Diary of a Preacher's Kid

DIARY OF A PREACHER’S KID

By Jan Lawrence

Copyright © 2014, Jan Lawrence

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-63579-1

Disclaimer and Thanks

I have, for obvious reasons, changed the names of everyone in this book with the exception of my mother and father and a few others who would forgive me anyway.  This book is not politically correct in the use of language that has been banned over the years, but it is the way white people talked about issues.  I only knew one black woman who became very precious to me thanks to her best friend, a Mrs. Johnson.

I thank my sister Gerene, for talking me through this book and giving me background that she experienced and I did not.  Sadly, she did not live to read it, but she knows about it anyway. 

Texas

The small East Texas town where I would transition from a little girl to a young woman was first established in 1845.  It became a town because of the enormous underground mound of salt that had been there since before the age of dinosaurs.  This was probably a favorite salt lick for them if the truth be told.  The salt mine that is there today can supply the world’s need for salt for another 20,000 years.  That fact alone just blows me away.  The earth’s surface will probably be a partially burned out cinder in 22,006 but somewhere there will be this huge underground pile of salt. 

Another claim to fame is that Wiley Post was born in the area and probably dusted the dirt off, left and never looked back.  They still call him a home town boy, though.

Another sad fact is that to this day there is a 93% white population, 2% black and Indian population, and a small percentage of other races tossed in.  I am shocked as I write this that the majority is still white.  When I lived there the white population was at 99% with 1% Indian.  There is a reason for that. 

Many years ago, as the story goes, or should I say the legend there was a small black population consisting mainly of farmers scratching a meager living from the time of the civil war.  During the depression a black father with children who were very hungry, broke into the richest man in town’s ranch house, went into his larder and stole a ham.  No one would have done such a thing had they not been in the throes of desperation and acted for the survival of his children.  The lady of the house saw him as he ran from the home and raised bloody hell.

The good men of the town jumped in their cars and trucks, probably pulled the sheets over their heads with the big Klan mark on them and took off to find the offending nigger.  He was found, inside his home, terrified trying to hide his wife and children.  Torches were thrown into the house and a family of seven was destroyed. 

When my father, in 1957 asked the sheriff where he could find the black folks, the fat bellied cartoon of a man with his gun slung down on his leg because his gut was too big to find a holster belt that would fit, pointed to a lamp post.  The last nigger in this town hung out right there.

My dad told me later that if what the fat sheriff had said was true, the town was cursed.  Cursed by the Klan, cursed by the attitude toward blacks, and cursed for the unknown number of murdered men, women, and children, whose only crime was poverty and hunger, and who probably haunt the place.  Were I in their shoes, I sure as hell would have.

My father had failed to teach us bigotry.  He failed to tell us that in this country we were supposed to hate anything that didn’t look like us, and I never heard one word of how we might be better than anyone else.  That exception was Seventh Day Adventists.  He always said if one of them appeared at your door, never open it.  I know I received many shocks as I grew up and learned about second class citizens and how I was certainly one of them.

But, this was the place that fate was going to bring me to, to go from being a child when we moved there, to being almost an adult.  It was the place where I learned a bit more about life than I knew when I arrived. It was the place that made me question who my parents were, and finally made me look at my parents and the reality of what they were.  It was a place that held occasional terrors for me, and that would ultimately break my heart.  But it was just a place, no better and no worse than a million others.  It is just another little girl’s story of trying to grow up in a world that had just not been adequately explained to her. 

I USED TO DREAM I COULD FLY

I am old now.  I look back at my life as peering through a curtain and the shapes that lie beyond grow vaguer and vaguer.  That which was always vibrant, full of color, feeling, and clarity has become ghosts of the maybe.  I lived through the late 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, and now far beyond.  I saw our world change from a patriotic force and people who believed in God, but worshipped him under many different names become a cheap, uncaring, uneducated, alienated, and dissipated mess.  Some were Catholic, Methodist, Pentecostal Holiness and all things in between. I saw the first space vehicle shot into the atmosphere and stay there. 

