Sundays, we went to church and Sunday School-always. My dad went-sometimes. But Mother and her brood always loaded up in the car and traipsed up the tall steps of our little white asbestos siding church.
It was the only church in that town. There were a few tiny churches out in what I called the "deep" country, those roads that snaked like octupus tentacles out in all different directions from Purdon and ended up somewhere else that was nowhere.
Some real nice families lived in the "deep", but that seemed to be where you found some real odd ones,too. All of the kids attended our school, though, same as we did, and we always found common ground as we learned, played, and struggled with growing up, together.
Some of the kids were real poor, and one or two families had a really mean daddy. I usually didn't hear that from a kid my age, but my sisters or brothers would tell me about something an older sibling of the younger kid had told someone. It would be whispered about school, one kid to the other, never reaching the ears of the teachers, I don't guess.
Some of the kids got real hard whippings, with belts.
"Buster's daddy nearly beat him to death with a belt the other night," Elton said to Neila one day, not realizing he was in my hearing. "He wouldn't suit out for basketball and wouldn't tell the coach why."
Neila shook her head back and forth, looking serious.
Some of them we heard worse stuff about from other kids, but Neila wouldn't tell me what it meant when I asked. Vague references to girls and their brothers or daddies that I didn't understand. And no one seemed to know if it was true, the gossip, but it wasn't like anyone was trying to be mean. They truly felt concern for the kids.
There didn't seem to be anything to do about it though. These were "family matters" and hard to get the truth about anyway. The kids would usually just come to school until they were old enough to get a job, and then either run away or get married or both.
Sometimes they'd get their younger siblings to live with them once they were out of the house. But the kids from those families had one thing in common-a lot of those kids didn't see anything to laugh about. They pretty much spent most of their day grim-faced. They weren't mean to people or anything; they just never laughed. To say we didn't understand, well, that would be an understatement.
Our house was filled with loud talking and laughing, everybody always trying to outshout the other-some of us anyway. Energy just about burst out of the doors and windows. Kids with their friends, running through the house, jumping, squealing, talking, eating, and fighting.
Mother stayed out of our fights for the most part, unless it got physical. She knew I could hurt Susan even though I was three years younger, so she'd usually intervene when Susan whined, "Mother, Felisa is hitting me."
I usually only hit her once in the arm or something, but she acted like it was a major blow. One time, she wasn't even mad, but she decided she and Jan would both jump me outside. They plotted, and as they walked behind me, I heard "go!" and felt a force push me forward, causing my head to whip backwards while my body flew forward. I barely caught myself with my hands on my fingertips, while they jumped on my back.
"Ok," I said to them. "Now you've made me mad."
Prying Jan off my left shoulder and letting her gently down to the ground so as not to hurt her, I turned my attention and mock anger to Susan. They were wimps, like gnats. Susan spent all her time inside exercising her brain while I spent most of mine outside, notexercising my brain.
Susan was still on my back, and I was bent over, but I had raised myself to a half stance by pushing off with my solid fingers. That's the only time I thought my piano practice had paid off. She was hanging on the back of me and trying to force me to the ground again, but I knew she couldn't.
I got hold of her hands which were on both of my shoulders and held them tightly. Then I started spinning and spinning and spinning, her legs dragging the ground, until she begged me to quit. I stopped, let her hands loose, and looked at her and Jan victoriously.
"See if you jump on me again!" I laughed.
"Never!" Susan said, as she stumbled a little from vertigo.
"We're sorry," Jan said, running for the house. At least this time I hadn't done anything wrong. Mother probably wouldn't believe Susan had masterminded an attempted ambush anyway.
Her perfectly shaped hands, with their long fingers and flawless skin, were no match for mine, hardened by constant outside activity and piano practice.
"Let's don't fight anymore like that," I laughed. "Just words from now on."
"All right!" Susan said. She knew she had the advantage there, but I had been reading now for three years, and I planned to secretly start learning bigger words on the vocabulary front, like in a war. It would be a surprise tactic, for sure. Looking at me, listening to me, thinking about me--she would never believe I was capable of mounting a verbal counterattack.
