On days that my Mom couldn't escort me to the Wright City Assembly of God (WCAG) church, Grandmother and Grandaddy were "kind" enough to come to our house near Turnertown and take me with them.
Imagine my joy at getting to dress up (my best patched jeans and homemade shirt) and sit still and quiet in church while some old guy yelled about eternal damnation?
To say that Grandaddy was a bit of a stern disciplinarian would be like saying a rented mule don't git much love. His boys used to testify to his razor strop and his temper when administering a specialized brand of child care.
For the the most part, my exposure to Grandaddy's wrath merely consisted of him cocking his index finger behind his thumb in order to "thump" me on the noggin for squirming beside him in the pew. I figger that "act of contrition" sounded mostly like an overripe watermelon that had been popped with drum stick. Best I can remember, that pain lasted about 15 minutes before it quit throbbing.
When I was likely 9 or 10 years old, I somehow convinced Grandaddy to let me sit near the back row of pews (My grandparents always sat near the front)? I soon spied another kid a few rows in front of me. The damned devil entered my soul that day and he (not "I") chewed up a piece of the church program, reared back, and flung it against the noggin of the boy in front of me.
Imagine my HORROR when the preacher stopped in mid-sentence to point his long bony finger at me and lecture bout how such does not occur in the House of the Lord. Now find my juvenile brain trying to interpret if that look Grandaddy was giving me included only strippin' my hide off or if I was about to receive a death sentence? Now see my TERRIFIED face as Grandaddy took strides that covered 20 feet each to the back of the church to drag my sinful self outside. Now imagine the church being deathly quiet so they could enjoy the sound of Grandaddy's Sunday finest leather belt playing Dixie on my sinning ways (butt).
Gosh, no wonder I have such "fond" memories of the WCAG?
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