Edited: Tears of Blood

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BCdeb
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Joined: March 14th, 2020, 4:35 pm
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Edited: Tears of Blood

Post by BCdeb » July 14th, 2020, 4:03 pm

Chapter 1
Humble Beginnings
“Remember, remember, the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason, and plot.” Guy Fawkes and his cohorts, tried to blow up Parliament in England, in 1605. Guy Fawkes was put to death for his treasonous attempt. However, in 1957, November 5th was a special day for me. It was my birthday. Another life had begun.
We were a traditional family in the 1960s that consisted of Mom, Dad and my older sister. Dad was a blue collar worker and logged the dense forests of British Columbia, for months at a time. Mom stayed at home taking care of household duties. We had a fair-sized garden of various fruits and vegetables and Mom spent a generous amount of time canning, freezing, and making jams and jellies. She was a great cook and an awesome baker. Dad worked his fair share in the garden and hunted for deer to fill our freezer with meat for the winter months. My sister and I had our own small patch of carrots and peas to watch over. Nothing beats the flavor of freshly picked carrots. Mom also belonged to a Horticultural Society and grew dozens of plants and flowers in her special garden. She has won ribbons for her flower arranging as did my sister and I.
Flora and fauna surrounded our stucco rancher of one and a half acres. Cell phones, I-pads and computers were non-existent at that time. We had to drum up our own entertainment most of the time. We played tea with our dolls outside among the towering trees. We lay on the grass and rolled down our short hill, laughing from dizziness. At certain times of the year, Dad was forced to light matches over our heads to force out the burrowing ticks. We giggled, but ticks inside our bodies would be lethal.
Growing up, I experienced dark periods of sadness, but I found solace in riding my bike around the countryside. I was free as a bird with the wind sweeping through my hair while singing Mary Poppins’ songs. I cherished solitude, yet grappled with loneliness.
To rise out of a blue funk, I sometimes rode my bike to a fairly small, abandoned gravel pit. I carefully set myself down on a rocky bank and pondered over life and what I wanted out of it. What would make me happy? What have I accomplished? How could I reach my ambition to become a singer and an actress? During my introspection, I heard a faint voice calling my name but no one was around. I surmised it might be invisible beings talking to me although I found no such evidence.
My parents raised us in a loving and caring fashion. We were taught to respect others and their property, to stand up for ourselves, yet walk away from a fight if we could. We were never, ever to initiate a disagreement or we would be in ‘hot water.’ At mealtimes, we requested permission to leave the table. My aunt even taught me how to curtsy as a ‘thank you,’ which was fun. I couldn’t stop from giggling as I tried repeatedly to get it right.
Mom and Dad included us in most of their outings and activities. For instance, Dad took me with him to a local golf course. He showed me how to hold the club and swing it like a pro. I hit the ball with all my might but it sputtered across the fairway and landed only a few feet away from me. I pouted in disappointment.
“Just try it again. Take your time Deb.”
After three tries, I was obligated to pick up my ball and walk to the putting green where Dad’s ball was. He gave me a putter and explained how I should hit the ball.
“Honey, you just tap it lightly, like this,” he kindly demonstrated.
I thought, “Is he crazy?” I had just tried to knock the ball across the fairway and failed. So, I took my stance, wiggled my hips, and hit the ball as hard as I could. To my shock and amazement, it flew high into the air, totally missing the green, landing in the bushes. I was happy my ball was finally airborne. However, the look on my Dad’s face was anything but happy. He was angry and scolded me for ignoring his coaching. We tried to find my rogue ball but to no avail. I had no talent for golf but I loved being with my dad. I brought along a bag of bread crumbs Mom had given me for the golf outings so I could feed ducks in the pond. I hoped Dad would forgive me.
Mom wasn’t a golfer. She loved music and played her piano, guitar, and accordion. I loved tinkering on all three instruments with pride and joy even though I hadn’t mastered any of them. It didn’t matter to me because I was satisfied with the various tunes and sounds from each instrument. This gave me much pleasure.
In spite of happy times, depression plagued my mind and gripped me like a dark tornado, twisting my mind and psyche and making me a prisoner in a deep murky pit with no possible escape. This influenced how I approached a task and my attitude as to whether I was able to do the task or not.
Between mood swings, I tried enjoying life. Dad took us on leisurely Sunday drives through scenic areas near our home or up to nearby Westwood Lake. Cars whizzed by and I wondered, where are they going? What are their names? Where did they come from? What is their house like? Do they get along together? Do the children argue like my sister and I? Being a childhood introvert, I failed to ask my parents for answers.
When I was 7 years old I snooped around the upper shelf of the spare room closet and discovered a decorated parcel with a colorful bow on it. A little card read, ‘to Debbie from Santa.’ This was early November. I was shocked and angry at discovering I had been lied to. I revealed my findings to my parents after Christmas, but they laughed it off. For years I put up with older kids making fun of me because I believed in Santa Claus.
As a result, I told countless fibs. My parents and teachers found it quite difficult to believe anything I said, even when I told the truth. I was in utter confusion as to what was right and wrong. To cope with this mental anguish, I stole small items: pencils, bubble gum and chocolate bars. This habit continued into my teenage years.