So today we were all going to church, and on our best behavior. Even my dad was all dressed up. The revival preacher was coming home to eat lunch with us.
He had gone to Baylor University and was a seminary student at Southwestern Seminary in Fort Worth. Daddy said he needed to make some extra money, so that was why he was preaching this week at our church.
It being July and all, it was real, real hot. Revivals always took place the hottest week of the summer, a Baptist law. We had ceiling fans, but they were a weak match for all that hot air, kind of like Susan trying to push me around. Incapable of the task.
The local funeral home always provided paper fans with a picture of Jesus and the name of the funeral home on them. The fans were stapled onto a wooden tongue depressor like Dr. Logsdon used to look at our tonsils at his office.
Fanning helped the heat a little, but I didn't like thinking about dying all during the revival. Every time I fanned myself, I thought about dying, looking at that funeral home name.
Did they just sit down there at the funeral home and wait for somebody to die? If nobody died for a long time, would they have to get another job? Would they act happy when someone called them to come pick up a dead person because now they knew they didn't have to look for another job?
Each wave of the fan brought all kinds of confusing thoughts with it, so I just laid it down on the seat and tried to concentrate on the sermon. I tried to make eye contact every few minutes with Brother Lemmons, the young preacher, so he'd know I was really trying to understand what he said. We were right there on about the third row, so he had to notice me. I hoped maybe Brother Reames had mentioned me to him.
When we left church,we passed by both preachers, who always stood at the back door to shake hands.
"Good sermon, preacher," Mr. Person, the man in front of us in line, said.
Several other people in line in front of us said things to the preacher too. I noticed some people tried to go out other doors like they had a guilty conscience or something. I always wanted to go past Brother Reames and just touch his hand and say a quiet "hi."
Mother said "Brother Lemmons, we'll be looking forward to having you come for lunch."
"Yes ma'am," he said kindly, "I'll be right over there as soon as everyone leaves the church."
"Ok. Just come right on in. We'll be looking for you."
Daddy chimed in to say we were glad he was coming, and that Mother was a real good cook.
"Good, good," the young preacher commented distractedly, reaching for the hand of the next in line.
The satisfying aroma of roast, potatoes, carrots and onions pushed past us as we opened the back door. It wasn't ever locked. It was only a screened door anyway, so anyone could have pulled it open, even a young kid. Far as I knew, no one ever tried. We never locked any of our doors during the day, and if they locked anything at night, it would only be a small latch on the screened door, once in a while.
Our cousin Phil, who we counted as the seventh kid in our family since he liked to visit us, was an only child,and we loved him dearly, said that everything that Mother cooked on Sunday was done when church was over and that no matter how many people came to eat, there was always plenty. That was pretty much true.
Mother rushed into the kitchen and started cooking some green beans to go with the roast, and putting rolls into the oven. By the time Brother Lemmons came in the front door, we were almost ready to eat.
Since the dining room was now the bedroom for Susan, Jan, and I, the only place left to eat was in the small kitchen with its yellow formica table and eight matching leatherette chairs. Brother Lemmons sat on a chair between Mother and Daddy. We were in close quarters all the time for meals, but today, like on nights when John Henry ate with us, people could barely move except to lift their silverware. Elton's chair was empty though because he had married and moved to Corsicana, so Brother Lemmons filled in for him, except he was really quiet while Elton was like a spark plug, firing constantly.
After Daddy gave thanks, we started passing the food around. It was weirdly quiet at the table. Everyone was saying "would you like some of this, Brother Lemmons" and "Oh, excuse me; here, I'll hold this so you can serve some onto your plate" and "that'll be fine; I'll hold this bowl till you're ready", and lots of "pleases and thank yous". Was this our family?
Jan sat oddly still in her chair, munching quietly on a carrot while Stephen held a bowl of vegetables as Susan dipped some onto her plate. Neila had her usual good manners. She would leave for Austin to complete college soon, and I didn't want to think about that. My parents smiled benignly at all of us, and I'm sure were silently thanking God that their children were on good behavior.
