Go, Big Steamer

For a kid growing up in an evangelical Southern family, wine had no place at the dinner table.

The drink of choice was sweet tea, very sweet tea that flowed as freely as the insulin rush that followed.  Diabetes and obesity be damned, at least the caffeine high and sugar lull didn’t make you dance, possibly naked, like the commoners that drank alcohol.

Any and all family celebrations were totally dry affairs. Weddings made for particularly interesting occasions, especially when one tea-totaller clan married into another.  Sparkling apple juice bubbling from plastic champagne flutes, red Solo cups filled to the brim with Mountain Dew and Tab soda.

Even liturgical use of wine was a no-no. Vinum de vite, wine of the mass was a Catholic concept.  We had no idea if Catholics were real Christians, but we weren’t taking any chances.  Alcohol “just wasn’t needed” to mark our faith or insure a good time.

Sunday school teachers reminded us that wine was different in Biblical times. One teacher, a beautiful young woman this 10 year old had a crush on, wisely imparted that wine had no alcohol back then. Interesting.  Another miracle I guess.

To tempt your taste buds with modern wine was to lay chocolates at the Devil’s door. Satan, you see, would use whatever means necessary to seize his prey and his surest weapon was fermented fruit.  Evil yes, but very smart, as his secret was to make it taste really good. He was the original snake oil salesman methodically lubing his victims into a haze of blissful relaxation while usurping their souls of all goodness, their minds of all common sense.

Welcome to Hell, brother.

The only way to keep The Big S at bay was to steer clear of booze, attend church and pray.  A lot.  Sunday morning, Sunday night, followed by a mid week brush up on Wednesday evenings.  Morning services started at 11AM and came to a rambling conclusion around 12:45- 1PM.  Two hours of preaching that scared the living crap out of my siblings and me.

Each service, though vastly different, followed a similar structure:  opening hymn, visitor welcome, announcements, choir performance, 30-40 minute sermon, offering plate passed under another hymn, Alter Call, a hymn, communion, and dismissal as another hymn played us out of the building.

There were special performances every month or so, in which a traveling musical group, all wearing the same costume sang a few uplifting songs and took up a separate offering. There was also a morbidly obese saxophonist and blind accordion player that occasionally accompanied the piano and organ on a hymn or two.

The Alter Call, in particular, was the event that caught the attention of a young, potential sinner-in-the-making like me. The minister invited those that had transgressed to make their way to the front of the church to ask forgiveness. It was, of course, the sinner’s choice to share the episode or kneel quietly as the pastor and other members placed their hands on backs and prayed.

I knew why the sinners were down there and I vowed then and there that I would never, ever smell, touch or taste any fermented beverage for as long as I lived.

As the newly forgiven made their way back to their seats, and the service was nearing it’s end, my friends and I got excited as it was only a matter of moments before the old steam engine would begin stoking its fires.

None of us knew his real name, as we were instructed to refer to adult church members as “Brother” or “Sister.”  Brother Roper was an impeccably dressed older gentleman with an easy smile, firm handshake and a hearty ‘God Blessya.’  He settled in to the same pew, same seat, every Sunday morning at 10:55AM.

To a youngster, he was the life of the party with only one real name: Freight Train.

Freight Train Roper would sing quietly as the hymns played. But then a very strange thing would happen.  Odd noises radiated from his body.  A near wailing cry followed by an animal like huffing, puffing, louder and louder, then “CHHH- CHHH- CHOOOOOO- CHOOOOO!! WOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOO! HALLELEIUJAH!!!!!!”

Up and out of the pew he’d fly, hands raised to the heavens for a trip or two around the track. The track consisted of the farthest aisles on either side of the church.  With arms in the air, he ran, shouted and praised.  At times he appeared to run half a lap with his eyes closed.

It was a particularly good sign if Freight Train brought it home with a sprint down the center aisle while tearing off his suit jacket, followed by a trot up the pulpit.  That meant a handshake and hug for a few choir members.

Freight Train wrapped it all up with an explosive lesson in linguistics.  Bent over and gasping for breath, he’d rise slowly with a deep moan, stretch his arms to either side and begin speaking in tongues.  We watched in awe, knowing that it was not for us to understand what he was saying.  Only God knew.

Communion followed.  Tiny thimbles of Welch’s Concord Grape Juice and snippets of Saltine crackers.

Wine?  Unthinkable.

That stuff makes you do crazy things.

See you back here in a few.

TG