2 October 1824
It is afternoon, and we have a couple of hours at our leisure. Some take this time for naps; others, for strutting about to show off to the girls; still others stand in little groups discussing politics or farm life. I, of course, have a place under a tree to write.
What a joyous time this is! Yesterday we arrived in good time, having left early in the morning and not having that far to go. But there are people here from as far away as Montgomery, far more people than I could have imagined would come. There are perhaps more than three hundred people here, more than it seems there are in the whole county.
Everyone got to work right away, and there were many hands to do it. Preparations had started long before we came, to do decide who should do what. Some of the men used axes and hoes to clear spaces for the tents and for the assemblage. Carpenters got to work splitting the logs and making crude, but usable benches for us to sit on, and an arbor was built for the speakers to stand under. Still others set about building fires and digging latrines. And then many of them worked together to raise the many tents that were in a square around the large area cleared for the whole of us.
The women and several of the Negresses began preparing the food right away. One of our hens gave her life toward this effort, and two pigs were slaughtered. It was perhaps one-thirty in the afternoon before everyone took a break to eat lunch. I was starved by then, having gotten up at dawn with only a little bread to eat. I would have eaten anything! But I was very proud of the chicken that I cut up and started cooking before Nan came along and took over while I helped.
Frying chicken has an art to it. Everyone has their own secret way of preparing it, but Nan let me in on hers. You lay out a cloth with flour that has salt and pepper in it, rinse and pat dry the chicken, then dip the pieces in the flour mixture. You fry the pieces in the lard once the lard is heated sufficiently so that it spatters when you put a drop of water in it. You brown the chicken on both sides, and then put a cover on the skillet and cook it until the juices run clear. The secret is in controlling the fire so that the chicken is browned, but then you pull the skillet away from the fire a bit once the lid is on. John had once told me that fried chicken was quite necessary at the camp meeting, for no preacher would preach without his belly full of it.
Once lunch was over, everyone returned to their tasks until it was time for a light supper, for we had so recently eaten. I was surprised to see people here who are not Methodists, who either came because this is the only large gathering in the county for the churched, or because they are curious. This is the largest social gathering that there has been that I know of in the county, other than perhaps Montgomery. I suppose in England and in fine cities, there are balls; for us, it is the Camp Meeting that draws all of this excitement.
As evening fell, we gathered for the evening service. The benches had holes bored in them for the candles, and there were rude stands covered with sod on which glowed heaps of pine knots. It was, simply, a beautiful sight beyond imagination to see all the gleaming faces by firelight. Our little group from our Wednesday evening class sat together in three long rows; I was on the first row. The hymn began, and it was “Holy, Holy, Holy”. We were only a few bars into it when I recognized the voice of the singer directly behind me. For John had managed to slip in unnoticed.
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