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maybe hoping) the fine Reverend was there for a social visit. “Can I get you something to drink? My wife just made up some lemonade. Would you like some?”
    “Yes, I believe I would.” Even angry, plum-less reverends couldn’t pass up a glass of my momma’s lemonade.
    As both men walked into the kitchen, Walter and I eased on down the hallway toward the kitchen door to get a closer listen, as if we didn’t know what the Reverend was about to say.
    “Brother Payton,” Reverend Hendricks said in a stern voice, perhaps only slightly less stern than it would’ve been without the taste of sugared-up lemons in his mouth. “I have a serious matter that I need to speak to you about.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to help if I can,” Daddy offered.
    “Now, Brother Payton, some boys stole some of my plums, got in my fence and was stealing plums,” Reverend Hendricks began. I had a lump in my throat bigger than any plum we stole that day. The Reverend went on, “I yelled at them, and they took off running. It was two of ’em, but I only got a good look at one, and it sure looked like Bubba…your boy, Bubba. Worst of it, they broke one of my trees, limbs and things.”
    Daddy didn’t seem too happy about that. “Are you sure it was my boys?” he asked.
    “Well, I didn’t get a real good look at ’em, but one of them was small and heavyset like Bubba. I’m not sure, but the other one looked a lot like Edward Charles.”
    “Well, I tell you what,” Daddy stated, “if it was my boys, you can be sure they won’t ever do it again!”
    The Reverend nodded. He seemed a little too pleased to hear that, from my perspective anyway. “I wanted you to know,” he said, pausing for effect, “because I could’ve shot ’em.” And that had some effect all right. Get shot for stealing fruit from trees? Now, that would just be plum stupid!
    Anyway, hearing all that, we ran back down the hall into our room to hatch a quick plan. And by “hatch a plan,” I mean we were coming up with a lie. As the older brother with all the ideas, I took the lead. And I thought this idea was a particularly good one. “Okay, Bubba, here’s what we’re gonna do. When Daddy comes in here, he’s gonna be mad! I mean, mad! He might whoop us to death. Since Reverend Hendricks only saw you, you’re gonna confess. Then I’m gonna say, ‘Daddy, it’s my fault. I shoulda been watching Bubba closer. Don’t whoop Bubba, whoop me instead.’ Then Daddy won’t whoop either one of us, ’cause he’ll be so proud of me for sticking up for you that he just won’t be able to whoop either of us.”
    Bubba bought in like a dumb little brother ought to when his smarter, older (and better-looking, if I do say so myself) brother presents a plan. So, now we just had to wait for Daddy to come through that door.
    During all that listening and planning, I’d developed quite an urge to pee and was about to pee my pants, so I went to the bathroom to take a leak. While I was in there, Reverend Hendricks left, and I heard Daddy yell, “Bubba!”
    Uh-oh. Better finish peeing right quick!
    “Did you go into Reverend Hendricks’ garden and steal his plums?”
    Walter stuck with the plan even though I was still in the bathroom. “Yes, sir, Daddy, I did,” he answered as instructed.
    By the time I got my pants zipped up and made it back to the bedroom, Daddy had a belt in one hand with his other hand on back of Walter’s neck, pressing him into the mattress.
    Now, before you go judging my daddy, you need to understand something. In the Deep South where I’m from, corporal punishment is not only accepted as a way to rear a child, it’s heralded as the only way. In fact, “rearing” a child has a whole different meaning where I’m from. Parents down there acted as if a whoopin’ could only be felt (and therefore effective) if the bottom being whooped was a bare one. The butt had to be nekkid. Not “naked,” as you might say it. N e kkid.
    And it