I woke to church bells and the smell of bacon. Nana's voice called up the stairs, making sure I was awake and reminding me that we were going to Sunday service. I heard my brothers rough housing in the room next to mine and Lady's chain jingling as she came running up the steps and launched herself onto the bed. Sunshine streamed in the front windows and the day was cool and crystal clear. It was late August and soon we would be making preparations to leave the island, another summer gone seemingly before it had begun. Nana called again, a slight edge in her voice, and knowing how she hated to be late for church, I put thoughts of leaving aside and got up.
Not attending church was never an option, not even for my mother. My grandmother had strong and clearly defined feelings about Sunday mornings and repentance and we were all required to accompany her. When we didn't have a minister, villagers conducted services themselves, and the old Baptist hymns rang out through the open doors and windows with all the spirit of the island behind them. Beulah Land, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, Standing on the Promises, The Old Rugged Cross and my grandmother's favorite, In the Garden. Everyone knew every verse of every hymn, even The Church in the Wildwood, and we sang - if not well - with enthusiasm and pride and gusto. We cleansed our spirits with music and celebration and reverence. The choir didn't have robes and there was no church organ but before she died, old Mrs. Melanson had donated her upright piano and her daughter, Marlene, had taught herself the hymns. The keys were yellowed with age, some stained brown and slightly warped, B flat didn't play at all, but no one minded except Aunt Jenny, the choirmistress, who finally gave up when Uncle Shad observed to her, The good Lord says to make a joyful noise, Jenny, reckon He don't much care what key it's in.
Not attending church was never an option, not even for my mother. My grandmother had strong and clearly defined feelings about Sunday mornings and repentance and we were all required to accompany her. When we didn't have a minister, villagers conducted services themselves, and the old Baptist hymns rang out through the open doors and windows with all the spirit of the island behind them. Beulah Land, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, Standing on the Promises, The Old Rugged Cross and my grandmother's favorite, In the Garden. Everyone knew every verse of every hymn, even The Church in the Wildwood, and we sang - if not well - with enthusiasm and pride and gusto. We cleansed our spirits with music and celebration and reverence. The choir didn't have robes and there was no church organ but before she died, old Mrs. Melanson had donated her upright piano and her daughter, Marlene, had taught herself the hymns. The keys were yellowed with age, some stained brown and slightly warped, B flat didn't play at all, but no one minded except Aunt Jenny, the choirmistress, who finally gave up when Uncle Shad observed to her, The good Lord says to make a joyful noise, Jenny, reckon He don't much care what key it's in.
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