CHAPTER ONE:  
THE PROCESS BEGINS 
 
When you can tell the story 
And it doesn't bring up any pain, 
You know you are healed. 
--Unknown  
The decision to share my life story has gone through motivation, uncertainty, and self-doubt stages. 'There is the 'I'm a fraud phase. Then there is the "I'll never finish phase.' 'What if I create what I set out to create and it is not well received.' Writing means revealing oneself to supreme self-revelation and surrender. And so, it begins.  
During my birth, colonial times were fraught with chaos and uncertainty. On December 7th, 
1941, President Roosevelt announced that Japanese planes had attacked Manila and Pearl Harbor. The editorial in the Honolulu Star noted, "In this crisis, every difference of race, creed, and color will be submerged in the one desire and determination to play the part that Americans always play in the crisis." During a cold dark winter, the German army almost advanced into Moscow as my life began on New Year's Eve, 1942. The British ships Repulse and Prince of Wales were at the bottom of the South China Sea, and combined forces on Bataan surrendered. German U-boats were sinking ships within sight of the New Jersey shore. World War II continued to create global uncertainty for another three years. Had the Nazis kept their reign of terror, the world I came in could have been radically different.  
My father, Allen Greg Salmond Cunningham, joined the army, then the air force. He was stationed in Red Deer, Alberta, and later at Shiloh, Manitoba. He and my mother were hurriedly married shortly before his first posting. After working hard to become a pilot, an unexpected tragedy prevented that from occurring. On the day of his pilot license test, four of his buddies died in a crash. Rather than giving him time to recoup, superiors insist on proceeding with Dad's test. In a shocked and grief-stricken state, he washed out and never tried to get his pilot's license again. My father settled for less and became a flight instructor instead. He carries the regret over the incident, and it is one of many emotional events my father buries inside and never heals. Somewhere earlier in his development, the man who became my father decided to mask vulnerability and emotional pain and turn to alcohol instead.  
Mom's father died when she was sixteen, and her mother's living space was small. Consequently, Mom stayed with my father's parents during Dad's years in non-active duty at Shiloh. When Mom was pregnant with me, Dad came home weekends and decided to leave the air force when I was born on December 31st, 1942, and the attending physician was determined to deliver the first New Year's baby that year.  He decides to sedate Mom to slow down the contractions, which made my birth experience arduous and put her and my lives at risk. The sedation caused a crisis and required an emergency C-section, with forceps to pull me out and leave a deep imprint on the skull. The physician missed his moment in the sun. I was born at 10:26 pm rather than 12:01 am. Doctors held a lot of power in that period, and suing for malpractice was not my parents' choice. So, the issue of accountability is never addressed. Mom says the strength of our symbiotic bond in our first death struggle is a prophetic symbolism for future challenges we face together when I am older. Mom's recovery was slow and painful. She and I lived with Dad's parents while he continued military life on the base. I was too young to comprehend the global challenges facing the rest of the world in World War II.  
When I was a year and a half, soldiers stormed the beach at Normandy during the gritty dawn light of June 6th, 1944. The chaos continued, and a series of watershed world events took place in the following years. First, in 1945 there was the successful Liberation of Buchenwald. Then, during a blinding flash on July 16th, the first atomic bomb detonates at Alamogordo, New Mexico. Next, the United States decided to use nuclear weapons on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, causing tremendous suffering and loss of human life; that act brought an end to the war. 
In the last analysis, the deciding factor is America's tremendous industrial power, and when the war ends, U.S. power remains intact. As a result of World War II, U.S. history is part of world history. Winston Churchill told the Parliament in the summer of 1945 that Europe and Great Britain's time had passed and that "America at this moment stands at the summit of the world." Until the Russians exploded an atomic bomb in 1949, the United States was without equal or challenge.  
After the war, society and our little family start adjusting to the post-war economy. Whether it was an indirect result of the trauma sustained during my birth or some other influence, I was the only child of Greg and Edwina (Winnie) Cunningham. When Dad leaves the air force, he works as a butcher and grocer in the family business. My grandparents on Dad's side were entirely secure financially, and the Red and White grocery store they owned provided a good living for them and their three sons and one daughter. All my aunts and uncles and their spouses worked part-time at the store at one time or another. During that period, very few women worked full time, if at all, so most kids had stay-at-home Moms. In Thornton Wilder's play, The Skin of Our Teeth, A character aptly described young families like ours in this way. "When you're at war, you think only about war; when you are at peace, you think about a more comfortable life."  
My paternal grandparents emigrated from Scotland, and the grocery business thrived throughout the war and afterward. It provides security and direction for my father and his older brothers, Robert and Alex, and sister Ina. All three brothers fathered one daughter, and Auntie Ina was infertile and did not have any children. They worked at the store for a few years post-war, then bought their own business. My three uncles continued the family tradition in the grocery business in downtown Winnipeg. Dad's job security was there at the store as a butcher and storekeeper rather than pursuing a career in the air force.  
The Cunningham siblings inherited Grandfather Jim and Grandma Kate's Scottish pragmatism and are not to show affection, be open, and be emotionally forthcoming. I liked them and enjoyed their company at family gatherings but never felt that I could go to them for much of anything. So, my extended family was there, but not in the same way I saw other families, hugging, crying, and laughing in a full range of human displays of interconnection. Mom and Nanny were different. I felt safe with both of them, and they always showed genuine interest in what I was thinking and feeling. Their bonding contrasts with the Cunningham family's five senses, three-dimensional thinking. They show little interest in things that could not be seen, tasted, felt, touched, or smelled. Mom's side of the family is different. The maternal side of our little family has ancestral Celtic roots with a mix of Welsh, Irish, and English and an interest in the unseen and mysticism. 
On Mom's side, my grandfather, Edwin, was Welsh and had studied with the Rosicrucian. They are an order that offers ancient metaphysical teachings. According to Mom, her father had a highly developed intuitive sense that she inherited. Dad's more prominent family contrasted with Mom's smaller one. Her sister Doris died when Mom was sixteen, and Bob and Nanny were her only relatives. When I think about how different my mother and father's realities were, it is not surprising that their worlds collide at times. However, the differences also have happiness and meaningful life lessons.  
We lived in a spacious upper-floor apartment in downtown Winnipeg during my early years. Spading Court was on the corner of Smith and St. Mary's, where the Winnipeg Post Office eventually replaced it. It was less than an entire city block from grandfather's store. Nanny lived in a smaller suite below with my Godparents, Aunt Ina and Uncle Harold, in another building between our place and Cunningham Grocery. At that time living in the inner city was one grand adventure. Having my Nanny close is special for me as a positive role model. My grandmother tells things she sees and feels, living life on her terms.  
