The Joy They Knew

Robin Crane

Jun 5

5 min read

Chapter 18

Saturday and Sunday stood apart from the rest of the week. We sometimes went to town, but by Saturday evening, our attention turned toward church. With only one bathroom, we bathed in birth order.

My fingers and toes—or my “dirty claws,” as Maggie called them—were always first. When she finished, not a speck of dirt remained under my nails. Maggie scrubbed me from head to toe with her bath brush and a green bar of Palmolive soap. The ring of Oklahoma I left behind in the tub surprised me. She promptly rinsed it away with the same brush she had just used on me.

We washed our hair in the kitchen, where I stood on a chair and bent over the white porcelain sink while Maggie poured water over my head. The scent of thick, green Prell shampoo filled the room. As she worked up the lather, I asked her to tell me the story about my mom’s hair.

“Your mother’s hair was so blonde,” she would say, “that when the Oklahoma wind blew, the red dirt stuck right to her scalp. No matter how much I washed or brushed it, little flecks of red and gold stayed behind—just like they do in yours.” Then she scrubbed my scalp until it tingled. One scrubbing was enough. No need to rinse and repeat.

My mother's hair.

Baby Joy
Age Two
Age Four with pin-curled fringe
Age Eight

Little Joy Killingsworth through the years—and Maggie's handiwork with pin curls.

The weekly bath was also inspection time. Maggie searched our bodies for ticks and spider bites, changed our Band-Aids, and dabbed our mosquito bites with Campho-Phenique. She always added the same warning: “Don’t pick your nose and scratch a bite, or you’ll get the impetigo.” Our ears were checked for whatever varmint might have taken up residence. While Maggie shone a flashlight in my ear, I complained about the thick blonde hair covering my arms and legs. She said the hair proved I came from good stock. I liked that. It made me feel special.

Once our bodies passed her medical inspection, she spread a tablecloth on the kitchen floor and placed a step stool in the center. The kitchen transformed into Maggie’s salon. Granddaddy and Mark waited in their boxers and T-shirts for their turns. She sat me on the stool, sprayed my hair with setting lotion, and wrestled sections of my stubborn hair around her finger before pinning each curl into place. Then she tied a scarf over my head to protect her handiwork while I slept. Mark’s hair was cut in a burr, so all he needed was a quick trim around the back of his neck and ears.

I sat on the floor and watched her get to work on Granddaddy. She folded his big ears forward and pushed his chin to his chest. She complained that he had more hair growing in his ears and nose than on his head. I laughed until I realized Granddaddy’s heavily hooded eyes had opened and he was looking at me. That was my cue to find somewhere else to be.

After we went to bed, Maggie set up her ironing board, plugged in the iron, and opened her sprinkling bag. The bag held our Sunday clothes. The day before, she had sprinkled them with starch and water and rolled them into bundles. As she ironed our clothes, the steam smelled like lavender and fresh sunshine. When I woke the next morning, my dress hung from its hanger as though it were standing at attention, its ribbons flat and shiny, ready to be tied into the perfect bow. Mark’s white shirt and trousers were ready.

On Sunday mornings, the outdoor chores waited. It was the Lord’s Day. Jim Reeves drifted from the stereo in the living room, singing “That Old Time Religion.” I found Granddaddy at the table, his toe tapping almost imperceptibly as he ate. We all stayed in our sleep clothes until breakfast was over because no one wanted to spill on their Sunday best. Then we began dressing for church.

Maggie removed the clips from my hair and dressed me piece by piece: a slip, white lace socks—the only socks I willingly wore all week—and finally the dress Mom had sewn for me. She brushed and fussed with my hair until every curl was exactly where she wanted it.

Then she paraded me into the living room, where Mark and Granddaddy waited. Granddaddy looked me over from head to toe and removed his toothpick. His usual “Haw” sounded a little more like “Awe.” Mark whistled, and I never felt prettier.

Sweetwater First Baptist Church was woven into our family’s history. My parents were married there years before I was born. My own memories begin in the little nursery tucked behind the pulpit.

On Baptism Sunday, the familiar nursery transformed. A door I had never seen open at any other time swung wide, revealing the baptismal pool. The speaker hanging on the wall nearly vibrated off its nail as the choir sang, “Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?” Then a woman stood waiting in my nursery, her face dreamlike above a spotless white pleated gown.

Perched on Mrs. Minnie Tucker’s broad, safe hip, I followed her finger toward the open doorway. Through it, Reverend Tucker stood waist-deep in the water, one hand stretched out to guide the woman down the steps. The white gown refused to sink, floating gracefully around her. He asked her to profess her faith in Jesus before lowering her into the water. Then the sanctuary erupted with hallelujahs, “Praise the Lord,” and hearty “Amens” as Reverend Tucker lifted her from the water. The dripping new Christian climbed the stairs back into the nursery, where the church ladies wrapped her in thick, warm towels and even warmer hugs. Mrs. Minnie, whose high, squeaky voice sounded just like Minnie Mouse, told us baptism was the day you became a card-carrying member of heaven.

Every Sunday after service, the church ladies tied on their aprons and filled the fellowship hall with fried chicken, casseroles, and desserts. Long tables covered with red-and-white checkered tablecloths groaned beneath the food. Since we apparently hadn’t prayed enough, one of the long-winded deacons was asked to bless the meal before a single fork was lifted.

After prayer, a week’s worth of conversation broke loose at once. People wandered from table to table, catching up on everyone’s news. Wherever Maggie sat, a group of ladies gathered close and laughed. I must have heard a hundred times how much I looked like my mom. They squeezed my cheeks pink and complimented my hair and dress. Maggie was quick to give Joy credit for my dress. “Oh, that Joy! She has always been the best at sewing,” one lady chirped. Another woman brought up my mom’s basketball days as though she’d been the town’s biggest star. These people knew my parents. Each time the conversation drifted toward my dad, my stomach tensed, wondering if anyone would begin asking questions.

After weeks of eating the best chicken legs in the fellowship hall, I realized the questions were not coming. I slowly began to relax and enjoy my Sundays and the stories about my mom. People at this church knew pieces of her I didn’t. They remembered when she came to this same church looking just like me. Here, she was more than my mom. They remembered Joy—the smart girl with her nose in a book, the dreamer and creator, the girl who could sew anything she imagined and hold her own on a basketball court. She was also the daughter who could bring a softness to her daddy’s face. This was Joy before marriage and children, before she became the mother I was missing. They knew the Joy in Maggie’s picture tree.

Looking back, I’m certain everyone at Sweetwater First Baptist Church understood our circumstances. The church was an extension of our family. I’m also certain they lifted our family in prayer. Maybe that was another kindness they gave us that summer. They knew why we were there, and they never made us explain.

Joy Killingsworth pictured with her family.