Figured you all might need a report thread!
Here is the PDF link for the Barr Summary, H/T to Roberta: LINK
Have at it!

After the disturbing Q drops yesterday, thought it might be a good time for a break and some levity. Our research on this issue will be grim and sordid. Here’s something to brighten your day. In our family, we refer to the Cattawampas story as our $100 story. It’s a winner.

My first husband owned a construction company and he was having a difficult week. They were pouring the foundation for a large school and some of his concrete workers were ‘missing’. The ‘pour’ had to be done at one time and was a logistical nightmare – 36 hours straight. At one point, there were 23 concrete trucks lined up. At night, the concrete had to be covered, and the men worked under lights. He rarely came home that week, sleeping in his car, and when he did come home, his clothing had to be thrown away. His body was showing the stress and I felt badly for him. He used to love it when I rubbed his back after a long day, but that week, everything on him, hurt.

Back at the B&B, we had a house full of business guests all week and we were humming.

By Friday, the pour was done and he was feeling victorious. As is typical for construction guys on a Friday, they headed to the beer store. He stopped at the butcher and had 1 1/2″ ribeyes cut specifically, which I was marinating. He was home by 4:00pm, firing up the grill, and surveying the yard work required for the weekend, when a lady from the Historical Commission pulled into our driveway. I was sitting at the computer in the library. The desk is in front of a large window which looks out to side porch and porte cochere, but the window is covered with lace curtains. So, I could not see to whom he was speaking.

His voice got louder and the woman was gesticulating wildly. They were arguing. I thought, “that’s odd”, and I rounded the corner to the side porch to open the door and see what was going on. There she was Jane, an elder member of my lady’s club. She insisted my husband repaint, at his expense, a commercial awning for a historical building downtown, because it did not match her “historical” paint chips from Sherwin Williams.

The LAST thing my husband needed after the week he had was a lady from the “Hysterical Commission” in his driveway on Friday night while he was ready to drink beer and cook a steak. I walked outside to talk to Jane and try a little diplomacy. One of the things I did before we bought the house was take a senior level class on historical architecture and period correct interiors. As gracefully as possible, I explained to Jane, the Sherwin Williams “historical collection” was from the Revolutionary War (Newport Blue, Colonial Yellow, Williamsburg Green) but the building in question was built in 1877, more “Williams Morris” color scheme, and thus the color chosen, was, in fact, period correct.

She didn’t like that answer. She wanted it re-painted at husband’s expense, which would also change the customer’s color scheme for their corporate logo and brochures, already printed. Husband yelled. She yelled. He yelled some more. She threatened to withhold final payment on the job. He yelled. She started crying. He didn’t care about her crying. She finally left.

Husband went back to drinking beer and cooking a steak. Don’t bother husband on a Friday night when he’s cooking a steak after a long week.

Guests arrived, thank heaven they didn’t show up in the middle of Jane in the driveway, and all was well. By Sunday, everyone checked out, I spun the rooms, a mountain of laundry, and by 3:35pm, Sunday afternoon, I was back at the computer desk, in the library, peering out the window, waiting on more business guests to check in. Husband was at the round desk working on a large bid and I was helping him. The house was pristine, immaculate, rooms were perfect, I had 4 rosemary-lemon chickens in the oven so the house smelled wonderful. It was husband’s favorite dish and I was still trying to be nice to him after his bad week. The yard was perfect, flowers blooming, driveway was so clean I could eat off the concrete.

And that’s when it started.

Out of the corner of his eye, husband saw a car pull up in the driveway. Immediately, he said, “Sonofabitch!” and he took off around the corner for the door. Me, again with the lace curtains, couldn’t see who it was. Yet, husband knew exactly who it was. I took off after husband. He stopped at a dresser by the door and snagged a 357 and shoved it into the back of his blue jeans. My eyes went wide. I had never actually seen him do that before. He was out the door in a flash, and I was chasing him when I actually uttered the words, “Whatever you do don’t get blood on the driveway!”

