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Show in my father's house/ 79 You see how it is? Why, you gals done nothing wrong. Besides, it's none of their damn business how you-all live." Much to her chagrin, jailers soon transferred the black woman to another cell, making way for other fundamentalist women. All day women from the group arrived until six of them clustered in a single cell. They watched as the men were led across the street for arraignment. My mother and Aunt Helga waved and called through the bars, trying to get my father's attention. The matron banged the door with her club. "You're not supposed to talk to the prisoners," she ordered. My mother and Aunt Helga smiled at each other and called out again. "What more can she do to us?" Aunt Helga muttered. "Look!" my mother exclaimed. "Those fine men of God in handcuffs!" Aunt Helga's face set in disapproval. "They're treating them like common criminals." My mother began to cry. Later they learned that John Y. Barlow wrists were pinched until they bled. He was a big, heavy man and the officers had no handcuffs to fit him, but insisted he put them on anyway. The afternoon passed slowly, and the women missed their children. Bail, set at a minimum of $2,500 each, dismayed these people who sometimes subsisted on pigweed from the yard |