"The Gospel Chariot"

Racism in the stories of William Faulkner / "Which Side of the Fence?"

2011-01-02T14:48:00.001-06:00

     One quarter way through the short story collection: "The Collected Works of William Faulkner" my recurring and gnawing self interrogation: following an introverted examination of my own psyche - reguarding the racism portrayed on these pages - I keep asking myself - two generations removed  and descent of suspiciously similar "white peoples" who lived and breathed in the very same red dirt hills and gullies of Northern Mississippi. Were I to be transporteed then and there, and brought to life in one of the scenes from his books - given the man I've become in this time and my place - which of the characters (so empathetically and convincingly portrayed by Faulker) would I be?
     For example: Would I , in "Dry September" fall out to be the voice of reason - of the barber - who refused to believe the colored Will Mayes to be guilty of a crime, with which he was charged by vigilante bigmouths, becuase he knew it to be out of character? Would I endure the ridicule of my cohorts in the barber shop, for believing the word of a a "nigger" over that of a white woman? Would I be able to stand still without flinching while I was called "niggerlover" and a damn yankee, even though I was a native son my entire life. Or would I fall out to be one of those majority biggots: accusing an innocent man, interrogating the barber for being rational, and causing paranoia, by such tactics as... "Happen? What the hell difference does it make? Are you going to let the black sons get away with it until one really dos it?" -- and then later tracking down the wrongfully accused man - shouting" "Get him into the car" ..." Kill him, kill the black son..."

       Given the socio-economic stratus of the time, and my family's position within the hierarchy of those times I'd say the odds were, in spite of a good Church upbringing and "Christian" home: I'd fall out be a fence straddler most likely . Wonder whichaway I wouda fell? What about you?

preview to "The Gospel Chariot" chapter 15

2010-12-29T11:30:00.002-06:00

So… While the fired up congregation was seeking the little lost lamb of little Jerusalem, and while the deputy dog was sniffing and barking up the tree of the itinirate false prophet, and so as the psyched out sidekick was stumbling blindly through the locust thicket - after having left open the gate to Chubby Davis’ goat pasture - while the local lowriders played forty dogs and dominos - and then again while the puppy was pouting and the deputy doubting what the prophet was spouting -while new crowds were assembling to what was then resembling a free concert featuring the Baldwin Sisters and the “Daughters of Eve” review - And while the preacher was mumbling while I myself I was fumbling - And the whole experience being very humbling - Because I was the dumsumbich left the door cracked open.

ON VISITING FLANNERY O'CONNOR'S GRAVE

2010-12-10T13:20:00.001-06:00

ON VISITING FLANNERY
O'CONNOR'S GRAVE
Milledgeville, Ga., 1988

--MAXINE KUMIN

...but first, an historic detour just this side
of what the local intelligentsia
in fond self-deprecation call Mudville
to take the cart track up to Andalusia,
the family seat, a serene remove from town,
as in a good Victorian novel.

Here, from the first-floor bedroom window
even on those last dark days, she could see
her beloved peacocks pecking and fanning,
the tribe of philoprogenitive donkeys
ambling down to the farm pond in the meadow,
a grove of ancient pecan trees bending
to be picked. Not antebellum grand,
but commodious Andalusia, with real gardens
harrowed every spring with real manure,
so that it's touching but not surprising that
when Mary McCarthy remarked, years before,
she had come to think of the Eucharist as a symbol,
O'Connor, considerably put out
by lapsed Catholic rhetoric, flared,
"Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it."
...

Not as I pictured her, enthroned
on high, fiercely Promethean
with eagles, say, or lions on the headstone --
but the square, unlandscaped family plot
sans even a drooping willow seems right.
Aligned with her father, three great-aunts opposite,
space for the mother who outlives her yet,
Flannery lies unadorned except by name
who breathed in fire and fed us on the flame.

[from Looking for Luck: Poems (W. W. Norton & Company, 1992), pp. 45-47]

Submitted by Jerry Buckley / Voice of One
http://jerrybuckleyvoice.blogspot.com/

The Gospel Chariot : Part 2 "If The Devils in the Way"

2010-12-08T16:03:00.006-06:00

Part Two: "If The Devil’s In the Way" ( Prerequisite: "The Gospel Chariot" 101
"The Great Going Forward")

If I am to be found guilty of transgression, in the keeping to myself of this secret, I must admit no lo contender, but it was out of no motive of covetousness or greed. I was not attempting to horde up treasure on earth that would rust away with time. In truth I have been guilty of a lesser category of sin; specifically that of a sin of omission; since I was culpable of with- holding important information and witness to the Lord’s power and might. I was in fact terrified at the prospect of facing the consequences of the fully proclaimed truth. I didn’t want to open a can of forty questions, about the incident at Bucksnort. I didn’t want to ever have to hear "Why wasn’t she on her leash?" "Didn’t you see the house down there?" "Couldn’t you make her stop?"

I would have been found out guilty by my own statement of contributing to the delinquency of an under-aged dog. I would have been repirmanded in front of the congregation. It was a classis no win situation. So for nearly five years following the great going forward, and the subsequent emergence of Isabella Emergent Victorious - a new creature herself and a enlisted ensign into the army of the Lord - I down-played the entire legend because I was afraid my loose lips would reveal something which I had a dread of discussing with Mamacita or the boys.

If I digress even now in telling the story, it's just that there were some points on which I have inferred and surmised, from my intimate knowledge of Isabella (my having become alpha dog in her world) and because - as surely as I know that Ice understands not only English but also a fair amount of Spanish - I myself never acquired any more than a tourists understanding of Doglish. We communicated well on an instinctual level but there was never any real way to communicate vital information about news or third party events. With no common voice as a vehicle for her newfound inspiration and feeling of empowerment in the spirit, she must have felt outcast and thus downcast. I just know within my heart, that she must have felt that - if she could but learn to speak the language of men she would be fulfilled - if she were only able to tell Mamacita and myself, and the just boys how much we had meant to her, and to thank us for bringing her up out of the barrios of the darkening Mississippi river delta. (Not unlike, Moses coming up out of the rushes into the house of Pharaoh, I was thinking at the time.)

To get back to the narrative, and so that the full account might be revealed from the behind veil of memory, I need to go back to the first book of moving day and the chapter just following the great "going forward" - beginning with the first verse a new creature.

After Ice had ravenously lapped her bowl of water, clipped in she was behind the Country Cupboard, she was again called up - (not un-like Phillip the evangelist) caught up in the spirit, back into the gospel chariot, that ugly bread box on wheels. It appears Mamacita and El Jefe had received their own call in the spirit to sojourn like Abraham, into a land that would be shown us, into the hills and vales of middle Tennessee - back into the bowels of the Bible belt to begin a new life in a more glorified state - into a land flowing with milk shakes and honey-grahams. Ice was now called to guide the eastward expansion of the "up from Mississippi" Barkley clan. A rough-cut yet smooth-talking and gregarious lot of deported British (some say Irish) stock. Co-pilot was she Isabella Scapegoatdog of the gospel chariot, laden with all the gathered belongings going into storage, and all of the house plants too mature and cherished to jettison, for whom the oversized cab of the boxy 70's looking commercial chariot became an ark of salvation from the impending flood-waters of the muddy Mississippi river.

All was going well, Isabella was fixed in a glorious trance; spirit- gliding across the face of the Tennessee River bottoms; leaving behind the blanched cotton fields as they gave be-grudging way into the rolling hills and wooded stretches of the vast Natchez Trace. In my minds ear, I was hearing a voice humming, "So Long Marianne" and later "If It Be Your Will". I just couldn’t seem to shake the Leonard Cohen mojo for the entire first half of the drive. We were "marching on to higher ground" with visions of promised habitations beyond the Tennessee River Valley. There were new vistas on the eastward horizon and there was balance - all old debts having been paid off and the old man sin having been laid off - all was in a harmonious flux with all the past year's sins having been rolled forward as was the manner - and a newfound optomism ruled supreme upon the day.

