When I was two-and-a-half, I was
baptized. I didn’t like it.
The facts of the offending event: June
5, 1955. St. John’s, Alamogordo, New Mexico. Episcopal, of
course. My uncle, The Reverend Al Babbitt, Rector.
Although he was a towering man, my
uncle was gentle with me. I liked him. He looked like the wise bird in my
picture book, so I thought this kind giant’s name was… Owl.
Episcopalians are rarities west of the
Mississippi, and Uncle Owl, a middle-aged lawyer, was new to the priesthood, so
he had scant experience baptizing little girls. Especially little girls
in VERY special dresses.
My dress was a VERY special dress with
a history. My mother had paid an extravagant sum for the dress. It
was made of the stiffest crinoline overlying petticoats that made it stick out
from my body at a ninety degree angle. Had you stood me on my head, I would
have looked like a frilly, white mushroom with two match sticks poking out of
the top.
My mother was indecently proud of the
dress.
My father’s older sister did not know
that my mother had purchased a dress- THE dress- for my baptism. Aunt
Doris was a seamstress, and she created a lovely baptismal dress for me.
When she presented the dress to my mother, my mother was stunned. She
didn’t want me to wear Aunt Doris’s dress. She had already purchased THE
dress I was to wear. After Aunt Doris left, my mother had a conniption.
For days, my mother and father pleaded
and argued with each other. I was two-and-a-half. They didn’t
realize that I was listening to every word. I didn’t understand
everything, but I understood enough: that the critical element of my upcoming
baptism was my attire. My daddy wanted me to wear the dress that his
sister had made for me. My mother wanted me to wear the dress that she
had purchased. My mother won. If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody
happy.
The morning of my baptism, my mother
dressed me in THE dress, ruffled panties, lacy anklets, and Mary Janes.
She braided my hair into two tiny pigtails. But before we left the hotel
for my uncle’s church, a gentle rain began to fall. My mother was
aghast. “We mustn’t let your dress get wet!” she cried; in only moments,
the rain would wilt the starched, stiff crinoline. We watched the sky
anxiously. Finally, the rain stopped, and we hurried to the church.
When we got to my uncle’s church, I saw
the bowl of punch for the post-baptismal reception. I asked my mother for
a sip. She said I couldn’t have any because “We mustn’t let your dress
get wet!”
I asked to go pee-pee. She
hustled me off to the bathroom, held up my dress to keep it dry while I settled
myself on the toilet, and then when she helped me wash my hands, warned, “We
mustn’t let your dress get wet!”
Finally, with my dress pristine, we
entered the nave of the church. We settled ourselves on the first
row. The music started, and Uncle Owl processed down the aisle while the
choir sang. He did lots of things that my priest back home did, but then
he did something different. He told my parents to bring me to him where
he stood by a big, tall bowl of water. He said some words I didn’t
understand, and my daddy handed me to him. He wrapped his long left arm
around me.
Surprised, I looked back at my
daddy. I turned and looked at Uncle Owl. I followed his gaze down
to the big bowl of water. And then I realized the worst: Uncle Owl
intended to put me in that big bowl of water. So I looked him square in
the eye and shouted, “Don’t get my dress wet!”
I left the church that day, a Child of
God with a dry dress. A beautiful, stiff crinoline dry baptismal
dress. A loud, opinionated Child of God.
I am still a loud, opinionated Child of
God. But now that I am old, I don’t worry about getting my dress
wet. In fact, I make a point to dip my fingers into the Holy Water when I
enter church. I dip them in all the way to my palm. Then I
liberally wet my forehead, my bellybutton, and my left and right
shoulders. Those little wet spots are a tribute to God; to loud,
opinionated little girls in crinoline dresses; and by no means least, to Uncle
Owl, smiling down at me from Heaven. And still laughing.
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