On many of those nights when sleep eludes me, I sit staring unseeingly at late night T.V. It is then that my thoughts wander back over the years to my childhood.
My family and I had moved to the community of Gardner in the spring of 1935, when I was only seven years old. I soon realized that my brother and I would not be lonely, for within a mile radius there were twelve to fifteen boys near our age. On most Saturdays and Sundays they all met at the nearby country store, run by a local family, the Plasters, or the railroad station, located in the heart of the community to organize a game or a trip of exploration. I marvel now at the things that our young minds could conjure up to do. Though our parents didn't always agree, we were not mean children. A little wild, maybe, but not mean. We didn't torture cats, destroy property, or take dope or drink, like so many of today's youth, or mock old people.
In the winter, we did our chores after school and in the summer we worked hard in the fields five and a half days a week. Saturday was a half day, with the afternoons free to follow our own devices, and Sunday, God's Day, was a day of rest.
Last night, I recalled an incident that happened in the spring of 1939 or 1940, that some would call down right mean. Let me assure you, however, we didn't intend it that way. It happened on the spur of the moment, and boys being boys, we simply could not pass up the opportunity. I do know that if our parents had learned of it, none of us would have been able to sit down for days.
Several of my friends and I had decided on Saturday afternoon that we would go frog hunting along nearby Clinch River Sunday morning. About eight of us met at the station house at nine o'clock that morning. Our group of boys all had some type of nickname that they went by, usually colorful, and, admittedly, usually gross in nature. The group included "Goose", "Gander", "Flop Ear", "Jake", "Pig", "Cow Flop", "Cuss Head". and myself. Between the eight of us, we had three Daisy BB guns, and various homemade gigs.
We hit the river bank at our favorite swimming hole, just east of Plaster's store. Highway 67 now covers that part of the river. We moved southwest along the bank, shooting or giging at frogs as they leaped from the bank into the water. It was still very foggy, and a light mist was falling, so we didn't get many frogs.
After about three hours in this pursuit, we arrived at the mill dam and abandoned mill. This was a large five story building, with all the machinery powered by a large water wheel. We decided to abandon our frog hunt, and explore. We slipped in though a small opening near the main drive shaft of the water wheel. From there we could reach all parts of the building. After checking out the machinery, we arrived at the topmost floor. Here we each found ourself a comfortable seat, and proceeded to dry off, and sit and talk.
After what seemed to be but a short time, we began to hear singing in the distance. We all climbed to a latticed window set high in the south wall of the mill, and peered down the river bank. There, approaching along the road that ran parallel to the river bank, was the entire congregation of the church that sat about two hundred yards from the mill. We could see that two of the women in the group were in old dresses and figured out that there was going to be a baptizing.
Now, we knew each and every man, woman, and child in the crowd. We had all attended Sunday School at the church, whenever they had a teacher, which wasn't often. As they drew nearer, we recognized the two women, dressed for baptism. We had all rumors about each of them, of the naughty nature, so to speak, but I don't think that had any bearing on what we did next. I know that none of us bore any malice for any of these people. and in our own individual ways, held religion in awe and reverence.
Nevertheless, that didn't stop us as the congregation approached the river bank , bowed their heads, and prayed. The preacher and the first of the converts entered the river to a point where the water reached a point about halfway between their knees and hips. The preacher's back was to us, with the woman facing downstream. We watched as he placed his left hand on her back, and the other in front. Though we could not hear, we knew he was repeating the baptismal liturgy.
What transpired next might be described as a move of the Spirit, and of all minds being in one accord. As the preacher bent to submerge the woman in the water, all eight pairs of boyish eyes received a revelation. Just as the preacher bent to plunge the woman beneath the "cleansing flood", our eyes were captured by the sight of his behind, highlighted by the tightly drawn suit material, dawning upon our vision.
Without a word being exchanged between us, three Daisy rifles raised with one accord, and fired. Now, those old BB guns shot nearly as hard as the gas powered ones of today.
The woman had hardly touched the water, when the preacher jerked her abruptly upright. He then slowly looked around at his congregation, as if wondering which one of them could be the culprit. After a moment of silent deliberation, he tried it again, and this time, we waited just an instant longer before pulling the trigger. This time, when the BB's met their mark, the preacher dropped the woman completely. She immediately plunged to the bottom of the river bed. Amid the splashing and thrashing, two deacons, who were there to assist in the baptism, beat their way to the submerged woman and rescued her. They then proceeded to lead her to dry land.
Being a man of great fortitude, the preacher then called for the second woman to be led out into the water. And, once more, we set the sights of our guns on his posterior at just the right moment. This time, the second woman was dropped with haste into the water,and once more, the deacons were pressed into unusual service. Both the deacons and the preacher scanned the surrounding banks for the erstwhile sniper, but the assailant could not be found.
Soon the baptismal rites were over, and the preacher, a little worse for wear, along with a bewildered congregation, and two half drowned converts returned to the church. When the crowd had dispersed, my friends and I made our way out of the old mill, and slipped unnoticed home, laughing as we raced on our way. We were both proud, and a little bit ashamed. But we never, I am sure, forgot that special Sunday, and our part in an old fashioned baptism.