Butch Wax

I learned early on that all days were not the same. Some were better than others. Sunday mornings were the best, filled with excitement as sisters and brothers got ready for church. Our old timey bathroom had a waiting line, and the smell of perfume and hairspray was everywhere. I got to wear a white shirt and my shiny church shoes, which I had usually polished with wax the night before. Since they were a little big for me we stuffed newspaper in the heel ends to keep them on my feet, but that was OK. With Kiwi Wax on my shoes and Butch Wax on my hair, smelling pink, my sisters would say "Now ain't you a Pretty Looking Thing!".

Yes maam I am. I am ripping ready.

There is a protocol to churchgoing in the south. Everybody goes to Sunday School first, and then to preaching. My Sunday School teacher was sweet to me, since she was also my brother's girlfriend. She was a big girl, a Sophomore at Etowah High School. She seemed to always be chewing Juicy Fruit gum, and would pass around sticks of it to the children at the start of class. Our teacher would read us a Bible story from the Sunday School book, and then open the floor for questions, which no one ever had. After awhile, we just sat staring at the concrete block walls and waiting for the bell to ring. There was a time when we were allowed to play around after the class, but a woman in the next room complained that she could hear us whooping and hollering through the walls, so our teacher made sure we were extra quiet. When the bell did ring we were glad to be dismissed to go upstairs for preaching.

The preaching was the best part of all. In independent Baptist churches it is carried out with fervor, as much a show as anything else. Unlike the staid First Baptist types in town (they were called "The Frozen Chosen" by some), people always knew our church was in session. You could hear the preaching and singing all the way out at the street.