a preacher’s tale of my dad’s
Charlie lived across the field, 100 yards. One of his grandsons was quite a football player of the same name. Charlie had a mule. It was summer. Hot. No air conditioning in the little white church. Doors open. Windows open. Charlie’s mule got out and decided to visit the church yard. Charlie came after the mule. He didn’t want him to use the church for a barn or a shady place. Figured that would disrupt the congregation.
“Sometimes we need a social dispensation.”
“Whoa mule!”
One bald headed gentleman had his chin on his chest so that his head reflected the light. He jerked his head up. “Whoa there mule!” The mule trotted behind the church to the cemetery.
“Get out of that place, mule!” Charlie trotted around behind him. The mule ambled around the church again, back on the other side and past the front door. “Don’t go in there mule! Those are white folks.” The mule paused and went on. By this time the people had lost the sermon. It was just as well, I’d lost it too, and when the mule went back across the road with Charlie after him, I got hold of another part – and nobody missed it.
