I started writing a little account about a childhood memory while at the DMV waiting for the results for the written test for my learner's permit. Yes, I let my Florida's driver's license expire, then I didn't do anything about it for over two years, so I got a non-driver's ID card, then finally I've gotten around to the whole teenager's process and I can't wait to drive my mom's souped-up station wagon with the wood veneer paneling. The written test was really easy. I've signed up for a driver's education course, and I've signed for a road test. In about six weeks, I'm going to be a legal driver in the state of New York, whereas I was driving illegally in New York and Florida. Please don't tell.

I'll finish the rest of this account tomorrow.

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My mom joined the church when we lived in Guam. This was my first conscious exposure to hymns. I was in kindergarten or 1st grade. I had been to Catholic mass a few times, but I don't recall much of the music there. My reading was good for my grade level, but I hadn't been exposed to much outside of Sesame Street. So when I opened one of those old brown hymn books for the very first time, I had no idea what kind of treat I was in for. 

We met in an old doublewide trailer. The living room/kitchen area was the chapel, and the other half of the building were bedrooms converted (ha!) into classrooms. It was Guam, so it was tropic. It probably wasn't very comfortable. I remember sitting off to the side of the chapel with my family our first Sunday. Singing hymns instantly became my favorite part of the sacrament meeting service. The pianist plunked away on that long-used, scratched-up piano, and everyone was singing along, together. It was just SO cool how those words and syllables went to notes on a staff and all the holy melodies I had experienced up to that point were lovely and catchy, and I wanted to have a hymnbook of my very own, so that I could learn the words. I didn't know how to read music back then, but boy, were my ears ever-so poised to catch and memorize every single note of those tunes.

One Sunday in particular, I was sitting at the back of the chapel, which bothered me, because  I liked being able to watch the chorister. I think my mom was pregnant with Frank - she might have been at home, and my dad probably had to help up front. I ended up sitting next to a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a full beard. He had a strong brow, and he seemed nice but quiet.