lamenotlame

when I was about 7 or 8 years old, maybe 9 I dont really remember, the older lady next door had her son and his family move in with her for a few months. I think they were in a tight spot, new to town, couldn't find a job. The family consisted of a french canadian wife and two young sons around my age. At that age,whatever it was, proximity is the basis of most friendships, so for that summer they were my best friends. I think we all sported matching mushroom cuts (looking back, I spent most of my youth with regrettable haircuts. Lets not even get into the rats tail). They were an incredibly wholesome family; the dad was always playing the guitar and the boys sang along. The boys were mightily impressed by his guitar playing, so I was too. They said that it was his gift from God. They said that everybody got a gift from God, though you probably wouldn't know what it was until you were a grown-up. I asked my dad what his gift from God was. My dad pragmatically avoided the question, but I was a brat a wouldn't shut up about it, so he said farting. So for a brief period in my life, I believed that my Dad's prolific farting was a Gift from God. Interestingly, it wasn't that I realized that farting wasn't a gift from God, it was that I realized I didn't believe in God.