The First Plainsong: Prepare the Way

I came of age in a "different" sort of family.

A high school dropout, my father Leonard Gledhill worked as a jack-of-all-trades handyman at a local repair shop. Even today I can barely repair burnt toast by scraping the black stuff off; give Dad a hammer, pliers, a screwdriver and some scrap metal and he could fix anything. And it would stay fixed.

My mother Mary Anne quit waiting on tables after she had me and dedicated herself to taking care of her family. Besides the usual housekeeping, this also meant gardening. Not flower gardening, although Mom had a few patches of posies scattered around the house, sustenance gardening designed to put food on the table.

Our small house was the ultimate fixer-upper, patched and repaired until it was as trim and fresh as a birthday cake; the inside full of second-hand furniture and appliances Dad had refurbished. The furnace wheezed like an asthmatic when it kicked on but the place stayed warm. When something did break down, usually late at night, I could always count on learning one or two new and inventive phrases I could use to impress my friends.

Dad's job didn't pay all that much and, even with the odd jobs he picked up along the way, we didn't have many frills. I never had a new bike as a kid, but the discarded bikes Dad overhauled were as good as new. As for a car, well Dad promised once we'd gotten just a little more ahead of the monthly bills, we'd go to the junkyard and pick out an old clunker to work on together; we just never seemed to get far enough ahead to make that visit.

It's not that we were poor. We never lacked for any of the essentials or even a few nonessentials, but we weren't wealthy either, sort of lower middle-class. Our clothes weren't stylish but they were always clean and in good repair. Our meals were plain but nutritious. The meat Mom bought on sale might be a little off-color but after she added a few spices it tasted just fine and anyway Mom's scrumptious home-baked bread was always the highlight of any meal.

Dad was always trying to earn enough to keep the household accounts in the black but still spend as much time with me as he could. Our entertainments were also inexpensive but no less enjoyable for their low cost. At least one Saturday a month we'd pile into the family car and go for a ride around the countryside. Sometimes we'd pull off the road to picnic in a field or glade or go fishing or swimming in a local creek. A stop for ice cream along the way was always a favorite and, every once in a while, Dad would splurge we'd get a sack of burgers from the White Tower in McCutchen.

Five, maybe six times a year, we'd go "visiting," spending a weekend at someone else's house. The days were when we kids played, moving at warp speed, never still always noisy until all our energy slipped away like sawdust spilling from a cheap stuffed animal, leaving us limp as we slipped into bed only to begin our frantic activities all over again in the morning.

The nights were when the adults played; gathering around the kitchen table bottles and glasses outlining its edge, the ever present deck of cards sitting in the middle waiting for the first shuffle. We'd drift off to sleep with to the muted sounds of "pass, pass, pick it up" drifting our from the endless euchre games punctuated by the clink of a bottle tapping against a glass and the occasional heartfelt "son of a bitch" from one of the fathers as a bid went astray.

The big event was our annual vacation, a week spent at Winslow Lake with two other families. Part of what made it exciting for me was that I could never be sure who the other two families would be. Sometimes it would be friends we'd stayed with before, other times there'd be a new family added to the mix, someone I'd never met before.

The other neat thing was the sleeping arrangements. We always rented the same two cottages at Thistledown Resort. The adults stayed in the Boathouse, which was the larger of the two, sitting perched right on the edge of the water. Kids got to stay in the Bunkhouse about four cottages inland from the Boathouse. It wasn't near the water; instead it was by the playground and ball field, surrounded by a small grove of trees, letting us pretend we were living in Sherwood Forest.

Calling these cottages makes them sound more fancy than they were. Essentially they were old two-room cabins, each with a small bathroom and a large common area. The common area in the Boathouse had a refrigerator, a small gas stove, a sink with cupboards above it, two double beds, a sleeper couch and a kitchen table with chairs. The Bunkhouse had a smaller refrigerator and a sink but no cooking facilities. In place of regular beds there were three bunk beds and the only table in the room had board games built into its top.

Except for breakfast, almost all of our meals were cooked on the grill outside the Boathouse, each family taking a different day to roast hot dogs and hamburgers for everyone. Meals were eaten on an old warped picnic table on the lakeshore. You had to be very careful where you sat if you didn't want to wind up with a butt full of splinters.

The fact the cottages were separated from each other gave us youngsters the chance to stay up far later into the night than we were usually allowed. Sure, lights were to be out at 10 but it didn't take us long to figure out we could hang blankets over the windows and keep the lamps glowing without anyone in the Boathouse being able to see them. Of course, in the morning we were just as tired as the adults were from their late night activities and, while we didn't have the magic of coffee to perk us up again, we did have the resiliency of innocent youth.

