought I wasn’t listening, but I pondered every word in my heart.  The next time he rolled out, “Once we went three days without eating.” I shot back, “Why didn’t you eat one of those cakes your mama made every day.”  I got a quick lesson in the difference in smart and smart-aleck and secondly “silence would have been golden.”  My life would have been so much easier if I had just followed these commandments.

Commandments 

I. Thou shalt not do anything without my approval.  This includes failing to anticipate what I might want you to do or having to be told twice.  God help you if you anticipated wrong.  There is no recovering from that.  About fifty-percent of the time, I’d say, “I thought you would want………”  with the resulting reply, “That’s what you get for thinking.” Growl, growl , growl, growl, growl.

Approximately forty-nine percent of the time, I’d defend myself by saying, “I didn’t think…….” To which the response w.as

“If you aren’t going to think, you might as well be alike on both ends.  Growl, growl, growl, growl, growl.”

If there appeared to be no retribution headed my way, my eyes glazed over with the first growl.

About one percent of the time I didn’t mess up.

II. Thou shalt not sass.  Sassing includes anything from actual speech to questioning authority.  

Sassing meant failing to say, “Yes sir” or “No sir,” eye-rolling, or being sullen.  One should snap into a jolly mood as soon as punishment was complete show appreciation for discipline.  Sometimes, I had a little trouble with this one.

Obstinance could be anything from pouting (sticking one’s lip out and refusing to speak), eye-rolling(God help you), to disputing his word.  (But I didn’t leave the gate open, whether you had or hadn’t.)

III. Thou shalt not think bad thoughts.  Bad thoughts included harboring anger toward parents, thinking of doing something wrong, or keeping secrets.  If I knew one of my siblings had done something wrong, I was as guilty as they were if I didn’t tell.  If he knew I knew Billy stole a gumball, I got my rear whipped, too, when the truth came out.

IV. Thou shalt not ask to do things.  School dances, wearing shorts, causing boys to lust (this was never a big problem for me) or asking to stay over with friends could get you quite a lecture.  If other kids got in trouble and he learned of it, they got lectured by proxy.  I guess we were free to pass it on if we wanted.  He assumed every kid who got in trouble was our dearest friend.

V. Thou shalt not be lazy.  There were cows to be milked and hogs, chicken, and other livestock  to be fed daily.  Then there was the seasonal work; haymaking, clearing land, piling and burning brush.  Daddy was generous toward his women-folk.  There was no work they couldn’t do.  Daddy and my brother couldn’t do “women’s work.”  It was demeaning, fit only for women.  Doing men’s work improved women and kept them humble.

VI. Men shall not milk cows.  Thou canst not take what thee cannot give.  The Chapter, Book, and Verse of this injunction was never sited.  Daddy just knew it was in the Bible somewhere.  He couldn’t risk messing up on this one.

VII. Thou shalt not be trashy.  This one was directed to women and girls who without his guidance, have flaunted themselves.  They must wear knee-length dresses and not flirt or do anything to make the neighbors think ill of Daddy.  The worst insult he could hurl at a girl was “fix your clothes.”  God forbid, at best, a girl’s dress was over her head, or at worst a girl might have humiliated him by intentionally soiling her skirt, a premeditated insult to his dignity.

VII. Thou shalt never utter sexual innuendoes or dress in a way that would lead any man or boy in considering you in a sexual context.  This would be the ultimate insult to his dignity and authority.

VIII. Thou shalt not be trashy.  This embarrassment is the worst a man can suffer, trashy women in his family.

IX. Thou shalt be grateful thee has a father to raise thee right.  Thee would be in the street if he weren’t here to guidetelling ten commandments thee.

X.  Thee should always come to me with thy problems.  (Fat chance)

Cat Tales

We’ve had a few pets over the years, cats, dogs, birds, and one rat. It’s a good deal being our pet. Once residence is established, all their worries are over. They’re set for life.