A few steps onto the side porch he glanced back at me. His jaw was set. His eyes were fixed. I could see the veins in his arms and neck. He had that look on his face that all wives know. He sternly told me, “STAY there!”

Okay. Of course, I stayed inside. But….. what the heck? Was my husband going to kill someone in the driveway? Did I need to find another gun and defend my own husband? Were we under attack? We had guests due to arrive within the hour. I was frantic. I raced around the corner back to the library, and stretched hard over the desk, to move the lace curtains to see what the heck was going on.

What a vision it was…

In the driveway was a pink champagne colored Lincoln Town Car from the late 1970’s with a burgundy vinyl top. Huh? Out of the car stepped Billy and Lenny, my husband’s ‘missing’ concrete workers from the prior week. Billy and Lenny were cousins – somehow.

Billy was a middle-aged black man who had 23 children. He was a fast talking guy who should have been a preacher. Billy’s wife, or girlfriend du jour, made terrific egg salad and pimento cheese sandwiches. Billy used to share her sandwiches with me and they were sumptuous, always with sweet dill pickle. I liked Billy but I knew he could be trouble. Billy was wearing a bright purple, polyester leisure suit and a canary yellow shirt, with a purple tie. He was dressed like he was going somewhere important.

Lenny was the black version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’ve never seen a more perfectly formed man. No lie. Lenny was wearing a kiana floral printed shirt, shiny polyester, with a huge collar, like we wore to discos in the 70’s, and it was so tight the buttons were barely holding. Beneath an enormous black belt that had to belong to his father, he had on burgundy slacks, polyester, with no pockets. The pants were so tight I could see the outline of the quadriceps in his legs… and everything else.

Keep in mind, 30 seconds earlier, I was thinking I needed a gun to defend my husband and our home was under attack. With Billy and Lenny in the driveway, I was annoyed. What the heck were they doing here? I was expecting guests. Everything was perfect. They needed to go away, and they sure as heck did not need to make my husband angry after last week.

I watched from the window a little while and husband seemed to calm down, but he was shaking his head emphatically. Five minutes passed, 7 minutes, 10 minutes, I kept checking my watch. They weren’t going away. Patience is not my strong suit and I was frustrated. I estimated the potential for ‘murder in the driveway’ decreased significantly, and decided to take a chance, outside. I quietly sneaked onto the porch, and took a seat on the top slate step, about 30′ away from the men but close enough to hear.

They were arguing about money. Billy and Lenny wanted some, but my husband didn’t want to give it to them. My husband was mad at them for not showing up since Monday afternoon. The concrete pour started on Tuesday. They let him down when they were needed most.

Suddenly, Billy saw me, and decided he would try to tell me his story of woe, make his appeal to me since he wasn’t getting anywhere with husband. Folks, this is good. I’ll never be able to tell this story as well as Billy did that day, under the shade of the porte cochere, but I will try. Grab another cup of coffee for this one.

Billy: Miss D, Miss D, I see you there. Miss D, you have to help me.

Me: (Reluctant and frowning) Oh yeah? Tell me Billy, why should I listen to you?

Billy: Miss D, your husband owes us money for working on Monday and he won’t pay us for our honorable work on Monday. As a graceful southern woman, I beg of you to interVENE with your husband in the name of family honor. (He really does speak in this way)

Me: (In my best southern accent and following his lead) Billy, where money is concerned there is no grace. AND as a fine southern woman, I would hardpressed to go against the will of my husband. YOU know that. For me to even consider such an action, there would have to be a right POWERFUL reason…..

I looked at husband, quizzically, as husband was well known for paying bills. By then, all three men drifted into the shade under the porte cochere. It was 95 degrees in the shade that day and the men were beginning to glisten with sweat. Husband was slightly to my left and Billy and Lenny on the right. Lenny was quiet but Billy could do the talking for them both. I waited for husband’s answer as to why they should not be paid.

Husband: I lent both of you $100 LAST Friday, which you still have not paid back, which is equal to wages for Monday. AND you didn’t show up on Tuesday or for the rest of the week. Where the hell have you been?

