My earliest and most recurring memory of my childhood takes place in a church. I always went to church. I knew I was not catholic. Mike Johnson, my neighbor, was catholic. The Johnson´s were nice people. We were not like the Johnson´s. I was a protestant. I had no idea what we were protesting. I guess it really did not matter. Anyway, whenever anyone asked me what I was I could always answer. I was protestant. That made me feel good.

However, for the first time in my short life, I did not go to church. I moved to live with my father and his wife and her son and no one went to church. I was at a loss. I had no idea what people did on Sunday morning or on Sunday evening. I was always in church. I had no idea what television programs were on Sunday  because we rarely watched tv on Sunday. I had no idea what sporting events took place on Sunday because we were always in church or getting ready to go to church. My education into such things took a radical turn in 1972. I was 15 years old and did not go to church. I was not sure how I felt about this. I thought I might go to hell.

My Grandmother was afraid of this, as well. She sent me letters almost every week from California. She was a protestant. I knew that because she protested. She was afraid. She was aware of the dark things in the soul and knew that one must fight to stay on the narrow path. She protested about the decline of morals in society. She protested the decline of the ol´time religion that could hardly be found in any church anymore. It seems like she protested about Grandpa but I never understood why. He died when I was 8. Her protests about him were forgotten.

Inside the letters she would always sent 2 or 3 Family Circle cartoons, a short note encouraging me to pray everyday so I would not miss the rapture, a gospel track illustrating some salient points about Jesus, or sin and a couple of dollars. I learned the value of a grandparents love, in 1974, from a weekly letter from my Grandmother.

      1974 started out to be quite a year.  Even now, I remember the sense of pride I had as my father filled out the official papers enrolling me in my new Jr. High School. It was Jan.30,1974. My birthday. I was 15 years old. I was in a brand new world.

I moved from Northern California where I had lived with my mom and 2 sisters to a suburb of Seattle, Washington. I do not remember how or when I moved. I do not really remember why I moved. Well, maybe I can guess. I was making life hard on my mother. It seems to me that life was hard. Life was not hard in comparison with the deep south or, say, Lebanon. I was a big, white boy.  The few pictures of me from the time exude a confidence in what I cannot remember. I had asthma.I learned later that asthmatics often develop larger chest areas due to the struggle to breath. It seems life was hard for no reason; or none I could understand.

As he completed the forms and wrote the date he turned to me and shook my hand wishing me a Happy Birthday. It is as if, even now, the day had taken us both, my father and me, by surprise. I was to spend the next 6 months living with my father and his wife and her son.