The Preacher, Pa Charlie an’ The Baptizin’
by Nancy L. Meade
The Preacher
The Preacher spent the night at air’ house last night. He most allus does when it’s his preachin’ time round to the church, which is onct a month. He pastors three other churches, ya know, an they’re strung out all through these hills, from Cumberland Gap to Little Tom’s Creek to Stone Mountain and back up to the Red Onion Gap.
Pa sez many’s the time the Preacher’s walked or rode a horse across the Gap when the snow wuz knee deep to preach to maybe eight er ten folks. An’ he ain’t missed a preachin’ time yit, in nearly thirty years a pastorin’ the Ferbie’s Chapel Church. An’ on top of pastorin’ four churches, he works the midnight shift at the Lick Fork Mine.
Preacher come ‘bout suppertime yisterd’y. We had fried chicken and gravy, mashed taters, frash green beans and tomaters, cornbread and onions, and roasin’ ears. An’ fer dessert, we had Ma’s homemade apple pie, the Preacher’s favorite.
We got a bed at air house we call the Preacher’s bed. Not that he’s the onliest one that ever sleeps in it, but ‘cause the Preacher sleeps in it when he comes, that makes it special like. It’s kinda like the widder woman who made a special room for the prophet Elisha. Pa says it’s an honor to have the Man a God stay at yer house.
To the folks in these hills, the Preacher is parta their families. An’ though he don’t come round often, he shorely is loved by everone. He shares their lives: the births, the deaths, and everthang in between. Bein’ a miner, he knows what life’s like down in them shafts, an’ he knows jist how quickly they can become tombs. He says that’s why he preaches mostly in the minin’ towns. I guess ‘nother reason is that’s bout all there is round these parts.
The Preacher preached ‘bout hell this mornin’. He sed he don’t like to preach ‘bout that place, an’ if he wuz lookin’ to be poplar, he wudn’t. But, it’s in the Bible, an’ he can’t jist skip over it. He sez if ye believe in heaven, ya gotta believe in hell, too. This mornin’ when he wuz preachin’ I cud purt near see the flames and smell the smoke. Made chills run up my spine, I tell ya. That’s as close as I wanta come to goin’ there.
Preacher read the story ‘bout the rich man an’ Lazrus and how Lazrus went ta heaven an’ the rich man went ta hell. Now, it wuzn’t cause Lazrus wuz pore that he went ta heaven or that the rich man went ta hell cause he wuz rich. Preacher sed it wuz the condition a’ their hearts made the difference. Now, he wudn’t talkin’ ‘bout bein’ sick in bidy ner nuthin’. He wuz talkin’ bout bein’ sinful, havin’ a sin-sick soul. But, the rich man did put his money ‘fore God an’ God don’t take second place, Preacher sez. Course, most folks round here will never be rich. They don’t have no money an’ don’t ritely see no prospects a gittin’ any anytime soon. But, even if ya only gotta little, ya can still luv it more’n ya luv God.
The Preacher’s what city folk call “one a them hell-far and damnation preachers.” I’ve kind wundered ‘bout what it is that makes him sa special. It ain’t his looks. He’s jist a simple mountain man, don’t have no edecation to speak uv. An’ he shorely don’t try to put on airs ner nuthin’. Still, there’s somethin’ that makes ya to know he’s special anyhow.
Shue-e-e, I wish ya cud see the Preacher when he gits in the pulpit an’ he’s preachin’ in the Spirit. It’s kinda like one a them ‘lectrical storms. His voice is like the wind that starts out real low an’ soft like, jist a breeze rustlin’ the treetops. Then, real sudden like, risin’ with a force an’ a power ya can’t explain, but ya can feel an’ ya can see on the faces of the folks in the congregation. The clap of his hands is like the thunder that rolls from Indian Creek Mountain, up past Bold Camp, cross the Gap, and on into Kentucky. His eyes flash, like the lightnin’, intense an’ piercin’, like he kin see rite into ya very soul. His words tumble out, spillin’ over one another like sheets a summer rain, cleansin’ in their purity.
Oh, I wish ya cud meet my Preacher.
