Ghost and Devil Dancin'

by Lorraine Kaul

One hot August West Virginia Sunday, I sat on the porch steps tossing rocks into a circle that I had drawn in the dirt. I became increasingly bored and needed something to do until I thought of a plan. I decided to head down the hollow to look for some friends. There was no one around. Some were in church; some were already out with their parents or other places.

Since my eighth birthday, attending Sunday School was no longer obligatory unless Mom or Grandma determined there was a particular lesson to be learned. Palm Sunday and Easter were exceptions – attendance was required. On Palm Sunday, churches gave palm fronds to both children and adults. I didn’t know the significance of the palm, but I knew it was something special and I didn’t mind going. I contrived many uses for my palm leaf after church. My palm was transformed into magic wands, or whips. I used my whip to smack my brother on his head and then ran to Grandma. He’d often be met with comments like, “Leave the baby alone, you’re too big to be hittin’ on her.” My wand’s power was boundless. On Easter, I received a new outfit, including socks, shoes, and occasionally a hat. I barely liked the dress but wore it for a day. Sometimes I was offered a nickel to wear the hat for Mom and Grandma.

When I was in trouble during the week, church lessons became my punishment. Grandma would say, “You need to go learn a thing or two.” I did not learn one or two things, but when she said, I had to go, I went, no negotiations, no nickels.  Sunday School was mostly boring, but on this day, with no one around to play with, I wished I had gone. Bible School was fun but had ended in July. I missed making the crafts with clay and gluing popsicle sticks together to make houses, pig pens and flowerpots.

On this boring and lonesome day, I strolled down the hollow, kicking rocks along the way; arriving near the mouth of the hollow, I heard what seemed to be clamorous yet filtered music, crooning, and shrieking sounds, in the nearby distance. This caught my attention. I traced the sounds along a wooded path behind some houses and eventually discovered the origin of my mystery. It was a church service like none I’d ever known. I had seen the face of this church when passing, but I’d never heard the sounds or been inside.

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Behind the church was a large yard, more like a field. The windows of the church were open. The clamor increased the closer I came. From the edge of the field, I could see the people inside, hands raised, dancing and gyrating, jumping and spinning, some screaming, crawling on the floor. I saw Preacher Bayer in the front leading the commotion. I knew he was a neighbor and a preacher, but I didn’t know his church would be so fun. He was half preaching, wailing and half singing as the spirited music filled the air. It was a little scary, but captivating.

I decided to mimic the moves. I ran to the center of the field, moving closer to the music. I twirled, extended my hands high, jumped, performed somersaults and splits, and imitated a bird in flight. I was in my zone, triumphing over tedium. Suddenly, a couple of aged women with their heads extended out the windows caught my attention. One yelled “Get yourself home, there’s no place for Devil’s work here!” The other shrieked, “Mocking this church will get ya' a chair in hell.” It appeared that only I could hear them, the roar and music inside continued. Shocked and confused by their words about Devil’s work, I stopped, stood frozen. I explained “I’m just dancing.”

Just as my explanation parted my lips, I saw Preacher Bayer coming around the corner of the church toward me. He had left the congregation to come for me. I tried to run, but he grabbed my arm like a vice grip on a bread stick. Panicked, I thought, Only Grandma had ever held on to me like that and only when she was mad. He then said, “Hold on I’m not going to hurt you.” He lightened his grip but didn’t totally release my arm. He asked me what I was doing. I explained, “I am just dancing,” then announced, “There’s some women in the church saying I was doing Devil’s work.” He explained, “When you dance like that, you are dancing with the devil. You saw people dancing and moving with the Holy Spirit.” He said, “It’s different than dancing for fun.”

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 He invited me inside and assured me, “There is no need to worry, you can be saved and dance with the congregation with the Holy Ghost in your heart.” Still trembling, I remembered Grandma’s warning about preachers. She said, “If you have questions about right or wrong, or church teachins’, you come to me. Some preachers are good people, and some will try to hornswoggle you into salvation. Those are the ones that ain’t’ worth the bullet it would take to blow ‘em away.” Remembering what she said, I didn’t know if Preacher Bayer was good or bad, so I followed some of Grandma’s other advice: “Sometimes you have to put on your grown-up britches to get yourself out of ditches.”  “Preacher Bayer,” I said, “I don’t dance with devils or ghosts! I don’t want any of them inside of my belly or my heart or any part of my body.” Without warning, I broke away and ran like lightning for home.

Upon arrival, Uncle Jim caught me gasping through the gate. He shouted, “Where you goin’ runnin’ in here like your feet are on far’ and your butt’s a smokin?” I told him about Preacher Bayer trying to put a holy ghost inside of my body. He chuckled, saying, “Don’t you give Peacher Bayer no, never-mind. He believes what he believes. He can put his shoes in the oven but it don’t make” em a biscuit. Holy Ghosts don’t go in your body.” Then I told Uncle Jim that Preacher Bayer hurt my arm. Ignoring my complaint, he responded, “Don’t ya think all them time’s I’ve been playin’ Turkey in the Straw on the banjo while you was clog dancin’, if I saw a Devil or a Ghost wigglin’ and dancin inside ya’, I would’ve’ smoked em’ out?” There was both truth and tranquility in his teasing.

I asked him not to tell Grandma about me getting my arm squeezed because I didn’t get permission to go down to that church. He quipped,” Ya don’t need to be keepin’ secrets from your grandma, that’s like trying ta slip sun-up past the rooster. You’ll be in a heap o’ trouble if ya don’t fess up. She’ll track ya down, cloud up and rain all over both you and Preacher Bayer. It’s best to tell her what ya’ done and what Preacher Bayer done and let her figger’ it out."

I learned when in troubled waters, it’s often best to face the storm, at least you know what’s coming.