Preacher in the Cornfield

A few years back I was in New Orleans when a friend of mine asked me if I’d go tell stories to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference convention that was meeting there at the time. They had booked a ride on the Mississippi in one of those paddle wheel steamers and wanted some light entertainment. Well, I hadn’t been on one of those River boats before and as New Orleans depends on the River for its life I figured I ought to check it out.

Being that the SCLC is composed of progressive preachers (or so I thought), I figured that they’d enjoy the story I call “Preacher in the Cornfield.” I got the name from that old song that the slaves used to sing, “Some people say that a preacher won’t steal but I caught one in my cornfield. . . .” It’s got nearly as many verses as “The Legend of John Henry.” Well, the time came and I started into the story, but it soon seemed like more than a few of those good preachers were of a mind to leave me for catfish bait.

I told about the time when I had a job mopping floors at the State Office Building in Cincinnati, Ohio. I was working late one night when I noticed this heavyset dude who looked like he was trying to sneak into one of those fancy private suites up there on the 14th floor with a young woman. She looked to be in her twenty-threes.

The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew I knew that man from somewhere!

He was so busy flashing his gold-trimmed tooth at that good-looking young woman that he paid no mind to all the soapy water that I’d put on the floor. The first thing you know that guy slipped and fell! It seemed like the whole building shook when his bottom thumped that floor.

When that young gal stooped over to try to help that guy up, it struck me where I knew him from. This here was Rev. Dr. A.B.C. Golightly, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., D.D., Ll.D. — and he had several more letters tagged on to his name. It was the self-same guy that Head Deacon Johnny Green ran out of my hometown of Four Corners, Mississippi, when I was 12 or 13 years old.

From what I was to understand, the Rev. Dr. was doing very well for himself in Cincinnati, running for the City Council and everything. It was said that he had a fair to even chance of winning.

’Course I could have told them folks back in my hometown that it was something wrong — the man had to been lying! ’Else how come a man with so many figures behind his name wanted to preach at a little church like that, in a little town like that, in MISSISSIPPI! But when I was coming up, you didn’t back talk no grown people and tell them they’s wrong. When you’d get big enough to back talk grown people, you’s big enough to leave home too.

You ever notice how it is that people’s child-rearing habits work out pretty much the same as the police those people have to deal with? See, when I was coming up, the High Sheriff was just bound to be the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan — it was part of his job. So our people had to be strict on us less they wanted to see us dancing through a bonfire or swinging on the end of a rope.

 

What happened in Four Corners was, those grown people hired that man, Rev. Dr. A.B.C. Golightly, (“BS”, “MS”, and so forth), to be the Pastor of The First Missionary Tabernacle of Calvary Free Will Church of the Hebrew Profits (Colored Division). As far as I know, ours was the only church of that denomination anywhere to be found. Bishop Wilson, the founder of our denomination, had been the pastor of our church for years and years, had never been sick a day in his life till he choked himself to death on a piece of fried chicken on the first day that we was to move into this brand-new church that he had worked so hard to build.

Lord, the way they mourned that man, you’d a thought he was the Son of God Himself Almighty. It was so many people crowded up in and around that church — people came from four counties — it took them a hour and a half just to view the body.

It couldn’t have been no more than 10 days after the funeral, when here come Golightly. He said, “Er ah, I am a preacher. Er ah, I was called to be a preacher by the late Bishop Wilson. Er ah, I just finished up my schooling and I am ready to take up preaching on a full-time regulation type of basis!”

The people looked at him and said, “Well, Bishop Wilson passed away last week!”

That man let out a scream, and — big as he was — dropped down on both knees just like James Brown and real tears commenced to rolling down his cheeks! Right then he could have got anything he wanted out of them people. That’s how he got the job.

At first, everything went all right. Golightly wasn’t no Bishop Wilson but the man could preach. Turn him loose in a pasture, he could make a herd of cows shout! He could sure ’nough preach! Things seemed to be going fine till Head Deacon Johnny Green found out that Rev. had took to fooling around with Sister Mary Martha Rose Hill. That wouldn’t have been so bad except for the fact that Deac thought he was the one who had Sister Rose Hill’s nose open. So Deac didn’t waste no time making sure that Rev.’s wife got the news about Rev. and Sister Rose Hill.

