Who Put the Pickle in the Fruit Salad

Here is an excerpt:

BEYOND SALVATION

I hated Sunday mornings, except for the three months of Summer during each of my first eleven years. Hastily, the occupants of the house moved in and out of rooms readying for the trip to hear Brother Lee, the ancient spokesman, deliver his sermon: The gospel according to the Missionary Baptist Church.
The tyranny of the morning was exceeded only by the minefield of the afternoon. The sense of urgency existed because salvation was mandated by Uncle Walter, Daddy’s brother. Even in the midst of the spiritual feeding frenzy, my Mother, odd-shaped and insecure, was consumed by one of the seven sins … jealousy. To her way of thinking, her justification was about twenty years old and the younger sister of Daddy’s best friend. Yes, Sister Darlene made diligent efforts to provide Mother with a version of hell on earth.
Poor Mother, she gave birth to the seven deadly sins….us; I was the oldest of four boys and three girls. Each of us as different as night and day, yet the same. I wished, for my Mother, a period of self-indulgence instead of concern for over-due bills and insatiable demands from seemingly uncaring off spring, and an ill-tempered spouse. I remember in particular (as a 16 year old with non-existent expertise in anything but attitude) behaving badly at the reluctant announcement of yet another baby to swell the throng. That baby was the last sister. I wasn’t privy to the moment when Daddy was notified. However, his reaction could have been any one of the numerous nocturnal eruptions that exploded regularly. Certainly, he had played no role in this revolting development. Now, unlike then, I can actually smile at the recollection of Daddy, jaw in hand, exclaiming in agony that his “toothache hurt worse than any labor pain a woman could have”. Oh, if only! Anyway, the quality of his silence could be likened to that of a gun dog pointing at a bird. Or the cliché calm before the storm. A series of storms that continued for over a quarter century.

My Mother’s characteristics were inherited from her gentle parents. Death spared her years of unhappiness. She died young, in her sleep, next to Daddy.

Daddy died old; so old there was nothing left for him to do but reminisce; knowing all memories were beyond salvation.

About the author: Salley K. Fuller, born in South Carolina during World War II; she’s a Mother, Grandmother, Sister, Aunt, and friend, and by most standards not very good at any of it for the first 25 years of her life. She states, “While growing up I felt just like a lot of kids…I’m nothing special. What I wanted more than anything in the world was to be somebody to be remembered…for good or bad made no difference. Sliding sideways was a family tradition. Skirting at least one issue per day….the motto. Early on, laughter and food (not always in that order) were used for medicinal purposes. I became a nearly-overnight success at bad judgement and poor choices….(there’s just something about a guy on parole!). There are thousands of us out there….with no self-help groups, looking normal! The great healing began about age 37, and still continues today. Truly, we are who we are because of where we’ve had to be. Though I had hoped for a full recovery, I realize that life is a do-it-yourself project, it’s tough and no one’s going to make it out alive.