Category: Reflections

From time to time, I’ll be recording thoughts and events from my childhood. These memories are prompted from the Reflections from a Mother’s Heart – Your Life Story in Your Own Words. I plan on filling this book out one of these days to pass onto my children. I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds the lives of our parents fascinating. It’s weird to think of my parents as children and it’s really fun to hear stories about their past, how they met, etc. If my children read about my past, perhaps they will understand me just a little better.

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Describe your grandparent’s houses. Did you visit them often? Why or why not?

Describe my grandparents’ houses? Hhmm…they were very different, at least, they were to me.

I’ll start with my mom’s mom. I never knew my mom’s dad; he died when my mom was three years old. My grandmother never remarried, which I thought was really cool, and still do. She never found anyone who could replace my grandfather and I thought that was the epitome of true love. (In fact, she’s buried next to him now).

Grandma J. was a down to earth, countrywoman with simple tastes. She wasn’t interested in putting on airs and as long as her clothing was comfortable, she didn’t care what it looked like (to a certain point. Please don’t think that she was THAT simple).

Grandma J.’s breath always smelled like coffee. It was bittersweet with just a touch of cream. I don’t ever remember her smelling like anything else. In fact, it seemed like she was always holding a mug of coffee and taking noisy slurps. I wasn’t close to Grandma J., but I was comfortable with her. She never made me feel self-conscious and she was always herself, to hell with what anyone else thought. She was tough. She raised five kids on her own. She sewed their clothes (she was a seamstress for a number of years) and very thrifty. Mom grew up poor and though she knew it, it didn’t seem to bother her overly much.

My mom has one brother and four sisters, one sister is deceased. Mom is the fourth child. I think growing up in a large family prepared my mom for motherhood and indeed, that’s all she ever wanted out of life, to get married and have a family of her own. Other than missing not having a father around, mom really hasn’t talked much about her dad, probably due to the fact that she doesn’t remember a lot about him.

Growing up, we were over at Grandma J.’s a lot. Mom and her younger sister, and her two kids, my sister and brother all hung out a lot during the summer months. In fact, Mom and her sister planned something for us to do every single day (other than the weekends.) We went to the movies on certain days, went swimming on certain days, the park (on cooler days), shopping, worked on crafts, you name it and mom kept us busy. We didn’t have the video games like the kids have nowadays so it was harder to keep us kids entertained. We stayed home a lot but I don’t remember ever really being bored.

Back to Grandma J – her house was very simple. It had hard floors…and I’m not talking wood, but rather concrete blocks. At least, that’s what I remember, I’m sure they were linoleum or some such. Her house always smelled like musty linens and her TV was always turned up too loud. (It seemed to get louder as she got older).

Grandma J. lived by herself for a number of years until her sister was unable to handle living on her own and she moved in with Grandma. My great aunt was a VERY cool lady; she used to be a teacher; so she was very smart and sharp with witty comebacks (something she probably picked up through her years dealing with kids). I remember laughing a lot over at Grandma J’s. Grandma J was always saying something funny and the way her upper lip curled around her teeth when she smiled or laughed was comforting in an odd way.

Grandma J always had fabric and knickknacks lying around. Though she wasn’t into crafts like my mom and aunt, she did a fair amount of sewing and was the one who taught my mom how to sew.

Her house was a pea green and as the years went by it faded to a pale mint green. She had a big backyard that bordered the parking lot of the Baptist Bible School. I remember walking through the school’s campus and admiring all the “cool” college kids and wondering what it would be like to live in a dorm. Thinking back on it now, I think walking through that campus helped plant the seed of wanting to go to college someday.

Grandma J. hung her sheets out to dry on a clothesline. I remember purposefully walking into the sheets so I could get a good whiff of fresh air, hot sun, and laundry detergent.

There was always something to eat at Grandma J.’s. I remember muffins and hard candy the most. In fact, Grandma J. had a weakness for those butterscotch hard candies. I remember popping those yellow circles in my mouth and happily sucking away for hours.

