There really was no rest for the wicked, or even the non-wicked at our house. When I say my dad was a slave driver, I'm not totally exaggerating. Looking back now, I understand that there was a TON of work to be done in/on/around our house. However, I'm not the one who decided to buy a ramshackle 120 year old farmhouse. Also, we could have been asked a bit more politely to help out. You win more flies with sugar than vinegar.
Even on holidays, we were expected to be picking rocks out of the garden, carting away whatever old building had just been torn down, or, my personal favorite, being The Holder.
"Get over here and stand on this board," was a common request from Big Mike. If he needed help with sawing or hammering, my brother and I were the perfect weight. Many's the time I had to hold a piece of lumber while my father ran the power saw inches (if that) away from my fingers. It's a testament to his carpentry skills and my nerves that I have all the digits I was born with.
So here is Easter Sunday, 1987. A day of celebration and rest? Not in my house.
Sunday, April 19th
Today was full! All day I worked outside, cutting grass, etc. My back hurts so bad and I have to go to Peddler's Village tomorrow for the YF auction.
For those of you who know me, it may be a surprise that I went to church at all, let alone be involved in the Youth Fellowship. Again, I grew up in the country, and there weren't a lot of chances for socialization. I took whatever I could.
Peddler's Village is a sore on the ass of Solebury Township. Imagine a shopping village where New Yorkers and Philadelphians are BUSSED in. Unlike Boston in the 1970's, nobody protested or threw rocks. Chi-chi can only begin to describe it. At the time, I liked it. There were good restaurants (The Pig and.....Something) and some cool shops with crystals and suncatchers that I liked.