|
Turtle Gets Baptized Sunday morning came with a light rain, soft and cool, not heavy, just enough to put down the dust and give the ground a shallow soaking. I sat outside on the front porch, coffee in hand, watching the sun break through the clouds in the eastern sky, individual rays streaking across the yellow gray sky like the glory of God Himself. It is times like these when I am reminded of how insignificant we all are, yet how important we can be when we focus on the right thing: like raising your kids, being there for a friend, pulling a thorn out of the foot of your Brittany when she’s gone into the briars for you.
We loaded up for church, Danni doing her customary swing through the house, yelling at the kids to get ready, sending me in to check on the boys, tying their ties, parceling out their offerings to go in their envelopes. I grimaced again when I saw the eye shadow on the lids of my 13-year-old daughter’s eyes. We have a deal – she gets to wear makeup on Sunday mornings and for the occasional dance at the school. I hate it, but I deal with it. Little girls shouldn’t be in such a rush to grow up. At least mine shouldn’t be. As we drove down the drive to the highway, Turtle’s truck turned in. We stopped, Turtle parked the truck beside the drive and climbed into Danni’s Suburban, sitting next to the 8 year old who hugged him. “Ya’ll don’t mind if I ride with you, do you?”, he asked. “Of course not Eugene. You’re welcome to ride with us to church any day!”, Danni replied happily. She was thrilled – I was still suspicious. “Truth is I don’t feel comfortable going down there by myself. This is a big day for me.” “Yes, Eugene it is!”, Danni answered. “Turtle, are you going to get baptized today?”, Josh asked him. “Yes, son, I reckon I am”. “Mamma said you’re going to be baptized down at the Creek Place.” “Yep, sure am.” “Isn’t the water going to be cold?” Josh had a great way of getting on a roll and kill you with questions. “I reckon so.” We got to the church just as Sunday School was getting started. The kids went their way and Turtle went in with Danni and me to the Couples class. To this day, I wish I had taken a picture of the faces in that room when Eugene “Turtle” Wallace walked in with us. Jaws dropped, eyes widened, Jerry Holcomb spilled his coffee all over the hideous cream colored polyester suit he wore every Sunday in the summer. I had commented on it one day to Danni. She, of course, sided with Jerry, saying something to the effect that God didn’t look on the outside of a man. She had punched me after I quipped, “I know He doesn’t look at Jerry’s outsides, ‘cause if He did, He might rethink that thing about us not being naked. That boy’s taste is all in his stomach.” Sunday School went well, once everyone got over Turtle being there. Then the same scene took place again when we walked into the sanctuary for church. Most of the older women came over and hugged Turtle, calling him by his full Christian name, telling him how thrilled they were to see him, and hugging him some more. Most of the men stood back and wondered what the hell was going on. The sermon was brief, as Hardy’s always were. In honor of Turtle, he preached on Jesus’ appearance on the beach to the disciples after His resurrection. You may not remember – it’s where the boys couldn’t catch any fish, and they see Jesus on the shore, and He tells them to cast again, and they catch exactly 153 keepers. And then He feeds them fish He Himself had caught and roasted over an open fire. Hardy talked about how when Jesus started His ministry that He first went to two fishermen and then, as He ended His time on earth, He again went to fishermen. The time for the invitation came and as the choir sang “Just As I Am”, Turtle walked down the aisle. The choir stopped in mid-song … astounded. Brother Hardy spoke up: “Sisters and Brothers, it is my honor to present to you as a candidate for Baptism, based on his profession of faith, Eugene ‘Turtle’ Wallace.” The Amen’s started with three old men on the back left row. Hallelujahs started from the third row on the right, where the widow ladies sat. Pretty soon, the whole church was shouting “AMEN!!! HALLELUJAH!!! GLORY BE TO GOD!!!!” Word got out that we were having a baptism that afternoon at the Creek Place and that the baptizee was Turtle. Judge Haymaker called Danni twice to make sure it was true and then announced that the Rosemary Symphony would play. The mayor called the house to make sure that he had heard right. Through it all, Turtle slept in the rocking chair on the front porch, ignoring the soaring heat and the flies. We needed to get to the Creek Place early and help Turtle tidy up a bit, so we left at three and drove the 8 miles to the Creek Place, hidden in a cove (holler in mountain parlance) in the shadow of Grassy Top Mountain. Creek Place is the name given the secluded spot by Turtle’s great-grandfather who recognized the unique beauty of the place and the abundance of the trout in its spring-fed creek. The crowd started arriving at 3:30. By 3:45, the pasture was full of cars, pickup trucks, and even a couple of horses. I don’t know how you count large crowds, but there were a lot of people there. Methodists, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Church of God, Primitives, they all turned out, all except for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but then, who’s counting. Judge Haymaker had the Rosemary Symphony arrayed in a semi-circle: three flutes, two clarinets, and one oboe up front, two trumpets, a baritone, and a French horn behind them, and off to the left, Bobby Ray Johnson with his drums and tympani. Preacher Hardy had Bobby Ray get everybody’s attention. Bobby Ray chose to do so