The “Legend” of - “My Wednesday Night, Pecan Crackin', Prayer Meetin' ”
When I was a Kid, living in Corpus Christi, in the fall season, Dad always found a place to pick up pecans.
After the first frost, after the next good stiff cold front blew in,
the pecans would start dropping. Then Dad would start his traditional annual, picking up of, and then shelling pecans. First, Dad
would put them into plastic 5 gallon pails, after which he would
carefully shell them. Then he put them into quart zip-lock bags. When
they were all shelled and packaged, we kept enough bags of them for
Mom to use in pies and such throughout the year. After Christmas Mom would put many of those bags in the freezer for later use. Then
what was left over, which was often quite a few bags, Dad would
bestow many of them upon our Corpus Christi family, and he also gave many bags of
them to our local Corpus friends.
Susan and I sometimes helped Dad
shell pecans. He would cut the the ends out of them with some wire
cutters, which he had modified just for that purpose. Then it was
easy, even for us kids, to crack the shells and remove the fruit, without breaking them
up. And that my friends, is Texas Culture!
But there was another part of the “Texas pecan culture” Dad taught me. And that was, anytime we left the house to go anywhere that might land us out of doors for any length of time, Dad would grab a few whole pecans and put them into his coat pockets. Then, in the “dead times”, when we were somewhere out and about, and maybe just walking around, Dad would fish a couple of pecans out of his pocket, put two of them together in his right hand and crack them, by just squeezing them together against one another. You might would think that would take brute strength to do. And indeed it does take some strength. But it isn't nearly as difficult to do as it might sound, once you get the hang of it. There is a technique to it, which Dad taught me.
However, some of those smaller native pecans can be very tough. But I doubt if there was a pecan that ever withstood Dad's amazing strength. But for me, as about a 12 year old kid, sometimes those little “natives” were very tough for me to crack in that manner. The deal was, some of those smaller native pecans were dang near as hard as a hickory nut! And so what you did when you came across one of those, “tough nuts”, was to keep the hardest one in your hand, and use it as a ”master cracker”, by which to crack the other pecans with. But occasionally you would run across two or three of those really hard ones in one batch. And those few would survive to the end, after you had already cracked up and eaten the rest of the dozen or two pecans you had been totin' 'round in your coat pockets.
So, work at them as I might, and turn them every which way I could, and squeeze them 'till I was blue in the face, and until my palms were red and sore, sometimes those last two or three stubborn little pecans simply would not yield to my boyish strength. Sometimes there was just no cracking those renegade “tough nuts” with your hands. So later on you found yourself a small hammer, or a nice smooth rock, and then you found a nice clean porch, or you perched yourself somewhere on a cement curb, to finish the job off, as soon as the first opportunity arose.
However, on this particular fall Wednesday evening, we had gone to “prayer meeting” at our church. I had been outside at the back of the church, cracking my pecans, and handing out a few of them to some of my buddies, most of who were also savvy in the “art” of hand pecan crackin'. Then church time came around. And as it often worked out, I still had two of those little rock hard natives left over, from my “hoard”. I had been working on them and working on them, but to no avail. By then I knew I probably wouldn't be cracking them in the regular way, so as we I entered the back door of the church, I slipped them back into my coat pocket, to renew my assault on them at some later time.
As we entered the church, the dozen and a half or so of us “youths” usually congregated to the left side of the sanctuary, towards the middle-front of the church, while most of the “adults were already seated on the right side of the sanctuary. Then there were a few traditional “back seater's”, scattered here and there, who were usually seated behind us. Others of the scattered “back seater's” would sit behind the adults on the other side.
As usual, we sang a few hymns. Then a few praises were voiced, and prayer requests were taken. Then prayer time came. Now when we prayed on Wednesday nights at our little church, it was traditional for most folks to kneel between the pews. There were no “kneeler rails” or anything like that, so most folks just turned around and knelt down, leaning on the general spot where they had just been seated. And our pews were not padded either. They were just dark old fashioned hard pine pews.
We had no air conditioning in those days either. The windows were always open on hot summer evenings, which were many in South Texas. We had some oscillating fans on the walls that hummed away. In the dead of summer, the cicada's songs were clearly heard from the trees outside, chirping and buzzing away in concert, and then in "rounds". The street noises of passing cars, and of occasional police car, or an emergency vehicle's sirens, would sometimes join the chorus, as it all drifted through those many, wide open screened, church windows.
