When I was just a chillin...

Since Dad was a preacher, we went to church every Sunday. We sang a lot of the old hymns like When the Roll Was Called Up Yonder, The Old Rugged Cross, Leaning on the Everlasting Arms, and so forth. 

After church we went home for the family meal. That was always a big thing for Mom and Dad. Meal times were FAMILY meal times. Get together, sit down together, wait for each other, eat together, no leaving until everyone was done. We spent time together, real time.

As was traditional, Dad sat at the head of the table. He liked to have Mom right there by him, so she sat to his left. Phillip, Kenneth, Pam and Deb sat 2 apiece on either side of the table and I sat at the far end. 

With 7 of us eating, you can imagine it was a somewhat sizable table. Good thing the kitchen and dining room were really one room, the main difference being where the dining room started was marked by where the cabinets (and refrigerator) ended. 

Well, courtesy was another big requirement. "Please pass the..." was required form, as was, "Thank you." Woe betide he or she who reached across someone or just said, "pass the" without the "please".

Well, Mom was many things and one of them was a scratch cook. No making biscuits from Bisquick...she made them from scratch. And she took great offense should anyone call them "Bisquicks" or anything along that line. She made them from scratch, she made them with pride and talent, and she did not want to be lowered into that class. Treat her biscuits with respect, yes sir.

Until, that is, that fateful day. We got home from church. The aroma was strong and good. We were having a roast of some sort, green beans, potatoes, and biscuits. I loved me some biscuit with heaps of Golden Soft margarine and some of her home-made Strawberry jam. Or home-made Apple butter.

See, she made and canned her own jams and stuff. No store bought jam ever tasted better to me.

Anyway, I had consumed a couple of biscuits laden with margarine and jam and desired another. Small problem. Dad had them by him. At the far end of the table.

As an aside, I think very much like Dad. And have the same sense of humor.

So I casually said, "Up yonder, please."

And without an aye, yay or neigh, he up and grabbed a biscuit and tossed it across the table to me.

Mom glared at me, then him. "Hubert Andrew Barton, what was that?"

"He asked for it."

"He did not. He asked for an up yonder."

And as one voice, Dad and I said, "It is Biblical. When the Roll is called 'up yonder'". 

Now, Mom wanted to be mad at us but she couldn't because everyone was laughing so hard. And to her dieing day, she never did believe we had not planned that. But it was completely spontaneous.

So the next time you hear When the Roll is Called Up Yonder I hope you spontaneously burst out in uncontrollable, embarrassing laughter thinking about this pointless post.