Nate Briggs's Blog - Posts Tagged "bible"
The Spirit of Rock (Why Your Parents Should Always Hate the Music You Love)
I knew that they went to bed early, every night, as Godly people should (they’d explained this to me several times). So it didn’t demand a huge effort of self-discipline for me to stay awake until I was reasonably sure they were asleep.
Rain seemed to be a feature of every afternoon in the ‘Springs. But — as it got later that night — the rain stuck around: so I had the sight and sound of it to help me pass the time during my vigil of 45 minutes or so.
My insurgent device was still in its package — which was a stupid thing to do. Opening it was noise that I could have avoided if I’d thought ahead. And, of course, I couldn’t show a light to pick the plastic open. The glow of the streetlight had to do.
Once my Instrument of Satan got unpacked and unfurled, it didn’t seem all that sinful. Wire is wire: and it was mostly wire: the plastic body controlled by a small spindle, which was its only moving part. Otherwise, one wire terminated in an alligator clip, and the other in a generic earphone (suitable for either ear).
As the package said: it was “powered by the forces of Nature” — so there was nothing else in the bag. No battery. No power cord. It was powered by the forces of Nature, by virtue of all that wire — although I couldn’t harness the forces of Nature until I figured out what to attach it to.
I was hoping that there would be a little more information in the instructions. But those seemed to assume that I had prior knowledge of how to work the thing, so I moved around the room: trying one thing, and another: looking to unleash the forces of Nature.
It was my grandmother’s sewing machine that did it. Old-fashioned, solid metal. Solidly grounded. Once the alligator clip bit the edge of the machine the primitive crystal set began picking up the invisible AM radio waves that were raining down on my grandparents’ house: and a roar of static started pouring out of the earphone.
It worked. It really worked.
Once the thing came to life, all that was left was to move the tuner spindle so I could figure out where the frequencies were. There were markings on the tuner “dial” — but they were pretty vague. The DJs had to help me: giving me their call signs as I made my way toward the pure pop powerhouse, KOMA , beaming at all hours of the day and night from Oklahoma City.
Once I had my musical connection, the crystal set supplied enough wire to allow me to climb back into bed: where I secretly savored the dominating signal that covered most of America west of the Mississippi in the middle 60’s, reconnecting with the Spirit of Rock.
It had been only a little over a year since The Beatles had dropped into my life. But, by this time, rock-and-roll was woven into the fabric of how I thought, and lived: to the point that my affection for it was concerning the “authorities”.
With no other important commitments, I had been sent to the ‘Springs to spend two weeks with my evangelical, fundamentalist, Bible-waving grandparents. A visit advertised as their opportunity to “set me straight”: weaning me away from the New, the Modern, the Reckless, the Grubby, the British.
I had been sent to their house to be irradiated with the Gospel, so the tumor of popular culture that had infected me would shrivel and disappear.
The fact that I had a radio, however primitive, meant that I was already edging my way toward Hell: since it allowed me to hear signals from a world I wasn’t supposed to know anything about. If discovered, wire contraption would have been taken away — never to be returned — followed by a sequence of Bible verses intended to remind me that God didn’t put us here on Earth to enjoy ourselves.
What I remember about this period was that it was “music” — or what I kept insisting was “music” — at the center of so many of my struggles with the Bible World. Unlike some, my parents did not consider television to be a Tool of Satan: they tuned in, and tended to enjoy it. As long as the Hollywood Production Code was there to protect us, they were happy to take us to drive-in double features.
It was music that they didn’t “get”: since what I called “music” must have sounded scratchy, loud, crude, lustful, and wildly irresponsible. Civilization slammed into Reverse. And certainly of the Devil: smelling of Global Communism, riddled with drugs, and insisting that there might be something good about sex.
Opportunity here for a short interlude with my Mom, whose recollections — these days — are a lot less vehement than they used to be.
“Oh yes … yes … the Beatles … there were four of them, right?”
