Saturday Song: The Electric Light Orchestra, "Mr. Radio"

To most people, a radio is just a box which plays music or gives news reports. They have only a vague idea of how it receives signals and converts them into sound waves which our ears can hear.

But for me, my radio was my lifeline to the outside world. In my Deliverance from Jericho memoir, I wrote about how having my own radio made me feel a little less depressed at that institution.

One November afternoon in 1969, I happened to pick up a radio station from Edmonton, Alberta. Since my home town of Fort Saskatchewan was only twenty miles north of that city, I felt like I made contact with home by receiving that station.

The Electric Light Orchestra recorded a song about the comforting presence of a radio on their first album. I readily identified with it because of my experience at the blind school.

Hear this song here.

We Christians are also exiles, even though we've never set foot in heaven. But we do have a home waiting for us there when we die. John 14:2-3 (KJV) reminds us with the words of Jesus, "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

The Word of God is our lifeline to heaven, as is prayer. Just as I felt a connection to my home through receiving that station, so we have an assurance of better things to come. As the Apostle Paul wrote in Romans 8:18 (KJV), "For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us."

A day will come when this world will be replaced with a better one. Revelation 21:4 (KJV) tells us this wonderful news. "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

Just as I left Jericho Hill School and never returned to it, so we won't have to live in captivity anymore. We'll be united with Jesus and all the faithful who followed him.

So, what do you think of what I've written and this song? Please let me know in the box below.

On Monday, I'll post about another Bible verse which people misquote and misapply.

Saturday Song: 'Tar and Cement' by Verdelle Smith

Even though I was only nine years old when I heard this song on my mom's radio, it still touched my soul. This was because I had been sent from my home in the town of Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta to a school for blind children in the metropolis of Vancouver B.C.

In this song, the person left the familiarity of the small town for the money and excitement of the big city. Like many people, the grass seemed greener on the far side of the fence.

When the protagonist returned to that once-small town, it had become acres of tar and cement. Gone were the lilacs which perfumed the air. Gone was the child-like joy of running through the grass and enjoying merely being alive.

Fort Saskatchewan is now a city. Where a farmer's field and the town dump used to be is now a conglomeration of big box stores. And half of the forest at the creek where I used to play has become a parking lot for fast food joints and industries.

Even the vibrant downtown has been subdued because of big box stores siphoning off customers. And the Fort Hotel, one of my favourite landmarks, burned to the ground back in 2010.

As I've pointed out before, we can't relive the past. So what can we do? Follow the Apostle Paul's example. Philippians 3:13-14 (KJV)reads,  "Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."

BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT I'D SEE HER AGAIN

My sister Diane was a huge part of my childhood. In fact, she was the only one who really liked me back then. Neighbourhood kids threw stones and called me names so I didn't have any boys as pals.

I remember how we were free to walk all over our neighbourhood and even to stores in Fort Saskatchewan. We had no worries about perverts snatching children off the street. Neither did Mom need to constantly supervise us. We explored the creek, the golf course, and we even played by the water tower.

Diane also liked to teas me but in a friendly way. One of our play-fight arguments was our birthdays. For a few weeks, she was the same numerical age as I was. It was a running joke with us because I used to deny she was exactly the same age but she'd refute that. It was all in fun and nobody's feelings were hurt.

Diane also used to brag that she shared her birthday with John Lennon. Nobody famous that I knew of back then had the same birthday as me. Even so, I took vicarious pride in my sister and her birthday.

That idyllic state of affairs came to a sudden end when I was sent 500 miles from my home and family to Jericho Hill School. I was only allowed to visit home at Christmas and summer holidays. I was also allowed to visit my home for Easter three times. Diane was still fond of me, and I of her, but she found new kids to play with.

I still find it odd that Diane has been dead for more than ten years. I assumed we'd live far into our retirement years. God apparently had other plans when my beloved sister died of a rare liver disease. Paraphrasing the line in James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" song, I always thought that I'd see her one more time again.

Diane also was mentioned in all three of my memoirs. The first two are featured on the Bruce Atchison's books page. How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers until the end of October 2014.