Grandma J’s house had three bedrooms, one bath, a living area and a kitchen. That was it. Though small, it never felt cramped. Grandma J had an old rickety coffee table on stick-thin legs that wobbled whenever we played on it.

We had quite a few yard sales over there as well. Grandma J. lived on a busy street so there was always plenty of traffic driving by which made our yard sales pretty popular.

An old man lived next door to Grandma J and I remember thinking their relationship was odd. He was a black man and though they became friends, it was a reluctant friendship. I don’t think Grandma was prejudiced, but she did come from a different era and they thought differently about African Americans. The old man eventually died and Grandma J. took it hard. That’s how I knew they had ended up being friends. I think, from that point on, Grandma J. went downhill a bit. She broke her hip a few years later and she died from a blood clot in the hospital. It was the worse kind of death, one that took us all completely by surprise and I have never felt more sorry for my mom in my life. She was crushed as she was close to her. It scared me because that meant my mom was the next in line to go and even thinking about her dying now makes my heart clench with fear.

Grandma and Grandpa H. (GGH) are my dad’s folks and they are still alive and kicking. Though getting up there in age (both over 80’s and fast approaching 90’s), they are both very much alert and active, though they are slowing down. I’m very proud of them for not ending up in a nursing home, they both still live together and by themselves. I can only hope I’m in that good of shape when I get to be their age.

Dad is the oldest with one younger brother and two younger sisters. Grandpa worked in construction for years and years and as a result, he’s very good with his hands. In fact, considering we live in tornado country, he built a basement under their three bedrooms, two and half bath house by planting dynamite and blasting through the rock. I wouldn’t recommend anyone else doing that but considering Grandpa did that for a living and knew what he was doing, he managed to dig a pretty good-sized basement without blowing up the house. I can’t imagine what it must have been like living on top of dynamite like that, literally!

Grandma has always been a stay-at-home mother. In fact, she never got her driver’s license and if she needs to go anywhere today, either Grandpa or one of her daughters takes her. Grandma is emotionally aloof and Grandpa is a cutup. He’s always teasing people and giving them a hard time while Grandma stands on the outskirts and rolls her eyes. Grandpa CONSTANTLY teases my Grandma and though she scowls and says, “Oooh..stop it!” I think she secretly enjoys being the center of attention.

GGH has a strange, but cute relationship. Grandpa is obviously head over heels in love with Grandma and though I think Grandma loves Grandpa, I don’t think she loves him as much as Grandpa loves her. Though my Grandpa is feisty and full of life, I think if he loses my Grandma his life light will flicker and eventually go out. They are quite the pair.

We went over to GGH a lot for “visits” and holidays. In fact, we all still try and get together over at GGH’s on Christmas Eve, a tradition, every year.

We went over there every Christmas Eve and had a party in the basement that Grandpa built. We received our gifts from GGH and spent the rest of the evening playing with them. It was always a lot of fun and that’s a memory I’ll always cherish. When I graduated from high school, moved out, and eventually got married myself, I still wanted to gather over at GGH for Christmas Eve, it just didn’t feel right NOT going.

I’m not close to my grandparents and I couldn’t tell you why. Grandpa always got on my nerves and I still don’t know why. His teasing got old, I guess. I think I have a lot of my Grandma H. in me. I tend to be a cold fish, emotionally, and I don’t have patience for silly people, though I can’t imagine my life without those very people in it. It’s an emotional tug-o-war.

GGH’s house was pink, though I don’t think it’s really supposed to be pink. I think it was red at one time but has faded over the years. GGH had more money than my Grandma J. and their house had newer furniture and more expensive knick-knacks. Grandma H still has a houseful of “prettys” which consists mainly of figurines and angels, (she collects them).

