I loved my Mother and Father with every fiber of my being – I didn’t always show it, but I know they knew, nevertheless.

Yet they filled my youth with stories of all of the things I could do, to get sent straight to Hell. They meant well, I’ll give them that – they were honestly and deeply concerned that I live my life in such a way that I earn a reservation in the Heaven they were certain existed. They loved me, I’ve no doubt.

Regrettably, their own education was limited – Dad finished fifth grade, Mom the seventh. They weren’t, to say the least, readers on a grand scale. They never read the Judeo-Christian Bible upon which they so fervently wished me to model my life. Instead, they (i.e., my Mom) went to church and chose to accept what the minister said as, well,…gospel. Neither the minister, nor my parents, ever questioned the veracity of that book upon which they believed their fate after death to lie – a book my parents never read.
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