Mama was a Preacher
Chapter One
In the Beginning
Copyright 1996 by AUTHOR22@aol.com
All rights reserved.

In 1935 Adolph Hitler was rattling swords in Europe. Japan was unhappy with 
American foreign policy, and the United States was the international playboy 
whose primary goal in life was enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.

My mother was with child, and in 1935 I struggled free of her body, entering 
a world rapidly moving towards strife.

Sometime later, and well before my memory began recording things for my 
retention, my father moved on and Mom got religion.

My earliest recollections were inside of a country church in the hills of 
Arkansas. The settlement was small and very poor. There was only one 
community building and it served as a one room school house, church, 
and meeting center.

We lived in a small house trailer parked alongside of the structure. 
Water was from a well, some 20 feet away; light and heat came from 
kerosene.

Compared with where everyone else lived, our trailer was a mansion. 
Two of the largest families lived in what at first looked like old 
barns; the inner space being divided into a couple of rooms with walls 
constructed from rough, unfinished lumber. Most cooking was done over 
an outdoor fire pit, although both houses did have large wood burning 
stoves. The Holborns had 12 Kids, while the Osbornes had only 11; 
mostly boys.

A living was wrenched from the hard, mean land by applying much effort 
with a few tools but mostly bare hands. They raised chickens, pigs, 
and everyone had at least one cow.

The nearest town was 20 miles away, so the only entertainment was Mama's 
church and she held services twice on Sunday, and Wednesday evening.

The church building wasn't much better than the houses, although I 
suspect neither the Osbornes or Holborns had to put up with the leaky 
roofs that we did. But that wasn't really much of a problem because 
when it rained everyone stayed home.

Mama's Sunday Night Services were the most fun of the week; the entire 
community looked forward to them. If the number of times the congregation 
said "Amen Sister", or "Hallelujah" meant they liked what they heard, then 
she was very good. However, the main part of that Sunday evening service 
that every one looked forward to was the singing. 

She had tried to organize a choir, but everyone in the congregation wanted 
in; and there was no point in simply re-seating everyone behind Mama on the 
platform.

The Sunday morning services were a bore. First there was Sunday 
School, with someone's mother, father, uncle or aunt teaching us about 
what they thought the Bible said. However that ordeal was only an hour 
long, and was followed by the Sunday morning sermon. Mama tried to 
keep that to an hour, but like a salad once started, it grew and grew 
and grew, sometimes lasting well past one o'clock. The congregation 
divided its self into two parts with the adults up front and the kids 
in back. The children could sneak out without disturbing the older 
folk; only Mama could see them leave.

At the age of ten I was too young to understand why some of the teenage 
boys and girls would leave in the middle of the evening services. Mama 
would be quite distressed, although it didn't bother her when it happened 
on Sunday mornings.

Sometimes I would sit in Mama's chair behind the podium while she was 
conducting the singing. She wasn't very good on the piano, but one of the 
Osborne girls could play by ear and did most of the piano playing.

I still had long blonde curls which framed my round cheerie face. My body 
was babyish; round and chubby. 

One time I was sitting on the edge of the platform, clapping my hands in 
time to a spirited number and Mama handed me a tambourine. My little hands 
began to spank the surface causing both a tinkling sound from the metal 
rings as well as a drum like thump. Soon my little frame was bouncing up 
and down having become part of that little instrument. 

After the singing was over, and Mama got down to preaching, I would sit in 
the lap of Marjory, the piano player. She would put her arms around me, 
her hands in my lap, and as she would get stirred up she would press her 
hands, almost rhythmically, into my lap. The feeling was nice and my 
little penis would stiffen; and when that happened her smile would get 
bigger, and her body seemed to get even more into the beat of her 
emotions, as her hands continued to administer to my tiny drum stick.

Even though singing and testimony were the only two parts of the service in 
which everyone was expected to participate, the congregation would join in 
agreement with points made during the sermon.