“Right, Mom. Four.”
“Whatever happened to them?”
“I guess you could say they did pretty well … all things considered. Only two of them alive, now.”
“Did the others die of drugs?”
“No. One of them had cancer. And the other one was shot.”
“A drug deal gone bad?”
“No. It was a deranged fan.”
“I’m not surprised. That music always seemed so … out there. All those women screaming.”
“Well … it wasn’t a woman who shot him exactly….”
Because the KOMA signal filled up the Midwest, and because I was going straight to Hell for listening to a station like that, it became my “home” for several years: even though, in my humble opinion, they weren’t playing enough Beatles cuts. (And didn’t play the Beatles at all after Lennon remarked that the boys were “more popular than Jesus”. You can’t say something like that in Oklahoma and get away with it.)
Ignoring all Biblical insight from my grandparents, I laid in bed that night — hearing the rain with one ear — putting up with I Got You, Babe twice an hour and enduring tired, repetitive commercials because what was being offered over the radio was helping me define my identity as someone who was Not My Parents.
Which is the important part of music when you’re a kid.
Breaking the parent-child bond — especially the one between mother and daughter — is an operation that generates a lot of noise, dust, and smoke. Often it requires a hammer and chisel, and (occasionally) demands a diamond-tipped blade.
Music that parents hate is that diamond-tipped implement. It plunges ruthlessly into the granite of the parent-child relationship to the point where the younger piece just has to break off. It’s the fierce sounds that tell you it’s working.
Tattoos, piercings, strange clothes, and strange friends are all tools that adolescents use to make the point: I’m not them! I’m not my parents, and I never will be!
Yet we come back to music. Music as the primal means of separation: because there's something so visceral about it. Reaching, as it does, into our secret hearts: reminding, inspiring, identifying, unifying, dividing.
I can assure you that nothing would have complicated my life more, at that time of my life, than to discover that my parents liked the Beatles, the Dave Clark Five, or the Beach Boys.
It’s a staggering thought, even now: since it would have pushed everything I loved right out of reach. Hearing my mother doing her version of Please, Please Me in the kitchen would have been a dark and disturbing moment for me: forcing me into a complete re-examination of my life’s meaning.
Driving me, relentlessly, to show tunes perhaps (my God!), or … (I can barely bring myself to type it) ... classic opera.
Rain seemed to be a feature of every afternoon in the ‘Springs. But — as it got later that night — the rain stuck around: so I had the sight and sound of it to help me pass the time during my vigil of 45 minutes or so.
My insurgent device was still in its package — which was a stupid thing to do. Opening it was noise that I could have avoided if I’d thought ahead. And, of course, I couldn’t show a light to pick the plastic open. The glow of the streetlight had to do.
Once my Instrument of Satan got unpacked and unfurled, it didn’t seem all that sinful. Wire is wire: and it was mostly wire: the plastic body controlled by a small spindle, which was its only moving part. Otherwise, one wire terminated in an alligator clip, and the other in a generic earphone (suitable for either ear).
As the package said: it was “powered by the forces of Nature” — so there was nothing else in the bag. No battery. No power cord. It was powered by the forces of Nature, by virtue of all that wire — although I couldn’t harness the forces of Nature until I figured out what to attach it to.
I was hoping that there would be a little more information in the instructions. But those seemed to assume that I had prior knowledge of how to work the thing, so I moved around the room: trying one thing, and another: looking to unleash the forces of Nature.
It was my grandmother’s sewing machine that did it. Old-fashioned, solid metal. Solidly grounded. Once the alligator clip bit the edge of the machine the primitive crystal set began picking up the invisible AM radio waves that were raining down on my grandparents’ house: and a roar of static started pouring out of the earphone.
It worked. It really worked.
Once the thing came to life, all that was left was to move the tuner spindle so I could figure out where the frequencies were. There were markings on the tuner “dial” — but they were pretty vague. The DJs had to help me: giving me their call signs as I made my way toward the pure pop powerhouse, KOMA , beaming at all hours of the day and night from Oklahoma City.