Pa Charlie Pa Charlie killed two chickens yisterd’y evenin’ ‘fore the Preacher come. I held their feet while he chopped off their heads. I had ta turn my head an’ shut my eyes, though, I jist cudn’t stand ta watch. What really gits ta me is the way they jerk aroun’ even though their head’s on the ground. Why, I’ve had ‘em jerk plum outa my hands sometimes. Feels real quare, I can tell ya.
“Pa, what makes ‘em do that? Jerk around, I mean.”
Pa Charlie picked up the severed heads an’ tossed ‘em over the hill behind the smokehouse, an’ took the chickens, still drippin’ blood, toward the dairy to scald ‘em and pick ‘em. I didn’t remind him of my question cause I knowed he’d answer it in his own good time.
“Well, I reckon, it’s kinda like a frog er a snake,” he sed, when he finally answered. “They’ll do the same thang. Member that copperhead we kilt t’other day down by the old sprang? Done the same thang, even after I’d chopped off its head with my hoe. I reckon it’s jist the muscles relaxin’ after the brain quits givin’ orders.
“Oh, I see.” Though I ain’t too shore that really did. I wuz havin’ to skip along to keep up with Pa. Fer somebidy seventy-six yers old, he shorely can git aroun’. He’s gotta walk like nobidy else. Ya can tell it’s him a comin’ way out the end a the holler. An’ when there’s work to be dun, Pa Charlie don’t waste no time.
I helped Pa pick them chickens. He made me git outa the way whilst he scalded ‘em, though. One a Charlie Isaac’s younguns got bad burnt not too long back with scaldin’ water. An’ Ma laid down the law ‘bout me bein’ kerful an’ not gittin’ too close. She’d have Pa’s hide if someun like that wuz to happen ta one a us younguns.
The Preacher and Pa Charlie been good friends fer yers an’ yers. After supper, they allus set out on the porch an’ talk a spell ‘fore bedtime. The Preacher luvs to tell a good tale. Tales are a bindin’ thang here in the hills. The tellins’ a ritual in itself.
“Brother Charlie, you recollect the time when all them preachers stayed all night here?. We shorely did have airselves a time. An’ you purley did git a gud un on ole Preacher Bond.”
“Some a them Methodist fellers is kinda tetchy ‘bout being as holy as us Baptists.” Pa has a way a pokin’ fun in the most serious-seemin’ way.
“Ain’t it the truth,” the Preacher chucked. “I thank Sister Rausie wuz a mite put out with ya, though, as I recollect.”
Pa Charlie tousled my hair as I set beside him in the swang. “Well, now, you know how these women-folk air. Rausie’s always afeared that somebidy’s feelins might git hurt.”
This wuz a story I hadn’t heard.
“What happened, Pa? What’d you do to make Ma made?” I doubted if’n she’d been really mad, fer I ain’t never seed her mad in all my born days.
The Preacher answered me. “Well, they musta been seven er eight preachers, myself included, stayin’ the night with yer Pa and Ma. The Quarterly Conference was ‘round to Ferbie’s Chapel.”
I nodded. We allus have folks to stay the night whenever the Conference is round to the church. Folks wudn’t thank a tellin anybidy they had to git one a them motels. Sides, twern’t no motel anywhere round the Pound, that I knowed of. The Preacher continued.
“It wuz in January and cold as whiz. We wuz all gathered ‘round the farplace, talkin’, as preachers most times do, “bout the Bible, an’ sin, an’ sich like.”
I cud well imagine.
“Anyways, there wuz this Methodist preacher, Brother Bond, from over to the Crane’s Nest. He’d cum along with ole Preacher Buchannan, as I recall. We’d been talkin’ ‘bout folks a backslidin’ an’ whether er not a Christian can live without sinnin’ any atall. Preacher Bond, he’d been purty quiet, but I cud see he wuz mite ner bustin’ at the seams.”
“‘Brother Bond,’ I asked him, what’s yer opinion on the matter at hand?’