The testimony part of the service was kind of a "public confession", where 
people would stand up and tell about the sins they had committed, and how 
God had changed their lives. You could always tell when the older children 
were "maturing", as they would suddenly be sinning, and would need to seek 
forgiveness. Yet outside of the church their daily lives didn't change. 
They still would sneak out of the service and seek "fun in the bushes". 
Their confessions would never admit to that part of their behavior. Sex 
wasn't sinning; that was just part of growing up.

One night when Mama and I were in our beds, and before I had gone to sleep 
I asked her what caused babies to be born. She dwelt heavily upon the 
growing in her body and the pain of giving birth, but never mentioned the 
fun part of how a girl would get pregnant. Of course I had heard 
things from the other kids and had witnessed the siring of a cow by 
the bull. In my infant innocence I tried to guide her to that part of 
the process but failed.

In the summertime most of the boys would go skinny dipping in the 
nearby river. When I was old enough they would take me with them. 
The older boys had hair growing below their abdomens, and had wee-wees 
that were not so wee. On occasion they would wrestle and play tag. 
Frequently their wee-wees would get stiff and stand out from their 
bodies. When that happened the boy would quickly dive into the water, 
and swim rapidly around until he was no longer stiff.

Jerry was an Osborne. Jerry was my age, and Jerry was my best friend. We 
would hang out together, play jacks or marbles, and go fishing. We also 
talked about the girls in his family; there were three: Marjory who was 16, 
Betty who was 14, and Jerry's twin sister Geraldine.

Jerry knew a lot about girls. They had pussy's, and wee-wees were designed 
by God to go into pussies. Just why and how that happened remained a 
mystery. Occasionally our little peckers would get stiff, and we would lay 
back and wonder how it would feel to have them inside of a girl's pussy. 

Jerry's oldest brother Todd was nearly 18, and he was "very popular" with 
the girls. Jerry said that he had heard that Todd had spent an entire 
weekend with a waitress down in Clinton, and had bragged to his brothers 
that the girl could not get enough of him. We wondered exactly what part 
of him she could not get enough of.

It was about then when Jerry started his growth spurt, while I remained 
pre-pubescent. His dick was the first thing that started to get bigger. 
We talked about that and compared our equipment. Within just a couple of 
months Jerry grew from little finger sized to a good five inches. Then, he 
told me about having a dream where he had his wee-wee inside of a girl's 
pussy, and waking as it squirted sticky stuff into his undershorts. He 
told one of his brothers who laughingly told him that he would produce a 
lot of that stuff. None of this made any sense to me, but it did start me 
wondering more and more about that part of our bodies. By the time we were 
twelve, Jerry and I started going camping. We would take our fishing 
poles, and head down to the river. He would bring an old comforter in 
which we would sleep.

We would collect a pile of sticks and branches from which we could make a 
bonfire. If we didn't catch any fish (and we usually didn't) we would 
throw a couple of potatoes in the bottom of the fire, while we toasted a 
hot dog. The taste of the fire roasted potato and hot dog made for a meal 
yet to be equaled by any restaurant.

As the night grew on, we would cuddle up inside of his comforter. 
Sometimes I would sleep with my arms around him, sometimes it was the other 
way around. In the mornings we would both wake with stiffies. If I was 
facing away, then Jerry's hand usually cupped my waking wee-wee, and his 
much larger one would poke the rear of my shorts. 

One morning I woke with Jerry's hand around my bare wee-wee; it felt really 
good. Then, I noticed that my shorts were down around my ankles, and that 
his much larger wee-wee was between my legs, and was making a very wet spot 
on my balls. But, the warmth from his shaft, plus his hand on mine felt 
wonderful, and I pushed back towards him feeling warm and loved. After 
that we always slept naked.

Jerry became the central part of my life. If he wasn't around I was 
miserable, if he was then I was overjoyed. Our camping trips became 
more frequent. 

We would sit together in the front row during Sunday night services, 
harmonizing during the singing. Mother suggested that we practice 
singing together. Marjory, Jerry and I began spending hours together 
singing songs and experimenting with our voices. Marjory would be at 
the piano, while Jerry and I would stand close together, an arm around 
one another, heads practically touching so that we could hear 
ourselves better. 