We don’t have a cat now but we’ve had many, usually a ginger male. They always start out with a real name like Tom or Kitty Boy that disintegrates into Fat Yellow by the time they get grown. Our cat memories have all run together. We did have one cat who had the peculiar habit of hitching rides.

That’s probably how we happened on him in the first place. The kids and I stopped at a local country store and a sweet ginger cat climbed on top of a tire and tried to work his way under the hood. John grabbed him while I went in the store to report to the owner that we saved her cat.

“He’s not my cat.” She said. “He’s been hanging around yowling for a couple of days. I don’t know where he came from. Do you want him?”

Naturally, we did. He fit right in. He enjoyed the best of both words. He was an indoor/outdoor cat, clearly accustomed to taking care of himself. He had excellent manners, never making a mess. He liked to stay indoors in stormy or cold weather but spent a lot of time outdoors in summer. He frequently brought us gifts of dead mice and moles. We did have to watch him around visitor’s cars or he’d try to hitch a ride.

Once, John went to visit a friend several miles away. Fat Yellow had secreted himself in John’s car and beat him to the friend’s front door. One evening, after a twelve hour day at the hospital, I got to my car only to find Fat Yellow pacing around my front tire like he was irritated at my being so late. He had a grease mark down his side, so I’m sure he’d hitched a ride under the hood.

One day he abruptly disappeared. Though we asked everyone who’d visited, no one had seen him. He must have gone looking for a new home.

Mice Tales

I confess I once committed a grave sin. When my son was in the sixth grade, he had a science fair project. For once we planned ahead. His premise was “Sugar makes mice hyperactive.” We purchased eight white mice, dividing them into two cages. One group got sugar. The other didn’t. John monitored each groups activities for a few minutes daily.

There wasn’t much to watch. During the day, the mice mostly burrowed under the shredded paper in the cage. Some days later, it became abundantly clear there had been plenty going on under that shredded paper. Little mice started slipping through the wires of the cages to cavort around.

Horrified at the population explosion, I shut the experiment down. “These mice have to go! Hurriedly, we gathered up both cages of mice to put them outdoors till we came up with a solution. Fortunately, the babies scurried back to their mamas.

Providentially, a neighbor kid stopped by as we were pondering what to do. By this time John was thoroughly tired of the whole problem. “What are you gonna do with ’em?” he asked.

I don’t know but we can’t keep them in the house.” I answered.

Heaven smiled. “Can I have’em?” he asked.

I didn’t think twice. I didn’t tell him to call his mom. “John, help Stevie take these mice home.”

I hope I can one day be forgiven.

“Spontaneous Combustion” or “Because I Love You”

Pop..pop..pop..pop..pop..pop..pop…the percussion of Daddy’s belt flying out of his belt loops would have brought me out of a coma. Of his various approaches to discipline, “Spontaneous Combustion” was my specialty and the one I experienced most, being both clumsy and a smart mouth.

Things could be rocking along just fine till someone – usually me – broke a dish, made a smart remark, or embarrassed Daddy.   Though I never set out to be “smart-alecky”, I could always count on my big mouth.  What I thought was funny, didn’t always amuse him. I carefully memorized jokes, even if they were way over my head, to tell at just the right moment. My judgment of the right moment was poor, such as when we had the preacher’s family over to Sunday dinner and I told loudly a joke I’d overheard on the school bus.

I hadn’t understood it, but from the reaction of the kids on the bus, it was clearly hilarious. “What day is Queersday?” A word of explanation here. We were strict Southern Baptists. I was nine years old with absolutely no understanding of sex , heterosexual, homosexual, or otherwise.  I had never heard the word “queer” used except in the context of “unusual.” I was surprised the kids found the joke so funny, but made a point to remember it, nonetheless. There was no question of political correctness on my part. I was totally ignorant.

Patiently, the preacher asked, “I don’t know, Honey?  What is Queersday?”

I spouted back.“Only queers ask that!” and collapsed into laughter, noticing only too late, I was the only one laughing. Daddy took me by the arm, escorted me to the back yard and Pop..pop…well, you can guess the rest.

