counterpoint to Brother Modest’s suave delivery of the gospel gave her a much-needed sense of worth, and intuitive concentration kept her half a step in front of every word forming in his mouth. If a man or woman ever paid closer attention to what a preacher was about to say than my mother, he or she was unknown in the East End. It was because of her righteousness that I was shocked senseless when, during an exploratory visit to the shabby little Church of God on Pilot Street, she allowed her mind to wander during the preacher’s monumentally long and boring sermon. Leaning sideways, she whispered sarcastically, “The Lord’s movin’ in the house this mornin’, isn’t He, son?” Before I could squelch the spasm, I’d committed the most unpardonable of all childhood sins—giggling in church. And unbelievably, it was my mother who’d made me laugh. Then, walking home from a onetime visit to the Assembly of God on Mercury Drive, she muttered, “Next time I need me a three-hour nap, I’ll go back over to that shit hole.” I had heard my mother use mild curse words many times before, but never in connection with the House of the Lord. I was starting to worry.
Perfunctory surveys of the Church of Christ on Market Street and the imposing and obligatory redbrick Baptist church on the corner of Palestine Street and Kirby Avenue only deepened her frustration. “Why, they ain’t a church house in all of Jacinto City worth puttin’ on a clean dress for,” she grumbled. “I might as well go on and surrender to the Devil.” Fortunately, her misgivings about finding a spiritual home in such a Godless vacuum were soon to pass.
Tent revivals—the Barnum & Bailey version of soul salvation—had begun cropping up around us like Bedouin villages, and the ones passing through southeast Texas at that time were owned and operated by some of the most highly skilled Devil-debunking outfits ever assembled. Starved as she was for a good old-fashioned Christian tongue-lashing, my poor mother didn’t take long to fall for the disingenuous charms of a series of nomadic evangelists, and before long her passion for hellfire-and-cash-money hucksters was even more intense than her crush on Brother Modest.
She couldn’t drive a car, due to her nerves, but that didn’t matter. She finagled rides to and from the revivals with the tenacity of kudzu. Young, middle-aged, and old Bible-thumping women were only too happy to park in front of the house and honk their horns for Sister Crowell to come hear Brother So-and-So preach, sometimes fourteen nights running.
My father gave her a hard time about this, often adopting a prim, singsong soprano to mock her newfound sisterhood. “Cauzette, one-a them church heifers just pulled up. You better get on out the door ’fore that ole biddy drives outta here.” And then, back in his natural voice, “I swear, I never seen nothin’ like these goddamn women haulin’ your ass around.”
“J. W. Crowell, if you don’t stop takin’ the Lord’s name in vain, you’re goin’ straight to hell.”
“I’d just as soon go there as whichever tent y’all are headed off to.”
The tent-revival period was a good one for me. Sunday night rides were often so overcrowded that I was allowed to stay home with my father and watch Gunsmoke . During the school year, weeknight revivals were subject to the fictitious demands of unfinished homework. Summer months were more vulnerable, since only Little League games constituted an excused absence. This new string of Brother So-and-Sos who’d so thoroughly captured my mother’s imagination failed to make any impression on me. One incident, however, I’ll never forget.
In the spring of 1959, my mother attended a weeklong revival twenty miles east of Houston in the small town of Highlands. Word got around the tent that Sister Crowell was epileptic; furthermore, that the poor girl had no control over when, how, or where she’d be struck down. The core group
Perfunctory surveys of the Church of Christ on Market Street and the imposing and obligatory redbrick Baptist church on the corner of Palestine Street and Kirby Avenue only deepened her frustration. “Why, they ain’t a church house in all of Jacinto City worth puttin’ on a clean dress for,” she grumbled. “I might as well go on and surrender to the Devil.” Fortunately, her misgivings about finding a spiritual home in such a Godless vacuum were soon to pass.
Tent revivals—the Barnum & Bailey version of soul salvation—had begun cropping up around us like Bedouin villages, and the ones passing through southeast Texas at that time were owned and operated by some of the most highly skilled Devil-debunking outfits ever assembled. Starved as she was for a good old-fashioned Christian tongue-lashing, my poor mother didn’t take long to fall for the disingenuous charms of a series of nomadic evangelists, and before long her passion for hellfire-and-cash-money hucksters was even more intense than her crush on Brother Modest.
She couldn’t drive a car, due to her nerves, but that didn’t matter. She finagled rides to and from the revivals with the tenacity of kudzu. Young, middle-aged, and old Bible-thumping women were only too happy to park in front of the house and honk their horns for Sister Crowell to come hear Brother So-and-So preach, sometimes fourteen nights running.
My father gave her a hard time about this, often adopting a prim, singsong soprano to mock her newfound sisterhood. “Cauzette, one-a them church heifers just pulled up. You better get on out the door ’fore that ole biddy drives outta here.” And then, back in his natural voice, “I swear, I never seen nothin’ like these goddamn women haulin’ your ass around.”
“J. W. Crowell, if you don’t stop takin’ the Lord’s name in vain, you’re goin’ straight to hell.”
“I’d just as soon go there as whichever tent y’all are headed off to.”
The tent-revival period was a good one for me. Sunday night rides were often so overcrowded that I was allowed to stay home with my father and watch Gunsmoke . During the school year, weeknight revivals were subject to the fictitious demands of unfinished homework. Summer months were more vulnerable, since only Little League games constituted an excused absence. This new string of Brother So-and-Sos who’d so thoroughly captured my mother’s imagination failed to make any impression on me. One incident, however, I’ll never forget.
In the spring of 1959, my mother attended a weeklong revival twenty miles east of Houston in the small town of Highlands. Word got around the tent that Sister Crowell was epileptic; furthermore, that the poor girl had no control over when, how, or where she’d be struck down. The core group
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