revenge

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.

 

 

Not Far From the Tree

imageI recently asked my son if he’d pick me up in the airport upon a return flight if I came into Dallas instead of Shreveport, since  I’d been fortunate enough to find a forty-seven dollar ticket.  Thinking what a good son he was, since I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, I happily purchased the cheap ticket, telling him I’d email him the gate and time details later, knowing he’d already agreed to the date.  A few days later, completely out of the blue, I got this text.  “Mom, we are at the airport.  Which gate is it?”

I was horrified.  Dallas is two and a half hours from Shreveport.  Surely I hadn’t somehow given him the wrong date.  I tried to return his text.  No reply.  After a few minutes I got him by phone.  He was laughing hysterically, enjoying my panic.  Of course, he was just tricking me.

Realizing I owed him, I decided to send him this horrible picture, hoping he’d be repulsed.  He certainly deserved it. Instead, I got a return email, asking me if they made matching pants so me, him, and his grandmother could get a matching set.

My apologies to the artist.

What the Heck? Old People Don’t Get Married (Finale)

Wuppin Mama redoMama was waiting for me with the screen door open. “You sassed Miz Wilson! You know better than that. Go cut a switch, and it better be the right or I’ll go get one myself.”

My pathetic explanation, “I wasn’t trying to be smart alek, I really just didn’t care if I wore out the seat of my pants,” was no help.  There was no escaping.  Mama wasn’t cruel, just intended for her children to obey.  Selection of a switch was a weighty matter.  Mama required a switch large enough to make a nice snap and sting when it struck the legs, but small enough not to cut the skin.  I wanted to choose a switch just barely large enough to meet her standards.  If I misjudged and Mama had to fetch her own, it would not be good.  Dawdling would not help, so I chose the best of the worst for my switching.  Mama let me cry a minute before hushing me. “Now you stop that! Dry up right now! Change out of those filthy overalls and go play.” With my child’s logic, I blamed Mama entirely for all my troubles, never thinking to be mad at John for tattling.  I moped around enjoying my misery, maybe five minutes, till Mama noticed and threatened to put me to work if I didn’t go play, ”Right now!” Not being an idiot, I, straightened up long enough to get out of her sight, resuming my pouting hidden in a chimney corner.  Creating some wonderful memories of my times with Johnny out of whole cloth, added to Mama’s endless cruelty, I wept luxuriously, but quietly, making sure Mama didn’t hear.  That worked so well, I tried to dream up some long, lost times with the dear Aunt Ellie I had so recently mourned.  In view of our anemic thin relationship, even my fertile imagination dried up pretty soon leaving me to resort to an ever present resource, self-pity.  Now I was set.  Mama was mean. She wouldn’t even let me cry after she whooped me! The more I thought about it, the madder I got.  When Mama was mean enough to switch me, she’d let me cry just a minute and then say, “Now, that’s enough.  Just dry it up.”  She meant it, too.  If I’d kept on whining, she’d have warmed my bottom up again. I tried to keep up my crying, but had lost my momentum and, frankly, crying was getting boring.

My temper up at the injustice now, I picked up a stick lying in the sand under an oak and whacked the tree several times. It felt good!! I whirled around to build up power and hit the tree again so hard it rattled my teeth. What I’d really like to do, just once, is give Mama a good whooping and let her see how it feels.

Possessed by fury, I drew a huge figure in the deep sand of the front yard, not fifty feet from the front porch.   It never occurred to me that Mama was a perceptive woman, not easily amused by the antics of children, nor that things wouldn’t go well for me had she strolled by just then and found me beating a large stick woman drawn in the dirt. Enraged, I started at the top, beating Mama’s effigy, striping methodically down one side, even creating a carefully measured pattern on the bottom of the feet, before progressing up the other side, changing switches as I wore them out, taking care to replace them with big, strong switches, knowing how Mama favored them.  Enjoying the combination of the rhythmic sound and the wave-like motion of the sand as I smacked, I immersed myself in the sensual experience, noting the fresh, dry scent as the sand mixed with the acrid scent of the broken switches.  My mood changed from black to pure joyous enthusiasm as I was caught up in the experience.  Seldom have I known such satisfaction.  Standing back to admire my work in progress, I was suddenly horrified to see how obvious I had been. Mama could not have failed to understand, had she seen.  I hurriedly grabbed a brushy top from a pine branch lying on the ground to brush away the evidence of my guilt, so I might live to sin another day.  The deep experiences of my first real grief of Johnny’s loss, rage at Mama’s injustice, joy, and relief, one on the heels of the other made for a day of catharsis.  Though it was years before I heard the word, its meaning was  clear in my heart.