A major argument for “Spontaneous Combustion” was that even though it was swift and terrible, it didn’t involve a wait and didn’t include a lecture, both of which Daddy used to great advantage.

Misbehavior committed during regular times called for different discipline. A lecture preceded the “whipping.” I only wish that I had grown up in more enlightened times when “whipping” was abuse, but unfortunately in the fifties, it was common. The lecture started out with a full explanation of what a horrible thing I had just done, showing where I was pointed in the future should I not be whipped that day. He droned on forever, mentioning at some point that rich people didn’t take time to correct their kids, just bought them lots of stuff ,that sounded good to me, and concluding with, “I’m giving you this whipping because I love you.” I often wanted to voice, it was okay if he loved me a little less, but never did, considering he was holding a big belt the whole time.” Eventually the lecture was over and the main event began.

“Spontaneous combustion” was not Daddy’s exclusive domain. Mother could be prompted into action, but it took a little doing. She was a diminutive little woman with a high, squeaky voice but when she did cut loose, I felt ridiculous getting swatted by Minnie Mouse. One day the Standard Coffee Man came to call. In the fifties, the Standard Coffee Man made regular rounds calling on housewives. Mother routinely bought three pounds of medium roast delivered fresh in its round, white canister with gold stars. I always coveted those canisters, but she selfishly kept them for herself, storing other goods like flour, sugar, meal, and beans in them. Since we were a one-car family, and Mother rarely kept the car, any variation in the daily routine was a welcome event. While Mother went to fetch her purse and pay the coffee-man, I perched my smarty little self on the couch right next to our guest. Always friendly and chatty, I confided that Tommy Lindsey had told me a joke, and yes, Mr. Coffee Man did want to hear it.

“How did the little moron die?”  The coffee-man had no idea. “He was smoking on the roof and threw the wrong butt off!” It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard, and the Coffee-Man laughed, too. He was still laughing when Mother walked back in with his money. Mother snatched me off the couch, spatted my bottom, and sent me to my room. I never even got to say, “Goodbye” to my new best friend. The spat didn’t hurt, but I was embarrassed to have gotten a swat in front of company.

You don’t hit out of love. You hit because you can!

Family’s Obsession with Medicine: A Humorous Anecdote

Daddy’s family was a fan of doctors and medicines. When they’d get together, the topic was sure to turn to their latest symptoms, doctor’s visit or medication. Diet pills and nerve pills were favorites with the women. If Aunt Jewel was prescribed a medication and didn’t complete the course, Uncle Albert polished it off. “I ain’t throwin’out somethin’ that costs that much.”

One day, Daddy heard of a fine new doctor. Soon, he was experiencing difficulties and had mother set him up an appointment. They got there on the dot and he was called straight back. As Mother waited, she noticed there were only women in the waiting room. In minutes, Daddy was back, looking sheepish.
The obstetrician/gynecologist wouldn’t see him.

Uncle Albutt Part 6

Aunt Jewel had several nieces and nephews I saw from time to time. Her sister Lucille, of the hairy legs, who was married to Daddy’s Uncle Dunc, had three daughters, Alma, Eunice, and Gladys.  

I guessed Lucille wanted to keep to her family’s tradition of inflicting horrible names on kids including her boys,  Hambone, Mookie, Teeter, and twins Fats and Snake. I can’t imagine how she settled on Fats for one of the twins.  They both were skinny as snakes, though neither bit me.

I was most impressed with Alma. Mother said she was a tramp because she wore her swimsuit and moved the grass when a road crew was working in front of their house.  It made no sense to me.  I thought she looked beautiful with her bright red lipstick, blonde ponytail tied with a scarf, teetering along in high heeled wedge sandals.  The mower gave her a lot of trouble and a couple of the guys came to check on her.  

Her sister Eunice came out in her swimsuit, but she was not so popular, probably because she was extremely thin.  Her suit bagged over her hips like a toddler’s training pants.  Alma got a boyfriend that day.  Eunice didn’t.  No matter, Eunice had somehow snagged a boyfriend named Moxy.  I think he followed her home from her carhop job.  

