Baptists Taste Bad

When I was a little girl, church ladies would get happy and fall out. Nurses in white uniforms rushed to help them, since the Lord wouldn’t.

After my Sunday morning bath, pink lotion dripped down the outside of the bottle. To my seven-year-old eyes, it looked like strawberry ice cream melting down a cone.  

I licked it. 

Great horny toadies. Ack. Nasty. I spit into the sink. Spit again, but the nastiness hung on. Scraping my tongue with a wad of toilet paper only made my mouth taste like Jergen's and Charmin. I stuck my tongue out so far, my jaw hurt, but aftertaste sneaked in through my nose. Lotion flavor attacked me everywhere. I couldn't get away. 

“Oh, Jesus.” 

Uh oh. Did Mama hear? 

Mama would not like that language. Not one bit. Sundays, she dragged me to Maple Street Baptist Church. First, nine a.m. Sunday school, then ten a.m. service.