The arguments stopped for a time, though, after Harshbarger Mills was rocked with news. Another death and more money. Harold Brickman, long standing member of Glorious Life Pentecostal and the town’s leading insurance man, had died of natural causes and willed everything he owned to the church to be used for “The Glory of God.” I don’t know how God felt about renovation and decoration, but the parishioners, tired of housing their piety in the plainest building in town, decided to throw out their feet. New bathrooms, stained glass windows, and an educational unit were begun. The decoration was left to the Etta Campbell Circle, a choice that infuriated Grandma because Pearl Ellis was the president and overrode any objection to her taste, which, according to Grandma, resided only in her mouth.
Pearl chose a carpet pattern called “Busy Autumn.” It was brown with ecru diamonds and inside the diamonds were more brown flowerpots with yellow balls of color that slightly resembled blooms. I thought the pots looked like lumps of chocolate and the balls like clumsy suns. Grandma claimed it was a field of stubble dotted with cow pies and dandelions ready to be blown.
The fern stands on either side of the pulpit came from the window of a florist’s shop. They were huge columns, sprayed bright gold, which conflicted with the wood in the sanctuary. The women’s bathroom was finished first, and for that Pearl had chosen pink tiling and wallpaper in a sea shell design, complemented by ceramic towel racks and soap dishes with raised conch shells. I’d already seen my grandmother lose her temper with Mother in the kitchen, but this time she went berserk. What a joke, she said, when no one in the congregation has seen the ocean. Of course, Catherine has, but she said it was just a lot of water.
Grandma gathered a group of disgruntled women behind her and was ready to face down the head deacon when a bone was thrown her way. The bone was an organ; the Board of Elders had decided to buy one. Evidently, they’d gotten wind of Grandma’s ire and had even allotted money for chimes. An employee from Kinzey Music came to the church and surveyed the sanctuary for the acoustics, and then one of the elders, Grandma, and the employee had long talks concerning which organ to buy. Finally, they decided on a Wurlitzer, which was to be shipped in from Columbus, Ohio. At some point, Mother, who’d been like a piece of flotsam all these months, got involved. She agreed to play the organ. I think a deacon called. Anyway, after the organ was installed, Mother was to receive a series of free organ lessons. She was a whiz at the piano, but she’d never played an organ and would need help with the pedals, stops and chimes.
Mother didn’t come back to church until the organ was installed. She tried once but had to leave after the announcements because she was feeling lightheaded. Pearl couldn’t say anything about her “weakness” because the same Sunday Mother slipped out, Jane Lee had an accident in the pew. She had a bladder infection, Pearl told everyone, caused by too many bubble baths and some blue colored toilet paper that Andrea had bought to match her bathroom. Until it cleared up, Jane Lee had to take big, red pills. Her granddaughter would be fine, Pearl insisted, but she didn’t know when she’d be able to sit through an entire service.
For months, there was disruption and excitement at Glorious Life Pentecostal. The carpet was installed and clashed horribly with the seashell bathroom, but Grandma held her tongue because she’d been put in charge of the hymnbook committee as well. This time, my mother worked with her, afternoons only, and at our kitchen table. Grandma lugged sample hymnbooks to our house, and I was told to keep a list of the best ones. I asked Mother why she wouldn’t work at the church; she said she didn’t want to be around Pastor Burgess. That’s all she said, and I knew not to pry.
The construction lasted until the end of April, and the organ came in the middle of May. Jane Lee Veach, who had turned nice for a while, became snotty again—maybe because she’d peed in the pew and her mother was going back to the Presbyterians. My mother still hadn’t come out of her shell, but everyone knew, once the organ came, she’d be back on the bench. Torn out walls with huge sheets of plastic covering them, paint spatters, Sunday services in the church basement where it was cold, even in spring, and the aluminum chairs were even colder. Finally, it was over—a hideous combination of solemnity and bad taste, but there it was. Now, what? New pews had been purchased, but no one was filling them. The exterior had changed, but the church hadn’t grown.
The pastor and deacons decided to host a revival. Not just an ordinary revival, where Pastor Burgess stood up every night and preached in his second-best suit, but one full of fire. An evangelist would be hired, the best money could buy. The Reverend Stephen Fisher was contacted, a celebrated Pentecostal who’d written three books, two on tongues and one of victory in prayer, and who had a huge congregation at Holiness in Christ Pentecostal in Athens, Ohio. He also had air time and had a popular series on seed faith.
No one thought he’d agree to come to Harshbarger Mills, but he did. Once the deal was struck, Pastor Burgess asked and was granted the whole summer off; his only pay came from his two-week vacation time. In the interim, various deacons would preach. With the Rev. Stephen Fisher coming in August, there was more flurry.
