My Daddy, the Satanist

It is a story of how an impoverished youth rose to a position of government authority and how his moral foundation and principles were twisted by the ensuing power struggle.

"But when were times not in a state of continual flux, and I remember the times he described to me. Now that he is gone I have lost this part of me. It is now just all memories, vague nuances of a time before me. It was 1929, as a young man sat on a barren hillside that overlooked the full choke and fire production of steel. Nothing could grow on the hill as the smoke from the factory killed it before it was nurtured. The exhaust billowed from stacks in cold, silent defiance of life.

Behind this young man was a family hearth that burned to sustain life. It was a humble home, poor by all standards. This was my father's place of birth. It was one room, called a house, that provided shelter to the brothers and sisters of two separate generations. Packed into this center of refuge, they held back the shrowd of chaos that surrounded them outside.

The father of the house was old, he was unable to harvest the crop of his now displaced family farm. His daughters, three, were quasi commissioners of the house with my father's grandmother, Wilhemina, as overseer to the duties of the day. Wilhemina was the faithful wife of the father of the house and mother of the three. My father's mother was the eldest of these three commissioners. He was one of two children, brothers, the two children of Lenora.

Others lived there in that house. Some would come and go. Some would provide help when medicine or food was needed.

My father was still sitting on the hill. It was something he did a lot. The hill did not overlook only the factory in one direction, but beneath every hill is usually a valley. Thus was the case in the other direction. His attention would often be drawn to the valley, especially on Sundays.

As he watched, the Sunday procession began as it did every Sunday right on time. It was a procession of the small community that dwelled in the valley. The Negros were in procession toward the most predominant structure.

It was a large white church, a Baptist temple. It was white but drab white. It was stained and darkened by the smoke from the mills but still managed to radiate with hope. A thin cross was cut out on the precipice of the roof allowing for light to pass through, perfect in form and devise. At times, when the smoke subsided, a glimmer of sunlight would pass through the cross. It was the beauty of this event that always made my father happy and each Sunday he watched the procession and waited for the sun to shine. He thought it was a wonder. He thought it was a miracle. He thought it was a sign of God's blessings, but only when the smoke cleared and the sun shined.

He was born unto the house of evangelism, the Church of the Nazarene. Sometimes it was enough to just bear witness of the truth, as the old rumble seat auto did not always oblige repeated transport to Sunday services of the family's many. It was a disadvantage not being able to walk to services as was the case with the folk in the valley, but the Christian ethic was always practiced.

It was some Sunday just like this the young man that was my father probably set his life's resolve. Like so many do, he prayed to God for deliverance. He asked only a chance to raise his own family under the promise of prosperity. After all, God always listens. He became a man. He was 13. In 1935, there was little deliverance the Lord had to offer, save for the dream in a young man's mind."