Our little town of 600 people was but a dot on the map. Other than a one year foray to the great and spacious San Joaquin Valley region of California when I was 10, due to dad's being transferred, I had very little exposure to the world. But that year was great. I saw great mountains, camped at elevation, redwoods, tasted pomegranates and olives from the trees they grew on, dodged black widows, explored and conquered the streets of a little town named Patterson.
When we first arrived, my brother Tim and I were very upset. We had been told in exageration by my dad's boss, that we would have a mountain in our back yard! And it was, kinda. But we thought it would be literally ours to control. But the disappointment faded as we discovered the joys of freedom. Dad worked and mom let us roam quite a lot. We swam in the city pool daily. Somewhere in the archives is a photo of myself, my sister, and my brother, displaying our tan lines. A little embarrassing, since dad made us pull our shorts down enough to reveal the tan. We looked like we had joined a new ethnic group by summer's end. The toehead caucasian had become a lot darker. But our little visit was not without 'spiritual guidance' for long. One day, a Saturday, the JW's showed up at our house. To this point I don't recall ever having seen or even heard of any Jw's in our new town. After a little small talk, the sister actually invited me out in service with her. I was sick that day, so couldn't go. But I recall the burning desire to do so. The guilt inside had built. I was only 10, yet I was already primed to understand that if I was not rejecting fleshly pleasure [biking, camping, swimming] I was headed for trouble with God. So, due to my persistence I think, Mom looked up the location for the meetings. I don't believe that there was a Kingdom Hall in that little town - but a book study group met in a Hispanic families' home. We attended a few meetings there, but never a Kingdom Hall. I remember going in service just once while in Patterson.
The embers had been stirred some. The fire was hidden below the coals, waiting to be brought to life. The seeds of willing sacrifice to this God of the Watchtower had been planted by this time for about 5 years, and I was only 10. I remember my brother and I discussing what we would do if we got to California and there were no Kingdom Halls there. How we would find a way to build one, for we knew God would bless our efforts. Of course we had no means to do such a thing. But it shows how deeply the indoctrination goes - even for those with a fairly limited exposure to the teachings and meetings. I think, looking back, that I could have been totally separated from Jehovah's Witnesses, my parents, literature, studies, and I would still have grown up to be a Witness. I was convinced, though young, that it was the 'Truth'. No one could have convinced me otherwise. I remember one time my mother cooking steak for supper. When she handed me my plate, I rejected it with anger. The steak had drained a bit after cooking and blood [or meat juices of some sort] had pooled under the meat. I firmly stated that I would not eat such a thing, as God Jehovah would not approve of eating blood. [My juvenile opinion was that if you cooked it longer the blood went away]. Mom cooked it longer and I ate.
I recall the near terror I felt for the American flag. It was abhorant to me. I turned away from it when I could. Once I found a little flag in the house, one of those little 4"x6" jobs you wave at parades. I carefully planned and carried out it's removal and quietly burned it in the backyard trash barrel, hoping no one would see it. I was so disgusted by it's presence in my home, that was the only action I could imagine doing in rectification. I recall how simple childhood moments could and did bring great guilt upon me. Once, while playing a friendly game of 'tag' with some kids in the neighborhood, I quite accidently reached out my hand and as I did so, my hand parted the buttocks of the girl next door as we ran. I felt shame for weeks, and fear that I was somehow condemned for that action. This shame did not come from my parents, neither one of which proved to be prudes on any level, as I became aware later in life. That guilt came from the Watchtower constant rants on the sins of the flesh.
Our move back to Indiana in 1966 put us back into contact with the Witnesses on a regular and more familiar way. We had another short burst of meeting attendance, then fell back to the former pattern of things. The 60's were filled with a lot of sensory intensity. I have vivid recollection of the day that John Kennedy died, the day Bobby Kennedy died, and the day I watched in horror as the streets of Detroit and Los Angeles were turned into an inferno during the riots of the late 60's. During that momentous time, I once again turned my eyes to the night sky, on that July night in 1969 to look at a moon that I knew hosted the first manned landing. I was once again in awe of space and flight. I was able to leave my body quietly behind as I pictured how marvelous it would be to have the opportunity to fly in space one day. Of course I knew that could never be, as the Watchtower was ever increasingly making us aware that the 'end' was imminent.