Once I had my musical connection, the crystal set supplied enough wire to allow me to climb back into bed: where I secretly savored the dominating signal that covered most of America west of the Mississippi in the middle 60’s, reconnecting with the Spirit of Rock.
It had been only a little over a year since The Beatles had dropped into my life. But, by this time, rock-and-roll was woven into the fabric of how I thought, and lived: to the point that my affection for it was concerning the “authorities”.
With no other important commitments, I had been sent to the ‘Springs to spend two weeks with my evangelical, fundamentalist, Bible-waving grandparents. A visit advertised as their opportunity to “set me straight”: weaning me away from the New, the Modern, the Reckless, the Grubby, the British.
I had been sent to their house to be irradiated with the Gospel, so the tumor of popular culture that had infected me would shrivel and disappear.
The fact that I had a radio, however primitive, meant that I was already edging my way toward Hell: since it allowed me to hear signals from a world I wasn’t supposed to know anything about. If discovered, wire contraption would have been taken away — never to be returned — followed by a sequence of Bible verses intended to remind me that God didn’t put us here on Earth to enjoy ourselves.
What I remember about this period was that it was “music” — or what I kept insisting was “music” — at the center of so many of my struggles with the Bible World. Unlike some, my parents did not consider television to be a Tool of Satan: they tuned in, and tended to enjoy it. As long as the Hollywood Production Code was there to protect us, they were happy to take us to drive-in double features.
It was music that they didn’t “get”: since what I called “music” must have sounded scratchy, loud, crude, lustful, and wildly irresponsible. Civilization slammed into Reverse. And certainly of the Devil: smelling of Global Communism, riddled with drugs, and insisting that there might be something good about sex.
Opportunity here for a short interlude with my Mom, whose recollections — these days — are a lot less vehement than they used to be.
“Oh yes … yes … the Beatles … there were four of them, right?”
“Right, Mom. Four.”
“Whatever happened to them?”
“I guess you could say they did pretty well … all things considered. Only two of them alive, now.”
“Did the others die of drugs?”
“No. One of them had cancer. And the other one was shot.”
“A drug deal gone bad?”
“No. It was a deranged fan.”
“I’m not surprised. That music always seemed so … out there. All those women screaming.”
“Well … it wasn’t a woman who shot him exactly….”
Because the KOMA signal filled up the Midwest, and because I was going straight to Hell for listening to a station like that, it became my “home” for several years: even though, in my humble opinion, they weren’t playing enough Beatles cuts. (And didn’t play the Beatles at all after Lennon remarked that the boys were “more popular than Jesus”. You can’t say something like that in Oklahoma and get away with it.)
Ignoring all Biblical insight from my grandparents, I laid in bed that night — hearing the rain with one ear — putting up with I Got You, Babe twice an hour and enduring tired, repetitive commercials because what was being offered over the radio was helping me define my identity as someone who was Not My Parents.
Which is the important part of music when you’re a kid.
Breaking the parent-child bond — especially the one between mother and daughter — is an operation that generates a lot of noise, dust, and smoke. Often it requires a hammer and chisel, and (occasionally) demands a diamond-tipped blade.
Music that parents hate is that diamond-tipped implement. It plunges ruthlessly into the granite of the parent-child relationship to the point where the younger piece just has to break off. It’s the fierce sounds that tell you it’s working.
Tattoos, piercings, strange clothes, and strange friends are all tools that adolescents use to make the point: I’m not them! I’m not my parents, and I never will be!
Yet we come back to music. Music as the primal means of separation: because there's something so visceral about it. Reaching, as it does, into our secret hearts: reminding, inspiring, identifying, unifying, dividing.
I can assure you that nothing would have complicated my life more, at that time of my life, than to discover that my parents liked the Beatles, the Dave Clark Five, or the Beach Boys.