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I’m still VERY uncomfortable going over there (which now consists of once a year and that’s Christmas Eve). I honestly could not tell you why. I feel like a stranger to my aunts, uncles, and cousins and it’s entirely my fault. I’ve been so self-absorbed over the years that I never took the time to get to know any of them. That makes me sound like such a cold fish, I realize that, but I can’t lie. I don’t know if it’s because I never felt I had anything in common with any of them, or what. But I can’t put a finger on why I’ve been so …distant over the years. I’m not proud of the way I’ve interacted with my family and I know I’ll regret it one day. It’ll be one of those things that I wish I could have changed if asked but know, deep in my heart, that I would probably act the exact same way if given that chance.

I’m not proud of my emotional coldness, there’s no excuse for it. All I know is that there is something, some mental block, that I can not get around and I hope I didn’t pass on to my own children. I’m not proud of being a recluse, though I suppose it has advantages. Being distant from my family is not one of them.

From time to time, I’ll be recording thoughts and events from my childhood. These memories are prompted from the Reflections from a Mother’s Heart – Your Life Story in Your Own Words. I plan on filling this book out one of these days to pass onto my children. I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds the lives of our parents fascinating. It’s weird to think of my parents as children and it’s really fun to hear stories about their past, how they met, etc. If my children read about my past, perhaps they will understand me just a little better.

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Where did your father go to work every day and what did he do?

I don’t remember the name of the place my dad used to work, but I remember the building vividly. He was a TV repairman, he worked in electronics and he was quite good at it. He had books with circuit explanations and all kinds of complicated looking equations and mathematical questions and I was quite proud of how smart he was.

The building he worked in was a small, brick building on a corner lot in the middle of town. The shop was not located in a very “good” part of town and I think that’s my really first experience being around African Americans. It never really bothered me, it was just different being around so many people who didn’t look like me. (we didn’t have very many African American students in my schools).

Dad worked for someone, but the name escapes me. It seemed like it was just him and his boss that worked at the shop, but I could be wrong there. I remember walking into the shop and being overwhelmed with the metallic burning smell as they smoldered wires together. The shop was littered with TV, radios and VCRs. I remember there being TVs everywhere. Most of them had been gutted or were in the process of being worked on so tubes and wires were hanging out of many.

It seemed like dad worked ALL the time. But he had to. Mom was a stay-at-home mom, for which I’m most grateful for now, so we didn’t have a lot of money. My parents are money wizards and it didn’t seem as though we really went without too often. I do remember going to garage sales A LOT, but other than that, I didn’t really feel like a “poor” child until I got to middle and high school.

Dad had a shop in the basement of our house, too. He spent quite a bit of time down there working on TVs and various other electronic gadgets. My dad is quite an expert at circuits and electronics. In fact, he has written nearly 20 courses (could be more) for a school in New York. He’s highly intelligent and very logical.

Solder is still a comforting smell to me and every time I smell it, I think of dad.

How did your mother spend her day?

Mom was a stay-at-home mother. She was like the perfect 50’s type mother. She cooked for us, she made us clothes, she cleaned, she ran us places, mom was ALWAYS there. She bailed me out of so many things I can’t even begin to tell you.

I’ll never forget this one time though. It was when I was in the sixth grade. Ms. Roberts, my sixth grade teacher, had assigned a map of the United States. It was the size of two poster boards side-by-side and we had to cut out all of the states, color them different colors, locate their capitals and then glue all of the pieces, like a giant jigsaw puzzle, onto the poster boards. My best friend, Debbie, and I procrastinated and the night before it was due, we panicked. I think that was the time period that Debbie lived with us for a while (she was having domestic problems) and we begged mom to help us with our projects. We literally stayed up all night and worked on them. In fact, I was so tired, that I made a huge mistake and glued some pieces in the wrong places. I was about ready to give up and accept the “F” that I deserved anyway, when mom, being the creative and crafty person she is, came up with a solution. She fixed it. I still, to this day don’t know how she did it, but she cut that sucker in two and pasted it back together again. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job. I think I ended up getting an “A” on the project, but I knew, even then, I didn’t deserve it. Mom should have let me get an “F.” I think one of the reasons I got the good grade is because Ms. Roberts liked me.