When I was very young, I dreamed I could fly.   I would take a leap into the air, then again, and yet again.  With each leap I rose higher and higher into the air, and suddenly, I was flying!   I could soar far above the earth, to see the land flying beneath me as I twisted and turned in the air currents.

Unfortunately, I would always wake up in my bed, and hope the next night I would have the same dream.  It was so much better than the daily reality of the dusty, little East Texas town.  I just knew that one day, even if I couldn’t physically fly, I could fly as a person.  I think I must have been very young to feel that mine was to be a great destiny.  It was a thrill in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of being more alive than anyone else.  It is hard to describe this many years later, but the shadow of it still remains, a pathetic little inclination of greatness.

We moved to East Texas in the summer of 1956 from Tulsa, Oklahoma.  For the umpteenth time daddy had disappeared to go out on the road as it was called.  He was actually an Assembly of God evangelist.  He made money during the summers by going out on the road.  When I think about those times when he wasn’t around, it is almost like he just wasn’t.  I didn’t have the feeling that most children have, of missing a parent.  He was very important to me when he was there, but when he wasn’t…he just stopped existing for a few months. 

One day in Tulsa, after I had been playing with friends all afternoon, I went back to the house to find my Mom packing.  This could mean only one of two things, either she had bought another house and sold the one we were living in, or daddy had taken another church and we had to leave.  As it turned out, daddy had called her and told her that he and  Julian, my brother who is four years older than myself had taken a church in Bellows, Texas, but that he couldn’t leave.  We would have to pack up and meet the two of them there.  To this day I don’t understand why we were not to have any help.

But in 1956, that was the way it was.  When the man spoke, the women started packing.  I don’t believe I was very much help, but mom had the packing thing down very well.  She knew exactly how much of her precious china she could pack in one box, how many pieces of newspaper had to be wrapped around each plate and glass.  Not once in all the years of packing and moving did any of mom’s china get a chip, much less get broken.

Mom would tell me to pack towels, sheets, and stuff that would not require my fumble fingers to touch and possibly break.  I would pack those things in the little red two-wheel trailer that was as much a part of our lives as our little rat-terrier dog, Trixie.  The big trailer would come with my Aunt Elsie and Uncle Rick.  He had a vehicle that could pull a trailer that would hold three bedrooms and one living room worth of furniture, all antiques.  Mom was a shopper.  She loved nothing better than to rat around at house sales to find a bargain and would stay to listen to the heartbreak story of why families had to sell valuable antiques.  I think she enjoyed that part most of all.

Rick was a plumber and he would hire a couple of brawny friends to load all the heavy stuff with Elsie clucking over everything.  She didn’t want to incur her sister’s wrath over a scratch on her precious furniture.  Elsie and Rick felt like it was their Christian duty to help with all our moves.

All too soon we said goodbye to the only pretty house we ever lived in.  It was on Irvington street in Tulsa.  It was made out of cream colored rock, had nice rooms, a big yard and lots of kids in the neighborhood.

The four of us, mom, me, Trixie, and the little red trailer  pulled out of the drive way after dark.  Mom always drove after dark.  She said there was less traffic.  I think she did it because I always fell asleep and she didn’t have to listen or talk to me.  Trixie was a veteran traveler, she had moved as many times as I had and never complained.  The truth was I probably didn’t say much.  I was a quiet kid.  All the pictures of me show a wizened little girl with dark, frightened eyes, invariably squinting into a bright sun; white hair and so extremely skinny I gave new meaning to the description the neighborhood kids gave me of human spider monkey.  I don’t really know what my mother thought.  I felt her dislike of me, I experienced her cruelty, but always the optimist, thought she loved me.  Parents always love their children…..right? 

I don’t remember the drive to East Texas, although I’ve tried.  I vaguely recall a coffee stop somewhere, and an emergency bathroom stop, then the next thing my brain conjures up is pulling into a dirt driveway sometime after midnight.  The headlamps of the 1952 Chevy illuminating a wooden house, long and thin sitting like a starvation victim on the property.  The paint was nonexistent and the yard was the same dirt as the driveway.  I sensed more than heard my mom’s gasp of dismay.

