Tasting the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

Home alone as an eight year old, I took the opportunity to investigate what secrets lay behind my parent’s bedroom door. I don’t ever remember being told we were not allowed in there. Some things we were just expected to know.
I wouldn’t have been surprised had I been hit by fire and brimstone raining down from heaven, as one by one I pulled the drawers of my mother’s dresser open. She didn’t own a lot of clothes, and though the drawers were small, none were full. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but there, in the middle drawer, were two items that were clues that life was changing: a pair of burgundy elastic waist pants, and a little box that resembled a small matchbox, except that it was plastic and bright red. I slid the box open. I had no idea that the little black cake of paste and tiny comb inside were mascara, but I sensed whatever its purpose was, it was sinful.

A lot of things in those days were sinful, according to the cult, thinly veiled as a church, which our family had been a part of since my parents had married ten years earlier. Women were only permitted to wear dresses. And they certainly did not wear makeup.

Coming across those two items in my mother’s drawer, I felt like Eve eating from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in there but there was no way I could turn back time and pretend it never happened. It was too late. I had tasted the fruit, and my eyes were opened to the knowledge of good and evil.

Prior to that day, I had never questioned our lifestyle. I did not know it was not normal to have lived in fourteen different places by the time you were eight years old. I did not know that most other people in 1973 had homes with electricity, telephones, running water and flush toilets. I did not know most people bought milk and eggs and meat in a grocery store rather than surviving on what you could farm, shoot or gather from the wild. I did not know parents could be misguided. I did not know church was a place to find acceptance, love, forgiveness and healing...

From that moment on, I began to collect knowledge.

I stored up overheard snippets of conversations.

“He’s like a vacuum cleaner,” I overheard someone say, in reference to the self-appointed leader of our isolated community. “Sucks in anything that comes near him.” I’m not even sure I knew what a vacuum cleaner was.

I fit together little pieces of action.

Our most recent move, which was a return from two years previous, to an abandoned homestead in the Fraser Canyon – an aerial ferry ride over the Fraser River and hour’s drive on gravel switchback roads, coincided with some of the more prominent members of the commune relocating to the Yukon.

I sensed we were breaking free. Strange. Since I hadn’t previously understood we were bound. We didn’t talk about it. Children did not question the motives of parents. Parents did not confide in children.

My thirst for knowledge continued that year as I entered second grade by distance education, which was homeschooling with the materials provided by the government. I essentially taught myself grades two and three while witnessing my brother struggle through the third grade in tears along with my mother.

My younger sister had help from a nearby teen to finish her first grade assignments. My brother next in line was set to start school, with the youngest sibling only a year behind. I don’t know if the prospect of homeschooling five kids had bearing on the situation or if truly my parents had grown into their own, taking steps of freedom and personal responsibility, but we moved clear across the province the following year.

Our new home had a street address, carpet and a phone, which to this day, I still remember the number. I learned to operate an electric stove, a washing machine and a toaster.

And that first week in September, I walked through the doors of Isabella Dicken Elementary School. I walked sheepishly, yet thrilled, beside my mother, both wearing pants, feeling liberated, grown up and looking forward to eating the fruits of knowledge that only real life in the fourth grade could provide.

Take Care of the Meat

Yikes! I am caught in a lie. Momma always said your sins will find you out.

As you probably know, I am taking a " creative non-fiction and the personal essay" writing course. It's not unlike the blog in that you start with a real life story and tell it not just simply as an act of exhibitionism, but as a source of entertainment or education for your reader.

While we are encouraged to embellish and take poetic license to a certain extent for the sake of the story, the facts are supposed to remain the facts. But me, well sometimes I make people up. I do it for the sake of the story, knowing my classmates are from all over the world and no one will know that I don't have an eccentric old Aunt, or a co-worker with a sordid past. Except when everyone falls in love with the eccentric old aunt. They all want to know more about her and insist that next week's story have good ol' Aunty at the centre....

It's true, you can never tell just one lie...

Here's this week's submission (which had to be written from the 2nd person voice) that made them love Aunty:

Take Care of the Meat


"No man will go out for a hamburger when he gets steak at home," your elderly aunt wags her crooked finger in front of your seventeen-year-old nose. From previous encounters with Aunty you instinctively know she isn't talking about ground beef and prime rib. You see wisdom in her words that causes you to vow to learn the art of grillin' steak.

