Baptists and their Beverages

                I spent my childhood smack dab in the middle of the Fundagelical paradise known as The Deep South (LA, MS, TX), specifically within the confines of the Southern Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists set themselves apart from other Fundagelicals in many ways, but the most interesting and least understood is their view on beverages, especially those consumed on the grounds of the church.

                Baptists don’t drink alcohol at home, so why would they defile the sanctity of the church by drinking actual wine during the Lord’s Supper, which is what we call Communion.  It’s the main reason Baptists think Catholics are headed straight to hell.  That and their worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mama.  The Baptist interpretation of verses found in the Bible when referring to wine, is that it is often called new wine, which to them means unfermented grapes which is grape juice.  Ah, grape juice.  The nectar of the god, or rather, God.  I know, what you’re going to say.  What about the wine at that wedding in Cana?  To that they will say, it was also grape juice.  If you press any further, they will call a prayer circle about the condition of your soul. 

                Baptists think Mormons are in a cult and that is unacceptable.  However, Baptists do insist on the children “drinking the Kool-Aid”.  The way it is not cult-like is the fact that the Kool-Aid is served in Children’s Church or Vacation Bible School or other moments when children should be seen and not heard.  Of course, the recipe does nothing to encourage enjoyment or fun as the recipe seems to be nine parts water, one part Kool-Aid mix, one part prayer and one more part water, just in case.  Red Kool-Aid, which is a flavor by the way, was something precious, akin to Frankincense and/or Myrrh.  How else would you explain the all-encompassing need to water it down to a shade of red that more closely resembles the color of your white underwear after it’s been washed and dried with a new red t-shirt because you can’t be bothered to listen to your mother when she gives you specific laundry instructions, Dustin Terryll. 

                The most important water, Baptistry Water, plays a very important part in baptism, the full immersion kind.  The best way to describe the baptistry in a Baptist church is to imagine there is a hot tub behind a curtain directly behind the choir loft which is directly behind the altar where the preacher preaches and the unclean become ‘washed in the blood’.  Right above the hot tub may be a simple cross.  There will not be a carving of Jesus hanging on that cross, because that reeks of Catholicism and we are having none of that all up and through here, do you hear me?   Back to the water: the best way to ensure you are well and truly saved is a full immersion baptism, like John did for Jesus in the Bible, y’all.  Real Christians don’t get sprinkled with water like those uppity Presbyterians.  You must be held under the water for a minute or two, so you can let your old spirit die there in the watery depths like the victims of a shark or jellyfish (if you’re allergic).  Only then can you say that you are saved.  Sprinkles are for cupcakes, heathen. 

                According to Dolly Parton, sweet tea is the house wine of the South.  While we don’t necessarily like that language, sweet tea is everywhere, especially during the dinners-on-the-grounds that happen every month where there are five Sundays as well as Easter and Mother’s Day.  It was all a part of the tradition that allowed you to discuss the various sins of the other Baptists, who happened to sit at a different table than you.  If you fell into a discussion of the strength (or lack) of their walk or their level of maturity as a Christian and what, specifically, they need to do to atone themselves in your…I mean, Jesus’s eyes, it wasn’t gossip; it was fellowship. 

                Finally, there is a particular beverage, served at Baptist weddings, that only exists in space and time next to a cake, several bowls of Jordan Almonds and nowhere near anything resembling food.  Baptist Wedding Punch is delicious and helps you identify the female members of the wedding party.  Any young lady who is wearing a dress the same color as the punch is a bridesmaid.  The recipe consists of your choice of the three flavors of sherbet available at the Piggly Wiggly (orange, lime or raspberry) mixed with Sprite or any off-brand lemon-lime soda.  Ginger Ale comes from Canada and we are not having any of that Yankee nonsense.    

Obviously, this limits your color schemes to variations on pastels.  If you are looking for colors outside that narrow list, your heart is not right with God.  Yellow means you are a hippy and worthy of scorn.  Brown means you are tacky and is proof you weren’t ‘raised right’.  Black means you are trying to be fancy like an Episcopalian and they worship Queen Elizabeth II or some other gobbledygook and you need to sit down and listen while grown folks tell you all about yourself.  If you are planning red dresses for your bridesmaids, you are a harlot.  And not like that heroine/wayward soul Rahab, who helped the Israelites capture Jericho.  You’re like Jezebel right before she was torn asunder by dogs, much like your marriage will be torn asunder by Satan himself. 

