They called them "dinner on the ground with hell, fire, and brimstone preaching" Camp Meetings back home in Louisiana. They had to be non-denominational. I suppose all the local clergy got a slice of the take.
I think I remember being a little kid with a starched shirt and pants on, swinging my legs in those uncomfortable folding chairs, sweating my 'arse off, watching all those ladies "wagging their lips" and fanning themselves with those hand fans telling me to straighten up and be quiet.
Hell, I liked it better when I got a chance to slip off to the parking lot and listen to all the men talk about all the ladies gossiping and crap about the damn preacher going from town to town every time he heard the boy's had gotten a new paycheck. They all b*+@#ed about the mosquitoes but showed up every night for the show.
Ole T-Gib was a little "touched" in the head but had lots of stories and took us down to the bayou to cane poll fish and throw rocks at the turtles and snakes before it would get dark. They all said he was "touched," but he made considerably more sense to an elementary school kid that did that damn preacher.
Yep ... them was the days when the old folks hauled us city kids down to the bayou country during the hottest part of the summer to catch a little down home hell, fire, and brimstone every-night-go-to-meeting homecoming socials. Of course, this was before there was an Interstate 10 and every road was a two lane, bridge hopping, nightmare. I too remember sleeping up behind the back seat by the rear window. There were actually stars in those days!
I drift.
Still, it's always good to hear from you Red Templar. Go 'Cats!