Nanny laid out a table with grandeur with her British ancestry that everyone visiting her always felt special. After attending kindergarten in the morning, I saw my godparents, Auntie Ina and Uncle Harold, and without kids of their own, they welcomed my unannounced visits. Uncle Ha-ha, as I called him, played the trumpet professionally. He never refused my many command performances. I clapped my hands and giggled in glee, "Play more, Uncle Ha-Ha, please play more!" He lovingly obliges, and it is delightful to me. My Uncle weaves to the music with a fixated gaze, eyes closed, and it appears that he and his trumpet are in perfect harmony.  
As young ones in the neighborhood, we roam freely after being taught how to be streetwise in traffic with a sensible approach to strangers. We play catch, hop-scotch, hide and seek, tag, and jump rope. Our youth have no radio, television, computers, or cell phones, so our outdoor time flurries with activity from morning until dusk. The happy kid clutches include nature romps, exploring leaves to find caterpillars, and making dandelion fluff ball wishes in a world we find endlessly fascinating. Other times, parents took kids to movies, and we all enjoyed special event parties and fun outings with kindergarten class events.  
In those days, my happy little world was centered in small areas. I skipped along community sidewalks making a circuit loop visiting godparents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles during afternoons and evenings. There is an abiding appreciation for the network of loving, supportive adults and the positive effect on my early development. Unfortunately, it does take villages to raise children, which I had in the mid-forties. My heart goes out to children not given a sense of their worth through positive reinforcement at an early age.  

The kids in our neighborhood were envious of being in a family of grocers. The store created an exciting opportunity to taste, touch and feel a world of sensate pleasures. The fresh fruit display sits on angled cases. The fun part is staring into the see-through plastic canisters filled with brightly colored candies, bubble gum, and chocolate chunks. We could also watch Gramps train Dad in the fine art of butchering meat. Through time, I became accustomed to the foreboding feel of the shadowy, cold walk-in meat cooler. Going into it, the motionless carcasses of dead beef, turkeys, and chickens feel eerie as I stand and stare at their lifeless, cold bodies.  
Seeing their corpses provides early life lessons about the law of predation. Dad explains it this way. "The Creator set cycles of survival that depend upon one thing living through the death. Every living thing in our food chain exists within patterns of death and rebirth. Predators kill prey to survive and thrive." That simple explanation is matter of fact. From that point on, it is easier to stand at eye level to the butcher block and watch in fascination as Dad and Gramps severed "prey" for our consumption. No longer creepy, the reality of how we eat to live, and the origins was no longer upsetting. It was it is, and my caregivers provide what we need. It made sense then, and I carried that acceptance from age five onwards. 
Grampa Jim has a few store cats as mascots and mousers, as he calls them. They are well socialized and fuzzy playmates. I have permission to invite friends to a show and tell whenever something new occurs. One time Gramps found a tarantula in a banana shipment. He put it in a mason jar so we could examine it safely. We make eye contact with the furry-legged critter from a distant place. We poke each other with nervous giggles, saying, "Wow, it is way bigger than spiders here, and those hairy legs are something else, alright."  
Gramps stands behind us and says we cannot open the jar or handle it. I look up and pleadingly say, "I bet it is scared, not knowing who we are or where it is. Can I take care of it; please I would love to have it as a pet to make it feel safe." He puts a big hand on my head with a wry grin and ruffles my hair. "Ah, yes, always my curious Scaramouch! It is not possible. Dear, I am sorry. They may look gentle and probably unsettled being out of their natural habitat. However, they do bite. Besides that, your mother is uneasy around creepy crawlers. So, my Dear, I cannot let you have it as a pet. I will tend to it after your troop leaves." Knowing its demise made me sad. I live with Gramp's decision as Elder in our family with a sigh of acceptance. The ongoing sense of discovery sparks and feeds my inner adventurer. 
Grampa Jim had a beautiful German Sheppard as a loving companion by his side during long days at the store. He had a dog blanket near the desk, and whenever I lay down beside him, his gentle nature showed with affectionate licks and a big paw over my arm.  I am grateful for caregivers taking the time to answer questions and explain how different critters and creatures all have a place in the order of nature. None of my uncles are into trophy hunting or killing for its sake. Their prevailing view is to kill and butcher for survival only.  
Our times in Nature and the lessons of catching and releasing bugs and spiders over squish and squash stay with me from my youth. The family instills respect for all living things from an early age. Consequently, I have the freedom to be a girly girl and a tomboy without being defined by either. My father is the active outdoors type, and I enjoyed our weekends together doing things Mom does not like. Mom prefers to shop and dress well, and she gave that to me too. Life is good with a healthy mix of time alone reading, playing with my dollhouse, or running free with groups of friends. The Cunningham family did not express affection easily, so they teased instead. So, I grew up with them as pranksters and jokesters over huggers and heart-to-heart talks.  
Gramps had a friendly side, so one day, like many others, I brought a troop of kids to visit him at the store. Amid giggles and squeals, we stand on tiptoes peering into see-through canisters filled with sweet delights chiming in, "I want that one- o-o-oh, that one looks good too!" Gramps hears us and swaggers our way from the back office. I smile, seeing the familiar fat cigar in the corner of his mouth. The giant statue towers over us, and even though he looks intimidating, with our whining cajoling, we soften him up. "Hi Gramps, we came to visit you." 
With a slightly twisted smile, he pauses to make us wait. Then, our game begins, "So I see. Were you good kids today?" In singsong unison, we respond, "Yeses.
His turn: "Did you get into any mischief?" In the same tone, "Nonoo." Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he plays along, "Well now, you say you came to visit me, and you were all good kids today. As I see it, you came here to get treats from the old man, right?" Seeing him catch onto our playful act, we shuffle around; making shifty eye contact, knowing my wily grampa had our number all along. He watches as we squiggle a little through a big puff of cigar smoke. Then, glancing up and over his big belly, I see his big grin as he nods with a chuckle as he gives in.  
"Each of you can take two of whatever you like, but that's all; overeating sugar rots your teeth and your brain." None of us are sure if he is serious, so we ignore the final comment and, with a shrill, "Meadhbh!" Then, in a stampede, we make a beeline for the canisters. The big teaser plays the "I gotcha game," and we all win. Before leaving, I hugged my grandfather's leg and thanked him. Then, with his familiar affectionate tousling of my hair, "You're welcome, now scat; I've got work to do!" 
Our family gatherings include music, singing, dancing, and laughter during the early years. The radio is an essential part of social life after the war. People gathered to listen to the news and favorite music. Dad had an excellent crooning voice as he sang with famous crooners. Family trips to Lake Lalu cabins were sing-alongs or sitting around open campfires. Some family favorites include A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square, and We'll Meet Again.  