NO TRAINS TO DERAIL MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT

I miss trains. There was a time here in Alberta when every little town was connected by rail. People rode trains to the cities to visit their doctors and get shopping done. Students visited home often on weekends or during college breaks. Trains which passed through the Rocky Mountains had a car with an observation deck so people could appreciate the grandeur of the scenery.

When I lived in Fort Saskatchewan during the early sixties, I rushed to the classroom emergency exit to watch the train go by. These big machines rumbling through town and blowing their whistles fascinated me. My teacher once remarked, "You act as if you haven't seen a train before."

During summer holidays, I stood near the tracks as freight trains rolled past. Diane, my sister and close friend, sometimes joined me. We counted the cars and tried to read what was painted on the sides as the rolling stock rushed past.

Sometimes the train would stop. Fortunately for all concerned, Diane and I heeded Mom's admonition not to crawl between the cars. Her graphic stories of children losing arms, legs, and even their lives acted as a profitable restraint against the foolish urge to try something stupid.

When I moved to Radway, a small hamlet an hour north-northeast of Edmonton in 2000, the train passed through at least once a week.  What memories it evoked each time it happened. Even when the train came in the middle of the night, I still felt nostalgic for those halcyon days of my youth when the passing of trains were a wonderful excuse to stand next to the tracks.

Owing to a grain elevator fire in 2009, the train no longer comes through the town. Even the siding where excess rolling stock was parked now sits abandoned. The once-gleaming rails now are rusting unused.

I mentioned the train passing through Radway in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. This engaging memoir of God's awesome providence is available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

A BOY'S LOVE FOR HIS FATHER

Little boys have a natural affinity for their fathers and I was no exception. I vividly remember desperately wanting to see where my dad worked and what he did there that was so top secret that I couldn't go along with him. Finally, I came up with a brilliant plan to solve this intriguing mystery once and for all.

On a clear and hot July day, I set out for the Sherrit Gordon plant, located less than a mile east of Fort Saskatchewan. Though I had some idea of where the plant was, and how to get there, I had no concept of how hot I'd get and how long of a walk it would be.

The glaring sun beat down on my head and made the recently poured tar on the highway stick to my feet. I persevered, keeping the goal of reaching that mysterious place called "work" in my mind.

After what seemed like hours, I arrived at the main gate of the plant. A man in a toll booth sort of thing asked where I was going. "To see my dad," I innocently said. I was told that I  couldn't and, after I begged him to let me in, he told me to wait until he called his boss about it.

I was escorted by one of the workers to his house while the booth attendant tried to find where my father worked in that large industrial complex. While I waited for my father, the man's wife washed the hardened tar and dirt from my tired feet and gave me some orange juice to drink. Later they took me to the police station for my dad to collect.

I felt quite fascinated, and a little frightened, as I sat on a chair by the desk officer. Having never seen a real police station before, I asked him a bunch of questions about prisoners and what the jail looked like inside. Thankfully the officer resisted the temptation to lock me in there.

Dad finally arrived, gave me a well-deserved swat on my bottom, and sent me to the car as he apologized for the inconvenience which I caused. I was heartbroken. I knew I'd done something wrong and yet I couldn't reconcile that with my desire to visit my father at work.

Once my dad got in the car and backed out of the police parking lot, I asked him, "We're still pals aren't we?" He chuckled and said, "Yes, we're still pals but I didn't like what you did." He then explained how dangerous such an industrial work place, such as his, was and that he couldn't get much work done if I was there. Though I couldn't understand much of what he told me, I was reassured that he still cared for me.

That cheered me up until we arrived home. Then I had to face the wrath of my mom who was highly displeased with my running off without telling her.

I'm hoping to write a memoir of those early years of my life for my family members and anybody else interested. The years I spent in a distant school for the blind are chronicled in Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School. Visit the Bruce Atchison's books page to read more about it.

A SACRED PLACE CALLED MILL CREEK

An article in the March edition of The Writer magazine got me thinking about "sacred spaces" in my past. After considerable thought, forests seem to be the places where I feel closest to God. There's something about being among tall trees, singing birds, and scurrying animals living out their lives that inspires a sense of awe in me.

