Mama was a Preacher Chapter One In the Beginning Copyright 1996 by AUTHOR22@aol.com All rights reserved.
In 1935 Adolph Hitler was rattling swords in Europe. Japan was unhappy with American foreign policy, and the United States was the international playboy whose primary goal in life was enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
My mother was with child, and in 1935 I struggled free of her body, entering a world rapidly moving towards strife.
Sometime later, and well before my memory began recording things for my retention, my father moved on and Mom got religion.
My earliest recollections were inside of a country church in the hills of Arkansas. The settlement was small and very poor. There was only one community building and it served as a one room school house, church, and meeting center.
We lived in a small house trailer parked alongside of the structure. Water was from a well, some 20 feet away; light and heat came from kerosene.
Compared with where everyone else lived, our trailer was a mansion. Two of the largest families lived in what at first looked like old barns; the inner space being divided into a couple of rooms with walls constructed from rough, unfinished lumber. Most cooking was done over an outdoor fire pit, although both houses did have large wood burning stoves. The Holborns had 12 Kids, while the Osbornes had only 11; mostly boys.
A living was wrenched from the hard, mean land by applying much effort with a few tools but mostly bare hands. They raised chickens, pigs, and everyone had at least one cow.
The nearest town was 20 miles away, so the only entertainment was Mama's church and she held services twice on Sunday, and Wednesday evening.
The church building wasn't much better than the houses, although I suspect neither the Osbornes or Holborns had to put up with the leaky roofs that we did. But that wasn't really much of a problem because when it rained everyone stayed home.
Mama's Sunday Night Services were the most fun of the week; the entire community looked forward to them. If the number of times the congregation said "Amen Sister", or "Hallelujah" meant they liked what they heard, then she was very good. However, the main part of that Sunday evening service that every one looked forward to was the singing.
She had tried to organize a choir, but everyone in the congregation wanted in; and there was no point in simply re-seating everyone behind Mama on the platform.
The Sunday morning services were a bore. First there was Sunday School, with someone's mother, father, uncle or aunt teaching us about what they thought the Bible said. However that ordeal was only an hour long, and was followed by the Sunday morning sermon. Mama tried to keep that to an hour, but like a salad once started, it grew and grew and grew, sometimes lasting well past one o'clock. The congregation divided its self into two parts with the adults up front and the kids in back. The children could sneak out without disturbing the older folk; only Mama could see them leave.
At the age of ten I was too young to understand why some of the teenage boys and girls would leave in the middle of the evening services. Mama would be quite distressed, although it didn't bother her when it happened on Sunday mornings.
Sometimes I would sit in Mama's chair behind the podium while she was conducting the singing. She wasn't very good on the piano, but one of the Osborne girls could play by ear and did most of the piano playing.
I still had long blonde curls which framed my round cheerie face. My body was babyish; round and chubby.
One time I was sitting on the edge of the platform, clapping my hands in time to a spirited number and Mama handed me a tambourine. My little hands began to spank the surface causing both a tinkling sound from the metal rings as well as a drum like thump. Soon my little frame was bouncing up and down having become part of that little instrument.
After the singing was over, and Mama got down to preaching, I would sit in the lap of Marjory, the piano player. She would put her arms around me, her hands in my lap, and as she would get stirred up she would press her hands, almost rhythmically, into my lap. The feeling was nice and my little penis would stiffen; and when that happened her smile would get bigger, and her body seemed to get even more into the beat of her emotions, as her hands continued to administer to my tiny drum stick.
Even though singing and testimony were the only two parts of the service in which everyone was expected to participate, the congregation would join in agreement with points made during the sermon.
The testimony part of the service was kind of a "public confession", where people would stand up and tell about the sins they had committed, and how God had changed their lives. You could always tell when the older children were "maturing", as they would suddenly be sinning, and would need to seek forgiveness. Yet outside of the church their daily lives didn't change. They still would sneak out of the service and seek "fun in the bushes". Their confessions would never admit to that part of their behavior. Sex wasn't sinning; that was just part of growing up.
One night when Mama and I were in our beds, and before I had gone to sleep I asked her what caused babies to be born. She dwelt heavily upon the growing in her body and the pain of giving birth, but never mentioned the fun part of how a girl would get pregnant. Of course I had heard things from the other kids and had witnessed the siring of a cow by the bull. In my infant innocence I tried to guide her to that part of the process but failed.
In the summertime most of the boys would go skinny dipping in the nearby river. When I was old enough they would take me with them. The older boys had hair growing below their abdomens, and had wee-wees that were not so wee. On occasion they would wrestle and play tag. Frequently their wee-wees would get stiff and stand out from their bodies. When that happened the boy would quickly dive into the water, and swim rapidly around until he was no longer stiff.
