Each
of us has moments in our lives that, while not great revelations or “aha”
events, do aid us in how we react to situations and respond to circumstances in
the future. These moments may not seem substantial at the time. Upon reflection,
they could have produced a totally different world if a response had been
delivered differently. My life has been filled with moments such as this. But
let me set the stage for one such event.
Being
a product of the 1950s, I have witnessed many changes to the world and
advancements in technology, but people really haven’t changed that much. But
alas, technology has little to do with my story. In fact, people and the lack
of technology are more relevant. As I said, growing up in the 50s things were a
little different. They were even more different for a little red headed boy who
lived in the not-so-big city of Graham with his mother, four sisters, and his father
the Baptist minister. But of course, my father was not just any Baptist
minister. He was the pastor of a country church in, oh, let’s call it Cedar
Grove, North Carolina just in case this tale might see the light of day. A
thriving crossroads in Orange County that could boast of Pope’s General Store
and Acme Feed and Seed, a quarter mile down the “highway”.
Just
so that you have a good feel for the setting, the church was a white, wood
frame country church set back off the road in a wooded glen. There was no heat
or air conditioning in the building (which might explain the dwindling
attendance in the winter months) but it wasn’t so bad in the summer with the
large oak tree canopy providing shade. The church interior was well appointed
with two large ornate chairs behind the pulpit and a choir loft that would seat
upwards of twenty choir members of various singing ability. To the left of the
pulpit was the black upright piano with a floor fan behind it. Why anyone
thought that the pianist would work up more of a sweat than anyone else was
puzzling to me. I certainly would have appreciated a little of that breeze while
wearing my dapper little sport coat and snappy clip-on tie. The sanctuary was
filled with rows of homemade pews that were constructed of long slats with one inch
gaps between the slats. This construction and its tendency to expand and
retract when under pressure was a constant amusement at the expense of the more
rotund members of the congregation. Many pews were marked by a variety of
cushions in a wide spectrum of designs. These served as reservations for individual
family pews much like the tartan designs that designated a Scottish Highland
clan.
The
congregation was made up of about 150 members, a regular mega-church of the
era. Attendance numbers were quite another matter. Members came from such far
flung places as Rougemont, Hurdle Mills, or even Efland. The membership was
predominantly divided along the family lines of Crabtree, Porterfield, Horner,
and of course Smith. So any church vote nearly always resulted in a four way
tie. The attendance highlight of the year, other than Easter or the Christmas
pageant, was the annual Homecoming Sunday with dinner on the grounds. One such
Homecoming Sunday produced the “aha” moment that I referred to earlier. The
very moment that, had a response been delivered differently, could well have
rent the universe in two, or more likely started a shooting feud.
One
year, around 1963, on a beautiful May Homecoming Sunday, we were headed to
church from our home in Graham. It was a thirty minute ride to church each way
and afforded us children a chance to catch up on our sleep or play our favorite
car ride game of “Stop touching me; Mom she’s touching me.” As we approached
the church, our Dad gave us some last minute instructions for the Homecoming
meal.
“Kids,
listen to me. It would probably be best if you eat only the chicken that your
mother brought. And if you want anything else, let your mother get it for you.”
Father said this as if he knew a secret that we were not privy to.
“Why?”
I asked. For that is just what an eight year old kid is supposed to do: ask why.
“Well”
Dad replied, “Some of the ladies don’t use Crisco to cook their food like your
mother, especially sister Bessie.” Sister Bessie was an older lady of the
church and very faithful in attendance. My suspicion was that she just wanted
to keep up with all of the goings on. Her name certainly fit her description as
she was a rather round lady, who seemed to always wear a black polka-dot dress
and hat that made her look like the Guernsey cow on the milk carton.
I
couldn’t just accept that as a final word. Being the sharp, inquisitive young
man that I was, I pressed for more information. “Well what does she use?”
My
mother, of course, went for the shock factor in the hopes of putting an end to
the discussion and replied, “Possum fat and lard.”
“Oooo,
yuck!” was the immediate chorus that sang out from my sisters. They performed
it with such perfect pitch and timing that any of the church quartets would
have committed the sin of envy. But it had the effect on me that Mother
desired.
