The Old Hotel, Part Six, Belle and Joe

Joe Gordon and Belle Presley were wizened teens when they hitched up. They grew up on dirt farms in the shining dark heart of Mississippi.

Belle had spent her 15 child years doing her full share of chores. Cooking biscuits on the wood burning stove; washing laundry outback, over the fire, in a big cast iron pot with homemade lye soap; and helping out in the fields during planting and harvest. She walked three miles to the one room school house and learned to read, write and figure numbers. Still, there was plenty of free time to run wild in the woods like a graceful doe. She visited with her woodland friends; flowers, birds, deer and rabbits. She marveled at the yard rooster, mating thirty times each day, mounting the patient hens. She picked blackberries and could make a delicious jelly with nothing but sugar and the free bounty of the earth.

Joe was a strapping eighteen and magnetically driven to marry the beauty with blackberry thorn scratches on her shapely legs. He was prepared to provide for a family from the cornucopia of the land. He could plant and harvest. He shot meat, rabbit, deer and, as a last resort squirrel. Could dress and smoke game. His short attendance at school gave him the ability to write his name and read the Bible slowly. He just didnt take much to book larnin. Belle was drawn to his soulful, long lashed blue, gray eyes.

They were American peasants of sturdy Irish stock.

In the mid 1800's much of poor Ireland depended solely on potatoes for food. The Imperial British had taken all the best land to grow beef that was imported to England. The subjugated Irish were left with only small plots of the poorest soil. They were forced to mono crop potatoes in order to eat.

The potato blight hit about 1840. An estimated one million people starved and another million emigrated on coffin ships. A mortality rate of 30% occurred in the fetid holds of the coffin ships. Driven from the Emerald Isle, emaciated and weak, they were stuffed into the bowels of ships. No sanitation, scant food. Even cattle were treated better. Even Africans, bound for slavery were treated better. Cattle and slaves have monetary value. The ships purse already held every last copper the Irish could scrape together. They had no value, dead or alive.

In America, the immigrants had sufficient fertile acreage to support large families.

Joe and Belle were strong, healthy, sentient animals. Well fed, hard work made them strong. They could help feed the family and eat the rewards of their labors. Living close to the earth and running the forest, gave them confidence of their blessed place in the great scheme of Mother Nature.

Joe's father gave them land. Joe felled timber and built a cabin, with help from his brothers and cousins. Belle's belly became an incubator, as they were blessed with many children. Children who could help with farming and take care of them in old age. They ate well. Sunsets were their TV.

Joe received his calling from God as he plowed the corn field with Sally, the mule. It was just like Moses, as described in the Bible, that he pondered nightly. A huckleberry bush, to the east of the corn field, shined with fire, but was not consumed by the fire. He saw himself in front of a congregation, leading the lambs back to their father.


In the little brown church in the wild wood dale, Joe often recounted his calling to the flock. It gave him credibility. Everyone knew that a man must be called, chosen by God, the Almighty, before he could preach.

God spoke directly from Preacher Gordon's mouth. Booming out shame and burning brimstone. The brothers and sisters of the Holy Commandments Church had been born into dispicable sin. With their first breath, even as new born babes, they were drowning, lost in sin, owned by the devil. Salvation came from deep repentance of sin and being washed in the blood of Jesus. Bathing in blood made them white as snow. Their garments were spotless.

On Sundays, morning and evening and on Wednesday evening, Preacher Gordon belted out the voice of God. He did not write out the sermons, (he was not good at writing) he let God use him as an instrument of voice. "Hallelujah!" "Amen, brother."

The log walls vibrated with God's voice. Then the Holy Spirit entered the congregation. The logs vibrated with spirit. The congregation cried quietly. Then the call was made to the alter.

"Jesus is here to help you. He will walk you to the alter." Preacher said in his tender voice.

The choir sang, "Are you washed, are you washed? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"

I was eleven years old.

Mother was by my side. We were visiting, staying with Aunt Laura, on her farm. Victoria was conspicuous, out of place in her up to the minute stylish clothes over swelling belly, among the people of her roots. Daddy was on a secret Air Force mission. It was before the Old Hotel. Carol, Kathi, and I clustered around Mother.

Then the choir sang, "Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War." People were kneeling at the alter, tears flowed. "Forward into battle". "Hallelujah!"

I was entered by the Holy Spirit. I was in a deep trance. I lost consciousness of the surroundings. I was in the channel of No Words. My neuron jell directed my feet up to the alter where I succumbed to wracking tears. I cried for hours. I sobbed on the alter. Flowing an ocean, I was gently walked to the car. Aunt Kat took me home with her that night. This was before the Old Hotel, she lived in a shack with only clap board and tin to repel the elements. She had a deep front porch with rockers and a utility back porch.

I cried in her arms like a dejected baby. I would forever be her baby. Eleven years old and sitting on my Aunt's lap! But my consciousness was still not connected to the commonly agreed upon channel, called "reality". Gradually, with musical voice she soothed me. I went into deep sleep.

The next day Sister Carol, Cousin Banty and I went to the watermelon patch. Banty thumped the melons with middle finger until she found one that was ripe. She broke it open by banging it on the ground. It tasted red and sweet and sun warmed. Thirst quencher.

We walked towards the piney woods. There was an ant bed, about 12 inches high, between the watermelon rows. Carol kicked it. Ants scattered, looking anxious. Carol began crushing the ants with her thumb. Banty joined in, giggling.

I had been saved, the night before, in Papa Gordon's little brown church in the wild wood dale. I said, to my genome and age cohorts, "You should not kill ants. They are God's creatures." They laughed at me.