Singer Al Jolson and the Mills Brothers are other favorites. Dad entertains at parties with tributes to his idols with a black face to impersonate his favorite artists to show appreciation. He is a big hit strumming his ukulele while performing Mills Brothers' songs; Glow Worm, Paper Doll; You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You, and Yellow Bird. My parents attended big band dances most weekends and often took me with them. I enjoy watching them dance to upbeat tunes like Hold That Tiger is thrilling. My mother is petite and well endowed. Seeing her shimmy and shake while other couples clap and circle them, jitterbug, jive, and dipping in their rhythmic symmetry.  
During the late forties, kids often accompanied parents to dances as they did not serve alcohol on the premises. Instead, patrons pay for pop and ice and bring liquor flasks to fill their glasses.  Around this time, Dad starts teaching me to dance. He'd place my little feet on his big shoes, then take my hands in his and glide across the floor. Other times, I enjoy sitting on Dad's knee while he serenades me with the Mills Brother's song, Daddy's Little Girl, or a song that had the words I'm in heaven when I see you smile-so smile for me." We have a special bond and feel special whenever he refers to me as Princess. Growing up in a happy home, I never went short on anything, and within those specially preserved memories, Dad did make me feel like a little Princess. They are memorable moments of a daughter and dad in a solid, loving relationship.  
Our family life is enjoyable in downtown Winnipeg until Mom decides to change. One Sunday morning, I am coloring on the living room floor while Mom and Dad have coffee by the window. I listen to their discussion. "Greg, it is nice enough living here. However, it feels like a waste of money to keep renting. So, I have been looking into how we can buy our first home. First, we will put our income into a mortgage that builds equity for us. There is a second reason. Living in the city instead of the suburbs does not give our daughter the same experiences. If we have a house, we can garden, a family pet, and I like the idea of her having safer, wide-open places for her to explore. She is an outdoor girl, and I do not see long-term city life filling her needs.  
 	"I have been in contact with Central Mortgage and Housing, and there are peacetime homes in the St. Boniface area available for those who served in the military. Even though you did not see active duty, being in the forces qualifies us to make an application, so are you okay if I proceed? There is a long pause as I continue to listen for what I hope will be a yes from Dad. Then he speaks, "Okay, if you think you can swing this on my income from the store, depending on how much they want us to put down, why not go after it. Having our own home sounds good to me too." Whew, I do not let them know I am eavesdropping and go into my room off the kitchen and clap my hands in delight at the prospect of a new family home.  
Mom makes daily trips to Central Mortgage and Housing office for two months with her inimitable persistence. Finally, after dinner one evening, Mom removes the dishes, then says, "Wait here, I want to show you both something." She comes back with some papers and a big smile. "My dogged determination pays off; we have been approved for a two-story home in St. Boniface and will take possession if we like it. We can go together this week to see it, and if we sign on the dotted line, it is ours!" I look at Dad, and he seems surprised and does not respond at first. Then, with a burst of glee and a jump from the chair, I throw my arms around Mom's neck and hug her tight. "Oh, mommy, thank you, you are the best Mom ever!" Dad says nothing at first, then responds, in his usual low-key tone, "You did good, Hon; I guess we will be planning for a movie as I am sure we will like it knowing it will be ours one day. Before heading to the living room, they exchange a short hug as I watch and wonder how it will work out, leaving friends and starting over in a new place. After checking out the house, we all agree it is perfect. There are three bedrooms with a good-sized family room, kitchen and bathroom, a large unfinished basement, and a big yard. After signing the mortgage agreement, we begin packing.  
Two weeks later, I am playing on the street, waiting for a visit from Uncle Bob. He routinely stops by after work, and we have a special connection. As a lineman at CN Railway on Main Street, a few blocks from our place. Mom told me that his time in the Navy qualifies for purchasing a wartime house on the same street a block down from our new place in talks about aunts and uncles.  Knowing his daughter Bobbie and I will hang out more in the same neighborhood makes me happy. So, before moving, I waited on the street for Uncle Bob's visit.  As he gets closer, he is carrying a large cardboard box. Curiosity wins, and I run towards him. The box has a hole in the center with a rope tied around it, and in the middle, with just a head visible, there is a blond floppy-eared puppy with soulful brown eyes. 

The dark eyes remind me of Uncle Bob. Mom told me how his active duty on a Navy ship during the war left him scarred after the emotional trauma he lived through. After the war, I saw my Uncle as a guarded person and not one to show his feelings. However, today, his eyes remind me of the puppy in the box. We stop. I question, "Uncle Bob, why do you have this puppy in the box?" With a slight catch in his voice, he says, "Well, dear, I won her in a raffle. She is a purebred cocker spaniel, and Bobbie and I want to keep her. However, your Auntie Elsie doesn't have the upkeep and training, so she needs a good home. Knowing you are all moving into a house just down the street from us, I will ask Greg and Winnie if I can give her to you like your first pet. That way, Bobbie and I can be a part of her life." My heart jumps as thoughts race. I cannot believe that a quirky Aunt will make me the benefactor of this sweet puppy looking into my face. I feel a bond with her already. I feel bad for my cousin and Uncle, yet excited at the possibility that she could be our family pet. Mom keeps reminding me to consider other people's feelings, so I manage to hold my excitement inside, seeing Uncle Bob not want to give her up.  
Uncle Bob shifts focus picks me up in one arm while carrying our precious cargo in the other. With a big hug, it is time to express my gratitude. "I am sorry you can't have a pup like yours. I promise to bring her to your place, and you can come and play with her anytime. We can share her, and it will be fun. Uncle Bob, thank you so much for letting us raise her. Do you think Mom will let me have her?" He gently places me down as we reach the stairs leading to the apartment. Then with a smile and a swat on the seat, he sends me on a quest, "There is only one way to find out squirt; you better go and ask her!" My legs race up the stairs with eggbeater rotations, and within the vitality, I trip on the landing and start yelling, "Mom, Mom, Uncle Bob is here with a puppy he can't keep. He wants me to have her. Can I, can I? Please – please!" Mom doesn't hear the words, only the bellowing. Finally, she opens the door, and as I look up, her face is full of concern. "Honey, why are you? Are you okay?"  