Jerry was an Osborne. Jerry was my age, and Jerry was my best friend. We would hang out together, play jacks or marbles, and go fishing. We also talked about the girls in his family; there were three: Marjory who was 16, Betty who was 14, and Jerry's twin sister Geraldine.
Jerry knew a lot about girls. They had pussy's, and wee-wees were designed by God to go into pussies. Just why and how that happened remained a mystery. Occasionally our little peckers would get stiff, and we would lay back and wonder how it would feel to have them inside of a girl's pussy.
Jerry's oldest brother Todd was nearly 18, and he was "very popular" with the girls. Jerry said that he had heard that Todd had spent an entire weekend with a waitress down in Clinton, and had bragged to his brothers that the girl could not get enough of him. We wondered exactly what part of him she could not get enough of.
It was about then when Jerry started his growth spurt, while I remained pre-pubescent. His dick was the first thing that started to get bigger. We talked about that and compared our equipment. Within just a couple of months Jerry grew from little finger sized to a good five inches. Then, he told me about having a dream where he had his wee-wee inside of a girl's pussy, and waking as it squirted sticky stuff into his undershorts. He told one of his brothers who laughingly told him that he would produce a lot of that stuff. None of this made any sense to me, but it did start me wondering more and more about that part of our bodies. By the time we were twelve, Jerry and I started going camping. We would take our fishing poles, and head down to the river. He would bring an old comforter in which we would sleep.
We would collect a pile of sticks and branches from which we could make a bonfire. If we didn't catch any fish (and we usually didn't) we would throw a couple of potatoes in the bottom of the fire, while we toasted a hot dog. The taste of the fire roasted potato and hot dog made for a meal yet to be equaled by any restaurant.
As the night grew on, we would cuddle up inside of his comforter. Sometimes I would sleep with my arms around him, sometimes it was the other way around. In the mornings we would both wake with stiffies. If I was facing away, then Jerry's hand usually cupped my waking wee-wee, and his much larger one would poke the rear of my shorts.
One morning I woke with Jerry's hand around my bare wee-wee; it felt really good. Then, I noticed that my shorts were down around my ankles, and that his much larger wee-wee was between my legs, and was making a very wet spot on my balls. But, the warmth from his shaft, plus his hand on mine felt wonderful, and I pushed back towards him feeling warm and loved. After that we always slept naked.
Jerry became the central part of my life. If he wasn't around I was miserable, if he was then I was overjoyed. Our camping trips became more frequent.
We would sit together in the front row during Sunday night services, harmonizing during the singing. Mother suggested that we practice singing together. Marjory, Jerry and I began spending hours together singing songs and experimenting with our voices. Marjory would be at the piano, while Jerry and I would stand close together, an arm around one another, heads practically touching so that we could hear ourselves better.
Jerry and I preferred high tempo songs; things with life and bounce. Mother and Marjory preferred the slower, ballad type numbers. "Rock of Ages" was mother's favorite, while "When the Saints go Marching In" was mine. In as much as Marjory played the piano we were stuck with her choices, until we started to sing a Cappella.
As we discovered this new technique we began to play off of and with each other. We began to use our voices to improve how the other sounded, and would frequently surprise one another. The more we sang together without accompaniment, the closer we became; it was almost as though we were sharing our innermost self. I felt closer to Jerry then than I did when we were sleeping naked together with his stiff dick between my legs. Our intellects, our minds, our souls had joined. And at thirteen that's pretty powerful stuff.
Mother began featuring a Cappella duets at the close of Sunday night services. The call for sinners to come to the altar were accompanied by our two voices, and brought tears to the eyes of the congregation while "the sinners" knelt in front of the platform declaring their sorrow for their misdeeds.
In a small community there are no secrets; everyone knows what everyone else does. So how these people could possibly have sinned that much in the last week was a real mystery. However, the emotion was real, and it fed back to Jerry and I as our voices got even more tearful, and beckoning.
It was in early fall that we first heard that there was a tent revival meeting coming to Clinton. The evangelist was visiting every church in the vicinity, inviting the local minister and congregation to attend. Mother was quite excited about this event, and organized transportation for the entire community. We were to drive into town for the day immediately after Sunday morning services.
Jerry and Marjory drove down with Mother and I. Mother saw the tent first. It looked like a small circus tent. The sides were rolled up, allowing free movement of air. And there was saw dust on the floor. Folding chairs were placed in rows in front of a large platform. A piano was on the right side. There was seating for about 300 people.
The Reverend Gregory was a short, balding man. His heavy frame was strong and spirited. What little hair he had was gray. His wife was plump and homely. She played piano and led the singing.
