Rednecks and Roses

My Mama always said, "There's no such thing as a good snake. They're all just the same as the devil and all you got to do is look in the Bible; from the very beginning, it was a snake that was sent to tempt people."

Well, now, I'm almost ready to believe she's right; especially after what happened at the baptizing following our great revival meeting of July, 1937.

In the 1930's, Spradlin Hollow, Alabama, was an almost abandoned coal mining camp; and times were hard. Nobody there could afford a car, so the young people had to find their entertainment close to home. Attending church was one of the few ways for them to meet each other socially. Of course, there were the occasional wiener roasts or marshmallow toasts in the winter and watermelon cuttings in the summer. But going to church was the main thing; and a week long revival meeting was a big occasion--somewhere to go, every night for a week. Many couples became engaged in church, and not a few fell from Grace on the walk home afterwards.

July, the month for revival meetings in Spradlin Hollow is hot and humid. There was no air conditioning there in 1937, so the people kept cool in church by opening all the doors and windows and fanning themselves with cardboard fans-on-a-stick, supplied to all the churches by Brown Service Funeral Home.

Following the practice of generations of churchgoers, the Spradlin Hollow revivals were conducted with a set ritual: opening hymns sung by the congregation; a testimonial period, when anyone could stand and say what was in his heart or on his mind; a hymn sung while the offering was collected; the introduction of the visiting evangelist by the local pastor.

Then the evangelist delivered his sermon, after which he said a long fervent prayer seeking divine intervention for the saving of lost souls. The climax of the service was the invitation, when the preacher asked all to bow their heads while the congregation softly sang the invitation hymn--usually "Just as I am Without One Plea, or "Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling"--while his voice over-pleaded with sinners to come forward and be saved.

For the revival meeting in 1937, the evangelist was Brother Vernon Lee Willbanks, pastor of the near-by

Sipsey Crossing Baptist Church--invited because of his record of many new members brought into the church and by his sincere and fiery sermons.

The first night's service was predictable; a satisfying message, enjoyable singing and two teen-aged girls came forward to accept the preacher's invitation--about what the congregation expected.

With each succeeding night the excitement mounted; the preacher became more animated; the hymn singing became louder and more people were coming forward to be saved. Friday night would be a night to remember--still remembered fifty-eight years later by all who were there and by those who said they were there.

That night was exceptionally hot and humid with storm clouds building and distant lightning flickering behind the hills in the west. The church was packed to overflowing; the crowd buzzing with anticipation, expecting something momentous. But what did happen was something no one would ever have predicted.

The church sat below a road that ran parallel to the east side of the building. The bank between the road and the church house provided a seat for those men who never went to church, but were entertained by the spectacle of a big and successful revival meeting.

That night they were joined by Doreen Sledge, a middle aged woman of something less than a virtuous reputation--a lot less. She was the sort of woman that mothers pointed out to their daughters with a warning: that's exactly what you expect to happen to women of easy virtue and alcoholic excesses.

Even those people who minded their own business and were liberal in their judgments were hard-pressed to find something good about her.

Doreen walked up to the men and said, "What the hell's all the excitement? ... -- No answer. " ... anybody got a drink?"

There were a few grunts meaning, "No."

"Well, at least, one of you bastards oughta have a smoke."

One of the men handed her a can of Prince Albert tobacco and a pack of papers for her to roll her own; which she did as well as any man. Another gave her a match that she struck with her thumb nail.

There she was, a forty-two year old woman with dirty graying hair cut like a Dutch boy's; a greasy soiled dress that somebody gave her a long time ago; old tattered, run-down tennis shoe and squatting down on her haunches with a bunch of men no better than she was.

They treated her as their equal, so they accepted her as they did any of the men who were seated on the road-bank. The service had entered the invitation; the congregation was softly singing; the evangelist was calling for converts and something in Doreen's long forgotten past, something from her happy childhood moved her to tears. She stood up, scratched and started down the bank helped along by one man and then another, until she was standing in the opened back door to the church. She took a step inside the door. The amazed congregation on the front rows stopped singing. One by one the remainder stopped until the only one left singing was Miz Brakefield--singing alto with her eyes shut. She finally realized she was the only one singing, stopped and opened her eyes to see what was wrong.

Now, Doreen's moral turpitude was known area wide; even unto the Reverend Willbanks, who was rendered speechless by her dramatic entrance but soon recovered enough to take her to the altar for prayer. As she and the preacher knelt at the altar, there was a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder; the long delayed storm broke like the wrath of God There was hardly anybody in that church that did not think that God was making a statement.

Everything that happened after that was anti-climactic.

There remained another night of revival but the people talked of nothing else except Doreen Sledge and her seemingly miraculous conversion. She was walking proof that God worked in marvelous ways, and all agreed that now indeed, they had seen everything. Because they had been privileged to see a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, many did not attend the last night of the revival. They did not expect anything to happen, so they went to the picture shows in Brookside instead.

The baptizing was scheduled for Sunday afternoon in Five Mile Creek, just above the bridge, where the water was waist deep and where there was easy access to the creek banks and a gentle slope down to the water. I was headed in that direction when I saw Benn Gleason ambling along the road and called, "Hey Benn, whatcha doin’?"