“Yes, yes, I am okay!" I am talking in mixed gibberish about the puppy in the box downstairs again. Mom bends to my level and looks intently into my face. I love how she always lowers herself to an equal level whenever she speaks to what she calls 'the little ones." She takes my hands in hers and says, "Slow down, take a breath, let's go and see Uncle Bob. We'll talk about it, and of course, we must ask your father. Having a puppy and raising it requires care, and it is a responsibility. She takes my hand, making our way back down the dimly lit stairwell. It seems to take forever, yet I feel that the puppy is already mine with each step. The lingering question mark remains, and I begin to plead my case further. "Mommy, I can tell she is an exceptional dog – she's blond with big, dark eyes and floppy ears. She needs a home. Where will she go if we don't keep her? Besides, she could start our new life in our new home with us – what a special thing!" 
Mom looks down with a soft look and quietly says, "Try to be patient, dear. I have to talk to Uncle Bob and your dad, so we'll see." After a brief discussion and a green light from the landlord, all the details work out, and I have my first pet. The rental association permits us to keep her in the apartment short-term as we are vacating anyway.  So it is, and my beloved companion, Blondie, comes into our lives at a pivotal point in family life. The move to St. Boniface and the gift of our dog adds to the adventure of a new life unfolding. After we settle in, neighbors interact as first-time peacetime homeowners.  

Nanny refuses the offer to live with us and wants to remain independent. However, she admits that she still grieves Grampa Edwin. During one of our teatime, heart to heart, Nanny gazed out the window then at me, saying. "I love him deeply to this day and always will. I feel his presence here, surrounded by the few things I have from my life with Edwin, and I do not want to lose that connection by moving in with you and your parents, dear. I hope you understand. It has nothing to do with not appreciating the offer or loving you less. It is just that here; I feel our love bridges the dimension, and I want to continue to hold onto our memories here in familiar surroundings."  
Not having a Nanny close by is a difficult adjustment for me. Whenever I wanted to be with her, I just had to go down or up a set of stairs. She was my haven, and I relied on her when things felt topsy at school or with Mom and Dad. We used to sit on the front steps or have tea at her big circular table and chat by the hour. Nanny gave me her undivided attention and full engagement with everything that mattered to me. She would pull me close and snuggle into her big bosomy body, and it beat any stuffed toy haggle. Something in my grandmother's energy encircles me in a safety net. 
Hippity hopping along the street, I head to Nanny's place and share with complete openness and trust. Talking about my adventures and natural treasures is the highlight of my day. With all the ceremonies of English tradition, she set the table with a white cloth, then made tea and cut off chunks of fluffy white crusty bread with butter and jam as a sweet treat. I learn her rituals about brewing a good cup of tea. Nan says, "You never make tea without heating the pot first to warm it up when the kettle whistles. The full flavor of the tea is released when the pot is hot, and the boiling water runs through it." So, the sound of a bubbling kettle always brings back Nanny's voice in my head. She adds, "Be sure and put a cozy tea on the pot. Keeping it warm preserves the taste to the very last cup." 
Strong tea is an English tradition, and Nanny takes the bite out of it with scoops of white sugar and lots of cream or milk. She serves her tea in cups and saucers made of fine china. Nanny and I share grown-up tea parties. There is no sense of kid stuff with her; our tea parties were the real deal. With Nanny being an attentive listener growing up, I learn to pay attention to others when they talk. She gave me the gift of feeling loved, heard, understood, and accepted in ways like no other adult during that time of my young life.  
Observing Nanny and her firm boundaries reveal her inner confidence. I see her as a woman comfortable with herself, and she was blunt, speaking her mind whether others liked it. Even being a woman of stature and size, I love watching her move with grace and confidence. I emulate her love of hats, and walking down the street with her, seeing how she turns heads, is a delight to me. Nanny had a signature style with the wide brim hats and a large tapestry tote bag. I love and respect everything about her as she is a sharp contrast to Dad's side of the family and Mom's need to be a people pleaser. She imprints things that inspired and stayed with me during my formative years. So as sad as I feel that Nanny will remain where we settle into the new home in a new area, I have to accept what we cannot change.  
The new house is spacious, and I like having two rooms on the upper level. One for study and playtime with friends, the other is my bedroom. However, other aspects of life in the new area are a big adjustment. Adjacent to the neighborhood, there are Industrial plants along the main route. The combination of grain elevators, oil refineries, and meatpacking plants creates some nose curling smells on any given day. In addition, there are many French-Canadian Catholic families with an average of eight to twelve children. Bobbie and I are somewhat odd, with one girl in a family. I am glad we are close and age and proximity; it does not take us long to develop a sense of sisterhood, and neither one of us misses more siblings. There is no lack of companionship with so many kids in the area, and the cross-cultural community broadens our life learning, team spirit, and social skills with both genders.  
One side of the Archibald and Marion Street cross-section was a bustling commercial area. In contrast, the residential side had undeveloped woodland areas along the Seine River, which provided places to explore. My respect for nature and wildlife has been there from the beginning. I like the river walk leading from our home to a breakpoint on Des Muerons Street close to school. Before and after school, I'd go on forage finds for earth treasures of feathers, rocks, leaves, and shells. These times and those at Laclu are the earliest awakenings of the shaman within me. I had an intrinsic felt sense that physical objects evoke different responses. Intuitively, I feel attuned to unique imprints from my finds and what they went through weathering the elements.  I gather them with reverence then leave something in exchange. Sometimes, it would be a button, branch, unique leaf, or rock to show respect and gratitude for what I take.  
During solitary times in nature, I began to feel a broader sense of the physical and energetic realms. I start to see that my free-spirited questioning of almost everything is different than my peers. The rigid religious teachings they share with me feel closed and limiting. The Nuns and Priests do not take well to kids talking about energy within nature or anything outside their religion. I soon pick up on how my friends and the dominating figures in their lives are different from mine. My parents encouraged my need to question, whereas my friends have their natural knowledge restricted, rejected, repressed, or replaced. Thankfully, Mom and Nanny continue to foster my enjoyment in finding gifts from nature and never diminish their importance. As a result, I am free to attune to the symbolic power totems and rituals that feel right.  
Those early impressionable years shaped a sense of intuitive knowing I came to trust when I think back. The freedom to wander in Nature with Blondie by my side develops a spiritual place of belonging in nature that is lacking when we go to church. Consistent exposure to the natural world is more significant than what preachers describe. Other enchanted happenings occur whenever the Cunningham clan gathers at the Cabins on Lake Laclu near Kenora, Ontario. Those moments are blissful, and I hold to the hope that I will move there when I am out and on my own.  