But those outside noises by no means overcame the fervent, loud prayers of those saints. Nor did they come close to overpowering the many other “standard church noises”, like the creaking of pews, the whispers of some of the youths, or the clearing of throats, and the squirming of the bodies of us restless young people. There was also the clomping of an occasional shoe knocking against the hard pine floors. Sometimes a simpering child would “chime in”, along with the rustling of the papers of ladies fanning themselves with church bulletins, in order to try to relieve the pall of heat from the sultry south Texas heat and humidity.
And almost everything in that little church was made of wood. Atop of the elevated preaching platform was a large solid walnut veneer pulpit. The altar rail was a 3 foot tall by 2 inch thick solid wooden wall, that traversed the better part of the width of the sanctuary. At one time there was an upright studio piano on the right of the auditorium, and a spinet piano on the left side of it. As before mentioned, the pews were all made of solid dark pine. But most importantly, the floors were mad of solid pine strips, like many of the houses of the 1940's and 50's had in them.
Except there was a runner of red carpet down the center isle, and the platform, which was elevated a couple of feet, was also covered with the same red carpet. The before mentioned wooden pulpit, sat atop of the platform, in the middle of it, along with a long wooden modesty rail, which was behind the pulpit. Then there were two small wooden pews, which sat atop the platform on each side of the pulpit, and in front of the modesty rail .This combination of many wooden things, made that little sanctuary quite an echo chamber at times!
So now we were all kneeling and “praying”. At least most of the adults were praying. But us “heathen youths” often used that time to socialize in whispers. We boys poked one another with our elbows, and pinched each other, etc. We slid notes folded into the classic triangular “paper footballs” back and forth to one another. Or maybe we would just shoot those “paper footballs" back to one another, down the joint where the back of the pew met the bottom seat of it, to just pass the time. Yes, but weren't we a “spiritual lot" though! :)
And so it was that in a rare moment, when we weren't doing something else we weren't supposed to be doing, while slouched down there between two pews, quasi kneeling in front of our pew, I looked back and saw our Hymnbooks, siting nicely up there in their rack, just to my right, and sort of behind me. Then, as I looked at that hard pew right there in front of me, and back at those hymnals, a “brilliant” idea came flashing into my mind! Suddenly, whilst I was down there doing nothing anyways, I thought, “What better way could there be of cracking a stubborn pecan, than between a good hard pine pew and, a church hymnal?”
“After all”, I reasoned, “a hymnal is a pretty stout book!” And looking back on it, those old pews were probably at least a 9.7, out of possible 10 on the “wood hardness scale”. So I slipped one of those hymnals out of it's rack. It was a good old fashioned, dark maroon “All American Church Hymnal”. Then, with hymnal in hand, I fished one of those remaining two pecans out of my coat pocket, and then I laid it carefully on the pew in front of me. I had to take care, because it could have easily rolled off the pew, clattering and and skittering away on those hard wooden floors. And it would have been really embarrassing, crawling around under those pews, and snaking and sliding around on the floor under there, trying to track it down! :)
So, I carefully placed my pecan on the pew, right there in front of me, while holding it between my right thumb and forefinger, while placing the hymnal on it with my left hand, until the Hymnal was firmly on the pecan, and as near dead center as I cold get it. Then I further centered it up the best I could, by a gentle rocking motion of the hymnal atop of my pecan. Then I cautiously leaned on the songbook, putting some slow pressure on it. I knew this whole process had to be done very carefully, because if you crack a pecan too hard, it becomes just an inedible, mixture of shards and pecan oil, and pecan shell pulp. A “greasy spot” of pecan paste and shell would be a good description of a failed, “pecan cracking by force”. :)
Thus I began my church house pecan cracking quest, leaning, and leaning, and then leaning on my songbook, a little bit harder by degrees. But the dang thing still held! So, I took it out form under the book, and eyeballed it a bit, checking for possible cracks. Seeing non though, I put it back on the pew, and repeated the process. This time, I leaned on my songbook a little harder, but still, nothing happened. So then I gave it a little “bounce”, and more pressure. And suddenly - “KA-POW!”. There came a report that sounded like a pistol shot, in that little church house sanctuary!