It’s a staggering thought, even now: since it would have pushed everything I loved right out of reach. Hearing my mother doing her version of Please, Please Me in the kitchen would have been a dark and disturbing moment for me: forcing me into a complete re-examination of my life’s meaning.
Driving me, relentlessly, to show tunes perhaps (my God!), or … (I can barely bring myself to type it) ... classic opera.
Sunday Literary Life: April 2
This month’s featured short novel is “Alfie” – subtitled “A Born Again Romance” because much of it discusses the tribal norms of Bible people inside a Bible church: referred to as “born again” because they are not considered to be "saved" until after full immersion baptism as children or young adults.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
Sunday Literary Life: April 9
Sunday Literary Life – April 9
The disclaimer at the beginning of Alfie states that any resemblance to known reality is coincidental – but that is not quite true. The characters do not duplicate anyone in the known world, but Jonah's church is my church. Or, more accurately, it stands in for all the churches I knew growing up. It does not represent ALL Bible churches, since any kind of broader generalization is dangerous. But I know what I know about the congregations I was forced to attend and the theological views described in Alfie are a true and faithful report of those places.
They were all “Full Bible”. All independent. Many with unpaid clergy. All tiny (sometimes my father found himself preaching to less than 10 people). And all tribal in the sense that everyone was assumed to be in agreement. But often, while everyone agreed what the Scriptures SAID – there was occasionally disagreement on what the Scriptures MEANT.
Once the “burning rubber of error” grew too strong (Garrison Keillor’s phrase) there could be Schism – and the subdividing of Bible congregations is so common I felt compelled to offer a short description, along with the implications for a teenage boy expected to marry “within the tribe”:
“By the time he turned seventeen — a high school senior, accomplished self-gratifier, and secret agnostic — Jonah was still being dragged to services five times a week, and was feeling well and truly trapped at the same time the Church of the Last Word faced the most deeply-felt crisis in its short history. It was, itself, a schismatic church. A splinter group which had broken off from the Uptown Church of Christ back in the 1960s.
“Now — after years of Scriptural sniping, a running battle in which Bible verses were lobbed back and forth like grenades — four families split off from the Last Word to form the Church of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) — clumsily renovating an old convenience store: where they met to pray and frailly sing while sitting on folding chairs.
“The thunderheads of disagreement had been building for some time. But, when the split came, it was all over in a couple of weeks…There was no turning aside. The “splitters” split, and left only about 120 people to carry on the Gospel work in Jonah’s building: people not only being asked to attend frequent services, but also to work as volunteers: cleaning and maintaining the place without pay.
“The Splitters Splitting hit Jonah particularly hard, because it was assumed — from the time he was a child — that, like most children of strictly religious orders, he would choose a wife from his own tribe. He couldn’t look forward to any kind of happiness in the Afterlife if he didn’t. His “brothers and sisters in Christ” were certain that — after the savage battle of Armageddon — members in good standing in the Church of the Last Word would be the only ones welcomed into the arms of Jesus, since only their understanding of the Bible was totally complete and correct. Everyone else on the entire planet, all of whom were “misbelievers”, would be cast into the lake of fire — and that would be that.
“Heaven would be very cozy: populated by only about a hundred people, and — if Jonah wanted to be numbered among the Saved — he would have to choose a wife from the young women who were left after the reckless Splitters of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) had broken away.
“Earlier in his teen years, Jonah had assumed that he might have six, or seven, options if he was somehow forced to marry within his church. Now, on the verge of graduating from high school, his options had been reduced to just two…the Phlipp sisters were Bible aristocracy. You could tell by the obscurity of their Bible-derived names: Huldah (from the Second Book of Kings), Makeda (from the Second Book of Chronicles), and Apphia (from the book of Philemon).
“Although Biblically satisfying, the names were not very practical for day to day use, so — by accident or by practice — they had been distilled down to Huldie, Mackie, and Alfie. All were young women of impeccable righteousness: although it was generally agreed that it was Alfie who had the edge in looks, and personality.