“‘Well,’ he sed, ‘I’ve been a Christian fer nigh on thirty yers, an’ I ain’t dun no sinnin.’ He didn’t say nuthin’ else, but it wuz almost like you cud here him addin’ ‘I don’t know ‘bout you Baptists, but us Methodists don’t sin.’ Everbidy wuz quiet fer a spell. Then yer Pa got up, jist like he hadn’t even heard what Preacher Bond had sed, put a log on the far, and walked over to the doorway goin’ into the dinin’ room. Yer Ma wuz workin’ in the kitchen gittin’ dinner ready fer the next day, jist like she is now.
“ ‘Rausie,’ yer Pa hollered, ‘did you lock that corn crib?’
“Yer Ma, she come to the doorway, wipin’ her hands on her apron. She looked puzzled.
“‘Why, no, Charlie, you know good an’ well we don’t never lock the corn crib. It ain’t even got a lock on it. Why in this world wud you ask sich a question?’
“Yer Pa hooked his fingers in his overall galluses and turned to look at the rest of us.
“‘Well, now, I’ll tell ya. I jist figured that any preacher that’d lie like that, he’s lible to do most anythang.’
“Preacher Bond, he looks sorta strange fer a minute er two. Course, the rest of us knowed that Charlie wuz a jokin’. We held it in fer a long as we cud, then we all jist busted out laughin’. Brother Bond looked sorta sheepish, then he slapped his leg an’ started laughin’ too. Yer Pa, he jist put another log on the far and set back down in his rocker.”
The Preacher laughed, then grew quiet. “Ya know, I thank Ole Brother Bond has gone on to be with the Lord.”
Pa Charlie pulled out his pocket watch. “Lordy, child, you’d best git to bed. Else yer gonna miss the dinner on the ground an’ the baptizin’ tomorrow.
The Baptizin’ This mornin’ we had to git up ‘bout the same time as we allus do. We don’t do no farm work on Sunday, cept fer feedin’ the animals, the chickens an’ the hogs, an’ Ole Nell, our horse. An’, of course, the cow has to be fed and milked. Them thangs has to be done even on the Lord’s Day.
We had breakfast ‘bout 7:30, so’s the Preacher cud have some time ‘fore church to go off by hisself an’ pray. We had pork chops an’ gravy, eggs, homemade biscuits an’ fresh-churned butter, an’ some a Ma’s blackberry perserves. Then we all got on our Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes an’ walked round to the church fer Sunday School an’ preachin’ service.
Preacher shorely did skin our hides this mornin’. Preached almost an hour an’ a half. Course, we don’t git to here much preachin’, an I reckon ya can’t expect him to git us all straightened out in a few minutes time.
After church we had dinner on the ground, with chicken an’ dumplins’, corn on the cob, ham, tater salad, an’ all the trappins’. Fer dessert, there wuz a whole long table filled with molassey cake, all kinds a pies, like sweet tater pie, an’ apple, an’ my favorite, butterscotch. Most everbidy eat til they jist cudn’t eat no more. Them two chickens me an’ Pa killed made awful good chicken an’ dumplins’. After folks’d got done visitin’ an’ their dinner’d settled, everbidy went down to the creek fer the baptizin’.
Shore wuz a purty day fer it. Course, that don’t seem to make no never mind. Sunshine. er rain, er even snow. I kinda hope when my time comes, it’ll be in the summertime, though. Pa says ya shudn’t worry no matter how cold it is, cause the Lord won’t kill a feller fer doin’ whut He’s told him to do. Pa Charlie oughta know. They had to break the ice when they baptized Pa. I wuzn’t round then, but I know it’s the truth. Cause Pa don’t lie.
They had to use Earl Vanover’s team a horses to break the ice, it wuz so thick. He jist drove ‘em right out on the ice and made ‘em rare up. When they come down, they broke a hole. Then, some a the men used picks and mattocks to make the hole big enough to baptize in. Pa sez it never bothered him one bit, but it shore does make me shiver jist to thank about it.
