The courtship of Reverend Frank Wright-part 1

I wrote this story a couple of years ago and the ladies in my writers club slammed me because the father wasn’t very loveable. Well, no. That was the point, however I’m not going to elaborate on what is true and what is exaggerated.


For an educated man, Daddy always did entertain some very strange ideas. The third of ten children, he was the only one to attend college. In fact he had two degrees in education and he liked to remind you of it every chance he got; especially during arguments. I think somehow it made him feel superior to his brothers. Notice I didn’t mention his sisters. They didn’t count.
Daddy’s reasoning powers were a legend in his own mind. You might be right about an issue, but he was never wrong. No one could tell him that polio wasn’t caused by being too clean. Cold showers didn’t prevent colds and influenza. The state of Texas (and only Texas) had a depression for the sole purpose of nearly starving him to death. He thought an imagination was a sin. To have a vivid imagination meant you were going straight to hell. Do not pass “GO”. Do not collect $200.00.

WWII didn’t exist because the Army had declared him 4F. Daddy only read non-fiction books and watched Ed Sullivan and Lawrence Welk on television. Sunday nights, he might allow us to watch “The Wonderful World of Disney” if he was in the mood. He was a no nonsense type of guy.

Religion was reserved for the poor, the ignorant…and women. So you can imagine everybody’s surprise when he announced, “Jordie, I’m taking you and Jerry to church in the morning.” Momma sat there with her mouth hanging open while Jerry and I rolled our eyes and made faces at each other. We didn’t know it but this was the beginning of his courtship of Reverend Wright. In fact we didn’t even know who Reverend Wright was but we were about to find out.

The next morning we kept our opinions to ourselves as we reluctantly dressed to make our religious début. When the sermon was finally over, Daddy dragged us to the door to meet Reverend Wright. “Frank,” he gushed, “I didn’t know this was your church. (Yeah, right!) I’d like you to meet my wife Rebecca and my twins Jerusha and Jordan. Frank’s the new principal at our school. The girls were just saying what a wonderful sermon you preached.”

Reverend Wright gave us a rather lecherous once over then announced, “Such wonderful Biblical names, WT. I’m sure you’re very proud of your family.” Already this guy gave me the creeps.
The reverend didn’t appear to grasp the hypocrisy of the moment. Daddy hadn’t been in a church that either of us could ever remember. In fact, he didn’t even own a Bible. There was nothing Biblical about our names. We were named after our grandmothers. “Well, ladies I’m glad to see young people in God’s house,” Reverend Wright replied bending to shake hands with each of us. The guy was smarmy like a used car salesman. “Perhaps you’d like to join one of our youth groups, or even the choir. We have a lot of activities for teens.” As far as I was concerned, his eyes said more than his words.

Jerry rolled her eyes at me in dawning understanding. Daddy never called us by our given names. Obviously he was up to something.

“That would be wonderful,” Daddy gushed again. “I’ll get with you for times. I know they’d love to join the choir.” Jerry and I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and Daddy was the first to tell us.
Suddenly, we could see the wheels of fortune turning in Daddy’s head. He was so sure this was going to gain him a promotion at school. Although a promotion to what was a mystery. There was one principal, one vice-principal, one nurse and twenty-five or thirty teachers. Back then they didn’t even have counselors.

From that day forward we never knew what to expect. Daddy would come rushing in from school and announce that we were going to the sock hop at church in an hour. It didn’t matter that we hated dancing…and boys even more. At fifteen we were the neighborhood tomboys. Next he volunteered us to help repaint the church. He said it would be a lot of fun, but we didn’t see him out there sweating like a race horse.

Halloween came and Jerry had to dress up like the Bride of Frankenstein and I was the Mummy in the church’s haunted house. It was our job to scare the daylights out of the little kids. When Christmas came we had to make baskets for the shut-ins at a local nursing home. We had more glue and glitter on us than the basket. After that fiasco we were spared having to apply make-up for the creepy old ladies. Jerry and I barely knew the difference between an eyebrow pencil and eyeliner.

As the school year progressed, things went from bad to worse. Early in January, Daddy showed up with a complete set of golf clubs, shoes and some of those ugly plaid golf pants. He lovingly drew the putter from the bag and swung at an imaginary ball making a hole in one in his mind’s eye.

“I thought you hated golf, Daddy,” I said. “You always said it was stupid to knock hell out of a ball and then go chase it.” Of course I knew why this sudden interest, but I just had to needle him.

“You watch your language, young lady. I’ll have you know golf is the sport of kings. Frank says it’s been around for hundreds of years. Now I’m going out in the backyard to practice a few shots. We have a big game in the morning.”

As if I hadn’t figured it out. I swear if Reverend Frank took up collecting dog turds, Daddy would have too. Anyway, I watched for a few minutes then called, “Hey Jerry, com’ere. Daddy’s out back hitting golf balls.”

We could hardly contain our laughter. Daddy golfed like he square danced. Once he finally selected what he took to be the correct club, he positioned his feet, stuck his butt out like a caboose and his nose in the air. I didn’t know a lot about golf, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the way you were supposed to do it. A few swings of the club and the ball finally wobbled off the tee.

Jerry and I were falling all over each other laughing. It’s a good thing he couldn’t hear us because he’d have been plenty pissed.

Daddy wasn’t easily deterred in his mission to become Frank’s golf partner. He teed up again to give it another try. This time he connected solidly. The ball went soaring a whole twenty feet. It smacked hard off the dog house and scared poor Rusty half to death. But Daddy was jubilant because he’d hit the ball.

His next few attempts looked like he was trying to bludgeon the poor ball to death. Then another hard swing and a solid hit sent the ball soaring like a bird over the fence into the Peterson’s back yard. Daddy was puffed up like a peacock until he heard the smash of breaking glass. “Uh oh!” Jerry and I chortled together and ran to hide.

The next thing we knew, Daddy came slamming in the back door with his clubs. He was red faced and puffing. “Jordie,” he yelled, “call Mr. Peterson and tell him you hit a baseball through his window. Tell him I’ll pay for it when he gets it fixed.”

“But Daddy, I’m sure he knows the difference between a baseball and a golf ball,” I wailed.

”He’ll be so mad, he’ll never notice,” Daddy denied. “Now call him like I said.”

I knew better than to argue. Reluctantly, I did what I was told. It wouldn’t have been so bad except Mr. Peterson was an old grouch and insisted on talking to Daddy. Nothing to do but Jerry and I had to go over and clean up the mess. As we left, Daddy called, “Bring back my golf ball. No use leaving it for that old skinflint.”