Papa, tall, lean, quiet
Congregated every Sunday with
A group of men outside our small
Baptist church, nestled deep within
The piney forests of central Mississippi

Conversations usually centered
Around the weather
Rain, too much, too little
Cotton, corn, boll weevils, pine beetles
Clearing bottomland, raising a barn
Sows, cows, bulls and hens
Anyone coming or going you didn’t know
And “how’s the family”
Eyes constantly glancing towards the road

The community was close knit
Related by blood, marriage or history
Everyone knew one another
And a stranger stood out like a pig
In a flock of geese
The men welcomed families, relatives
And neighbors

Dirt roads leading to the church
Threw a light dusting of red clay
On every pair of shoes
Round collars with string ties
Framed strong leather necks
Nearly white shirts and dark suits
Enveloped steel shoulders and iron hands

Wagons, mules and horses tied to posts
Were juxtaposed with Model T’s
Shotguns and pistols hid under seats

The church set high on a hill
Above the red clay and gravel road
(they swear God chose it)
A strategic location
One could view all comers

The community cemetery perched
On another hill behind the church
Provided a foundation for family histories
A final rooting for family trees
Previously scattered to the wind

The white washed pine slat
House of the Lord
Set upon ten stacks of red clay brick
Rose three feet from the ground
A single set of wood stairs
Ascended to a double door entry
Leading to a single room of pews
Accented with prayer books, hand fans
And a knotty pine podium
An oak carved Jesus nailed to a cross
Hung high on the back wall facing the doors

Ladies wore their finest Sunday dresses
Pink, navy, light blue, white and wine
Patterned with flowery figures, dots or stripes
Dressy percales from Sears catalog
Heads crowned by their smartest hats
Accented with feathers from some unlucky bird
Children sported their best home sewn attire

Women gripping Bibles hugged and
Greeted family and friends
Men shook hands and children played
Gossip slipped under smiles
As minister, deacons, good sisters
And families took to their seats

Voices filled the church with spiritual verve
Singers and chorus erupted
Tambourines played
Stomping of pine floors echoed like drums
Sermons rose from the preacher’s bass chords
Testifying resounded with “Thank you Jesus”
And a thousand “Amen”
While outside a few men
Continued to quietly chat

Why didn’t Papa and the other men
Go inside the church and attend service
Why did they come to church
Sunday, a day for rest and reflection
Was always a welcome reward to a hard week
Farmers were certainly worn by Sunday

Perhaps because of the times
To protect the community
Since all women and children were inside
They kept an eye on the roads so raiders
Couldn’t surprise folk, burn houses
And string up men

Maybe, so little girls wouldn’t be bombed
Forty years too soon
As men relaxed, went inside and
Prayed with their wives and children
Because they forgot
Times hadn’t changed
_____________________________________________
Copyright © 2008 by F. Geoffrey Johnson
All rights reserved
First published in Black Magnolias, A Literary Journal, 2008

There were a group of men that always
stayed outside the church and talked….