Mom told me to get out of the car, we would unpack the trailer in the morning.  I opened the passenger door and the light made a small glow that felt safe.  If I closed the door, then I was out in the dark.  Not wanting to give my mom any fuel for getting mad at me, I closed the door and the dark, east Texas night wrapped around me like a heavy blanket.  Even fearless little Trixie stayed close to me as if she might be scared, but then she yawned as if disgusted by being awakened.

I could feel the hard ground under my feet and my few steps proved the ground to be uneven.  I took tiny blind-man steps toward the strange little structure with a heavy heart.  There was no porch, just a door in the wall of the house and the door had no steps leading up.  I had to step very high to get into the house.  We tiptoed in and mom ran her hand over the wall and found a light switch.  When the light came on we just stood there staring at the naked bulb hanging from a cord in the center of the room; however, to call it light would be stretching the truth.  It couldn’t have been more that 20 watts and it cast a pale yellow glow that barely chased the shadows from the room.    One of the first times in my life, I felt my mom’s negation of the situation daddy had pulled us in to.  Some of the swagger left her.  Her still pretty face looked tired and disgusted even in the absence of light cast by that sorry little light bulb. 

Without words, we made a pallet on the floor from blankets she had stored in the back seat of the car for just this purpose.  We were trying to be quiet so we wouldn’t wake up Julian and dad who were sleeping on pallets in another room.  We finally crawled under the covers and as I settled in next to her I heard a sound above my head in the ceiling.  The sound wasn’t lost on Trixie who was lying next to me. I felt her small body tense, the hair on the back of her neck rise as she strained toward the sound.    Did you hear that? I whispered to Mom, what was that?  Fear crept up and took a firm grasp of my thumping heart.  Mom pulled me closer to her.  Rats.  The one word that frightened me speechless. 

Daddy had told a story time and again of one place he stayed on the road.  He had preached for the minister of a small church somewhere in the back hills of Tennessee.  After the service the minister had asked daddy if he would like to stay with them for the night rather than driving to the next meeting town before trying to get some sleep.  Daddy was more than happy to sleep in a bed and accepted gratefully.  During the night he heard a noise above his head.  The noises continued, the sounds of little feet scurrying, busy little rat feet searching for whatever rats seem to scurry about searching for.  Suddenly, the worst fears of his life were realized when one of the cat sized rats from the attic fell through the rotten ceiling of the sad little house which was all the minister could afford in No Where Tennessee, and fell directly on the pillow next to daddy’s face. 

Daddy said the scream that ripped out of his mouth could be heard a mile away, and must have given the poor pastor and his now unsleeping wife the fright of their lives.  Daddy flew from the bed, into his pants, and into his car and didn’t stop until he got back home to Tulsa.  He didn’t go back out on the road for a few weeks.  I guess he had sudden rat syndrome or something.

Anyway, the rest of the night I kept waiting for a rat to fall on my face and then I would die.  I finally fell asleep because I woke up with mom gone and the smell of coffee in the air.  I could hear mom and dad somewhere to my right in a heated argument and decided to listen.

Mom was telling dad that no one would bring a dog to live in this place.  The little trailer was not going to get unpacked and we were going back to Tulsa after church.  I realized with a groan that this was Sunday and no matter how exhausted we were, church was a requirement three to four times a week.  I could hear dad trying to reason with her and for once I hoped she held her ground. 

Julian appeared next to me on the pallet having snuck in from the other room to listen to the argument.  I heard rats all night, I groaned.  I want to go back home.  He poked me and with his superior male, older brother, sarcasm, said, Don’t be stupid.  We have to stay here.  Dad already took the church.  Anyway, the school has a good football team.  I guess at that point in time, his brain was shaped like a football.  If it couldn’t be caught, thrown, kicked, pitched, tackled, or hit, then it just didn’t matter.  I heard Mom say she was not staying.  I heard dad ask if the church agreed to build a new house, would she stay.  She said they probably wouldn’t agree, he said he would bring it before the church that morning.