As a child, I often played alone at Rose Creek, located east of the city of Fort Saskatchewan. Since neighbourhood children threw stones at me and called me "blindie" because of my thick eye glasses, I often explored the forest by the creek. Even today, the smell of the mud and the foliage evokes those long-ago memories.

When I was exiled to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind for months at a time, I fell in love with the forest and muddy plain behind the school. My imagination carried me out of the lonely anguish I felt as I envisaged myself being an explorer of the wilderness or an astronaut on an alien world. The frogs and pheasants I heard drew my soul into the animal stories our teachers read to us. How wonderful it would have been, I often thought, if those creatures could talk to me and be my friends.

As an adult, the North Saskatchewan river bank became a place where I could wander amid the trees and wildflowers, losing myself in thought. Once I found out there were paths along both sides of the river, I used my Friday afternoons off from work to explore them. My photo albums are filled with beautiful vistas and close-ups of the greenery there.

Then I discovered Mill Creek. It too has walking trails. Long ago, a mill had been built there and a railway track connected it to the main line. Back in the nineteen-eighties, the tracks were torn up and a cinder path replaced them. Like the river bank trails, I felt a sense of sublime wonder. Walking through the tall pines and poplars felt like being away from Edmonton's noise and haste. Squirrels and birds filled the air with their cries while the creek babbled happily to itself. After walking the trails, I felt reluctant to return to the mundane setting of my home.

Though the forest on my neighbour's land here in Radway is far from grand, the scents and colours of the leaves evoke wonderful memories. Spring is my favourite time of year because the pale green foliage exudes a delightful aroma. Autumn is a sad time, yet the gold of the leaves against the electric blue sky brings back happy memories of Rose Creek. Even so, none of these places holds the charm and wonder for me like Mill Creek.

I wrote about my love for the forests in Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School. I also mentioned the pleasant walks I took through the river valley in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers to learn more about how God marvelously led me to freedom from blasphemous teachings.

ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAMED BUNNY.

What a sad day July 26, 1973 was for my sisters and me. That was the day we were forced by the City of Fort Saskatchewan to have our dog, Bunny, put down. As Diane, Linda, and I walked home from the vet clinic without our canine companion, we wept all the way.

This whole string of events could have been avoided if somebody hadn't let Bunny run free. She seemed to always get out of our yard and roam the neighbourhood. No matter how Mom admonished us to keep Bunny inside unless she was on her chain, she often disappeared.

Bunny escaped one cloudy July evening but we thought nothing bad would happen. As in times past, Mom told Diane to go and find her again. My sister returned a half hour later with our dog and some bad news. A small child had teased Bunny and she nipped him. His mother went ballistic when she heard her son bawling. Not only did Diane receive the brunt of that woman's tirade but she called the bylaw officer. She claimed that Bunny was a vicious dog who attacked her innocent little boy.

The bylaw officer came the next day and took Bunny to the pound. The staff checked her for rabies and kept in isolation for two weeks.

Diane and I visited her once during that time. When Bunny saw us, she yelped hysterically and pawed at the bars of her cage. When Diane asked if Bunny could be let out for a while so we could comfort her, the woman on duty refused her request. We tried to pet our dog through the openings but it was of little comfort to her. When we left a few minutes later, we heard her frantic yelps for blocks as we walked home.

Though Bunny showed no signs of being rabid, the pound ordered her to be euthanized.

Mom didn't seem upset that our beloved dog was dead when we arrived home. I suspect she was glad not to have the burden of looking after her.

We, on the other hand, felt devastated. We loved Bunny, though we did play some fiendish tricks on her at times. She was faithful to the end, even obeying Diane's command to go down the hall and into the back room where her life would end.

I wrote about the day when Diane brought Bunny home in my Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School memoir. For more info about this book and my debut paperback, please check the links on the left hand side of this page.

