by Gale Acuff
Nobody came to Sunday School today
except for me and Miss Hooker because
I live close enough to walk even through
the snow and she has an old four-wheel drive.
Mother says that it isn’t feminine
to drive a Jeep. When she said it Father
chuckled and Mother frowned even deeper
but he had the sports page in front of him
so she couldn’t see but I could, I sit
between them at breakfast, lunch, and supper
but not in the center of the table
of course–that’s for the plastic grapes, three kinds
there are, red, white, and blue–but in between
the two on my side of the table. Once
I sat on the other side and still in
between but that made Mother nervous, she
said so, so I got up and moved across,
not that I walked over the table but
around Father’s end and into my chair
—I don’t walk behind Mother, that makes her
jumpy, too, I can feel the eye in back
of her head following me, or maybe eyes
if I don’t make her out a Cyclops. So
it was just Miss Hooker and yours truly
to sing a couple of hymns, I can’t sing
to save my life but I hope my soul still
is, at least I got baptized and I’ve been
to three tent-meetings where I got saved all
over again, and then Miss Hooker told
the one about Joseph and his coat of
many colors, in Sunday School I mean,
which I know all about because Dolly
Parton sings that one. Father likes her, too.
She’s got big assets, he said, but don’t tell
your mother. I won’t, whatever they are.
Then it started to snow again and she
offered to drive me home, did Miss Hooker,
but I told her, No thank you, ma’am, I want
to walk and anyway I’ve got rubbers.
You would’ve thought I told her I love you
because she said, Pardon me, or rather
asked it like a question with the answer
built in. Oh, she said–you mean overshoes.
Miss Hooker’s a Yankee but I don’t
hold that against her, the War’s over. Snow
all the way home. Glory hallelujah.