Now that you understand a little more about the Baptist section of the Fundagelical Buffet, you can loosen up that Bible Belt, grab your choice of the aforementioned beverages and get to fellowshipping with your brethren and sistren about all the poor souls who are not as sanctified or enlightened.  But don’t enjoy yourself too much.  Church is about anguish and laying (figuratively) prostrate on the altar, waiting to receive atonement.  If you want to have fun, go be a Methodist.  They may smile and clap without repercussion, but we all know where they’re spending eternity.  That’s right, smack dab in the Lake of Fire, y’all.  And no beverage, Baptist or otherwise, will quench your eternal thirst.  Nothing but the (figurative) blood, brought to you by Welch’s. 

Can I get an Amen?

I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.

"Footloose" was a Documentary, Y'all

                Just like Kevin Bacon’s character in Footloose, I have been dealt harsh punishments from good Christians related to dancing in a place thought to be inappropriate.  It was a cook-out at a lake.  Allow me to explain.

                My aunt and uncle had a ranch just outside the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population (allegedly) 1,100.  I’m unsure who or what was deemed as ‘population’, but based on my time living there, this included dogs, blackbirds and, when necessary to get up the numbers back up due to someone’s death, tractor tires. 

The specific location of the ranch was Rosalie, an even tinier community as far away from the Bogata Baptist Church as it takes for someone (usually me) to sing the country super-group Alabama’s hit “Love in the First Degree”, if you held the last note for a good 30 beats or so.  This must be done from either the open bed of a pickup (Ford or Chevy depending on your inclinations) or the open truck of a Lincoln Town Car, depending on who was driving.  Those who are surprised must not be familiar with my background as the lead singer of The Pine Branch Boys, when I was in the 8^th Grade.  I have carried the baggage of celebrity for a long time, y’all.

As there isn’t much to do in Bogata, much less Rosalie, there were often activities planned for the youth at church that included inventing new reasons to eat outside at night.  I don’t know if this particular cookout was to celebrate the fact that it gets dark at night or that it was summer or something equally mundane, but cookout we did, on the banks of Lake Providence West. The original Lake Providence was in Northeast Louisiana, where my parents grew up and met and I and my sister were born, after an appropriate lapse in time, thank you.  This body of water was much, much smaller but we were homesick, I suppose.

Once we started the fire, ate our hot dogs and s’mores (in which the chocolate never melted from the heat of the marshmallows, regardless of how hard those commercials try to convince you is possible), most of the adults retired to my aunt and uncle’s home, about a mile away, on the other side of the Irby Dairy Farm, possibly to escape the noise and Christian antics of a baker’s dozen Baptist youth.  I never saw an aerial view or drawing of my relative’s ranch but, based on the fact that we had to drive through the dairy farm to go from one side of the ranch to the other, the Irby’s land was the hole in the center of the donut of my extended family’s acreage.

Someone had brought their jambox that also had a radio (remember those?) and we found a station playing what we had been told was the devil’s music.  You may remember them as The Go-Gos. 

As heathens are wont to do, some of us started dancing, only two of us with any rhythm.  Baptists are not known for being rhythmic in any capacity and rarely use the word as it sounds ‘dirty’.  It was innocent fun and ended rather quickly due to God being omnipresent and, therefore, lurking somewhere nearby we assumed, but I had seen a new dance move by one of my cousins that intrigued me.  I saved her from recrimination then and I am steadfastly loyal even now.  As all innocents do, right before their undoing, I asked for and received a quick lesson and mastered the rudiments if not the dance itself. 

The next morning, after breakfast back at the house, the adults were in the living room chatting.  The teens and really tall 12-year-olds were in the kitchen performing some sort of child labor and singing, I assume, Hard Knock Life (from Annie) as you do when you are feeling overworked and underappreciated, when something came over me.  I don’t know if it was the devil himself or too much socializing with The Methodists, but I took my new dance step out for a test drive.  Any sin committed in the dark is quickly exposed in the light and I was caught red-handed or rather red-footed by one of my aunts.  When she asked, heatedly, what I was doing, I said, “Dancing” as ashamed as an Amish teenager on Rumspringa, y’all.

