“Rev would preach on: ‘’Tis an angel from your youthhood, Semple, a young angel you grew up with, but whom you cannot recognize since this angel died before the age of sin, but is now whiter than snow, as all are here in heaven. No matter how dark on earth you may be, in heaven you are whiter than snow, Jesse B. Semple, whiter than snow!’

“‘Aw, now Rev,’ I would say, ‘with me you do not need to go that far.’

“But old Rev would keep on, because that sermon would be getting good to him by now: ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, in heaven, I say, Jesse B. Semple, old earthly Semple, down-home Semple is whiter than snow. White! White! White! White! Oh, yes, you are whiter than snow!’

“‘Then, Rev,’ I would have to holler, ‘I would not know my own self in the mirror, were I to look.’

“‘In God’s mirror all are white,’ says Rev, ‘white wings, white robe, white face, white neck, white shoulders, white hips, white soul! Oh, precious soul of Jesse B., worth more than words can tell! Worth more than tongues can fabulate, worth more than speech can spatulate, than throat can throttle, than human mind can manipulate! This soul, this Jess B. of a soul! This simple soul, this Semple! Gone to glory, gone to his great reward of milk and honey, manna and time unending, and the fruit of the tree of eternity.’

“‘Rev,’ I would be forced to say laying there in my coffin thirsty, ‘your words are as dry as popcorn and rice. You have mentioned neither beer nor wine—and I am paying you to preach this sermon.’

“‘The juice! Sweet, sweet juice of the vine! Juice, juice, juice,’ Rev would say. ‘Oh, yes, Jess Semple is partaking today of the juice of the vine, and the fruit of the tree, and the manna of time unending, and the milk and honey of the streets of gold, and the wine of the vine of timeless space in that blessed place beneath his crown of gold, wrapped in the white robes of his purity, with white wings flapping, and his immortal soul winging its way through immortal space into that eternal place where time shall be no more, and he shall rest in peace forever and forever, ever and forever—for Semple were born good! He were raised good! He lived good, did good, and lied—I mean, died—good. Amen!’”

Jazz, Jive, and Jam

Jazz, Jive, and Jam

“IT BEING Negro History Week,” said Simple, “Joyce took me to a pay lecture to hear some Negro hysterian——”

“Historian,” I corrected.