On the way home Grandma said it was such a pity Roby didn’t get saved.
“Yes,” Grandpa said, “but I’ve got a feeling the Lord’s going to win the battle next time. Sure as the world, I do believe it. Do I hear an amen?”
“Amen,” me and Grandma said.
14
A Gizzard on My Fork
Sometimes the Pentecostals held a revival meeting in a tent that looked big enough to hold the circus that came to town every year. Ragtag boys from the neighborhood hoped to earn pocket change for setting up rows of mismatched fold-up chairs. A big sign across the makeshift stage declared JESUS SAVES, and the evangelist preaching might be a little bit famous in Pentecostal circles.
Side flaps of the tent were folded up so you could hold to the hope a whiff of breeze would find its way through the crowded rows to where you were sitting. A chorus of preaching and praying and shouting and singing blurred into the night. The hymn “Just as I Am” flowed over bowed heads as the service came to a close.
Moths as big as baby birds flocked around the lights.
We kept the good bedroom, the downstairs one with a small sitting room attached, for visiting missionaries and preachers, the rest of us crowding upstairs into three low-ceilinged attic bedrooms. The little-bit-famous preacher came home with us from the evening service. Grandma heated up the blackberry cobbler and whipped up a whole mixing bowl of fresh cream.
The preacher patted his mouth with a napkin made from a white flour sack.
“Sister Cales, I have been privileged to dine in some of the finest cafés and eateries in Franklin County, and I have not to this day been served anything of an equal to your blackberry cobbler.”
Grandma thought that was worth another helping. The pie, spooned up in flat soup bowls with a generous heap of the cream on top, washed down easy with big glasses of sweet milk.
And that put everyone to sleep in no time.
Missionaries who always seemed to be just back from Africa stayed with us. Sister Guyandott lived with us all summer one time. She wanted the church to send her supplies packed in popcorn to share with the natives who didn’t know about civilized treats like exploding corn. She also wanted a supply of unpopped corn so she could demonstrate the magic of it when she got back to Africa. I thought she wanted to scare the natives right out of their pagan beliefs into being good Pentecostals and covering up their naked bodies from necks to ankles and elbows and never again painting their faces or wearing beads around their necks or feathers on their heads.
After the closing service, the Pentecostals held a dinner on the ground. A picnic could be held by anyone, but dinner on the ground was different—only the church held dinner on the ground. Food was pulled from baskets and boxes and paper bags and set out on sawhorse tables made with planks and covered with extra sheets the women had brought. If I squinted my eyes against the sun, the circle of quilts spread on the ground turned into a kaleidoscope of fanciful designs. Folks sitting down to eat their dinners and catch up on the news gradually blotted out the colorful shapes.
“Brother Harvey, you got any Elsie’s pups left? Like to have one for my boy if you do.”
“Sister Sutphin, how’s your girl over in Charleston doing?”
“James Junior, you get your feet off that quilt before I come over there.”
“Be sure to get a piece of Sister Wood’s fried chicken. She soaks it in buttermilk, you know.”
Their voices had the twang of the mountains, like a softly strummed banjo gone a little off tune.
There were whole hams and fried chickens and meatloaves, baked beans and cabbage slaw and deviled eggs, pickled eggs and pickled green beans and homemade sour pickles that turned your mouth inside out before they ever touched your tongue, biscuits and cornbread and loaves of light bread from the store. The men without wives brought the store-bought bread.
“That stuff ’s not fit to eat,” Grandma said with a little sniff, but she put a piece on her plate when she thought I wouldn’t notice. I wanted her to stay in a good mood, so I didn’t let on.
Sister Wood’s platter of fried chicken was disappearing fast. Grandma said for me to hurry on over there and get a piece. I sure hoped I could find me a gizzard. Sister Harper saw me poking through the chicken and said, “Honey, I brought them pickled beans you like so much. You go get you some.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, coming up with a gizzard on my fork.
The flat pan of macaroni and cheese Sister Blankenship served up looked just like Grandma’s. When I mentioned it, she laughed. “Well, it ought to. I’m the one told her how to go about fixing it.” I put some on my plate. Still, I made sure to save a little room for Grandma’s cake. I remembered to tell her I didn’t think Sister Blankenship’s macaroni was quite as good as hers. She said, “I swan, you are a sight.” But her eyes told me she liked the compliment.
I wandered over to find me a spot. The Drunkard’s Path was my favorite quilt pattern, but I guess Grandma thought it wasn’t fitting for a church social, so she’d brought a quilt called Jacob’s Ladder. She was busy talking to Sister Wood. I stopped to listen and caught the tail end of something about that last one being the image of his best friend. I was hoping to have more to tell Sissy, but I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying. I sidled my way closer.
Grandma gave me a look.
I scooted out of there to get me a piece of cake.
Desserts of all kinds and colors made accidental centerpieces on the