I recalled laughing to myself along the way, and telling myself that Isabella and the Parrish brat would always have the same “birthday” as regards their conversion and sanctification processa; and that the Parrish brat was fortunate to have such an exciting conversion experience to be able to share with others, and that the same thing might be said of Isabella, if only her story could be understood by those who would listen.

Everything was under control and as cool as cucumbers, until that is, the fateful pit stop at the Bucksnort exit off I 40. (Until we were abruptly called to make an accounting for our faith and were to come were to come face to face with the enemy!) I knew the exit and the physical layout well enough; just past the Bucksnort Trout Ranch, and so I fell into the fallacy of the reliability of prior experience and cognizant that the former truck-stop property was unoccupied at present due to a burst commercial real estate bubble, I figured the truck stop plaza should be the ideal place for Ice to make her puppy pit-stop and maybe even stretch her legs a bit before the second half of the journey.

I suppose that, if I had been in full Zen awareness mode like I had learned in karate dojo; I may have seen the clues of danger lurking on periphery - but I was all happy-goes-lucky - no apparent need for hesitation and prayerfully thankful to Providence for providing such a convenient and timely pit-stop opportunity. Cheerfully and carelessly I piloted the gospel chariot to the vacant truck stop lot, pulling up reigns out back where no old biddies from the road or restaurant should be disturbed by the sight of a dog doing its business in public. Not smelling the danger myself, I was taken aback when - like an arrow from a charioteer’s bow - Ice launched from the driver’s side seat and hit the ground, fullspeed ahead shitinangettinit down into the hollow below the level of the parking lot .

Into a boisterous maelstrom of animal noises, flying feathers and chicken squat: and accompanied by sound effects not unlike those from the bedroom scenes in "The Exorcist" and then - in the blinking of eye - in a spectacle of Darwinian drama-meets dogmatic fervor, I was bought to a lurching standstill by a single blast from a sixteen-gauge shot BOOM (Not entirely unlike, it occurred to me, Gabriel blowing his trumpet to begin the bodily resurrection and the final judgment of mankind)

Bumfuzzled and dazed I gazed into a hazyclearing through a screen of scat infused sunshine, gun smoke and the chicken dander floating on the updraft like some hellish dandelion blown to smithereens; Hovering over the mid-day calm. This was my very visceral and very personal burning bush experience.

"Please Mister"! "Don’t shoot her, she’s our family pet" I shouted into the haze, as a small puff of smoke wafted off toward the Negev. I looked and beheld two creatures of Biblical proportions which had transfigured into a small clearing at the edge of a small brush-choked patch. I was positioned above the battlefield plain - looking down into the hollow from the steep hillside at my feet, which was sown with the seeds of righteousness having born fruit into a buffer zone of ballast rocks - to prevent the truck-stop property from eroding into the defile at its feet. The sight below me was a fright for sore eyes: two haggard southern-gothic creatures of darkness, looming apparitions from the pits of Hades or other nether regions. A pair of animalistic Samaritans or false prophets no doubt; stood and/or staggered in the clearing, garbed in filthy overalls and greasy dollar-store flannel shirts. These fowl smelling specters staggered onto the edge of the clearing breathing threats and curses against man and beast. The first of them; ringleader and the elder of the pair was brandishing the shotgun, while his younger sidekick had opted to sport a square lipped, short-handled shovel for his personal mode of self defense.

"stay right there you sum-bich" …Yur goddam dog done went and kilt my best rooster…"

The false prophet blasted additional threats and curses in my direction, his Z Z Top beard disguising the true ugliness of the evil in his face, which harbored the hard glare of a wayward prophet; eyes glazed over and blood shot, one of them crossed, noticeably inward. Too many generations of inbreeding I surmised. Deep-set pupils like two off- kilter black-eyed peas, or those infinitesimal points where a black hole squeezes the life out of light and life. The sight of the prophet and the sudden unease about my present situation was causing my mind to race through several worse case scenarios, clicking off one after another, and I could hear the ..plink-plink.. of a dueling banjo and in my mind’s eye. I envisioned an inbred adolescent picker and I imagined off camera, his lecherous and animalistic uncles, hell-bent on the instant gratification of sodomy and destruction of the spirit.

"I’m fixin’ take it out of your hide…You stay right there you sum-bich…I’m gonna...

I fumbled for words with which to reply, and finally countered in my best ready-to talk-turkey tone - ready to do the Christian thing and prepared to reimburse for the offense. Like when a man’s ox trampled another man’s field in the days of Moses – he must make restitution to the injured party and then the offense is to forgiven and forgotten.

"Sir, I can pay for your chicken, what is she worth? I’ve got twenty bucks in my billfold, I’ll lay it right here under this rock and we’ll get out of your hair.

The false prophet grabbed the shovel from the sidekick and exploded in a fury of fowlness: "You sum-bich…..You stay right there, this damn bird worthy of way more than any twenty clucking bucks…I’m fix-in’ shove this shovel up yo skinny white arse…..you sum-bich, you stay right were you’re at… you skinny little peckerwood sumbich you"

Luckily for me, his less-enthusiastic sidekick - (whether they were the huff- buds, moonshine cousins, or the methamphetamine mafia of Hickman County or full time sporting men I could only guess; there being so little time for formal introductions) - was of a more settled disposition. The sidekick was more Kid Rock than ZZ Top. He looked in from eternity - peering outward with eyes like quasars from some distant galaxy. Apparently the salesman of the outfit, he attempted a diplomatic approach by kindly explaining the immediate situation to my better understanding.

"That there ain’t no regular chicken….. That right there’s a "show chicken" "This here bird’s worth two or three hundred bucks easy"

Kid Rock appeared to be opening the bid for the bird while Z Z, unable to contain his righteous indignation started to stumble toward the scree of ballast rocks; blathering treats and vulgarities seldom heard in our docile Little Jerusalem neighborhood. (Except for those times when Mr. Weingarten, our eccentric neighbor would go off his medications and would vanish - traipsing about half clothed on his walkabouts as far away as West Memphis, during one of his frequent bi-polar binges.)

Never one to over-analyze a situation, I knew it was time to take up the full gospel armor, and possessing neither shield nor sword with which to arm myself, I was content in grateful reception of what the Lord provides in such times of need. I reached down and plucked up two of the dirty white ballast rocks, the size of Egyptian pomegranates, as if I were picking two cantaloupes out of my garden. In my mind’s eye I remembered the courage of the young shepherd-boy David when, faced down by the Philistine giant, he stooped to pick up pebbles.

It was my time to call the Devil’s bluff. With the courage of Moses and the voice of Aaron, it was time for me to “give an answer for the hope that lies within me”.

”You take one more step and I’m a gonna crush your melon with one of these here God-given rocks here in my hand" I resounded with the voice of circuit preacher… "And if these don’t land on target there’s plenty more these seeds of the gospel right at my feet…… bet I can get three good shots on your worthless noggin’ before you can crawl your god-forsaken carcass up these temple steps you sumbich" I blasted with the courage of John the Baptist.