By 8:00 a.m., we had eaten our small breakfast, dressed and prepared for our unveiling at the new church.  I always hated this routine.  People you didn’t know stared at you, touched you, pulled at you and felt on some level, they owned a piece of you.  It didn’t seem to bother my brother, but it was almost more than I could stand.

Daddy told Trixie to catch a rat, and for her part had been staring at the ceiling from time to time like she was fully aware of what was up there, and we left the house and got into the car with the trailer still attached.  That was the first really good look at our new residence.  A shotgun house with each room in line with the next, was pitched at an oblique angle on the corner lot. As you walked into the living room, the kitchen was on your right with the three bedrooms lined one after the other.  A bathroom was halfway down if you wanted to call it that.  There was a tub and a toilet, but no lavatory.  If you wanted to wash your hands you had to do it in the kitchen.  Daddy also had to shave in the kitchen.

The outside looked like it had been built a hundred years before, the wooden sides were weather beaten, the windows saggy in their frames.  The yard sported a tuft of saw grass here and there and one very old oak tree stood to the left side of the property.  Two small wood planks hammered into its trunk lead to three planks on the first huge limb that must have served as a tree house at one time.

As we started to pull out of the drive, my brother and I in the back seat could feel mom’s anger.  I had seen her pretty angry from time to time, but the look Julian and I gave each other meant this was probably the A-bomb one.  We knew someone was in for it and it was probably daddy.   Her dejection of the night before was completely gone and this angry set to her chin had replaced it.

We drove down the road past a few houses on the right and a huge vacant lot on the left to the highway and turned toward the little town of Bellows.  I kept waiting to see a town, but nothing really came into sight except a motel on one side and a truck stop on the other.  About a mile from our road, dad turned right and drove about a half block down and turned into a tiny rock edifice with a small front porch and windows on each side.  Just down the street about a half block, I spotted the railroad tracks.  For once, the church was on the right side of the tracks but just barely.

Before we got out of the car dad turned to me and said Be nice, Jannette.  With everyone so on edge, I didn’t make any smart cracks.  I figured someone would slap me in the face.  The four of us trudged up the four steps where a couple of people were milling about, before going into church.  Dad and my brother spoke to a couple of folks just inside the door and I was trying to crawl inside the back of mom’s too fashionable suit for this place.  It was her usual black straight skirt with an extremely tailored jacket with the exception of the poplin around the hipline; high necked white blouse; and higher black high heels.  She loved sexy shoes.  Even into her seventies, she wore the sexiest styles she could find although the heels had shrunk down an inch or so.

The farmer’s and rancher’s wives all looked Mom and me over from head to foot.  I expected this so I didn’t bother to look up any higher than the hem of mom’s skirt.  This way, when she turned into the second pew, I just followed right behind like her good little shadow.  My brother managed to do a two point landing next to me.  He was always pretending he was sliding into first base, or some such male nonsense. 

I was oblivious to anyone around me.  From Mom’s statements of earlier that morning, we weren’t going to stay here anyway.  I just had to get through the Sunday School class and a few strangers, and another of daddy’s sermons.  I could deal with the latter, but dreaded the first like going to the dentist.  My brother would strut in, puff up his chest and act like some fairy tale Prince.  Everyone would look at him with a certain sense of awe.  I would walk in not looking at anything, trying to find an empty chair next to him and pray I wouldn’t turn an ankle and fall down.   I was totally unaware of why I was so afraid, I was simply frozen with fear around strangers.

Daddy walked to the front of the church and asked everyone to be seated.  For the first time in all the years I had sat in the front pews of different churches he didn’t call anyone to the front to direct the song service, he didn’t pray, he didn’t send anyone out to the Sunday school classes.  He just stood there for a long moment looking at the people as if he were assessing whether any of them held a brain in their skulls.