Me: Yeah, where the heck have you two been? I depend on you two to take care of my husband and the jobs we have. His thumbs are still cracked from last week! And his boots…. I’m still cleaning them off. You have made my life difficult and hurt my husband.

Billy: Oh, we couldn’t come to work on Tuesday. Just…. couldn’t……

Husband: Why the hell not? You knew it was the biggest pour we’ve ever done.

Billy: Aunt Sarah died.

Now, understand, Billy and Lenny have an enormous family. Yet, a death in the family is a death in the family. Southern tradition takes over and a very strict protocol is set into motion.

Billy: I had to see to the body and make ‘rangements.

Me: Why were you making arrangements as a nephew? One of so many? That doesn’t make sense to me, Billy, and thus, I am not inclined to help you.

Billy: It’s my job for the church. (See there, I knew Billy was going to be a preacher some day.)

Husband: So why didn’t you come to work on Thursday and Friday? (In the south, people are buried quickly and by protocol. Next day is visitation and the following day is burial.)

Billy: We couldn’t bury Aunt Sarah cuz we had to wait for the family to come home from Chicago. Some of them have jobs and they could not leave Chicago until Friday. They drove all night….. straight through, Miss D…… Quickest we could have the ‘visiting for Aunt Sarah was on Saturday. It was a mighty long trip for them, Miss D….., I promise.

Billy: (Continuing) Lenny and I dug the hole. (This was new to me.)(For those who are not used to black southern culture, it is a great honor to be chosen as those who ‘dig the hole’ for the dead family member and family members always dig the hole.) I wasn’t familiar with this custom, so in my mind, I was visualizing these two digging the hole, in August, in the heat and humidity of Mississippi.

Billy: (Sensing he was winning me over) Oh, please Miss D, your husband just has to lend us $100. (Notice how it went from ‘pay us for past wages to ‘please lend us’. Lenny nodded ….. a LOT, it seemed very important to Lenny to have the money.)

Me: Again with the money? Billy why do you need $100?

Billy: Well, we had a problem at the funeral.

Me: What kind of problem at the funeral can be solved with a $100 bill? (Husband reared back, eyebrow raised, —– waiting on this answer)

Billy: Well, we had the “visiting” on Saturday and all was fine. Relatives all there, and “X” made the sandwiches you like so much, you know Miss D, the ones you like. (I nodded). Lot of food, good town turnout for Aunt Sarah. You know how much she was loved. Everything was fine. Real fine. On Sunday, we had the ceremony to bury Aunt Sarah and I preached (he’s preaching now), which was a great honor bestowed upon me by my congregation. The “bearers” (pallbearers) carried Aunt Sarah out to the cemetery. And all of Aunt Sarah’s sisters and brothers, those that were still living, were there, as were all her children. We picked a beautiful shade tree for Aunt Sarah, you would be proud, Miss D. It was so beautiful.

Me: (Billy had set the perfect picture in our minds. Husband was calmed down and beginning to empathize. Billy sensed he had us in the palm of his hand. He was preaching, alright. I broke the calm) Why didn’t you invite me to the funeral, Billy? I go to all the funerals. I would have brought a covered casserole.

Billy: Oh, Miss D, you’re the lady of this fine house (not working on me). You’re way too busy to be bothered (not working on me). And besides, if you came, you know Miss Ann would have to come, too (Miss Ann was my mother-in-law, and Billy was right about that one. Miss Ann would have been a problem.). Billy continued with his tale…. putting us back at the scene of the funeral, under the shade tree. Billy was a master storyteller.

Billy: We lowered Aunt Sarah into the ground, her final blessed resting place, as we all sang hymns (Lenny humming in the background as if on cue). But Lenny and I didn’t dig the hole quite big enough, Miss D. We were using those yellow straps to lower her (straps taken from husband’s job site) and we were having trouble. The congregation sang another verse as we tried to put Aunt Sarah in the ground……… cattywampus.

Husband turned away to stop from laughing. I grinned but did not laugh. I did not know the word, catawampus. I had the image in my mind. They’re trying to shove the casket into too small of a hole, so they decided to place the casket at an angle, I guessed. I was hanging on the edge of my seat.