by playing the drum solo to “Wipeout” until the Judge knocked him on his head with a stick and then had Danni summon the crowd with her trumpet. The baptism was a lovely scene. Hardy did the honors at the edge of the blue hole, a large pool with a small waterfall cascading into it on the backside, a pool that holds at least three very large trout. I know – Turtle feeds them and we’ve watched them rising to the fish pellets. At any rate, the symphony played a piece from Copland’s Appalachian Spring and then, as the baptism took place, the whole of us sang “Shall We Gather At The River”. As Turtle and the Preacher waded back to shore, the Judge had them play “Ode to Joy”. It was touching, actually. Everybody moved to the picnic tables and grass. Kids chased each other and some men tossed horseshoes. The preacher, Turtle and me moved on upstream to Katie’s Hole, so named for Turtle’s grandmother. We sat there, Turtle smoking a cigarette, me a cigar, and the Preacher chewing on a blade of grass. A small hatch of tiny Cahills (Stenonema Ithaca), beautiful pale yellow flys, started popping. The preacher mumbled something about what a beautiful thing it was to watch insects rise, spread and dry their wings, and then take off into the world, like the disciples spreading out to share the Good News and then he got up and walked away. “Wonder what all that was about?” I asked. “Don’t know. You think I look any different?”, Turtle replied. “Different? No, you look like you always do”, I answered. “Just wondered. I feel kind of different.” “You do?” “Yeah, I think I got a crawdad in my shorts”, he winked as he took another drag off the Marlboro and looked up at the sky, just as the sun went behind a cloud and the wind picked up. “Looks like it might rain tonight.” About this time the preacher reappeared with this rod in hand, lined up, and what looked to be a #18 Light Cahill hooked into one of the snake guides. “You mind?,” he asked, looking at Turtle. “Go head on.” We watched him limber up the rod, false casting until enough line was in the air to suit him. Then, as pretty as you please, he laid the line out in a tight, reverse “C” arc, the fly floating softly down and landing with gossamer wings on the water surface. The preacher mended line as the fly floated downward, working to keep the tell-tale signs of drag from rippling the surface. As the fly swept beyond a rock jutting up at the near side of the creek, we watched him raise the rod tip slightly and the rod bent, strumming with the sign of a good fish on. “You got ‘im, Preacher!”, Turtle yelled. At that moment, at that very moment, I felt the hair on my head stand on end.
I looked at Turtle and he looked like someone who had put his hand on one of those static electric generators you play with in junior high school. His hair was sticking out at right angles from his head.
My heart started racing and then I both heard and felt a massive boom. It knocked me to the ground and everything was dark. When I opened my eyes, I saw Turtle lying there, staring at me. “What the hell was that?,” he asked. “I don’t know.” I rolled over and looked at where the preacher had standing and he was not there.
“Where’s preacher?” “He’s fishing!” “No, he ain’t, Turtle.” We both jumped up. Now we could see the pool and the body of the preacher floating face down, floating amongst the bodies of 15 or 20 stunned trout. We both ran to the pool and waded in, grabbing the preacher by the ankles and dragging him to shore. There was no pulse, no breathing, his right hand burned badly and his hair smoldering. We laid him out and Turtle performed artificial respiration while I screamed for help and started CPR with my joined hands on his breastbone. Doc Jackson came running and took over for me. In a matter of minutes, the EMT’s arrived in their new ambulance and Doc grabbed the paddles, yelling “Clear” and then pressed the button to send 200 joules of electricity through Preacher’s still form. The body arched and twitched. Doc checked for a pulse. A second jolt of 350 joules of electricity was sent at the press of the button on the right paddle. Doc put the paddles down and put his stethoscope to Preacher’s chest. He moved it up and back and then ordered the EMT’s to put Preacher in the ambulance. “He’s going to be okay folks. Looks like he took a full bolt of lightning and he’s going to be able to live to tell about it.” Some folks to this day claim that it was the Lord Himself that struck down the Preacher for having the audacity to baptize an incorrigible soul like Turtle. Me, I think it was just mid-summer heat lightning. I prefer to think that the Lord saved the Preacher. I mean, think about it: you survive a couple of hundred thousand volts coursing through your body with only white hair, singed eyebrows and third degree burns on your right hand and arm – I’d say that’s a miracle. The gist of it all was that Turtle has cut down on his cussin’ and he occasionally goes to church, but only on Sunday’s when the new preacher’s out of town. Preacher Hardy? Well he retired from preaching at the ripe old age of 48 and moved to Wyoming where he works as a missionary on the Shoshone Indian reservation and sneaks off to fish in high mountain streams when no one’s watching and the sky is cloudless. And the fish? Well, oddly enough, by the time the Preacher was resuscitated and hauled off in the ambulance, the fish had all recovered, save two of the biggest who died and were eaten that evening by Turtle’s pet raccoon. Me? I’m still here in Rosemary, though I’m a bit more careful about watching the sky when I go fishing. Turtle still swears it was the Lord getting even with a man who’d use a graphite rod on Sunday. Doug Gilmore April 10, 2001 |