Give Me That Old-Time Religion

A few weeks back, I made a long overdue drive to see my folks who have settled in Denver, NC. I was excited to see their new digs, meet their new friends, hear about their adventures in starting a new life, with new scenery and new opportunity. I’m a big fan of relocation, of fresh starts, of perpetual change. That’s why it’s so strange that I have been relatively at peace with living here, in this single spot for so many years. But in the back of my mind, there’s always just a hint of want, of new geography and culture and people. So I was excited for my folks.

The visit was lovely—a perfect blend of busy and sloth, replete with laughs and storytelling. It was nice to be with them again.

But this isn’t a story about our little family reunion. Rather, it’s of this place we passed by as my mother drove us to the local thrift store, to pass an hour of time. As we neared it, she instructed us to look to our left as we passed what appeared to be some abandoned shanty town. “Interesting, right,” she nodded.

“What is it,” I wanted to know.

“It’s the campground,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“People go camping there?”

“Yes. Each of those little—oh, I don’t know what you’d call them, buildings maybe—those are owned by people. And they come here for events—revivals and so forth,” my mother explained.

I hadn’t heard that word in a very long time. “Revival.” It was so familiar to me, and it started to conjure up memories.

She’s a regular there at the thrift store, my mother. The sales go to benefit the local community (it doubles as a food kitchen, which I understand has no shortage of patrons these days), and my mother often finds treasures among its racks and shelves, which she resells on her ebay store. That day she found a little statute and a few other trinkets, including a “vintage” IBM Selectric typewriter—this one unique, in that it was red, rather than the standard black. I don’t know how she’ll ever sell it on ebay. How you could you ever ship that? They’re like anvils!

I bought some books (former library books, sadly) and a stack of 45s that I’ll use as art in our rec room.

On the way home, we were fixin’ (in honor of NC) to pass by “the campground” again, when I said, “I’ve got to get a picture of this place.”

My mother obliged and pulled into the circular drive the surrounds the compound. She told me some are more rudimentary than others. That the crème de la crème of the shacks—really, for lack of a better word—had electricity. She wasn’t sure if any had running water, however, but remarked that there were a couple of communal bathrooms—for the men, and for the women.

I don’t know how to describe the buildings, really. You have to see them for yourself. I have posted some photos here, but I’ll also post a video my husband shot, peeking into one of the structures. The roofs are tin and rusted. The wood is local and has that tell-tale southern sign of blackened age. There’s not much to them, and they all seem to have been built based on a central style or theme—slatted and open, as to foster a communal vibe, where people can just make the rounds at night and peer in on their neighbors and strike up a conversation. Which sounds kind of nice and old-fashioned and quaint, but I had to wonder if the “open door” policy—or open wall, as in this case—didn’t have more to do with keeping people on their best behavior when they’re camping and worshipping. Maybe it was about maintaining some sexual purity while your mind should be solely focused on spiritual matters. I don’t know.

I did find some basic information on Rock Springs Campground when I got home and began to surf the Web a little. Here’s some history on the place, if you’re interested:

http://www.denvernc.com/rockspringscamp.htm

I wondered, too, about my fascination with the place. It was rather vile looking, but who am I to judge? I realized that my fascination was more about a memory—memories, plural—it conjured up for me. When I was little, my great-grandmother (who most of you know, I adored) would, on an occasional hot summer night, load up the station wagon with lawn chairs and take me way out into the country for “revivals.”

We’d arrive, and I’d marvel at the big tents they’d erected and strung with twinkle lights. Underneath were rows upon rows of other God-fearing people in their lawn chairs, eating country ham sandwiches or fried chicken, while being entertained by some gospel group or preacher who’d tell corny jokes. And when I say “gospel,” I mean white, southern Baptist gospel. I don’t remember there ever being any people of color at these events, or maybe I simply hadn’t noticed.

From what I understood about these events that would come through town like carnies, some people would camp out, and there would be religious ceremonies—sermons and such—during the daytime, and at night, the pulpit would double as a makeshift stage and the music began. I loved the music, truthfully. It made me want to dance, which I think was frowned upon—yet I got away with it, because I was just a little kid. I also got away with some very bad behavior at times. Already boy crazy by that point, I would inevitably wander away from my great-grandmother’s watchful eye, and stroll around through the tents, hoping I might stumble upon some kid my age who wanted to do less wholesome things than listen to some quartet try to harmonize.

My great-grandmother loved the music. It’s why we went. I don’t remember us ever attending any of the sermons. And trust me, that was not because she wasn’t religious or spiritual. She was perhaps the most devout Christian to walk the Earth. But my great-grandmother was also unwaveringly devoted to her Church and to her preacher, and I imagine she felt that listening to any other—especially one who traveled around the country like a gypsy—was blasphemous in some way. Yes, it was the music that drew us each in, bonded us on those hot summer nights.

It may have been our last time to do this together; I don’t know how old I was by then. But I was even more boy crazy. I was pleasantly surprised that one of the bands that particular evening had a young singer and guitar player. I believe the band was called “The Pell Brothers,” or “The Pell Family.” And I believe his name was “Darrin Pell.” He was blonde and cute and talented on the guitar. And I flocked to the front of the stage like a full-fledged groupie. He caught my eye; I caught his, and after they’d put their guitars in their cases, I followed him behind the stage and struck up a conversation with him. He was just as sweet and wholesome as that part he played on the stage, and he gave me an autographed picture of the band, which indeed made me feel like just another groupie.