In the same way the shotgun blast had frozen the air; this threat from the supposed victim, and the realization of his predicament, had flabbergasted the false prophet like a bolt of Zion’s lightning. Freezing for an instant, to assess his options, he thus afforded the now emergent-victorious scapegoat-dog Isabella just the opportunity she was looking for - to break free and runaround the flanks of third base and headed toward home, and up and into the sanctuary of the cab of the open armed gospel chariot.
My nostrils recoiled in tears and disgust from the awful stench of battle; (the ammonia smell of chicken squat mixed with the stench of the putridity of death) as she galloped past me flashing a frothing Rin-Tin-Tin grin. The joy of competition! The thrill of Victory in our Chariots of Fire! The flag not only found and taken but a demon cast right down.
"If the Devil’s in the way we will run right over him!"

"Roll the gospel chariot along Roll the gospel chariot along Roll the gospel chariot along … and we won't tag along behind."

Flannery O Connor on Interpretation

2010-12-08T14:13:00.007-06:00

There is always the danger of over-analysis coming between the reader and author, a danger of which O'Connor was keenly aware.

(Read her letter of March 28, 1961, to a professor of English who shared with O'Connor his students' interpretation of "A Good Man is Hard to Find." Her letter begins: "The interpretation of your ninety students and three teachers is fantastic and about as far from my intentions as it could get to be." It ends: "Too much interpretation is certainly worse than too little, and where feeling for a story is absent, theory will not supply it. My tone is not meant to be obnoxious. I am in a state of shock."

         This is so true in my experience, I've just thrown my hands up after wasting three consecutive lunch hours trying to get any good perspective about the "Southern Gothic" overtones in the novels of William Faulkner.
        The intelligent and hard working author whose name and book title shall best remain anonymous, went to extreme lengths to link our boy W F with the gothic implications of Freud and Jungian psychology and the Gothicism of Faust and Dickens:   She draws a direct link between Gothicism and Surrealism, and she develops such thought provoking chapter titles as "Sanctuary: The Persecuted Maiden, or Vice Triumphant"
        The book was a brilliant example and masterpiece of the sort of scholarly correctness which stuffs full the shelves of libraries all over the world: and a totally baffeling ball of baloney - one which I can't imagine even the most arcane of graduate students or literature buffs outside her own narrow clusterfuk of overly-educated cronies could comprehend and follow along for much longer than a three dollar cup of coffee.  File 13!  Forget the foot notes. Tell us a story, daddy!

Steven King on rewrite & edit

2010-12-08T14:07:00.001-06:00

Write with the door shut until you have a very good finished product. Don't show anybody anything until it is prim and proper. Share first with one person, your Important Reader, who is most likely your spouse or partner, or possible a mentor or colleague. Celebrate the completed project and put the draft in a drawer for six weeks untouched. Go to work on next project.

Conduct the revision with the door closed. Areas of primary concern and concentration include:

1. unclear pronouns - make sure it is absolutely clear who is antecedent
2. unnecessary adverbs - adverbs are not your friend - minimilist usage
3. recurring elements? identify - repeat - expand upon - make symbolic
4. keep asking "What do I mean?" Can I "show" this without saying it?
5. check the pace - Where will the reader get bored or confused?

Share your revised version with five or six important readers, requesting them to apply the same criteria.  Involve only those who will give you honest feedback and suggestions, or tell you when something doesn't work. Revise once more with particular attention to those areas of your own weakness:

J B's supplemental checklist for revision: "The Gospel Chariot"

1.   vernacular? How would they say it back home?
2.   Biblical accuracy? Is this the best archtype from scripture?
3. punctuation & sentence length ?   effective use of the dash symbol
4. point of view?  Am I still telling this "eye witness" or omniscient?
5. respect?  Am I alienating too many readers - due to "blasphemy"

notes to self on the "Snowflake Method" of novel writing by Randy Ingermandson PhD

2010-12-07T12:38:00.004-06:00

Ten Steps to A Novel   by Randy Ingermandson PhD ( A streamlined method.)

1. Write a one sentence summary of your novel. Fifteen words or less is better.
2.   Expand this sentence into a full paragraph, describing the story set up - the major disasters and the ending. Ideally five sentences. The backdrop, three disasters, and the ending.
3. Character study sheets .... storyline, motives, goals, conflicts, epiphany, summary
4. Expand each section as the story grows. All but last section should end in a disaster.
5. Write a one page description of each character. Tell story from his or her point of view.
6. Expand synopsis into four pages. Cycle back and fix things as you gain insight into story & new ideas.
7. Expand character description.
8. Based upon your four page synopsis - Make a list of all scenes necessary to turn story into a novel. Spreadsheet the story on computer !!    This is the time saver of the method!!
9. Switch back to word processor and expand dialogues
10. Pound out the draft in "150 hours instead of 500 hours"

Faulkner: on Technique and Style

2010-12-03T12:36:00.000-06:00

condensed from "Light in August: A Study in Black and White" by Alwyn Berland

Faulkner was the the most ambitious writer of fiction in the twentieth century. He was a deliberate and devoted craftsman of structure and style in the great tradition of Henry James and William Conrad, both of whom he admired and by whose high standards he wished to be judged.

Distinguishing elements of Faulkner's Fiction:

1) Virtuosity in the innovative experimental use narrative and structure techniques
2) Stylistic mastery of a wide range of voices
3) Fecundity of immagination ( a Faulkner word )
4) Largeness of vision
5) Creation of a moral framework that both portray and evaluate human actions with a keen judgment that
is tempered with compassion and humor
6) Creation of a fictional world in which social and literary realism are enhance and sometimes transformed. by a legend-creating and myth-making immagination.

William Faulkner on wasted time

2010-12-02T16:56:00.002-06:00

"No, Not this. This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward. With your self. With others." He looks at her, she does not look away. "Let him go. Send him away, daughter. You are probably not much more than half his age. But you have already outlived him twice over. He will never overtake you, catch up with you, because he has wasted too much time. And that too, his nothing, its as irremediable as you all. He can no more ever cast back and do, than you can cast back and undo."

William Faulkner "Light in August" Chapter 17

The Decline of Man? / From William Faulkner's Nobel acceptance speech

2010-12-01T08:45:00.002-06:00

... I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of doom had clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among the creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capale of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past....

William Faulkner / Dec 10, 1950

"The Gospel Chariot" / Part One: The Great "Going Forward"

2010-11-20T14:19:00.027-06:00

Any of us who have ever kept a pet for any length of time knows that the very idea of "owning" a pet has gotten it totally backward. We never "own" our pet dog, or cat, or iguana, even a school of tropical fish - they in fact and of course - own us! These dumb animals (all creatures great and small) which we choose to bring into our clean and orderly homes and to lavish with “three hots and a cot”, become in every sense, a family member. Constant companions and confidants they become - for life. Come prosperity or financial struggle, come good times or bad, in sickness or in health they are confidants constant and true. They can and often do, become closer and dearer to us than our very own chosen spouses and blood relatives.

Many people fail to appreciate that there is something unseen; that exists between humans and animals – a telepathic channel we can use to communicate with the animals we love. But pet lovers world wide know that what I say is true. Reflect for a moment about all the ways your lonely and desolate life has been enriched by and through your love-affair with your pet. How often, even our anthro-centric stories involving human interactions have, at the beginning of the story, a dog on (or off) leash? How much of what we refer to as "us" is not really us - but a projection of our pet’s personality? How many times in your own inner voice - honestly - have you wished your pet could have the ability to carry on a conversation with you? So that the bond between you - like a pair or cooing lovers - could become even tighter and more meaningful.

