Sunday distractions at Colpetty Methodist Church
Thoughts of growing up days and church.
My mother, ensured the family got its weekly share of church.
For some reason, for a reason beyond me at that time, we always sat at the very back. Since it was a very big church (by Colombo standards), this meant we were very far away from the Reverend (that's what we called the preists in our church.
Reverend. Hmm. Person who is reverential? Chief of revering? Interesting choice on noun for a preist. Very interesting, as compared to, father, boring, and also too family-like for us methodists. We wanted to make it very clear we were not related in any way At All. Also not, pastor. No, that was for only those neo-liberal low-churches. We, with our stip upper lips, and suede shoes, didn't need pastoring at all. We were not sheep. We were in the cat family, we chose to be reverent, or irreverant as we felt.
In those days, we actually sang bona-fide hymns. No happy-clappy hand gestures and guitars for us. It was always pre-1900, and it was always the organ. The organ lady was a mystery to me. Sorry to say this, but thing is, in my ripe young age, she looked quite corpse-like to me. I used to think that maybe, because she only came to play the organ for the hymns, and pre and post-service music, and slept the rest of the time, she may have been actually a ghost. her skin being paper thin, like her rice-starch saris, and white face powder did nothing to cure my childhood delusion.
Other than speculating about the organist, there were lots of other very interesting things to do. I would alternate betweeen counting the number of bald-heads and spectacles in the congregation. And making little paper balls, for each bald head/spectacle there was. counting bald heads was far more interesting, for a reason I have still not figured out. Maybe it was the atrtaction of those shiny lobes, gleaming with sweat, had some sultry appeal? Once I had 40 shiny bald heads. Sorry, I am telling a lie. to get to that number, I had to include those who I speculated were almost bald. That is, with little hair. Being a bit unscientific at that time, I was not sure how to create a 'bald head indicator'. defining what exactly constituted as a bald head.
I also loved it that I was able to stand on the chair when we sang hymns. These were not chairs, of course, they were bonafide pews. With rattan bottoms, and I am sure the one right at the back needed constant mending. I think it was because it gave me better range of the bald heads. I was always sad we did not sit upstairs, because I felt that this would be the best vantage point for this sort of serious exercise.
I now wonder if there was a correlation between baldness and methodism. It certainly gave, in my eyes, more respectability. I am sure, older men with long hair, or even just hair, went to those nasty 'low churches', and stood up and gave testimonies. My baldies on the other hand were dignified. They wore white striped shirts, and real gray trousers. They had beautiful tall ladies in colored saris and straight black hair sitting a few inches away from them, and served their husband thin slices of papaw for desert. Their children always wore shoes and socks, and pretty bows on their head. So maybe their is a connection. Upper-lipped methodists had to look that way. Jean-clad, smutty looking families didn't belong to baldies.
Reading about David and bathsheba, and the well, was a past-time I developed when I had advanced from my predictions for bald men. This was, please note, before I had discovered that, there were actual equally sultry love and sex stories in real books. Maybe having read such tawdry stories at such a young age set the standards too high, and may have been why I always considered Mills and Boons trivial. I needed the real stuff, all the way.
I may not miss religion much, but I do miss those Sunday morning distractions at Colpetty Methodist Church, and the father, mother, sister, me foursome.
My mother, ensured the family got its weekly share of church.
For some reason, for a reason beyond me at that time, we always sat at the very back. Since it was a very big church (by Colombo standards), this meant we were very far away from the Reverend (that's what we called the preists in our church.
Reverend. Hmm. Person who is reverential? Chief of revering? Interesting choice on noun for a preist. Very interesting, as compared to, father, boring, and also too family-like for us methodists. We wanted to make it very clear we were not related in any way At All. Also not, pastor. No, that was for only those neo-liberal low-churches. We, with our stip upper lips, and suede shoes, didn't need pastoring at all. We were not sheep. We were in the cat family, we chose to be reverent, or irreverant as we felt.
In those days, we actually sang bona-fide hymns. No happy-clappy hand gestures and guitars for us. It was always pre-1900, and it was always the organ. The organ lady was a mystery to me. Sorry to say this, but thing is, in my ripe young age, she looked quite corpse-like to me. I used to think that maybe, because she only came to play the organ for the hymns, and pre and post-service music, and slept the rest of the time, she may have been actually a ghost. her skin being paper thin, like her rice-starch saris, and white face powder did nothing to cure my childhood delusion.
Other than speculating about the organist, there were lots of other very interesting things to do. I would alternate betweeen counting the number of bald-heads and spectacles in the congregation. And making little paper balls, for each bald head/spectacle there was. counting bald heads was far more interesting, for a reason I have still not figured out. Maybe it was the atrtaction of those shiny lobes, gleaming with sweat, had some sultry appeal? Once I had 40 shiny bald heads. Sorry, I am telling a lie. to get to that number, I had to include those who I speculated were almost bald. That is, with little hair. Being a bit unscientific at that time, I was not sure how to create a 'bald head indicator'. defining what exactly constituted as a bald head.
I also loved it that I was able to stand on the chair when we sang hymns. These were not chairs, of course, they were bonafide pews. With rattan bottoms, and I am sure the one right at the back needed constant mending. I think it was because it gave me better range of the bald heads. I was always sad we did not sit upstairs, because I felt that this would be the best vantage point for this sort of serious exercise.
I now wonder if there was a correlation between baldness and methodism. It certainly gave, in my eyes, more respectability. I am sure, older men with long hair, or even just hair, went to those nasty 'low churches', and stood up and gave testimonies. My baldies on the other hand were dignified. They wore white striped shirts, and real gray trousers. They had beautiful tall ladies in colored saris and straight black hair sitting a few inches away from them, and served their husband thin slices of papaw for desert. Their children always wore shoes and socks, and pretty bows on their head. So maybe their is a connection. Upper-lipped methodists had to look that way. Jean-clad, smutty looking families didn't belong to baldies.
Reading about David and bathsheba, and the well, was a past-time I developed when I had advanced from my predictions for bald men. This was, please note, before I had discovered that, there were actual equally sultry love and sex stories in real books. Maybe having read such tawdry stories at such a young age set the standards too high, and may have been why I always considered Mills and Boons trivial. I needed the real stuff, all the way.
I may not miss religion much, but I do miss those Sunday morning distractions at Colpetty Methodist Church, and the father, mother, sister, me foursome.
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