The title of this story has almost nothing to do with the story. It is nonsensical, and I can nearly smell your frustration. I'm sorry for the mislead but I did that on purpose to draw you in. I just wanted to give you a quick look at my twisted reality and get at least a small dose of how it felt to be me growing up. Many are the times in my life when I fully expected to hear some sound advice from an elder that was; well let's use the word insightful? Instead, I usually heard a joke that included a priest and a rabbi. I was thirsty for insightful knowledge but what I usually got in return was just the southern version of Standup Spotlight. In the illustrious words of Jeff Foxworthy "if you have ever been too drunk to fish, you might be a redneck." Depending on which relative I heard it from said information from usually dictated whether or not I could tell the tale at Vacation Bible School where Vanilla Wafers and Kool-Aide were worth their weight in gold. My kin were and still are a lot like onions, when you peel them, you find a lot of layers. In addition, you didn't see a lot, but what you did see you saw a lot of. I love this bit of wisdom I once heard from one of my crusty old uncles, "comedy is just tragedy plus time." That, and "a quick trigger doesn't always guarantee a bullseye." I am not even sure that is true, but it certainly is thought provoking.
There are a few unwritten laws when you grow up a Baptist and I will lay them out to you the best I can remember them. You are allowed to make a derogatory statement about anyone in the congregation if you follow it up with the phrase "bless their heart." The secret is to make like you are taking pity ON them instead of gossiping ABOUT them. AMEN and please pass the funeral potatoes. In addition, you are also allowed (evidently by New Testament law) to say anything you darn well please about anyone that has expired like an out-of-date dairy product as long as you utter the phrase "may they rest in peace." It's a bit like a cat trying to cover up a piece of manure in a kitty litter box. In addition, some Baptists tend to tiptoe around the subject of death although I have no idea why. We don't merely pass away my friends, we die." And we should all get used to the idea of our own demise because no matter what sect we are, none of us are getting out of here alive. Baptist also enjoy the indoctrination of people who wish to join the church as the preacher will have one arm around them, one hand in the air and while asking if everyone approves while he utters the phrase "and all God's people said... (and the congregation gives their approval by saying) Amen." But if they don't say Amen, it may be because one of their kids was caught watching MTV and seriously contemplating fornicating to the song Purple Rain. In that case the congregation would give them what is generally referred to as the left foot of fellowship. The preceding bit of humor was directly mouth of my sweet mother. It seems in the eyes of the Baptists before one can be forgiven, one must first be perfect, at least in the eyes of a stuck-up deacon. That seems counter-intuitive, doesn't it? Whatever happened to the idea of Jesus embracing the great "unwashed?"
Grandma once said to me about a girl who lived in town (you know how those city girls can be) that her pants were so tight you could see her religion. From the way her pants fit I'd say she was probably agnostic. And her all-time favorite saying was "that girl could start an argument in an empty house." I do now understand granny's advice about drama. I don't have time for it, and neither should you. I once saw my grandpa on my dad's get cross with the attendant at the COOP over the weight of a feed sack and he told him "When I get done with you, you won't know if you are supposed to scratch your watch or wind your butt." Grandpa wasn't one that was usually prone to fight but if his eyes turned red and he needed to square off, he certainly could. The man was tougher than a two-dollar Ford County steak, and as unforgiving as a broken saddle sore. Not so long ago I attended a wedding that was full to the brim with first cousins. One of them asked me, "why do you remember these stories in such details and I it seems I just barely remember just the facts?" I suppose the short answer to that question is I have never stopped telling those tales, if you ever stop recanting your memories you are bound to forget them. I believe senility is a certainty in this life, but we can commit anything to memory we really want to. The important stuff always seems to stick to our grey matter like fly paper.
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