Dad and I enjoy connecting time when he is more relaxed away from the store. There are so many areas around Kenora offering wildlife sightings. Dad and I observe hawks, owls, eagles, turkey vultures and their hunting patterns. When we walk and talk, he explains, "In the natural world, there are no villains or victims even though the brutality in the kill is hard to witness. Predatory birds are built to down hunt and kill to feed their young, and without some things dying, others cannot live. As a butcher, cutting up dead animals reminds me that there is an order to life and death, and one thing serves the purpose of another." He'd gently move dirt on an anthill and show me the scurrying way of them carrying the eggs to protect the young. When we watch birds eating insects, worms, or diving for fish, Dad repeats the teaching.  "See that, here it is again, natural balance in nature. Things die; new things are born. It is a way of life, so one thing balances another."  
Through my father's explanations, the brutality is less shattering, and his pragmatic approach to life presents reality as it is. That understanding helps my young mind process life's painful, unchanging laws without defining things as inferior or superior. Their approach to nature is one of respect and cautionary advice. In their view, there is no reason to fear insects, reptiles, or prey animals. Nor were they in favor of killing any living thing from a perceptual bias. When spiders or other creepy crawlers came into the house or cabin, they showed me how to capture and release a piece of paper under glass to carry them outside harmlessly. We never kill anything unless it bites us.  
With my parents' tutorage, I learn to respect the order within the vast interconnection in every area of life. The cycles of life, death, and rebirth are natural processes, and there is nothing to fear. Mom is empathic and less pragmatic and admits it is difficult to witness anything hurting or suffering. She has the gift of second sight and responds with a different level of compassion. Her gentleness and love for all living things provide a feeling aspect and contrast to Dad's tactile worldview. Mom's highly intuitive nature includes an acceptance of an afterlife. She sees life here as a gift, and every living thing is a testament to the Creator's design. Mom tells me they are spiritual allies when I discuss my invisible friends, not a figment of childhood imagination. Within her religious framework and the capacity to read tea leaves, Mom accepts the presence of spiritual partners and their operational guidance and protection. The Guardian Angel at our home is called "George."  
In my mother's spiritual teachings, she keeps the idea of prayers simple. "My dear child, you do not have to wait to pray in church. I encourage you to ask for spiritual help and direction anytime and anywhere. Therefore, we are one with our Creator and free to talk and ask for our needs. Whenever I'm troubled, I go anywhere I can have a quiet moment, including bathrooms. I do not think God cares where we pray, just that we do. So, I sit on the potty and pray there whenever I need it. Ask, and we will receive it. I know this for sure."  
I develop a healthy, active moment-by-moment prayer life in conversations with God with my mother's approach. However, when I talk about it with Anglican and Catholic friends, they are shocked and say: "You cannot do that! The priests and Saints intercede." Their response does not register, and I ask for more. "Why? Who made that rule? Do you mean the God that created us is not available to hear our prayers without human intervention? The conversation ends after an uncomfortable pause, and they say: "We cannot ask those questions in our church. ” That is what "they" say to do, and we have to accept and believe in faith." I cannot fathom that; I question everyone about everything.  
So, I reject that limited interconnection and continue to talk directly to my Creator. In another tea chat, Mom shares how her Welsh/Irish/English Genealogy incorporates a belief in the "little people" as she affectionately refers to fairies, gnomes, and other elementals. With a broad smile, she explains that, in her view, they are God's helpers within seen and unseen worlds. Her intuitive knowing allows her to interpret signs and messages from spirit when she "reads" tea leaves. When the women in the neighborhood learn of her abilities, they ask Mom to "read their cups," After each reading, they report that Mom gave them insight and direction about their life's happenings, so they keep coming back. I am a child growing up within the subtle emergence of energy-based awareness. As I watch, listen, learn, and trust my own inner, knowing it becomes an integral part of how Mom and I see the world through a different lens.  
The mystical/spiritual aspects of life on Mom's side of the family are inter-generational. Welsh born Grandfather Edwin came into the world as the seventh son of a seventh son with the gift of prophecy and the eye of a mystic. Mom and Nanny were born in Bristol, England, and loved the arts, philosophy, and pursuit of knowledge. Before meeting Edwin, Nanny was a professional sand dancer. She did a command performance for King George of England with her outstanding style. Then, they eventually married then divorced the first husband who fathered Aunt Doris. Unfortunately, it was an abusive relationship, and she was on her own before the meeting and marrying the love of her life Edwin Howells. Mom was born on December 25th, 1918. A year later, Uncle Bob was born on December 24th, 1919. 
After leaving the military, Mom's family decides to immigrate to Canada. There is land available to develop at a farm near Rainy River, Ontario. After a series of natural disasters and financial losses, the Howells family gives up, comes to Winnipeg, and Grandfather Edwin finds employment as a caretaker at the Canada Building. The position comes with a penthouse apartment for the family, and their lives move on. Tides turn when Mom is sixteen; Edwin suddenly dies of a heart attack. After Aunt Doris marries Hugh Dykes, she dies from the complications of a miscarriage that further devastates the family. With grandfather and Aunt Doris dying before my birth, all I know of them is through the retelling of events with Mom and Nanny. 
Mom says she feels Grandpa Edwin foster my love of nature and a natural tendency toward abstract thinking from the other side. Wherever it comes from, it feels right to me, and I like the idea that family members stay in touch once they leave our lives. During the early weeks and months after our move, I miss daily visits with Nanny. Mom approaches her about coming over every week to spend a few days with us to compensate for the separation, and I am delighted when Nanny agrees. 
I look forward to her visits and quality time together. We'd laugh and talk over meals, and I'd share the unique natural treasures. Having Nanny validate their importance adds to their significance for me. Those fleeting moments remain encapsulated treasures in time. All the while, the workings of my inner mind are an unrelenting curiosity machine. I pester adults with a constant stream of questions, "Why this or that? Who said so? Do they know what they think they know? Who made them an expert?" Is that the whole truth, or is there another side? I had to know that things are as they tell me or appear. So, I feel good that Mom and Nanny talk to me and do their best to answer my constant questioning.  Their approach fuels my need to know, and the acceptance fuels my need to keep taking bigger bites in my pie of life adventures.  
Our lives in St. Boniface were good for a few years. Then, in the fall of my ninth year, Nanny is with us during her weekly visit. Our day together begins with the usual morning routines. We chat over breakfast, and looking up at Nan with her stylish hat, I say, "You look so good in your hats, Nanny, and I appreciate that you encourage me to wear them too. I do because wearing hats makes me feel close to you when you are not here." She smiles her knowing smile, then says, "You wear them well too, my dear, and with the tams and little beret your Mom makes for you, you must have quite a collection."  