Anyways, the Preacher baptized a bunch a folks today, down by the footlog, where the water’s the deepest. The last one to be baptized wuz Ole Aunt Sis Yates. Now I must admit, I wuz a mite worried ‘bout how they wuz gonna manage ‘er. Aunt Sis is eighty-four yers old, an’ she’s been crippled fer as long as I been aroun’. Pa jist told me not worry, that The Lord wud make a way. An’, I reckon He did.
Everbidy gathered round close as they cud an’ we all sung “Victry in Jesus,” an’ the Preacher asked Ma to pray. I reckon folks all over these hills know ‘bout Ma and how she can pray. Ya jist know she’s talkin’ right with God. Ya can jist feel it in yer heart.
Then, Pa helped the Preacher baptize Aunt Sis. He’s a deacon, ya know, so’s he kin do thangs like that. Some a the men-folk carried Aunt Sis right down to the water’s edge. An’ the Preacher an’ Pa jist caught her real gentle like underneath her arms and carried her out to the middle of the creek.
Preacher raised his right hand, like he wuz makin’ a pledge er somethin’. An’ he threw back his head and closed his eyes. Aunt Sis wuz already cryin’. The Preacher’s voice rang out above the sounds of summertime, of babies fussin’ an’ a frettin’ from the long day. Of Aunt Sis’s cryin’ and folks a praisin’ the Lord. The sound of his voice seemin’ to cause a hush to fall from heaven.
“On the profession of her faith, I baptize this our Dear Sister, in the name of the Father, the Son, an’ the Holy Ghost.”
Then Pa and the Preacher took Aunt Sis backward, til she wuz “buried” beneath the water. You’d never a knowed she wuz crippled, though, if ya cud a seen her cum up outa that water, shoutin’ and clappin’ her hands over her head. I thought shore the Preacher and Pa wuz gonna lose her ‘fore they cud git her up outa that creek. By then, most everbidy wuz cryin’ an’ shoutin’ all over that creek bank , an’ huggin’ one another’s necks.
When thangs had sorta settled down, my daddy started sangin’. One by one, folks joined in, their voices swellin’, fillin’ the whole valley, reachin’, shorely, to the portals of heaven.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found;
Was blind, but now I see.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun;
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.”
by Nancy L. Meade
The Preacher
The Preacher spent the night at air’ house last night. He most allus does when it’s his preachin’ time round to the church, which is onct a month. He pastors three other churches, ya know, an they’re strung out all through these hills, from Cumberland Gap to Little Tom’s Creek to Stone Mountain and back up to the Red Onion Gap.
Pa sez many’s the time the Preacher’s walked or rode a horse across the Gap when the snow wuz knee deep to preach to maybe eight er ten folks. An’ he ain’t missed a preachin’ time yit, in nearly thirty years a pastorin’ the Ferbie’s Chapel Church. An’ on top of pastorin’ four churches, he works the midnight shift at the Lick Fork Mine.
Preacher come ‘bout suppertime yisterd’y. We had fried chicken and gravy, mashed taters, frash green beans and tomaters, cornbread and onions, and roasin’ ears. An’ fer dessert, we had Ma’s homemade apple pie, the Preacher’s favorite.
We got a bed at air house we call the Preacher’s bed. Not that he’s the onliest one that ever sleeps in it, but ‘cause the Preacher sleeps in it when he comes, that makes it special like. It’s kinda like the widder woman who made a special room for the prophet Elisha. Pa says it’s an honor to have the Man a God stay at yer house.
To the folks in these hills, the Preacher is parta their families. An’ though he don’t come round often, he shorely is loved by everone. He shares their lives: the births, the deaths, and everthang in between. Bein’ a miner, he knows what life’s like down in them shafts, an’ he knows jist how quickly they can become tombs. He says that’s why he preaches mostly in the minin’ towns. I guess ‘nother reason is that’s bout all there is round these parts.
The Preacher preached ‘bout hell this mornin’. He sed he don’t like to preach ‘bout that place, an’ if he wuz lookin’ to be poplar, he wudn’t. But, it’s in the Bible, an’ he can’t jist skip over it. He sez if ye believe in heaven, ya gotta believe in hell, too. This mornin’ when he wuz preachin’ I cud purt near see the flames and smell the smoke. Made chills run up my spine, I tell ya. That’s as close as I wanta come to goin’ there.