Mother also thought carhops were trashy, dashing my career hopes.  I was impressed when Eunice got married at the age of sixteen and had a baby shortly thereafter. Eunice and Moxy were great favorites of Aunt Jewel’s, so I heard of them from time to time over the next few years.

Gladys was nearest me in age. Apparently still under the influence of her religious, fundamentalist mother, her clothes inspired no envy in me. Her hair was tightly braided.  She wore a dark, long-sleeved dress and brown leather oxfords I did not envy.  Her mother kept her busy, leaving her little time to play with me.  I helped her wash dishes and mop the kitchen so we could escape outdoors.  

That afternoon, we waded in their pond in our clothes.  Gladys said her mama didn’t allow her to wear a swimsuit.  Afterward, I  wore one of her Pentecostal dress and flour sack bloomers while my clothes dried on the barbed wire garden fence.  I wanted to keep the flour sack bloomers, but mother insisted I give them back.  I never wore anything more comfortable.  

We each got a quarter of watermelon from their garden that had been cooled in their well. Late in the day, the men fried fish while we chased fireflies in the dusk.

Uncle Dunc, became progressively rowdier as the evening drew on.   Though I didn’t know it at the time, It was my first experience with a drunk.  Uncle Dunc began playing wildly with us, chasing us as we jumped off the high porch fronting their house into the darkness.   I enjoyed the day tremendously, though sadly, never got to visit again.  

I lay that deprivation directly at Mother’s feet based on a conversation I heard as we drove home late in the night.  She took a dim view of drunks frying fish and chasing her children into the darkness.  What a pity!  I thought I was having fun.

I later got the impression he was named Dunc because it rhymed with drunk.  Still makes sense to me.

 

Out of Town

I’ve neglected my writing the last few days for the best of reasons. I’ve been out of town for a a family holiday. We gathered with family at one of Bud’s last remaining aunt’s home in Kansas. Family members ranged between five weeks and past ninety years in age. As you’d expect, everybody brought their finest food. As always, the macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake disappeared first. The weather was perfect, balmy and pleasant.

Aunt Beulah’s yard was perfectly groomed with plenty of shade and tempting seating spots. Everyone spent the day outdoors as we admired the baby, noted how big the children were getting, watched budding romances, and teased cousins about getting old. There were eighty-eight relatives and friends present. I don’t think I could gather a crowd like that if my life depended on it. Aunt Beulah is obviously well-loved. It was like dozens of family gatherings I’ve attended over the years. Bud’s aunt is nearing ninety with all the first cousins Bud romped with in the seventies, far past romping. They brought out all their stories of hijinks and amped them up. It was a perfect day!

Some of the cousins
Aunts Anita and Beulah

Mixed Nuts Part 3

We had plenty of interesting relatives. Dogs were off limits inside our house. All we had were hunting dogs, dogs with a purpose. People with house dogs were considered silly and weak-minded. Cookie and Uncle Riley never came to visit without bringing a couple of fat,shiny, little house dogs. You can guess what category this put them in. Daddy grudgingly tolerated their dogs as long as the dogs didn’t bark or mess up the house. They chattered endlessly about their dogs. Uncle Riley frequently assured us his dog, Jackie, was, “just like a person.” Daddy agreed the dog was as smart as Uncle Riley.

Unfortunately, Jackie got some kind of skin infection. Cookie and Uncle Riley showed up for a visit with poor Jackie, bald as an egg, the skin on his entire body irritated and red. Uncle Riley had been too cheap to take him to a veterinarian and concocted his own home remedy. He would dip Jackie in a Lysol and pine-oil mixture, reasoning it would kill any bacteria. The best we could tell, Jackie was bacteria and hair-free, but itching miserably with blistered skin. Uncle Riley felt badly about his medicine gone bad, and lovingly coated Jackie with Calamine Lotion several times a day. While Uncle Riley told us of Jackie’s troubles, he was unaware of Jackie sitting at his feet, licking his wounds. Not surprisingly, the harsh home remedy inflicted the most damage on Jackie’s sensitive nether portions. As he licked his little doggy privates gingerly, Uncle Riley reminded us Jackie was “just like a person.” Three-year-old son, John,  watched Jackie’s ablutions intently and remarked, “I never saw a person do that!”