SHARED MEMORIES SHARED NO LONGER

Have you ever noticed how precious it is to share memories with family members who experienced what you did? Diane was one such sibling. When we were young, my sister and I went everywhere together. Whether it was mischief or play, we enjoyed many happy hours exploring the small city of Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta.

Then the province's education officials decided that I couldn't be educated in public school, even though I passed the first grade. I was exiled to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver,British Columbia, five-hundred miles from all I knew and loved. As the years passed, Diane found local friends to take my place.

As we matured, we grew apart. She had her husband and later her children to occupy her attention. I had my various adult concerns that took up my time as well. Diane moved two-hundred-and-forty miles away to a city called North Battleford, Saskatchewan while I stayed in Edmonton. We visited each other on a few occasions but she was often too busy to reminisce about our carefree childhood days.

In the spring of 2004, Diane suffered from a disease called Budd-Chiari syndrome. This rare disease caused her blood to become sticky so that it clogged her liver's exit vein. My siblings and I expected her to recover after the two operations she had performed on her but, on July the third, her internal organs shut down.

Diane's funeral and interment were held at Rabbit Lake, Saskatchewan on the fourteenth. Leaving my three house bunnies alone was a concern for me but I decided that they could survive if I gave them enough food and water. Floppy managed well enough when I did that in September of 1993. When I visited friends in Portland, Oregon for three days, he was fine when I came home.

My half sister, Jentien, generously drove me to the funeral. That was such a big help since I was several thousand dollars in debt.

While Diane's relatives and I socialized afterward, I suddenly realized the extent of my loss. The only family member who had the same set of recollections as I had was gone. Roy was too young and Linda hadn't been born until I was sent to Jericho.

I wrote about Diane in my When a Man Loves a Rabbit: Learning and Living with Bunnies and Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School memoirs. My upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity paperback also contains recollections of the times I visited her in North Battleford.

A ROOM OF MY OWN

I feel sad whenever I hear about today's teenagers having to either share an apartment or stay at home with their parents. Property speculation has raised rents to where they are totally unaffordable for almost all young adults starting out on their own. Forty years ago, rooms were inexpensive and plentiful.

When I was sixteen, I attended a high school in Edmonton, Alberta, twenty miles from my home in Fort Saskatchewan. Special counsellors were tasked to help us blind and visually-impaired students with long reading assignments and filling in test papers.

One disadvantage of this arrangement for out-of-town students was having to rent a room. Normally, this would be of little consequence. In my particular case, I discovered that the landlady had some sort of fixation regarding me and my poor sight. Relations between us became strained to the point where I begged my mom to find me a new room to live in.

"There's a housekeeping room only a block from your school," she informed me as we ate supper one Friday evening. "It's only thirty-five dollars a month too. I'll come to the city and show you where it is."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "I'm getting so fed up with that stupid landlady coming in my room while I'm gone and even barging in when I'm there. She complains I'm too noisy, but her and her boyfriend shout and argue past eleven o'clock."

"Well, you won't have to worry about that, or her watching you through the window either."

"Yeah, she even listens at my door. I opened it once and found her standing there."

"That reminds me, where did that large carving knife I gave you go, huh? You didn't go and give it away, did you?"

"No, of course I didn't."

"Well, who took it then?"

"I don't know. The landlady was the only one who came into my place."

"Did you lock the door, huh? You didn't leave it open all the time so people could come in and steal stuff, did you?"

"Of course I locked it. The only person who came in there was the landlady."

"Oh, I just bet she stole that knife. It was such a nice one too."

"I think she might have taken that knife too," I thought as I ate. "She did con Mom out of the twenty-five dollar damage deposit because she cleaned the place for me."

The new furnished room that Mom found for me was cosy but what gave me the most happiness was that my new landlord and landlady never barged in or spied on me. If I muttered to myself or listened to music at a decent volume, nobody knocked on my door demanding answers.

In my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, I wrote about other authority figures who didn't respect my personal boundaries. To a lesser extent, I mentioned similar incidents in my two previous books. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about them.

THE EVOCATIVE SCENT OF COAL SMOKE.