Preacher read the story ‘bout the rich man an’ Lazrus and how Lazrus went ta heaven an’ the rich man went ta hell. Now, it wuzn’t cause Lazrus wuz pore that he went ta heaven or that the rich man went ta hell cause he wuz rich. Preacher sed it wuz the condition a’ their hearts made the difference. Now, he wudn’t talkin’ ‘bout bein’ sick in bidy ner nuthin’. He wuz talkin’ bout bein’ sinful, havin’ a sin-sick soul. But, the rich man did put his money ‘fore God an’ God don’t take second place, Preacher sez. Course, most folks round here will never be rich. They don’t have no money an’ don’t ritely see no prospects a gittin’ any anytime soon. But, even if ya only gotta little, ya can still luv it more’n ya luv God.
The Preacher’s what city folk call “one a them hell-far and damnation preachers.” I’ve kind wundered ‘bout what it is that makes him sa special. It ain’t his looks. He’s jist a simple mountain man, don’t have no edecation to speak uv. An’ he shorely don’t try to put on airs ner nuthin’. Still, there’s somethin’ that makes ya to know he’s special anyhow.
Shue-e-e, I wish ya cud see the Preacher when he gits in the pulpit an’ he’s preachin’ in the Spirit. It’s kinda like one a them ‘lectrical storms. His voice is like the wind that starts out real low an’ soft like, jist a breeze rustlin’ the treetops. Then, real sudden like, risin’ with a force an’ a power ya can’t explain, but ya can feel an’ ya can see on the faces of the folks in the congregation. The clap of his hands is like the thunder that rolls from Indian Creek Mountain, up past Bold Camp, cross the Gap, and on into Kentucky. His eyes flash, like the lightnin’, intense an’ piercin’, like he kin see rite into ya very soul. His words tumble out, spillin’ over one another like sheets a summer rain, cleansin’ in their purity.
Oh, I wish ya cud meet my Preacher.
Pa Charlie Pa Charlie killed two chickens yisterd’y evenin’ ‘fore the Preacher come. I held their feet while he chopped off their heads. I had ta turn my head an’ shut my eyes, though, I jist cudn’t stand ta watch. What really gits ta me is the way they jerk aroun’ even though their head’s on the ground. Why, I’ve had ‘em jerk plum outa my hands sometimes. Feels real quare, I can tell ya.
“Pa, what makes ‘em do that? Jerk around, I mean.”
Pa Charlie picked up the severed heads an’ tossed ‘em over the hill behind the smokehouse, an’ took the chickens, still drippin’ blood, toward the dairy to scald ‘em and pick ‘em. I didn’t remind him of my question cause I knowed he’d answer it in his own good time.
“Well, I reckon, it’s kinda like a frog er a snake,” he sed, when he finally answered. “They’ll do the same thang. Member that copperhead we kilt t’other day down by the old sprang? Done the same thang, even after I’d chopped off its head with my hoe. I reckon it’s jist the muscles relaxin’ after the brain quits givin’ orders.
“Oh, I see.” Though I ain’t too shore that really did. I wuz havin’ to skip along to keep up with Pa. Fer somebidy seventy-six yers old, he shorely can git aroun’. He’s gotta walk like nobidy else. Ya can tell it’s him a comin’ way out the end a the holler. An’ when there’s work to be dun, Pa Charlie don’t waste no time.
I helped Pa pick them chickens. He made me git outa the way whilst he scalded ‘em, though. One a Charlie Isaac’s younguns got bad burnt not too long back with scaldin’ water. An’ Ma laid down the law ‘bout me bein’ kerful an’ not gittin’ too close. She’d have Pa’s hide if someun like that wuz to happen ta one a us younguns.
The Preacher and Pa Charlie been good friends fer yers an’ yers. After supper, they allus set out on the porch an’ talk a spell ‘fore bedtime. The Preacher luvs to tell a good tale. Tales are a bindin’ thang here in the hills. The tellins’ a ritual in itself.