Jerry and I preferred high tempo songs; things with life and bounce. 
Mother and Marjory preferred the slower, ballad type numbers. "Rock of 
Ages" was mother's favorite, while "When the Saints go Marching In" was 
mine. In as much as Marjory played the piano we were stuck with her 
choices, until we started to sing a Cappella.

As we discovered this new technique we began to play off of and with each 
other. We began to use our voices to improve how the other sounded, and 
would frequently surprise one another. The more we sang together without 
accompaniment, the closer we became; it was almost as though we were sharing 
our innermost self. I felt closer to Jerry then than I did when we
were sleeping naked together with his stiff dick between my legs. Our 
intellects, our minds, our souls had joined. And at thirteen that's pretty 
powerful stuff.

Mother began featuring a Cappella duets at the close of Sunday night 
services. The call for sinners to come to the altar were accompanied 
by our two voices, and brought tears to the eyes of the congregation 
while "the sinners" knelt in front of the platform declaring their 
sorrow for their misdeeds.

In a small community there are no secrets; everyone knows what everyone 
else does. So how these people could possibly have sinned that
much in the last week was a real mystery. However, the emotion was 
real, and it fed back to Jerry and I as our voices got even more 
tearful, and beckoning.

It was in early fall that we first heard that there was a tent revival 
meeting coming to Clinton. The evangelist was visiting every church in the 
vicinity, inviting the local minister and congregation to attend. Mother 
was quite excited about this event, and organized transportation for the 
entire community. We were to drive into town for the day immediately after 
Sunday morning services.

Jerry and Marjory drove down with Mother and I. Mother saw the tent first. 
It looked like a small circus tent. The sides were rolled up, allowing 
free movement of air. And there was saw dust on the floor. Folding chairs 
were placed in rows in front of a large platform. A piano was on the right 
side. There was seating for about 300 people.

The Reverend Gregory was a short, balding man. His heavy frame was strong 
and spirited. What little hair he had was gray. His wife was plump and 
homely. She played piano and led the singing. 

The revival meeting was to be divided into two sessions starting at three 
in the afternoon, then breaking for a potluck dinner at six, then continuing 
at seven-thirty.

There would also be tent meetings every night during the week, ending next 
Saturday.

By the time three o'clock had arrived the tent was packed. The Osbornes, 
including, Jerry were in the front row on the right side,
while the Holborns were on the left side, and mother and I were on the 
very end.

The good Reverend started the service with a lengthy prayer that mentioned 
every minister and church in the area. Once that chore was out of the way 
his wife led the singing, and it was joyful and spirited; just the kind of 
thing Jerry and I loved to do. I could hear his voice clearly as he sang 
out; and from the other side of the tent I met his and harmonized. Then we 
began to play with each other as our voices met, teased, complemented, led, 
and joined. 

Reverend Gregory joined his wife at the front of the stage and whispered 
something in her ear, and then retired to the rear of the stage. At the 
end of the first song, she beckoned first Jerry and then me to join her. 

These two teenage boys beamed at each other as they walked towards the 
steps in the center of the stage. Something very special was happening.

Most of the afternoons music was designed to be uplifting; to get the 
congregation into a joyful, emotional state. It was exactly the kind of 
material Jerry and I always strove for. It was really US.

I think it was then that I first realized Jerry and I loved each other. 
That love extended beyond our minds, entering our singing, extending beyond 
and into the people who joined us in song. Every person within that tent 
were being bound together by what we were doing, and what we were doing was 
rooted in the deep love that existed between these two teenage boys.

By four o'clock the singing had come to an end. The reverend came to the 
podium with a few words, and said that he wanted each minister in the area 
to give a 15 minute message, after which they would break for the Pot Luck 
Dinner.

The first minister was from the Clinton Methodist Church, and he was a 
bore. That 15 minutes was the longest 15 minutes of the day. The second 
minister was from the Pentecostal Church and had some fire to him. But 
mother's 15 minutes was not 15 minutes, she couldn't even begin to say what 
she wanted to say within that short time, and she was powerful, and she had 
drive. Forty-five minutes later she finally closed, and the good reverend 
broke for dinner.

