My Great Uncle Junior was a scruffy old curmudgeon. A classic mean ol' bahstid and he said just what he thought, although sometimes it was what you call a mite backhanded. He swore like a pirate and he smelled like wet wool, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and George Washington Chewing Tobacco. He was a master whittler, friend to all children, and the bane of anyone with even the slightest inclination toward self importance. He was a native.
Mainer standard issue uniform: Green dickies, gum rubbers, three days of stubble and a gimme hat.
Needless to say, he was not much for society and avoided all enterprises that required clean clothes and language. Of course, that included church. Now, that is not to say that Junior didn't read God's word or know scripture. His mother, my great-great grandmother was a Methodist and put the fear of God straight into him, I'm sure. He had a well thumbed bible and it was well loved, too.
His wife, Lorena, who everyone called Bubbles, was a saint. Junior married late in life and was happy all his days with his choice, though it puzzled us greatly.
Aunt Bubbles, his one and only sweetheart was probably the most inappropriately named woman I ever knew. She was thin and pale,quietly morose and very pious. She did love going to church and went up to her home town Catholic church every Sunday, about 45 miles away.
They were married for 35 years and when she passed away at 79, Junior decided that he needed to start going to church. It just seemed like the right thing to do. But Junior didn't drive and was born and bred a Methodist, so the Catholic church was out, so off he went, one Sunday morning to the new church up over on the Snigtop road with all the pretty windows and the beautiful white paint, the closest one to walk to.
We all didn't know much about those new church folks, us being mostly heathens, but that was Junior's choice and we didn't interfere. Whatever gave him some comfort was good with us, he'd been pretty lonesome without Bubbles.
So in he went, after walking the two miles to the church (in the rain) and he sat up back in his dickies and his gum rubbers and a yellow slicker, dripping on the pretty new gold carpet. When he got home he didn't say much about the sermon or how it went, but he did say he'd introduced himself to a few folks and was going back. Which he did. Several times.
And then he stopped going.
Eventually curiousity got the best of me and I ventured a question one afternoon while we were having tea and a few boughten cookies.
I asked, "Why did you stop going to that new church?"
Wellsa, he looked at me and he said, "Lovey, I aint quite sure. I just didn't get a good feeling about it. "They was good enough, and I went a few times, good singing, nice enough preacher and he had a pretty young wife. The kind that looks at an old mollusk like me as if they smelt something like bad scallops.. ya know?
I said, "Oh yes... I know the sort."
"She told me the next to the last time I was there, that I should have myself a talk with God during the week to see about what He thinks might be
proper attire for a fella to come to this church wearin'."
I said, "Oh?"
He went on, "So I did."
And I said, "Well, a'coss you did."
And he said after a long pause, "Ayuh."
So then...since he was not going to go on, I had to ask. "What happened when you went back, Uncle Junior?"
"Wellsa," he said, "I went back after my talk with the Lord and straight away that preacher's wife come straight up to me after the service and looked me up and down and said, 'I thought I asked you to speak to God and ask Him what is proper attire to wear to this church?"
"Well? What did you tell her?" I said.
"Well, I smiled awful nice to the pretty lady and said, "I did ask, Ma'am, but He said He didn't know cause He said he'd never been here."
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