Faith and Fried Shrimp

                When I was in 4^th grade, I flirted with the idea of converting to Catholicism.  The main reasons weren’t theological, it was that the Catholics at my school were special and rich.  They were special in that they got to leave class early on Wednesdays to attend a different class called catechism.  They were rich because they got to eat fried shrimp for lunch on Fridays, delivered from The Wagon Wheel, which was close by Delta Christian Academy, the name of the private school in Tallulah, LA.

                DCA (elementary) and Tallulah Academy (junior high and high school) were not affiliated with any denomination which was how Baptists and Catholics and others went to school together.  It appeared if you liked Jesus and could afford tuition, you were good to go.  Now, I don’t remember there being any particularly Jesusy about the curriculum or activities, but the name was descriptive as we were in the Delta, almost on the banks of the Mississippi River.

                Christmas vacation 1979, we moved from Moore, OK to Tallulah, a relatively populous town, about 8 miles from Alsatia, where my mother grew up and her parents, her sisters and their families still lived.  We took renter ship of a large two-story antebellum home behind the Post Office and enrolled in the public elementary school as we were not accustomed to attending private schools, the fact that we had just been students at Moore Christian Academy notwithstanding. 

That reality was unusual as we had always attended public schools.  The faculty at MCA didn’t really know what to do with us.  They were fascinated by our southern accents; on numerous occasions, pulling us out of class into the hallway to ask us to “say something”.  I was only in the 3^rd grade but I thought it was odd behavior.  After our performance at the talent show, I am sure they found us more than odd.  My cousin Kendra and I were fairly mundane in our rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket, Dear Liza”, complete with costumes.  However, my sister recited a poem called “Little Orphan Annie” with an alligator puppet. 

If you’re unfamiliar with this poem, let me assure you it is not about the singing orphan from Broadway.  It was written by James Whitcomb Riley and has lines such as “…and the goblins will getcha if you don’t watch out.”  I wonder if they thought it was a message from Louisiana as most people from elsewhere imagine the entire state to be like New Orleans, all spicy food and voodoo. 

From a weather perspective, northern Louisiana is a bit less humid than New Orleans, but not enough to keep you from feeling like you can grab a handful of air.  From a gustatory perspective, there is a vast difference.  Although delicious and able to induce heart attacks from the abundance of fried things, there isn’t much spice.

Back to education in Tallulah, I had already been disappointed by the level of work in my grade.  I was up to the 13s in multiplication, while my classmates were barely past 5s.  My mother noticed that my sister (5^th grade) has the same spelling textbook as my cousin (2^nd grade at DCA) and it was determined that we would join the local elite at the private school for the following year.

Whenever my classmates left to go to catechism classes, I often wondered what it was.  I wasn’t familiar with the word and it sounded very close to cataclysm, which we had recently heard at church in relation to the impending return of Jesus and Armageddon.  As there was no internet to surf and I wasn’t ready to get into a religious discussion with an adult due to questioning, I assumed they were learning things to help them survive the Rapture.  I had recently been frightened enough to run down to the altar call at church after we watched “Like a Thief in the Night” at Parkview Baptist and give my life to Jesus so I wouldn’t be left behind like that girl who ate chips in the living room instead of listening to the preacher.  She got left behind and had to jump off a bridge and drown so she wouldn’t have to have the mark of the beast on her forehead.  It was terrifying y’all. 

There are those who watch the movie now and laugh at the imagery, like the guy mowing his lawn in cut-off denim shorts and striped knee socks.  But when you saw someone similarly dressed cutting the lawn on your way to the church, it tends to leave an impression.  Maybe these catechism classes were teaching them how to survive in the End Times. 

That was important as I was terrified of the Rapture happening before I got a chance to grow up and have an awesome life as an Architect and possibly have enough money to eat fried shrimp on Fridays. 

If your duck doesn't speak Spanish, will it still answer?

                Prayer has been in the news a lot lately from Oklahoma to the people on ‘Duck Dynasty’.  And I have felt a connection to both.  You see for one-half of third grade, my nomadic family lived in Moore, Oklahoma.  And someone recently asked me if ever watched ‘Duck Dynasty’.  I have to admit that I had not up to that point but I caught an episode the last time I was in DC at a conference.  As a side note, am I the only one who pictures a duck in a sequined gown with huge shoulder pads when someone mentions the name of that show?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

                I didn’t really know what to expect other than familiarity seeing as how the Robertson family is from where I’m from.  West Monroe, Louisiana, is about 75 miles from my birthplace of Lake Providence, Louisiana, and I must admit that their family is not unlike mine except the Thornton/Thompson family has more funny stories and less facial hair but about the same amount of camouflage.  And prayer.  My much more famous not-really-a-cousin, Shelley Rushing Tomlinson of All Things Southern (visit her website) fame, is a friend of the Robertson family and that makes them okay in my book.

                Now I am about to tell on myself but I feel in the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I did not attend church this past Sunday. And it wasn’t to watch football either.  Is that on right now?   I was tired and various other things that are not very good excuses but I simply did not go.  Luckily God does not have a last nerve.  So, my backslidden-but-forgiven-self went to meet my new friend Julie (Hi, Julie!) for brunch.  We met at Starbucks when I complimented her gorgeous robin’s egg blue purse.  Isn’t it interesting the people you meet when you have no filter coupled with the mindset to be ‘met’ on any given day?

                Over brunch we talked about many things one of the being my father’s lifelong aversion to church.  As we have previously discussed, The Dad has not been the greatest of fans of the church itself.  While he professes to believe that church and loving Jesus are good things, he won’t go so far as to actually support either one in word or deed unless the words are “no pancakes (if you don’t go)” or the deed is “eating at fifth Sunday dinners on the ground”.  And while Presbyterians will have coffee and doughnuts before the service, there hasn’t been a time in the last two years where I have witnessed a cheese covered casserole and that hurts me to my very core, y’all.  Although I do not have to have the promise of food to get me to the church on time, it doesn’t hurt to have access to some groceries every now and again.  Can I get an amen?

                To be fair, The Dad has attended about 3 times in the last two years which is quite the feat considering he attended about the many times in the previous 20 years.  The first Sunday he attended in the land of the heathen, I took him to our 9:30 contemporary service, whereupon he accused me of joining a cult as the worshippers had the gall to clap along with the singing and actually seemed to enjoy themselves. 

                Old guard Southern Baptists are like Anglicans who sweat in that they believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who shows any emotion in church other than wretched heartache over their sins is secretly aligned with the unclean and that raising your hands in worship is akin to speaking in tongues and rolling around on the floor like they do at those “other churches” like Assembly of God and Seventh Day Adventists.  No offense.  Now I don’t know what Adventist actually means, and neither do they, but from what I gather it is definitely not “to frown while singing”. That’s what Baptist means, people; you heard it here first.

                And speaking of prayer, My Dad needs some right now as, unlike Jesus, I do have a last nerve and he is clog dancing on it, do you hear me?  Not only did he wake me up this morning by cooking pinto beans with a hambone at 5 o’clock in the AM, but I just discovered he ate my leftover quesadilla for his snack between breakfast and his “official” snack even though he admitted, “wudn’t too good, but [I] ate it anyway”.  And to top it all off he apparently decided he prefers my Garden Salsa Sun Chips to his pork skins and tried to sneak-switch the bags on our respective pantry shelves as if I wouldn’t notice I was eating chicharrones because even when I’m angry I’m at the very least bi-lingual and that is all I’m saying.