Did she have a job or do volunteer work outside of the home?

The only job I remember mom having was being a telephone operator. She worked evenings and I hated not having her there. In fact, it caused so much stress on the family not having her around that she finally quit – the money simply wasn’t worth the heartache it was causing and I knew mom was terribly unhappy being away from her family.

Mom was HEAVY into PTA. This used to embarrass me to death at the time, but now I really appreciate the fact that she was around the school. There was something cool in hearing other kids call mom, “Karen’s mom” and seeing her face in the hallways. She helped out in the cafeteria, too. When mom was involved we always had the best homeroom parties. Mom always went all out, making all sorts of delicious goodies and making cool stuff for the kids to take home. I was very proud of her for making so many kids happy. I was very fortunate to have a mother who was always there, who had ENDLESS patience with me and who still loves me unconditionally.

From time to time, I’ll be recording thoughts and events from my childhood. These memories are prompted from the Reflections from a Mother’s Heart – Your Life Story in Your Own Words. I plan on filling this book out one of these days to pass onto my children. I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds the lives of our parents fascinating. It’s weird to think of my parents as children and it’s really fun to hear stories about their past, how they met, etc. If my children read about my past, perhaps they will understand me just a little better.

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Describe what the family room looked like when you were a child

I wish I could remember what our furniture looked like. I know we had a couch in our family room because I remember lying back on it and staring at our ceiling wanting to die. I was deathly sick, but I can’t recall if it was the flu or something else. All I remember was that I was flat on my back and moaning for what seemed like hours. I remember this particular moment in my life because I remember thinking if I live through this, I’ll never use God’s name in vain again. (Alas, I didn’t keep that promise, but I tried!) It’s a moment etched in my mind forever. Chances are I ate too much sugar. I had a bad habit of eating too much junk food whenever I could get at it.

We didn’t have much money growing up so anytime mom made cookies (which seemed like all the time, mom cooked a lot), I would inevitably eat more than my fair share. Since we couldn’t afford to make large batches, mom divided the cookies evenly between the five of us. It infuriated her how I always ate more than was allotted me. She told me later that often times, it would be her share that she would give up so my dad, sister, and brother could have their share. Yes, I admit it, I was rather selfish back then.

Dad reminded me the other day how he had to put an actual padlock on our “sweet dish.” Our sweet dish was a container that mom put all of our cookies and other sweets into so I wouldn’t get into them and eat all of them. I don’t remember the padlock but I do remember sneaking into the cabinets and stealing blocks of cooking chocolate from the package mom always had handy. It was expensive and mom would get so mad at me when she found out. Sometimes, I had such a bad craving for sweets that I would nibble on an edge of one of the chocolate blocks and turn it so mom wouldn’t see it right away. She wouldn’t know I had been in the chocolate until she needed it for one of her recipes. Poop hit the fan then.

When mom started putting the chocolate blocks in the sweet dish, I remember finding her chocolate diet aids. They were actually called “Ayds” because they were supposed to “aid” you in your diet. They were delicious and I remember eating almost a whole boxful of them. Now my mom is not stupid and she kept her diet aids in a drawer in her dresser. I knew this because I snooped, that’s something else I did on a regular basis, snoop. When mom found out I had eaten nearly all of her diet aids, she was furious and at her wits end. Luckily, by that time, I was old enough to get a job, make money and buy my own sweets.

