The crowds had been packing the traveling tent revival every night that week, grateful offerings filling the pockets of the evangelist. Cure after cure was enacted in the sweltering heat of those July evenings. Emotions were at an all time high on the last night as the last two afflicted souls reached the evangelist at the front of the tent.
Struggling up the steps on her crutches poor Mrs. Smith hobbled up to the evangelist. “Heal me! I haven’t been able to walk without crutches in twenty years.”
“Yes, Sister! You will be healed! Go behind that curtain and wait with the others waiting for healing.” Mrs. Smith slowly and painfully made her way behind the curtain.
Johnny Jones was the last in line. “I have a lifth. It hath made my life awful. Pleath heal me of my lifth!”
“Yes, Brother! You will be healed! Go behind the curtain with all the others and you will all be healed at once.”
The evangelist offered up a long, heartfelt prayer for healing. Weeping could be heard all over the tent. Finally, he concluded, calling out dramatically. “Mrs. Smith, you haven’t been able to walk without crutches for twenty years, have you?”
“No, Lord!” she replied from behind the curtain.
“You are healed! Throw your right crutch over the curtain.” Her right crutch flew over the curtain and clattered on the floor. “Now throw your left crutch over the curtain.” The left crutch followed.
Thunderous “Amens!” echoed all over the tent.
“Johnny Jones, you are healed of your lisp. Call out to us in a loud, clear voice so all can hear!” demanded the evangelist!
“Mithuth Thmith just fell on her ath!”
Mother developed an excellent form of birth control for her daughters. She could have founded “National Wedgie Day” promoting cheap cotton panties because “nobody is supposed to see your underwear anyway.” I don’t know how I would have behaved otherwise, but I wasn’t about to get frisky in those horrible britches. Sometimes Mother was lucky enough to find some so cheap they didn’t have elastic in the legs, just the waist. The fit wasn’t too bad in the morning, but by midmorning, these adventurous undies always managed to crawl up my rear. Back then, before political correctness, you might have heard me cussin’ those Injun Britches that were always creeping up on me. I had no idea I was ahead of my time in my “thongs” and despised them. By then end of the day, they had achieved amazing altitude and my legs felt two inches longer than when I left that morning. They might have even taken my virginity.
Connie and Marilyn had it worse than we did, because after Grandma had a stroke, she was no longer able to do the beautiful dressmaking she was known for. She made it her mission in life to make sure they never ran out of homemade cotton panties. She used whatever fabric was at hand, cotton prints or plaids, not soft knits. Her creations had wide front and back as well as side seams and very narrow crotches, but alas, no elastic in the legs. These were not roomy bloomers made of soft cotton flour sacks she made my mother in her youth. They were torture devices. Grandma didn’t see us for months at a time, so she underestimated their waist sizes, making the fit of the patched up drawers even worse. The tight elastic waist and scratchy seams ensured even more misery. She could make a million if she sold them on an S&M site today. I was not jealous!