With a mouth full of toast, I nod rather than speak. After swallowing, I respond, "Some of my girlfriends like them too but don't feel comfortable enough to wear them, but I do, thanks to you. I like the way you wear them proudly." She reaches out, and I get up for a snuggle hug. "I hope you remember this. Never allow anyone to stop you from wearing your hats if they make you happy wearing them. Other people pass judgment on things that are none of their business. So be independent, not a follower." I move back, and she cups my face with both hands and says, "You are an enchanting girl; as I told you and your mother, be true to whom you are and follow your star." We hold a steady eye connection for a few moments, and then she says, I don't want you to be late for school, dear. I love you always and will look forward to coming back next week, same time, and same place. I kiss her forehead with another holding hug and part, saying, "I love you forever too, Nanny."  
I see her take a sip of tea with a final wave as I head to the hallway and back door. She follows, and with one last hug, we say, "Until the next time, I love you, bye-bye." I hear her response, and my heart fills with love and appreciation for this grand lady, my mentor, friend, and safe place, confidante. "Goodbye dear. Call me sometime this week." Going down the final step with a glance back, I see her face through the glass panes. There is stillness, and my body feels a slight chill as the image has a haunting feel. It is unsettling, so I push it aside and begin a slow walk down the lane towards the river path.  
The brisk morning air leaves crunch under my feet along familiar river trails. The musty smell of decaying debris along woodland trails fills the air with familiar autumn scents. Then, finally, a fall spectacle of brilliant oranges and yellows is a delight to behold. Finally, I arrive at school, and the day unfolds as usual. When classes end, I walk home filled with contentment and a deep appreciation for life. As I hit the back door, hang up my jacket, and drop my books, Mom encourages me to finish my homework, and I agree. It makes sense to get it done and have free time to play with friends after eating.  
Before I head to my room, Mom says, "Nanny stayed a little longer than usual, so Greg picked her up just before you got home. I wish she felt comfortable moving in here. It would be good for her; we are getting closer and having her here would give us more time to do things together. 
But I worry about her being alone in that small apartment." I go over and hug Mom for support. 
"I would like that too, and I know you have always wanted a stronger relationship with your 
Mom like I have with you. I hope Nanny will reconsider. Do you want me to work on her too?" Mom ruffles my hair and says, "You are a sweet charmer girl, but no, we have to let Nanny come to that decision when it feels right for her, okay?"  
Knowing Mom is right, I agree and pause, watching her puttering around in the kitchen, making healthy baked goods for snacks. The familiar smell of peanut-butter cookies fills the kitchen with promised delights. In a strange feeling, I sense a shift within the calm. Mom and I stop and look at each other when we hear Dad's old green Dodge pulling into the driveway. After driving Nanny home shortly before, four-thirty is an odd time for him to come home. Mom wipes her hands on a tea towel. She appears to sense something too and is worried as she says, "This doesn't feel right; why is Greg back so soon?" 

Dad comes in the back door, and the tone of his voice is the first clue that everything in my comfortable little world is changing. He calls our names with a frantic sense of urgency. Mom and I drop what we are doing and rush toward him. With the sun streaming in the back door, it obscures the expression on his face. There is an ominous feel to how his body casts a long shadow in the doorway. Mom intuits that something is wrong, and her raised voice breaks the silence, "Greg, what's wrong? What happened?" The story begins between wracking sobs and crushing alters reality in an instant. "I took Nanny home, leaving her on the stairs for a few moments while carrying her bags inside. She lies on the flat on her back on the sidewalk when I come out. Rushing outside and bent down and said her name. Nanny doesn't move." Dad gasps for air with a raspy in-breath, and then continues with an agonizing look. Mom and I are mesmerized, listening in disbelief as my father continue. "I do not know what to do, so I run back inside and call an ambulance. By the time they get there, it is too late." After examining her, they tell me she died instantly: nothing anyone could do. I can't believe it. Nanny lay there so still." The full impact doesn't fully register within a pause until the final statement, "Then they put her on a gurney and took her away." 
Dad sobs, and in a chillingly sober voice as he gasps, "Oh, God. It can't be happening; she truly is gone!" Time halts in freeze-frame suspension, and we are all frozen within it. At that moment, I feel nothing but an elongated emptiness within and incomprehensible disconnection. Has Nanny gone? How can that be? I saw her this morning. I hugged her, and she was fine. None of it makes sense. I could not believe this was happening, and then the image of her through the glass reminded me of the haunting feel, and I knew it was a slight suspicion of what had become our present reality. Reality shifts back to the current time as attention moves from a chasm of uncertainty within my mother's wailing cries. They rip through the time suspension, and reality hits with a punch in the gut. There are no words. Mom, Dad, and I move close and create a circle of a support group hug. The sense of overwhelming loss oozes down what was the familiar landscape of our lives, changing it forever.  
Sobs and tears breakthrough in waves of primal uncertainty that shreds the security in life I felt moments before. Tidal waves of inner conflict drag me into an abyss of spinning, uncontrollable emotion. Racking sobs fragment the silence as we all try to hold on to a familiar comfort zone that was there only moments before. My petite body is held within the clutching circle and provides a momentary feeling of safety. But unfortunately, there is no way to measure how long we hang on to each other.  
Finally, Mom breaks the unity by saying she must sit down. The cookies that smelled so good a lifetime ago fill the kitchen with a different scent as smoke curls around the edges of the oven. Mom rushes over, takes them out in a dissociated move, and burns her hand. Then, in a rare moment of profanity, she vents her emotions in outrage. "Shit, shit, and shit, what's the use, what is the use of anything? Nothing lasts and is never as it appears around here."  
As I watch my mother and her sudden statement of truth as she sees it, her admission has a chilling feel. It is so unlike her, and that unnerves me further. Mom, Dad, and I spin in our orbits as we struggle to make the shattered pieces fit in the aftermath of the separation. Dad pours a stiff drink and wanders into the living room, then absent-mindedly turns on the radio before slumping on the couch. Blondie is unsure of whom to go to first and decides to make a hasty retreat under the coffee table. Mom is rocking back and forth with folded arms in the corner. I do not know what to do when she moves and puts her head on the table, weeping alone without Dad making any effort to comfort her pain. It is an agonizing scene. I am in the middle of nowhere, flailing in a sea of tumultuous confusion.  
Felling ill-equipped to act, I retreat upstairs and crawl into the cubbyhole behind the walls. It is a solitary dark place matching where I am inside. The enveloping darkness mirrors the mood and energy permeating our home. Within agonizing solitude and clutching a favorite teddy tear out of desperation, I pour tears into a suffocating vortex of grief-stricken misery. Nanny was enchanting support; someone I knew, loved, and trusted was dead. Questions run around in my head. Why did Nanny abandon us? How will life feel without her unique presence? I know she loves me, so how can she leave us when we all love and need her here? Will Mommy be okay? I feel the void of my Nanny's comfortable presence as the loss registers more fully with each passing moment. The questions have no answers in the shadowy aftermath of my grandmother's rapid exit from the life we shared.  
