Monthly Archives: September 2012

Chapter 1

A Warm September Night in Nashville 

(Continued)

Mama parked the Chevy in the back row of the church parking lot with the other late comers. Our walk to the pole tent, sitting near the old brick church, consisted more of a list of last second instructions than mobile exercise.

“You stand up when the music begins, hear?” she said, waving her index finger in the air by my nose. “And stay standing when the pastor prays. I don’t want to have to say anything to you tonight about your attitude or your actions. Don’t mess with mama, you hear?”

I mumbled a “yes ma’am,” but my eyes still searched for an escape route.

As we entered through the flaps of the tent, I saw it. There in the back row sat three of my Sunday School buddies. One gave me the “come here” sign with his forefinger and then pointed to an empty seat next to him. I planted my left foot and pivoted sharply, readying myself for a quick down and out to the sidelines. Mama’s hand reached out and grabbed my ear, yanking me back to her side.

“Luke, we’re sitting a little closer than the back row tonight.”

Her athletic effort did not even cause her a misstep as we walked down the sawdust covered aisle, past rows of drab green metal chairs. Most of the seats were filled with people fanning themselves with programs which awaited everyone on empty chairs. A stage with two men sitting on wingchairs, a walnut pulpit, and an upright piano faced us at the head of the aisle.

To my horror, mama continued walking until we reached the second row from the front. There a group of women with tambourines in their laps sat looking up at us with smiles on their faces. Two unoccupied chairs with Bibles resting on the seats closest to the aisle looked like they were saved especially for us.

I stopped and planted my feet in the sawdust. This was too much for a boy with college and pro football aspirations.

“Not here, mama,” I said, looking into her eyes and pleading my case. “It’ll be too noisy. Why don’t we sit somewhere else, where it’s a little quieter and a person can do some thinking about the speaker’s message tonight?”

Mama smiled for a nano second, but then she gave me a look which said everything without saying anything.

“Hush, Luke.”

She moved ahead of me and sat next to a lady in a brown and white polka dot dress. Both hugged each other like they had not seen each other in ten years. I sat on the chair next to the aisle. My chances of skipping out now needed a tornado or a bomb scare to make it happen, I thought.

A full figured black lady, wearing a long white dress, walked across the stage, and sat down at the piano. The crowd stood up as she began playing, “There’s Power in the Blood.”

Mama clapped her hands and swayed back and forth with her eyes closed as she sang along. The women next to her banged their tambourines with their hands or against their hips as they sang. I stood there, placing my hands on the chair in front of me and slouching down, not wanting anyone to notice me.

Five long songs followed the first one, each one supposedly increasing our expectation for a move of the Spirit during the service. After the last song, the gray haired pastor stood up and walked to the pulpit.

“Let’s remain standing and bow our heads,” he said into the microphone. He then prayed for the service and the offering.

As soon as he finished, ushers passed red plastic buckets up and down the rows. When the offering had been collected, the pastor approached the pulpit again.

(The above is the second part of the first chapter to a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 3)

Chapter 1

A Warm September Night in Nashville 

Mothers ruin young quarterbacks. I know this because my mother demolished my football career when I was ten years old.

That particular evening began with mama telling me I had to attend the final night of a tent crusade at Renaissance Pentecostal Church. She refused to even listen to my reasoning for not going with her. If she would have heard me out, I would have told her about the University of Tennessee Volunteers playing the Trojans of USC on television that night with Curt Gowdy doing the announcing. Every U of T football fan would be glued to the game.

“Listen up Luke Stoner,” she said, bringing out the heavy artillery, “you’re going along with me. No more discussion on this subject, you hear? Now, go upstairs and get ready.”

I bit my tongue, knowing I lost that battle, but my eyes were wide open for the next skirmish. You see, the game was not over until I sat on a metal chair next to her, listening to the fat lady singing. I trudged upstairs, removing my white t-shirt and tossing it toward the laundry hamper.

As I sat on my bed, pulling on my black slacks, I looked at a poster of Kenny Stabler hanging on the wall, next to my desk. He wore his black Oakland Raiders’ uniform with a silver number 12 on the front. My youth football jersey had the same number.

“Mama, you can make me miss the game tonight,” I proclaimed over my shoulder loud enough for her to hear in the bathroom across the hallway, “but you can’t make me walk down to the altar. It’s not my thing.”

Mama stood in the doorway to the bathroom, rolling her eyes toward heaven and brushing her long dark hair with sweeping strokes. She walked over to the vanity, laying the brush down on the walnut stained countertop. With both hands, she wound her hair into a tight bun and then clasped a hair clip to hold it in place. She accomplished all this while praying quietly.

“Mama, I ain’t wearing a tie with my white shirt. It’s too hot,” I shouted.

“Luke, you know it’s wrong to use the word ain’t, but no matter, you’re wearing a tie. Do you want me to tie it for you?”

“No! I’ll tie it myself.”

“Make sure it’s snug at the top. I want you looking sharp tonight.”

I finished dressing and trotted downstairs with a football in my left hand. My hero, Kenny Stabler, said that a young quarterback should always carry a football in his throwing hand, his fingers gripping the leather laces. He believed it produced confidence and he should know because he was the greatest left handed quarterback in the history of the NFL.

At the bottom of the stairs, I made a quick turn into the small kitchen. My right hand lifted the top of the old cookie jar and I grabbed a couple of cookies, without letting go of the football.

“Luke, stay out of the cookies.”

“Okay, mama,” I said, stuffing both chocolate chip cookies into my mouth with one motion. I figured she was too late on that call to penalize me for the theft. The soothing taste eased some of the pain of not seeing the football game.

Seconds later, she arrived downstairs, patting her dark blue dress down over her wide hips.

“How do I look?” she asked, giving me a wink.

“Mama, you’re beautiful.”

And to be honest, my mama, Melanie Stoner, was an attractive gal. The extra thickness she carried around her midsection did not subtract one smidge from her looks. Men asked her out often, but she seldom said yes because she felt her first priority was being my mom.

As for my dad, mama said I reminded her of him with my dishwater blond hair, blue eyes, and wiry build. He was a 101st Airborne paratrooper stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. They dated for four months, but then he died in a helicopter crash. Sadly, he never even knew mama was pregnant.

“Let’s go, Luke. I don’t want to be late.”

(The above is the opening to a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.

(Continued in Part 2)