Working together was another way Dad found to spend time with me, despite the fact I was downright clumsy. Of course, it was also his way of educating me and making sure I pulled my own weight in the family. I always worked for my allowance and, when I turned 11, Dad arranged for me to start putting in a couple of hours a week at the hardware store in town, sweeping the place out and doing other small chores, a role that grew as I grew older. Half my dollar an hour pay went into the money jar at home, the other fifty cents I got to keep.

"No free rides for my son by god. I'm not raising any pampered sissy, a little hard work will help make a man out of you Jake, get you ready for the real world," he would tell me whenever I groused about having to kickback half my earnings.

Getting ready for the real world was a big thing for my Dad. So was being a real man. So was "doing better than your old man did."

At the mercy of too many forces he couldn't control, Dad wanted things be done his way at his house. Dinner would be what he wanted when he wanted it. He worked and brought home a paycheck. Mom was to clean, cook and do whatever else Dad told her to do. It's not that Dad was a tyrant, far from it. But he was the boss and expected to be treated that way.

My mother was a deferential and dutiful wife, following my dad's orders to a "T." I don't think it ever occurred to her to do otherwise. In fact, once I entered my teenage years she had even begun to well, not follow my orders exactly, but something close to that.

"Mary Anne, the boy's 13, he's on his way to being a man, it's time you started listening to him a little better," Dad instructed her one day. That's when I got to start telling Mom what I wanted for lunch, what I wanted to wear, that sort of thing. The older I got the more deferential Mom got to me.

My mom's social life was a limited one. What didn't revolve around her family involved her church, the Agapemone Bethel.

Every Sunday Mom would go to services at the bethel. Since he was a practicing agnostic who scoffed at any organized religion, Dad didn't go with her. That didn't stop Mom from dragging me along a few times.

I didn't go that often, maybe once every six weeks just to make Mom happy. When I did go I always found it a strange experience. For one thing, women weren't permitted to talk during the service. Timothy's admonition "During instruction a woman should be quiet and respectful," was the order of the day. The only time you could hear their voices was during the plainsongs, which were chanted, not sung, because music wasn't allowed in the bethel. Stranger still, it always seemed that tucked away somewhere in every sermon was a little lecture on the need of a wife to "hold fast to her husband and cheerfully obey him in all ways," or on "the virtues of submission, because when a wife rebels against her husband she rebels against God," sentiments that had most of the women in the congregation nodding along in agreement as though they came directly from Stepford.

The older I got the more this bothered me. With woman's lib all the rage, this just seemed so sexist and dismissive of women that I couldn't believe my mother was buying all this stuff. It finally got to the point that, when we stopped for ice cream at Couf's Dairy on the way home from services I decided to ask Mom about the sermons.

Hermann and Magda Couf were part of a large German farming family that had branched out into a number of businesses. Herman bought his milk and cream from his brother Heinz's farm. Magda, their two daughters and an indeterminate number of nieces and nephews transformed it into the best ice cream I've ever had.

There were never any more than five flavors available at Couf's at any one time and the only one that was always available was vanilla. One that was never available was chocolate. Magda hated chocolate and, being a stubborn German, refused to make it.

"Those what want chocolate ice cream can go down to the Tastee-Freeze. I won't have that scheisse in my parlor."

The other four varieties changed with the harvest seasons as Magda took advantage of the locally available fruits and berries to produce her confections. Even today, I'd kill for another taste of her Wild Blackberry Roly-Poly, all the joys of summer distilled into a single bite.

While the flavor board at Couf's was eclectic, the decor was standard ice cream shop with an emphasis on red, white and pink. The walls were lined with high-back booths, the center with twisted metal tables painted white; the back of the dairy had a single long formica-topped counter with red topped swiveling stools. Even during the winter Couf's was a local gathering place, a location to have a bite to eat, catch up on town gossip and, on that day, receive religious instruction.

"Jake," my mom told me in repose to my questioning, her lips shiny with whipped cream from the banana split she was eating, "I certainly do believe in the teachings of the Bible. God made Eve from the rib of Adam to be his partner, equal in all things. But Eve listened to the serpent and betrayed Adam, made him fall from grace. It was woman who was responsible for the expulsion from the Garden. Every woman has to seek redemption for that original sin. We do it through obedience to our men as Eve should have."

"But Mom, what if Dad wanted you to do something that was wrong? If he asked you to rob a bank would you?"

"Now you're being silly. Your father would never ask me to rob a bank."

"Alright but suppose he asks you to tell a lie. Telling a lie is a sin isn't it?"

"Some lies are."

"OK, so would you sin if Dad asked you to?"

