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Show page 109 THE MUSICAL OAK Pastor Campbell lived alone in a n e a t , two-room house in t h e Bottom, t h r e e doors up from Durango Jackson's funeral p a r l o r , where sometimes he was c a l l e d upon to say the l a st words for the d e p a r t e d , r e p a i r the r e f r i g e r a t o r s , or t o f i ll a seat at Durango's poker t a b l e . He was a God-fearing but p r a c t i c a l man. He preached t h a t the past of our town could hold us a ll back. He c a l l e d for f a i t h , f a i t h and more f a i t h. "Like an old song," he s a i d , "'Land of t r o u b l e , land of woe, of mile-long c o t t o n , chopping hoe; t e l l us, Southland, land of p r i d e , what dim, dark s e c r e t s do you hide?' Now a l l t h a t d o e s n ' t do us any good today!" Campbell stood atop a turned down packing c r a t e on an empty l o t near the r a i l r o a d t r a c k s , s l i g h t l y behind t h e Whipple m i l l. He paused, wiped his brow with a red bandanna, dusted the lapels of his black s u i t , and surveyed h i s f a i t h f u l flock. He dropped the handkerchief to his s i d e , a s i g n a l for Mary Saint Marie his g u i t a r i s t to play a few pinched, s e n s i t i v e notes and to give her p l a i n t i v e r e n d i t i o n of a home on high. Campbell was a small man, nearing s i x t y , an e l e c t r i c i a n by day, with unwrinkled brow, candid eyes, l i v e l y walk, and a head of t u f t e d hair that always g l i s t e n e d with the best pomades . He was a handsome man, hard-working, w e l l - r e a d , a Holiness preacher by choice. He |