When I was a young’un, up until the time I graduated from high school, I was a member of the First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Mt. Sterling, Kentucky. It was a big church, with a great brick edifice and three floors and lots of hidden little rooms and a large main floor and even a balcony. The stained glass windows testified to the church’s history, with dates from the 1800s, in memoriam, with one bearing the name of Hazelrigg, which at the time I thought was the stupidest and silliest name anyone could have. I did not know for a long time that the beetle-faced puncheon who sat behind me was a great matriarch of the Hazelrigg family, but no matter. I’ll return to her shortly, along with her clapper-clawed, ill-mannered friend and cohort Mrs. Cratzer, and some other lady with blue glasses and the meanest eye ever beheld in this world earthly. The Whey-faced Harpies.

The church website gives this history:

The first congregation of this church was organized by the Particular Baptists about the year of 1796. In the year 1797 Elder David Barrow, a cultured and talented gentleman from the state of Virginia, became its first pastor and continued in this service until his death in 1823. He was followed by Elder "Raccoon" John Smith, who baptized 114 new members his first year.

Elder John Smith began to preach a fuller gospel, as he saw it, and by the year 1826 had so successfully taught his congregation that all but two or three families followed him out of the faith of their fathers into the Christian Church Movement. There was no abrupt separation from the Baptist brotherhood; the congregation simply ceased to send a report or letter to the Association, so that by the year 1826 they no longer regarded themselves as a Baptist Church. In a few years the congregation assumed the name Christian.

So, the Particular Baptists felt they were better off joining the Christian Movement. I’m trying not to laugh about that.

The First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) was the largest by membership of any church in town. The Methodists were respectably large, but were located down in the unsavory part of Mt Sterling, down by the Chevy dealer, and the Baptists up on the hill made a good showing as well. The Presbyterians, Catholics and Episcopalians were a dim last with regard to church attendees, not counting the Slippery Slope Freewill Independent Evangelical Somethings Or Other, whose membership could be counted on two fingers.

I say all of this to let you know that the First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) was a rockin’ kind of place, in a funeral home sort of way, with thunderous John Norton Williams as the pastor, three choirs, a host of ushers and elders and deacons, and twenty seven rows of pews filled every time, thirty four if you add in the balcony. And then there were the various other ministers--youth, choir, music, etc.

Except when my father was singing--Heaven be praised!!-- church services were, for me, dull and lifeless things. Sullen dull.

There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary eye...

If it hadn’t been for Mr. Williams million-decibel voice and his penchant for calling out sleepers, I’d have been in a coma. I had the misfortune, of course, of being thought a singer too, and so was forced to sit in my cute little burgundy choir robe along in the first three rows of the front of the church. Since I was a boy, I occupied the last of the three, and immediately behind sat the Onion-eyed Harpies, waiting for the slightest impertinence from me and/or my friends, which always resulted in a sharp rap across the top of my head and a hissing “Tut-tut.”

You’ve seen those commercials where the guy gets out of bed without standing up, slides to the floor, lying down the whole time, gets dressed while still lying down, leaves the house, proceeds down the sidewalk and into McDonald’s for breakfast, still lying down. The guy’s body never moves, yet he ends up at McDonald’s having breakfast. Johnny was like that. Johnny was my best friend, and he was the very Son of Thunder himself, Mr. Williams. One moment, he’d be right next to me, the next he was in the balcony, and then he’d be outside smoking. Rap! Rap! Rap! I could imagine those onion eyes rolling in their sockets. Sundays gave me a concussion.

And then there was the matter of Karen Gulley. Karen was a classmate of mine (almost everyone else was, too), all arms and legs and big eyes and stringy hair, and she was white, like I mean fish-belly white. She lived in the seedy part of town, which was about two doors down from where I lived. She was probably a very nice girl; I know that she had an unabashed liking for me, while I sported an unabashed feeling of nothing for her. But her romantic intrusions into my life gave me cause for concern. My friends--all of them, Johnny, Jeff, Gist, David, Wayne, Mike, Jim, TJ, Barry, Gary, Bert--cackled with glee, and teased me to no end. It was completely mortifying. At the last class reunion I went to, Bert pulled out a picture of us all in 4th grade, and he specifically pointed to Karen Gulley, and reminded me of those not-so-forgotten days. The legend never dies.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

But that church did have its perks. I managed to kiss Judy Frederick in the basement there once during one of those teen group meetings we had there with the inestimable Mr. Jenks, the Minister of Youth. I won a pinewood derby there in that same basement. All hail the conquering hero! And to my complete academic religious astonishment, I also learned that Abraham did not have bosoms, as I had thought, but that the Bosom of Abraham meant something entirely different. I don’t think my friend Jeff Murphy ever got that. Last time I saw him, at college, he was still snickering over the Father of Israel’s tits.

The calendar was a deadly round of misery, weariness and sullen dullness. Sunday after Sunday,

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;

As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

The gears of time doth slowly grind, but grind they do, and by-and-by we came at last upon July, and great hosannahs rose up from the land, and there was joy in the flock of God as we prepared for our Totally Every Annual First Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) Potluck Picnic To Be Held At The Mt Sterling Recreation Park At The Appointed Time. There was Great Rejoicing and a lot of cooking going on too. (See? You thought I’d forgotten this was a Foodie Tuesday post).

