Growing up PK

Okay, so I really didn’t grow up as a preacher’s kid. I think I fall into the same class, however. In fact, I may have had it a wee bit worse. You see, I grew up as the daughter of southern gospel music parents.

From very early on in my childhood, weekends were filled with my parents and my aunt and uncle playing and singing, smoking, and recording the country music songs they had written, along with the cover songs of other well-known artists. They would set up their higher-than-average-quality reel to reel recorder, their “Quiet!!! Recording in Session” sign, and their ever-present supply of cigarettes. They were set for the weekend. (Just for the record, my mother didn’t smoke).

I didn’t begrudge them this time. Far from it! That usually meant more freedom for me as a kid, to come and go as I pleased and hang out with my friends…as long as I was quiet when I came home.

When I was 11 years old my country-music-loving parents made the change to southern gospel because of a series of events that led them to a closer walk with God. And the gig was on!

Just so we’re clear, I did begrudge them other things. Oh yeah, I had plenty of issues. Issues that ranked from spending weekends at my grandparents’ house with nothing to do, and even more so, spending time at my aunt and uncle’s house, also with nothing to do (I was the only girl of 5 rowdy boys); to visiting backwoods country churches with no indoor plumbing!

I was a picky eater as a kid. I ate meat, potatoes and bread…end of story. Oh, and candy. When we travelled to these churches they were infamous for having “Dinner on the Grounds” which translates to potluck, emphasis on the luck if you were a picky eater.

There were usually some “safe” foods there to choose from; Sunbeam loaves of bread and buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I would usually go for the chicken. One not so fond memory I have is of the time I placed the piece of chicken that I retrieved from the bucket onto my paper plate. I noticed this piece of chicken didn’t quite look like what the Colonel had in mind. I hesitantly and suspiciously took a bite and to my utter surprise and horror it was so NOT KFC. I was disgusted! I was shocked that someone would stoop to putting their own fried chicken into the Colonel’s bucket! I was livid! It was enough to make me curse…which I did, at a later date, at a different church, the daughter of the gospel singers. But that is another story for another time.

Not sure what prompted the urge to take a stroll down memory lane. As I look back now, it wasn’t so bad, but then again, you really shouldn’t mess with a person’s chicken.

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