Oh, for sure I had cracked that pecan! But I was so disappointed, because it was as I had feared might happen. The remains of my precious pecan were nothing but an oval shaped greasy spot of pecan oil, pecan pulp, all mixed up with the finely crushed pecan shells! So, I deftly whisked the shards of my ruined pecan off of the pew, and into the other pocket of my jacket, quite chagrined at this undesirable outcome.
But Hey! All was not lost! I still had another pecan! Therefore, I reasoned that if I did it again, but perhaps with a little more finesse, surely I would get a better outcome! So, like the little fool that I was, I slid pecan number 2 out of my right jacket pocket. And Yes! I placed it on the pew in front of me AGAIN! And in approximately the same spot where the other now wasted pecan had previously occupied, I began my assault on "pecan # 2"!
Well, by this time I had at least awoken the other sleeping youths. And in so doing, I also had a rapt and a very attentive audience! So I proceeded to repeat the entire process – again! First I got my pecan all centered up, and again, I pushed down, but lightly and very carefully on my hymnal. Nothing. So I pushed downwards a little harder. Still nothing. Then I pushed harder still, but with no result. Then I continued pushing a little harder by degrees, except this time not bouncing on it, while thinking "Now I was doing it right!”, while also thinking about the reward of eating my nice tasty remaining pecan, whether it wanted to be eaten or not!
So I kept pushing and pushing --- PUUU-SSSS-HING! - Then, again - “CARACK-POWWW!!!” That second "pistol shot" seemed even louder than the first report had been! And that second “pistol shot” was also followed by a not too artfully suppressed, and therefore a very audible, giggling, snickering and chortling from the rest of the youth dept! But me? Stupid me? I was just bummed out, because I had gotten me nothing for my efforts except another spot of pecan grease, and some shards, and another epic fail for a pecan cracking experiment. Now you might be asking, yourself right about now, “What on earth were you thinking?!!!” Answer – Obviously I wasn't! :)
But trust me when I say, the trouble I got into over pulling that stunt, when we got home, most assuredly gave me a much clearer perspective about proper church conduct! And especially concerning proper conduct at prayer meetings! Because when I got home, I became the literal fulfillment, and the "poster boy" for that old scripture in I Peter 4:17, which says; “For the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God:...” Well the Tom foolery for sure began at “The house of God”, followed by a swift and sure “Judgment” when we got home!
But there was another part of the “Texas pecan culture” Dad taught me. And that was, anytime we left the house to go anywhere that might land us out of doors for any length of time, Dad would grab a few whole pecans and put them into his coat pockets. Then, in the “dead times”, when we were somewhere out and about, and maybe just walking around, Dad would fish a couple of pecans out of his pocket, put two of them together in his right hand and crack them, by just squeezing them together against one another. You might would think that would take brute strength to do. And indeed it does take some strength. But it isn't nearly as difficult to do as it might sound, once you get the hang of it. There is a technique to it, which Dad taught me.
However, some of those smaller native pecans can be very tough. But I doubt if there was a pecan that ever withstood Dad's amazing strength. But for me, as about a 12 year old kid, sometimes those little “natives” were very tough for me to crack in that manner. The deal was, some of those smaller native pecans were dang near as hard as a hickory nut! And so what you did when you came across one of those, “tough nuts”, was to keep the hardest one in your hand, and use it as a ”master cracker”, by which to crack the other pecans with. But occasionally you would run across two or three of those really hard ones in one batch. And those few would survive to the end, after you had already cracked up and eaten the rest of the dozen or two pecans you had been totin' 'round in your coat pockets.
So, work at them as I might, and turn them every which way I could, and squeeze them 'till I was blue in the face, and until my palms were red and sore, sometimes those last two or three stubborn little pecans simply would not yield to my boyish strength. Sometimes there was just no cracking those renegade “tough nuts” with your hands. So later on you found yourself a small hammer, or a nice smooth rock, and then you found a nice clean porch, or you perched yourself somewhere on a cement curb, to finish the job off, as soon as the first opportunity arose.
However, on this particular fall Wednesday evening, we had gone to “prayer meeting” at our church. I had been outside at the back of the church, cracking my pecans, and handing out a few of them to some of my buddies, most of who were also savvy in the “art” of hand pecan crackin'. Then church time came around. And as it often worked out, I still had two of those little rock hard natives left over, from my “hoard”. I had been working on them and working on them, but to no avail. By then I knew I probably wouldn't be cracking them in the regular way, so as we I entered the back door of the church, I slipped them back into my coat pocket, to renew my assault on them at some later time.