I would like my wife, Mary, to join me here in the pulpit.  I felt mom stiffen for a second, then she was up and walking the few steps to the small stage area and the pulpit.  They made a strong couple.  Daddy was only 5’10" tall, and mom was every bit as tall.  They were even built somewhat alike.  Daddy had a strong upper body and heavily muscled arms.  Both were about forty pounds overweight.  But they were both striking people of Indian heritage.  Daddy had a strong nose and strange blue eyes.  Mom had lovely skin and high cheekbones. 

Daddy looked stern and mom looked angry.  He began explaining that we had arrived during the night and were very tired from the drive and sleeping on the floor.  My wife and daughter were unable to sleep because the rats in the attic of the parsonage are so active, that even the dog couldn’t sleep. 

I looked up at this point and noticed people were looking at each other in an odd way.  My wife has declared that she will not live in a home that you would not be willing to put your wives and children in.  I guess I was so happy to become your pastor that I failed to see how my wife and daughter would be affected by the living arrangements.  I am asking you to arrange for a new parsonage to be built immediately with room for my family and with the basic necessities that human beings expect.  Especially the necessity of no rats!  Dad didn’t go into the fact that he was terrified of rats.

Someone in the audience spoke up and said, Preacher, how do you think we can afford to build you a new house.  We ain’t rich folk!  At this, mom stepped forward and stated in her firm, authoritative voice, You will afford it the same way every other person buys or builds a house.  You go to the bank, you get a loan, you guarantee so much per month and you build the house.  Do you realize there is only one closet in that ‘house’?  How do you expect a family of four to hang up their clothes?  The bathroom is so small there is no room for a lavatory.  My husband has to shave in the kitchen.  If I visit your houses, I would guess that each and every one of you have more than one closet and certainly a sink in your bathrooms."

Dad took control again and stated firmly, quietly, and finally, If you do not agree to build us a house immediately so that my family can live in a reasonable amount of comfort, then we will have to decline the church and return to Oklahoma.   This time I heard a gasp and a rumble of voices.  An elderly man sitting across from us in the third pew rose and raised his hand to get everyone’s attention.  He didn’t look very happy, either, but then no one there seemed very happy including me and Mom.  We will build you a new house pastor.  I will handle the details with the bank.

I found out later than it wasn’t just him handling the details.  Mom took over on the design of the house, what was included and what wasn’t and the arrangements with the bank.

Dad seemed to believe this man whose name was Brother Wadel so he indicated his acceptance by a slight nod of his head and mom left the pulpit.  We were soon dismissed for Sunday School after dad  prayed for the spirit to bless the services and I think he went into a long dissertation about the Lord blessing the endeavors of the members in building a new parsonage so that it would be ready in a couple of months.  Mom, who was on the verge of hysteria or talking in tongues  yelped out a praise the lord so suddenly, I almost jumped off the pew.  I was hoping she would hold off on cutting loose with the tongues for just this one Sunday.  It had been bad enough already.

Luckily, daddy got his amen out before mom showed the congregation how righteous she was, and everyone stood up and went their various ways for Sunday School.  The adults just split the church.  The young marrieds and singles on one side, the old marrieds and singles on the other.  The few children and teenagers went to a small wing off the back and split up with the teenagers on one side of the small space and the children on the other. 

In our class was myself, Julian, a pretty girl with blond hair, a silly looking boy with red hair, a chubby boy with dark hair and thick eyebrows, and one boy I could only look up at through my eyelashes.  He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, but he looked different from the boys I played with in Tulsa.  He had on a striped shirt, pink and black.  His collar was turned up and he had hair swept back from his face that came to a tail in the back.  A curl of unruly hair fell down the front of his forehead.  He had on wide cuffed jeans and lounged in his chair as though completely bored by the company around him.    Every few minutes he took out a comb to put each hair back into place. 

I don’t remember one word of the lesson that first Sunday morning.  Too much had transpired since our car pulled out of the drive in Tulsa the night before.  The teacher introduced me to the very few kids in the class.  My brother was perfectly comfortable since he already knew everyone.  He apologized for the fact that I didn’t look up except to sneak glances at the pretty boy across from me then cringe because I knew my face turned red each time his eyes would shift in my direction.

