A dunk without trunks

One Wednesday night in September of 1982 I was baptized. In the church of Christ you are baptized when you reach the ambiguous age of accountability. No one "tells" you it's time to get baptized you just come to know it. Much like salmon know instinctively to swim upstream at just the right time, church of Christ folks just know when to get baptized. My story of course involves many, many awkward moments peppered with intense fear. Most children tell their parents they are thinking about it, talk to their teacher or preacher--not me too awkward. How on earth could I let someone know that I was thinking something so intensely personal and draw attention to myself. I just couldn't do it.
Wednesday night's at Hillcrest meant many things. First it meant going on an hour long bus ride on the gospel chariot. My Dad drove Gospel Chariot #3. The Pope rides in a Mercedes--church of Christ kids in a 1962 converted bus painted green. This bus was near death and the fact that we made it to and from the church each week was truly amazing. The heater never worked and air conditioning was lowering the windows that had not rusted shut. All of the seats were metal frames with screwed on upholstered cushions. Most of the cushions vinyl was peeling, cracking, or exposing it's guts. There is an unavoidable urge to pick at the foam on the seat and leave the bus peppered with the debris of your obsession. We picked up the Gage kids, Reynolds, and five other kids. The Gage's and Reynolds were related, both lived in deplorable conditions and always unclean, unkempt, and somewhat smelly. The Reynolds smelled of clabbered milk and sweat, the Gage's smelled of bacon fat and clabbered milk mixed in with a top note of sweat. There were five Gage children and six Reynolds coupled with the five other children and we were loaded.
Wednesday night also meant abandoning our post on the North side and attending "the other side" of the building. We always sat, South side sixth pew from the front right by the first huge buttress that held up the roof. On Wednesday night you went straight to class followed by a devo, song, and prayer. By the time we returned to the building to park the bus it was pushing 9:00 p.m.
This particular Wednesday night in September we were standing to sing the invitation, you always stand to sing the invitation in the church of Christ for some reason, and I found myself inching past my Dad, Grandma, and Mom to go forward. I can remember thinking to myself, "I can't believe I'm doing this, everyone is looking at me, maybe I should just jet to the bathroom--God I can't let people know I go to the BATHROOM! I'll just get baptized." As I made my way to greet the preacher, Don, He smiled and sat me on the front pew. "What's on your mind, son?" "I am ready for baptism." "You are?....Well do you believe that Jesus is the son of God?" "Yes, I believe that." "Well, then that's all it takes." Song sung, Don stood up. "Be seated, tonight we are thrilled that this young man...[quick look to see who this was again] Bill- I mean Will is coming forward to confess his faith and surrender to the Lord in baptism." That's when it hit me--I was prolonging a service!
Baptisms meant at least three more songs, a prayer, and the actual dunking. I was always a little miffed that it took so long and didn't end on time and here I was the miffer. As the congregation began to sing the first of two "get ready" songs Don said," son just go back there and in to the closet and get ready. When you are ready just climb the stairs and we'll get you baptized." O...K...what door? What room? What do I do? I found the room, which was the custodial closet. Saw the baptism garment and stood there staring at it. It was a vinyl, plastic stiff jumpsuit all white. I didn't know much but I did know that when things get wet that are white you may as well not be wearing anything at all.
As I began to get undressed I realized the this jumpsuit didn't come with underwear. I couldn't get baptized without underwear, but if I did wear my underwear I wouldn't be able to wear them home which I couldn't go commando! What to do...What to do...second song is almost over and I am not even dressed yet. Oh Lord...what to do? I finally decided to go commando in the jumpsuit. Oh Lord, Lord, Lord I was getting baptized completely naked and without underwear!
The baptism water was very warm, like tub water. And when I stood in the water no one could see me because I was too little. Don said a bunch of stuff about sin and how everyone is a sinner bound for hell unless they do like me and get baptized. He squeezed my neck, asked me the same question about my belief in the Lord and then slammed me into the water. Up I came a new creature. A wet, naked, child of God with a super soaked white jump suit showing off all my creation!
After I got dressed and made my way outside there was a crowd of people standing around waiting to hug my neck. I did not want that kind of attention. I remember one guy hugging me and crying on my shoulder. He had a huge wad of skoal in his mouth and was infecting my breathing space with skoal funk. It was so disgusting. I can still remember his nasty skoal breath and tobacco stained lips with the tiny bits of tobacco in the corners of his mouth and hanging from his untrimmed mustache. The rest were kids and the old lady's of the church who were hugging me. I really wished every lady in the church wore the same cologne because when they all come onto one person they do not make a good smell--better than skoal breath though.
Had I known the kind of attention this very personal, between me and God, event would have brought upon me I would have held off until my death bed. That one event caused me to be a designated prayer give in class at family dinners, serve communion on Sunday night, work on Saturday at the church with the other "men" of the church. Holy Cow it was a huge thing to be baptized. Geez!
