Momma and I use to go to church a lot, bout three times a week, always on Fridays, once bout the middle of the week, usually the same day we had pot roast and of course on the big day, God's day, that being Sunday. Daddy never ever went, said he didn't believe in God and use to tell momma she'd be a better use to any man especially him, if she spent less time wrapping her fingers around those stupid beads and more time learning about the needs of a man. He always said God didn't write it nowhere in his book that a woman's hands were only for pleasin the rosary beads and a cookin and a cleaning and a washin of brats, and that if momma would pay more attention to what God really said, which was that a woman was made for pleasin a man, that she and daddy would be a lot better off. Oh, momma would get so upset when he would say things like that; she would sit at the kitchen table with her teacup and our grey and white striped cat curled and sleeping on her foot; she would wrap her finger over and over, round and round her blonde curls and between a tear here and there that would sneak out and take what seemed forever to roll over her large cheekbone she'd say - don't listen to your father, he is tired, he works so hard, he is a good man; go work on your lessons; or in the warmer months she'd say, why don't you call Mrs. Cumberlink's boy Jason and a few of the other kids and go swimming down the creek. It seemed the whole town showed up at church, even if they didn't go on Friday or bout the middle of the week, ya know pot roast night, or maybe they ate somethin different on that night, they all showed up on Sunday. ... to be continued
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