Everyone was served, and chewing seemed to be the loudest thing happening at the table. It seemed surreal, unnatural,too quiet. My parents were almost mute, odd, since my dad was normally a big talker, explaining things to us by drawing diagrams of cotton gin machinery on a napkin, like we could understand.
I thought of a good thing we could talk about, so I piped up.
"Brother Lemmons, do you like to go to the movies?" I asked.
"Yes, yes I do, if I can find one that is fit to go to."
"Well, what have you seen lately?" I asked, like I was a movie expert.
"Oh, let's see. I really liked the Ten Commandments. Did you see it?"
"Yes, I...."
I didn't have to carry that conversation. All the other kids butted right in, trying to talk at once, telling their reaction or their favorite part of that epic. The parting of the Red Sea, Moses receiving The Ten Commandments, The Passover, the plagues, the golden calf. It seemed like we could go on and on. The conviviality at the table seemed to grow by the second. My parents put in their ideas and seemed relieved that the conversation was going so well.
We'd about worn Moses out after ten minutes, and it looked like everyone was about through with the main meal and ready for dessert, chocolate pie with fluffy meringue.
The conversation lulled once again, and I felt responsible to come up with another subject to fill the void.
"Hey, Brother Lemmons, we saw a good movie about a preacher. Did you see it?" I asked him brightly.
"No, I don't believe I've seen any recently about any preachers," he said amiably. "What was the name of the movie?"
"Elmer Gan......", I started, but stopped, distracted, when simultaneously, Susan poked me hard in the ribs with her index finger,Neila coughed, Stephen dropped a heavy metal caseknife on the table, Daddy grabbed the young pastor by the elbow and Mother said, "Why don't we move to the living room for dessert?" Jan's eyes got big, and she held her fork in midair, seemingly as surprised by the sudden activity as I was.
Susan whispered, "You are going to be in trouble, bigmouth."
I guess she could see the question in my eyes.
"You aren't supposed to talk about that movie, Elmer Gantry. Remember?"
"Oh, I forgot," I said meekly.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. The young pastor went out with Daddy to look at the horse and pet Daddy's six hound dog puppies, those stinky, loving animals. They were like relatives with poor hygiene, poor manners, and lots of love. You just had to like them, even if you didn't really want to be around them much.
They'd jump up on you, so happy to see you, sloppily licking your face, scratching your arms and legs, coming back over and over, even if you pushed and shoved them. They'd shove back, like it was a game, jumping even harder against your chest, like they were so thrilled to be near you, all fighting to be closest, falling over one another, hopping up and down, almost standing upright on their long stringy legs.
Soon enough, it was time to return to evening church. Brother Lemmons seemed so sincere and kind. He would be here all week, and I was looking forward to going to church every night to see my friends, play, and maybe listen a little. I liked the singing a lot, so loud and hearty.
"Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river?" the congregation sang, pianist plunking away. I hadn't seen any beautiful rivers in Texas yet. The Trinity River near Dallas was a mix of moss and sludge. I hoped we didn't meet by that river.
As we left to go home, Brother Lemmons thanked my mother over and over, telling her he had really enjoyed himself and how good her food was. Then he patted Jan on the head and me on the shoulder and said he enjoyed being with us. He laughed a little when he patted me, but I didn't think much about his laughing. He just seemed like a real happy guy.
"Do you think I'm going to get in trouble?" I whispered to Susan in the backseat of the car on the quarter mile ride home.
"I think Daddy got him out in time," she whispered back. "Don't bring it up. You need to think before you say stuff. You don't have to fill every silence."
"Well, okay," I pouted in the dark. "I was just trying to be polite!"
"Sometimes it's more polite to say nothing."
The three of us tumbled out of the car and raced inside. We had to hurry in and watch Gunsmoke. Who knew what would happen with Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty? There was always some bad man trying to stir things up in Dodge City. Usually when it got real quiet at the card tables in The Longbranch Saloon, someone started shooting. When it got real quiet at our table, I just started shooting off my mouth.