Billy: Well, at about that time, Buford (another cousin) noticed a tree root was in the way, and he stepped down real hard on that tree root to clear the way for poor Aunt Sarah. So she could finally be put into the ground…….. and at rest……… and we almost had it Miss D…….but….. at the last minute, the casket flipped on that blasted tree root and spun ’round….. like a whirlybird…… And there went Aunt Sarah, face down in the dirt……

Aunt Henrietta: (closest to the edge of the hole) She’s going to HELL!!!!!!!!!!!! My dear sweet departed sister is GOING TO HELL!!!!!!!

In the culture, if someone is buried face down, they are ‘going to hell’. Bedlam ensued and several women fell to their knees…. with the “vapors”. Aunt Henrietta lost her hat in the commotion, into the hole, with dead Aunt Sarah.

Aunt Henrietta, “She’s not taking my hat. She always stole my favorite hats!” and “I want my hat back!” and “Dear Lord, SAVE ME!”

Husband was still furious, not listening, not sold, and growing impatient.

Me: So what did you do Billy?

Billy: Well, we rushed everyone back into the church for a little while and Sudry played the piano. You know Sudry, Miss D, you like her, and she plays a pretty piano (I had no idea who Sudry was). The women served more Hawaii punch (Hawaiian punch from a can) and the men went outside to reconnoiter. We scooped up Aunt Sarah, who was really heavy by then (Huh? Heavy?) Then, Lenny and I tried to make the hole a little bigger for Aunt Sarah and the cousins helped. But it started to rain. You know, afternoon shower….. just spitting a little rain. It was all okay, but it was powerful hot. The sun came back out. The congregation returned to the grave and we sang once more. We lowered Aunt Sarah to the great beyond. (Billy’s prose was award winning) and I said her final prayer.

Me: So why do you need $100 from my husband, and why are you here with us, instead of with your family? Aren’t they waiting on you? (Husband in the near distance, tapping his foot, impatient and irritated)

Billy: Well, Miss D, it’s a powerful hot day (he stretched his arm beyond the porte cochere into the sun and wiped his brow for emphasis), and we’ve been through so much. We need to go and buy beer…….

Beer.

The need for beer almost caused a murder in my driveway? But I couldn’t get past the mix of culture, the vision before me. Every sense I had was pegging on overload.

I looked at my husband and “Give him the $100.” Husband was stunned, “Are you kidding? We’ll never see that $100 again!” I said, “I don’t care…., and please trust me this one time. I will tell you why, later.” Husband was confused, but he did trust me. He went into the house and returned with 5 – $20 bills. The men left.

We got back into the house, barely inside the door, and he asked me, “Why in the hell did you do that?” I smiled and explained it pained me to see him have such a horrible week because of those two men. I knew how hard he was working. Yet, in the end, he gave me a great gift. I told him, “That’s the best damn story I’ve ever heard. They dug a grave and tried to shove the casket in the grave…… “cattywampus”. I learned a new word. Then, Aunt Sarah fell out of the casket…. in front of all the relatives…. women in hats, wearing their Sunday best…. men in leisure suits…….singing hymns with Aunt Sarah going to hell….. and they want to borrow $100…… cuz….. beer…….” I was howling with laughter, “Are you kidding? It’s a $100 story. I’m gonna tell this story so many times, it will be worth $100 to me.”

Seeing how I reacted changed my husband. All the tension from his face and shoulders was gone…. poof! He started to chuckle. It was pretty funny. And no blood in the driveway was a good thing. Over time, the cattywampus story evolved into HIS story. He laughed just thinking about cattywampus. And he told the story at least 100 times.

But it’s not over.

About six months later, the phone rang in the kitchen. It was the local prison from the next county, with a call for me. It was the prisoner’s ONE phone call. It was Billy. He said, “Miss D, I need your help. You’re the only one who can help me. You’re a powerful woman and I need your power.” Again, not working on me. He went on to explain that if I could just see my way clear to pay for his 128 parking tickets, AND drop off $20 a the prison he would be most grateful and pray for me.