“Unlike her sisters, who were very heavy across the waist, she could be said to have an actual figure. No matter how Biblically she dressed, it was also hard for her to hide the fact that she probably had very photogenic breasts.
“But now she was married, leaving Jonah to be mated with one of the others if he couldn’t manage to get out of town.”
The disclaimer at the beginning of Alfie states that any resemblance to known reality is coincidental – but that is not quite true. The characters do not duplicate anyone in the known world, but Jonah's church is my church. Or, more accurately, it stands in for all the churches I knew growing up. It does not represent ALL Bible churches, since any kind of broader generalization is dangerous. But I know what I know about the congregations I was forced to attend and the theological views described in Alfie are a true and faithful report of those places.
They were all “Full Bible”. All independent. Many with unpaid clergy. All tiny (sometimes my father found himself preaching to less than 10 people). And all tribal in the sense that everyone was assumed to be in agreement. But often, while everyone agreed what the Scriptures SAID – there was occasionally disagreement on what the Scriptures MEANT.
Once the “burning rubber of error” grew too strong (Garrison Keillor’s phrase) there could be Schism – and the subdividing of Bible congregations is so common I felt compelled to offer a short description, along with the implications for a teenage boy expected to marry “within the tribe”:
“By the time he turned seventeen — a high school senior, accomplished self-gratifier, and secret agnostic — Jonah was still being dragged to services five times a week, and was feeling well and truly trapped at the same time the Church of the Last Word faced the most deeply-felt crisis in its short history. It was, itself, a schismatic church. A splinter group which had broken off from the Uptown Church of Christ back in the 1960s.
“Now — after years of Scriptural sniping, a running battle in which Bible verses were lobbed back and forth like grenades — four families split off from the Last Word to form the Church of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) — clumsily renovating an old convenience store: where they met to pray and frailly sing while sitting on folding chairs.
“The thunderheads of disagreement had been building for some time. But, when the split came, it was all over in a couple of weeks…There was no turning aside. The “splitters” split, and left only about 120 people to carry on the Gospel work in Jonah’s building: people not only being asked to attend frequent services, but also to work as volunteers: cleaning and maintaining the place without pay.
“The Splitters Splitting hit Jonah particularly hard, because it was assumed — from the time he was a child — that, like most children of strictly religious orders, he would choose a wife from his own tribe. He couldn’t look forward to any kind of happiness in the Afterlife if he didn’t. His “brothers and sisters in Christ” were certain that — after the savage battle of Armageddon — members in good standing in the Church of the Last Word would be the only ones welcomed into the arms of Jesus, since only their understanding of the Bible was totally complete and correct. Everyone else on the entire planet, all of whom were “misbelievers”, would be cast into the lake of fire — and that would be that.
“Heaven would be very cozy: populated by only about a hundred people, and — if Jonah wanted to be numbered among the Saved — he would have to choose a wife from the young women who were left after the reckless Splitters of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) had broken away.
“Earlier in his teen years, Jonah had assumed that he might have six, or seven, options if he was somehow forced to marry within his church. Now, on the verge of graduating from high school, his options had been reduced to just two…the Phlipp sisters were Bible aristocracy. You could tell by the obscurity of their Bible-derived names: Huldah (from the Second Book of Kings), Makeda (from the Second Book of Chronicles), and Apphia (from the book of Philemon).
“Although Biblically satisfying, the names were not very practical for day to day use, so — by accident or by practice — they had been distilled down to Huldie, Mackie, and Alfie. All were young women of impeccable righteousness: although it was generally agreed that it was Alfie who had the edge in looks, and personality.
“Unlike her sisters, who were very heavy across the waist, she could be said to have an actual figure. No matter how Biblically she dressed, it was also hard for her to hide the fact that she probably had very photogenic breasts.
“But now she was married, leaving Jonah to be mated with one of the others if he couldn’t manage to get out of town.”