This story is the full and honest accounting of one very singular episode in the life of one such faithful pet. It is an epic adventure story for pet lovers; and an allegorical journey for people of faith, or those who seek it. And don’t these traits so often go together - like collar and leash? This is the incredible true adventure story of Isabella Emergent Victorious - "Ice" for short - a half-breed, teenaged Labrador retriever. Follow along and learn of her epiphany and the wondrous happenings revolving around her family’s relocation from under the dark shadow of the pyramids of Memphis - and onto hallowed grounds in middle Tennessee. It is a - "book, chapter, and verse" - modern day translation of a timeless theme: "The Righteous Shall Live by Faith".

Isabella must have realized something life-changing was going on: what with all the turmoil revolving around the packing and the emptying of cabinets and closets. Not unlike, the Hebrews preparing to leave Egypt on the fly - on that night forever more to be known as Passover. Then early on that fateful Saturday morning, the bee-hive of activity continue with the loading of all the boxes into a strange bread box looking truck with dual wheels on the rear axle.

Then there were the muchachos, hired by El Jefe to assist with the weekend moving job. Tracking endlessly in and out of the house - with dirty shoes, and the eating of Cheetos on the front steps and all that gibberish and banter only added to her state of confusion. Isabella understood enough Spanish to get the gist and so she played along and smiled at the appropriate times - and did her little soft howl when everybody broke out in laughter over a spilled soda pop. Mostly she just shadowed me "El Jefe" as I assisted and arbitrated the loquacious proceedings; shuttled back and forth like a badminton cock; whacked on one end by the pleasant yet willful orchestrations of my wife "Mamacita" who was exhorting the team to carry out the pre-game plan on schedule.

Anything that could be carted up and into a sort of arc on axles - up the aluminum loading ramp or stacked inside its bellows - was about to embark upon an exodus of new proportion. (Not at all unlike the parable of Noah's ark) Isabella watched the proceedings with anxious optimism as to what might be about to transpire. She had understood enough chit-chat to know that the family was planning to relocate, tan pronto como younger son Kevin had finished his enrollment at Hermanos Christianos - conveniently located just across I 240 from the predominately kosher east Memphis subdivision - developed in the sixty's by a couple of opportunistic Frank Lloyd wannabee builders.

Us hombres would be carrying on back and forth in a jocund Spanglish spoken with the staccato stack of a Cuban accent. I would have of course, been taking every opportunity to practice speaking my newly found tongue; whenever the way was easy and the path was wide - until I would inevitable run out of vocabulary, and lost in translation be forced to revert to a rather frustrated King James English and repetition, repetition to get my points across. Repetition.
The effectiveness of communication either way was pretty much a toss up; about like trying to witness the gospel through a translator - one whose command of English is less than fluent - who does not understand the idioms and euphemisms of the southern dialect. (One whose translation of your sermon can hardly be truely verified; because of the language barrier itself - and because of the gravitational pull of orthodox viewpoints - and because of certain other questionable motives we won't go into right now. One develops the tendency to wonder; which hybrid form of gospel the convert even agrees to accept upon the receiving of the sacrament of baptism.) However, I digress.

The worldly vessels of twenty-five years of marriage - of house keeping and child rearing - had been packed up like so many pairs of animal crackers inside wax-paper protection - and tucked away inside its carton and stacked away.  And then early on the Lord's Day, the treasured possessions were wheeled outside the spacious contemporary brick ranch house and into the odd looking moving van.

We had been about as happy as I suppose any family could have been;  in the aimable and Wrightcomfortable dwelling, with it’s contemporary low-pitched, slanting roof and full length glass windows in the living room.   It was typical of the houses so popular in "Little Jerusalem" - perched on the outskirts of Memphis - because of the large combination dining and living rooms and ample and fenced back yards, so convivial at festival times - and giving the frugle families the option to hang the laundry in privacy, thereby saving on the electric bills.
It was a neighborhood built of, by, and for a new generation of Memphis middle class Jewish families,  although any denomonation was more than welcome to purchase at the right price. (A sort of every-man's vision of the Frank Lloyd Wright waterfall house. Complete with gas lamps and BBQ grills, built in dish-washers and four bedrooms (to accommodate the larger-than-average-sized families) these sought after properties had been developed by one set of brothers, built by another, and sold by yet a third - all at good profit during the golden age of the America's ascendancy in the manufacturing of durable goods and well-attended gospel meetings.

The particular dwelling had been purchased - on faith - that the co-mingled incomes of El Jefe and rising star Mamacita could afford the tuition to allow them to educate their two exemplary sons at nearby Christian Brothers High School. The dwelling site was chosen in the final analysis because it met spec and was within after school walking distance of the esteemed institution. We had purchased the house at a bargain price from Mr. and Mrs. Perlman - who oddly never even bothered to counter-offer our original low bid - and agreed to the immediate sale so they could go on vacation to Sandestin - and the ghost of Mrs. Rosen; who continued. we were convinced, to inhabit an area of our living room - next to and above (and perhaps inside) the Toby jugs display cabinet, which in turn looked out in beneficence over the antique English grandfather clock.

In what we understood to be a sort of appreciation offering; for the way I nicely kept up the landscaping about the property so loved by Mrs Rosen while on earth. She had so loved her little oasis; where she had nurtured the Bermuda grass and played croquet with her son Israel - proprietor of the well known gentleman’s clothiers “I. Rosen’s” of Memphis. And especially for the fact that Mamcita and I often listened to Neal Diamond and Leonard Cohen CD’s in the evening instead of watching television. Mrs. Rosen would sometimes wax insomniac and would yield to the temptation - and the danger of exposure - to come out into the back yard; into the cloistered yet moon-lit suburban oasis where she would silently dig wild onions and exorcise Virginia creeper from the pear-shaped lawn. Softly she would work and hum "Suzanna" or "Sisters of Mercy" - or perhaps break out in hushed rendition to “Kentucky Woman” - against a lively cricket-chirp accompaniment Bringing all the passion without all the extraneous noise. (Like a drummer playing cymbals with brushes rather than the drumsticks.)

Sha-Zam! Out and through the suddenly-agape double front doors proceeded the boxed-up antiques and family possessions under escort - those that is, not previously jettisoned in the garage sales. (El Jefe having utilized his intermediate Spanish skills to post bi-lingual signs on Summer Ave and en la calle Jackson.) Other cast-off belongings had been donated to the association for Disabled American Vets - who were known to give a rather miserly and questionable percentage of proceeds to war veterans. The remnant of the family possessions were carted or carried - up the pull out aluminum ramp and - into the goofy-looking bread box truck. Segregated. Again not unlike the Noah epoch - with one pair each of unclean species kept in the lower holds just for grins, and seven pairs each of clean species pampered on the upper floors and secretly kept under the auspices of the commissary.

"Praise Him!" "Seventy times seven in the congregation of David"

Some few of the nicer furniture pieces and many of the plastic boxes had been thoughtfully stacked near the head wall of the bread box, and consigned into storage until a permanent tabernacle location had been made manifest. The remnants of the precious cargo had been packed and strapped down into or onto El Jefe’s clean but scratched-up GMC pickup truck - white as Lazarus’ smile. The collection of about a dozen cherished oil paintings - (Were they not manifestations of the unconquerable lure of the lust of the eye?) - had been laid down as if into sepulcher; one on top another: nestled into the hatch of the lily-white ark disguised as an Altima sedan. The entire lot of paintings had been wrapped in swaddling cloths and tucked prayerfully away for safekeeping; to be unloaded into storage and apparent abandonment - forgotten among the frontier boom towns of Antioch and Smyrna. Smyrna that New Testament city, where by faith we were prepared to undergo a visceral and very real wilderness trial which was to assault the very bedrock of faiths - and put to the test our marriage as had no other trial we had ever faced together in our nearly twenty five years of marriage.

