THE BIG MEETIN'
Not a few of the worshippers at the little white meeting house up on Hog Back Ridge cast a concerned glance at the rafters and joists overhead. They were solid. The oak boards from Caleb's daddy's sawmill were so solid that the men had had to drill pilot holes just to drive the nails. Still if there was a man whose presence could cause the church roof to collapse it was Lightnin' Jones. Lightnin' was there sure enough, right down front, taking up nearly half the first pew.
Lightnin's name had nothing to do with his speed. He was so huge that folk said, "It takes two men and a boy jest to look at'm!" His typical gate was so slow that more than one of the Hog Back's residents claimed that you "had ta sight 'm by a fence post to be sure if he was movin'." His mother named him Elijah. Folk called him Lightnin’ because of the jolt in his whiskey. Elijah Jones supported his family--as much as he supported them anyway--and his own hulk, which he supported quite well, by running a still.
Most of the men up on Hog Back rode mules when they were out by themselves, but there wasn't a mule in the county--or probably the world for that matter-- that could support Lightnin'. Whenever Lightnin' traveled more than a few yards he rode his wagon. Everybody knew the Jones wagon. Some had learned to spot it because it brought the whiskey they craved, others because Lightnin' was such a notorious reprobate. It wasn't uncommon for women to shoo their children inside when the wagon groaned by. Lightnin' always seemed to take pleasure in tipping his shapeless hat to the ladies on such occasions.
When that wagon, loaded with freshly scrubbed Joneses instead of the usual cargo, pulled up in front of the meeting house all conversation stopped. A near pass of Haley's Comet would have attracted less attention. When Lightnin', accompanied by much huffing and puffing, lowered himself from the wagon, and, to the further surprise of all, helped the Mrs. down, the spell broke.
"Can you imagine!" exclaimed the Widow Douglas, from the edge of the crowd, "The audacity of that common criminal polluting this pure assembly of God's people."
"I'll betch'a he's bigger'n Zeke Hawkin's cow." Young Elmo McCatchen said. "My uncle down at the feed store said they done weighed 'em both an' . . ."
Little children peered from between their parents legs. Matrons craned their necks. A buzz usually reserved for the Fourth of July rose up from the folk assembled in and around the little church.
"Welcome to our services Elijah, Mrs. Jones.” Parson Smedley was glad that he knew Lightnin's real name; somehow his moonshining name didn't seem appropriate today, and though he could get by with "Mrs. Jones," "Mr. Jones" was out of the question on Hog's Back. Smedley's greeting was clearly intended not only to welcome the Jones, but to quiet the crowd. After a few elbows were applied to ribs and a couple shins bruised it had its desired result.
"We're 'bout to get started, why don't ya come on in." Lightnin' ambled in followed by a remarkably small woman who kept making threatening gestures to the boys & the little girl, who looked ill at ease about the whole operation--scrubbing and all.
The sermon that Sunday was about Zaccheus & how all of us need to come down out of our tree and meet with the Lord. The commotion caused by Lightnin's presence had died down after the first song or two, and the service had gone on about as usual.
"Jesus is tenderly calling you home." Smedley could hear Billy Joe Hardright's rich baritone leading the people in the closing song, but Smedley wasn't singing.
"Calling today, calling today. . . .” The congregation continued the invitation song. Smedley was praying; praying like he seldom prayed--with the inner assurance that something, something big, was going to happen.
"Lord I cain't hardly 'magine nobody that's more different from somebody than Zaccheus from ole Lightnin', I mean Elijah, here. But, Lord you knowed I was gonna preach 'bout ole Zacch and you knowed Elijah was a comin' today. So, Lord, I reckon if you could git a short man out of a tree then you kin get a fat man out of a pew."
Smedley was so intent on his praying that it took him a minute to notice that the singing had about died down to nothing. It was Brother Freemont's voice that caused Smedley to look up. Freemont was hard of hearing and always sang off key. He was a slow stopper too, often continuing for several words after others had quit. As the parson looked up, though, he couldn't see Brother Freemont. In fact about all he could see was the faded blue of Elijah's well-worn overalls. Right next to him stood Hezekiah Radford, the bookkeeper down at the feed store, looking like a well-dressed stick next to the huge moonshiner.
"That was quite a meetin'," the parson observed after having placed one more hen's son into the ministry. "I was surprised twicet. First, who’d a thought Lightnin' Jones would a gotten saved today? Then, who'd a guessed that Hezekiah Radford had been goin' up the holler to speak to Lightnin' fer three months runnin'?"
Smedley figured his strange dream that night was "on account a that last piece a apple pie not sittin' too well." "I was all mixed up with Balaam." Smedley told Flora Jean the next morning. "I was jest a ridin' Sairee to the general store to git a bottle of liniment when she stopped, turned her head around and said as plain as I'm talkin' now, "See there, somebody did listen." And that ain't all. When she said "somebody" her ole ears twitched like a bee had got in 'em."
Maybe it was the pie. But, folk that stopped by the Smedley house later that day swore that mule was smiling. They said she looked like "she knew somethin' they didn't.
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