After one hour of the teacher giving us our weekly lesson, we heard a chime and everyone got up and returned to the sanctuary.  This time I didn’t return to the front of the church to sit by mom, I hung tightly to the back of Julian’s shirt and he went to the third pew from the back to sit.  I was relieved that it wouldn’t be so easy for the rest of the adults to turn and stare at me from back there.

The blond girl sat down beside me.  She leaned over and whispered, my name is Belinda, I’m glad there will be another girl my age in the Sunday School class.

I looked at her for the first time and met bright blue eyes behind long, thick eyelashes.  She had creamy skin and a natural blush to her cheeks.   She had on a crisp white cotton blouse and blue sweater.  I noticed that she too wore her blouse collar standing up like the pretty boy I had already noticed. 

I didn’t know what to say so I smiled and ducked my head and stared intently at my fingers that were knotted tightly in my lap.  I didn’t have to say anything because a woman had started playing the first few notes on the ancient up-right piano indicating the church service was beginning.

I felt I could look up at this point since everyone else was busily looking up a page number in the song books, Bringing in the Sheaves if I remember correctly.  It gave me a chance to really look the place over.  For such a small church, the sanctuary was fairly long; about a fifteen pew stretch on each side.  I noticed the attendance sign hanging from the pulpit.  It showed an attendance of men, women and children of 60 souls.

The people were obviously working class, farming working class at that.  The women all had long hair twisted and turned into a bun at the nape of their necks.   There was a lot of old women, even to my young eyes, but there were a few younger mothers, one with a baby enthusiastically sucking at her breast which was not covered the way polite women were supposed to.  I blushed and looked away.  That was more life than I felt I needed to see. 

One woman had skinny silver glasses perched well down on her long, thin nose.  She looked older than Methuselah.  She was probably only about 45.  My inspection was suddenly and rudely ended by my brother delivering a sharp jab to my ribs.  My gasp was covered by the loud and boisterous singing of the last verse of Bringing in the Sheaves.  When the last notes faded away, he leaned over and whispered that I had better stop gawking at everyone or daddy would notice.  I was supposed to set an example.  He didn’t say that, but it was what he meant.  The twit.

Next we were instructed by the lady at the piano to stand and sing Old Rugged Cross, page 52.  I didn’t have a song book, didn’t need one.  I got up and hoped I wouldn’t have to stand for two hours, I was tired from the long night.

"There was an old cross…" I croaked out, I knew I couldn’t sing, but daddy didn’t care.  He was looking for enthusiasm.  I noticed Belinda sang in a sweet soprano voice.  I wasn’t sure I was going to like this girl.  I already sized her up as a female who always looked neat and well done.  I always looked like a skinny train wreck and knew it.  Thank God I was still too young to realize how much that would haunt me as I grew older.

About four more songs later, we were allowed to sit, and the rustling of Bibles indicated that daddy was ready to preach.  There was a hushed anticipation.  I began to fiddle with the song book.  I had heard most of daddy’s sermons, but he would change them from time to time so they wouldn’t sound the same.

One thing about my daddy, he could preach.  With just a few well chosen words, he could whip the faithful into a real tail spin.  He would start off reading a passage in the Bible, then build on it, occasionally throw in something funny for a bit of comic relief, then go for the throat. 

Since he had already upset the faithful over the house issue, he gave them a great show that Sunday morning.  Well before 11:30, church always ended at noon, he had them jumping up and down and shouting, Preach it, Reverend!  At this a youngish woman on the second pew leaped from her seat, with a whoop and began what I can only relate as a clogging dance of the Tennessee hills.  Her arms went up, her flowered print dress swirled, and somehow, in this delirium, she managed to exit the pew and get to the open space of the aisle.  Her dark brown hair that had been tightly wound into a bun at her neck, sprang loose and swirled in the same direction as her flowered print dress.  She was babbling in tongues and whooping with great motions of her arms. Her wooden heeled shoes slapped a rhythm on the also wood floor like castanets clacking out time.

