| I haven't updated for real in a while. Apologies to those of you that hang on my every typed word.
I haven't written anything in a while either. It makes me sad.
One of my earliest memories as a child has a lot to do with who my dad is today, I think. It doesn't just involve him, however, it involves my entire immediate family. Austin who would've been two or three, me at six, Taylor at eight and my mother, trying to steer a family of five that, simply put, yelled a lot.
My dad was raised as a Jehovah's Witness, though he was conditioned by life to be apathetic, unmoving towards everything, including religion. Incidentally he drove grain and propane trucks from the time he was 16 until he was 37 or 38 for his step-dad. That's kind of where this memory, or string of memories, starts: at my dad's shop.
You have to understand, my dad was and still is a very hard worker. I think he gets a certain pleasure out of working with his hands. The type of pleasure a musician gets out of striking a perfect chord.
Every Sunday morning for a long as my memory allows, I've been going to church. However, for the first six or so years of my life, my dad objected to coming. Rather than attend something that he didn't care about, he worked. At this point though, I think his refusals were more complex than simple apathy.
And though my mom knew what he would say, every Sunday morning, with my dad already working, the four of us would get ready for church, put on nice clothes, eat breakfast, that sort of thing. Then we would load in to our tired old mini-van and drive the ten miles to my dad's workplace. And every Sunday morning my mom would ask him if he would come with us this time. Every time he would decline and we would go on without him. And every morning the church ladies would ask where my dad was, in that judging way that people have.
One morning the outcome was different than even, I think, my dad expected.
We did the whole routine, drove 10 the miles of highway and everything. My mom politely extended and invitation to my dad. Instead of saying no without even stopping what he was doing, my dad thought about his reply. He then walked around to the sliding door of the van and climbed in next to me.
At the service that moning, everyone greeted him in two ways: as an outcast to be pitied, or someone that had needed church and finally realized it.
The whole thing was very interesting to a six year old me. It was sort of like an infant seeing an infant for the first time, cautiously but curiously exploring every in and out of it.
Whether he enjoyed it or not, it's impossible to say. But he attends church as often as possible now, and he's an active member. Plus, the apathy that was ever present as a child is not as apparent anymore.
fin.
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| Funny thing:
Everything I ever want to say comes a few minutes too late.
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| It's an interesting thing to find a shoe in your kitchen trash can.
I need books for my summer reading time...so suggest.
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| People in reverse
Putting things where they belong
Everything is new
Did you know that one tree produces enough oxygen, annually for four people?
If there's 6 billion people in the world, that's about 1.5 billion trees needed to provided oxygen for the world. We could probably give every four people a tree and pave over the rest of the world, turn it in to a parking lot or a Denny's or something.
Something beautiful
Worth missing everything else
Hold on forever
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| So, I guess I'm sixteen now. I say "I guess" because it's hard to believe I'm that old. I don't look that old. I don't feel that old. I don't act that old. I feel like I'm 12.
Also: Fifth place in News Writing at All Class State Journalism
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