Mrs. Gregory asked mother to join her and her husband at their table. 
Jerry and I started to sit with them, but mom suggested we eat with the 
other kids who were congregating on the far end of the tent.

There was lots of food. Watermelon, fried chicken, potato salad, and lots 
of Jello. There were cakes and pies, lemonade and fruit punch. But with 
all of the kids that were there the food did not last long, and before 
people could drift off, the Gregories started the evening services thirty 
minutes earlier than planned.

Mrs. Gregory asked Jerry and I to join her on stage, where we continued 
with the uplifting singing, but once the spirit that had been generated 
before dinner had been regained, she thanked us, and then turned the 
services over to her husband.

He spoke of the evils of our modern day, of how mere man could not live 
without sinning unless he had the hand of God upon his head. As he 
continued he developed a rhythm to his speaking which was emphasized by a
pounding on the podium as he made his points. The pace increased, as he 
spanned from the evils of the world to the wonders of a forgiving God. His 
voice had moved from the pounding of Hell Fire and Brimstone, to the pleading 
voice of compassion. It was almost hypnotic as he drove deeper and
deeper into these country folk. 

Finally the service came to an end with the call for sinners to come to the 
altar and seek the forgiveness of Christ. It had been a very emotional 
experience.

Mother and Marjory were sitting in the front seat of our car, with Jerry 
and I in the back. She said that the Gregorys wanted her to preach on 
Tuesday night, and that they would like for Jerry and I to sing. Jerry, 
reached over and squeezed my hand; and my heart pounded in my chest.

It was past midnight by the time we had parked the car, and mother suggested 
that the two Osborne kids spend the night. Marjory would double up with
mother, and of course Jerry would sleep with me. However, despite the 
lateness of the hour, Jerry and I were far too excited. We told Marjory 
that she could sleep in my bed, as we were going to take the comforter and 
sleep alongside the river.

Mother didn't object, so we rolled up Jerry's old comforter and hiked the 
half mile to our special spot.

We sat along side of the river, our bare feet being cooled by the passing 
waters. The moon reflected from the rippling surface creating a magical 
moment in my memory. Jerry reached over, pulled me to him, and kissed me 
solidly upon the lips.

It must have been well past two o'clock when we finally laid out the 
comforter and crawled into its familiar interior. We faced one another. 
His breath was warm and sweet. Our lips were within tongues reach, our 
arms encircling; mine around his shoulders, his cupping the cheeks of 
my buttocks. In total innocence we slipped into dreamland.

The next morning a pestering fly woke me as the warm sun began its rise. 
We had shifted our position during the night. I had turned over, and 
Jerry's stiffie was resting where it usually did; between my legs, probing 
my balls. But this morning it was a bit different. First there was an 
unusual, but pleasant odor emanating from under the comforter, and secondly, 
Jerry began rocking back and forth, his shaft massaging between my legs
all the way to and past my balls. His right arm was around my waist. He 
held me firmly in his embrace, as his hips began to move. As his pace 
increased, I moved backward, closer to him, sharing his unknown pleasure. 
As his movements increased the area between my legs got wetter and wetter. 
Without knowing why I squeezed my little legs tight together. Then, very 
suddenly Jerry began nibbling on the back of my neck and shoulders. Without 
warning his pecker spurted a warm, slippery substance between my legs. 
He held me even tighter as his hands massaged my little one. His wetness 
trickled down inside of my leg. Even though it tickled, I didn't want to 
do anything that might destroy this mood, and thus lay very quite, snuggled 
in his arms, his now quieter breathing testifying to the waning passion 
which was being replaced by an even greater feeling of warmth and emotion; 
of love.

The pestering fly returned. As I batted it, I accidentally hit Jerry. 
That started a bit of wrestling. His sticky stuff started to spread around 
on our bodies as we ground into each other, trying to see who could pin who 
to the ground. Laughingly, I slipped out of his grasp and ran to the river 
where we continued our morning exercise.

