Hallelujah

Despite all those fun things, in my pre-teen and teen years I suffered bouts of depression. The causes of the depression were threefold. One, I tried to be good enough to get to heaven and knew I fell short way too often, as was seen in my journal entries I included earlier.

Also in probably my pre-teen years Abby and I had read a book about a tragedy, which led to our making up our own similar stories. After months of telling these stories and Grandma Nancy’s daily prayers for protection from that type of tragedy, I chose to look up the actual definition of the tragedy. I remember going to get dressed with Abby for chores afterward and asking her, “Do you know how in our stories we are having the tragedy Grandma Nancy daily prays for protection from occur in the stories?”

To which Abby calmly said, “Yes.”

Her calmness, as if she did not care, made me mad and I told her, “Well I just realized it, and it makes me sick. I will not continue with such storytelling.” As Abby still seemed indifferent, I told her, “Well as you do not care how sinful our story time characters are, I am not going to listen to the countdown tonight then.” This countdown was a radio program with the twenty most popular songs of the week that Abby and I always listened to together.

Upon hearing that, Abby called out, “Ma, Grandma Nancy, Renata says she won’t listen to the countdown with me tonight.”

Ma or Grandma Nancy then reprimanded me. “You and Abby always listen to the countdown every week. Don’t be foolish and destroy this time together.

I remember thinking, If Ma and Grandma Nancy only knew, surely, they would have sided with me in this. But as I did not want to get Abby or I into trouble, I did as they asked but very unwillingly. For months after that, Abby and I would listen to the countdown together but that time together had been destroyed until Sammy Kershaw’s song, “I Can’t Reach Her Anymore” hit the top of the charts and we realized our friendship was more important than the fight. After my confronting Abby though, we never continued with making up stories though.

Another reason for my depression was because I seriously thought everyone in the world – except for probably my family – would be headed to hell, with the possible exception also of the Pope and Paul Harvey. This came as that was the impression Grandma Nancy would give and as she would always scold all of us kids and even Ma and Uncle Larry about not being able to make it to heaven where our deceased loved ones were, when we misbehaved or disobeyed her.

The third reason for my depression was due to seeing our farm falling apart due to financial strain and not being kept clean due to neglect. I remember how it started in the house with the entry room. Grandma Nancy put tape over the light switch as she had seen a spark from one of the lights so she did not want to take a chance on starting a fire. Then there were the pipes that burst, which Grandma Nancy refused to repair. Then she got tired of unclogging pipes so she started having us wash dishes and out hands in basins, which then would get carried outside and dumped which made washing anything lot less enjoyable so things like the bannister leading upstairs to start to get black with caked dirt. Next, the fuses kept being blown upstairs so she ran an extension cord from downstairs to the upstairs so we could have light up there. (All our radios had to be run on batteries because she did not trust the electrical sockets. Plus, she wanted to save electricity.) Then as she wanted us to enjoy living at home, Grandma Nancy decided to put aside her desire for us to keep the place looking neat and instead let us collect projects all over the house which made dusting and vacuuming extra difficult. (This collecting of projects was probably the last straw for me as the untidiness just overwhelmed me causing me to feel claustrophobic. It also is why hoarders break my heart as that is what our pile collections turned into.)

Meanwhile the barn was not faring much better. One part of the roof rotted pretty badly, destroying a lot of hay. The stalls and the cement holding them together started to fall apart. The shed barn cleaner either always froze or broke down, which meant Uncle Larry had to use his tractor with a bucket to haul the manure out, maybe monthly, except in the winter when the manure froze solid. This would require my sisters and me to shovel or fork out the stalls the next spring. Usually it was just Abby and me though. That was hard, back-breaking work. What got me were the times when Uncle Larry almost finished, but because he had bowling or some other activity off the farm, he would choose to leave a big manure mess which he would cover with good hay or a board to be able to access the animals or bring in hay for the cows. That was one of the things that finally prompted me to move out, but I am getting ahead of myself here. I will have more on my moving out later.