Echoes from the Hollow

Echoes from

the Hollow

Don Roberts

S & H Publishing, Inc.

Purcellville, VA 20132

Copyright © 2019 by Don Roberts.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

S & H Publishing, Inc.

P. O. Box 456

Purcellville, VA 20134

www.sandhpublishing.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Song lyrics I’ll Fly Away by Albert E Brumley used by permission.

Ordering Information:

Quantity discounts are available. For details, contact the Special Sales Department at the address above or email sales@sandhpublishing.com.

Echoes feom the Hollow/Don Roberts

Coming of age novel

ISBN 978-1-63320-070-8 Print Edition

ISBN 978-1-63320-071-5 ebook Edition

To Kay Roberts

Love is Eternal

Chapter 1

Jesus got my attention and pointed the way to salvation in the summer of 1953. My path to righteousness began soon after Whistler, Pennsylvania’s country school closed forever, dumping about four dozen of us willy-nilly into the larger Maynard Consolidated Public Schools. The town’s newspaper carried stories about schools like mine that were shutting their doors. Here They Come! headlined Maynard’s newspaper. Mom told Dad that the news story made it seem like the Maynard School Board had second thoughts about bringing country kids into town.

Maybe they did. Maybe they even felt guilty about it ’cause they had a big meeting in Maynard to welcome kids from the closed country schools. My brothers and sister didn’t want to see what it was like ahead of time so Dad and Mom took just me. Dad owned Morgan’s Garage in Maynard so he liked to go to town meetings. He told Mom that seeing customers was good for his business. Mom went because she liked to keep up with things that affected her kids. Dad wanted to know, too.

Someone from each of the country villages talked at the meeting. When it was our turn to shine, Mr. Hyde, from Whistler’s one and only country store, did his best. He made our village sound as interesting as he could. I’ll give him that, but some grown-up city-slickers were openly yawning and you could hear rude kids whispering. So, what if we didn’t have lots of stores and a movie house like Maynard. So, what if we didn’t have a lot of cars and trucks. So, what if some Amish buggies did trail poop behind them, dirtying our one paved road. At least we weren’t stuck-up like the town kids were sure to be.

Mr. Hyde told them that early settlers named our little village for a loud whistling wind that swept over us. They didn’t seem interested that the whistling wind came from a hollow of scooped out land made by an older-than-time glacier. In my opinion just our name, Whistler, and the Hollow made us more special than Maynard.

Those snickering kids didn’t make me feel better about the new school. Maybe I could use some help from Above to survive being a country bumpkin fifth grader among city slickers. I took a stab at being saintly by going to the summer Baptist Bible School and ended up at the church’s evening revival meeting where Jesus saved me.

I volunteered for everything in Bible School and even earned a big speaking part in their play, Voices from the Bible, by memorizing a whole bunch of Bible verses plus reciting all of the names of the books of the Old and New Testaments. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and the others shot out of my mouth like bullets fired from a rifle. Even though I was ten years old, I was the only one who could say them all without stumbling and getting tongue-tied, something no town kid could do, I bet.

At the end of the two-week session, it was time for the stars of Bible School to don bathrobes and play saintly people from long ago. I could hide my reddish hair under a hand towel, but my freckles were there for everyone to see. I didn’t look like any picture of a holy person I ever saw, but I made up for that by being real loud and clear. It was neat to say things like, Verily, I say unto you… And the applause was nice too.

After my chance to show off in Bible School, Mrs. Trent, probably the most religious person in Whistler, stopped me on the way out of church. Like all the other Holy Roller women there, she wore long sleeves in spite of the summer’s heat, her never-cut gray hair was coiled up on top of her head like a little Egyptian pyramid, and her face was shiny clean. Unlike Mom and her friends, Mrs. Trent didn’t use lipstick or other makeup. She smelled like a baby’s talcum powder.

Before I had a chance to say a word, she reached out and put her hands on both of my shoulders. Then her face broke into a big toothy smile that didn’t hide her dentures. I could smell peppermint on her breath.

Harry, that was just grand hearing some of my favorite passages from the Good Book. The way you recited chapter and verse each time was something. You had the Spirit in you. Praise Jesus!