"At least I didn't kill anyone," I whispered to myself quietly.
Installed
It was the only church in that town. There were a few tiny churches out in what I called the "deep" country, those roads that snaked like octupus tentacles out in all different directions from Purdon and ended up somewhere else that was nowhere.
Some real nice families lived in the "deep", but that seemed to be where you found some real odd ones,too. All of the kids attended our school, though, same as we did, and we always found common ground as we learned, played, and struggled with growing up, together.
Some of the kids were real poor, and one or two families had a really mean daddy. I usually didn't hear that from a kid my age, but my sisters or brothers would tell me about something an older sibling of the younger kid had told someone. It would be whispered about school, one kid to the other, never reaching the ears of the teachers, I don't guess.
Some of the kids got real hard whippings, with belts.
"Buster's daddy nearly beat him to death with a belt the other night," Elton said to Neila one day, not realizing he was in my hearing. "He wouldn't suit out for basketball and wouldn't tell the coach why."
Neila shook her head back and forth, looking serious.
Some of them we heard worse stuff about from other kids, but Neila wouldn't tell me what it meant when I asked. Vague references to girls and their brothers or daddies that I didn't understand. And no one seemed to know if it was true, the gossip, but it wasn't like anyone was trying to be mean. They truly felt concern for the kids.
There didn't seem to be anything to do about it though. These were "family matters" and hard to get the truth about anyway. The kids would usually just come to school until they were old enough to get a job, and then either run away or get married or both.
Sometimes they'd get their younger siblings to live with them once they were out of the house. But the kids from those families had one thing in common-a lot of those kids didn't see anything to laugh about. They pretty much spent most of their day grim-faced. They weren't mean to people or anything; they just never laughed. To say we didn't understand, well, that would be an understatement.
Our house was filled with loud talking and laughing, everybody always trying to outshout the other-some of us anyway. Energy just about burst out of the doors and windows. Kids with their friends, running through the house, jumping, squealing, talking, eating, and fighting.
Mother stayed out of our fights for the most part, unless it got physical. She knew I could hurt Susan even though I was three years younger, so she'd usually intervene when Susan whined, "Mother, Felisa is hitting me."
I usually only hit her once in the arm or something, but she acted like it was a major blow. One time, she wasn't even mad, but she decided she and Jan would both jump me outside. They plotted, and as they walked behind me, I heard "go!" and felt a force push me forward, causing my head to whip backwards while my body flew forward. I barely caught myself with my hands on my fingertips, while they jumped on my back.
"Ok," I said to them. "Now you've made me mad."
Prying Jan off my left shoulder and letting her gently down to the ground so as not to hurt her, I turned my attention and mock anger to Susan. They were wimps, like gnats. Susan spent all her time inside exercising her brain while I spent most of mine outside, notexercising my brain.
Susan was still on my back, and I was bent over, but I had raised myself to a half stance by pushing off with my solid fingers. That's the only time I thought my piano practice had paid off. She was hanging on the back of me and trying to force me to the ground again, but I knew she couldn't.
I got hold of her hands which were on both of my shoulders and held them tightly. Then I started spinning and spinning and spinning, her legs dragging the ground, until she begged me to quit. I stopped, let her hands loose, and looked at her and Jan victoriously.
"See if you jump on me again!" I laughed.
"Never!" Susan said, as she stumbled a little from vertigo.
"We're sorry," Jan said, running for the house. At least this time I hadn't done anything wrong. Mother probably wouldn't believe Susan had masterminded an attempted ambush anyway.
Her perfectly shaped hands, with their long fingers and flawless skin, were no match for mine, hardened by constant outside activity and piano practice.
"Let's don't fight anymore like that," I laughed. "Just words from now on."
"All right!" Susan said. She knew she had the advantage there, but I had been reading now for three years, and I planned to secretly start learning bigger words on the vocabulary front, like in a war. It would be a surprise tactic, for sure. Looking at me, listening to me, thinking about me--she would never believe I was capable of mounting a verbal counterattack.