Why do certain scents bring back strong memories? I'm told it's because part of our brain associates smells with events. Scientists suppose it's a hold-over from our primitive ancestors. To me, it's a way to effectively catalogue experiences.

One of my favourite scent/memory pairings is the faint odour of coal smoke and the memory of an old friend's shack. Scotty, as everybody called him, was a bachelor who lived on some undeveloped land in my home town of Fort Saskatchewan. Being elderly, he was like a foster grandfather to my sister and me.

We grew so fond of this kindly gentleman that we helped him with his chores. One of those was hauling coal in from his shed. Diane and I often squabbled over who would get to do the coveted chore.

On some winter afternoons, Diane and I visited Scotty on our way home from school. His stove, the only source of heat, radiated a welcoming warmth as we squatted next to it. Watching the flames and glowing embers through its air vents gave me a feeling of contentment that a forced air furnace never could.

As I wrote in Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), our beloved old friend passed away during a stormy winter night in 1964. His door blew open as he slept and ended his time on earth. I felt deeply saddened when Mom and Dad broke the news to me. Having never known either of my grandfathers, Scotty was the only senior adult who I related to then.

One of the houses here in Radway has a coal furnace, The scent of the smoke on the winter wind fills me with nostalgic memories as I walk to the post office and back home. My mind fills with images of my old friend, his cosy shack, and the winter afternoons Diane and I spent there.

HAPPINESS IS HAVING YOUR OWN BEDROOM

What a simple pleasure being in one's own private space is. As our family expanded and the three of us kids grew, the large bed upstairs no longer accommodated us like it once did.

Two years before I was sent to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind, my dad built a bedroom in the basement for my sister, Diane, and me. To a six-year-old boy who admired his less-than-perfect dad, this was a wonderful development.

Each weekday during the winter of 1962, I raced home from school during the lunch break to see what Dad had added to it. witnessing the progress he made thrilled me. I watched in fascination as he laid the floor boards down. Excitement filled me as he built the walls and hung sheetrock on them. When I asked why he was shoving pink blankets into the ceiling, he taught me about Fibreglass Pink insulation and how it kept out the cold. After a few coats of paint, it was done.

Diane and I were ecstatic the evening Dad let us into our new bedroom. Our excitement knew no bounds. We each had our own bed to sleep in. Additionally, our new room had robin's-egg blue walls, pinkish-brown floor tiles, and the wood trim was a natural pine colour.

But it wasn't ours to enter and leave as we pleased. Dad locked the door during the day and only let us in before bed. He claimed to have a magic key that would only work if we didn't peek. Diane disobeyed one evening and discovered that Dad just used a nail to disengage the lock.

From then on, we played happily in our own special place. Whenever my brother, Roy, was having one of his violent tantrums or my parents were fighting like caged animals, that bedroom became our sanctuary. During cold winter days, or when it was raining, Diane and I entertained ourselves there. Both of our parents resigned themselves to our steadfast wish to use the room for more than just a place to sleep.

Fifty years have come and gone since that thrilling evening when Dad presented our new bedroom to us. The house is now owned by strangers but I still remember it as it was in my childhood. If those people have children, I hope they enjoy our special hideaway as much as Diane and I did.

YOU KNOW YOUR DAD IS A CHEAPSKATE WHEN....

When children of middle income families apply for welfare because their parents are too stingy to give them enough to live on, it's disgraceful. Though the Bible does teach that we should honour our parents, it also says that a person who doesn't care for his own is worse than an infidel. At the risk of dishonouring my father, here's why I ended up on the dole.

In October of 1974, I visited the Alberta Social Services office. The woman who interviewed me that afternoon began by asking why I was applying for Social Assistance. I explained that I attended a high school in edmonton that had special counsellors. They were tasked with helping visually-impaired students by reading assignments onto tape and assisting them in filling out test papers. My parents lived in Fort Saskatchewan, twenty miles north of the city. Due to the rapid rise of inflation the previous year, my allowance from my father barely paid the rent or bought enough food to fill me.

I gave her my address but when she asked for my phone number, I admitted that I couldn't afford one. After she sent another woman to visit my tiny furnished room to ensure that I was telling the truth, she gave me food vouchers and a cheque for the next month's rent.