Now, at the venerable age of eight or nine, I supposed that all mothers cooked like my mother did, but I discovered that I was in error. At the Mt. Sterling Recreation Park Picnic Grounds, there were laid out eight or nine of those plastic Target tables, all laden with the food of the good people of the church. And what I discovered there---well, I’ll just tell you.

My mother could make fried chicken sing. Golden brown, with just the right spices and the skin crinkled up just crispy enough. Makes me hunger for it right now as I’m remembering it. Here’s a picture:

Other people brought fried chicken too. It’s a Southern staple, you know. And how Southerners survived the War, I’ll never know. On that same table with my Mom’s prized chicken were some of the most emaciated, ill-dredged fowls I’ve ever laid eye to. Some of it I wouldn’t have given to a dying dog, out of kindness.

There were lots of other things to eat, too. Here are some:

 Tater Salad

Baked Beans

Buttermilk Corn Bread

Tea Sandwiches

Lemonade

Sweet Tea

I chose a leg and something that had pretensions of breastiness, and moved on down the line, getting potato salad, baked beans, cornbread, cole slaw, all the while trying to balance my ever-growing plate. It doesn't take much to destabilize a 10-year-old.

And then I came to the crudites.

I was stranded by the crudites, immobile.

There, in my vision, was a most beautiful woman I had never seen before. Easily 11 or 12 years old, with golden chestnut hair, real tits as opposed to Abraham's figurative one, deep green eyes, she absolutely mesmerized me. And she was looking directly at me!

I jogged my eyebrows up and down a time or two, and chanced a smile. I couldn't possibly have spoken, even if you'd have hit me with a mallet. We locked eyes. I had my first experience with eternity. Thunder Williams had talked about eternity, I could recall dimly. He wasn't talking about this.

Our eyes were saying that we should perhaps meet later.

Art Garfunkel started singing:

My love must be a kind of blind love.
I can't see anyone but you.

Are the stars out tonight?
I don't know if it's cloudy or bright.
I only have eyes for you, dear.

The moon may be high,
But I can't see a thing in the sky.
'Cause I only have eyes for you.

I don't know if we're in a garden
Or on a crowded avenue.

You are here, so am I.
Maybe millions of people go by.
But they all disappear from view.
And I only have eyes for you.

Somebody else had a fork for my kidney, letting me know that the line had bunched up dangerously behind me. So I grabbed a couple of carrots and headed on down the line, and here is what I found.

Dippin' Sauces

Chili

Alas, my love was no longer in my range of vision. I despaired, I panicked, I nearly lost my burgeoning plate of food. My eyebrows juddered up and stayed there in a desperate attempt at balance. Luckily, by then, I'd come to the dessert table. I'd find my sweet after my sweets.

Dried Apple Stack Cake

Pecan Pie

Sweet Tater Pie

Vinegar Cake

Eating was good. Even the dogs had to take a post-prandial rest. We remembered the cautions against swimming after eating. Now that I'd got myself a new babe, I surely did not want to cramp up and die, right in front of everybody.

After an hour or so, Mr. Jenks got up and said we were going to pursue the lively game of Water Balloon Toss. Now, Water Balloon Toss looks simple, but that is an illusion. It takes a dexterous hand and an able partner to do it well. The basic premise is that everyone faces off with a partner, a few feet apart, and they begin to toss a water balloon to each other, taking a step back after each successful throw. After a time, say when you are a mile or two from your partner, you might win, depending on the competition.

Johnny and I had done this many times. We were as sensitive to each other's moves as a couple of dancers might have been. We were dead cinch winners.

I am sure that the color drained from my face when it was announced that my partner would be--gulp!!--Karen Gulley!! She stepped before me, shy smile lighting her face. My mind raced for alternatives, but slowed by digestion.

“Fie! you seedy strumpet!” I thought to say. I'm sure I didn't say it, but I thought to. It's in my cranial archives, where all of the original documents are stored. No Orly Taitz forgeries there, buster.

But I didn't say it. Next, I bethought myself to ask if she would mind terribly stepping over to Lexington, 30 miles to the west. But then it occurred to me that as she was only 10, like me, she probably didn't know how to drive yet, so I reluctantly took that option off the table.

And then I had it!! The thought of thoughts. The trump to the trick. The answer to all questions.

"Hey, Karen. Water Balloon Toss is for little kids. How about we play Loaded Shotgun Toss?" I grinned my most charming grin. Ten paces.

Shotguns

All the little kids were intent on chasing balls and throwing sticks, which the now rejuvenated dogs would fetch and happily bring back, only to renew the fetching game again with giggles and pettings and murmured words of encouragement.

Karen was intent on firing a water balloon at me. It missed. Hah! It landed at my feet. My shoes were wet. Squishy wet. We were still about 5 feet apart.

There passed a weary time....

My love was gone. My shoes squished. The dogs left off chasing the sticks and were engaged in happily and gaily fetching the wiggly, wiggly children.

...a weary time, a weary time....

The grinding of time had begun again.