> SOUTHERN INDIANA — Back in the old days, Saturday nights were the “Devil’s Night.” That’s what the preachers said, and they were called to keep us free from sin. Not that many years ago, moving picture shows were sinful as was a woman wearing lipstick, puffing on a cigarette and wanting to dance. You’d see all sorts of sin up on the movie screen, men kissing loose women dressed in clinging silks cut way too low. When a 12-year-old boy saw kissing at a picture show, it made him wonder why love was sinful, but war was not. Cowboy shows were the best, though, because cowboys were straight shooters, overcoming bad with good without all the lovey stuff.

On Saturday nights, farm folks took baths and then went to town. If a boy was lucky, after a long week’s work, he’d get to see a cowboy moving-picture show. That’s what he lived for, but you never saw a brave cowboy say much more to a girl than, “Howdy Mam.” Oh, at the end, after the cowboy cleaned up the town, the rancher’s daughter would meander to the corral to say goodbye as he saddled up. He’d made the range safe for her, but there was more to it than that. Maybe she was hoping he’d settle down and raise children along with a big herd of longhorns. Then when he’d glance briefly into her longing eyes, you knew he was torn between the daughter and riding out with the wind where it blew free. As he mounted up, pausing briefly to strum his guitar, he’d sing a sad song about how tumbleweed tumbles on through time as he must do. Then he’d spur his horse, kicking up dust as he disappeared in the sunset and beyond. How could the preacher call it sin when the cowboy never even touched her? I did want to go on to heaven some day, because I believed that’s where the old cowboys were.

Until after World War II, the little towns all across America were where farm people gathered on Saturday nights. The streets, stores and the picture-show place would be packed as it was the one time of the week to buy a few things, talk about the crops with neighbors and friends and eat an ice cream cone. After the picture show, we’d hear God’s word the next morning, but all week long I’d think about the cowboys, trying to forget what the preacher said.  

Since Saturdays were the busiest days, most little towns closed down on Wednesdays or Thursdays. The only places open on Sundays, were the churches and a restaurant or two. Of course, the bootlegger never closed down.

My mother told me never to go inside the poolroom, which was a place where the un-churched went. At the little town where we went most Saturday nights, a bootlegger sold whiskey just past the courthouse where the sheriff sat. When you saw a wayward man walk past the courthouse carrying a paper sack, you knew it wasn’t a can of coffee or shoes for his kids. He was headed to the poolroom, and he’d duck into the stinky toilet every few minutes, take a swig, and soon be as happy as a rooster deciding which hen to chase. Our preacher seemed to think that God frowned on any happiness not listed in the good book, which, if you searched, wasn’t that much.

Life back then was six days of work and then if you went to a picture show or the poolroom during the “Devil’s Night,” you could get cleansed on the Sabbath, although you’d had a bath the night before. Cleansing the soul, however, took more than a scrub brush.

Saturday nights back then changed after the Depression and World War II. Tractors replaced horses, cars replaced buggies and soon after electric lines were strung throughout the countryside, the most profound change of all occurred, TV antennas were attached to chimneys where the smoke blew. Then it wasn’t long until the Wal-Mart invasion, and the little towns died as did a way of life centuries old. Now if you’ve got something to say, text me.

About the only way to describe the modern age is to blog it. Saturday nights now are like any other night or day — they run together. Sundays, or any day, is a good day to shop, which stimulates the economy. Which day is best to stimulate the soul? It used to be on Sundays.

Contact Terry Cummins at TLCTLC@AOL.com