Under the Mulberry Tree Read online



 

 

  Revelation With Humor

  Under The

  Mulberry Tree

  By alvinna Edwards Nwoko (Ronnie)

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Revelation with Humor

  Under The Mulberry Tree

  By Alvinna Edwards Nwoko (Ronnie)

  Copyright 2014 ECO 1-501605581

  Alvinna Edwards Nwoko (Ronnie)

  Smashswords Edition

 

 

 

 

 

  Most of us read the Bible, reread it, and then read it over and over again, only to walk away with no more understanding than that of a child.

  Well as a child my understanding of the Bible and the words of God were supposed to be simple, the rules were supposed to be simple, and my consequences was supposed to be simple, so says my pastors who obviously was not born onto this earth as a child from my mama.

  Instead my pastor came with my mother’s covert operation in play with her neighborhood spies.

  And to this day I believe my pastor came onto this earth by God’s divined grace fully developed, damnation, hell fire and brimstone preaching Holy man, who only purpose and perverted fulfillment was to scare the living hell, or the potentially living hell out of small children.

  It always amazed me that God gave such men the power to see into the future and the past. To me they seemed to know who had sinned the weak before Sunday church service and knew the desires of our hearts before the eagle flies.

  Take for example, one Sunday the Pastor was preaching on God working in mysterious ways, while staring directly into my eyes, only mine eyes, no one else, just me.

  I was worried that the other members in church would notice me being singled out, me, a five year old skinny little girl with big black-blue eyes sitting in the back of the church not bothering anyone. I’m just hoping he would finish quickly so I could change out of my Sunday clothes so my brother and I can go play.

  Even as a child I knew I had to wear the same church clothes fifty-two time each year. Except for the times I lied and pretended to be sick so I wouldn’t have to go to church. Of course that lie was interrupted quickly when mama started spooning out Castrol Oil.

  Castrol Oil, one of the most foul smelling, awful tasting, cure all that was ever forced down my throat. If I had been an adult during the 1950’s I probably would have gone to jail for going to the pharmacy picking up two bottles of Castrol Oil waiting for my opportunity to catch the man who created that see through stinking torture, wait for him to leave his home and make him drink both bottle of that foul concoction then watch him every ten minutes run in a panic looking for a toilet.

  Only because of Castrol Oil I became a habitual member of Sunday church services.

  Back then, I was wearing the only church clothes I possessed.

  My pristine white laced satin Easter dress with a pale pink sash and my pink patent leather Easter shoes and beautiful white lacey socks.

  I loved going to church because of my new clothes, I thought I looked beautiful and I was beautiful until after the twentieth wearing of the same clothes each and every Sunday. When I twirled around and around my shinny dress would start to lift and open like the older ladies pretty umbrellas, lace and all if you know what I mean.

  The Pastor was preaching hard, walking back and forth across the pulpit, working himself into a sweat, gasping for air between each damming word. “You know who you are, gasp, the lord will seek you out, gasp, he will follow you, gasp, he will guide you, gasp, he will turn you away from your sins, gasp, forgive you, gasp, you might not be able to see him, gasp, but he is always around, gasp, be careful what you do today, gasp, because, God, works, in mysterious ways.”

  Well, I was never was so scared but happy when the preaching was over and my brother and I were able to run out of that church and away from the piercing eyes of the Pastor.

  My brother Shazier suggested we go over to the mulberry tree because he spotted some of the biggest most beautiful mulberries he had ever seen on his way to church, the best that tree had ever produced and none of the other kids have touched the tree yet.

  Let’s go and change our clothes first. Mama said not to go under the mulberry tree in our Sunday clothes, I told my brother.

  No! My brother screamed at me, if we do, the other kids would get to the tree first, and the big ones would all be gone by the time we get back.

  My brother was one year older than I and responsible for my safety, my well-being and I thought my sins. He would never let anything happen to me so I put my trust in him (instead of the Lord) and followed him to the neighborhood’s best mulberry tree.

  My brother was right I thought, as my eyes grew large in awe. Mulberries at least two inches long and as round as dimes, thousands of them and I thought I was in heaven.

  The bigger ones were at the very top of the tree. The tree was so full with big ripe black and purple mulberries, the limbs of the tree bent to the ground from all the weight.

  Go change your clothes a faint voice whispered in my ear. (A still small voice). If I do, I’ll miss getting these beautiful berries I told myself, plus, I’ll be careful, I’m always careful of snakes and spiders I told myself.

  Get up under the tree! My brother said to me after I found the perfect old rusty large syrup can. I couldn’t find anything else to place those beautiful, tasty, wonderful mulberries in. I didn’t have time to go home, and if you’re poor like our family was, an old rusty can would do just fine.

  Once in place, I started picking the mulberries from the tree limbs that I could reach with ease and placing one after the other into my basket from heaven, even if it was a dirty old syrup can.

  I had not noticed that Shazier had climbed up the small limbs of the tree nearest to the top when he called down to me.

  “I’m going to shake the limbs, when they fall to the ground you pick em up okay?”

  No! Was all I was able to say before one berry after the other in fast repetition started to fall from heaven to the ground. Before I could get out from under the tree, plop, plop, plop, big black, red, and purple stains appeared on the shoulders of my White Easter Dress. Plop, plop, plop, plop, now on my shoes. Plop, plop, plop on my dress again.

  That crazy fool of a brother was still shaking the limbs of the tree with such fervor I thought he might fall and brake his fool neck, which by the way would take the attention off my stained clothes.

  Stop! Stop! I yelled to Shazier but he couldn’t hear me, he was too far up the tree and the noise from the tree branches and the leaves drowned out my plea. I ran from under the tree into the sunlight only to be struck dumb and unable to move after seeing my beautiful white, beautiful brand new Easter dress and my beautiful brand new shoes had turned into a polka dot mess.

  I stood there like a deer looking into the headlights of a car. Dead was the only word that could describe my future state when mom sees my clothes.

  My dress was stained, my shoes and socks were stained and my lips and tongue were stained with the blackest, tastiest and the hardest to remove purple dye God could create in a berry.

  My brother climbed back down the tree with the slowness of a sloth. Terror restricted his movement, slowed his thinking and panic caused him to stutter.

  Why didn’t you get out of the way? Are you crazy? Mama is going to kill us.

  When we get home all we have to do is was
h my clothes like mama do, and she’ll never have to know.

  Good idea my brother replied. When we get home I’ll sneak inside the house and bring you your play clothes.

  If I have to lie, I’ll tell mama kids saw us walking home from church and started throwing mulberries at us, a little voice whispered in my ear.

  When we reached the house, that will be my story, I thought, but the fear of what would happen kept me silent, I will save that perfect lie for emergencies.

  While Shazier was in the house getting my play clothes, I went to the back porch to get a bucket and the bleach, the real bleach of the 1950’s, that don’t get it on your body anywhere kind of bleach or your skin will fall off. Bleach in the 1950’s was almost as strong as lye if not stronger. If not properly diluted, bleach can turn your clothes yellow and devour them with the aggression of my baby sister with scissors.

  I replaced my soiled clothes I was wearing with my clean play clothes then placed my Sunday clothes with shoes and socks in the bucket. Bleached was poured directly onto the contents in the bucket to help it to work faster.

  My brother stood and watched because laundry was woman work and he knew nothing about bleach, and I was a women.

  Just as the water was about to be added we were called into the house by mama to run an errand. We were given a dime for a loaf of bread and off we ran to the corner store after the water was turned off, the bucket was pushed under our aging unpainted unleveled wood shack of a