“Brother Charlie, you recollect the time when all them preachers stayed all night here?. We shorely did have airselves a time. An’ you purley did git a gud un on ole Preacher Bond.”
“Some a them Methodist fellers is kinda tetchy ‘bout being as holy as us Baptists.” Pa has a way a pokin’ fun in the most serious-seemin’ way.
“Ain’t it the truth,” the Preacher chucked. “I thank Sister Rausie wuz a mite put out with ya, though, as I recollect.”
Pa Charlie tousled my hair as I set beside him in the swang. “Well, now, you know how these women-folk air. Rausie’s always afeared that somebidy’s feelins might git hurt.”
This wuz a story I hadn’t heard.
“What happened, Pa? What’d you do to make Ma made?” I doubted if’n she’d been really mad, fer I ain’t never seed her mad in all my born days.
The Preacher answered me. “Well, they musta been seven er eight preachers, myself included, stayin’ the night with yer Pa and Ma. The Quarterly Conference was ‘round to Ferbie’s Chapel.”
I nodded. We allus have folks to stay the night whenever the Conference is round to the church. Folks wudn’t thank a tellin anybidy they had to git one a them motels. Sides, twern’t no motel anywhere round the Pound, that I knowed of. The Preacher continued.
“It wuz in January and cold as whiz. We wuz all gathered ‘round the farplace, talkin’, as preachers most times do, “bout the Bible, an’ sin, an’ sich like.”
I cud well imagine.
“Anyways, there wuz this Methodist preacher, Brother Bond, from over to the Crane’s Nest. He’d cum along with ole Preacher Buchannan, as I recall. We’d been talkin’ ‘bout folks a backslidin’ an’ whether er not a Christian can live without sinnin’ any atall. Preacher Bond, he’d been purty quiet, but I cud see he wuz mite ner bustin’ at the seams.”
“‘Brother Bond,’ I asked him, what’s yer opinion on the matter at hand?’
“‘Well,’ he sed, ‘I’ve been a Christian fer nigh on thirty yers, an’ I ain’t dun no sinnin.’ He didn’t say nuthin’ else, but it wuz almost like you cud here him addin’ ‘I don’t know ‘bout you Baptists, but us Methodists don’t sin.’ Everbidy wuz quiet fer a spell. Then yer Pa got up, jist like he hadn’t even heard what Preacher Bond had sed, put a log on the far, and walked over to the doorway goin’ into the dinin’ room. Yer Ma wuz workin’ in the kitchen gittin’ dinner ready fer the next day, jist like she is now.
“ ‘Rausie,’ yer Pa hollered, ‘did you lock that corn crib?’
“Yer Ma, she come to the doorway, wipin’ her hands on her apron. She looked puzzled.
“‘Why, no, Charlie, you know good an’ well we don’t never lock the corn crib. It ain’t even got a lock on it. Why in this world wud you ask sich a question?’
“Yer Pa hooked his fingers in his overall galluses and turned to look at the rest of us.
“‘Well, now, I’ll tell ya. I jist figured that any preacher that’d lie like that, he’s lible to do most anythang.’
“Preacher Bond, he looks sorta strange fer a minute er two. Course, the rest of us knowed that Charlie wuz a jokin’. We held it in fer a long as we cud, then we all jist busted out laughin’. Brother Bond looked sorta sheepish, then he slapped his leg an’ started laughin’ too. Yer Pa, he jist put another log on the far and set back down in his rocker.”
The Preacher laughed, then grew quiet. “Ya know, I thank Ole Brother Bond has gone on to be with the Lord.”
Pa Charlie pulled out his pocket watch. “Lordy, child, you’d best git to bed. Else yer gonna miss the dinner on the ground an’ the baptizin’ tomorrow.
The Baptizin’ This mornin’ we had to git up ‘bout the same time as we allus do. We don’t do no farm work on Sunday, cept fer feedin’ the animals, the chickens an’ the hogs, an’ Ole Nell, our horse. An’, of course, the cow has to be fed and milked. Them thangs has to be done even on the Lord’s Day.
