The Lawd Tells Hit Like It Is

by James L. Dickerson
April 23, 2008

Your average Mississippi judge is as cold-blooded as a lamprey eel. But, over the years, there have been exceptions.

One of the legal giants in Mississippi history was former chief justice of the Mississippi Supreme Court, Armis E. Hawkins, who passed away two years ago, leaving behind not only a rich legal legacy—he wrote the majority opinion that allowed the retrial of Byron de la Beckwith for the murder of Medgar Evers—but also the manuscript of a novel published after his death, “The Grand Leader” (J Prichard Morris Books, 2007, $24.95).

When it comes to nostalgic remembrance, most of us are stuck in the years of our youth. Hawkins was no different, except the years of his youth were the 1930s, a fair distance away from my own. This story takes place in the rural north Mississippi hill country, when Hawkins was transitioning from childhood into adolescence, a God-fearing time when a penny was really worth something, whether dropped into, or purloined from, the collection plate.

The narrator of Hawkins’ yarn is Hershell Moneyham, a well-meaning fellow who moves in with his Uncle May (Mayfield) and Aunt Josie to help them work their struggling farm. Unfortunately, he knows next to nothing about farming, and his uncle knows even less. Part of the problem is that Uncle May feels moved to transform himself into a rip-roaring preacher. Ordinarily, that would not be a problem, but the community already has a rip-roaring preacher named Kato Spode, the beacon of hope for the First Sanctified Church.

It is possible for country preachers to have multiple virtues, but the sharing of congregations is not one of the more common ones, especially if there isn’t enough money to go around as it is.

Uncle May’s sudden ambition causes Hershell to do a little pondering: “Why’d he decide to be a preacher? Why would anybody want to be a preacher? Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know what’s in their head. Except I will say if anybody was going to make a preacher, he was a good candidate. Religion was his one long suit. Fact is, his only one (unless you add getting out of work).”

Since pastoring a Presbyterian or Catholic or Methodist church isn’t in the cards for Uncle May, he starts a church of his own, the True Sanctified Church, before whose assemblages he rails about Pastor Spode’s unwillingness to prove his calling by handling poisonous snakes. No one has ever seen Uncle May handle a snake, but since his commitment to the Word was not an issue, no one ever thought to ask him when he himself planned to lay hands on snakes.

The very suggestion that Pastor Spode is deficient as a preacher so angers his congregation that one man angrily suggests retribution before the first snake can be handled: “We don’t need no Mayfield Yancy, neither. He makes me mad lookin’ at him, mad just thinking about him. Hit’s our Christian duty to see that pissant don’t stay in this county.” But hold on a minute, Spode says, suddenly fraught with a vision for a sure-fire plan for getting the best of Uncle May.

Although this is Hawkins’ first and last novel, it is apparent that he had a keen knack for storytelling that was as honest as his long career as a judge. As a writer, he had a feel for humanity that is reminiscent of John Steinbeck (especially “Grapes of Wrath”), and a feel for the common-man language of Erskine Caldwell.

The only thing about the novel that bothers me is the author’s insistence on using the inscrutable vernacular of his characters, for example: “That orter do the trick.” What that means is that you have to pause frequently to say the words aloud to understand them. That’s a mild annoyance for a speed reader like myself, but the pauses are almost always worth the time spent on them.

Another bonus to this book is an introduction by his long–time friend, Michael P. Mills, chief justice of the U.S. District Court for the northern district of Mississippi. He tells true stories about Hawkins that equal the fictional ones conjured by his friend. My only regret about reading this book is that I can’t pat Hawkins on the back for writing it and tell him, “Blessin urin heart, you done good!”

 
posted by on 04/23/08 at 08:34 PM. [printer-friendly version]