Sacred Sounds

I was reminiscing with a friend about church revivals the other day.  We were both raised in little country Methodist churches by parents who took every opportunity to attend services.  Both of our fathers sang and led music.  Both of us played piano in church, David as an adept and me as a barely adequate pianist when all other options were exhausted.  And we went to just about every Methodist revival in the county.

Most of the revivals were in early fall, most likely because these churches were in farming communities and those dates were between the days of haymaking and the rush to harvest crops before winter.  At one time, the yearly revivals were week-long affairs, gradually shortened to 3 or 4 nights, then disappearing into time.  I can’t remember the last time I attended a church revival, or even the last time I saw one advertised.  The little churches had wooden pews, simple altars, old upright pianos that were not always exactly in tune and open windows that let in the sounds of the night and soft breezes in the days before air conditioning.   The hymn books were from Cokesbury and contained songs like Revive Us Again, Love Mercy and Grace, Love Lifted Me and Just As I Am.  I always looked forward to Love, Mercy and Grace because my cousin, Emmett Thompson, would lead the men on the bass part of the chorus.  When I played it, I loved to really thump the keys on the bass part.

  “It was love (it was love), that took my place (that took my place), on the cross of Cal-va-ry.  It was grace (it was grace), redeeming grace (redeeming grace), that paid my ransom full and free…”  Number 153 in the Cokesbury.

 These were, for the most part, old churches whose walls had soaked up thousands of prayers and songs.  The acoustics in these buildings are phenomenal, and I like to think the voices from the past seep out from the walls.  I still love to go to old churches.  Even empty, they ring with silent music.

I don’t remember anything about the sermons that were preached in those little churches, but I sure do remember the music.  The county was blessed with an abundance of great musicians and singers and it seemed to me that we Methodists had more than our share of them.  Mr. Jim Martin and his three daughters, Marie, Bertie and Anna Laura were perhaps the best known.  Marie played by ear and could make the piano shout as they sang the old gospel songs like I’ll Fly Away.  They made the rounds of revivals, and I never complained about going to church if I knew they were playing. 

The Fox family were another group I remember – they were great friends of my family, and David and I were in the same class through school.  I have a vivid picture in my mind of David’s dad, Lewis, leading the singing at Little Lot Methodist Church, probably the church closest to my heart other than my own little place of worship in Shipps Bend.  Little Lot was also the scene of one of my most embarrassing moments as a teen, when a severe allergic reaction to what seemed like a whole garden of lilies on the altar led the preacher to believe I was having a profound religious experience during the singing of Just As I Am.  We sang all six verses of the song, then went back and repeated a verse or two.  My eyes were streaming enough tears that I couldn’t get a look at the preacher’s face, but I could feel him looking right at me.  But aside from that one incident, I have been blessed to hear and participate in some of the best singing I’ve ever heard in that church.

My daddy was often asked to sing at church.  I remember the first time I played piano for him after my grandmother, his usual accompanist, had died.  I was about 12 years old and a barely proficient pianist, but I could play How Great Thou Art, which was his preferred solo.  Off we went to the Mt. Zion AME Church, one of the oldest black churches in the area. It may have been my first time in a black church.  I’m pretty sure it was my first time to hear an “amen” from the congregation.  I’m sure the amen was because of my daddy’s singing.  It certainly wasn’t because of my playing! Another musical memory, which came many years later, from that particular church is a jazzed-up version of Blessed Assurance which included a piano and a saxophone.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I’m almost certain I caught a glimpse of angel wings in the rafters.

There is something about churches where our ancestors and friends have worshipped, sung, and sought sanctuary during hard times.  The shadows of saints gone on before peer from the shadows and join the choruses of hymns old and new.  I can still remember where people from my childhood days sat. Sometimes I think I could still see them there, if I could quiet my soul and let my eyes blur just right. 

One of the most profound musical experiences I remember was during a funeral when the congregation at the “big” Methodist church in town joined to sing Spirit Song, a newer composition that has become one of my favorites.   Then there was the time a quartet sang Beulah Land at that same church.  That one song would have been enough without another word being spoken.  Music like that can stitch up a broken heart better than words.

The town church used to have an 11-o’ clock Christmas Eve service.  There is nothing like driving to the church through almost deserted streets, hearing the old story and singing familiar hymns, then hearing the chimes at midnight and going out into the silent night, when the stars seemed close enough to reach through and if you could just stand on tiptoe and try hard enough, you could part the veil between heaven and earth. 