We had breakfast ‘bout 7:30, so’s the Preacher cud have some time ‘fore church to go off by hisself an’ pray. We had pork chops an’ gravy, eggs, homemade biscuits an’ fresh-churned butter, an’ some a Ma’s blackberry perserves. Then we all got on our Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes an’ walked round to the church fer Sunday School an’ preachin’ service.
Preacher shorely did skin our hides this mornin’. Preached almost an hour an’ a half. Course, we don’t git to here much preachin’, an I reckon ya can’t expect him to git us all straightened out in a few minutes time.
After church we had dinner on the ground, with chicken an’ dumplins’, corn on the cob, ham, tater salad, an’ all the trappins’. Fer dessert, there wuz a whole long table filled with molassey cake, all kinds a pies, like sweet tater pie, an’ apple, an’ my favorite, butterscotch. Most everbidy eat til they jist cudn’t eat no more. Them two chickens me an’ Pa killed made awful good chicken an’ dumplins’. After folks’d got done visitin’ an’ their dinner’d settled, everbidy went down to the creek fer the baptizin’.
Shore wuz a purty day fer it. Course, that don’t seem to make no never mind. Sunshine. er rain, er even snow. I kinda hope when my time comes, it’ll be in the summertime, though. Pa says ya shudn’t worry no matter how cold it is, cause the Lord won’t kill a feller fer doin’ whut He’s told him to do. Pa Charlie oughta know. They had to break the ice when they baptized Pa. I wuzn’t round then, but I know it’s the truth. Cause Pa don’t lie.
They had to use Earl Vanover’s team a horses to break the ice, it wuz so thick. He jist drove ‘em right out on the ice and made ‘em rare up. When they come down, they broke a hole. Then, some a the men used picks and mattocks to make the hole big enough to baptize in. Pa sez it never bothered him one bit, but it shore does make me shiver jist to thank about it.
Anyways, the Preacher baptized a bunch a folks today, down by the footlog, where the water’s the deepest. The last one to be baptized wuz Ole Aunt Sis Yates. Now I must admit, I wuz a mite worried ‘bout how they wuz gonna manage ‘er. Aunt Sis is eighty-four yers old, an’ she’s been crippled fer as long as I been aroun’. Pa jist told me not worry, that The Lord wud make a way. An’, I reckon He did.
Everbidy gathered round close as they cud an’ we all sung “Victry in Jesus,” an’ the Preacher asked Ma to pray. I reckon folks all over these hills know ‘bout Ma and how she can pray. Ya jist know she’s talkin’ right with God. Ya can jist feel it in yer heart.
Then, Pa helped the Preacher baptize Aunt Sis. He’s a deacon, ya know, so’s he kin do thangs like that. Some a the men-folk carried Aunt Sis right down to the water’s edge. An’ the Preacher an’ Pa jist caught her real gentle like underneath her arms and carried her out to the middle of the creek.
Preacher raised his right hand, like he wuz makin’ a pledge er somethin’. An’ he threw back his head and closed his eyes. Aunt Sis wuz already cryin’. The Preacher’s voice rang out above the sounds of summertime, of babies fussin’ an’ a frettin’ from the long day. Of Aunt Sis’s cryin’ and folks a praisin’ the Lord. The sound of his voice seemin’ to cause a hush to fall from heaven.
“On the profession of her faith, I baptize this our Dear Sister, in the name of the Father, the Son, an’ the Holy Ghost.”
Then Pa and the Preacher took Aunt Sis backward, til she wuz “buried” beneath the water. You’d never a knowed she wuz crippled, though, if ya cud a seen her cum up outa that water, shoutin’ and clappin’ her hands over her head. I thought shore the Preacher and Pa wuz gonna lose her ‘fore they cud git her up outa that creek. By then, most everbidy wuz cryin’ an’ shoutin’ all over that creek bank , an’ huggin’ one another’s necks.
When thangs had sorta settled down, my daddy started sangin’. One by one, folks joined in, their voices swellin’, fillin’ the whole valley, reachin’, shorely, to the portals of heaven.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found;
Was blind, but now I see.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun;
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.”