To this day I do not baptized people that I don't warn them to bring trunks for the dunking.

Something wicked this way comes

Growing up at the Hillcrest church of Christ was very interesting. My parents, once they began attending, never missed a Sunday morning, Sunday night, or Wednesday. Churches of Christ have very traditional meeting times, usually three times a week on Sunday and Wednesday all across the country. Sunday night's in the church were much the same as Sunday morning for me only I could wear jeans. The atmosphere was certainly more relaxed than during the morning service. One thing that always stood out to me were those people who didn't change clothes. Usually the older folks who got dressed once a day and only changed to go to bed. These folks usually smelled like the food they ate and you pretty much tell where they had been by the funk. One elderly gentlemen helped solve the mystery because you could identify the stains on his clip on tie and nail not only where he ate, but what he ate. On lucky days you could still catch a glimpse of lunch in the corner of his mouth! Beautiful.
In the church, as a boy or young man, you are not allowed to do much until you become baptized. About the only thing you can do pre-baptism is pick up attendance cards and occasionally hand out stuff to the congregation. That's about it. But, once you are baptized you get to start out serving communion. We serve communion every Sunday in the church of Christ and on Sunday night for those who missed Sunday morning. Serving communion on Sunday morning is major league while serving on Sunday night is farm team. I never understood why we just didn't take communion at night and in the morning, but these questions are not answered and anyone who pokes around asking questions is never heard from again.
I was baptized when I was 12 (that is a story in and of itself) and promptly got drafted for Sunday night communion. I was mortified! Just the thought of me standing up in front of that church was horrible, saying a prayer in front of that church--death! I cringed every time I had to do communion on Sunday night. I would always sit on the North side leaving a huge space from the end of the pew to allow the prayer leader plenty of room to assume his position. The North side was the lead team. North side prayer leader had to say, "If you were unable to partake [very important verbiage] of the Lord's supper this morning it has been prepared for you this evening. Please stand after each prayer and we will serve you." Then the prayer. After which time people would stand up and you would walk to your side and give them communion. I always gave my Aunt Opal communion. She was my Dad's aunt and one of the sweetest people in the entire universe. She stayed home every week and cooked lunch for her family and came to church on Sunday night. Her hands smelled of comet always she didn't have a single tooth in her head, just like my Granny. I usually had one or two others who would stand, North side was very faithful in their attendance.
There are only two times that stand out in my memory of serving communion on Sunday night. First, the night a lady drank communion after someone else. In the church of Christ communion is served in individual one ounce cups. The special trays hold each cup in it's own little space. On Sunday mornings every hole was full and you would put your empty cup back in the same hole and move on down the road. It is an unwritten rule that you drink from the fullest cup because some lady's don't drink all the juice as it makes them burp all through service and get their reflux all keyed up. Sunday nights were a different story. Usually there were 15 or so cups filled with the two outer most rings completely empty. The unwritten rule during this service was taking the full cup, partaking, then placing it in the empty outer rings. One Sunday night I had to serve three lady's. The first lady took her cup, sipped, placed the lipstick stained cup in the appropriate outer ring and sat down. On to the next. Again, this lady picked up the same cup! In the church of Christ reverence is translated as silence and you remain forward looking not making one sound. I could not break form and say, "NOT THAT ONE!" I tried to quietly whisper, "not that one" but she didn't hear me and drank from the same cup! Mortified. I am an unashamed germaphobe! The thought of drinking after someone makes me cringe.
The second most memorable involved a hostage situation, literally. This man and his family came to church for the sole purpose of him marrying his daughter. We do not indulge in this kind of thought process and tend to shy away from those who do sinner or not! The fact that he had a gun made it easier for us to oblige him. He was placed in a classroom, our classrooms surrounded the auditorium. Our preacher stood up and told the church that there was a troubled man in the building, the police had been called and we would only have one song, a prayer, and serve communion then all be dismissed as quickly and quietly as possible. HOSTAGE SITUATION...TROUBLED MAN...GUN!? In my church! On Sunday night! WOW!
I had communion duty. My palms were even more sweaty because I was freaking out at the thought of a shooting spree, that just didn't happen in the 80's period! People wouldn't be that kind of crazy for another twenty years! All of the Marlboro men were on alert and had cinched and hiked their pants set and ready to relive combat! As we stood there looking at the crowd my only thought was, "which one of these crazy people are the crazy person being talked about" It was a crap shoot, honestly. I had Aunt Opal and the basketball coach, Coach Busby to serve and that was it. As I stood there waiting for coach to decide which of the identical cups of the same juice to drink...it wasn't that hard even for a coach! A classroom door slowly crept open and out came this man. He was about 6'3" with dark brown crazy hair and wicked green eyes, cat green. He had on a red tattered t-shirt and a flannel shirt worn like a jacket, rustler jeans, and serial killer combat boots. His whole family, who were in the room with him, looked like people who are featured in a Larry Jones, Feed the Children commercial focusing on the poor of America. "That's him...that's the crazy man with a gun!" "Why is he looking at me? Why is he standing in the hall?" As I walked down the aisle he grabbed my arm. I nearly lost all control of my bladder and colon. I was a hostage for this twisted man!