Revivals may have become a relic of the past, but the music we made then lives on.  We keep talking about inviting a bunch of musicians and anyone else who wants to show up for a night of singing.  Maybe this will be the year we do that.  I expect some of those voices from the past will join us, if we listen closely enough.  It’s been a tough couple of years, and our hearts can certainly use some healing.  I’ll make sure we sing Love, Mercy and Grace.  And I’ll be listening for echoes from Emmett, my daddy and Mr. Fox.  They will be there.

Turn By the Red Calf

I have read funny stories, some probably true and some apocryphal, about giving directions in the South.   My childhood friends and I laugh at some of the things we say – like turn where Pickard’s Store used to be.  Pickard’s store has been gone for at least fifty years now, but in my mind, it is still an important landmark.  What else are you going to use, since there’s basically nothing else there to point to?  If someone in the conversation looks confused, we have to tell them the story about Pickard's store, explaining that it was Chessor’s Store before that, and the school bus used to stop there sometimes and let the bus riders off to get a candy bar or coke on our way home from school.  I can still remember the suspense and anticipation as we neared the store.  Would the driver pull in today or would he sail on by, leaving us deflated?  It was a much more innocent time, and it probably was one of the reasons we had very little disciplinary problem on our bus.  No one wanted to be the reason we didn’t get to stop at the store.

Sunday afternoon, I found myself uttering a directive that was the epitome of the cliché that is Southern direction-giving.  “Turn at that red calf,” I directed, from the back seat of an all-wheel drive Saturn.  The designated calf was watching the progress of our vehicle as we made our way along what used to be a road of sorts.  I was the only one who knew about the road, and it probably didn’t matter if we were on it or not, so long as we didn’t get too close to one of the gullies that ran down the hill.

We were metal detecting, a new adventure for me.  Friends of mine are enthusiasts, one an expert who has discovered historical artifacts around the area and the other his pupil, a history-loving beginner.  The attractions in my pasture were the remains of an 1850’s log cabin and a tumble-down 1920’s frame house.  Sophie and Bear accompanied us, trotting along behind.  I had left Scout in the house.  I don’t think he could tear up or steal a metal detector, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

Back of the log cabin

I told my audience about the cabin and about my great-great grandfather who built it before he went off to fight in the Civil War and raised a large family in it before building the house I live in now in the mid 1870’s.  As we looked inside, I marveled again at where they all slept and ate.  I’ve always figured it had an additional room at one time, but if it did, my granddaddy didn’t remember it.  He did share the story with me of my great-great grandmother, Lucinda, who hid her horse from the Yankees in a crevice between two rocks down behind the cabin.   

Lucinda's hiding place

I wrote a short story about the incident when I first started seriously writing for magazines.  I believe it was about the second or third story I sold.  “Save Raven” was the title and I made two of the younger children the heroes who kept the family horse safe.  Somehow I lost my copies of the story down through the years and the magazine no longer exists.  I wish I had it; I think it was a pretty good story.

I made a few passes with the metal detector, but mostly I walked around and looked at the scenery.  The cabin was built on a hill, with a view of the bottom land and the trees that line the river.  The hills across the river stretch west and a few buildings dot the landscape over there.  When I was a child, there was not a building in sight. I would love to have a house there.  I pointed out the steep hill behind the cabin where the family most likely got spring water and we speculated on where the garden might have been.  We didn’t find anything of real interest buried around the site, other than some abandoned machinery that trees had grown into and a small piece of an old iron stove.  Sophie got bored and went home and Bear occupied himself looking for something to chase.  The cows, as cows do, gathered nearby to watch intently, wondering what the humans were doing and what those weird noises were from the sticks they were waving across the grass.

Fragment of old iron stove

It was when we decided to move down the hill to the other little house that had been built for farm workers that the red calf became a signpost.  When my family was still working the farm, they had a pretty decent road that led down and past the house on the way to the bottom, but it had long since disappeared from view.  The house was fairly intact back then, but now much of the floor has fallen in, the porch is gone, the steps are broken and I would not dare go inside what is left.  We did salvage some ceramic doorknobs from there when I started renovations on the farmhouse and there might be some old doors worth saving still.  It’s a sad sight, with faded, peeling wallpaper and sagging doors.

