Baptism's fireworks left a lasting impression

Last week, I told you all about Parson Jack’s bush arbor meeting held yearly at the little coal mining community in Alabama where I was born.

I compared the revival meeting to the Festival at Sandpoint and I think that was an apt comparison. The Festival has a featured artist and so did our festival of sorts — Parson Jack.

The Festival at Sandpoint ends with what they call a fireworks finale and so did ours. Folks, that is what I want to talk to you about today — the ending fireworks of that revival meeting.

However, before we get there I need to kind of set the stage for you and tell you about the place where it all took place.

On a recent trip to Alabama, I went back to the place where everyone gathered to celebrate the harvest that Parson Jack had garnered. To get there, I drove as far as I could down an old deserted road that led to the Cahaba River. I used to walk that road when I was a kid and even though it was grown over with trees and brush, I remembered it as it used to be.

In my mind, I could see old Mr. Adams coming up the road with a wagonload of corn — the green kind in the wagon bed and the pouring kind in a jug under the seat.

Making my way down to the small river, I saw that the rocks I was looking for were still there.

It was on these rocks in the middle of the river that all the men in the little community gathered every summer-time Saturday.

Someone would bring a bar of Octagon soap and everyone took a bath whether they needed it or not. That strong soap would not only remove the dirt but would effectively remove a considerable amount of hide.

Now I want to tell you about what I started to tell you about in the first place. It happened on a Sunday afternoon right after Parson Jack had ended his revival meeting on Saturday night.

It, as always, started with a question. The people of the community had gathered on the banks of the Cahaba River.

The kids had climbed up the trees to look down on the whole proceedings. Old Mr. White stepped up to the bank of the river with a long staff in his hand and he started singing, “Shall we gather at the river?”

 I never understood why he asked if we should gather at the river when everyone had already done so.

After the song, the preacher took the staff from Mr. White and that meant only one thing — there was going to be a baptizing. The parson started wading in the river using the staff to find a suitable depth for the proceedings and to push aside any snakes that decided to drop in the water.

The preacher kept poking that long stick until he found a deep hole.

Everyone there knew why because today Sister Gert was going to be baptized for about the 20th time. She was a good soul, all 325 pounds of her, and for this occasion, she had made herself a new flour sack dress.

To be honest it took more than one sack for that dress because it was huge. My dad said that she made it that big because she planned to double in volume by next year’s baptizing.

The preacher baptized all the people who had hit the sawdust trail except Sister Gert who he saved for last. He took her by the hand and moved into deeper water and her husband was overheard saying, “They’ll soon be hitting flood stage downstream.”

The preacher gazed at the people on the shore and said a few words before he tried to plunged her under.

He must have miscalculated her weight because just the bottom part of Gert made it under the water. He was not to be outdone so he re-calculated and pushed her under a little further than usual.

All of a sudden, her feet and legs shot into the air and that dress ballooned out and covered the preacher and Gert.

This seemed to confuse the preacher and he let go of his hold on her and for what seemed like a long time, the crowd watched what looked like two people fighting under a downed hot air balloon.

The good sister eventually shot to the surface, red of face, and shooting out a whale size waterspout.

The singing stopped just in time for everyone to hear her scream, “You old fool, what are you trying to do, drown me?

To the best of my knowledge, Sister Gert never again walked down that sawdust trail and baptizings were never the same after that.

I figure she either felt that last time had done the job or she couldn’t gather enough flour sacks to adequately cover the subject.