That
Sunday, the church was packed; some families even had to share their pews with
non-family members. After the sermon, we filed out of the church to the tables
that had been constructed under the oaks out back. The ladies of the church all
spread their feasts out on the tables. A wide variety of fried chicken, pot
roasts - at least I think that it was pot roast - potato salad, green bean
casseroles, collard greens, and biscuits of all shapes. The dessert table was
filled with cakes and pies of every flavor and color. The cakes and pies seemed
to keep switching positions on the table as if someone wanted to ensure that
their offering was certainly consumed. It would have been a personal affront
for one of the ladies to have to slink back to her car with anything other than
an empty serving dish. After everyone had consumed all that they could hold or
dare to partake of, everyone began to pack up their serving dishes and head to
their cars. At this point, Sister Bessie produced a cake that had yet to be
defiled by a cake knife. Walking up to my father, Bessie presented him with the
baked concoction of dubious origin and ingredients and said, “Preacher, I made
this here cake special for you and your family.”
“Why
thank you, Sister,” he said.
Baptists
tend to call each other brother and sister a lot. I was leaning toward not
letting anybody know that I might be related to some of them. As we loaded up
in our station wagon to head home, all of us children jockeyed for positions in
the car as far away from that cake as possible. To be honest, I wasn’t so sure
that thing was dead yet.
“What
are you going to do with that, that thing?” my mother asked.
“I’m
not sure,” was Dad’s reply.
As
soon as we were out of Orange County and sure that no relative of Sister Bessie
might be in the vicinity, my father stopped the car at a gas station. Since it
was Sunday, and way back in the 60s when no one ever dared to be open for
business on a Sunday, it was a deserted locale. Dad took the cake out of the
back of the wagon and scraped it off of the cake plate into a garbage barrel.
Then we quickly sped away from the scene of the crime. Each of us kids knew the
unspoken rule of a minister’s family was to never speak of what goes on in our
family to any of the members of the church, especially this incident.
We
eagerly awaited the next Sunday to see how Dad was going to explain the demise
of the putrid baked goods. Mother washed the cake plate until it was probably
cleaner than it had been since its creation the previous century.
So
finally Sunday arrived and as we drove to church, Dad gently reminded us to
never speak of “the cake” to anyone.
“If
any of you mention what happened to Bessie’s cake, I will take my belt to your
bottom until you can’t sit down for a week!” Father could not only preach fire
and brimstone, but he could wield it with the belt also.
As
the worshippers left after the service that morning, Dad shook hands and spoke
with each as they exited the back of the church. As Sister Bessie came through
the line, Dad presented her with her cake plate all the while praying that she
would say nothing to him. All of us kids and my mother were anxiously waiting
to see how he could possibly get out of this without breaking one of the Ten
Commandments.
Then
Sister Bessie asked, “Preacher, I hope you and the family liked the cake?” We all collectively
held our breath waiting for what would undoubtedly be a lie. If Dad told the
unvarnished truth at this moment, in front of so many people, the church would
likely split over such an insult to someone’s family member. Baptist churches,
in fact, have been known to split apart over such weighty differences as the
type of toilet paper the church was to buy or someone getting to sing a solo
before another person. But those stories are for another time. Anyway, we stood
there waiting for the response that very likely would bring about an
apocalyptic event or at the least a Biblical plague.
“Sister
Bessie, cake like that just doesn’t last long around our house” was Dad’s
reply.
From
that moment, I realized that there was a way to always tell the truth and still
allow everyone to walk away with a smile on their face and morals intact. It
was not necessary to explain every action in its most brutal detail. There were
tactful ways of extricating yourself and not insulting anyone. Hurting
someone’s feelings over an attempt to do good was never going to accomplish
anything. Not long after that Sister Bessie passed away and I think that cake
recipe was buried with her.
But
years later as a grown man, this lesson came back to me. At the time, I was
living in an apartment in Burlington and in the apartment beneath me was an
older lady that liked to mother me in her own fashion. One day after coming
home from work, Mrs. Waters met me on the stairs with one of her homemade spice
cakes. Why couldn’t it be vanilla or lemon, maybe chocolate? Not wanting to
offend her, I thanked her for it and took it upstairs with me. Later that
evening I threw the cake into the trash can and washed off the plate to return.
After
a few days I walked downstairs to return the plate. When Mrs. Waters came to
the door and took the plate, she asked me “How did you like the spice cake?”
To
say the least my mind was scrambling for a response. Then the incident from my
childhood came back to me and I blurted out with a smile on my face, “Cake like
that doesn’t last long around my house.” She smiled and seemed quite pleased
with herself. I don’t know if I was missing something in the delivery or if I
returned the plate too soon, but I ended up with a spice cake every other week
until I moved out of that apartment four months later.