It was about this time - summer of 1969 - that I began to be drawn into a more serious attachment to the Watchtower society. A young man came to our home that summer. I had seen him before, but it was a while back, and he has been with his parents at my home. His name was Jim Olson. He was two years my senior, and had just obtained his drivers license I suppose, and was 'pioneering'. Earlier in that summer, in a moment of zeal, I had arisen early one Sunday morning, donned my meeting clothes, and had riden my bicycle 9 miles to the Kingdom Hall. I think I was crying out 'Hey, does anyone remember me? How about making me one of you?" But no one did seem to notice until Jim showed. He started a 'Bible study' with me, and we studied the Watchtower every week. He would come and pick me up for all the meetings, and before long I was going in service too. That study did not last long - I was primed and ready to go for a long time - someone finally took note.
In the following year, I got a little distracted. Hormones I suppose. We lived on the lake, and the pretty girls were everywhere. Still, I 'guarded my heart' from fornication, though not my mind entirely. I was in high school by then, and my grades took a little dive, due to trying to balance my hormones with my spiritual awakening. Still, I was known in the neighborhood as 'Preacher' and at school too. My brother was chasing girls and drugs. My sister was chasing boys and beer. My mom and dad were being mom and dad. We had a couple of parties at our house, live band and all, but I barely noticed by then. I was gone to school, or out in service most of the time. I was not baptized yet - but exceeded most of the publishers in the Kingdom Hall with service. I never missed a meeting. I was always studied up for the weekly lessons. I was becoming, part and parcel, the perfect little witness. By 1972 I was a core witness, but still not baptised. I attended the District Convention in Louisville Ky that year. Two 'brothers' from the Hall - Don Criswell and Marvin Olson [Jim's brother] and I teamed up and drove down, rented our own room in a boarding house. It was our first real 'adult' adventure away from home without parents for all of us.
We had a little excitement there; Don had already attended the convention in Jackson Michigan with his mom previous to this one. So he tended to leave the sessions early and drive around town, meeting us back in our room. On the third night of the assembly, Don came in literally shaking. He smiled wryly and said ' I just about got shot'. Then he laughed nervously as he told us that all the houses on the street look alike and he had tried to enter the wrong one by mistake. He looked up to see the home owner holding a pistol a few feet from his head. He backed away yelling ' Don't shoot lady, don't shoot.' We laughed about that then and later, but now I look back and see just how tragic matters might have been. Two months after the convention, in September, I stepped out of my car in the driveway, and my mom met me. She said ' You better just get in the car and head over to the Criswell's. Donnie was killed this morning in an automobile accident.' I rushed over, didn't know what to say, cried with the family a little and left. Life got a whole lot more serious then. I saw that some of us would not live into the New World. That death would snatch some of us before it got here. At the funeral we heard comfort in the idea that since Armageddon was just around the corner, Don would likely be among the first to resurrected. That was 35 years ago.
The following year, 1973, I was baptised in January. In the spring, my good friend Jimmy headed off to Bethel. His parents' long time dream of such a thing, had been realised. I don't think he really ever wanted to go, though there was initial excitement in the move. That summer, I was already pioneering, and we attended the International Assembly in Yankee Stadium. Life seemed exciting as we heard both Fred Franz and Nathan Knorr tell us repeatedly that the end was about here. The use of the date 1975 was not hidden. It was out in the open. I returned, all afire for the 'Kingdom'. Sometime just following the first of November, I was standing in front of Publix Cafe, washing the windows [ironic], when a fellow Witness stopped out front and approached me. He told me that my friend, Jimmy Olson, was dead. He had fallen from atop one of the Bethel buildings, lay there for a few days before he was found. Two of my best friends had died in about a years time. I had two to wait on in the resurrection now. If my personal zeal had no been enough, these events drew me even closer to the organization. No one, nothing, could ever have convinced me at that moment in my life, that what I believed with all my heart was not the 'Truth'. The combination of my personal determination, and subsequent events that cemented the need for the Kingdom, and the constant rhetorical references to 1975 made sure of that. What had begun as a child's fantasy, fueled by time and circumstance, had become a prison of indoctrination that would last for the next 3 decades.