I could feel my face getting red, but I couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear. Thanks. It was fun. In a flash, I saw the corners of her lips drop downward so I changed that to, I mean, educational, learning stuff from the Bible.

Harry, I want to take you with me to the evening revival meetings. There’re going to be extra special with Reverend Willis visiting us and the traveling Suggs Family Singers.

Yeah, I’d like to go, I really would, but Mom and Dad might not let me.

You let me take care of that. Even though they don’t go to revivals, they know just about everyone in Whistler will be there. They won’t keep you away.

I don’t know what she said to Mom, but I got to go. My brothers and sister hadn’t been specially invited like me. Johnny and Cindy had been to revivals before and wanted no part of it. When I asked if they were going Cindy said, Thanks, but no thanks. Johnny chimed in, Amen, Sister Cindy, Amen. Brother Harry, it’s just a Holy Roller’s Circus. You couldn’t drag me there. Joey, at six, was too young to show any interest at all in salvation so I didn’t even ask him. Fresh from my Bible School success, I couldn’t wait to go.

It was kind of exciting just seeing the big canvas tent. The day before, nothing was there. Presto! A gigantic circus tent covered the whole church parking lot so cars had to park on both sides of the freshly oiled dirt road. Big smoky kerosene torches scattered around made the inside glow and sent swirls of smelly smoke everywhere. Just as we were sitting down on folding chairs, Mrs. Trent spotted Reverend Willis up in front. Praise Jesus, that preacher man can surely draw a countywide crowd.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He looked like a beefy prizefighter, big and strong. This preacher was ready, willing, and able to wrestle with the Devil. I didn’t dare tell Mrs. Trent this, but he looked a little bit like one of the bad guys in a cowboy movie. Like them, he was dressed all in black except for a white shirt with sleeves rolled up over hairy arms.

Before Reverend Willis started his sermon, he kept pacing back and forth shouting Amen, Brother! and punching the empty air with a pointed finger. It was hotter than hot, and his gigantic white handkerchief got a good workout mopping his dripping forehead. The funny thing about him was that he didn’t talk like other people, one-to-one. Instead he acted like he was always talking to God, shouting prayerful things like Hallelujah and Praise Be to God.

Mrs. Trent interrupted my daydreaming. Harry, take a good long look at him. He can make saints feel the joy of Heaven and cause sinners to fear the fiery flames of Hell that will scorch their immortal souls.

Mrs. Trent, will he be punishing sinners right here in Whistler?

He finds evil where it exists, but it’s up to God to punish. Damnation isn’t just a word to this preacher. It’s punishment for the wicked, and he lets them know it.

Her face lit up when she talked about sin. Harry, I like a preacher man who lights a fire in the congregation. Give me an old-fashioned ‘Hell Fire and Damnation’ Bible thumper, like Reverend Willis, any day. He saves more souls than those young namby-pamby ones. You have to know sin to fight it tooth and nail, and this preacher does. Praise the Lord!

Mrs. Trent, are those the singers up there near the preacher? I guess it was a dumb question. She gave me one of those eyebrow-raised looks that grown-ups give you that don’t need words. Even in the back row where we were, you could hear the singers humming. She didn’t stay irritated long.

"My, my, my, Harry, just wait ’til you hear the Suggs Family Singers break into song. They really throw themselves, body and soul, into hymns like ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ See Mother Myrtle and her four grown-up kids up there?"

What I saw was an old hillbilly woman with flowing white hair sitting down next to an autoharp. Behind her were the rest of the Suggs: two scruffy looking sons and a couple of skinny, plain-looking daughters. Three had fiddles and one was softly strumming a mandolin. I could hear them tuning up the fiddles with squeaks and squawks.

"Harry, those West Virginia hillbillies are poor as church mice, but they have a special God-given gift for spreading the Word through song.

Don’t think for a minute that their lives are easy. The whole summer long they travel from one revival meeting to the next. They aren’t home to grow food so the collection plate supplies their needs for the whole year.

Where’s Mr. Suggs? Doesn’t he have religion like them?

Harry, I should wash your mouth out with soap for thinking such a thing about poor Mr. Suggs. He’s gone to the Great Beyond.

