says the state discourages this by making the paperwork daunting, but what they donât know, she says, is that she likes paperwork. She enjoys filling out forms and composing statements. She likes being put on hold. Resubmitting information sheâs already submitted blows her dress up, she says. Driving twenty minutes to get a document notarized makes her all tingly. And then if the notaryâs at lunch when my mom gets there, forget it.
Sheâs got a sense of humor, unlike my father. They moved here to get away from red tape, among many other things, but for my education, she says, she can weather the red tape. She administers book learning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays she encourages me to wander. She sets me loose with a pack of oatmeal bars. Iâm supposed to observe and reflect and interact and get some exercise. Huck Finning, she calls it.
My father says no one believes in miracles anymore, or in the impossible. He says the Catholics want to wax their cars and burn incense and the Baptists want guns and frozen yogurt. The corporate churches, in their newsletters, say weâre perpetrating a hoax. Newspapers from tourist-trap towns down on the coast have suggested weâre running a scam, trying to drum up tourism in tough times. What tourism? Besides the guy at the motel, what tourism? At first, people came off the highway and slowed their cars as they passed the sites, but thereâs not much to see, really, unless you appreciate that unearthly violence leaves profane scars. Weâve come to suspect that time spent here is stolen time, and precious.
We are an area of unnamed, interchangeable churches. We decide thingsin church. Votes are taken and the losers are gracious. We decline to deem people ignorant. We donât mind not knowing, donât ask questions and then get angry at the answers. We donât gather around anything that moves and beat it with sticks until money falls out. Our services arenât an excuse to figure out who you hate and who youâre supposed to vote for and what youâre supposed to wear. We took all the fun out of religion, is what my mom says. She says itâs better than razor wire for keeping out bad elements.
A kid who was in my class at school last year and his family were chosen. The kid was special at baseball. His arm was as skinny as anyoneâs, but he could throw runners out from deep in centerfield. He was a switch-hitter. Eleven years old, switch-hitting doubles off the fence. I wonder sometimes if, wherever he is now, they have baseball.
A family that ran a custom ball cap company was chosen. You still see people wearing the caps, each a one-of-a-kind.
A woman who lived alone.
A guy with a limp who ran a used-furniture shop.
An old-timer who was an assistant coach for FSU before Bobby Bowden came along and cleaned house.
The homes get tarped over right away by the church deacons. Since most everyone in the area has moved here from some other state, it takes the relations a couple days to arrive. They come and go without talking to anyone, carrying off the random remaining possessions. They are ashamed. They feel tricked. In the cold, crowded places these people come from, there is nothing more regrettable than being tricked.
The college-age kids leave, and the old people when their health fails and they need to be near hospitals. The parents and the children, we stay. This was decided in the churches, and the votes were not close. We will all stay until we all leave. Common sense has been propoundedâall places have their dangers, their earthquakes or tornadoes or robberies at knifepoint orgovernment-sanctioned poisonings or avalanches or wildfires or schizophrenics with machine guns. And then there are some who believe that when fate calls you, it wonât matter where you are.
People do ask why the little baseball star and his dimpled sister and his strict but patient parents were
Sheâs got a sense of humor, unlike my father. They moved here to get away from red tape, among many other things, but for my education, she says, she can weather the red tape. She administers book learning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays she encourages me to wander. She sets me loose with a pack of oatmeal bars. Iâm supposed to observe and reflect and interact and get some exercise. Huck Finning, she calls it.
My father says no one believes in miracles anymore, or in the impossible. He says the Catholics want to wax their cars and burn incense and the Baptists want guns and frozen yogurt. The corporate churches, in their newsletters, say weâre perpetrating a hoax. Newspapers from tourist-trap towns down on the coast have suggested weâre running a scam, trying to drum up tourism in tough times. What tourism? Besides the guy at the motel, what tourism? At first, people came off the highway and slowed their cars as they passed the sites, but thereâs not much to see, really, unless you appreciate that unearthly violence leaves profane scars. Weâve come to suspect that time spent here is stolen time, and precious.
We are an area of unnamed, interchangeable churches. We decide thingsin church. Votes are taken and the losers are gracious. We decline to deem people ignorant. We donât mind not knowing, donât ask questions and then get angry at the answers. We donât gather around anything that moves and beat it with sticks until money falls out. Our services arenât an excuse to figure out who you hate and who youâre supposed to vote for and what youâre supposed to wear. We took all the fun out of religion, is what my mom says. She says itâs better than razor wire for keeping out bad elements.
A kid who was in my class at school last year and his family were chosen. The kid was special at baseball. His arm was as skinny as anyoneâs, but he could throw runners out from deep in centerfield. He was a switch-hitter. Eleven years old, switch-hitting doubles off the fence. I wonder sometimes if, wherever he is now, they have baseball.
A family that ran a custom ball cap company was chosen. You still see people wearing the caps, each a one-of-a-kind.
A woman who lived alone.
A guy with a limp who ran a used-furniture shop.
An old-timer who was an assistant coach for FSU before Bobby Bowden came along and cleaned house.
The homes get tarped over right away by the church deacons. Since most everyone in the area has moved here from some other state, it takes the relations a couple days to arrive. They come and go without talking to anyone, carrying off the random remaining possessions. They are ashamed. They feel tricked. In the cold, crowded places these people come from, there is nothing more regrettable than being tricked.
The college-age kids leave, and the old people when their health fails and they need to be near hospitals. The parents and the children, we stay. This was decided in the churches, and the votes were not close. We will all stay until we all leave. Common sense has been propoundedâall places have their dangers, their earthquakes or tornadoes or robberies at knifepoint orgovernment-sanctioned poisonings or avalanches or wildfires or schizophrenics with machine guns. And then there are some who believe that when fate calls you, it wonât matter where you are.
People do ask why the little baseball star and his dimpled sister and his strict but patient parents were
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