Speaking of snooping, one year, I think I was in middle school, 7th or 8th grade maybe? (it might have been earlier than that) I was determined to find my Christmas presents. I looked everywhere – under beds, down in the basement in mom’s sewing room, dad’s workshop, the TV room, in closets until I finally found them. They were hidden above my brother’s closet. There were storage units above his closet behind sliding doors and that’s where I found them. I remember finding my basketball (I knew it was mine because I had “hinted” like crazy that year) and I think some clothes, but I’m not sure about that. All I remember was the basketball. That Christmas was the most disappointing to me. It was hard to act surprised when I knew everything I was getting. Mom knew something was up and she told me years later that she cried because I had spoiled her Christmas (that was the best part of Christmas for mom, watching us kids open presents. In fact, since we didn’t have a lot of money growing up, mom bought Christmas presents for all three of us all year long keeping an eye out for sales and using coupons, etc.). When she told me that, I felt like a heel. I was such a creep growing up.

But back to our living room. The front door opened into our living room. It wasn’t a big room, but comfortable for all five of us. There was a couch, a rocking chair and I think a LazyBoy type chair, but I’m not sure. Mom had her stereo and record player in there (she loved listening to country music while she cooked and cleaned) and a “stove” though it was really a fireplace. We burned wood in it once in a while, but it seemed like the smoke would leak back into the room and we didn’t use it very often. The stove sat on a raised brick floor with faux bricks lining the back wall to keep it from getting too hot. Mom told me the other day that when she put that faux brick up and sealed it with mortar, my sister had snuck in and poked her finger into the wet cement leaving indentations. It dried that way and mom said she was furious with her. But she kept it that way in order to remind my sister of what she had done.

I loved that record player. I wasn’t interested in country music back then AT ALL (it’s not too bad nowadays as long as it’s not the twangy kind of music), but rather, I loved listening to Harry Belafonte (I know, go figure!) and Elvis. Mom had a lot of Elvis and I put on the LP records and lay on the couch just daydreaming about meeting someone like Elvis one day. I did that a lot around Christmas time – I loved his “Blue Christmas” album. In fact, every time I hear an Elvis Christmas song I always think of lounging on the couch, one leg dangling off the edge, my hands laced behind my head and staring at the ceiling. I silently lip-synced because I was afraid my sister or brother would hear me and tease me mercilessly.

We had a big grandfather clock that ticked loudly and it was comforting to hear the steady tick-tock as I rocked back and forth in the rocking chair.

The living room was adjacent to the dining room. We had a long oval table in the middle and against the left wall was the door leading to my parent’s bedroom. Next to the door, was our black piano. I never learned to play but my sister and brother practiced regularly. I think there was a china cabinet against the far wall, though I’m not sure about that.

I remember piecing my North American map together on that table. I also remember having Thanksgiving dinner at that table and I felt awkward because there wasn’t enough room and we all had to squeeze around each other to get to our seats.

I smile when I think of the living room. It was a room that gave me great comfort – I felt safe and loved in that room.

I love these question-type books because so often we’re so focused on the future that we place the past on a shelf to gather dust and/or be forgotten. I think it’s important to document our lives, not only the special times, but all times because life is too important, and too short, to forget. Answering questions from the The Book of Myself, are my way of remembering my past and passing those special times on to my sons, husband and you, dear blog reader. Remembering the past helps us understand the people we’ve become.
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One of mom’s traits I admired was …

Her patience. No wait, her kindness. No wait, her positive attitude. There are a lot of traits about my mom that I both admire, and wish I possessed. Though I could say I have a positive attitude (most days), I certainly do not have patience and I’m kind … welll, okay, I’m kind most of the time, too.

I can’t think of a single person who dislikes my mother. She’s one of those people who people gravitate to because she listens and she truly cares about people. She’s always the first to help out when needed and she always manages to find the good in people, even when it’s not readily apparent. She bakes and makes things for her co-workers and really does go above and beyond the call of duty.

If I had trouble with mom growing up, it was in in this area:

She was wishy-washy and a bit of a push over. Go on, ask her. She’ll agree with me. As mentioned, my mother has a kind heart, so it was really hard for her to say no to me, my sister or brother sometimes. I’m embarrassed to say this, but I often took advantage of this “weakness” and manipulated her on more than one occasion.