Mom put the spoon down next to her dish. Reaching across the table she took both my hands in hers capturing my eyes with hers.

"I know you're growing up Jacob but even at 17 I don't know if you're old enough to understand what I'm going to tell you."

"Mom, please quit treating me like a little kid."

"As you wish Jacob, just remember I'm speaking to you as a man now, a young man but a man all the same. Yes, I would sin if your father commanded it."

My mother's admission stunned me. My face must have shown it because she gave my hands a tender reassuring squeeze.

"Understand me Jake. Your father is my Lord and Master. As such God expects me to follow your father's commands. That's God's will. There is no sin in doing God's will. If you'd go to bethel more with me you'd understand."

Fat chance of that, I thought, hoping that no one was overhearing this conversation. I'd die if my friends knew my Mom was saying these things. Thank goodness we were sitting in a booth against the wall. The high back gave us some privacy unlike the tables in the center of the dairy.

"Your great grandmother Massie grew up in West Virginia, Jake. She was a 'sin eater.' People then believed that you couldn't go to heaven until all of your sins were forgiven. If you died unshriven, you went to hell.

"Gramma Massie would be paid to 'eat' the dead person's sins. She'd go to the house where the body was laid out, usually on a table, a plate of food resting on their chest. Your great grandmother would eat that food and the sins of the deceased along with it. That's what sin eaters did. As they ate the food they took that person's sins on to themselves so the person could go to heaven.

"For any woman, being a submissive spouse is just like being a sin eater. By our subservience to our men, we redeem Eve's sin in Eden when she disobeyed the Heavenly Father. Our willingness to make this sacrifice preserves our souls and our place in the kingdom. I feel sorry for those women who talk about woman's liberation, independence, equality but I feel sorrier for those young girls they're misleading. They're perpetuating Eve's error and bringing great unhappiness on themselves."

Until then I'd never thought of Mom as a religious fanatic but even to my 17-year old mind, there was no question she had serious issues. Being old-fashioned was one thing; this, this was another. I looked for flecks of spittle on her face; in all the books I read crazy people always foamed at the mouth. All I could see were stray smears of cream the split had left behind at the corners of her mouth.

Oblivious to my growing unease and embarrassment, the words gushed out of Mom like water rushing over a cataract of a river. How woman was created to follow, not lead. That only through fulfilling her role as God had intended could a woman realize true inner peace and salvation. The joy she felt when she obeyed Dad's commands. I wasn't so much listening to her talk as I was watching her mouth move. Then she said something that brought me to attention like a recruit at reveille.

"... and I can only hope and pray Jake that when you start getting involved with a girl it'll be some one from the bethel who will be as respectful of you as I am of your father. You know," she said with a calculating look in her eye, "Mrs. Brewster told me her daughter Alice thinks you're cute, maybe you should pay a little attention to her the next time you go to bethel with me."

Alice Brewster looked like a constipated hamster. No way was I going out with her, no matter how cute she thought I was. But the idea of having a girlfriend who would listen to me and treat a nerd like me as if I was something special took root pretty quickly. Maybe there really was something to the song about wanting a girl just like the girl that married dear old dad.

After that, I went to bethel with Mom more often, not to listen to the preacher or to get religion but to check out the girls. As one of only six bethels in the state, Mom's drew people from all over, just not a lot of them. The flock was small and there weren't very many girls to check out. The ones that weren't spazes or sweat hogs pretty much all had boyfriends, except for Eleanor Hunter.

Elle was just on the pleasant side of skinny with a narrow triangular face and long silky chestnut hair she wore in a classic pullback with a French twist. Set above a pointy, almost beaky nose, her hazel eyes were hypnotic, twinkling with some inner amusement as though Elle knew a joke too good to share with the rest of the world. She was one of those girls who were "handsome" rather than pretty.

Her attire for worship was plain and simple, all one color, usually black or midnight blue with only a modest portion of her long legs revealed to public view beneath the hem of her dress. More sack-like than clinging, even the least form fitting of her Sunday outfits couldn't hide the protruding mounds of her breasts, so out of proportion to the leanness of the rest of her body.

To a young boy, noticeable tits of any size attract our attention like toys in a shop front; major leaguers like Eleanor Hunter had made you want to press your face against the shop window. Even before Mom had started me thinking about the girls in the bethel, I'd checked Elle out on more than one occasion. So, with the most impure of intentions, I began to try to figure out how to get close to Elle.

Her being a year older wasn't a concern at least to me; I didn't know how Elle would feel. Being five years older than Dad, Mom was always being teased about being a "cradle robber." I figured I was just carrying on the family tradition of being the "younger man."