I felt humiliated the first time I purchased groceries with a voucher. People behind me sighed and shuffled their feet impatiently as the cashier filled out the form and had me sign it. In spite of that humiliation, I finally had enough food to satisfy my teenage apatite.

Once I cashed the cheque, I set about to make my life easier. I had a telephone installed, bought an orange cardigan, and began buying fresh produce rather than the cheapest items in the store. No longer did I have to buy mint jelly because it was twenty cents cheaper than a jar of jam. Meat became a regular part of my diet. I could even afford the occasional block of cheese. Though I was dependent on the government, having money for the good things in life cheered me greatly.

In my Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) and my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoirs, I mentioned my penury during those high school years. In upcoming blog posts, I'll be writing about topics that I could only hint at due to space limitations in those paperbacks. Read more about these compelling memoirs here. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about my books.

AN ODD SPOT FOR A GOOD TIME.

What was your favourite candy store? In 1969, a wonderful little shop opened in downtown Fort Saskatchewan. The vast selection of candies, chocolates, and potato chips dazzled us each time we entered the place.

In Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), I wrote of those wonderful days when my sisters and I strolled downtown, coins jingling in our pockets, envisioning those wonderful treats that would soon be ours.

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Though my family stayed home that summer, we were preoccupied with plenty of activities. A new candy and magazine store in town, called The Odd Spot, had opened. Whenever my siblings and I could beg some money from Mom or Dad, we would walk to the shop and then we would make our agonizing financial decisions. My sisters and I had a limited amount of money and far too many tempting choices.

My favourite candy was called Hippy Sippy. It came in a plastic bottle, had a straw to suck up the tiny coloured beads, and a badge was pinned to the label. Slogans like, "HIPPY SIPPY SAYS, HOW DOES THIS GRAB YOU?" were printed on each one.

Linda absolutely loved the new candy store. She chanted, "Odd Spot! Odd Spot!" whenever we put our shoes on to go uptown. Naturally, we needed to budget for her since children that age are incapable of knowing how little or much money can buy.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. Click here to read more about this compelling story. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't work.

The shock of an exiled child.

Forty Five years ago on Labour Day, I believed I was merely going to a new school. Being only seven years old, I had no notion of how far Vancouver, British Columbia was from my home in Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta. Consequently, I assumed the airplain ride would be part of my daily routine. When a young woman supervisor collected us at the airport and drove us to a large brick and concrete art deco building, I thought it was a hotel. In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I wrote of how the hard truth of my situation knocked all those naive notions out of my head. Here is an excerpt from the first chapter that tells how it happened.

I followed the rest of the boys back to the dorm after school. Doubtless, I thought, a grownup would soon be picking us up and taking us home. As it was a warm sunny afternoon, the wait was somewhat pleasant.

Becoming bored with hanging around the swings, next to the dorm, I asked one boy, "When will we be going home?” "Christmas," he said bluntly. I could not believe my ears. "You're joking!" I managed to blurt through the shock. "No, I'm not. We really have to stay here till December."

I felt utterly devastated. How could my parents betray and abandon me in such a far away place? Christmas seemed a million years away. What began as a wonderful adventure suddenly became a tragedy. I held back my tears, though I certainly felt like sobbing.

That was not the only shock I received that day. Miss Boyce sent everybody to bed at seven. I could not believe it. No one went to sleep at that hour of the evening. "This must be some sort of mistake," I thought, so I started to wander the hall.

"I told you to get back into bed!" Miss Boyce ordered.

"I want to play. The sun's still shining."

"Go back to bed and I mean it!" Miss Boyce barked.
I shuffled back into the bedroom feeling thoroughly defeated. With the sun blazing brightly outside, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep. To my surprise, I drifted off fairly quickly.

At my web page, you can read more about this memoir of my time at Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind as well as my debut memoir, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies). Please contact me via the web page for further details and watch this blog for more book excerpts. I also am on Facebook and Twitter. Additionally, I have a few videos on YouTube. See you there!