Now, you listen here, fucker. I won’t hear no blasphemous talk of Jesus. That old uncle of yours is Italian and married into the family and don’t believe like we do, so don’t pay him no mind. Now, I was saved in Bowling Green, off Cemetery Pike Road—baptized the way Jesus was, in a river—Barren Creek River. That wasn’t too long after I made some money off a the church. . . . See, they paid you three cents for memorizing a verse, and so I memorized one: And God said, let there be light. I bought a Snickers and saved a penny donation for the revival. Yes, I’d go every time; we liked to listen to the piano and the woman with the tambourine. . . . My first cousin, Elizabeth Harris, now she never was quite right in the head, but somehow I just a listened to her, and I let her take me up to the altar that night, and I never would let anybody else take me up there.