The dilemma was that Elle didn't go to my school; she went to school two counties away. At 17, even though I could drive, I had no car, and little chance of using the family chariot for dating. It was one thing for her to be seen with someone a year younger than her even though we were both in the same grade, one of the nicer effects of my starting kindergarten early. It'd be another thing for us to be chauffeured around by our parents or so I thought.

Still that was a complication that could be solved later. Of more immediate importance was getting Elle to notice me, a difficult task since the only time we spent together was a few minutes before and after each service.

Whenever possible I maneuvered Mom into sitting either directly in front of or behind Mr. and Mrs. Hunter and their daughter, a position that allowed me to take advantage of the blessing of peace and understanding at the end of each service. I preferred sitting behind and a little to the side of Elle since then I got to look at her throughout the entire proceedings. Sometimes, as she moved, I could see her breasts sway from side-to-side, offering a nice distraction from the preacher's droning.

After a couple of weeks, Elle and I began to talk with each other in the parking lot outside of the bethel. Nothing heavy, just the inconsequential exchanges you get between any two teens. Our discussions were polite and perfunctory, tinged with an awkward formality by the knowledge our every move was being monitored and evaluated by the maternal pair hovering just at the far range of earshot, ready to step in and thwart the slight hint of any improper activities.

Even with the constant surveillance, it didn't take long for me to reach the point where I was becoming infatuated with Elle. Just the sight of the corners of her mouth rising toward her ears in response to something I'd said made me feel like I'd won first place at a track meet.

I liked making Elle smile, her grin as wide as a pumpkin's, the flat of her pink tongue visible between even rows of sparkling white teeth. I liked Elle's laugh, a bright chirpy sound and the way she tilted her head back when it escaped from her vocal cords. I think I even liked Elle.

What made it hard to say for sure was that I really didn't know Elle and Elle really didn't know me. We were strangers to each other despite the surface courtesies we engaged in every Sunday. The after-bethel ritual may have satisfied the proprieties but it really only allowed us to become familiar with each other on the basest of levels, our physical appearances.

When I talked with her, I was careful to follow Dad's advice to keep my eyes focused on hers and "... never, never eyeball her tits even when you think you can get away with it. She'll know what you're after but you don't have to advertise it. Deep down inside she wants to give it to you, it's just you have to play the game to get it from 'respectable' girls."

"Eyeballing her tits" may have been forbidden when we talked but they were front and center in my fantasies. There Elle would be nude, stretched out on her back in my bed, her eyes closed tight, her hands cupping her bold round breasts and pushing them up to my waiting mouth, uplifted nipples erect and cherry red against her French vanilla skin with its sprinkling of freckles.

That creamy skin would be shiny from sweat, sweat that would be covering her body, dripping down her ribcage; moistening the sheet underneath and making it wrinkle as she began to writhe. I'd lick my way from her tits down her squirming stomach, savoring the salty tang of her young flesh. When I arrived between her legs, I'd toy with her, blowing lightly against her pussy, bestowing just the softest glancing caresses with my tongue. And then, only after I had reduced Eleanor to a quivering supplicant begging for my cock, would I thrust into her wet, warm cunt and listen to her cries of ecstasy as I brought her to orgasm after thundering orgasm.

So I was a sex-crazed teenager. So sue me.

My favorite fantasy came out of one the skin magazines Dad gave me. That's right, that my dad gave me. Mom was big on providing "hands on" help with my schoolwork. Dad liked to offer what he called " special rewards" for good scholastic performance, "but don't let your mom know." He felt it met two of his three goals, since it helped me not only to do better than he did in school, it also moved me further down the road to being a real man.

There was a definite hierarchy to Dad's bribes. Gradewise C's got me old Adams and Playboys. B's were good for softcore porn. My rare A's got me the real thing, hardcore action, some of it pretty kinky.

The other side of this was that poor grades got things taken away at double the rate they were awarded. He always knew just the ones to take away, the ones that were the most worn or had the most spots on them.

In my number one scenario Elle is again nude. But this time she is kneeling in the middle of my room waiting for me. I enter the room fully clothed and walk up to her. She begins to massage my dick through my jeans with one hand while raising the gray T-shirt I'm wearing with the other. Before my cock gets too hard to move easily she undoes my pants spreading them open into a "V" and pulling them down along with my boxers until the bottom of the zipper rests just below my balls, my dick now flat against my stomach.

Elle leans into me and begins to lick up and down my prick; her saliva tickling my balls as it flows across their wrinkled container. At the top of a stroke, she opens her mouth and engulfs my dick, welcoming it into her warm, wet oral cavity as an alcoholic would a drink. Her chestnut hair becomes tossed and tangled as she rotates around my shaft, bobbing up and down and sucking until I feel I'm being pulled inside out.