Somewhere in Alabama—a white clapboard building. The place is a trip backward in time. The steeple was added during the Great War. The cemetery is even older.
It’s a weeknight. Small-town kids play tag on the church lawn.
A mother barks: “Be nice to your sister!”
I meet an old woman who has been the church organist since Davy Crockett sailed the ocean blue.
A black-and-white image of her hangs in the fellowship hall. Think: big hair, petite frame, and one metric ton of eye makeup.
“Wasn’t I pretty?” she asks.
She still is.
Anyway, I have never seen a covered-dish party this size for a church so small. There are more casseroles than there are forks.
One old woman says, “Some of our ladies usually bring two, maybe three dishes. Willie Sue brought the tea.”
Willie Sue.
There are plenty of elderly people here. Several younger ones in their late forties and fifties, too.
One man says, “I came back last year. Used to
work in the big city, for a company that built smartphones. I was miserable. Doctor said my blood pressure was through the roof.”
He quit his job, and he left the tech field. He moved home and started attending potlucks again. They elected him janitor.
Today, he carries the church key ring and takes out the trash.
I meet another man who is missing his right arm below the elbow—a hunting accident. He cooks hamburgers on the grill, using a prosthetic hook.
“When I lost my arm,” he says. “The whole church chipped in and delivered suppers for a year, they never skipped.”
Three hundred and sixty-five foil-covered plates.
The children in the congregation are few. There is only…