The antique English grandfather clock was like Zachariah (father of John the Baptist) struck dumb, dismantled, and packaged for transport. The Stafford-shire dogs and the Toby jugs had been wrapped with sheets of incensed linens and ceremonially crammed into structurally sound red or green plastic boxes with hinged and folding lids. (Earthen vessels stored in jars of clay.)

Each dumb-struck and muted Royal Daulton or Bestwick, or other branded porcelain "Toby Jug" figurine was a mimic of some well-known British personae from history or Dickens-esque literature. These curiosities had been conceived within the union of original sin of greed - and nurtured by methodology of child labor under deplorable conditions. 19th Century robber barons, who were masters the steam engine and sweat shop, gave birth to these curiosities - in comic tribute to the virtues of draft ale. Originally marketed as common household trinkets to be peddled by profiteers in the K-marts of the 19th century, these keep-sakes had become by the post-Restoration mid 20^th century, valuable collectors’ items and of which we were avid collectors. ( I got a great discount at my father's well-respectd and profitable antique shop in midtown.)
Each recognizable countenance, seemed bound and fixed in secret with-holding of some sorted story it's very own - scrupulously with-held from publication and paparazzi. Some fascinating and often times dreadful story - lying dormant for our modern day enlightenment. Could we but unlock its secret. and roll back the language of time. Oh what fascinating and sorted stories we could hear! Could we Could we like in Back to the Future: go back and time but unlock the muted syllables of these tennents - who had lived to witnessand perhaps remember a half- dozen or more generations. And then I imagine, through the circle of lady fortune - to have lived in the homes of both the working poor, the rising middle class, the lavishly wealthy, and now the declining middle class. Oh my goodness, I often fantasized, what stories they could tell - if we could just let Diane Sawyer do an interview and see it on 60 Minutes. If we could only trust in the Lord as had the patriarchs! Perhaps then, we could speak to the rock - like Moses should have done at Petra.

"There’s a fountain free, ‘Tis for you and me, let us haste of haste to its brink"

Were not the shores of the great "Bluff City" lapped with and increasingly more tinged by the brackish waters of the Mississippi River - that surging and unyielding sewage pipe for the populated and agro-industrial Midwest? Did it not flow with increasing vileness past all the evil multi-national chemical manufactures in the boot-heel - stopping for a milk shake in Osceola - and then lapping up the scummy run-off from pesticide infected corn and bean fields - rumbling right down through Arkansas and stumbling stupefied into Memphis? Into its garish heathen pyramidal sports complex - smelling of slave markets and cheap domestic draft beer - where it would inevitible slow its course. Did not the old man river linger in Memphis longer than was necessary? Where did he go to what place that wasn't where it was supposed to be on TomTom? Who did he visit while on furlough in the harlot on the river bluffs.?

Do I need to remind you that Memphis was in fact named after a thriving Nile river-port, once the second-greatest Metropolis in all Egypt? A site soon to become abandoned and the materials from the homes of its leading citizens re-cycled to build the suburbs at Fosat - sight of present day Tunica, which now these later days dissipates - a graying southern Gothic spinster. Tunica. A down-time Mecca for the poor white trash and leisure seeking tribes migrating up from the vast expanses of Nubia.

Taking his time to get drunk on Beale Street - and finding B B King to be engaged elsewhere - he resumed her course for the juke joints of Helena and Greenville - gaining momentum towards an ultimate orgy of food, drink and wanton-ness in the red-lit bedrooms along the banks of Lake Pontchartrain: - before visiting that whore of Babylon better known as New Orleans - where he would ultimately surge to a hedonistic climax in the French quarter - before de-flatting in a symbolic up-chucking gluttonous puke-out into the toilet of the vast Dead Sea.

            Memphis had in keeping with the plan, been faithfully and fatefully thrown off, like the dust from the apostles’ feet - in those towns were the people refused to listen to the good news preached within its walls. Sights had been prayerfully re-focused on the hills around the bountiful Harpeth River watershed which - following a few refreshing raindrops from heaven - would flow us right into our very own river Jordan. The valley toward which the family had been called was in fact of the matter, near unto the ancestral grounds of the venerated Lipscombs and Hardings; founding fathers of the great Christian boarding schools and colleges of the great Restoration Movement which would later bear their names.
          We would soon be encamped within a carriage ride of some of the camp meetings where were witnessed the revivalist sermons of Barton W. Stone, Calhoun John Smith, and Franklin Camp. The hills and valleys themselves in middle Tennessee could well testify as to zeal of the faithful-departed in these parts; for its likeness in appearance to the Garden of Eden. And would there not forever-more be the refreshing Harpeth River-runs-through-it toward Jordan;  a land flowing with Milk Bone and Honey Grahams.
          As I checked both mirrors and floor-boarded our rented gospel chariot - accelerating the bread box to merge onto I 40 eastbound - I could have sworn I heard a woman's alto voice humming Leonard Cohen's, "Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye".

         Well, like I was saying earlier, Isabella must have known it was going to be an ever-so- momentous occasion when first thing right after breakfast upon the First Day of the Week - a quick affair of coffee and Howard’s Donuts - no customary cereal with blueberries and milk - no cinnamon toast.  None of El Jefe's leisurly reading "The Commercial Appeal" or else trying to nuzzle in on Mamacita before Bible Study. Isabella was called up by El Jefe - and exhorted to hop into the cramped cab of the bread basket on wheels - sharing the passenger side seat and floor-board with her water bowl and a half-dozen assorted house plants. Just enough room to sit still and to be reverently quite; to meditate among the palm trees and to expectantly gaze out the over-sized windshield of the odd bread-box truck.   Isabella the Expectant settled in and slobbered out the over-sized windshield - and out the open side window of "The Gospel Chariot" - and on the truck seats and the houseplants.

"To Canaan’s land I’m on my way where the soul never dies."

Still I imagine her sense of mystery and monument must have nearly boiled over when - as she was driven the short and not unfamiliar thirteen miles to a large brick building nestled into a nice landscape of red bud and dogwood trees and a spiffy new church-bought and child-safe playground area used by the day care center from nine to five. Ice had been here before, in the back of the pick-up truck as El Jefe had retrieved or deposited one of the boys, who were always going with the church YAC shack youth group on this or that sanctified sojourn or parental approved outing or lock-in devotional type thing. She knew about the YAC shack and most of the teens and of course about the upscale play pen adjacent - and so would have felt no reason to worry when she was ushered from the pick up into the cage. (Very much un-like the occasions when Papaw Murley would corral a steer for market.)

Soon enough, however her mind would have begun to dwell on the uncertainty - and a sort of panic woud have sort of set in - like that up-dwelling of unease just preceding the thinking of a negative thought. She would have been anxious, I imagine as to her future role within the company and her position in the new chain of command.
Had not Isabella become a well-liked celebrity in her home town? Was she not always so well-behaved, and so eager to join in with anything fun or adventurous that could be conjured up? Was she not legendary in "Little Jerusalem" our clean and kosher east Memphis neighborhood? A holy site; situated providentially within walking distance of two weathering art deco era synagogues Anshei Sphard: Beth El Emeth - strong hold of the progressive moderates - and Temple Israel - a longer and more arduous hike - but the path taken by the more deeply devout or simply "old school" sectarian / octogenarians.