That’s when Mom got into the show.  Up she came from her second pew so that everyone could see her, raised her left hand and began talking in tongues.  I noticed something over the years with Mom, she always babbled the same thing.  I won’t be sacrilegious and try to describe the sounds, but they were always the same.  When the flow was done, mom did the undoable…at least in holiness circles, she interpreted her own tongues. 

The rule of thumb for folks who talk in tongues, is that one is given the word, then someone else receives the translation.  That way, I guess, God keeps people honest and no one can fake it.  However, I guess God hadn’t explained that to my mom, because she had a consistent habit of handling all parts of the spiritual gifts.  

As always, that Sunday morning, she began in her spiritually ecstatic voice, "My children, " and then began her usual litany of doom and gloom.  God was going to punish us all for breathing.  I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but God to my mom is the one in the Bible running about devouring folks who wear lipstick.  I know that passage is about the devil devouring folk, but to mom, it was God.  Actually, it was that whole ‘50’s movement who labeled God as the meanest s.o.b. in the valley. 

At the end of mom’s translation, she did her usual "Ohhhhhh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," which enabled her to transition back to the real world.  Of course, all of her life she would Ohhhhhhhhh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, every time I wouldn’t do exactly what she wanted when she wanted it.    It took analysis for me to understand that this was her best manipulation tool throughout our lives.  If she invoked Jesus, it meant that we were in deep trouble with God…she would make sure of it.

Mom’s doom and gloom kind of ruined things that morning though, even the clogging woman gave up her dance in deference to mom’s position as the wife of the reverend.  I figured the young woman’s clogging was getting too much attention, so mom did her thing to bring the attention back to herself.

Dad gave the alter call after everyone settled back down into their seats.  A lady who was sitting on the very back pew rose and came down.  She looked to be in her thirties, nice looking in a farmish kind of way.  She too had on a floral print dress belted at the waist, low heels, and natural colored hose with a seam up the back.  Her hair, however, was not like all the other ladies.  It was short and I could have sworn, it was dyed.  It was a red color that just didn’t seem quite normal on her sun tanned skin.  I guessed she was a lost soul, a sinner.  I was sure this would thrill the faithful.

When the red headed lady got down to the alter, the ladies almost killed themselves getting to her to lay hands on her.  It would have been bad form if the men did it, you know, you don’t touch another man’s wife.  Dad was different, however.  As the reverend, he could touch anyone.  He came down and grabbed the woman’s head over each ear with his big hands.  He began to rebuke the evil within her and shake the bloody devil out of her poor head.  The red hair was now in disarray, her hands were in the air and she began to jump up and down.  Daddy let go of her with one extra shake of her by now ringing head and the dance was on.  The ladies were screaming, and the woman, now in an ecstatic state, went down.  As she descended to the floor the other ladies made sure her dress was covering the important parts.  Her arms were stretched toward the ceiling and she wobbled back and forth.

It was now noon.  I wanted to go back to the rat nest and get something to eat.  I wanted to be comfortable.  I wanted to go back to Tulsa, but after this show, I knew I would never get to go. 

The woman was helped to her feet at 12:10.  The ladies clucked and helped her to the front pew where she sat down and leaned her head on mother’s shoulder.  Daddy blessed the woman for the rest of her days, prayed the departing prayer and we were released. 

Released is an easy word to say but a very difficult reality for a preacher’s kid.  I still had to maneuver out of the church and into the car, but at least that was a goal I could set for myself.  Hopefully I wouldn’t be grabbed, poked, kissed, or hugged.  Unfortunately, I didn’t make it.  The clogging lady caught me before I could even exit the pew behind Belinda.

"Yoooooooou must be the reverend’s daughter!", she exclaimed, her cheeks still bright red from her exertions in front of the alter.  I couldn’t figure if she was just stupid or if she was deaf and didn’t hear dad introduce us. 