The revival meeting was to be divided into two sessions starting at three in the afternoon, then breaking for a potluck dinner at six, then continuing at seven-thirty.
There would also be tent meetings every night during the week, ending next Saturday.
By the time three o'clock had arrived the tent was packed. The Osbornes, including, Jerry were in the front row on the right side, while the Holborns were on the left side, and mother and I were on the very end.
The good Reverend started the service with a lengthy prayer that mentioned every minister and church in the area. Once that chore was out of the way his wife led the singing, and it was joyful and spirited; just the kind of thing Jerry and I loved to do. I could hear his voice clearly as he sang out; and from the other side of the tent I met his and harmonized. Then we began to play with each other as our voices met, teased, complemented, led, and joined.
Reverend Gregory joined his wife at the front of the stage and whispered something in her ear, and then retired to the rear of the stage. At the end of the first song, she beckoned first Jerry and then me to join her.
These two teenage boys beamed at each other as they walked towards the steps in the center of the stage. Something very special was happening.
Most of the afternoons music was designed to be uplifting; to get the congregation into a joyful, emotional state. It was exactly the kind of material Jerry and I always strove for. It was really US.
I think it was then that I first realized Jerry and I loved each other. That love extended beyond our minds, entering our singing, extending beyond and into the people who joined us in song. Every person within that tent were being bound together by what we were doing, and what we were doing was rooted in the deep love that existed between these two teenage boys.
By four o'clock the singing had come to an end. The reverend came to the podium with a few words, and said that he wanted each minister in the area to give a 15 minute message, after which they would break for the Pot Luck Dinner.
The first minister was from the Clinton Methodist Church, and he was a bore. That 15 minutes was the longest 15 minutes of the day. The second minister was from the Pentecostal Church and had some fire to him. But mother's 15 minutes was not 15 minutes, she couldn't even begin to say what she wanted to say within that short time, and she was powerful, and she had drive. Forty-five minutes later she finally closed, and the good reverend broke for dinner.
Mrs. Gregory asked mother to join her and her husband at their table. Jerry and I started to sit with them, but mom suggested we eat with the other kids who were congregating on the far end of the tent.
There was lots of food. Watermelon, fried chicken, potato salad, and lots of Jello. There were cakes and pies, lemonade and fruit punch. But with all of the kids that were there the food did not last long, and before people could drift off, the Gregories started the evening services thirty minutes earlier than planned.
Mrs. Gregory asked Jerry and I to join her on stage, where we continued with the uplifting singing, but once the spirit that had been generated before dinner had been regained, she thanked us, and then turned the services over to her husband.
He spoke of the evils of our modern day, of how mere man could not live without sinning unless he had the hand of God upon his head. As he continued he developed a rhythm to his speaking which was emphasized by a pounding on the podium as he made his points. The pace increased, as he spanned from the evils of the world to the wonders of a forgiving God. His voice had moved from the pounding of Hell Fire and Brimstone, to the pleading voice of compassion. It was almost hypnotic as he drove deeper and deeper into these country folk.
Finally the service came to an end with the call for sinners to come to the altar and seek the forgiveness of Christ. It had been a very emotional experience.
Mother and Marjory were sitting in the front seat of our car, with Jerry and I in the back. She said that the Gregorys wanted her to preach on Tuesday night, and that they would like for Jerry and I to sing. Jerry, reached over and squeezed my hand; and my heart pounded in my chest.
It was past midnight by the time we had parked the car, and mother suggested that the two Osborne kids spend the night. Marjory would double up with mother, and of course Jerry would sleep with me. However, despite the lateness of the hour, Jerry and I were far too excited. We told Marjory that she could sleep in my bed, as we were going to take the comforter and sleep alongside the river.
Mother didn't object, so we rolled up Jerry's old comforter and hiked the half mile to our special spot.
We sat along side of the river, our bare feet being cooled by the passing waters. The moon reflected from the rippling surface creating a magical moment in my memory. Jerry reached over, pulled me to him, and kissed me solidly upon the lips.
It must have been well past two o'clock when we finally laid out the comforter and crawled into its familiar interior. We faced one another. His breath was warm and sweet. Our lips were within tongues reach, our arms encircling; mine around his shoulders, his cupping the cheeks of my buttocks. In total innocence we slipped into dreamland.
