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Number 1 In Religious Sermons Category

May 5, 2021 Leave a Comment

Another Applachian Tale

August 17, 2020 Leave a Comment

Winter had its challenges in my Appalachian community. Few houses could boast that they had insulation, and none had central heating. Most simply had a coal stove in the corner of the living room. During the fall, each household made winter preparations by scavenging for enough coal to last the winter. We’d learned about hard work from Preacher Charlie’s sermons: “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise” (Proverbs 6:6).

It was in the cold of winter my widowed Grandma passed, leaving her two teenage sons to fend for themselves. My uncles knew about the Bible ant’s, but they stretched the context of the verse a mite too far as they prepared for winter with a Robin Hood mentality: stealing coal from passing trains.

The distant whistle of an approaching train brought Billy and Fred running. Feigning innocence, they smiled and waved at the engineer, before grabbing long willow poles hidden in the weeds by the tracks. As the train rumbled by, gusting their hair and driving dust into their squinted eyes, they stood their ground: David against Goliath. Lowering the poles against the top of the passing train, any coal laying on the edge hit the pole and came flying to the ground. The boys tossed their poles into the weeds and gave a friendly wave to the conductor—as if he didn’t know their scheme. They gathered their bounty with delight. Yes, they were expeditious, like the ant—and they looked like ants silhouetted against the huge freight train roaring by.  

I’d like to justify their actions by remembering they were teen orphans. After all, they weren’t taking from the local folks; conversely,  they simply made a few chunks of coal disappear from passing trains. What’s that to an empirical corporation like the Vanderbilt’s? Anyway, the coal could’ve fallen off on its own. And it might’ve hurt someone in the process. So, they could have been doing the train company a favor. Afterall, it seemed a molehill to the giant company shipping the coal, but it meant a warm house for a couple orphaned teenagers.

Poor decisions that produce a measure of success can create habits of monstrous proportions. When Fred bought his first car—a big yellow ‘55 Buick, straight from the lemon line in Detroit—his excitement sizzled when the engine blew. But he and Billy concocted a plan. They pointed the car towards the edge of a steep embankment, Fred accelerated the knocking engine, and leaped from the car as it crashed through the brush towards the North Fork of the Kentucky River. Fred’s miscalculated exit sent him skidding on his elbows—a bit harder than the soft upright landing he’d anticipated. The fake accident turned out a mite more realistic than planned: Fred’s cuts and bruises were proof.

My Momma and Daddy seldom argued, but this event brought on a near-divorce. Momma defended her baby brothers’ honor, after all, she’s named her sixth child after him. But Daddy challenged the collision as something other than an accident. So, Momma went into her silent routine for a couple of weeks until the incident lost momentum as the local gossip at the general store. The insurance company paid up, and Uncle Fred eventually healed up, but the car, upside down at the bottom of the hill, leaked enough lubricants into the North Fork to attract prospectors from Shell Oil. After these many years, I wonder if it’s still there: quite a treasure if someone should choose to restore it.

Woodsong Publishing’s note:

If you enjoyed this blog by author Larry Arrowood, you can take a look at his book, Troublesome Blue, which share’s a similar theme of stories from the Appalachian region. Here’s the link: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/troublesome-blue-larry-m-arrowood/1115416647?ean=9780989229111

Appalachian Revival

August 15, 2020 Leave a Comment

Time passed slowly in the Appalachians. A year seemed too terribly long to judge time; we judged time by seasons and events. This gave us a safety net from the mundane; still, time crept by sluggishly at best. The farthest we planned ahead was the next major event: Easter, Decoration Day, Labor Day, Halloween, Election Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That took us to a new year, and the cycle started over. This worked best for us.

There was one more major event: the annual revival meeting. Our isolated community missed the cut on the evangelists’ list of preferred churches. Instead, we made the when-you-absolutely-have-no-other-place-to-preach list. That made us more vulnerable to the upstarts and the has-beens, not to mention the charlatans. And they somehow managed to find us.

News of the revival spread like wildfire in a forest carpeted with pine needles. Gossip fanned the flames, some saying that the evangelistic team might be snake handlers. Heated arguments erupted at the post office, with varying opinions as to the sanctity of such in church. But no matter if you were for or against, folks packed out the church house for the service.

The opening Friday night was hot and sticky, the dead-end road to the church was dry and dusty, and the open windows to our unpainted, clapboard church facilitated the mosquitoes that were thick and hungry.

Me and a friend wondered if the evangelistic team was a snake handlers. And if they were, we speculated as to whether the snakes were real or fake rubber snakes like those won at a carnival. Our curiosity stirred, so we decided to have a look. Upon investigation, sure enough, we discovered a wire-mesh cage in the back of the preacher’s beat-up station wagon.

The crowd gathered long before the service started, talkin’ a plenty. The older folks gathered around the evangelistic team, welcoming them top our community. Children played tag, while the teenagers joined in a game of drop the hanky. So, a couple of seven-year olds hanging around the station wagon provoked no undo suspicion. The snakes seemed real enough, but they weren’t moving, so we poked some sticks through the wire mesh. Sure enough, they were real. The more the snakes struck at our sticks, the more we prodded them. They were mighty riled up before we slipped leisurely away to settle on the pew farthest back in the church house, nearest the door, with a window view of the station wagon. We anticipated the service might be a tad more excitin’ than the evangelistic team anticipated.

The women fanned while the children climbed over the slatted, wooden benches. The men wiped sweat, the teenagers passed notes and shy glances, and we two boys were grinnin’ sheepishly. The praise singers finished, and Pastor Charlie took a love offering for the evangelistic team, whose absence, by this time, created a noticeable concern. But I could see the evangelistic team through the open window, huddling at the back of the station wagon like generals deciding a war strategy. They eventually entered the building, absent their snakes, but carrying a guitar, bass fiddle, and some tambourines. Preacher Charlie turned the service to them and they began to sing.

The service broke up with no mention of the snakes. However, there was a lot of yelling by the evangelist about hell and sin, not to mention some insinuating finger-pointing and comments about the judgment to come to whoever among us was the devil’s helpers. The revival, which should have lasted a week, ended that night. The old station wagon, loaded to the gills and dragging in the rear, sped hastily down the dirt road and disappeared in a cloud of dust. I and my friend were the only ones to confirm for sure that they were snake handlers. And we weren’t as gullible as they had hoped. They came to charm us with their works of faith, to use us as a statistic on their stairway to spiritual stardom. We didn’t want to be inhospitable nor irreligious, but we had long ago learned what to do with a rattlesnake. You first beat it lifeless, then you fetch it up with a stick and toss it into a ravine. And you certainly don’t tempt the Lord with such foolishness as trying to pet it.

New Release: God of Our Fathers

January 21, 2020 Leave a Comment

The latest novel by award-winning author Larry Arrowood.

Larry Arrowood’s storytelling is alive and well in his latest novel, God of Our Fathers. In his tenth title, the three major religions of the world clash in Professor Christopher Stone’s college classroom, and the conflict escalates when someone murders his wife, Eden, in a bombing—a bomb intended for him.

This Christian novel is fraught with suspense while it takes the reader on an intellectual journey through culture, history, and geographical locations full of colorful scenes and fun facts.

Welcome or Welcome Back to our Website!

August 9, 2016 Leave a Comment

Hello all!

After a few months of overhaul, our site is back up! During our absence on the web, we have printed two new titles and have a third ready to go to press. Some of our previous titles are no longer being printed, but we will continue to add new. We hope you find a title that captivates your attention, and we trust that you will keep coming back for more. Kindest regards!

Larry Arrowood

Author/owner Woodsong Publishing

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