Now this is not to say that your first encounters with chunks of meat are delectable morsels. Far be it from you to claim immediate mastery in the art of steak preparation. However, fortunate for you, there is a grace period for a young wife and her initial inability to grill meals worthy of 5-star ratings. Your new husband, satisfied by simply having someone there to throw his meat on the fire every night, is willing to overlook the often times overcooked steak and the occasional burger that comes off the grill looking a bloody mess. But with practice you learn what works and what doesn't. Sometimes the practice is the best part.

Oh, you've found a couple of recipes that satisfy every time, without fail, and you tend to default to them, but you can still picture that wagging finger.

Although Aunty left this earth a number of years ago, you can practically hear her voice, crackling with age, saying, "Even a perfectly grilled medium rare t-bone can get monotonous night after night." And you heed her warnings by making sure you serve it up a little juicier than usual every once in a while. And sometimes you throw on a little extra spice just to keep the sizzle going.

As you consider the exceptionally high rate of long-term marriages in your family you can't help but wonder how many others can partially credit their success to that little old finger wagging under their noses.

It seems so primal and basic and you know there are women who will take offence, and men who will pronounce denial, but you know in your heart Aunty was right. Take care of the meat and the rest of the meal will fall into place.

****
I do remember being told the "hamburger vs steak" metaphor years ago - not sure who told me. Or maybe I read it. I dunno where it came from but I thought I'd turn it into a story.

Aunty doesn't even have a name for crying out loud - how am I gonna bring her to life!

AFK

I find it a bit difficult to blog from my iPhone so I guess I'll be AFK for a few days. See ya Monday.

FYI

I am not going to blog today. Get over it.

Hallelujah Mickey!

I wasn't thinking. I should have taken a video at church yesterday.

Xander loves coming to church with me. However now that he's closing in on his second birthday, it's hard to keep him contained and quiet for an entire service. He has discovered the nursery and looks forward to playing with the toys and books and things, but I usually keep him in the sanctuary for the worship part because he loves all things music.

My heart just melts when I see him raise his little hands whenever a song has the word hallelujah in it. He has recently learned to "sing" as well. It usually just sounds like babbling, but he's engaged in the music.

Yesterday he was dancing in the aisle waving his arms around when Jade and I realized he was singing actual words. While the rest of us were singing "Be Exalted, oh Lord" and other such songs, Xander sang along at the top of his lungs, repeating over and over, while dancing and raising his hands in worship, "Mickey Mouse clubhouse! Come inside. Mickey Mouse clubhouse. Come inside!"

He is just the cutest little kid ever. And next time I'll get a video so you can agree with me.

Who am I to argue?

A number of years ago Jed, like most tween-age boys, developed a resistance to showering. While most boys grow out of this adversion after a couple of years, when they discover girls (the Palm sisters usually being the first, however that's another story for another time, and probably a different blog....) Jed has never matured into a love, or even an acceptance, for showering.

He regularly needs to be coaxed into jumping in the shower, and often needs to be chased back in when he emerges from the shower with his hair not even wet. It can be so frustrating, because once he resigns himself to showering, he blasts his stereo and sings at the top of his lungs and dances and stomps around to point that I expect him to put his foot through the acrylic bathtub at times.

He went to a Spruce Kings hockey game last night, and true to form, came home with a bag full of goodies from the sponsors of the game. Included in the bag was a "Shower Coach."

I am certain the intention of the sponsors was to promote enviromental responsibility and the 5 minute timer is intended to make sure people aren't staying in the shower wasting water for too long. However, Jed is convinced it's a gadget to promote staying in the shower long enough to make sure you are clean - you know, like singing Happy Birthday or reciting the alphabet while you wash your hands to ensure you've killed all the germs. Hey, who am I to argue.

How do I become a nun?

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time at all, you know I'm a google-a-holic. Google is my bible. My bible when I want to look up stuff about Jesus. And my bible when I want to look up stuff like sex stores.

That sounds slightly more perverse (or exciting - depending on your view) than it really is.

I'm writing a story for my creative writing class and I'm making reference to the age someone needs to be before they can go into a sex shop. Since most people in the class are from the US I wanted to make sure I had my "facts" straight.

I typed into Google, "How old do you have to be to go into a sex shop in the USA."

Right at the top of the list returned by Google was a site called "How do I become a Catholic nun?"

Does anyone else find this funny???