The next morning a pestering fly woke me as the warm sun began its rise. We had shifted our position during the night. I had turned over, and Jerry's stiffie was resting where it usually did; between my legs, probing my balls. But this morning it was a bit different. First there was an unusual, but pleasant odor emanating from under the comforter, and secondly, Jerry began rocking back and forth, his shaft massaging between my legs all the way to and past my balls. His right arm was around my waist. He held me firmly in his embrace, as his hips began to move. As his pace increased, I moved backward, closer to him, sharing his unknown pleasure. As his movements increased the area between my legs got wetter and wetter. Without knowing why I squeezed my little legs tight together. Then, very suddenly Jerry began nibbling on the back of my neck and shoulders. Without warning his pecker spurted a warm, slippery substance between my legs. He held me even tighter as his hands massaged my little one. His wetness trickled down inside of my leg. Even though it tickled, I didn't want to do anything that might destroy this mood, and thus lay very quite, snuggled in his arms, his now quieter breathing testifying to the waning passion which was being replaced by an even greater feeling of warmth and emotion; of love.
The pestering fly returned. As I batted it, I accidentally hit Jerry. That started a bit of wrestling. His sticky stuff started to spread around on our bodies as we ground into each other, trying to see who could pin who to the ground. Laughingly, I slipped out of his grasp and ran to the river where we continued our morning exercise.
Then hunger raised its ugly head, and we headed for the Osborne's for a morning meal.
Mama spent all day Monday, and most of Tuesday preparing her sermon for the revival service.
Marjory, Jerry, and I experimented with different gospel songs. Every morning KWHN in Fort Smith had a live concert of gospel music. Marjory began to develop a liking for the up tempo songs, and her ability to duplicate on the piano what she heard on the radio, enabled Jerry and I to expand our repertoire.
During the week most of the people in our community toiled from sun up to sun set, so it wasn't a surprise when only Mama, Marjory, Jerry and me were the only ones going into Clinton for Tuesdays Revival Meeting.
The trip from Crabtee took close to an hour, and it wasn't till almost four o'clock when we reached the intersection of Main and Pine. The tent was setup in a vacant lot, just four blocks from the center of town.
The Gregory's were already making ready for the services, so Jerry and I pitched in helping to check out the ropes and stakes that were keeping the tent up.
Marjory began playing some of the new songs we had heard on the radio. Soon Jerry and I were singing out as we evened up the rows of chairs, picked up a few pieces of litter from the saw dust on the floor, and rolled up the last canvas wall from the side of the tent.
The day was approaching twilight as the first to arrive took seats in the center. Within 20 minutes the golden glow had left the Arkansas sky. As darkness descended Mrs. Gregory turned on several glaring, bare light bulbs. The naked light reflected from the canvas of the tent, imitating the natural glow, restoring the congenial atmosphere. As people continued to arrive, trampling the saw dust, the odor of wood cuttings permeated the air. She then proceeded to the piano, and the services began.
At the Reverend Gregory's request, Jerry and I were seated on the platform, just to the rear of the piano, partially hidden from the congregation.
The first hymn would have brought Lazarus to life. Mrs. Gregory asked Jerry and I to lead the singing. We moved to the front of the platform, separated by perhaps 25 feet. Almost, as though I was a leader for the left side of the congregation, and Jerry for the right, we began a competition, seeing which side could out-sing the other.
This was the first time that I had ever experienced the raw interaction of performer and audience; people followed where I was leading.
Jerry was experiencing this same new involvement, and as we each realized what was happening we got caught up in it, and the more we applied control, the more the audience became part of this event. It was breath taking.
The singing came to a close much too soon, long before Jerry and I could uncover the real potential of our discovery ... but we quite suddenly realized that there was something that needed exploring.
After a short introduction by Reverend Gregory, the service was turned over to mother.
I had never seen mother preach to an audience of complete strangers. None of our people from Crabtree or Crowel Mountain were there. That did not deter here from delivering a well organized message on the evils perpetrated by the devil upon mankind, how it was important that we walk a righteous path, rejecting the worldly, embracing the love of God.
She spoke mostly in truisms. What she said everyone already agreed with, and thus I began to see that special relationship between performer and audience, reestablish itself, and grow in strength.
At the close of her message, the Reverend Gregory spoke about the need to accept God, with a call to the sinners to come to the altar of god. Mrs. Gregory began to sing, and motioned Jerry and I to join her at the front of the platform. Her large, heavy arms, encircled Jerry on the right, and me on the left, as we lifted our voices in harmony ... and totally a Cappella.
The experience had been exhausting. Jerry and I slept in the back seat of the car all the way back to Crabtree.
Wednesday afternoon, we were surprised by a visit from the Gregorys. They had driven a borrowed pickup truck the twenty some miles from Clinton so that they could talk with Mama.
Later that night she told me that the Gregorys wanted us to join their crusade. The idea excited her. She wanted to do it. After the revival closed on Saturday night, they would pack up the tent and chairs, and proceed to Fort Smith for two weeks, then on to Little Rock.