I was summoned before the tribunal, otherwise known as my mother, grandmother, other aunt and uncle.  They demanded I give a full account of the activities including, if possible, at which point we had headed down the path of unrighteousness, a demonstration of the sinful movements and a list of fellow sinners and/or witnesses.  My crazy aunt tried not to laugh; the other members were as serious as a spelling bee, people.  I felt like someone on trial, which I most assuredly was.    

Have you ever had to complete a brand-new dance move with no accompanying music, while crying, on a Saturday morning in the living room of a single-wide trailer in Northeast Texas?  No?  Trust me when I tell you this is humiliation on an epic scale, especially when there is the very Biblical wailing and gnashing of teeth inside your head.  Silent, internal flagellation will throw off your rhythm something fierce, y’all, especially when you are trying to modify the dance move into whatever is least likely to get you cast into the Lake of Fire. 

Apparently, I felt stomping my foot really hard in one spot, like I was either ‘pitching a fit’ or squishing a bug, was the least offensive move I could make.  The tribunal scoffed and peppered me with more questions, demanding to know if that was really all that happened and instructing me to reveal my co-sinners.  Tearfully, and with a confidence I did not feel, I lied; like the heathen that I was.  I started wondering what it would be like in the Outer Darkness, where I was about to be cast.  I hoped there would be at least a night light as I was scared of the dark, y’all.  For real. 

Based on every After-School Special I had ever seen, starring unknown British kids with bad haircuts, I knew I had only tasted the sinful freedom of dance.  My punishment was the tried and true ‘whooping and solitary confinement’, which in a single-wide trailer was more akin to ‘don’t you dare look at anybody or have fun in any way’.  Even though I was unused to much punishment, being as close to Jesus as one can be wearing Husky-sized Tuffskins and hand-me-down cowboy boots, I was able to cope with the repercussions of my mistake.  But, in my heart-of-hearts, where all my secrets were kept, I knew I had to keep dancing; not so much for the love of movement, but for the opportunity to excel.  If dancing was to be my ultimate downfall (as was verbalized by someone in the tribunal – I was too teary-eyed to make out who), I wanted it to be for something a bit more decadent and/or impressive than the Electric Slide.

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Grace Under Fire?

My sister Shontyl asked, while reading my niece’s Vogue, “Did you know that Coco Chanel was a real person?”

                Me:  "Yes.  Didn’t you?"

                My Daddy:  "Isn’t that Ice-T’s wife?"

                Me:  "Who?  Chanel?"

                Daddy:  "Yeah.  His wife is named Coco."

                Shontyl:  "Mr. T’s wife is Coco Chanel?"

                Me:  "What?  No!  He said Ice-T and that’s wrong.  She may be named Coco but that is the only thing she has in common with Chanel you can be sure."  I would have said more but I’m afraid of Ice-T and what may happen if he ever reads this blog.  Excited about the visibility of my blog, but very, very afraid. 

                Shontyl:  "Who’s Ice-T?"

                Daddy:  "He’s on one of those shows.  CSI, NCIS, SBPD or something."

                Me:  "Law and Order SVU."  (In my head:  Who are these people?)

                Now to understand my frustration, you have to know that I am downright persnickety about my trivia.  I know scads of things about myriad things that matter not to most people.  I am a trivia nut and there are numerous tomes and board games in my home that sit unused as my family has tired of my triumphs.  It couldn’t have been my victory dance and chant (all five verses), could it?  Surely not. 

                Now I know that a mastery of trivial facts does not make me smarter than anyone, but I do enjoy being informed on a number of subjects both intellectual and pedestrian.  Full disclosure, it’s mostly pedestrian.  I have read Foucault’s ‘Madness and Civilization’ but only the first 32 pages. 

My trivial knowledge does make me a great Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon-er.  I realize this game is passé but I like it and will revel in my un-coolness.  My sister, in her attempt to malign my trivial character, double-dog dared me to link the most obscure “movie star” she could think of (Tyra Banks) to Kevin Bacon through six movies or less.  Challenge accepted dear sibling.   Tyra Banks was in ‘Life Size’ with Lindsay Lohan who was in ‘Mean Girls’ with Tina Fey who was in ‘Date Night’ with Mark Wahlberg who was in ‘Boogie Nights’ with Philip Seymour Hoffman who was in ‘State and Main’ with Sarah Jessica Parker who was in ‘Footloose’ with Kevin Bacon.  And that’s without using my old standby of Dan Ackroyd-was-in-‘Blue Brothers’-with-John-Belushi-who-was-in-‘Animal House’-with-Kevin-Bacon-link.  Because Dan Ackroyd has been in a bunch of movies, y’all.

