Sunday morning meant Church. Period. I was going to church unless some kind of sickness or something came up unexpectedly. Folks in the early days of the Appalachians worked daylight till dark except on Sundays. Now some of them may have stayed up Saturday night working a still, but they went to Church anyway. There were some folks where I grew up who didn’t go to church and they were the ongoing conversations in prayer meetings. They were on the narrow road to Hellfire unless they repented and got right. And when one of those wayward souls got right and came to Church, there was much rejoicing, for all believed their prayers were answered. And rightfully so.
I remember being in Sunday School and getting stars for memorizing verses and attendance. Attendance wasn’t an issue. But it was an achievement you were proud of. The girls were always better at being prepared. They didn’t lollygag around in the creek fishing or damming it up as we did. They didn’t run through the woods for hours riding saplings down. They sure didn’t come to the swimming hole where we skinny-dipped and prayed earnestly that they would come. The only reason I showed up in Church clean was my Momma. She had a thing about cleanliness. Nothing was dirty around her for long. Every Saturday night six buckets of water had to be pumped and brought into the house and poured into a tub. There was a pot on the cookstove of hot water. It was poured into the tub and presto, bath time. But since I was the dirtiest critter around I was the third one and sometimes the second when my older sister washed in her own way. I could never grasp why after I got in there would be a skim on the water. Mama said it was dirt so for me to stir the water before I stood up. Well, I’d lather that soap well and rub it here and there but mostly try to get the water covered so Mama couldn’t see my private parts. And just like clockwork here she would come with her brillo pad washcloth and her infamous thumb. Digging and gouging and wondering how I got mud in my hair and ears. Then she would scrub my, her words, “rusty feet.” At least she allowed me to wash my privates. So I would stand up, step out on a towel and dry off and Mama had clean underwear laid out for bed. I never could, or hardly ever get past her with rusty feet. Sometimes I would go out after dark heading to the outhouse in the woods, but very rarely if ever going all the way. Dew on the grass and walking through the dirt caused her to meet me at the screen door with a wet rag and a towel. I despised water except in the creek and when I was thirsty and it had kool-aid in it. And wash day was torture. Pump all that water and then pump some more. But boy there is something to be said about them sun-dried washed sheets that were so white and clean and had that feel and smell. And after doing a poor job washing the clothesline only one time, now I had to wash it twice. She never forgot nothing.
Lane Watts lived on South Hominy and worked in Alaska, or that is what I remember. Anyway, he had a green Packard with a rumble seat and I remember him giving us a ride to Open Bible Baptist Church sometimes. Berry Watts was the long winded preacher. I heard folks say that early on. But folks back then didn’t get in no hurry. I guess mainly because there was no Cracker Barrel or K&W to rush to. And there wasn’t a pot roast on the stove cooking. Mainly because most folks cooked with wood stoves. So not much fuss when Berry preached everyone into hell and then preached them out, which took considerable time. I usually had one or more sins to confess and some I committed at Church. Particularly if girls were around to aggravate and try to get one to be my “valentine.” But me and the preachers’ boys, Hugh and Coleman, traded marbles, chinquapins, bean shooters, arrowheads, rocks and pocket knives. You do know that preachers’ kids are the meanest, don’t you? But what really got me was how my sweet Momma knew what I was doing before I did it. How could she possibly see me on or near the back row while looking at the front? So sometimes when she turned around and looked at me with “that” look I would squirm for I knew I was cutting a switch when we got home. Then I would get up and go sit beside her and smile at her, and lay my head against her arm and pretend sleep. Sometimes it even worked. And she has been gifted at getting ahold of that hangy down part of my arm just below the elbow with her thumb and forefinger and twisting it. Some thought I was in the spirit when she did that. But we lived in the woods right at the base of a mountain and I had to go farther and farther to find a suitable switch. But Church was a wonderful time and even though I went to the altar many times I never got “IN” until my late twenties. But the scriptures I memorized helped me through some dark places and memories of some sermons preached with power would come to mind. Today, a tremendous number of children never enter a Church in part because of the demanding lifestyle young families are having to live just to break even.
Another part of growing up in those times is that the Preacher and his family would be invited for Sunday dinner. Three or four reasons that aggravated me. I had to stay clean. I had to sit still and listen to talk I knew nothing about or had no desire to hear. And the worst part was that my Mom knew how to fry chicken the right way. It was hard enough to get a leg without that dratted preacher coming around. I remember the back or neck was usually left for me. And nanner pudding? Forget that. It was mostly licking the bowl. I’m really glad that my Mom was an excellent cook except for when the preacher showed up. Another thing was that his two boys came and one was older by a year or two so I had to be the outlaw when we played cowboys and Indians. And of course, I had to fall dead when they shot me. But I always hid my pin hook fishing poles and bean shooters and bows I had made when they came. I don’t know how I survived hearing the words, “Now behave, Jack, the preacher is coming for dinner.” I’d rather have been shot.
In the Appalachian there were not enough preachers to go around. Some hollers had maybe a dozen families and others even less. But even then after they had shelter for themselves and their livestock, they would come together and build a school. Even though every able bodied person was needed to work the land, they wanted their children to know “numbers and letters.” My Mom, when her Dad remarried and she and the others had to find somewhere else to live, wound up at her Grandfathers. She got to go to the eighth grade. She also kept the books and did the writing and reading for most of the families’ business. Even after she married my father they wanted them to move back to Shelton Laurel so she could continue to do that. Anyway, they built a school that was used as a Church also. And most of the time circuit-riding preachers would travel from place to place on Sundays and preach for them. On horseback. The story was that one preacher was a little late and a fellow asked him why. He said, “My horse got sick.” “Well, what did you do to make him better,” the fellow asked. The preacher said, “I prayed for him.” “You prayed for him and that’s all,” said the man. The preacher said, “Son, I wouldn’t serve a God that couldn’t heal a horse.” I guess the preacher did pretty well and had to be called of God cause they generally paid them with eggs, ham, produce or whatever was in season. But anyway they knew the value and necessity of worship. And if the preacher came during the week they would spread the word and stop to have a service. And they sang those old shape note songs. Like this one Ralph Sexton Sr. used to sing. “I’m a soldier, bound for Glory, I’m a soldier, going home. Come and hear me tell my story, all who love the Savior, come…”
Lest we forget in these unsettled times our country’s Declaration of Independence and Constitution were written according to the principles of the Word of God, our Bible. So I’ve said many times, our forefathers not only here in Appalachia, but all across the country, applied three basic principles that made America great. Work, Worship and a Willingness to help their neighbors. Would to God we could get back to those principles for our children and their children’s sake. You are Blessed cause you know who you are.