Did I ever tell you about the baptisms we used to host, the church congregation spreading blankets on our hill leading down to the murky pond, John the pastor standing waist deep and dunking the saved. My dad would man the grill, charcoal smoke and blistered meat swelling the air, a table with plastic cloth set up adjacent, topped with mustard, ketchup, buns. John would preach in the water, wearing a Hanes white tee-shirt, now green and brown with algae. He would hold the saved person’s head and dip them backwards, submerge them, hold them under and then haul them up sputtering. The congregation cheered and sang; we prayed. Once someone said they saw a scorpion in the grass.
I knew the way into the water was squelchy, the concrete bottom furred with algae and water plants. There were fish in there and snapping turtles, too.
My dad would give us turns on the tire swing, heaving us so high that we were parallel with the ground before he launched us, not swinging but sweeping through the air, so close to crashing into tree branches on the other side but pulled back by gravity, saved, at the last second. We would shriek and shriek, again.
I never wanted to be baptized in the pond, or by John, with all those people watching. But I loved those annual picnics at our house, Our House, in our water.