As we entered the church, the dozen and a half or so of us “youths” usually congregated to the left side of the sanctuary, towards the middle-front of the church, while most of the “adults were already seated on the right side of the sanctuary. Then there were a few traditional “back seater's”, scattered here and there, who were usually seated behind us. Others of the scattered “back seater's” would sit behind the adults on the other side.
As usual, we sang a few hymns. Then a few praises were voiced, and prayer requests were taken. Then prayer time came. Now when we prayed on Wednesday nights at our little church, it was traditional for most folks to kneel between the pews. There were no “kneeler rails” or anything like that, so most folks just turned around and knelt down, leaning on the general spot where they had just been seated. And our pews were not padded either. They were just dark old fashioned hard pine pews.
We had no air conditioning in those days either. The windows were always open on hot summer evenings, which were many in South Texas. We had some oscillating fans on the walls that hummed away. In the dead of summer, the cicada's songs were clearly heard from the trees outside, chirping and buzzing away in concert, and then in "rounds". The street noises of passing cars, and of occasional police car, or an emergency vehicle's sirens, would sometimes join the chorus, as it all drifted through those many, wide open screened, church windows.
But those outside noises by no means overcame the fervent, loud prayers of those saints. Nor did they come close to overpowering the many other “standard church noises”, like the creaking of pews, the whispers of some of the youths, or the clearing of throats, and the squirming of the bodies of us restless young people. There was also the clomping of an occasional shoe knocking against the hard pine floors. Sometimes a simpering child would “chime in”, along with the rustling of the papers of ladies fanning themselves with church bulletins, in order to try to relieve the pall of heat from the sultry south Texas heat and humidity.
And almost everything in that little church was made of wood. Atop of the elevated preaching platform was a large solid walnut veneer pulpit. The altar rail was a 3 foot tall by 2 inch thick solid wooden wall, that traversed the better part of the width of the sanctuary. At one time there was an upright studio piano on the right of the auditorium, and a spinet piano on the left side of it. As before mentioned, the pews were all made of solid dark pine. But most importantly, the floors were mad of solid pine strips, like many of the houses of the 1940's and 50's had in them.
Except there was a runner of red carpet down the center isle, and the platform, which was elevated a couple of feet, was also covered with the same red carpet. The before mentioned wooden pulpit, sat atop of the platform, in the middle of it, along with a long wooden modesty rail, which was behind the pulpit. Then there were two small wooden pews, which sat atop the platform on each side of the pulpit, and in front of the modesty rail .This combination of many wooden things, made that little sanctuary quite an echo chamber at times!
So now we were all kneeling and “praying”. At least most of the adults were praying. But us “heathen youths” often used that time to socialize in whispers. We boys poked one another with our elbows, and pinched each other, etc. We slid notes folded into the classic triangular “paper footballs” back and forth to one another. Or maybe we would just shoot those “paper footballs" back to one another, down the joint where the back of the pew met the bottom seat of it, to just pass the time. Yes, but weren't we a “spiritual lot" though! :)
And so it was that in a rare moment, when we weren't doing something else we weren't supposed to be doing, while slouched down there between two pews, quasi kneeling in front of our pew, I looked back and saw our Hymnbooks, siting nicely up there in their rack, just to my right, and sort of behind me. Then, as I looked at that hard pew right there in front of me, and back at those hymnals, a “brilliant” idea came flashing into my mind! Suddenly, whilst I was down there doing nothing anyways, I thought, “What better way could there be of cracking a stubborn pecan, than between a good hard pine pew and, a church hymnal?”