Uncle Charlie was a compulsive liar. It didn’t concern him that no one believed him. He just lied because he was so darn good at it. Uncle Charlie would climb up on the roof to tell a lie instead of stand on the ground and tell the truth. If Uncle Charlie told you it was raining, don’t bother with your umbrella. He worked at the paper mill with Daddy, and had such a reputation for lying, that anyone repeating one of Charlie’s stories had to buy coffee for the group. One afternoon on coffee break, Charlie came rushing by the fellows in a big hurry. “Charlie, stop and tell us a lie!” one of them called after him.

Charlie never looked back, “I can’t!” he called over his shoulder as he rushed on. “Ray Pierson fell in Smokestack #2 and I’m going to call an ambulance!” They all rushed to see about their buddy and found Ray Pierson in perfect health at his usual work station, Smokestack #2.

Cousin Vonia and her husband Joe came to visit a lot, bringing their three little kids. Joe was “disabled” and didn’t have to get up early, so he just wouldn’t go home. Mother sent us on to bed, but Joe wanted to sit till midnight, even on a school night. Their little kids would have been drooped over asleep for hours. Finally Daddy started telling Mother, “We’d better to go to bed so these good folks can go home.”

Joe would look disappointed, then get up and shuffle toward the door, saying, “Well, I guess I better get my sorry self on home.” Vonia would trail behind him, carrying two sleeping kids and guiding the other staggering kid to the car. Joe couldn’t carry kids. He had a “bad back.”

Joe had a few other quirks. He had been fortunate enough to hurt his back at work and land a nice settlement and a monthly disability check so invested in a few cows and took care of them from then on. For those who know nothing of cattle farming, it is extremely hard work. Joe and his disabled back spent many hours building fences, making hay, stacking hay in the barn, unstacking that same hay later and loading it on a trailer, then taking it off and feeding it to the cattle, herding cows, wrestling soon-to-be steers to the ground and helping them become steers. He spent hours on end driving a tractor. Hard, hard, hard work.

Joe had a strange quality for a farmer, eschewing all healthy foods and existing on a diet of peanut patties, banana pudding, and milk. He also smoked like a smokestack. This careful attention to diet paid off for him. He didn’t have a tooth in his head by the time he was thirty-five. He refused to get dentures. He just dropped peanut patties from his diet. He said he didn’t need dentures for just milk and banana pudding. The smoking finally killed him when he was seventy-eight. He dropped a cigarette down the bib of his overalls and pulled out in front of a train.

Even though Great Uncle Albert had given Daddy a place to stay and let him work for his keep during the terrible times of the 1930’s when Maw Maw was struggling to feed seven children alone. Daddy appreciated this and was loyal to Uncle Albert all his life. Old, grumpy, and hormone-depleted by the time I knew him in the mid 1950’s, it was hard for me to imagine him in his younger, randy days. He was dull, and full of good advice, a habit he’d developed since he’d gotten too old to set a bad example. Aunt Jewel wasn’t his first wife, and frankly, was on pretty shaky ground mentally.  I heard whispers she had broken up his first marriage to Mary. Even more shocking, Uncle Albert was entertaining her when Mary tried to force her way in to the marital bedroom. Uncle Albert slammed the door, breaking his poor wife’s arm. Mary got the hint, took the baby, and left. Smart girl.