What would I do. How could I, the one who has drilled every disaster known to man down the the Gothic lantern precariously hanging from the ceiling falling on someone, not have planned for a deranged mad man who wanted to marry his daughter come to my church with a gun and want communion from me? I had no reference point, no one to run to. Here I was in no man's land. There was a mad man grabbing my arm wanting communion...looking forward to a honeymoon with his daughter! Would I be drug into the classroom and join Brisco Darlin and his family for the wedding of the century? Would he take his bread and juice and cap me--the first of many victims in his twisted plan of matrimony? "I just want communion...I'm not going to hurt you." I am sure I looked like a lemur--my eyes were huge! "yes, sir...here take it." My hands were shaking so hard I looked palsied. On our particular Sunday night service we prayed...served the cracker...came back forward...prayed for the juice then passed it. After that we had to pray and pass the collection plate. Normally this mundane task took about twenty minutes, however on this night it took a century. Horrible, just horrible. Cracker, done...bread, done! We also passed the collection plate in the off chance folks wanted to give. If you are standing up waiting to give and don't give not good! Crazy man didn't give.
I was never more scared than at that moment. I can still remember it like it was yesterday. Aunt Opal asked, "Honey, are you OK? you look like you've seen a ghost." "I'm OK, I just saw a crazy man and he touched me." Turns out that he was not on his medicine and easily surrendered to the authorities to get the proper medical attention he needed. He never married his daughter, and I've often wondered how Christmas went that year in their home.
I have yet to have a Sunday night more intense than this one, and hope I never do.

Fig Newtons and the Marlboro Men

I've been involved with the church of Christ for almost my entire life. I started going to church at the Pink House so I would have been around 4 or 5 when I started attending church. In the church of Christ when you "go to church" you just say, "I am a member of the so and so church.." and that tells everyone that you are associated with the church. The church where I went was full of many, many characters and has made for some fantastic memories. My church was called Hillcrest. When you talk about the churches of Christ you either say you are liberal or conservative and depending on the things you do or don't do you are put into a category without much attention to the grey areas. I will save that for another blog. I will just say that Hillcrest embraced conservatism--very much! Sunday's were always an adventure to me. I can't tell you how many times I counted the rows that made up our veneered pine ceiling. We also had these Gothic inspired lights that hung precariously from the ceiling and swung ever so slightly. I would often get wrapped up in imagining who who was in harms way should the chain give way. Would that huge lantern fall straight or go at an angle? I know that they provided preaching for the imagination impaired, but had much better things with which to occupy my time.
We served communion every Sunday. I would always dread the man who walked up to say a prayer with his Bible. That meant, he had written something out and was goign to pull out his script right after he said, "would you bow with me?" I wasn't bowing I was goign to check out how many pages that fella had written. I only enjoyed that when they could not read their own writign or did not read well, then it was worth my time.
On my row (North side, 12th pew) sat my Dad, Mom, me, Grandma, and Etta Caywood, with just enough room for about three visitors. In the church of Christ you are supposed to find your place to sit and stay there. I've seen many times that a member woudl ask a visitor to move because they were in their spot. It is true! I can still remember who sat in front of me and behind me for about three pews. Etta Caywood was one of my favorite people. She was the mother of my Auntie Ilene's ex-ex husband. She married him twice for some unknown reason. Etta was the sweetest person in the world. She wore a white sweater draped over her shoulders year-round with the top button buttoned. It was a cape with sleeves. She smiled all the time, all the time, nervously fidgeting with a tissue over and over, and had the very faint smell of hand creme about her. She was very thin and about 5 feet tall. Even though she was the same age as my Grandmother she never had white hair, just a sandy grey, naturally curly old lady hair do. It resembled the hair style of Queen Elizabeth minus the intentional poofiness of her majesty and the crown of course. She had a great pink scarf that could be whipped out of her purse for the slightest breeze. She had a magic purse which contained many splendid things. Etta was always getting into her purse: clippers... nail file... throat lozenge... back to the nail file... Kleenex... coupon... folded piece of paper the contents of which could not wait to be revealed--it had to be read. She also had fig newtons. She snacked on fig newtons all during the sermon and would drive my Grandmother crazy each week as she offered, "newton, velva?" My Grandmother would always give this pursed lip indignant hufff and shake her head. All of the packaging in Etta's purse was acoustically altered to emit 10x the normal sound when rustled. One other claim to fame for Etta was the fact that she made change in the collection plate. That's right she would make change. She always gave the same amount, each week and why she didn't just come with that amount, I do not know. She would place the plate on her lap and make change, sometimes calculating future purchases and the bills she would need so as not to make change again after all she wouldn't have access to her plate.
