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Authors: Rebecca Nichols Alonzo
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denomination that believed Christians shouldn’t cook or buy anything on Sunday. Ora attempted to put the class under the heavy burden of such strict convictions at the same time Daddy was preaching about God’s grace. Seeing the conflict of beliefs, members of the church voted her out as teacher.
But it was Daddy who wanted to take away Ora’s duties as clerk once he realized how surreptitiously Ora handled the church’s funds. Mr. Watts seemed to feel his wife’s position gave him control over the church’s finances. In fact, when the members voted in a new clerk, Ora never turned over any records—only a new checkbook and the current balance.
Bit by bit, Mr. Watts and his wife were divested of their dominant roles in the congregation. This enraged Mr. Watts, who, at first, had welcomed the new preacher. During one heated exchange, Mr. Watts stood up in the worship service and told my Daddy, “You had better not tell my wife 10 that she could not vote in the business.” Before sitting down, while the stunned crowd looked on, he groused that Daddy had bought too many songbooks.
Could Mr. Watts be so upset that he was the one behind the call? Was he really willing to stoop to such juvenile behavior just because he couldn’t have his way? Then again, the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t the low-pitched, resonant voice of Mr. Watts. It had a distinctly dark timbre, much like Al Pacino with a sore throat. Besides, the caller sounded younger.
Of course, it might have been a wrong number.
The caller never mentioned Daddy by name.
* * *
The late-night menacing phone call Daddy received wasn’t the last one he’d get. Far from it. During the days, weeks and months ahead, someone hiding behind the cover of anonymity would call our home, and quickly hang up—or call, wait for a few long moments, and then terminate the call. Some days there would be several dozen hostile calls designed to create fear in the hearts of my parents.
These acts of intimidation didn’t end with the phone. An unsigned letter arrived at our house on December 23, 1972, two days before Christmas. This time the anonymous author pointed a finger of guilt at my mother, asserting that Momma had told a lie in a phone conversation. The letter went on to say she lied a second time to cover up her first falsehood. The accusation was ridiculous. Had the writer said Momma ran a moonshine operation under the cover of dark, he would have been just as wrong.
Momma wasn’t a liar.
She didn’t even like to tell a fib.
If Momma had one driving goal in her life, it was to live in such a way that she would bring glory to the Lord. Lying, stretching the truth, massaging the facts, dabbling in deception—all would have been as foreign to her as speaking an unfamiliar language. What’s more, she made a point of raising me to respect the truth, tanning my hide on more than one occasion for daring to tell a white lie.
Filled with fragmented sentences, repetitions, and typos, the letter, which had been typed in all capital characters, went on to ask,
HOW ARE YOU GOING TO EXPLAIN TO THE CHURCH AND THE PEOPLE IN THE COMMUNITY? WILL YOU TRY TO COVER UP AGAIN? MRS. NICHLOS [sic], YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A SUPPOSED TO BE HOLLINESS PREACHER’S WIFE. BUT, WHAT DO THE CHURCH AND COMMUNITY HAVE TO LOOK FORWARD TO? SHAMEFULLY, WHAT A PITY.
The end of the letter defied logic:
SIGNED BY MORE THAN 25 CHURCH MEMBERS, NEIGHBORS, AND CITIZENS.
One problem. There were no signatures. Certainly not twenty-five. The note contained this postscript:
P.S. HAVE YOU WOKE UP YET?
I’m not sure how my parents would have initially viewed such a message. Were they tempted to toss the letter without giving it a second thought? Did they dismiss it as a tasteless joke? Did they wonder whether someone had consumed too much spiked eggnog and, in an unguarded moment, dashed off this error-filled note? I’ll never know for certain, although my hunch is that they rolled
But it was Daddy who wanted to take away Ora’s duties as clerk once he realized how surreptitiously Ora handled the church’s funds. Mr. Watts seemed to feel his wife’s position gave him control over the church’s finances. In fact, when the members voted in a new clerk, Ora never turned over any records—only a new checkbook and the current balance.
Bit by bit, Mr. Watts and his wife were divested of their dominant roles in the congregation. This enraged Mr. Watts, who, at first, had welcomed the new preacher. During one heated exchange, Mr. Watts stood up in the worship service and told my Daddy, “You had better not tell my wife 10 that she could not vote in the business.” Before sitting down, while the stunned crowd looked on, he groused that Daddy had bought too many songbooks.
Could Mr. Watts be so upset that he was the one behind the call? Was he really willing to stoop to such juvenile behavior just because he couldn’t have his way? Then again, the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t the low-pitched, resonant voice of Mr. Watts. It had a distinctly dark timbre, much like Al Pacino with a sore throat. Besides, the caller sounded younger.
Of course, it might have been a wrong number.
The caller never mentioned Daddy by name.
* * *
The late-night menacing phone call Daddy received wasn’t the last one he’d get. Far from it. During the days, weeks and months ahead, someone hiding behind the cover of anonymity would call our home, and quickly hang up—or call, wait for a few long moments, and then terminate the call. Some days there would be several dozen hostile calls designed to create fear in the hearts of my parents.
These acts of intimidation didn’t end with the phone. An unsigned letter arrived at our house on December 23, 1972, two days before Christmas. This time the anonymous author pointed a finger of guilt at my mother, asserting that Momma had told a lie in a phone conversation. The letter went on to say she lied a second time to cover up her first falsehood. The accusation was ridiculous. Had the writer said Momma ran a moonshine operation under the cover of dark, he would have been just as wrong.
Momma wasn’t a liar.
She didn’t even like to tell a fib.
If Momma had one driving goal in her life, it was to live in such a way that she would bring glory to the Lord. Lying, stretching the truth, massaging the facts, dabbling in deception—all would have been as foreign to her as speaking an unfamiliar language. What’s more, she made a point of raising me to respect the truth, tanning my hide on more than one occasion for daring to tell a white lie.
Filled with fragmented sentences, repetitions, and typos, the letter, which had been typed in all capital characters, went on to ask,
HOW ARE YOU GOING TO EXPLAIN TO THE CHURCH AND THE PEOPLE IN THE COMMUNITY? WILL YOU TRY TO COVER UP AGAIN? MRS. NICHLOS [sic], YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A SUPPOSED TO BE HOLLINESS PREACHER’S WIFE. BUT, WHAT DO THE CHURCH AND COMMUNITY HAVE TO LOOK FORWARD TO? SHAMEFULLY, WHAT A PITY.
The end of the letter defied logic:
SIGNED BY MORE THAN 25 CHURCH MEMBERS, NEIGHBORS, AND CITIZENS.
One problem. There were no signatures. Certainly not twenty-five. The note contained this postscript:
P.S. HAVE YOU WOKE UP YET?
I’m not sure how my parents would have initially viewed such a message. Were they tempted to toss the letter without giving it a second thought? Did they dismiss it as a tasteless joke? Did they wonder whether someone had consumed too much spiked eggnog and, in an unguarded moment, dashed off this error-filled note? I’ll never know for certain, although my hunch is that they rolled
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