One my dad’s traits I admired was …

His determination. His intelligence. His steadfastness. His ability to dissect situations and choose the most logical path.

I really credit the fact that I have common sense to my dad. I’m grateful that I have the ability to look at a situation from all angles, am able to see the big picture, and plan accordingly. Sadly, a lot of people do not seem to possess any, if very little, common sense. And, in my opinion, that’s one of the most important ingredients to a successful life.

If I had trouble with dad growing up, it was in in this area:

Probably his aloofness. We were a traditional family in that my dad went to work everyday and mom stayed home. So, I didn’t really see my dad a lot growing up. And on the weekends, he holed up in his shop in the basement, either catching up work (he was a TV repairman), or experimenting with electronics (which would explain his current position – he writes, and teaches, electronics for an online school).

My dad was an authority figure growing up. He was the one who put his foot down when we started to get out of control. Mom would want to give in, dad would not allow her to give in. He was pretty firm with us, but for me (and I can’t speak for my siblings), it was the best thing. I was rather a wild child in high school and had to learn some pretty hard lessons when it came to living by my parents’ rules. Dad is the one who made sure the rules remained rules; mom wanted to bend them.

For example: Curfew. When I was a senior in high school, I thought I was too old for a curfew. So, I simply did what I wanted to and shrugged off the curfew rule. My parents, being thoroughly sick of my arrogant attitude, took my house keys away from me. So, if I didn’t make it home by curfew, I had to find someplace else to sleep.

Being the stubborn person that I am, I of course tested them on this. And sure enough, the first time I didn’t make it home in time, I was locked out of the house. I tried to rent a hotel room, but for some reason (I’m thinking it was because I wasn’t 18 yet), I wasn’t able to. So, I ended up sleeping in my car. This happened a few times. But the last time this happened was when it was frigid outside and I didn’t have any sort of blanket or heavy coat or anything. I slept in my car and very nearly froze to death.

I went up to the door of my house and first demanded to be let in. As the night wore on, I then pleaded to be let in. My mom was crying and wanted to let me in, my dad refused to give in. So, I spent the night in my car, shivering and hoping my blood wouldn’t turn to ice before morning.

Though this sounds cruel, it was necessary. I needed to learn a lesson and trust me folks, I learned it. I was never late getting home after that. And I firmly believe that experience taught me to be more responsible and respectful today.

Could I do that with my own kids? Yes, I think I could. If I thought the experience would teach them a valuable life lesson, then yes, I would most likely do the same thing with my kids. When you’re a parent, you have to know when to draw that line, and then you have to stick to your side of the line. Think of the negative connotations if you don’t.

I can only pray I don’t have to teach my kids a hard lesson like that. I can only pray that my sons are not as hard headed as I was.

This was originally published on my self-hosted blog, May 18, 2006.

From time to time, I’ll be recording thoughts and events from my childhood. These memories are prompted from the Reflections from a Mother’s Heart – Your Life Story in Your Own Words. I plan on filling this book out one of these days to pass onto my children. I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds the lives of our parents fascinating. It’s weird to think of my parents as children and it’s really fun to hear stories about their past, how they met, etc. If my children read about my past, perhaps they will understand me just a little better.

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Were you baptized or dedicated as an infant?

No. I felt guilty for not being baptized for years. I thought that even though I was saved, I would somehow not get into heaven because I hadn’t been baptized.

(Of course now, I realize that with the birth of Christ, it’s no longer necessary to be baptized in water, but rather, we are baptized in Holy Spirit).

When did you first go to church? What are your earliest memories of church?

Oh wow. This one is a doozy. The first memory of church was when mom sent me and my sister to Sunday school on a bus. I absolutely hated it. I. hated. every. single. minute. Then it seems mom and dad (did dad go? Hmm..I can’t remember) would meet us for “big” church. You know, when the adults all gathered in the auditorium and had to sit still for a few hours. It was torture on a kid. I remember drawing, doodling and maybe even writing though I’m unsure if I was really into that back then.