As I lay on the grass in our front yard, chewing my stolen Double Bubble, I looked up at the sky. I smiled because Mom explained how God was looking down on me; happy if I was a good yet not happy if I was bad. I mused ‘what is bad?’ One thing I learned from childhood was ‘never tell lies.’ However, people tell little white ones. Are they good or bad? This was a huge dichotomy for me.

Regardless of the numerous questions plaguing my fertile mind, I continued telling fibs. However, this resulted in consequences such as leather strap across my open hands (three times), for lying at school.

At home, my parents took away my dessert privileges. It was the perfect punishment for me. Mom’s desserts were delectable chocolate chip cookies, special colored Jell-O cups, animal shaped cakes loaded with icing and last but not least, freshly baked bread. Her baking was to die for. Oh how I wished I could stop lying! Even though I knew God was looking down on me every day, I couldn’t stop. I was confused as Donald Duck who was trying to make a decision; the devil on his right argued with the angel on his left. Which one would he favor? This internal war left me exhausted and pushed me into further solitude and depression.

In addition to my dilemma, Mom was studying the Bible with Jehovah’s Witnesses. During holidays when movies such as Ben Hur or The Ten Commandments were shown on TV, she compared the Hollywood versions against the Bible. My dad teased her, yet was supportive of her newfound beliefs. However, I wasn’t sure how to react. She seemed obsessed with the Bible and attending the meetings of Jehovah’s Witnesses every Sunday.

On the other hand, my heart’s goal was to become an actress or a singer like Barbara Streisand. Becoming a JW had never crossed my mind. Children have goals and dreams and visions of their future. I wish that someone could have warned my mom of the dangers of joining Jehovah’s Witnesses because the organization squashed happiness, refused blood transfusions, discouraged higher education which in turn, spelled poverty for most members.

As Mom progressed in her weekly Bible studies, she started attending meetings of Jehovah’s Witnesses on Sundays and took me with her. I enjoyed going but only from ‘time to time.’ Unbeknown to me, Dad agreed that I had to go every Sunday. I didn’t like that. I had a desire to go to these gatherings but it didn’t include every Sunday. My sister didn’t have to go so why should I? (I never understood why she did not have to attend the JW meetings). Yet I was obligated to sit for two hours while listening to information which I couldn’t understand.

Sadly, my journey down the road to JW jail time started with an emotional bang. I was angry beyond belief. Not all my protestations could have changed the fact that my life had already been designed for me by mother’s new religion. My dreams and ambitions had vanished as in ‘gone with the wind.’

While coping with inner emotional turmoil, Dad sprung upon us a monumental change which changed our lives. We were moving to a small Caribbean island called Dominica. It was the year 1968. Dad would leave first to find appropriate housing and schooling for us. He assured us it would be a wonderful experience. As an added incentive, there would be other Canadian families who would be moving there too, which made my sister and I happy.

We were giddy with excitement about our approaching departure. Mom assisted us with packing because we were clueless as to separating our needs from our wants on this trip. We had to leave virtually everything behind and take only what we could fit in our suitcases; it meant choosing one stuffed toy or doll to take with me. So I chose my stuffed, bright red dog. He was slim and small enough to be squished into my suitcase for our long journey.

Mom was a little disappointed because she would have to give up her weekly Bible studies. But lo and behold, Jehovah’s Witnesses came through for her. The congregation in Canada got in touch with a missionary ‘brother’ in Dominica. Someone would study with her as soon as we were settled. Many more lies would be perpetuated by the religion over the next few decades.

Thus my ‘tears of blood’ would continue to haunt me every day, through good times and bad. Being accepted into the Jehovah’s Witnesses organization meant my dreams of having a life full of fun, games and education had ended. Our last Christmas in Canada was in 1967; I was 10 years old. Mom made a life-changing decision; once we settled in Dominica, we would no longer celebrate Christmas or any other holidays. It was all over. It meant no presents, no more of my mom’s wonderful baking or singing Christmas songs with Bing Crosby on T.V. It was an abrupt end to Halloween where we used to collect enough candy in our pillowcases to last a whole year. Actually, we wouldn’t be celebrating anything. I didn’t mind at first because I honestly believed I was pleasing God. However, with time, I grieved for the loss of our festive family gatherings, tons of savory food and birthday parties.

Before we knew it, the time had come for us to leave our home, our family, our country and travel to an unknown island far, far away…

Pewe
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Joined: January 19th, 2021, 4:48 am
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Re: Edited: Tears of Blood

Post by Pewe » January 23rd, 2021, 1:17 pm

It seems the intro. Is a foil for you to describe home. I am not sure what the motivation is here. Sorry I’m not from US/Canada so cannot comment on attraction of family dynamics. However it’s a big wodge of description without motivation. What’s it telling me?
The dysfunctional approach to family life perhaps as the pace alters significantly with your confessional about depression etc. You begin to externalise mental health problems with tasks and then avoid exploring this, instead you move onto other stuff to do with an ensemble of characters-too many, Give yourself time away from this, then revisit and update. There appears to be a start/stop/start/stop and I’m left thinking why is he/she telling me this again.

Hope this helps,

If you do introduce a new character what are they bringing to the story beyond being background information.

You may disagree but motivation is all. Description, dialogue and drama are just components like jigsaw pieces,
Patrick

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