Had not our entire family of restoration-principle reared Christians respectfully assimilated ourselves into the venerated customs and traditions of the quiet if not charismatic east Memphis community? Had we not cheerfully cut our willow branches (there being no native palm trees in Memphis) for those who needed to construct a temporary habitation? Had we not watched - while restraining from laughing out- loud each year - whenever they would go to converting a two-car carport into a holy dwelling for the week-long Feast of Booths? Had we not been accepted as members at the Jewish Community Center. (Until that is, I (El Jefe) stupidly sat down - after executing a pretty dang good one and a half - in the vacant "Russian section" of the pool lounge area when I was kindly asked to leave)

Was not Isabella herself easily recognized as queen bitch in the subdivision - a fixture she was in the neighborhood - jogging with El Jefe on leash and sometimes off leash - gloriously romping and patrolling with a real take charge attitude? Was not her tell-tale ...Tinkle-Tinkle…(those melodious plinks of her dog tags bumping her choke chain as she hit her skewed stride) - a familiar sound in the neighborhood - recognized by all the sons and daughters of the covenant: who in turn would most always wave or say hello to her in respect. …Tinkle -Tinkle… No fu-fu wimpy pink collar for she.
No sir-ee. Like Joan of Arc in full battle araiment and armor - a chrome plated choke-chain anchored fast with a cut length of climbing rope and carabineer would comprised her sports attire.

"Throw out the life-line across the dark wave there is a brother who someone should save" Somebody’s brother; O who then will dare to throw out the life-line across the dark wave?”

Had she not continually proven her worth on every hiking trail in half of Tennessee - a faithful scout and trail guide to be trusted? ...Tinkle-Tinkle... Had she not - when allowed free reign - tracked down and engaged demon squirrels? Exorcising them of their dark possessions: stopping just long enough to snap their necks in her smiling embrace before tirelessly resuming her off-kilter stride. ...Tinkle -Tinkle… As if her front-end was in need of alignment.

And ourselves, Mamacita and El Jefe? Were not we identified in the neighborhood as the "parents of Isabella the Energetic"? Had not ourselves hosted numerous in-home devotionals and informal dinners for the church mission group? And had not Ice revelled in entertaining the odd gaggle of spiritually minded and hungry “singles” - with her howling crescendo whenever urged along by El Jefe or Kevin. Had she not respectfully listened to the group’s prayers - and learned the devotional songs -within the hallowed confines of the expansive front dining room - and monitored by the resident musician poltergeist Mrs. Rosen?
In retrospect, were not she Mamacita a sort of arch-typical Mary and myself El Jefe, simply a modern English translation of a gullible Joseph? And were not we combined nothing more than a pair of misfit remnants? (and then Isabella by association?) Nothing more than witless-yet-willing accomplices to an eternal scheme - one conceived in love before the beginning of time and enacted - generation upon overlapping generation - as a sort of spiritual "Never Ending Story" throughout all eternity.

"Oh the richness and depth of his wonderful love, flowing boundless, and full, and free”

And so, not unlike like the lad Isaac - as he and his father came nigh unto Mt. Moriah - I’m sure that she, initially would have felt no reason to fear another new adventure: nothing encountered with her striding steadfastly alongside El Jefe could present itself any real obstacle. No test of faith should ever reveal even a shed hair of doubt regarding the sureness of her calling - her election. So as she was coaxed inside the cyclone-fenced playground, and then as she watched while Mamacita and El Jefe marched, New Testaments in hand, up the long parking lot toward the church with its circular drive - she sat still in her sphinx pose - and knew that He was God and - she His willing servant.

To avoid any smart-ass "Beverly Hillbilly" jokes from the good-natured deacons, the art-gallery laden and lily-white sedan, and the accessory-laden gospel chariot had been parked in the back corner of the Forrest Hills parking lot beside the YAC Shack. Isabella must have known there was something epic in the making. I am sure of it - I could see the resolve in her eyes as we had told her to "Be a good girl. Stay right here while we’re inside. We’ll come see you in a little bit, OK girl. Be a good girl! Get all those monsters!" Her favorite call to arms. Her mantra. Her mission!

I can imagine, however - that not unlike the lad Isaac - she did not fully understand or appreciate what was soon to transpire. She must have been anxious, and would have felt that since she had given her life and loyalty freely up to this point, that she had an inborn right to participate in any family discussions. And if there was some secretive Masonic meeting going on, did not she need to be there, to put in her two-cents worth? Somewhere I imagine, oh along about the second verse of the invitation hymn, Isabella forced open the bottom of the latched cyclone fence gate; just enough to squeeze her square shoulders and extremely strong beagle-esque torso - through the gate and onto the playing field. (Or perhaps an angelic being un-loosed the latch. One can never overlook such possibilities at such a time.) So in three- quarter trot time - in good rhythm with the meter of the invitation song. ...Tinkle -Tinkle.. Isabella would have made her first move.
Upon inspecting the double-doors leading into the sanctuary and finding them closed and unattended, she would have crouched in the gardenia bushes along the walkway to await her Macedonian call.

"Come feast upon thu-u word of God and drink ever-lasting li-ife

Heear the in-vita-tion for whooo-soever will …

Praise Gaaad - for full salva-tion For who - so - ever will.”

Ice would have most likely paused and admired the strong vibrant voice of Gary Rigny, the genial song leader, and one of El Jefe’s deer hunting buddies: the two on them sharing a honey-hole in Fayette County owned by Mr. Cathey Standridge, a well known local business man and character. (Standridge was reared in the lower Mississippi delta but had become well acclimated and accepted as local by all the yocals in west Tennessee.) Standridge knew everybody in three counties, because he owned the prosperous GMC truck dealership near Cairo and he was generous to a fault. Standridge, (whose ancestors had helped to establish the first Disciples Congregation in Mississippi at Thyatira) wasn’t a deacon, because he was working on his second marriage; and as such was disqualified from office; but everybody loved him, and he carried on the duties and enjoyed the status of deacon, without the actual wearing of the title.

Well, wouldn’t you know it! As rarely yet occasionally happens: someone "responded to the gospel call" and "came forward" to receive water baptism for the remission of sins and to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. One of deacon Parrish’s snot-nosed brats - (I’m sure at the insistence of his Momma the congregation’s ranking snoot) - had stepped up and "responded to the invitation"; a cause of great rejoicing for some and equally a cause to get restless for others - because the service would now be longer and we wouldn’t be able to beat the Baptists to the Piccadilly. And you could forget about hitting the buffet at Ryan’s Steak House - the danger being too great of becoming stampeded by van loads of the wildebeest COGIC faithful. - (Church of God in Christ: with world headquarters and ranking bishops holding court in the belly of the great Bluff City) Ravenously migrating out of the Sudan; be-decked on the first day of the Week in their finery and plumage - much of it bought on lay-away from Bert’s Men’s Store or Catherine’s Stout Shops in Memphis. A generous-hearted and gregarious albeit it dangerous upwelling of brotherly and sisterly love - and fried foods. Working it Two plates per visit over in hot foods. Feeding as fellowship is the one mantra that most all brands of Christianity share.
"... and give us this day our daily fried chicken."

Meanwhile back to the front pew of the church house; and returning our attention to the Parrish brat's baptism at hand: First there was the waiting - while the neophyte respondant laboriously filled out his response card: Explaining his reason for walking into the aisle and for coming down front to occupy the hallowed front seats. (where nobody ever sits, except for those waiting to "wait on" the Lord's Table or one who had only - like just now - responded to the "invitation" compunctually offered after each sermon.
Secondly after minister South had read the "statement" of the respondent, there was the confession of faith in the presence of witnesses, and the avowal of the applicant's heart-felt repentance for sins. And because Jesus had said it in red letters, and because it was easy to understand - and besides a five- part plan of salvation beats a four- part plan hands down - it was time for the baptism.

Following the joyful singing of two or three uplifting songs, the sin-encumbered child of man would partake in the sacrament which would transform him from vile sinner into a "babe in Christ" also and thereby joining him to the congregation. Meanwhile preacher South was stepping into his waders: while the elder Britton and the beaming dad, Deacon Parrish were helping the penitent brat change into the stiff and over sized Egyptian cotton baptismal garments - blanched Borax white and spotless as the Pascal lamb.