I don’t remember a lot about Sunday school, in fact, I don’t remember anything about Sunday school so it must not have left very much of an impression on me. I do remember riding that bus though and resenting my parents for making us go because I hated having to get up that early, putting on uncomfortable clothes and then riding on a bumpy, smelly bus to church. (I was a HUGE night owl back then and getting up before noon on non-school days was unheard of).

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when we started to church but it was probably somewhere in the eight or nine stage. My sister is three years younger than me so I must have been at an age that mom felt I could take care of her.

I will NEVER forget the times I would sit in the big church and listen to the preacher drone on and on about how we were all sinners and there was no way we were going to get into heaven if we didn’t repent our sins, and often. Not only that, but every time we did or said something ungodly, that would mean we were no longer “good Christians” and would never see those pearly gates. I was following along in the bible, reading the passages he was quoting when he stopped reading and began to elaborate on what we just read. I listened with half an ear as I continued to read the verses in the bible. Something just clicked and I sat bolt upright.

Wait a minute, I thought to myself. What he’s saying and what it says in the bible are two different things. I started to listen more closely from that point on and time and time again, the preacher was incorrect in his interpretation. At least, from what I gathered from the context of the bible. I wanted to say something to my mom, but judging by the blank stares on everyone’s faces I didn’t think what I had to say would be heard anyway, let alone believed.

I remember feeling great disgust. How could these adults, who were supposed to know better, NOT put two and two together! How could they so blindly turn an eye and accept a false definition of what the bible was saying? Now I was only a child and I certainly didn’t understand everything at that time (heck, I still don’t), but I knew enough to know that what the preacher was preaching about and what the bible said were two totally different things. In fact, I couldn’t figure out why the preacher concentrated so much on the hell and damnation part of the bible when a lot of the passages he quoted were in fact, uplifting and hopeful. (Assuming of course anyone chose to read the entire context of the verse and not pick and choose at random and assign a totally irrelevant meaning).

I think I lost some respect for adults from that point on. If our PREACHER was wrong, could this mean that my parents were wrong about some things? Children tend to look up to adults about a number of things and it’s a sobering revelation when it’s figured out that adults are human and make mistakes. It’s as if the whole world perspective shifts in some way and suddenly, the blinders have been taken off and we can see things for what they really are. We no longer rely on someone telling us the sky is blue, we want to make sure that’s true before accepting it. At least, that’s how I felt. I realize a lot of people never get to that point and are perfectly willing to go through life believing people and what they tell them.

Not me. I’m a leader, not a follower and that experience in church taught me a lot. I can honestly say that was a pivotal moment in my life and I matured emotionally from that point on.

Have I been back to church since then? No. I’ve been in church a few times for weddings and funerals, and only a FEW times to actually listen to a preacher preach. But once again, and now more fully aware of what’s going on around me, I was totally skeptical and unwilling to accept a man’s personal interpretation of the bible. I didn’t have the answers, but I sure as heck knew that these men of God didn’t have it right.

I’ve since learned about correctly dividing and intrepreting the word and that everything in the bible is a “hand that fits in a glove.” To truly understand the bible, one must be willing to understand the context and culture in the time period it was written. The old testament is for our learning; everything past Acts 2 applies to us specifically – the Grace Administration. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Need further proof? Visit this site and research it. The bottom line? Think for yourself and don’t blindly take a man’s word over what is written in black and white (and sometimes red *grin*). The bible is a handbook for humans – if you want peace and happiness in your life, follow the rules. It’s that simple.

This was originally published on my self-hosted blog, April 14, 2006.

Describe your childhood bedroom. What was the view from the window?

My sister and I shared an attic bedroom growing up.

The attic stairs were right across the hall from the bathroom and I remember skipping two/three steps down the stairs and barreling into the bathroom on more than one occasion. In fact, there were quite a few times I would scramble down the stairs so fast that I would overshoot the threshold and nearly land headfirst into the tub.

