“I’m Just a Poor, Old, Country Preacher”
“I’m just a poor, old, country preacher” was the ruse he had learned in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky from his southern born brothers in the ministry.
A city boy from the North, he sat mesmerized by those from Alabama and Mississippi who Had journeyed as far north as they could stand and landed in Louisville, south side of the Ohio river
Only venturing beyond the north side of the Ohio for judicatory business, the business of Doing the Lord’s work having to negotiate about that work with the dreaded Yankees of Civil War infamy.
Years and years before he had ventured south of the Ohio river and almost to the banks of The Cumberland, a manchild in the Promised land of Bowling Green, Franklin and Round Pond.
How in the heck did that happen? He asked himself and his wife asked him and his year And a half old son would have asked him if he had thought of it and could formulate the Words.
It seemed even to be a question on the lips of the Lord who it has been said wouldn’t Venture north of Munfordville because anything north of Munfordville was too far north for Any self-respecting southern deity.
His daughter, a Southern Belle born way down in Bowling Green where you would find the Prettiest girls ever seen, never thought to ask him that because, well, she was a Southern Belle.
He felt like a fish out of water, certainly the great waters of one of the Great Lakes’ lake Lake Michigan, where he would put a toe or two into in July and most certainly early August,
But he got used to putting his hand into the warm waters of the ponds of his farmer Parishioners pulling out a catfish or slabber Blue gill or really large, largemouth bass.
And he and his son who was now old enough to hold a rod and reel In his hand and make Pretty good casts into the ponds and his wife who always brought her art pad to draw and Southern Belle baby
Drove through the gates into the fields parking near the pond and the really big fat hogs Would come and rub their really dirty bodies against his really nice, white 1970 Dodge Challenger,
And Jack, the owner of the property and an elder in his church, would yell, “Soo-ee, Soo-ee, soo-ee!” and the pigs would prance off to other parts of the pasture.
The transplanted Yankee pastor had been told on the first Sunday that his four and half Year tenure began that he had two strikes against Him: “One, you’re a Yankee. Two, you’re From a big city.
And if I might I add three, you’re a Presbyterian.” “What?” he asked. “This is a Presbyterian Church.” “No. That’s just the sign above the door. We’re really all Baptists here.”
He was right. The Yankee preacher’s Southern Belle daughter was baptized when she Was a month old and when it came to adding up the stats at the end of the year, they just Flat out forgot that one
Because it hadn’t happened by immersion in Drake’s Creek.
And so, he went to judicatory meetings to watch with wonder the smooth tongued Presbyterian pastors who sought to outwit each other by using the “I’m just a poor, old Country preacher” ploy,
And it was such a wonder to behold, but there was no greater wonder than the sight of These Southern Presbyterian boys disarming and then sentencing to death by Embarrassment their Northern counterparts at synod meetings.
Years and years later long after he had ventured back north, he attended a city council Meeting to plead the cause of a minority who wasn’t having its rights protected, and he
Summoned his best “I’m just a poor, old, country preacher” wily subterfuge, after all he Had been an English major with a speech and theater minor in college, with a Kentucky Twang and all and five minutes later after he said, “Thaaank, yu’ll very much and praise
God!” he sat down and three minutes later two of the seven council members smiled.