And so, by then, I’m sure Isabella was wondering, had we abandoned her? Were we eating potluck dinner without her? Were we secretly plotting to send her to a canine convent? Did they have pot roast at that pot luck dinner? What song is that being sung inside there? Who is that song-leader with the nice baritone? Did they serve pot roast at that convent?

While Isabella was crouched in hiding, and possibly engaged in prayer - in anticipation of her next move - the Parrish brat would have been gliding underwater backwards - forty-five degrees of face up - all the way under - a folded hand-kerchief and preacher South’s cupped hands preventing his drowning in the sacrament. Magically suspended in glorious life-giving sustenance - somewhere between innocence and eternity - and following a brief "just-for-sure" pause at the apex of the dip. Brought up-and-out of the water to ever-more walk in newness of life.

So by then, Ice would have been waiting and wondering - and soon enough she would have been panting - when suddenly that "Abra Kadabra" charm she had tried earlier must have kicked in; and the big double-doors opened. (Quite like the prison doors in Phillipi.) Out stepped the beloved brother Broady Hunnisucker, (senior greeter and lead lady hugger) and Mr. Standridge, thusly providing Ice the breach into the castle fortifications she had sought. Isabella the Expectant must have nosed her way into the carpeted foyer. She would have followed the strangely modulated voice of a stranger - ignoring the hallway to the classrooms - only to discover a second set of double-doors, this time standing tantalizingly open in front of her.

During the singing of the closing hymn, as was the custom, Hunnisucker and Standridge would always attend to Mrs. Louis Van Sickle - helping her with her wheel chair as she would be the first to leave assembly - to be picked up out front under the canopy by deacon Osby Riley the volunteer driver of the church van. As preparedness-meets-opportunity presented itself in a fleeting conflux Ice deftly and alertly sneaked in-between the opened doors ...Tinkle –Tinkle .. tripping the light fantastic - right on into the foyer - which was by now deserted - because Hunnisucker and Standridge were busy escorting Mrs. Louise and wouldn't have been in position to take any notice as a good-looking short–legged lady in black …Tinkle – Tinkle … entered the vestibule of Forrest Hills Church.

No sentry to block her progress, nor attendant at the receptionist’s desk, she listened respectfully in the beginning, as Deacon Knox Riley embarked upon the closing prayer. It was a formula prayer so predictable as to be almost a chant you could say along with the rosary - if in fact, you had one - or believed in any such nonsense.

"Our DearHeavnly Father…Thank you soo much….beauuutiful day…opportunity to come together in yuur name …Tinkle -Tinkle… DeerHeavnly Father …thanks yew for …”

My heart stopped dead in its tracks, and I looked over to Mamacita to find her riveted back on me and squeezing my wrist were were sharing a simultaneous "OH SHIT!" reaction on our synchronously-shocked faces. There could be no doubt for us - as to the source of this out-of- place percussion instrument in the church's "a capella"-only sanctuary.

"Be with the sick, the afflicted….those for whom it is our duty to pray…please give an extra measure your grace..."…Tinkle – Tinkle … “to those in special need at this time…”Deacon Riley, droned along at the lower microphone, (the one used only for communion service or announcements asnd for the closing prayer on Sunday night).

"Be with the hands of those who care for sick and afflicted "...Tinkle – Tinkle…

We could hear it - Tinkle by tantalizing-Tinkle - as the un-imaginable was playing itself before our bowed heads - as were were locked in tracing her progress - as Isabella patrolled all the way down the right side of the three- aisled sanctuary - the conservatives’ side; those stiffs who sit always want to sit on the on the right wing, and upon the very ends of each row. right where the stained glass windows permit a reverent …Tinkle –Tinkle… glow in the right light. Singing fervently and mostly with good pitch and harmony - eyes closed and locked in memories of glorious tent-revival better days - these right-siders were the bedrock of the Church. (Of course these were the very families that had once been the most outspoken against the stained glass windows when the church was being build" as too iconographic and worldly; but who had since grown to like them all right I guess.) …Tinkle -Tinkle…

Deacon Riley now hits the half way mark on his check list " ... may we always listen with open hearts to the gospel message, so boldly proclaimed" … 'learn something we can apply to our every-day lives…." …Tinkle -Tinkle…

Isabella would have appreciated the warm glow emitting from the stained glass windows, but the angle was too steep for her to get a really good look - so low as she is to the floor with her short legs - and so she didn’t slow down much to admire them. She followed … Tinkle - Tinkle… – the Beagle part of her nose which ended up leading her right on down into to the vacant "amen corner" of the rather stiffeling sanctuary.

“…not only the physical but the spiritual blessings " …."DearHeavnly Father… forgive us for our sins; both, those of o-mission and those of co-mission ... as we forgive those ..."

Ice noticed a tiny narrow doorway along the back wall of the amen corner, which had been left partially open. And her sharp ears she could have detected the muted muffle of hushed voices and with her keen sense of smell she would have detected a strong chemical offering and something that wafted of good Egyptian cotton. And so she naturally enough she would have …Tinkle – Tinkle … approached the inner sanctum of the tiny baptismal dressing area - cautiously sniffing the rarefied air. It was vacant: a cave-like half room leading out to a tiny indoor lake which cascaded into a pastel mural of the river Jordan, and "over there" on the other bank loomed another tiny enclave - yet this one busy with the action of clothes being changed and a new life being put on. She may have even sensed the masculine aura of a certain "New Man" taking over - somewhere in the direction of newborn Parrish babe in Christ.

“If a sinner’s in the way we will stop and pick him up.”

… And we won’t tag along behind.

Isabella, as was surely witnessed in dripping detail by the completely sinless and spotless Parrish boy; placed her front paws precariously onto the top step of the baptistery and partook a quick drink of the sin-laden water. Shaking her neck three or four vigorous times… Tinkle –Tinkle -Tinkle… she then, unceremoniously - backed out of the inner-sanctum and smoothed into the aisles. This time it was 'exit stage right' - up two steps and across the podium; with it’s higher pulpit for preaching and song leading at Sunday services. She proceeded with her stroll directly passing - a twinkling dark shadow - behind Deacon Riley who trudging through his petition and prayerfully locked in - was looking down to his notes for assistance.

"Please Lord bless our bedridden sister Jewel Ledbetter" "...and comfort our dear Widow Wilcox upon the loss of her dear hus-band and our beloved bro-ther Jess....Comfort her as only you know how." “… Give her an extra measure of your blessing."

Isabella as I can well imagine was by now, bored with the lack of charisma of the whole affair. She trotted past the first six or seven left-bank church pews …Tinkle-Tinkle… past two rows full of the hard-scrabbled, but well-respected-because-they-were-wealthy Dycus family - and ultimately past a pair of anonymous long-haired teen boys, who hadn't closed their eyes in prayer and who at once became like Stephen and Phillip, early witnesses and evangelists. Purposely she rounded the corner …Tinkle -Tinkle… toward the vestibule, warily avoiding the flatulent Elder Twitchell, a decrepit old saint with hairy Hobbit ears and poor hearing. Even with her keen senses she could not locate any of her family, who were land-locked in the center pews, screened by the Baldwin sisters on one side and on the other by Elder and ranking congregational cougar Betty Barton - the second- best- looking woman at Forrest Hills. (second-best that is behind Mamacita) After a moments of fruitless sniffing, she abandoned the search in favor of some exploration of the grounds. Besides there were far too many cheap after-shaves and ladies’ knock-off perfumes in play to suite any decent sense of decorum.

