Almost Holy

My sister Patti and I, all dressed up for church and told to smile, no doubt! Photo by sister Betty 

 

Almost Holy

I always wanted a set of those panties that had a day of the week embroidered on each one, but I grew up in an era when kids didn’t ask for things.  I know my mom would have bought them for me if she’d known, or my grandma would have ceased her endless activity of sewing sequins on felt butterflies or crocheting the edges of pillow shams long enough to embroider the days of the week onto the baggy white nylon panties jumbled into my underwear drawer. I never asked, though.  Never told.

So it was that on Sunday I’d arise and put on the same old underpants, cotton dress with ruffle, white socks, patent leather shoes. I’d take a little purse no bigger than the makeup case in the suitcase-sized purse I now carry. Into it I’d drop a quarter my dad had given me for the collection, a hanky and the lemon drop my mother always put inside just in case of a cough. I never coughed, but always ate the lemon drop, sucking on it during Sunday School and sometimes asking for another from the larger supply in her purse during church.

Why my mom never sang in the choir I don’t know.  She had a fine true voice.  Both of my older sisters did and so did I, once I was in high school.  I remember when I was little watching the choir in their fine robes that looked like they were graduating every Sunday.  They sat facing us, in three rows to the preacher’s left, as though checking up on us to make sure we didn’t misbehave or yawn or chew gum.  In addition to lemon drops, my mother always carried Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum in her purse.  Sometimes the gum was a bit red  from the rouge she always had on her fingertips on days she applied makeup. It seemed to me like the rouge flavored the gum a bit.  It tasted of clove and flowers.

“Just hold it in your mouth,” my mother instructed, my sister and me; and if we chewed, she would take it away from us. “Just chew it enough to make it soft and then hold it in your mouth.”  This was an almost impossible challenge for a child and actually even for a teenager.  By then, we’d learned to crack the gum and to blow bubbles even when it wasn’t bubble gum.  That fine pop and final sigh of air as the bubble broke–so satisfying. The threat and memory of everything we could be doing with that gum resided in each small wad of it held in our cheeks as we sat lined up like finely dressed chipmunks listening to the minister drone on.

Hymns were like the commercial breaks on television–a chance to move around a bit and look at something other than the preacher–to ponder the curious lyrics such as, “Lettuce gather at the river,” “Bringing in the sheets” and “Let me to his bosom fly.”  (Just what was a bosom fly and what had lettuce and collecting sheets from the clothesline to do with religion? Once again, we didn’t ask.)

Then we’d sit down again for the Apostle’s Creed or a prayer or benediction or the interminable expanse of the sermon–half an hour with no break.  I’d listen to the drone of the flies buzzing in circles at the window, or the sound of cars passing in the summer, when the front and back doors were left open to encourage  breeze where no breeze existed.

Now and then a curious dog would wander in and be ushered out by the man who stood at the door to hand out church programs.  Everyone would hear the scramble of dog toenails on the wooden aisle and turn to watch and laugh.  Even the minister would laugh and say say something like, “All of God’s creatures seek to commune with him upon occasion.”  Then everyone would laugh softly again before he turned his attention back to telling us what was wrong with us and how to remedy it.

That afternoon, Lynnie Brost and I were going to play dress up and have a tea party under the cherry trees and bury a treasure there.  We’d already assembled it: my mom’s old ruby necklace, a handful of her mom’s red plastic cancer badges shaped like little swords with a pin at the back to put on your collar to show you’d given to the campaign,  my crushed penny from the train track, her miniature woven basket from South America that her missionary sister had brought her, a tattered love comic purloined from her older sister. (We’d “read” it first–which at our age meant looking at the pictures.)

I fell asleep thinking of what else we could add to our cache, to be dug up again in ten years or for as long later as we could stand to put off exhuming it. I leaned against my mother as I slept, and if she noticed, she did nothing to awaken me.  She shook me a bit, gently, as the congregation stood after the sermon, singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” as the minister marched down the aisle, smiling and greeting parishioners and the choir followed him, as though they were being let out early for good behavior.  At the door, we greeted the preacher again, standing in line to shake hands and be blessed, then ticked off his mental list of who had been among the faithful on this fine summer day when they could have been out mowing the grass or rolling in the piles of grass emptied from the clipping bag.

Then we drove the block home, for no one ever walked in a small town.  Well done rump roast for dinner, as we called the noon meal. Mashed potatoes, brown gravy, canned string beans, a salad with homemade Russian dressing and ice cream or jelly roll for dessert.  All afternoon to play. Another small town South Dakota Sunday of an endless progression strung out from birth to age eighteen, when I departed for college and the rest of my Agnostic life.

 

This is an essay from almost 5 years ago. Hopefully, you’ve either not been reading my blog for that long or you’ve forgotten it and it will read like new, as it did for me. I missed the boat when it came to religion, but it wasn’t for lack of experience. The prompt today is almost.

19 thoughts on “Almost Holy

  1. Marilyn Armstrong

    I was thinking the other day that the bag I carry now would probably carry almost everything I owned as a child, maybe minus a couple of dolls. Why DO we need giant suitcases everywhere we go? I think it’s the eyeglasses: the sunglasses, the distant focus glasses, the close vision glasses … and the comb, the brush, the bag o’ medicines … the camera, the extra batteries … the winter hat and gloves. The wallet.

    There’s no money it it, though. With all that stuff … no money. No lemon drop.

    A lovely story that is very different from mine, yet weirdly similar. Memories of childhood are often strangely rhyming, aren’t they?

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    1. lifelessons Post author

      I have had such back and neck problems that I now take two purses. I leave one in the car and take the bare necessities in with me wherever I’m going. But, I must admit, there is always something vital I end up without.

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  2. Dangerspouse

    That was so sweet, and I *love* the adorable picture of you and your sis.
    I was so touched I’m not even gonna make that old joke about “we were so poor our parents gave us underwear with months of the year instead of days of the week on them”…. 😉

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    1. lifelessons Post author

      i can’t remember ever asking for anything, can you? Not that I didn’t have toys, but other than the modeling clay I got every time I went to the dentist, my mom usually determined what she would give me. Living in a small town, before TV, I didn’t even know what toys were available before Santa presented them to me on Xmas morning.

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  3. Mary Francis McNinch

    The photograph is adorable. I only went to church with my grandparents. My parents didn’t go. Dad did come to my confirmation. I really liked MYF. The lemon drops, the quarter your dad gave you, the flavor of rouge. Your parents must have been nearly perfect.

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    1. lifelessons Post author

      I liked MYF also..it was practically our entire social life. I was a district officer as well, so did a bit of traveling to go to the meetings. By then Mom and Dad were worn out with driving kids places and let me drive myself as far as Mitchell for our meetings. I loved that, of course.

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  4. Still a Runner

    Love the description of Sunday dinner, well-done roast and all. I ate (and helped prepare) many of them growing up in the Dakotas and other points Midwest. I’ve often wondered how immigrants from Europe where such wonderful flavors and foods are on the family menu settled into overdone meat/potato routine.

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