Mom, Dad, and I do our best to handle the shock and grief differently during the following days. Initially, Mom and Uncle Bob mechanically prepare for Nanny's funeral. After the autopsy, they rule her passing as accidental death. The report indicates that my grandmother was a woman of size, and a few weeks away from her 65th birthday, she was in overall good health. The person at the other end of the phone tells Mom it is a tragedy because she probably would have lived for many more years in good health.  
That sad truth cannot change the reality that we all love her while knowing we will never share anything with her again. None of it makes sense to my befuddled nine-year-old brain. Finally, after planning and preparation, the day of Nanny's funeral arrives. Our parents feel Bobbie and I are too young to attend, so we are left to our own devices. Alone in the house, Bobbie and I talk about it. "I wish we could go with them. Maybe if we see Nanny in the coffin, we could feel things differently." I look her way and say, "How do you feel? It is happening too fast; I do not know how to feel. I had breakfast with her that morning, and by afternoon she is gone." Bobby and I stare at each other, feeling stuck without knowing how to break through vague feelings of emptiness and lack of emotion. She speaks first. "We should do something, but what? Then I ask, "How do you feel?" With eyes locked, Bobbie says, "I don't know. How about you?" We mirror each other's thoughts in short words, "I don't know either." There is a pause. Then she says, "I think we're supposed to cry." In the middle of the chaos, we toss the ball of uncertainty back and forth. "I know, yes, I think that is right; why can't we then?" Guilty feelings creep in, as I add. "Do you think we are bad because we aren't crying?" Searching for clarity, we continue with Bobbie adding, "I don't know. Do you think Nanny would want us to cry? Knowing Nanny the way I do, the difficulty continues, "Do you think? She always said she wants us to be happy." 
"Yeah, but she's gone now, and I think people cry when somebody dies, don't they? Then more overreach in our young hearts and minds, "Yes, but I never knew anyone who died before. Do you?" Looking down, we say in unison. "Nope." Bobbie and I continue our attempt to deal and feel, "This feels weird." Finally, with a slight smile, she says, "Yeah, it does, but what should we do?" Amid our uncertainty, I come up with a brainy idea. "Hey, what if we hit each with a hairbrush and make each other cry that way?" Bobbie agrees, so together, we climb the stairs to my bedroom sit facing each other on the bed surrounded by dolls and stuffed toys. Gazing intently into each other's eyes with clear intent, we commit to honoring our grandmother and find ways to shed tears over her passing.  
For some inexplicable reason, the tears are not there. Instead, the guilty feelings give us the confidence to determinedly pick up a brush and decide who would belt the other first. I volunteer to be on the receiving end while Bobbie draws her arm back in a child's warrior pose. Her posture looks slightly menacing as her eyes penetrate mine. In defense, my hand goes up as I try to prepare myself and tentatively say, "Wait! Let me get ready, and don't hit me too hard!"  
With eyes shut tight and a deep breath in, I ready myself. In the midst of it, I send loving thoughts to the spirit realm and silently say, "Nanny, this one's for you!" A moment later, the impending blow hits, and it is hard with a loud whack! The impact shoots stars inside my head, and my eyes dart open. Bobbie is waiting for a reaction with a smirk on her face, still clutching the brush in her hand. Touching the hilt, I feel a bump rising on my head. I start slapping Bobbie in swift circular rotations, yelling:" "Ouch, ouch, OUCH. You little twit that hurt!" Bobbie wards off my blows by covering her head with one of my teddy bears, hollering back, "Stop, stop. Don't hit me! You told me to do it for Nanny, remember?" That gets my attention, and we both stop sit back as we feel things shift.  
We wordlessly look into each other's eyes in a stilted moment of acknowledgment. Instead of crying, our antics strike the funny bone, and guttural sounds of little girl snorts and giggles fill the room. Bobbie and I roll around the bed laughing uproariously in uncensored glee. We throw stuffed toys at each other and bounce on the bed as we realize that all our attempts to instigate tears of grief fail miserably. The desired outcome shifts to tears of laughter until we feel spent with exhaustion and our tummies hurt. When the episode ends, we stop, sit up and stare into each other's eyes. Afterward, we embrace each other in a long, silent, knowing hug. Something within our little girl's reality shifted. Whatever occurred was enough. After that, my cousin and I take a bus downtown and wanders around the retail stores until later in the day. On the ride home, we do not revisit the events. With one last hug, we go back to our homes. In later chats, Bobbie and I share that none of our caregivers talk about their experiences at the funeral, and we pick up on the idea that it is not a comfortable place for any of us to go, so we don't.  
So at age nine, we have our experience with death and its impact. In the days and weeks following Nanny's passing, Mom does her best to help me adjust. She said she did not like going to funerals because she wanted to remember people as they were in life rather than the last image is how they look in death. We both believe that my grandmother's spirit will travel to invisible realms of existence to join Grandpa Edwin and her daughter Doris. There is a slight sense of comfort in seeing Nanny reunited with the love of her life, and it helps my grief to think of her in a happy place. I miss her presence in our lives.  
Mom and I comfort each other with the idea that the spirits of Nanny, Edwin, and Doris will become allies until we join them somewhere down the long road ahead. As pleasant as those thoughts are, they feel intangible, accepting that it is not the same as having Nanny's love and guidance in person. She had a way of putting things that made sense whenever I felt lost and confused. Nanny is missing, and the empty chair where she once sat is a constant reminder, we must carry on without her. Mom does not discuss her loss with me or anyone else in an oddity. From earlier conversations about her relationship with Nanny, Mom has unresolved feelings about both parents. Sometimes she was overly open with me while holding other emotions she never shares with women friends or family.  Yet, from early recollections, I am her chosen confidante. Mom does not hold anything back with me. In her telling, childhood experiences were painful and full of abuse from her father. She missed feeling understood and accepted and longed for greater emotional intimacy with Nanny. My mother craved Nanny's approval without receiving it in ways that met her point of need. When Nanny died, the chance to experience any of that left a void she could not fill.  
One thing I did learn growing up was how Mom's warrior-woman scars remain safely concealed within, refusing to discuss any of it with anyone except me. Mom seems to win approval and acceptance by giving more to others than she receives. I learn from watching my parents that they function through denial. In retrospect, it fits with the social climate of the time. During the fifties, society did not encourage airing family laundry. Men and women do whatever is necessary to build a life, raise children, and plan for the future. My parents settle into a conditioned existence that mirrors the times.  
