Desperado's Dreams

Friday, April 13, 2007

Desperado's Dreams

Listen.
I'm telling you the truth here.. Even though it might seem hard to believe...He came to my house every Saturday afternoon at 3 o'clock... Channel 3 ...."Stagecoach Matinee."
Every Saturday, same time... same station. Dust billowing in the living room and footprints of his horse Shiloh imprinted on the anglo -persian red rug in our parlor.
He came in a glorious fury to the edge screen of our new light blond wood Arvin black and white floor model television set, then... when mom was busily cleaning the bedroom on the second floor... he would gallop through time , space and the 12 inch tube screen and he'd sit with me watching the adventures of ...himself...."The Durango Kid."
How brave he was rounding up bank robbers and gun slingers...how macho he was in capturing the hearts of the town's women.... how fast a draw with his silvery Colt six shooter.... he was the greatest cowboy of them all...handsomer than Gene Autry, more exciting than Roy Rogers, faster than a speeding bullet, braver than Flash Gordon, more newsworthy than John Cameron Swayze...and at times, disguised as a black scarved outlaw, he would save the day, protect the girl and win the respect of the small western townspeople, not to mention the Kellog's Corn Flake crowd on mornings when nothing much of anything was happening... except maybe walking atop the wrought-iron fence circling the Ruddle Street elementary school yard.
Why he was a popular with the kids on weekend afternoons as Milton Berle's "Texaco Star Theatre" was on Tuesday nights.
The Durango Kid...the Durango Kid.....oh, I wanted so much to be the Durango Kid !
Every night before I would fall asleep I'd pray.....
"God Bless Mom and Dad and brother Chas and Grandmam and Grandpap...and please dear God, let me be just like the Durango Kid when I grow up...that's all I ask...let me be as handsome and brave and even have a big white hat like his...Please God..and if not, let me be like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, very ugly and very sad....please God. Listen to me. Amen."
Well, I wanted to be noticed in life. I wanted people to notice me, to remember who I was...who I am..
That was April 1952.
It is now April 2007.
So there you have it !

Mighty Spirits Rising

“Make way…prepare! For the time is coming.”
He shouted the words over and over again. I knew what was meant.
I would wait patiently.

With his hands outstretched as if preparing to fly, the black robe formed curtained wings. He shouted even more and as he did his body seemed to float upwards toward the cathedral-like ceiling.

Trinity Evangelical and Reformed Church stood on the corner of Lafayette and Washington. A long narrow brick church, with finely detailed stained glass windows and a bell-towered steeple reaching to the heavens, was adjoined to a small parking lot. A street level foyer took you to Sunday school rooms and the 1940’s kitchen. The church was visible on entering the Five Points intersection in town. It towered high above the Tamaqua train station.

Stairways on both sides led you up to another small foyer, which opened into the simply appointed but breathtaking church. More than 25 rows of pews, separated by a center aisle, led you to a divine emotion of comfort, safety and love. The faint fragrances of last week’s flower arrangements and the congregational mix of perfumes and face powder, with frequent odors of pipe smoke, filled the air.

I turned the page of my coloring book and began filling in the lines with pink crayola tints. I should have been using the tan and brown colors, but pink expressed my tingly feelings welling up on this warm spring day.
Pink ears, nose and tail, seemed unnatural… but it made me happy.

The fifth pew on the right of the church, where we always sat, was hard. There were no cushions. Coloring books loved the smooth surface of the varnished wood, even though there were the occasional deep scratches which caused gaps and ridges on the page being colored.

“The multitudes gathered, and he could be seen walking down from the barren hill,” he told the congregation.
My neighborly sinners eagerly awaited the anticipated baptism.

Rev. Kleinginna paused. He coughed slightly. And after a silence of what counted as a full 60 seconds, he excused himself.
“A moment if you please. I am …I have ….… a moment.”
He disappeared from the behind the pulpit and went through the door next to the altar.
Hymn 124 and 241 remained on the plaque above the door.

Myrtle Freeh stood up. She signaled to Mrs. Derr at the organ and the Trinity Choir stood to sing hymn number 124, “How Glorious is Thy Name.”

Half way through the melody, the tenor voices blended perfectly. John Pavlick and Bruce Hartman hit the middle “c” with precision, and Chick Freeh’s eyes wandered for a moment to the pastor’s door.
Out came Rev. Kleinginna, looking a bit peaked . He smiled at the choir and stood in the pulpit until the “Amen” signaled the close of the hymn.
I was perplexed. What had just happened?
For a moment I looked at my efforts of coloring of the Easter bunny in my manila-paged book.

“He is coming,” shouted the pastor. Louder then…”Prepare Ye the Way !”

I knew the Easter bunny was coming. It would only be a few weeks and chocolate candy would flow endlessly throughout April. Thanks goodness, he is coming. I couldn’t wait!

But where did Rev. Kleinginna go? Why did he leave the pulpit? Why did he go through the Trinity Choir music room door and why did he look so pale? Minutes later, the door opened.
On his return, his balding head was no longer shiny, and his hair which tufted out on his temples seemed combed flat.
There had to be an explanation.

Herb Derr and Henry Devonshire kept looking over at the pastor throughout the very shortened sermon, as if keeping a check on the outcome of the baptism story.

“And so we, too, must be John the Baptists. We, too, must spread the word even into this day. He is coming. Be ready for any unexpected occurrences…Prepare yourself.”

The once hell-fire-and-brimstone minister’s sermons, that would bring everyone to account for their misjudgments, were quieted that day. His rocking at the altar, forward and backward, up and down on his toes, would not be as animated. His sermons seemed no longer to burst out of him. His eyes no longer were filled with fire and his arms seldom stretched out into the church universe.

Rev. Kleinginna remained long into my memory throughout the years. His presence is still with me. His force in nature is great, and his message has become even more apparent as I enter my 63rd year.

For years after the Reverend’s heart attack incident, I prided myself in being in that choir, in that chambered brick church. I joined the tenor section with John and Bruce and Henry and Chick. I was attentive to Myrtle’s direction, and occasionally would imagine John Kleinginna standing on the pulpit where Rev. Joe Miller now stood.

The church has since been demolished and replaced with a lonely parking lot. A new Trinity church towers triangularly above the town.

But every Easter season, I can see that coloring book, hear that choir and wonder where Rev. Kleinginna journeyed that Sunday….
I know now. His mighty spirit was beginning to ascend. He was prepared.

……………………