So today we were all going to church, and on our best behavior. Even my dad was all dressed up. The revival preacher was coming home to eat lunch with us.
He had gone to Baylor University and was a seminary student at Southwestern Seminary in Fort Worth. Daddy said he needed to make some extra money, so that was why he was preaching this week at our church.
It being July and all, it was real, real hot. Revivals always took place the hottest week of the summer, a Baptist law. We had ceiling fans, but they were a weak match for all that hot air, kind of like Susan trying to push me around. Incapable of the task.
The local funeral home always provided paper fans with a picture of Jesus and the name of the funeral home on them. The fans were stapled onto a wooden tongue depressor like Dr. Logsdon used to look at our tonsils at his office.
Fanning helped the heat a little, but I didn't like thinking about dying all during the revival. Every time I fanned myself, I thought about dying, looking at that funeral home name.
Did they just sit down there at the funeral home and wait for somebody to die? If nobody died for a long time, would they have to get another job? Would they act happy when someone called them to come pick up a dead person because now they knew they didn't have to look for another job?
Each wave of the fan brought all kinds of confusing thoughts with it, so I just laid it down on the seat and tried to concentrate on the sermon. I tried to make eye contact every few minutes with Brother Lemmons, the young preacher, so he'd know I was really trying to understand what he said. We were right there on about the third row, so he had to notice me. I hoped maybe Brother Reames had mentioned me to him.
When we left church,we passed by both preachers, who always stood at the back door to shake hands.
"Good sermon, preacher," Mr. Person, the man in front of us in line, said.
Several other people in line in front of us said things to the preacher too. I noticed some people tried to go out other doors like they had a guilty conscience or something. I always wanted to go past Brother Reames and just touch his hand and say a quiet "hi."
Mother said "Brother Lemmons, we'll be looking forward to having you come for lunch."
"Yes ma'am," he said kindly, "I'll be right over there as soon as everyone leaves the church."
"Ok. Just come right on in. We'll be looking for you."
Daddy chimed in to say we were glad he was coming, and that Mother was a real good cook.
"Good, good," the young preacher commented distractedly, reaching for the hand of the next in line.
The satisfying aroma of roast, potatoes, carrots and onions pushed past us as we opened the back door. It wasn't ever locked. It was only a screened door anyway, so anyone could have pulled it open, even a young kid. Far as I knew, no one ever tried. We never locked any of our doors during the day, and if they locked anything at night, it would only be a small latch on the screened door, once in a while.
Our cousin Phil, who we counted as the seventh kid in our family since he liked to visit us, was an only child,and we loved him dearly, said that everything that Mother cooked on Sunday was done when church was over and that no matter how many people came to eat, there was always plenty. That was pretty much true.
Mother rushed into the kitchen and started cooking some green beans to go with the roast, and putting rolls into the oven. By the time Brother Lemmons came in the front door, we were almost ready to eat.
Since the dining room was now the bedroom for Susan, Jan, and I, the only place left to eat was in the small kitchen with its yellow formica table and eight matching leatherette chairs. Brother Lemmons sat on a chair between Mother and Daddy. We were in close quarters all the time for meals, but today, like on nights when John Henry ate with us, people could barely move except to lift their silverware. Elton's chair was empty though because he had married and moved to Corsicana, so Brother Lemmons filled in for him, except he was really quiet while Elton was like a spark plug, firing constantly.
After Daddy gave thanks, we started passing the food around. It was weirdly quiet at the table. Everyone was saying "would you like some of this, Brother Lemmons" and "Oh, excuse me; here, I'll hold this so you can serve some onto your plate" and "that'll be fine; I'll hold this bowl till you're ready", and lots of "pleases and thank yous". Was this our family?
Jan sat oddly still in her chair, munching quietly on a carrot while Stephen held a bowl of vegetables as Susan dipped some onto her plate. Neila had her usual good manners. She would leave for Austin to complete college soon, and I didn't want to think about that. My parents smiled benignly at all of us, and I'm sure were silently thanking God that their children were on good behavior.