Before I could respond, her arms shot out and she pulled me by the shoulder and into her breasts with one motion.  I felt the old gagging reflex, but tried to hide it.  Daddy was still caught at the front but I could feel his eyes on me, making sure I didn’t shove the woman away from me or say something rude like Don’t touch me! and run.  Mom had finished with the sobbing red head and got to my side, probably from some indication from daddy.  Julian was talking to the pretty boy whose name turned out to be Deacon.  I would have a lot of naughty dreams about that boy, but not yet.  I was still playing cowboys and Indians if I could find someone who would play with me.   My brother was now too old to enjoy my nonsensical little games.  He was into that throwing and catching thing in a big way.  Later he told me that Deacon played football.  I figured they were already fast friends due to a football male bonding thing. 

Mom began to edge us toward the door and daddy was soon behind us.  She managed to fend off any more attacking females or males.  A few others stuck out their hands for me to shake, which I ignored, so they left me alone.  My brother pinched me on the arm and called me a name because he sensed how skittish I was and walked out talking to Deacon and Belinda.  Actually, Belinda was looking up at Deacon the way the red head had been looking at God just a few minutes before.  I think that was when I noticed that although she was my age, she seemed a lot older.  I mean she was looking at that boy the way I looked at Mom’s chocolate cakes.

Daddy spoke to a few more people before he could get the car door open and climb in, but finally, blessedly, the door closed and we were safe.  I think that went fairly well, don’t you?  I think he meant the service, but mom was right back to the problem of the house.  What time does the bank open tomorrow?  she responded with an angry shake of her head.  She continued I will not stay in that house if they don’t start building the new one immediately!

Daddy said something like he thought Brother Wadel would handle things very well, but mom indicated that she would be with Brother Wadel in the bank the next morning.

We finally drove into the pathetic dirt driveway of the saddest house I had ever seen.  I got out and followed daddy up to the door.  As the door swung open, daddy almost knocked me flat when he jumped back from something.  I looked at what had scared him, and there in the doorway was little Trixie.  Hanging from her mouth was a huge rat!  I say it was huge, but the truth is, I had never seen anything bigger than a field mouse.  But in my defense, this was probably the biggest rat daddy had ever seen.  The dark gray thing was almost as big as Trixie and she was holding it in her mouth.  It was obviously dead.  Its head end hung from one side of her mouth and its rear end hung almost to the ground with the thick gray tail trailing along behind.  Her little nub of a tail was wagging like an over active metronome.

Daddy was so shocked, his first reaction was "Well, bless Patty!"  He told Julialn to get the rat, but he said, "I’m not touching that thing," so mom had to take the rat by the tail and throw it across the fence of the vacant lot across the street.  It was the first of many of Trixie’s kills before we moved into the new house.  At least she was doing her job.

Julian and I changed out of our Sunday clothes and went outside to explore.  We soon had identified the borders of our new world, who lived where, which houses might hold kids, and what was in the vacant lot…besides the dead rat.  Of course brother had to take the opportunity to poke and prod the dead thing with a long stick and me screaming at him that he would get rabies.  I was sure we would all have rabies if we stayed in the house.

By 3:00, mom had dinner on the table.  Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn.  It was her Sunday staple.  We always had fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamed corn on Sundays.  What I couldn’t figure out is where the chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed corn came from.  Julian told me later that one of the church members had put the groceries in the car before we left church.  It didn’t escape me that we were having to take hand outs and we had just arrived.  I felt a moment of discomfort, but not for long, I was really hungry.

Here is another fact about most preachers’ wives.  These women can pull chickens out of the air, especially on Sundays.  Not only did mom always have a chicken clucking around the place at all times, she could wring their necks real quick  like so the head would pop off.  The headless chicken would fly off in one direction, and its head in another.  It would flop around until the body finally figured out the head was gone and it would come to rest with one wing out and the other pulled around its body as though it needed protection.  Mom would grab up the chicken and pluck the feathers while dipping it into hot boiling water to make the process go faster.  When she had most of the feathers out, she would run the carcass over the flames of our gas