Musings of a Magpie

So, I’m April; that cutie above in the orange with no time for your photo-op, sir. I have trees to climb and rocks to collect. It may surprise many, and in spite of my innate curious and free spirit, I am a self-proclaimed-practicing introvert; having been for a tad over 39 years now. Yes, I can see how there might be some confusion at first glance, with my bright and untamed red hair, multiple tattoos and somewhat askew world view, but alas it is true. Finally though, I have honed my craft and settled into my various roles in this life the universe has chosen for me. I am and becoming more and more comfortable in my own skin, allowing myself to decide who I am and the manner in which I choose to express it. I am the preverbial “old dog” that can’t learn new tricks; or rather won’t unless I feel so inclined, thank you very much. But this? This is just weird. I am middle-aged suddenly; the very same age my parents were when I really acknowledged their ages; not their birthdays, but their actual numeric ages. They had remained this age in my mind, up until recently actually. They seemed so old when I was a kid; so square; so boring; so predictable; so safe. You see, in the year 1981, I was born to a couple of high school sweethearts who seemed to trade their youth for a life of servitude for their faith by way of the Southern Baptist Church. Yes friends it’s true, I am a member of a very elite group: The 1980’s PK (Preacher’s Kid).

I vaguely recall a time before my dad had “accepted the call” and began his work as a full-time pastor when I was 4-years old. We lived in Knoxville, Tennessee, on what I remember as a huge plot of land in a single-wide aluminum trailer. I feel like I remember this place more vividly than I should, as I was a toddler. We drove a little white Ford, Pinto which my dad traded his Ranchero for. If that doesn’t make you cry, I don’t know what will. My Uncle Nate kept his boat there. It was blue and sparkly and I loved to climb up and pretend I was Pippi Longstocking on her father‘s pirate ship when no one was looking. There was even a donkey that lived up there who won the role of Pippi’s beloved horse, Alfonso. He wasn’t our donkey though, he just kind of hung out up there for some reason unimportant to a 4-year-old aspiring fictional character.

I remember my dad building a deck on the back of our home. He was working so hard and I was bouncing around, likely in his way, when I came upon a brilliant idea.

“Daddy,” I timidly began as he thoughtfully puffed on a cigarette. “If you quit smoking cigarettes, I won’t suck my thumb anymore.”

He looked over at me and without a word, dropped his smoke and squished it beneath his boot, nodding at me with a wink. With that we had an accord. I never saw him smoke again, but later we both confessed that we didn’t quit cold turkey.

My mother is an angel, with a mischievous streak. She has always been the life of the party; the kind of person with a whoopy cushion on their person for just the right occasion. She has an uncanny ability to calm the most turbulent moment with only the sound of her voice. I can still hear her in her lovely alto:

“Oooh child, things are gonna get easier. Oooh child, things’ll get brighter...”

I would lay my head in her lap and she would run her fingers through my long, long hair, usually catching a tangle or two my dad would have to cut out. She would often use the word “adventure” to describe our near-constant moving from church-to-church throughout the rural southeast.

My big brother, and later my little sister, and I did not share her sentiment. Thankfully we were always a buffer for each other when it came time to be “the new kid” again. I am so thankful for my big brother Hoss, who apparently inherited every cool gene, leaving none for little ole me. I was the queen of stretchy pants, long before that was an acceptable trouser choice, with gigantic glasses and thick frames before hipsters thought they invented “nerd-sheek”. This guy and I truly did have some adventures, that will described in full at a later time. Let me just say that it is a miracle that he still has all of his limbs and I have a full-set of teeth.

My little sister Carrie is eight years my junior. She screamed like a banshee from the moment she was born and is still going strong over 30 years later! I kid, I kid. She’s grown on me, but we have had some epic duels throughout our relationship. Now, all grown-up as well, her oldest daughter is eight-years older than her youngest. Don’t worry though, she will be my padawan.

I remember my parents were always busy, attending to the constant need or demand of the church. My mother, always deeply involved with childrens’ ministries and putting on plays and puppet shows. She was quiet, delicate, lovely and hilarious. Dad was more serious and rigid, leaving mom to often be his buffer. I am pretty sure he slept in a two-piece suit because he was always pressed and professional, with creases in his slacks so crisp they could probably stand without him and shoes so highly glossed I could see my reflection. He always seemed to find himself at the beckon-call of some of the most vile, itty-bitty grandmothers the south had to offer. They flaunted their stiff, blue bouffants that could easily burst into flames at the next candlelight vigil (ask Hoss about that one!), and a finely etched scowl that seemed to ask, “what is that dreadful smell?” Understandably, Mom and Dad would frequently reach burn-out and become frustrated at taking on too much, while attending school, working various jobs and raising a young family. We pressed on, continuing our tour of Southern-American culture, often sharing a yard with the church and cemetary.

So I’m all grown-up now, with my own children and responsibilities to prove it. I guess I am kind of the same as that small, awkward, freckled kid I used to be. I still wear overalls, prefer not to wear shoes, love nature and animals, to draw, write and create. I still have questions about everything and also need to know, “why?” or “how?”. My parents? Well, they finally started trading in some of that early investment of their youth. Today, my previously-perfectly-chiseled-square of a dad prefers jeans and a t-shirt to a suit and tie on Sunday mornings. He and Mom frequently take road trips from their home in Alabama on Aretha their Harley. They still take on too much and are much more generous than they should be, but finally really seem to have found this new magic together and are seeking an evolved version of the adventure they set out on so long ago, and I revel in it. I have wondered at times if they can see how they’ve grown and flourished. I am happy to share, they recently had the opportunity to survey our adventure on their most exciting road trip yet.

I‘ve been meaning to tell our story for so long, but was never sure how to begin. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to rewind and relive our grand adventure. There is so much to say and to remember. I hope I do it justice. My story begins here and you dear reader, are welcome to join me on this deep dive into my self-reflection of triumph and regret, success and failure, and getting to know myself along the way.

Mom was absoluety right and I quite enjoyed my childhood adventure for the most part. Let me be clear though: the life of a PK is not for the faint of heart. It can be quite demanding and downright lonely for a child. I have always marched to my own beat, had a vivid imagination and oh-so-many questions about everything. You can imagine my excitement upon receiving a quick text from my mom letting me know she and dad were about to hit the road again, but this time with a detailed motorcycle trek that would carry my parents to the foothills of Kentucky, tracing a timeline of our origin story; our Genesis, if you will. It was so amazing to relive this journey vicariously with my parents’ daily text messages and photos. They sent special texts for each of us, my siblings and I, as we waited eagerly for each group message in our thread. My favorite tree was still standing strong, and the apartment where I learned my new and now lifelong friend was in fact my neighbor looks eerily the same; frozen in time, waiting for the ghosts of two naive girls to arrive home from school together. How soul stirring to see all of these places I held so sacred in my heart, and to relive these times in such detail each night with my family. What an absolute gift it was for my parents to take us on this adventure, both then and now. I am honored to witness my parents living, loving and of course, still adventuring.

Longer ago than I prefer to admit, a young family from Knoxville, Tennessee hitched up their singlewide mobile home and set out into the unknown...