I grinned, after all, it was Billy. I thought for a moment and figured I might be able to get him out of the parking tickets…., but I asked him what the $20 was for.

Billy: I sure could use some cigarettes, Miss D.

We’ve been talking quite a bit about the state of education in our country, encroachment of government agencies, removal of a child from a home, teachers’ new curriculum with a socialist bent, and pedophillia. Then, Judy W said something this morning which hit me broadside…. and made me tear up. She reminded me of one particular kid who landed on our doorstep in the middle of the night. He was terrified. This isn’t a story about “that” kid, because his story is too sensitive for this forum, but it is a story about speaking up….., doing the right thing….., even when faced with rabid opposition……, to protect children.
I was drafted to teach 4th grade Sunday School at the local Presbyterian Church. This is the church where I was baptized, married, and my son was baptized. My grandfather was a deacon and my dad was a deacon. Heaven knows, I am NOT the best Christian, full of “sin” and multiple character flaws. I can’t rattle off scripture and details of biblical stories are kind of fuzzy to me. BUT, if reliability and pragmatism are highly praised virtues, then I’m the “Christian” to call. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice to teach 4th grade Sunday School. Let’s just say, my approach was a little bit “unorthodox” – pardon the pun.
When assigned the task, the elder ladies of the church lectured me, because they knew me. They handed me the booklets and materials to teach….., along with a litany of advice on HOW to teach the children. I groaned and scowled but nodded, dutifully. This meant I had to prepare lessons, do the requisite reading, and be able to answer questions, from smart kids. Oh, my! At the time, I had an infant child, B&B guests every Sunday morning, mandatory breakfasts, and 5 rooms to turn before 3pm – with no staff on Sunday. How in the world was I going to get it all done, and be dressed, gorgeous, and engaging, for church + Sunday School?
Admittedly, for several Sunday school lessons, I winged it, and the kids and I learned our lessons together. My paying guests usually ran late and I barely made it out of my door in time for Sunday School but the kids were happy. Oddly, as time passed, I noticed more and more kids in my class.
One day, Ms. Susan (not her real name), who was a generation older than me, showed up in my class to yell at one of my students. Caroline was in 5th grade and supposed to be in Miss Susan’s class, but Caroline was sneaking into my class, because my class was more fun. The way Susan spoke to Caroline was nasty and unduly vicious. Caroline began to cry. Caroline was wrong to sneak into my class, but Susan was WAY out of line. It was obvious the problem was more about Susan, than it was about Caroline. I took it up with Susan and Caroline remained in my class. My class continued to grow…., which apparently led to more resentment among the church ladies. It reminds me of how the media and Never-Trumpers feel about President Trump. They hated my style but could not argue with my results. Hey, I brought snacks to my class!
One beautiful Sunday morning, right before Easter, I was completely unprepared for Sunday School, flat busted with no time left to read the lesson. I was desperate for a creative solution.
The previous week, WalMart had a sale on tents. All their camping tents were in a big bin by the front door. These were $150-250 tents, priced on sale at $10-15. On a lark, I bought 15 tents for the boy scout troop and had them sitting by the back door for Monday night’s scout meeting. I grabbed the tents and left for Sunday School. Executive decision, we were going to have Sunday School – OUTSIDE.
Gathering the class, they helped me unload the tents. The kids were so excited to be outside, DOING something. We pitched tents, and laughed together. At one point, I recall 5-8 church ladies hanging out of the window, gawking. I waved. I asked all the children to turn around and wave. We were trolling them before trolling was cool. One can only imagine what they were saying, “What the hell is Daughn doing now?”, or something along those lines. Of course, they had to keep their own students away from the windows, inside, in prison.