I scrunched down in my chair and waited for her to stop fuming. It didn’t take long for her to get back to her Suggs family story.

Harry, some said when Mother Myrtle’s sainted husband, Brother Floyd, died a couple years ago, she’d end their singing ministry, but she did not. Now people come from miles around just to hear her strum on that autoharp and sing ‘I’ll Fly Away.’ I’ve told Boaz that’s what I want sung at my funeral.

I must have looked puzzled ’cause she started to softly half-sing, half-hum the words:

Some glad morning when this life is over,

I’ll fly away to a home on God’s celestial shore,

I’ll fly away.

When I die, Hallelujah, bye and bye, I’ll fly away.

Heads started to turn our way when she got carried away by the words and got pretty loud. She must have got embarrassed ’cause she stopped, looked down, and started thumbing through her pocket-sized New Testament.

Neither one of us said anything for a good five minutes, but she was too filled with Godly thoughts for that to last. Praise the Lord. Reverent Willis and the Suggs make me a better, stronger Christian!

I smiled her way and kept my mouth shut. She could get mad easy, and I didn’t come to be scolded.

I nodded a few times when it seemed like the right thing to do. That seemed to satisfy her. Hardly pausing for breath from a string of preacher and gospel singer compliments, she added, Not that anything is wrong with our Sunday hymns. It’s just that the Lord likes to hear a loud joyful noise sung by people who really know how to pull music from those fiddles.

At the front of the tent under the spell of the good Reverend Willis’s powerful, booming voice, all sorts of folks started to bare their souls for all to hear. I was about to say something when Mrs. Trent wagged her finger in my face. The time for our talk was over.

Tearful teenagers, sorrowful housewives, even crusty old farmers all publicly testified to sins I didn’t really understand. I guess she did because she made disapproving sighs here and there and once even wiped tears from her eyes, saying, Repentance leads to salvation. Yes, Hallelujah, it does.

On the first night of a weeklong revival meeting, Reverend Willis really had the crowd, including me, all worked up. Just when I was picturing myself begging St. Peter, Please let me through the Pearly Gates. Please. I heard Reverend Willis’ voice boom out, No sinners in Heaven. If you believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, repent your sins. Come to the altar to be saved for Eternity. Yes, Brothers and Sisters, I said Eternity.

From here, there, and everywhere, cries rose up with people shouting, Praise Jesus, praise His precious name, yes, Sweet Jesus, save me. Mrs. Trent was on her feet, tears streaming down her face, shouting Amen, brother, Amen. I didn’t cry out, but my eyes got glued upon the picture of Jesus hanging behind the preacher. The one with Him dressed all in white with long brown hair touching his shoulders. The one where He has this peaceful but sad-looking face under a golden halo. For a split second, I swear I saw Him stare just at me, then wham, I felt an electric jolt like I’d been shot by Captain Video’s paralyzing ray gun. Zap! There was no question about it: Jesus wanted me to be saved.

I believed, yet I did bad things. I knew I needed salvation. I got Mrs. Trent’s attention by tugging on her arm. I didn’t have to say much. She knew what I wanted.

Yes, child, go to God.

I took off down the aisle to the kneeling bench. I wasn't the only one on bended knees, but I was probably the youngest. Reverend Willis worked his way down the line of sinners. When it was my turn to be face-to-face with this messenger of God, powerful emotions overtook me. I cried out, Save me. Save me, Reverend Willis. I don't want to go to Hell.

The good Reverend whacked me on the back of my head and pronounced me pure as the driven snow. Now I thought, I won't be selfish, I won't swear or even think about anything bad like getting even with that jerk Willie Bates for tripping me. I will help out at home without even being asked. I will walk away from trouble. I will be like one of Jesus’ disciples. Yes, I will. I absolutely will.

While we were walking home after the last sinner had found the path to Heaven, my head was full of how good I was now, and how everyone at my new school would appreciate me for the saint I had become. Meanwhile, I just had to share the good news of my salvation with someone. Mrs. Trent already knew about it, and frankly I was starting to think that might not be a good thing. She would probably want to pray with me all of the time. As good as that might be, I had a nagging suspicion that it could get annoying, and it would take up a lot of play time. I would worry about that later. Right now, I looked forward to telling my family and seeing how they reacted.