The stairs leading up to our room were steep and I remember my brother crawling up the stairs on his hands and knees to spy on us. Being the only boy in the family, he often felt lonely and would try and force his way into our secluded world.

When you reached the top of the stairs, you immediately stepped into a large room. We called that the “play room” because this is where me and my siblings spent a large portion of our time. All of the board games were stacked on shelves and we had boxes of toys sitting around. I think there was a walk-in closet but I wouldn’t swear to that. At the top of the stairs, to your left, was a huge attic fan embedded into the wall of the house. We didn’t have central air and that often kept the house bearable. It actually worked pretty good. We kept the windows open in the summer and the attic fan would pull air in and keep the house fairly cool. There was one window air conditioner unit in my parents’ room and I remember sneaking into their room to cool off when it got really unbearable in the afternoons.

The attic was big enough to accommodate a full-grown adult and I remember that no one ever had to stoop over when they came up. The previous owners had converted the attic into spare bedrooms so there was plenty of room.

I remember having disco parties in the playroom. We used to have one of those rotating balls that give off different colored lights as it rotates throwing various shadows and colors on the walls. We would play disco music (because that’s what was hot back then) and just act silly. I remember having various friends over and thinking we were really cool dancing our hearts out.

There were two windows at the front of the play room that offered a view of the front of our house. There were two side windows, one in the playroom, one in the bedroom I shared with my sister. I would often sit by those side windows and spy on our neighbors.There were four boys that lived next door and I had a crush on the oldest even though he was younger than me. They would often be outside, acting like, well, boys and I remember thinking some of their games looked rough but fun. (I was sort of a tomboy back in my day).

At the top of the stairs, when you turned right, you would enter our bedroom. It was a really cool room. It had jutting edges and protruding partitions. We had a white vanity dresser with pink piping. I think we got it from my grandmother (dad’s mom). I remember it was old even back then. It might have been an antique but I wouldn’t swear to that. That’s the only piece of furniture I can remember, other than our twin beds. Our beds were nestled in an alcove right underneath the two back windows. These windows were similar to the ones in the playroom and overlooked our backyard. We had three (four?) walnut trees in the backyard and I remember hating those trees because every fall we would have to go out and pick up the walnuts. We always had bagfuls to take to the shelling place where they gave us money for bringing them in. It was smelly and often left our hands stained for weeks. We would put then in paper bags that would wilt and fall apart because of the rotten walnut juice that seeped through.

Our beds were identical with shelves built into the headboard and I often kept books on the shelf. After a while the shelf became a catch all for trash, notes from friends, barretts, pencils and various other knickknacks.

We had a shed in the backyard, too. This is where dad kept his lawnmower and various other outdoor tools. I remember being a little afraid of that shed – it was old and the paint was peeling. It just had a creepy feel to it. It didn’t help that the shed was situated in the very back corner of our lot in the shadows. The times that I peered inside I got a whiff of lawnmower oil and freshly cut grass. Sometimes I would catch a whiff of something rotten, as if a dead animal had crawled under the shed (there was at least half a foot of space under the shed. The structure sat on boards), had gotten trapped and then died.

We had a paved patio with a privacy fence around the patio. Our whole backyard was fenced, but the portion around the patio (which took up about only ¼ of the backyard) was surrounded by a privacy fence. We often had BBQ’s on the patio. There was an old clothes line erected along the left side of the patio and I remember mom hanging sheets up to dry. There were stairs from the backdoor that led down to the patio. There was an elevated chunk of land surrounded by a concrete wall. I think we kept flowers or a garden in that area, but I wouldn’t swear to that.

It seems there was paneling from the bottom of the wall to the halfway mark. After that we had this red poppy looking wallpaper that I think was fuzzy when you touched the flowers. I seem to recall our room being decorated in reds and whites and pinks. It was kind of a funky room, but that’s what made it cool – it was certainly different.

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