My lesson that day was on self-reliance. We all got settled into our tents and munched on snacks from the B&B. We arranged the tents so our door flaps were open to the center and I could talk to and see everyone. I asked them if they ever prayed before a big test at school, and asked God for help, or to get an “A”. They all nodded, of course they asked for help from God. I then asked them if they ever prayed for a good grade when they knew they hadn’t studied as well as they should have. The kids stared at the ground and hesitated. I told the joke about the man in a flood, who prayed for God to save him. A car passed and the driver stopped to offer assistance. A boat passed, and the captain offered help. Yet, the man said no, as he was waiting on God. As the flood waters rose and the man was drowning, he lashed out at God, “Why have you forsaken me?”. God replied, “Are you kidding, I sent you a boat and a car!”
Moral of the story = the kids had the tools to get good grades on their own. Count on yourself and don’t bother the “big guy” because you haven’t done your job. I likened the story to being able to pitch their own tent, instead of mom or dad doing it for them. Now, they knew how to do it, so they would never be cold or wet, again.
Self reliance.
At the end of class, the kids were helping me fold up the tents. Three older ladies came out to yell at me because we “trampled the grass with our tents”. My reply, “I thought we were in the job of raising children…..not grass.”
The church bells rang, and the kids were off for a session on the playground before church. We had a 30 minute break in between Sunday school and the service. I headed up a small enclosed staircase, to drop off materials when I noticed a younger woman sitting on the back steps, sobbing tears, barely able to catch her breath. She was sitting on the bottom step. I recognized her but did not know her name. She was new to our church.
“Woah”, I said as I swung low to sit on the step next to her, “What’s wrong?” I had disturbed her silence. She thought she was out of the way and invisible to everyone. “It’s okay…., nothing….., nevermind…..”, she tried to choke down the emotion and compose herself. “Nahhhh….”, I replied, “I’m not buying it and I’m not leaving ’til you tell me, so you might as well unload.” Well, she did.
She, we’ll call her Brittany, looked up at me, and for a moment she studied my face, judging me, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust me or not. I shrugged my shoulders, opened my hands/arms, and said, “Get on with it. Let’s go. Spill it. I’m not leaving until you do.” I guess that worked. She burst and told me, “They locked my son in a closet.”
The accusation hit me like a wave. My hands went to my hips, defiant. I cocked my head and said, “What the hell did you say?” and “WHO locked your son in a closet?” I was stammering, sputtering, spitting, and my rage was rising as her sobs moderated. We were on a seesaw, trading emotions. She told me all the details.
Her son was autistic, 3yrs old, did not speak, and was sometimes “bad”. The teacher, whom I knew WELL, was frustrated with him disturbing the other students – read as “HER CHILDREN”. He was “scaring them”. So, she locked the boy in a closet……. and it wasn’t the first time. I came undone. I was ready to charge in, confront the teacher. Brittany begged me to stop. She didn’t want to go up against powerful members of the church and was unsure what to do. She assumed she and her husband would have to find another church —- it had happened to her before. “What????!!!!!”, I was out of my mind, angry. She said, “He’s on the playground now, he’s okay for right now.” I peered around the corner, sure enough, her son was happy and playing – oblivious and innocent.
One of my worst faults is to charge in, without surveying the field. I recalled my dad’s wisdom, “plot and plan”. I grabbed her arm and said, “Come with me, we’re going home to smoke and think about what to do.”
I live around the corner from the church. We hit our back kitchen door at about 120mph, and lit cigarettes in the kitchen, blowing smoke up the vent. We drank iced tea and fixed her makeup. By the time we were done smoking, she was laughing. We were bonded. She became a girlfriend in those 15 minutes. We hatched a plan.
Because she was young, new, and not of a founding family, the elder ladies were intimidating her. They had no such hold over me, and besides, they were in-the-wrong and extraordinarily “un-christian”. The woman who locked Brittany’s son in a closet was a stone-cold bi$ch. I knew her well and we had tangled before. She was the daughter-in-law of a prominent family and a school teacher (locking an autistic kid in a closet – are you kidding me?). My grandparents and her in-laws started the Repub club. They played bridge together. We belonged to the same country club. In fact, our families STARTED and funded the country club in the 60’s. She would NEVER challenge me. Yet, Brittany was afraid of direct confrontation and thought about changing churches. “Leaving us???” I was mortified. Nononono, that was unacceptable to me. Fear of confrontation does not exist in my bloodstream, but I made a deal with Brittany, if our plan did not work, I understood her decision to leave our congregation for another one with more compassion.