As I rounded the bend in the road, I could see that our old farmhouse was all lit up downstairs but not upstairs. In my excitement, I hadn’t realized it was past time to go to bed. I wouldn’t be able to tell Cindy, Johnny and Joey my joyous news until the next morning, but I could surprise Mom and Dad.

The Callahan’s’ old Hudson was parked in the driveway. When I walked into the kitchen, Billy and Prudy, non-church goers like Mom and Dad, were at the table playing cards. Dad and Billy both worked in town, right across the street from each other. Billy was the bartender in the Dew Drop Inn, and Dad was a really good customer.

Prudy and Mom couldn’t have looked more different. Mom had naturally curly reddish blond hair and pale milky skin while Prudy was just the opposite. Mrs. Trent told me that nothing but Indian blood would explain Mrs. Callahan’s poker straight black hair and darkish skin.

When people saw Dad and Billy standing side-by-side, someone would usually say, Hi, Mutt and Jeff. Then everyone would laugh ’cause they looked like those two funny comic strip characters. Dad was taller than most men and looked like an athlete with lots of muscles. He had a full head of dark hair, and his back was straight as an arrow. People said they could tell he’d been a Marine.

Billy was short, walked with his shoulders kind of slumped over, had a beer belly, and was as bald as an eagle. Dad and Billy must have thought being called Mutt and Jeff was funny too ’cause they always laughed right along with everyone else.

No one was laughing now. Everyone’s eyes were glued on the cards they held. Pennies and nickels were casually thrown together in the center of the table. Two big half-filled glass ashtrays were placed at opposite corners close to everyone. Cold bottles of beer with sweat dribbling down the sides were within arm's length. They didn’t notice me at first.

Guess what? I got saved at church tonight. I thought they didn’t hear me so I said it again. This time, Mom looked my way for a second or two. That’s nice, Harry.

Dad gave me that quick disinterested look that I knew so well, raised the bet, and announced, I’ll call you on that.

They had hurt my feelings and didn’t even know it. Everyone’s attention was still glued on five-card stud, not my immortal soul. Being saved was tough. Oh well, everyone might not appreciate it now, but my changed behavior would be reward enough. I knew Mrs. Trent’s teacher nephew would give me a hug and a pat on the back when he heard about me being saved. His cheerful friendliness was one reason he was my favorite teacher even though he didn’t teach at my school. When he got to Whistler in August, he might even take me to the Dairy Queen for a cone. Mr. Taylor was like that.

This hopeful, angelic, attitude got me through that night, more-or-less. Sometime around midnight, I woke up from a dream where Mom and Dad were standing in front of the Pearly Gates looking worried and ashamed. St. Peter must have known that they didn’t go to church very often, played poker, and regularly drank beer with the Callahans. And even worse, Dad had a bigger problem, whiskey.

In the dream, St. Peter said, All is forgiven. Mrs. Trent says you’re good folks so come on in. Well, that was a relief. I wouldn’t want to go to Heaven if they weren’t there.

Cindy and Joey didn’t even pretend to be impressed by my conversion announcement at breakfast. Johnny let me know he had no interest whatsoever in salvation by snorting, What do you think, Harry? Will being ‘saved’ keep me from punching you? He jumped up from his chair, balled up his fist, shook it at me, and headed out the door laughing back at me. As soon as I went out to play, he grabbed my arm, twisting it up behind my back. Don’t be such a goody-two shoes, Harry. Swear. Come on, swear.

I knew he wouldn't let me go until I did. It really hurt. I couldn’t help it, and yelled, Let me go, you heathen. Damn you to Hell! Johnny loosened his grip, and started chanting, Backslider. Backslider. Well, you aren't saved now.

Am too.

Are not.

He was right. My faith had not sustained me. I had become a backslider, a Christian who had fallen on evil ways. The early Christians we studied in Bible School had died bravely in the Roman Coliseum torn apart by lions. They had not renounced their religion, but I’d wimped out to a twisted arm.