                The reason I bring this up is I have a great memory and quick recall and I know many in my immediate family do not.  For example, my sister gets Chevy Chase and Bill Murray confused.  Yes, you read it correctly.  And my Daddy’s frames of reference are boxing, football, ‘Barney Miller’ and ‘Hee Haw’.  But my conundrum is I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do when my Daddy gets dates and facts wrong when he tells a story.  Now, those who know me know part of my “charm” is I am honest to a fault.  I don’t know how to be anything but, so I am very direct in my conversations with my Daddy and all those in my circle, be it work or play.  But I don’t know if he’s misremembering due to his age (he’s only 70) or his need to re-interpret the past.  And it’s constant; like he works for Fox News or something.

                And I find myself trying to catch his mistakes, like some intrepid reporter.  It’s almost become a contest for how many times I can correct him.  Is this some latent rage at our past relationship or lack thereof?  Or am I just being tooky, which is a word my family apparently coined because any time I use it people question what it means.  Tooky is, well, tooky.  You know, persnickety. 

What if I’m just a run of the mill butthole?  And if I am, is it hereditary and can I blame him?  And if it’s not my being obnoxious, do I just let the inaccuracies slide?  Even if he’s using them to malign someone’s character or call into question someone’s motives? 

I just don’t know what to do.  The only thing I know is whenever I correct him he gets his feelings hurt and withdraws physically from me unless we are eating.  Nothing will keep him from his “grosh-ries”.  I have taken the tack of saying, “Are you sure that’s right?  I remember…” and then I tell either the version of the story I have heard my entire life or I re-state the facts as I remember them if I bore witness or participated, willingly or otherwise.

Sometimes it’s harmless, like the year he had his picture taken on the bike from “E.T.” at a mall somewhere.  It’s the most hilarious picture.  He says it happened in 1977 in Lousiana.  “E.T.” wasn’t released until 1982 so I know his version is not true.  Other times he tells my staff about car wrecks I supposedly had which never took place, in locations I have never been, in vehicles I have never owned or driven, doing all manner of things my little Southern Baptist mama’s boy heart just couldn’t have done out of the all-consuming fear of being cast into the lake of fire, y’all.

So, I sit here unsure of what to do.  Do I let the lies fly or do I swat them all down, like so many poorly designed paper airplanes?  Do I conduct a brief cost-benefit analysis before I speak or do I just do damage control after the fact?  Since we’re expected to do New Year’s resolutions, should I just take the high road and let him tell his version of the story?  Even if he skews everything negatively and uses these re-tellings to cast dispersions on loved ones’ characters?  What if I agree with his take on their character but for reasons other than those misrepresented?  Do I agree to keep the peace or just say “oh” or “uh-huh” and hurt his feelings because he thinks I’m belittling his feelings?  Mind you, he didn’t quite say those words.  What he actually said was, “Oh, am I not important enough for you to talk to me?  Would it help if I used bigger words? I've got four hours of college.” 

Also, should I refrain from comments about his hygiene and general demeanor?  Should I have not said, “We could grow corn in your dirty underwear” when he asked if I wanted a garden in the backyard?  Am I hateful? Is the latent aggression not so latent?  I went to nine months of anger management therapy last year to find the root of my hostility and it a seemed to boil down to mi padre (that’s Spanish).  And even if he didn’t treat me very well growing up shouldn’t I just get over it already?  I mean, what’s the damage?  He hurt my feelings?  Well boo hoo you big baby.  Put on your Incredible Hulk Underoos and deal with it, is what I’d say to me if I was someone else listening to me.  You know it’s bad when you get on your own nerves.

So there you have it.  I resolve to be a better person in 2012.  To be more graceful, in the Biblical sense of grace as I am fleet of foot per the witnesses to my dancing skills last night at the Presbyterian Singles Dance.  I don’t think God was mad at me for (1) dancing or (2) with Presbyterians.  I'm sure he didn’t like it when I silently judged that one girl who was wearing mis-matched animal prints and whipping her hair with more dedication that was warranted at a church function during Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer”, but I have asked forgiveness and have resolved to be less judgmental this year.   And that's all I'm saying for now.