In church, various families have their own pews. No one sits on the first pew – too awkward. My family usually sits halfway down on right side. The bi$ch’s family usually sits third row, right side. So, Brittany and I decided to sit in the front row, right side, directly in front of Bi$ch, facing the minister. We walked in at the last minute and marched right down front. Of course, everyone was curious as to what I was doing in the front row. The minister looked at me and he knew something was going on….. I nodded to indicate, “it’s okay.”
We sang loudly. Heck, we sang loud enough to compete with the choir. We sang so loudly even GOD could hear us sing. And we chuckled about it, too. I checked over my shoulder. The bi$ch on the third row was squirming. Tension was building.
After the sermon, about halfway through the service, the minister does a 5 minute segment, children’s time, and brings in the kids from the playground. Normally, the kids then sit with parents for the second half of the service. Confused about what was happening, with us in the front row, the kids kept waving at us. At the end of the segment, the kids, all of them, crammed into the front pew with us. While the minister was speaking we kept them busy with tic-tac-toe. The boys snuggled in, and I re-tied shoes. The girls wanted to try on my rings. When we sang, we ALL sang loudly. The kids shook the rafters, singing. They knew something was different but were happy to be part of it all.
Before the benediction, there’s a point in the service where members shake hands. It’s supposed to foster ‘fellowship’ – you know – all those warm fuzzy CHRISTIAN feelings, before we depart. I was waiting for that moment….
I reached over the pew to the bi$ch, and with two hands, I yanked her across the second pew. She was bent over at the waist and gasping. I’m tall and she’s my same size, but I was pi$$ed. I leaned over slowly and whispered in her ear. I told her if she ever did it again, I would have her head on a stick. She tried to wriggle away but I held on tight. Others in church noticed, her husband noticed, but I wasn’t letting go. The kids were wide-eyed. 
Continuing to whisper into the back of her head, I had to spit out her hair. I remember thinking her hairspray was as foul as her cold black soul. I demanded she formally apologize and tell the deacons, in session, AND, if she didn’t….., I would. I threatened her with everything I could think of at the moment. My version of the story would not be pretty. Finally, I let go of her and she arose, straightening herself. Then, can you believe it….., she had the nerve to glare AT ME, in an accusing manner. Doubling down, I leaned far across the second pew, into her and said, “Funny, you WOULD take the position that I’m the asshole on this issue. What you’ve done is reprehensible and would cost you your job.” I was pointing the ‘mom’ finger in her chest, poking her. Her entire family heard me. 
Pausing, I flipped the switch, cold and cool, and at the top of my voice, for the entire congregation to hear, I spoke the normal salutation, “And May God Bless You Today.” I was spewing venom at her. Oh yes, everyone in church knew something was wrong.  
After church, several church members approached us to ask what was going on. We all know how ‘church’ is. Sometimes, gossip is the preferred currency. I sloughed it off and told everyone it was up to the “bi$ch” to explain, and , “Maybe you should ask her…” She did apologize to Brittany, immediately, and to the deacons, formally. New procedures were instituted, two teachers in that class. Brittany was accepted unconditionally … into a church.. the way it’s supposed to be….. Right?
Brittany and I became best friends. She and her husband bought the house across the street – with help from my grandmother. Our kids grew up together and our husbands were great friends. We went on vacations together. Her autistic son spoke his first words at my house (but that is another story), and her son was my son’s best friend. I thought that’s what Christian fellowship was supposed to accomplish. You know…, walk the walk.
Frankly, it doesn’t matter if we are Christians or Martians. We should never, ever, hesitate to go out on a limb for a child. We should speak up and demand satisfaction, fairness, shaming those responsible when necessary.
Yeah, that same autistic child, who was once locked in a closet, is a good kid. He just graduated from Florida State.
And today, I found out I’m going to be a grandma, for the first time. Eldest daughter is 11 weeks pregnant. Life goes on. What could be more important than our kids?