I was too ashamed to return to the revival meeting that night. I gave a lame excuse to Mrs. Trent, but I had a change of heart and went the following evening. After all, a lot was at stake. Would it be eternity in perfect Heaven or dodging flames in Hell forever? I resolutely picked Heaven. This time, I meekly went to the altar at the call for salvation even though Jesus didn’t seem to be looking my way. Once more my demons were cast out. I was again saved forever, but this time didn’t talk about it so much.

The following day was hot as blazes. A bunch of us boys from Whistler grabbed bathing suits and walked a couple of miles to the best swimming place we knew. Among ourselves, we called it, the A.O. ‘cause it seemed almost as big as the faraway Atlantic Ocean. It wasn’t like the swimming hole in muddy Twisted Creek, but a man-made pond that was at least ten feet deep and had a width measured in yards rather than feet. So wide, in fact, that the city-slicker owners kept a big raft there to cross it.

The week-enders from Pittsburgh kept their big summer home locked tighter than a drum so we didn’t know exactly what was inside, but we knew every inch of that pond. In the midst of diving from their raft into the cool, refreshing water, one of Johnny’s buddies stunned me by saying, Well, you aren't saved now.

Yes, I am.

Nope. You just broke the law by entering private property. The sign says, ‘no trespassing,’ and we trespassed. We’re all criminals. You, too.

Then, he threw in a clincher. You stole cherries from Samson’s Orchard. Remember? I remembered all too well. It was what we always did on the way to the pond. Damn, I’d become a backslider again. I had broken one of God’s Commandments to Moses: Thou Shall Not Steal. Well, there was no question about it. I had. I was a sinner again.

Two nights later at the final revival service, I tried again. This time it was a faint-hearted attempt that I suspected would not work. When I looked at Jesus’ picture, all I saw was an ordinary picture of Christ staring straight ahead. There was no reassuring smile just for me, no jolt from Above. So, I walked away from the last revival meeting, a sinner again. Johnny told me I was better off this way. You’re going to have a lot of company in Hell. Only Holy-Rollers go to Heaven.

#

I got in trouble a couple of weeks after I became a backslider. It happened during a special day-long field trip to the Pittsburgh Zoo. Mom told Dad that the Maynard Consolidated School District was trying to give the country kids a little treat and maybe a little education, before we arrived on their doorstep. I didn’t care why they did it. I was just happy to go to such an exciting place.

We were lined up to get back on the bus after a day of climbing around the hilly zoo. I was hot, tired and maybe, I admit it, a little cranky from having to wait in line. Clive, a new kid in Whistler, and me were talking a mile a minute. We’d met that morning in the Monkey House and ended up spending the whole day together. Clive told me that he and his mother were living in the old Kincaid place. His Grandpa had died in the spring, so they moved there because the house was empty. His Dad was married to someone else and lived in Cleveland. That was a first for me. Every kid I knew had a Mom and Dad living together. It was going to be interesting knowing Clive.

As Clive got on the bus, I was just behind him. Out of nowhere, someone tried to shove me out of line. I managed to get on the bus anyway. Standing on the bottom step, I was almost a foot higher than Earl Fletcher. That buck-toothed, greasy-haired devil started chanting like he did sometimes, Harry is a bookworm, Harry is a bookworm, Harry is a sissy, Harry is a sissy, Harry is a sissy bookworm.

This time the combination of those two insults was too much, way too much! The two-year age difference in height and strength, for an instant, disappeared. I turned around on a dime and did what I’d often daydreamed of doing.

Earl, you no-good jerk. My balled-up fist landed smack dab on his gigantic nose. Suddenly, blood was pouring out his nostrils and dribbling down his chin. Believe it or not, he was crying like a baby. I’d snapped, pure and simple snapped, and it felt great.

The bus driver started yelling at me. I felt my face turn red as it dawned on me what I had done. Old Man Hollis roughly shoved me into the empty front seat, the seat of shame reserved for bad kids. Then Clive moved up, didn’t say a word, and sat with me. That was really something. He didn’t have to, but he did. I had a new friend. The bus driver turned around, gave both of us a mean look, shook his head and muttered something.

All the kids, even Johnny and his buddies, were shouting, not against me, but for me. Harry, Harry, he’s our man. If Harry can do it, anybody can. Even though it wasn’t exactly a compliment, I took it as one. No one likes a bully, and