It was at this spot that Mandy made the find of the day, a saltshaker buried about four inches in the ground.  How it ended up there is a mystery never to be solved.  Bear flushed what may have been a coyote and I had to call him out from under the house several times in his quest for something I would rather not know about. I pointed out the sledding hill we used when I was young and dumb enough to dodge briars and frozen cow piles during infrequent snows.  We called it a day when the sun dropped behind the trees by the forlorn little house.  Sophie greeted us back at the house, offering everyone her paw as if to apologize for deserting us.  Treasure hunting, it seems, is just not her cup of tea.

Weather Forecasting (Who Needs a Groundhog?)

 

I don’t need a groundhog to make weather predictions on my farm.  My dogs and horses tell me when the weather is going to change.  And they tell me in a way that I can’t possibly ignore. 

If I look out the window and see a herd of horses, galloping full speed with tails streaming behind, I know a cold front in moving in.  It’s not like when they are running away from something – because they immediately turn around and run back the other way.  There is usually some bucking and jumping and farting (if you are not familiar with horses, they tend to do that when they buck a lot).  Even the horses in barn are hyper-sensitive to the wind and changes in weather.  It’s hard to get any serious riding done during those days, unless you enjoy lots of head tossing and prancing.  And it brings extra challenges to outdoor horse shows.

At least the horses are outside.  The dogs are another matter altogether.  For the last four days last week, my dogs were in a constant state of perpetual motion.  Scout, still a mischievous baby who weighs just under 40 pounds, has been especially prone to running amuck.  His adventures seem to escalate in the night, when he prowls the house searching for potential toys.   Wednesday morning, I encountered an obstacle course in the living room.   The dogs’ water dish, the laundry basket still full of clothes, another laundry basket that formerly held shoes, the broom and dustpan, plus four pair of shoes and two orphan shoes I can’t find the mate for, the dog brush, the phone and a paperback book.

Wednesday afternoon, we had company.  Friends brought their children to the farm to see the horses.  Scout was an embarrassment.  Totally out of control, he jumped on everyone, including the children who didn’t weigh any more than he does.  They were not afraid, and they enjoyed feeding treats to the horses, who were much better behaved than he was.  Sophie tried to set a good example – she was sweet to the little girls, but Scout had to be banished to the outdoors.  Now I know how people feel when their children run wild in the grocery store.

Wednesday night, Scout and Sophie spent thirty minutes running around and around the couch.  When Sophie got tired, Scout went on a treasure search.  The hammer was the first thing he found, followed by a box of screws.  When I took the screws away, he gave me one of “those” looks and prowled the room searching for a replacement. 

Thursday morning, my bedroom rug was missing.  It had found a new home in the middle of the living room, along with dogs’ water bowl, a screwdriver, my coat and hat, an afghan, two plastic bottles and a paperbook book minus its cover.  He had also demolished most of the dog bed cover and strewn the filling all over the floor.  When Clay tried to sit down on the couch to discuss plans for the day, an avalanche of dogs swarmed over him. 

 While I was gone to town, Scout stole the electric drill from the bathroom where Clay was working, cleared a bookshelf of paperback books and tore the covers off four of them. Clay tried to hide them from me but was forced to confess.  Thursday afternoon, Scout and Sophie got an empty 2-liter bottle out of the kitchen trash and played a raucous game of keep away.  I thought that might be a good thing to occupy them until Sophie flung the bottle into the fireplace.  Luckily the gas logs were not burning  and it bounced back out.  Bear usually doesn’t join in the fun and games, but he was somehow motivated to play “chase around the couch” with Scout.  It was quite a lively game, accompanied by lots of growling, wrestling, body slamming and general mayhem. 

Phoebe hid behind my desk.  Clay’s dog took refuge in a chair and Sophie seemed to want to join in but couldn’t find an opening in the merry-go-round.  Thirty minutes later, I found all the four-legged fiends passed out in various spots around the room.  They looked so sweet and innocent.

 

Around Friday things began to calm down, at least as much as they ever do with a 5-month-old puppy who thinks he owns the house, and three other dogs who live at least part of the time in the house.  When Bear and Sophie have enough of his antics, they take refuge on my bed.  I have noticed that Scout can stand on his hind legs and easily reach the top of the bed.  He is perfectly able to jump up there – he just doesn’t know it yet.  I may need a bigger bed in the near future, probably just about the time we have another cold front moving in.