I had no idea what my father's inner workings were. After Nanny died, he kept the door shut on any discussion about how he felt over the shock of her abrupt departure, even though he was the last person to see her alive. Whenever I asked about the day, the event, his response increased his emotional armor. He is emotionally unavailable, spends more time at work, drinking more until bedtime. When Mom and I talk, she reminds me that Dad was a heavy drinker and smoker. They went to the same school together, and she often says, "Greg was the bad boy instigator, and I knew that when we became childhood sweethearts. I knew what I was getting into then but did not think it would affect us the way it is now."  
In the months ahead, things are different from when I was younger. Dad used to enjoy a drink after work and more on the weekends or at parties. After Nanny dies, he has stronger drinks. Consequently, Dad is less communicative. After stiff drinks after dinner then lies s on the couch. Later, he gets up, staggers into the bedroom, and is gone until morning, when he leaves for work without saying much. The changes are another loss of a bond I once enjoyed with him. Dad was the one who taught me how to ice, roller skate, and how to balance on my bike. We also had Sunday evening traditions where we loved to lie on the floor and draw and color while Mom made sweet treats while we chatted together. After Nanny's death, the most important things to me are interesting to Dad. I miss having his input and find his dismissive attitude isolating.  
Dad wants to impress his father in the hope of taking over the family business when Gramps retires. Mom and I are no longer high on Dad's priority list. Instead of going for nature walks together at the lake, Dad prefers drinking, eating, and sleeping late. Meaningful exchanges of any kind dwindle as time moves on. Walks in the surrounding areas around the lake were still fulfilling but became a more solitary experience. Mom tries to fill the void and walks with me, but Dad's distancing impacts her. His side of the family avoids discussing the peculiarities in my father's behavior. His brothers, sisters, and parents ignore it, and we all carry on. Even when drinking to excess, Dad rarely fell, always remaining upright. Then he passes out and slips into oblivion. Despite the confusing changes at home, my time alone in nature gives me a comforting refuge. ]
  
Kids in my generation are active, and we enjoy a range of outdoor activities. As pre-pubescent teenagers, we romp and frolic in open woods surrounding the Seine River. We collect, inspect, and release butterflies, frogs, insects, crayfish, tadpoles, and minnows. My abiding fascination and respect for nature increase with each discovery. The only things we ever swatted were the things that invaded our bodies, like ticks and mosquitoes. On weekends friends and I sat around open campfires and sang silly kid songs. We roast wieners marshmallows and place potatoes in the embers. Once cooked, we pull them out, and the crispy skin is charred and tasty with added butter and salt.  
During those special times, my friends and I savored life and all it offered. We enjoy simple pleasures and carefree youth. St. Boniface has a lot of planned activities within the school, and the local community center provides a place to gather. They organized seasonal hay/sleigh rides and dances every weekend. It is an excellent place to jive, shimmy, and bebop within the emerging world of rock and roll. As young teens, we take unsupervised bus trips downtown to attend Saturday matinees for a nickel or a quarter and buy snacks for the same price. It is a tight knit community, and the adults often include kids when they have parties at our house. The Cunningham clan and some of our neighbors gathered at my parents' place every Saturday night. Mom and Dad made a large recreation room with a bar they built together in the basement. It provides ample space for dances and parties and is the principal gathering place for family and friends. My parents support my growing interest in music dance and willingly include lessons in tap, ballet, voice, guitar, and piano until I decide what I enjoy the most. They encourage me to perform for appreciative audiences at home parties, increasing my confidence and creative self-expression.  
My friends view Mom as the best activity co-coordinator on the block, making sure Christmas, Easter, Valentine's, and Halloween are magical, ceremonial events with all the trappings. Whether we are bobbing for apples in a large washbasin, making caramelized apples on a stick, playing musical chairs, or passing a lifesaver to each other on straws, Mom assures kid gatherings at our place are fun-filled events. When I thank her with some longing in her voice, she says, "I want to assure you that your life is full of enchantment, Dear. I know what it feels like not to have any of that when I was growing up." Upon reflection, I'm sure some of that came from her desire to compensate for Dad's growing problem with alcohol and his emotional distancing from both of us. As a result, Mom and I are becoming more dependent on each other. Yet, through time we develop a kind of 'you and me against the world' camaraderie that deepens through the years.  
During this period, global world tensions are escalating. The Cold War develops with uncertainties in West Germany and Japan. The Berlin Airlift, the Korean War, and the Suez Crisis escalated the Cold War arms race costs and kept the economy booming. Among the consequences, for better or worse, there is the increasing power of the American Presidency. Harry Truman made history more than Roosevelt, as they were exercising more power than any president since Lincoln. The Truman Doctrine of 1947 foretells more changes with the intent; "to support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation." Historians record events that benefited Europe but led to Vietnam. As events unfolded, Truman established NATO and sent U.S. troops to Korea and the explosion of the hydrogen bomb. 

I usually turn to adults to exchange ideas with my ever-inquiring mind. Many of my peers had siblings, and without them, I converse more with adults. Consequently, my peers are less exciting and do not share my interest in understanding the why of things. Rather than leaving me with a sitter, my parents take me along and include me in conversations. I am not a "seen but not heard kid." Being privy to discussions about world events inspires deeper thinking than most kids my age, and the influx of ideas fuels a quest for knowledge, understanding, and awareness. I examine things from different perspectives and challenge why people accept without questioning. Who decides this is the way they say it is.  
With growing tensions at home, there are times when interest in distant places and global concerns lessens. Instead, dad's drinking and the effect on life at home take up more attention. I cannot understand his mood shift between brooding intensity, cool detachment, and volatile outbursts. Whenever I feel like a refugee on hostile home turf, I head to woodland trails with faithful companion Blondie by my side.  
I wander and ponder questions about some ideas and strict thinking in churches.  Who said so? Why do people believe them? Some of my reasoning creates adverse reactions when I question things. Those close to ideas other than their own make predictable responses.  "Quit asking so many questions!" Or another one is: "Some things do not have answers, and you need to accept that." Other times, the retorts are: "You don't have to know why. Accept the way it is and get used to it." That does not suffice, so I keep querying until something fits. I grew up in a house divided where things are not as they appear. My parents avoid or deny what I pick up on early in life, and I decide not to get stuck because I cease to question things that feel "off." Whatever the inner reasons are, I am undaunted by reactions while holding to Scripture that says, "Ask, and you shall receive."  
More than at any time in history, humanity is facing a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness, the other to total extinction. Let us pray that we have the wisdom to choose correctly. 
-- Woody Allen