I had trouble envisioning this. I had never met Mary, but she had to look better than the Aunt Jewell I knew. I had heard Aunt Jewell used be really pretty, but she had gotten over it. By the time I knew her, she had smoked over forty years, had nicotine-stained fingers and teeth, wrinkles around her mouth from drawing on a cigarette, and her mouth pulled a little to one side. She had a thick middle, thin hair in a frizzy old-lady perm, and bird legs. She wore stockings rolled to her knees and cotton house dresses. She wheezed constantly and never spoke except to whine, “Albert, I’m ready to go now.” Or “Albert, give me a puff off your cigarette.” Oh yes. One time they came to visit after she’d fallen and broken a rib and she started crying and said, “Albert, I want a puff off your cigarette, but I’m too sore to cough. “ That was kind of interesting, but I couldn’t imagine a man choosing her over anyone else.

It was interesting to see my father treated as a kid. Uncle Albert felt free to give his opinion about whatever Daddy was up to. He arrived for a visit one day before Daddy got home from work and was inspecting the place.

Uncle Albert kept all his stuff organized and in perfect repair. Daddy’s barn was a disorganized mess. He tossed things wherever he got through with them. Uncle Albert walked around, examining items and commenting. “This is a good old singletree. It just needs a new chain.” “This is a good rasp. It just needs to be cleaned up.” “This is a good axe-head. It just needs to be sharpened and have a new handle put in.” Before too long, Daddy came striding up, delighted to see his uncle. He was smiling broadly and thrust out his hand.

Uncle Albert looked at straight at him and pronounced, “Bill, you need to get the junk man out

here and get all this #^%$ hauled off.”

I’m pretty sure I can pass for a #5 most days.

Make a Joyful Noise!

imageDaddy was always right.  Custom and rules were for us, the underlings and nobodies of the family, and we’d best not forget it. He broke the news that some Church in the Wildwood was having a revival and we were going tonight.  I never liked going to church much anyway, so this ruined my day, but wait, there was a bonus.  In case that was’t bad enough, Phyliis and I were going to sing a special.  For those of you unfortunates not initiated into the strange goings on of Baptist Churches back in the sixties, it was common for a slightly talented, or not, fervently religious girl to do a solo, hold the congregation captive for what could be a few miserable minutes. Presumably, she had collaborated with the choir director and pianist, so as not to hijack order of the service.

Phyllis fit the bill perfectly, and had enthusiastically sung several specials in our church, delighting herself, Daddy, and hopefully, at least some people of the congregation.  A couple of times, he had even sprung for a new dress, so she’d really shine.  In all honesty, she sounded good.  

Despite the fact that I wanted no part in it, I’d even been dragged into it a couple of times as backup, kicking and screaming.  I did not sing with a joyful heart.

My heart was heavy with dread as Daddy drove manically through the back roads in search of this obscure church, throwing a fit the whole time because we’d made him late.  This was standard practice wherever we went, since he’d never bother to start getting dressed till after the time he’d say we were leaving.  When it was obvious we’d arrive after services started, I felt great relief, cheerfully offering, “Too bad!  We won’t be able to talk to them about singing a special.”

Always right, as usual, he shot me down.”Oh yes you will.  I’ll tell you when to go up and sing.  It doesn’t have to be arranged ahead of time.  Just be ready to go when I say.  Tell the piano player you want her to play ‘How Great Thou Art’.” I gave up.  We were going to be clomping up to the front of the church surprising the unsuspecting congregation with an impromptu “special” like a couple of clowns. At least, we’d never have to see any of these people again.

The seven of us filled a pew as the congregation finished a hymn, and launched in to another as I waited for the ax to fall.  Phyllis and I sat on the outside so we could make our way more easily to the front when the time came.  After the close of the offeratoy hymn and the collection of the offering, Daddy gave Phyllis “The Signal.” As she stood and prepared to stun the worshipers with our “special “, the choir director announced a “Special,” to be sung by a saintly appearing young lady.  Daddy’s face fell and Phyllis quickly sat down.  The singer limped through “How Greet  Thou Art” clearly enunciating “Greet,” not “Great” as we were prepared to do.  I never enjoyed a song more, the hilarity of the situation nearly undoing me.  As she finished, I stood as though I still thought Daddy expected us to sing.  He reached over, grabbing my skirt tail, stopping my progress.  I gave him a questioning look, as though I was confused at his shutting me down.

God is good.