As my pals and I raced for an exit, we heard Reverend Crane screaming above the congregational chaos, “Oh, Lord, have mercy on these hell-bound scoundrels — these diabolical delegates of disruption!”
Bugsy, Bubba and I were happy teenagers that Saturday in June. Working chartreuse-colored jigs around willow clumps, we had filled two stringers with speckled crappie, and couldn’t wait to be back on the lake at daybreak the next morning.
“Fishing on the Lord’s Day?” Mama hissed, glaring holes through our sinful souls. “Heathens! You will do no such thing. You’ll attend church, and when I look up in the balcony during the service, y’all better be listening to the preacher, not cuttin’ up. Now, eat supper and dress them fish.”
