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When I was in my early 40’s my older brother Bill came to visit me in Austin. electricity billy elliot lyrics We went to lunch with several of my women friends. Somehow over the course of the meal we got to talk about losing your virginity. It was a sweet memory for me, as I recalled a passionate escapade with my high school sweetheart. It was then much to my shock that Bill piped up that in fact he had been my first encounter when we were kids.

My immediate response was that he was full of shit. And then he relayed the story of luring me into a neighbor’s shed. A place we were forbidden to go. He went into a full accounting that ended with him throwing me out and slamming the shed door in my face. It was that one small detail about the door that sparked my memory and made me realize that in fact Bill was telling the truth.

You see, I do remember standing in front of that faded red door, feeling feelings I did not recognize. Often, I saw images of that door in my dreams. While I have no memory of what happened inside, I clearly remembered standing in front of that door with its red paint weathered and chipped. The hinges painted over with the same smear of red, rusted metal peeking through. It had happened to me. And since that was the only part I could remember I had to believe his story.

It seems for decades I had buried that part of me — buried that memory. Never told my mother or a teacher or a friend. origin electricity account Never told anyone I became involved with up to that point. I pushed it so deep inside I believed that it never happened. Even as a volunteer at the Austin Rape Crisis Center, I never thought of myself in terms of being a survivor. Yet there was this revelation in the middle of a Chinese restaurant with friends all around me — all of us shocked not only that it had happened, but at the casual, boastful way he told of my being raped.

Memories of events are hard to pin down. People often have different recollections of the same event. That doesn’t make one right and the other wrong. It can only be one’s own truth. electricity in the body causes This is why I’m so grateful to women who come forward with their truth, with their memories. I’m so sorry they had to go through these events, but am so grateful that they are able to put it into words and emotions — grateful that they have the courage to give voice to their memories of pain.

A nest of shredded colored paper layered the woven bottom where jellybeans would jiggle down to be found just when you thought all had been eaten. A full array of yellow and pink Peeps, shoulder to shoulder with petite foil-wrapped chocolate marshmallow bunnies, surrounded a large hollow bunny stamped to look just like the rabbits on the pages of our fairy tales.

After all the eggs had been found, like clockwork, our Aunt Ethel’s package would appear. My Grandfather Briar’s sister was considered to be an “Old Maid” — never married, no children and not really liberated. Her father had left her inheritance in a trust fund that didn’t provide for her by the 1950s, which required her to work in her later years. Of course, as kids we thought that we were the luckiest ones around to have an aunt who worked at the candy counter in Wanamaker’s.

Aunt Ethel’s Easter eggs came carefully cushioned in layers of white tissue paper creased and folded smooth. To protect the script names, each egg was individually wrapped in clear cellophane gathered and twisted on top secured with a thin strand of real ribbon tied into a small bow. There would be no fighting about who got which egg since they were clearly marked as yours. electricity jokes puns Names in white surrounded by new growth green vines, each tipped with crafted candy flower buds in pastels of yellow, blue or pink. Inside the thick chocolate coat was a mystery flavor, hidden until mom would slice each egg carefully with a knife too sharp for a child to wield. Chocolate, vanilla crème, coconut, or sometimes even tiny chunks of candied fruit glued together with white sweetness, only to be revealed then.

Not a very good cook, my mother would excel at Easter. Canned ham was spiked with whole cloves to hold up golden rings of pineapple — always packed in syrup back then, never in juice. Each empty center ready to be filled with a maraschino cherry tacked in place with the point of a toothpick. If you helped in the kitchen, chances were good that you would be rewarded with a taste of the coveted red cherry juice, sipped straight out of the jar. Baked sweet potatoes lost their tin-taste under a thick layer of gooey toasted marshmallows. Green beans would bathe in real butter, not oleo, for the holiday table. Of course no dessert was necessary. The Easter bunny’s bounty left plenty of sweets for us to eat all day and into the night. Once all the dishes were done we turned on the TV to watch the same show, all together, at the same time.

So, it’s no wonder that I love Easter time and all its many tastes. youtube electricity That the simple sight of grocery shelves loaded with sugar and chocolate transport me to a different time. A time when I was young and all was possible. When I could run like the wind and read without glasses. With my mother feeling accomplished, smiling and gay, and we were a family if only for that day.