I was born a nothing. That is to say, my family had no religion. In my early years, I never heard my dad speak of God, nor my mom of Jesus. Grandpa K was a pipe smoking loner. 47 years in one company, and they noticed not that he retired. Grandma K, was I believe, a woman of faith, though it was the deep, abiding sort. She had a Bible on the end table in their modest home, but it was dusty whenever I had seen it, and I never saw it open. Grandpa had a garage that always housed a Studebaker, from right up the road at South Bend. The Hoosier Edsall.
Grandpa and Grandma W were imbibers, a little loud, and had lived paupers lives as far as I could determine for the most part. John Dillinger supposedly had spent a few nights in the same cell as my Grandfather one time. Then on a pass-thru looked 'em up, spent the night in the midst of their humble home, and left Grandma a pair of fresh 100 dollar bills as he left. Grandma always told the story with a glow - her only claim to fame, or infamy perhaps. No religion was ever mentioned in their home that I recall in the early years.
Mom was the Seventh child of 8 children. She was headstrong and argumentative, liked a mental challenge, and was the 'planter' of the seeds that bound to me to a religion for most of my first 48 years of life. Dad was a veteran of a little 'police action' in a place called Korea. His memories of that place made the inside of a beer stien look pretty good the first few years he and mom were married. I recall him coming home from work with the smell of fiberglass resin on his clothes, and beer on his breath. He left the beer behind before I was too old. Must have drowned the memories by then. We used to fish alot, and at the age of 3, at the call of my mother, I tried to walk on water. I was not Jesus however, and my salvation from that juvenile choice of action, came from above, in the person of my mother, as she leaped over fishing boats to rescue me from following her command. I do not recall it except as a construct of my parents memories.
I saw a picture once of a blonde haired boy of about two, sitting with my young father on a sofa, and in the background a well lit and decorated Christmas tree. Both the little boy and the young father were smiling. I have no memory of that Christmas tree, or any other from those times, except from that faded photograph. I saw no demons in the picture. Another photo of my two siblings and I playing in the yard was taken close to the time that our family accepted the 'truth'. We looked happy enough in that picture.
On one of those days, it was a hot day. Summer in Indiana. Muggy. And the tar on the road in front of our home had developed 'bubbles'. Recall when the tar used to do that? I don't know if it does that anymore - or maybe life keeps me too far away from close observation of the tar bubbles these days. Anyway, the tar was bubbling that day, because my sister and my brother and I were out 'popping the bubbles' on the pavement. Life was pretty boring in that little midwest town in 1959. I was headed for five years old. My siblings were staggered just behind me by a year apiece, and Mom was likely sitting on the porch as we pursued our adventure just a 100 feet away. We were so enamored with the task at hand, that we had not noticed a large, black automobile parked at the edge of our yard. I looked up as I lead the family precession, and nearly collided with it. In a moment of fear of something different in our safe little world, we ran to the house. Mom was on the porch, and a nicely dressed lady in her 50's was with her. This was odd. Mom's circle of friends did not include this person. And no one that we ever knew owned a large black car like that one, especially not one with a person sitting in it ready to drive off with this lady when she returned.
The lady's name was Velma. And she smelled like some sort of flower as I recall. She was giving mom literature, and they were saying a good-bye. She must have been there for some time before we knew it. Velma made arrangements to return, that much I was able to gather from the conversation. I had no idea at the time that her visits with my mother would effect the rest of my life.