An excerpt from a memoir in progress Early on, Sunday school and church was a necessary evil I suffered. Sunday morning always started with being forced out of bed, made to eat breakfast and then, dress up for church and somewhere among the being yanked out of bed and heading out the door was a good whipping for something like, not eating fast enough, dripping grape jelly down the front of my freshly ironed white shirt or for sneaking out the door and splashing a mud hole dry. It was one of those things that no matter how hard I tried to get it right, things just happened to bring on a whipping. The worst part of getting a pre-church butt busting was it was only one of two that I would get. It never failed that there would be an after church switching. That one was always out of my control too. After my early belting, I would be forced to change into clean clothes and herded into the backseat of dad’s 52 Ford. Dad or mom one would say, “Wipe them slobbers off your face before you get another one.” I knew I was going to get another one anyway and if I wiped the snot and slobbers on the sleeve of my clean, white shirt, there would likely be a third and it would happen in the backseat on the way to a Sunday school class where we were forced to sing “Jesus Loves You.” I sort of figured he loved seeing me get my ass busted too. After all the whelping, down the driveway we would go, turn left at the end of the drive and head to Salt Lick. The church sat caddy-cornered to the school and had a little gravel parking lot in the front and another to the left of the building. Dad would pull in, park and we would get out. Mom had my brother in her arms and I walked beside dad to the front of the church. There if front, in the white gravel lot, the preacher would be shaking hands and grinning big and God Blessing everyone as they made their way through the door and to the pews. When it was our turn, the preacher with his gray eyes and greased-back black hair would shake dad’s hand and bless him and mom while all along, I knew I was the one going to be blessed with another good switching as soon as the services ended and we returned home. The preacher had a pair of boys about my age and they were allowed to get away with murder. They would always single me out and punch me in the arm and push me, trying to shove me down. At some point, they would invite me out back behind the church. It was an every Sunday thing to have to fight those boys or be called chicken. The one trip out back of the church most clear in my mind was bloody. I knew as soon as we made the turn at the back corner, I had to take one of them out. I turned and swung as hard as I could. The one closest to me took it full on the nose and blood flew. I gave him a second in flush in the mouth and blood splattered again. By this time the other one was running and I went after him. I caught up, tackled him and we scooted in the gravel. I was on top giving him everything I had when they heard the screaming inside the church. Everyone came running and someone pulled me off if him. The fight was over and I had whipped them both. My white shirt was sprinkled with preacher’s son’s blood. I was feeling pretty good knowing I had just washed myself in the blood of smart mouthed lambs. I won’t lie, it was a good feeling. At least it was a good feeling until dad grabbed me by the arm and pulled me off to the side and in a low voice said, “You gonna get it when I get you home. What was you thinking fighting with the preacher’s boys?” My only reply was, “They started it.” I knew that wasn’t good enough. It was going to be a three whipping day and all three before lunch too. Another wonderful Sunday I recall happened before church when the preacher was greeting everyone and for some reason, he took it on himself to grab me up, walk to his car, open the trunk, dump me in it and slam the trunk lid shut. Dad was right there and didn’t do a thing to stop it. I was locked in the dark in a car trunk and scared half to death. I could hear them talking and what they were saying scared me even more. The preacher said, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have my keys and without the keys, I can’t let him out.” Another voice said, “There ain’t much air in a trunk. I sure hope that boy don’t smother to death.” Someone said, “Get a crowbar and pry the lid up.” The preacher said, “I have a pistol in the dash. I’ll shoot air holes in the trunk.” I scooted as far back in the trunk as I could hoping the bullets would miss me. It was coal black dark inside the trunk and I was holding my breath so not to use up what air was in there and scrunched up, making myself as small as possible hoping I wasn’t going to shot. I don’t know how long I was inside the trunk but I learned much from it. I knew preachers were not to be trusted. I knew dad wasn’t to be counted on to save me. I knew church was not a safe place for a boy and I knew that in time, and if I lived, I would get even. There were some good times too. On some Sundays, after morning services, everyone would load up and go have a big picnic. Other times, church must have been canceled because we would travel to far-off places and cookout and picnic. There would be a long line of cars weaving along the crooked roads and if we were heading to Natural Bridge, every car blew their horn going through the Nada Tunnel and you could hear them echoing through the hills. The ladies all wore brightly colored dresses and the girls were all dressed-up too. The men wore dress pants and button up shirts. The boys were in shorts and jeans and there would be softball games and sometimes swimming. The smell of hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill filled the air. Picnic tables were loaded with big bowls of potato salad, baked beans, pies and cakes. Someone was always shooing flies and covering bowls and plates with paper plates in an attempt to keep the bugs away. One trip I remember was to Cumberland Falls. It was in the dead of summer. Dad had a movie camera and made me go out on the hot rocks next to the falls so he could film. The rock was one giant slap of limestone and hot enough to fry eggs. I was jumping up and down, running in place and before it was over, I was crying because the limestone was blistering the bottoms of my feet. That was one day I should have worn shoes. There was another trip to someplace I cannot recall but I do remember the camels and the elephants. There was a giant elephant and another one not so big. It was big enough to scare a kid and that was big enough. A man wearing a red hat that reminded me of a flowerpot with a tassel hanging from it seemed to be in charge of the elephants. He wore white baggy britches with a red sash and a white shirt with baggy sleeves. He was a dark skinned man with dark eyes and was as scary as the elephants. The man had a long pole in his hand with a brass hook on the end and he was prodding and poking the elephant and talking to it is some language I had never heard before. It was like a nickel for a ride and I was silently praying that mom and dad wouldn’t pay that much but they did. The crazy looking man in the strange outfit and the stick with a hooked brass end picked me up and sit me astraddle of the smaller elephant. There was no saddle, blanket or anything beneath my backside. The sharp backbone of the elephant hurt and my little short legs were forced to do the splits and it felt as if I were being torn in half. It hurt that bad. I looked down and it seemed a long way to the ground. I had nothing to hold onto and I knew if I slipped, it was all over. Mom yelled, “Hang on. If you fall it’ll crush you with those big feet.” All I wanted was off that thing and for the pain to stop. In my mind, there was no way that funny dressed man could control an elephant by poking it with a stick and if it took off running, I would die. On the upside, the camel looked just like a local drunk from Salt Lick and that was worth a good laugh. The camel did have a saddle and was not so wide that it hurt to ride it. The man working with the camels said to watch it because it would spit on you. To me this was one of the worst ideas anyone could have had. At times, I was sure these trips were a way to get rid of me without it looking suspicious. I guess, without realizing it, I set a goal to survive anything and to someday even the score. M.D. Mynhier
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 17:54:32 +0000