“After all”, I reasoned, “a hymnal is a pretty stout book!” And looking back on it, those old pews were probably at least a 9.7, out of possible 10 on the “wood hardness scale”. So I slipped one of those hymnals out of it's rack. It was a good old fashioned, dark maroon “All American Church Hymnal”. Then, with hymnal in hand, I fished one of those remaining two pecans out of my coat pocket, and then I laid it carefully on the pew in front of me. I had to take care, because it could have easily rolled off the pew, clattering and and skittering away on those hard wooden floors. And it would have been really embarrassing, crawling around under those pews, and snaking and sliding around on the floor under there, trying to track it down! :)
So, I carefully placed my pecan on the pew, right there in front of me, while holding it between my right thumb and forefinger, while placing the hymnal on it with my left hand, until the Hymnal was firmly on the pecan, and as near dead center as I cold get it. Then I further centered it up the best I could, by a gentle rocking motion of the hymnal atop of my pecan. Then I cautiously leaned on the songbook, putting some slow pressure on it. I knew this whole process had to be done very carefully, because if you crack a pecan too hard, it becomes just an inedible, mixture of shards and pecan oil, and pecan shell pulp. A “greasy spot” of pecan paste and shell would be a good description of a failed, “pecan cracking by force”. :)
Thus I began my church house pecan cracking quest, leaning, and leaning, and then leaning on my songbook, a little bit harder by degrees. But the dang thing still held! So, I took it out form under the book, and eyeballed it a bit, checking for possible cracks. Seeing non though, I put it back on the pew, and repeated the process. This time, I leaned on my songbook a little harder, but still, nothing happened. So then I gave it a little “bounce”, and more pressure. And suddenly - “KA-POW!”. There came a report that sounded like a pistol shot, in that little church house sanctuary!
Oh, for sure I had cracked that pecan! But I was so disappointed, because it was as I had feared might happen. The remains of my precious pecan were nothing but an oval shaped greasy spot of pecan oil, pecan pulp, all mixed up with the finely crushed pecan shells! So, I deftly whisked the shards of my ruined pecan off of the pew, and into the other pocket of my jacket, quite chagrined at this undesirable outcome.
But Hey! All was not lost! I still had another pecan! Therefore, I reasoned that if I did it again, but perhaps with a little more finesse, surely I would get a better outcome! So, like the little fool that I was, I slid pecan number 2 out of my right jacket pocket. And Yes! I placed it on the pew in front of me AGAIN! And in approximately the same spot where the other now wasted pecan had previously occupied, I began my assault on "pecan # 2"!
Well, by this time I had at least awoken the other sleeping youths. And in so doing, I also had a rapt and a very attentive audience! So I proceeded to repeat the entire process – again! First I got my pecan all centered up, and again, I pushed down, but lightly and very carefully on my hymnal. Nothing. So I pushed downwards a little harder. Still nothing. Then I pushed harder still, but with no result. Then I continued pushing a little harder by degrees, except this time not bouncing on it, while thinking "Now I was doing it right!”, while also thinking about the reward of eating my nice tasty remaining pecan, whether it wanted to be eaten or not!
So I kept pushing and pushing --- PUUU-SSSS-HING! - Then, again - “CARACK-POWWW!!!” That second "pistol shot" seemed even louder than the first report had been! And that second “pistol shot” was also followed by a not too artfully suppressed, and therefore a very audible, giggling, snickering and chortling from the rest of the youth dept! But me? Stupid me? I was just bummed out, because I had gotten me nothing for my efforts except another spot of pecan grease, and some shards, and another epic fail for a pecan cracking experiment. Now you might be asking, yourself right about now, “What on earth were you thinking?!!!” Answer – Obviously I wasn't! :)
But trust me when I say, the trouble I got into over pulling that stunt, when we got home, most assuredly gave me a much clearer perspective about proper church conduct! And especially concerning proper conduct at prayer meetings! Because when I got home, I became the literal fulfillment, and the "poster boy" for that old scripture in I Peter 4:17, which says; “For the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God:...” Well the Tom foolery for sure began at “The house of God”, followed by a swift and sure “Judgment” when we got home!
And
if I were ever to run across my old buddy, Dale Lucky, even to this
day, over 50 years later now, I am betting soon after we began our
classic "walk down Memory Lane”, the first thing he would bring
up would be that legendary, “Night of the Pecan Crackin' Prayer
Meetin' ", at the old Free Methodist Church!
For years, Dale laughed at me about that little misadventure. He always brought it up for a good laugh, whenever the opportunity presented tit's self! And I can't say that I blame him, because I would most certainly have done the same thing, if it had been him who had done it instead of me. :)
And that folks is a true story! Every word of it!
For years, Dale laughed at me about that little misadventure. He always brought it up for a good laugh, whenever the opportunity presented tit's self! And I can't say that I blame him, because I would most certainly have done the same thing, if it had been him who had done it instead of me. :)
And that folks is a true story! Every word of it!
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