Everyone was served, and chewing seemed to be the loudest thing happening at the table. It seemed surreal, unnatural,too quiet. My parents were almost mute, odd, since my dad was normally a big talker, explaining things to us by drawing diagrams of cotton gin machinery on a napkin, like we could understand.
I thought of a good thing we could talk about, so I piped up.
"Brother Lemmons, do you like to go to the movies?" I asked.
"Yes, yes I do, if I can find one that is fit to go to."
"Well, what have you seen lately?" I asked, like I was a movie expert.
"Oh, let's see. I really liked the Ten Commandments. Did you see it?"
"Yes, I...."
I didn't have to carry that conversation. All the other kids butted right in, trying to talk at once, telling their reaction or their favorite part of that epic. The parting of the Red Sea, Moses receiving The Ten Commandments, The Passover, the plagues, the golden calf. It seemed like we could go on and on. The conviviality at the table seemed to grow by the second. My parents put in their ideas and seemed relieved that the conversation was going so well.
We'd about worn Moses out after ten minutes, and it looked like everyone was about through with the main meal and ready for dessert, chocolate pie with fluffy meringue.
The conversation lulled once again, and I felt responsible to come up with another subject to fill the void.
"Hey, Brother Lemmons, we saw a good movie about a preacher. Did you see it?" I asked him brightly.
"No, I don't believe I've seen any recently about any preachers," he said amiably. "What was the name of the movie?"
"Elmer Gan......", I started, but stopped, distracted, when simultaneously, Susan poked me hard in the ribs with her index finger,Neila coughed, Stephen dropped a heavy metal caseknife on the table, Daddy grabbed the young pastor by the elbow and Mother said, "Why don't we move to the living room for dessert?" Jan's eyes got big, and she held her fork in midair, seemingly as surprised by the sudden activity as I was.
Susan whispered, "You are going to be in trouble, bigmouth."
I guess she could see the question in my eyes.
"You aren't supposed to talk about that movie, Elmer Gantry. Remember?"
"Oh, I forgot," I said meekly.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. The young pastor went out with Daddy to look at the horse and pet Daddy's six hound dog puppies, those stinky, loving animals. They were like relatives with poor hygiene, poor manners, and lots of love. You just had to like them, even if you didn't really want to be around them much.
They'd jump up on you, so happy to see you, sloppily licking your face, scratching your arms and legs, coming back over and over, even if you pushed and shoved them. They'd shove back, like it was a game, jumping even harder against your chest, like they were so thrilled to be near you, all fighting to be closest, falling over one another, hopping up and down, almost standing upright on their long stringy legs.
Soon enough, it was time to return to evening church. Brother Lemmons seemed so sincere and kind. He would be here all week, and I was looking forward to going to church every night to see my friends, play, and maybe listen a little. I liked the singing a lot, so loud and hearty.
"Shall we gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river?" the congregation sang, pianist plunking away. I hadn't seen any beautiful rivers in Texas yet. The Trinity River near Dallas was a mix of moss and sludge. I hoped we didn't meet by that river.
As we left to go home, Brother Lemmons thanked my mother over and over, telling her he had really enjoyed himself and how good her food was. Then he patted Jan on the head and me on the shoulder and said he enjoyed being with us. He laughed a little when he patted me, but I didn't think much about his laughing. He just seemed like a real happy guy.
"Do you think I'm going to get in trouble?" I whispered to Susan in the backseat of the car on the quarter mile ride home.
"I think Daddy got him out in time," she whispered back. "Don't bring it up. You need to think before you say stuff. You don't have to fill every silence."
"Well, okay," I pouted in the dark. "I was just trying to be polite!"
"Sometimes it's more polite to say nothing."
The three of us tumbled out of the car and raced inside. We had to hurry in and watch Gunsmoke. Who knew what would happen with Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty? There was always some bad man trying to stir things up in Dodge City. Usually when it got real quiet at the card tables in The Longbranch Saloon, someone started shooting. When it got real quiet at our table, I just started shooting off my mouth.
"At least I didn't kill anyone," I whispered to myself quietly.
Installed
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