Meanwhile back at the lower microphone… Deacon Knox Riley had at last, run out of euphemisms and was reduced to thanking God…Tinkle-Tinkle … for preachers, teachers, and song leaders, and asking him to …Tinkle -Tinkle … bess the elders in performance of and like Solomon, the wise administration of their appointed duties.

At this point, Mamacita and I were about to convulsively crack ribs and wet britches! And of course by this time a half dozen or more of the regular YAC Shack teens sitting in the other corner behind us, and then Rigby - who stands in the back opposite the preacher after the singing of the closing hymn - was on to the gig and then in the twinkling of eye - we along with the entire back half of the congregation of 207 souls - were communally sharing in a four part can’t-keep-a-lid-on-it, quasi-congregational gagging choke-chortle in prevention of gut-busting laughter. A new type of outpouring upon the Lord's Day was about to erupt into enrapture and pure delight. Never before, had there been so much joy and positive energy, associated with the Forrest Hills congregation.

"…put into application in our daily lives"… The good message heard proclaimed today" … "Let us be, not only hearers of the word, but doers also, heavenly father .....

Like pumping too much air into a bicycle inner tube … just waiting for it to go BANG!

Isabella, meanwhile, still unsuccessful in locating by sight nor smell either Mamacita or El Jefe among the attendance of 147 or so, and not particularly impressed with the prayer of Deacon Riley, and having a low threshold for boredom, decided to continue her exploration of the grounds. Perhaps she could pinpoint the location of that potluck.

…Tinkle -Tinkle… Isabella trudged toward the familiarity of the vestibule - flanking the more liberal yet-simple minded regulars - and ignoring the stained glass windows which were more muted because it was the darker side of the auditorium . She scurried along, bypassing the left wing simpletons; who didn’t much care either way about stained glass, taking a quiet stroll …Tinkle-Tinkle… out into the foyer to be, this-time greeted by a bemused Hunnisucker and Standridge: who true to form - and what with Isabella being a good-looking bitch and still with her figure and all - hugged her and welcomed her to Forrest Hills and asked her wouldn’t she prefer to go outside and pee behind the azaleas. Ice slipped deftly through Standridge’s wide stance and trotted proudly out the double- doors, and emerged into her very own "newness of life".

Knox Riley meanwhile and mercifully had finally arrived at the part in the prayer, where he says the magic incantation that brings the assembly toward dismissal.

"… next appointed time… guide, guard, and direct … Jesus' name we pray … Amen"

Deacon Riley then - when upon his heart-felt "Amen" bringing to close a well-executed formula prayer - seemingly the entire congregation at Forrest Hills erupted into uproarious laughter and raucous conversation - was flabbergsted and distraught over the rancor. The good deacon was to the point of tears, until song-leader Rigney explained to him what had transpired with the strolling dog, and told him he had said a nice prayer, patting him on the back.

I remembered long afterwards; upon reflection, that Ice had been exceptionally thirsty that afternoon. She drank an entire bowl of water - bound as she was, like Samson by her green climbing rope, clipped into a water faucet behind Bailey’s Café - while El Jefe enjoyed a pork tenderloin sandwich and iced tea inside the busy cafe. I had never known her to consume so much in one sitting.

And so, from that day forward our family had this fantastic, larger-than-life true adventure story to tell: an epic worthy of a Cecil B Demil film - replete with religious and historic overtones. brimming with mystery and humor, and chocked full of symbolic significance. A story I would embellish and re-tell con mucho gusto, whenever we got to drinking wine with the neighbors or at family gatherings. It was an epic adventure allegory - about one amazing first day of the week. About Isabella and the great "going-forward" and about how she had answered her gospel call; not only by "responding to the invitation", but going so far as to initiate the unprecedented ritual of the drinking of the sin-laden water. We kidded ourselves; about how we were all sure we would see Isabella in Heaven because she was now a sanctified dog: full of spirit and truth: She had stood blameless in the river Jordan and had been brave enough to taste the wages of sin - and she had emerged a willful scapegoatdog - proven worthy and willing to be made cast-off and despised in communal banishment and laden down heavy with the sins of the congregation.

I suppose upon reflection, that most likely the baptismal water had a strong chlorine taste which she would have found disagreeable to her sensitive pallet - or maybe it was the genuine desire to get the taste of the sin-water of her mouth. She feigned confusion about it all when asked about it later - exiting the scene of the deposition as soon as she found opening.

As we were to learn a year or so later, while visiting with our frined Sister Lynette of Forrest Hills during Christmas holidays; that the legacy of Ice and the great "going forward" had assumed a life of its own back in Memphis. Once the Parrish brat had changed back into his church clothes, he related his first sanctified vision - witnessed while drying his hair following his immersion - of seeing a short-legged black dog lapping the water in the baptismal. (His original witness being that he had seen a black winged creature, most likely a cherubim, come down out of heaven and drink of the dirty sin- laden water and then vanish, like Elijah; received back into heaven above.) Preacher South even affirmed hearing a twinkling sound, but saw nothing - as he was occupied with the hanging up of his hip waders - but he could swear he thought he heard a lapping sound and the tinkling, but could see nothing. Only that the baptismal waters seemed to have been again agitated.

The saints at Forrest Hills seemed captivated, nothing like this had ever happened in memory. The newborn brat was taking pleasure at being the center of attention, him being the middle-born brat in the Parish household, and was apparently milking the story for all it’s worth. Isabella had become, not only a new convert in the eyes of the faithful, but soon assumed the status reserved for Guy N. Woodson or one of the great pioneers of the Restoration Movement. She stood as a symbol of the power of elect over evil n spiritual warfare - and had like High Plains Drifter, simply gone away un-announced, a surrogate scape-goat; banished on account of the collective sins of the congregation.

Since those of the true faith handed down from the fathers don’t much acknowledge the intercession of the saints - nor believe in the modern day manifestations of the spirit like the Pentecostals - there was at first a fair amount of doubt and reticence among many at Forrest Hills Church. But here was something you could latch onto, and besides wasn’t there that example in the Old Testament on the Day of Atonement where it specifically mentions the scapegoat being sent off into the desert - an expiation bearing away the sins of the Israelites.

There was a Biblical precedent for every element in this supernatural thriller. There was book, chapter and verse. How could even Elder Britton, who himself kept a pet squirrel, deny the power of the Holy Ghost in such a matter. That the testimony of Hunnisucker and Standridge soon laid the mystery to rest - and the scapegoat was unmasked as Ice; the mixed breed labrador belonging to the Barkley bunch and gone off-leash. The fact that scripture and logic had beaten down ignorance and superstition, however, didn’t do much to damper the fires of enthusiasm about this singular event. The legend was soon as firmly in place as Acts 2:38, and in fact the middle brat had even begun to begin to manifest all the graces of co-operative - teen who in fact displayed all twelve of the Boy Scout Beatitudes; Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and of -course, Reverent. Never before had anybody in the congregation seen such a change in a new convert.

The old man had been washed away in un-deniable regeneration. That the scapegoatdog was no longer among the flock, but had been - like Phillip toward the Ethiopian eunuch moved by the spirit, gave even more credence to the general mysteriousness of her legacy at Forrest Hills. For some of the weak-minded babes in Christ, this had been a miraculous appearing, a new sign for a new generation: A people with itching ears, incredulous minds, and too easily detracted from the straight path; by the cares, the temptations, and the possessions of this passing age. The victorious Isabella had now appropriately enough, gone onward, a true Christian soldier, to foreign mission fields where she could manifest her spiritual fruits to the lost souls of a dying generation. With her damp front paws, and the smell of chlorine on her breath.