Then hunger raised its ugly head, and we headed for the Osborne's for a 
morning meal.

Mama spent all day Monday, and most of Tuesday preparing her sermon for the 
revival service. 

Marjory, Jerry, and I experimented with different gospel songs. Every 
morning KWHN in Fort Smith had a live concert of gospel music. Marjory 
began to develop a liking for the up tempo songs, and her ability to 
duplicate on the piano what she heard on the radio, enabled Jerry and I 
to expand our repertoire. 

During the week most of the people in our community toiled from sun up to 
sun set, so it wasn't a surprise when only Mama, Marjory, Jerry and me were 
the only ones going into Clinton for Tuesdays Revival Meeting.

The trip from Crabtee took close to an hour, and it wasn't till almost four 
o'clock when we reached the intersection of Main and Pine. The tent was 
setup in a vacant lot, just four blocks from the center of town.

The Gregory's were already making ready for the services, so Jerry and I 
pitched in helping to check out the ropes and stakes that were keeping the 
tent up. 

Marjory began playing some of the new songs we had heard on the radio. 
Soon Jerry and I were singing out as we evened up the rows of chairs, 
picked up a few pieces of litter from the saw dust on the floor, and 
rolled up the last canvas wall from the side of the tent.

The day was approaching twilight as the first to arrive took seats in the 
center. Within 20 minutes the golden glow had left the Arkansas sky. As 
darkness descended Mrs. Gregory turned on several glaring, bare light 
bulbs. The naked light reflected from the canvas of the tent, imitating 
the natural glow, restoring the congenial atmosphere. As people continued 
to arrive, trampling the saw dust, the odor of wood cuttings permeated the 
air. She then proceeded to the piano, and the services began.

At the Reverend Gregory's request, Jerry and I were seated on the platform, 
just to the rear of the piano, partially hidden from the congregation. 

The first hymn would have brought Lazarus to life. Mrs. Gregory asked 
Jerry and I to lead the singing. We moved to the front of the platform, 
separated by perhaps 25 feet. Almost, as though I was a leader for the 
left side of the congregation, and Jerry for the right, we began a 
competition, seeing which side could out-sing the other.

This was the first time that I had ever experienced the raw interaction of 
performer and audience; people followed where I was leading.

Jerry was experiencing this same new involvement, and as we each realized 
what was happening we got caught up in it, and the more we applied control, 
the more the audience became part of this event. It was breath taking.

The singing came to a close much too soon, long before Jerry and I could 
uncover the real potential of our discovery ... but we quite suddenly 
realized that there was something that needed exploring.

After a short introduction by Reverend Gregory, the service was turned over 
to mother.

I had never seen mother preach to an audience of complete strangers. None 
of our people from Crabtree or Crowel Mountain were there. That did not 
deter here from delivering a well organized message on the evils perpetrated 
by the devil upon mankind, how it was important that we walk a righteous
path, rejecting the worldly, embracing the love of God.

She spoke mostly in truisms. What she said everyone already agreed with, 
and thus I began to see that special relationship between performer and 
audience, reestablish itself, and grow in strength. 

At the close of her message, the Reverend Gregory spoke about the need to 
accept God, with a call to the sinners to come to the altar of god. Mrs. 
Gregory began to sing, and motioned Jerry and I to join her at the front of 
the platform. Her large, heavy arms, encircled Jerry on the right, and me 
on the left, as we lifted our voices in harmony ... and totally a Cappella.

The experience had been exhausting. Jerry and I slept in the back seat of 
the car all the way back to Crabtree.

Wednesday afternoon, we were surprised by a visit from the Gregorys. 
They had driven a borrowed pickup truck the twenty some miles from 
Clinton so that they could talk with Mama.

Later that night she told me that the Gregorys wanted us to join their 
crusade. The idea excited her. She wanted to do it. After the revival 
closed on Saturday night, they would pack up the tent and chairs, and 
proceed to Fort Smith for two weeks, then on to Little Rock.