My cousin, Tiger (the oldest of Auntie Ilene's children) and I spent many wonderful days playing at Etta's house. We were free to roam her huge yard. She lived on a corner lot and had at least an acre of property. Her house was built into a hill (living in Southwest Missouri you almost always had a house built into a hill on your street). We could play all day in that yard. Her House was very modest and immaculate. Snow white with a half rock wall and a scalloped wire fence around the front perimeter. There was the ever present smell of Pine-sol and sugar cookies with that wafting of heat that seems to fan you when you are in old ladies houses. The bathrooms of old ladies are a wonderland of discovery by the way--yet another blog for another day. She had a living room full of salmon colored furniture. And copious amounts of doilies every where. The furniture had a very interesting fabric on it, kind of like corduroy, but small little squares of raised rows. I can remember sitting in her living room and rubbing the couch because it sucked you into it's texture and took you to a far away therapeutic place for calming you nerves. Etta was an interesting cook. Her kitchen was too small to house a refrigerator so that was in her dining room. She was famous for grilling Bologna and cheese sandwiches. Frying the bologna before placing it on the melted cheese. I never had grilled bologna anywhere but there and actually never looked for it to be honest. Kraft macaroni and cheese was served along with the grilled bologna and cheese. She serve the macaroni with the butter and milk as indicated on the box but added a personal touch--she didn't stir in the cheese powder. That was taken around to each person and sprinkled on top. I always thought that was the most bizarre thing. At Halloween we always went to her house for homemade popcorn balls. Now she could make a mean popcorn ball. Stove popped popcorn enrobed in a sweet, salty, sticky, golden syrup that was to die for. They were bigger than softballs and always the first thing I would eat. I just loved her to death and logged many an hour wishing her to be my grandma.
Hillcrest had deacons who smoked outside, the Marlboro men, and were almost always late for the start of service because they were caught up talking a little too much between the puffs. There is nothing more welcoming than a cloud of Deacon smoke! I never saw these men sit down, just pace around the foyer walking away the day. If I went to the bathroom to take a break from envisioning a members sudden death by falling lanterns or became bored of the ceiling plank counting I always had to walk by "the men" and could feel their cold stare. The alpha males were watching me, and were not going to yield their territory to the likes of me--the young disheveled whipper snapper. I always wished there were other bathrooms and that I would not have to walk through that foyer.
There was a man whom I never could identify, but he fell asleep almost every week and when he was awoken would shout, "Amen!" I always knew he was awake by his holy proclamation. I did enjoy scanning the auditorium for the sleepers. But that was a risky business, because head turning was not allowed on my pew. One turn too many and I would receive the stealth thump from my Dad which came from out of nowhere and would leave me seeing black spots for minutes. My Dad has some of the hardest thumps! Man they hurt!
One lady, Mrs. Reibolt, always came to church with purple hair. I can remember asking my Grandmother, "does she mean to do that or is it an accident?" She went to the "Curl up and dye" every week for her hair to be set, surely they could pick another tint other than purple. I always dreamed of rain just to see if she would drip purple water, but never had that fantasy fulfilled.
Lastly--VBS misery. I really hated VBS. I never really had friends there and was always afraid that I would be called out to answer something and be exposed for the Biblically illiterate dumbo I was. I often wished for the power of invisibility. Most children perk up at the thought of snack time. You know they start asking for cookies about 10 weeks before VBS and ladies start baking and freezing cookies. Truck loads of cookies. Our VBS matrons carefully wrapped each "serving" in a white napkin (the kind that were dispensed by those old-fashioned diner napkin holders and used by most donut shoppes in America) neatly folded. It concealed the contents of the cookies within. They also had Kool-Aid very diluted under sweetened Kook-Aid. We were lined up single file and marched through the cookie line. One Dixie cup of Kook-Aid and one mysteriously wrapped cookie present. This was not a pleasant passage it was a mission and a chore to move those sniveling children through the line. Seconds were out of the question and asking for another stealth package because you didn't like the contents of your package was blasphemy. My package always had one store bought sandwich cookie and usually one very stale home baked cookie with nuts. I hate nuts in cookies, especially when they are frozen and stored. I could remember the ire I felt the Sunday's after VBS ended, "Be sure to stick around after church tonight because we have plenty of cookies left over from our great VBS. Help us eat up those great cookies." ARRRRGHHH!
Now that this wrinkle in my brain has been stimulated I realize that there are many, many more characters which need to be exposed. Stay tuned.