Now Rev.’s wife was a great big woman, Rev. Mother Gilda Golightly. She was a preacher too. She had to weigh at least 300 pounds, she was over six feet four inches tall, had a mustache and everything. She had one eye that cut off on its own from time to time.

To pay the note on their new church they used to go down to the Court House square on Saturday’s to set up a booth to sell chicken and chitterlings dinners. They set up there right between the white Baptist Church and the white Court House to sell dinners.

Sister Rose Hill was known to be a shouting lady. She would shout if you’s to holler, “Jackie Robinson was a baseball player,” and you could get in the right key. But Sister Rose Hill could sell them dinners. It was more than a few would come to town just to buy a dinner from her — Joe Blankership used to say, “I’d pay 50 cents for one slice of white bread if I could just stick the money in Sister Rose Hill’s purty little hand!”

That very next Saturday, Sister Rose Hill was down at the Court House selling and here come Rev. Mother Gilda preaching and saving souls that day. She had started preaching around that chicken and chitterling stand and it wasn’t long before Sister Rose Hill got happy and was shouting all over herself. Before she knew what she was doing, she twisted and knocked over that big kettle of chitterlings, slipped, and fell all up in the stinky stuff.

Rev. was passing by in his Cadillac car at the time. He seen Sister Rose Hill slip in the chitterlings. He stopped his car right in the middle of Main Street. He ran over and stooped down to help Sister Rose Hill out of the chitterlings and slipped and fell down plum on top of her.

All the time Rev. Mother Gilda ain’t stopped preaching yet . . . ’cept it taken Rev. too long to get up off of Sister Rose Hill. Rev. Mother cut her wandering eye over at Rev. and Sister Rose Hill down there wiggling in the chitterlings. She cut the other eye over at the big pot of grease they were frying the chicken in. She taken that big Bible she was preaching with and swung it so that it knocked over that big kettle of grease so that it spilled right on the seat of Rev.’s $150 suit! Sister Rose Hill stopped shouting and both of them got out of their chicken-hot, chitterling-funky clothes no sooner than you could say, “Jack Johnson.” It was a mess.

But that’s not why they fired the man. While Deacon Green was chasing after Rev. trying to find out about his private business, he found out that several thousand dollars of church money was missing. On top of that he found out that Rev. had snuck and had the deed to the church property transferred over into his name. That’s why they fired the man — that scamper was a thief!

 

Now the question comes up if I passed a report on Rev.’s background in Four Corners to the people in Cincinnati. No, I did not. There was two reasons for that. Here I was a stranger in a foreign land, and those people there didn’t have no idea who I was or nothing. There was plenty of us manual workers in there, but wouldn’t nair one of the big shots take the time of day with the first one of us ’cept it was someone with a camera around.

A Big Shot would wave to one of the little fellows always be snuffling up behind them. This little busy body would come over and say, “What’s your name, brother?” The white ones would call you “Sir.”

“What’s your name, Sir?”

“My name is Jones. MISTER Junebug Jabbo Jones.”

They run back over to the Big Shot and act like they wasn’t whispering back to him. He come and wrap his arm around you, flicking ashes all over the place, blowing cigar smoke all up in your face saying, “JJ my man, how long have you been with us? Fellows, get a picture of Mr. Jones here. Mr. Jones is a man who knows the dignity of a well-mopped floor . . . JJ, my man, I too have mopped floors in my day. Never give up hope, my friend. . . . Did you get that picture, gents?” And before I could get a word in edgewise they’d be tramping all over my “well-mopped floor.”

But the second reason that I didn’t pass a report of Rev.’s background in Four Comers to those people in Cincinnati was the fellow he was running against for that City Council job. He was the lawyer for the Cincinnati Klan. On top of that he was known to be in good company with the people from the Mafia in that territory!

Now that might surprise you if you know anything about the Klan, because the Klan is just about as hard on Catholics and Jews as they are on black people.

 

Nobody ever said anything to me about why those SCLC preachers got so upset about this little story. Maybe some of them felt that the shoe was fitting more than a few feet around there.