THIS TRULY DOES RELATE...ASK FREUD

Quite a few things to catch up...

1. A bit of pneumonia complications...new antibiotics and prednisone. With the warning that while the prednisone will help my lungs attain their former limited breathing capacity, it would also allow me to put on weight with an excuse and at the same time give me an excuse for being a grouch. Why didn't I lie about taking this drug years before? It's not me...it's my medication.
2. Blogger ate my blog. A wonderful post about another religious experience of mine which I will attempt to reconstruct after the intro...
3. I decided to switch from blogger to another format and hosting service, but know nothing about going about doing that, so I expect all of you to give me the best advice available and help me on my way.

Now, on to another of my religious experiences. Prior to latching onto the hunchbacked-alcoholic-catholic, my mother led me on quite a ride. Here is another escapade.

We were homeless. While homeless was not really a word in 1954, what we really were was "having an adventure." This adventure consisted of finding an empty house that had a window that a seven year old could be lifted up to. This was how we moved. We had bags of stuff that we would carry with us..."bag lady" not really being a phrase that was around, and there were also a lot of hiding places for our "stuff."

After we had moved in and learned how to live in the dark...empty meant no electricity, no water, no heat, but it was Florida so a lot of that didn't really matter. And, I learned how to shop for groceries. This shopping consisted of shoplifting. My mother would be the look-out and I would be the innocent waif with the hot dogs crammed down my pants. It worked quite well and I was never caught.

Unfortunately, since it worked so well, I learned to head out on my own forays. Screw the hot dogs, bring on the candy and the books. I would find my own places to hide out as my mother made her way through daily living. This generally consisted of looking for a new "daddy" and a more stable living situation.

At one point in time, she had made contact with some "church folk" who took us under their wings and found us a place to stay while we "got on our feet." Mother was a glib one and I'm not quite sure which tragedy it was that she used, but it worked.

They also brought us some clothing and food stuffs. Amongst the free food was a home canned jar of peaches. I would swear that the label on it said "EAT ME" and not "Peaches." I wanted those damn peaches. Looking at them on the kitchen shelf, glistening with sweetness through the green tint of the canning jar, was almost too much to bear.

I knew better than to ask for the peaches. One way to guarantee not getting something, was to ask for it. That particular messsage has managed to stay with me throughout my adulthood and has lead to a stubborness that hasn't always served me well. And, so, I kept my lips sealed and my eyes on those peaches for what seemed an eternity.

At some point, my mother decided it was time to pay back those wonderful church folk, she did not lack in the social niceties...and she invited the pastor and his wife over for dinner. She had found a job at Sears by this time and "our" home had developed a bit of style provided by the five finger discount of my mothers and the plethora of goods at her place of employment.

As they sat down to dinner, I kept my silence in one of the empty kitchen cabinets. Scrunched over with a stolen book and the door cracked to let just enough light in to discern the words on the page. I watched as the door swung open and shut from the kitchen to the dining room and the bowls and plates of food were carried out. I held my breath waiting to overhear some of the grown up gossip that I was sure to pick up.

All of a sudden, the swinging door opened and my mother entered the kitchen to prepare the dessert. I almost choked as I heard that can of peaches being opened and poured into a bowl. Holy shit. Those are MY peaches. Minister or not, I had to keep my eyes on them.

I slipped into the dining room, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, and endured the pathetic attempts by the adults to pay some attention to a gangly, homely, silent seven year old. They started passing those peaches around and I stood up on the back of the preacher's chair and watched as they consumed peaches with no idea at all of how much they were killing me.

As the bowl went around for the second time, as the last peach was being placed in the minister's bowl, I could handle it no more. The mouth, aged far beyond the years of the owner, moved. "I can see you people don't care too much for those goddamned peaches." Sarcasm, cursing, speaking out of turn, all behaviors punishable by backhands and belts were right out there on the table next to the empty bowl of peaches.

As the minister's wife fanned herself, as the minister choked on my goddamned peaches, as my mother headed my direction I ran as fast as I could without a glance over my shoulder. It didn't matter if or when I returned, whenever it was would certainly bring about some major damage to my body. So, off I headed to the grocery store. I stole my own goddamned can of peaches...one of those weird can openers that had the sharp pointy things on one end and a corkscrew in the handle...and headed off to the garage in the neighborhood where I had stashed all the Popular Mechanics magazines I had stolen (dorky kid, I know) and opened that can of peaches and stabbed them with that can opener and ate them as the sticky juice ran down my arms and dripped off my elbows.

Screw the minister's kindness, screw the glories of religion...I had found heaven, in that can of peaches. To this day, one of the first comfort foods that comes to mind, peaches are my favorite. Maybe this summer, I will try and can some. I know the canned ones are good, but I bet I could find that color of a canning jar and bottle me up some peaches and find me some heaven again.