Dear Boo and Bubble,
For all of my fond memories of the old First Baptist Church
on McBee Street in Greenville, there’s one that I wish I could erase.
In 1952, when I was about Boo’s age of almost 5, our cousin
Gena Bryant achieved Queen’s status in the Girls Auxiliary. The Baptist foreign mission board began the GA program in 1928 as a way for young girls in the
church to learn about missions and Baptist doctrine. The official curriculum gave them the
opportunity to participate in hands-on missions projects, to understand the
Scriptures, and to gain proficiency in practical skills such as reading,
writing, and sewing. (I’m not sure if
the GA exists anymore, but if so, I would think sewing might have gone by the
wayside.)
Participants in GA worked
their way up through designations of accomplishment starting with Maiden, then
Lady-in-Waiting, then Princess and finally Queen. To become a Queen was quite a big deal
requiring a service of coronation in the sanctuary, complete with attendants
including a flower girl. Gena asked if I
would serve in that capacity and I was excited to do so.
The instructions for my attire included a long gown and a
basket to hold the rose petals that I would throw on my trek down the
aisle. Being the thrifty sort, Mamaw Mary decided to see what I might already have. She combed through my dance recital costumes in the closet and
pulled out a purple floor-length bundle of tulle with plenty of flounce. It had a taffeta underskirt, fitted bodice,
and soft tulle ruffles at the hem and draped on the shoulders. She sized it up and decided that, with a
matching taffeta ribbon around the waste, it would work just fine, especially
when I traded out my pink ballet slippers for some black patent leather Mary
Janes. I was set.
The day before the coronation, everybody involved in the
ceremony met at the church for a rehearsal.
My task was to walk down the right-hand aisle from the back of the
sanctuary to the front, cross over in front of the dais to the opposite side
and walk up its four steps where I would take my place beside the pulpit. I was the first in the procession and by the
time I arrived at the steps, Gena would be making her entrance. We walked through the procedure several times
until everyone was satisfied of their responsibilities.
We arrived at the church the next day about an hour before
the service was to start and congregated with the coronation party in a
dressing room underneath the sanctuary.
Mamaw Mary had curled my hair into ringlets and she let me wear some
rouge and a little lipstick. She helped
my put on some tights and then held my arms as I slipped into my gown feet
first so as not to mess up my hair. With
my shoes buckled, I gathered up my basket, now filled with beautiful red rose
petals.
From above we could hear the organist begin a musical
invocation signaling that it was time to assemble in the vestibule. Mamaw Mary held my hand as we walked up the
steps and then turned me over to the coronation coordinator who took me to my
starting point at the back of the sanctuary.
At the stroke of 7:00, the organist chimed the hour. After an appropriate pause after the seventh
chord, he dove into a majestic processional.
The coordinator nudged me forward down the aisle. A slight bout of shyness caught my first
steps, but I regained my confidence as I walked further. By the time I made the turn in front of the
dais, I was slinging my rose petals with abandon.
I approached the steps to go up to my spot by the
pulpit. Just as I raised my foot to take
the first step, from out of nowhere….except that it was from the balcony….a
trumpet blasted the signal to the congregation that Queen Gena was entering the
sanctuary. This trumpeter had not been
at the rehearsal….he was news to me…and his blast took me by such surprise that
it made me look up just as I was taking that step.
My foot grabbed the taffeta underskirt of my dress. Not knowing this, I tried to step up to the
next step. Instead of walking up the
step, I walked up my dress. With very
little grace but a lifetime of embarrassment, I disappeared into a bubbling,
boiling cauldron of purple tulle right there in front of everybody. My head vanished out of sight. For me, it became like trying to bat my way
out of a lavender spider web. My basket
fell back down the steps dispensing all the remaining petals in a pitiful
cascade of hopelessness.
I have no recollection of what happened after that. My only salvation would have been that all of
the congregation’s eyes were on Queen Gena at the rear of the sanctuary and not
on me as I rumbled around on the steps in my purple cage until somebody
mercifully came to my aid.
To this day, my fondness for the sanctuary of First Baptist
Church is tainted by this event….that and the color purple.
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