The church is small and white and is built into the side of a hill.

The pews are dark red and are dotted with crocheted throws, old Bibles, and baby toys.

The windows face just south enough to let a blinding amount of sun shine through during the Sunday sermon in late spring and early fall.

We have pitch-ins, baby showers, graduation parties, and Vacation Bible School in the shelter house that stands behind the church, up the hill, in front of the cemetery.

Every week, the minster asks if anyone has a song? Sister Mary reads us poems and excerpts and sings songs to us that we’ve never heard, and she doesn’t have the accompanying music, so it’s a capella, off-key, and amazing. Uncle Harry sings “Near the Cross” often, and we all sing along to his particular melody -- “til my rap-tured soul shall find rest bee-yond the ri-ver.”

We are having a foot-washing. Clyde and Flo are here. They are 100 years old if they are a day, and still as dapper as can be. Clyde, in his bomber jacket, and Flo sporting sassy lipstick and sassier spirit. For the foot-washing, we separate. Men to one room. Women to another. As the ladies chatter, and we nervously yet enthusiastically participate in this age-old tradition, Flo tells us how it is.

“Isn’t it just a like a man to spring this on a person? Men, they don’t think about some things. Like a woman wears pantyhose to church. When you get to be my age, you can’t just pull ‘em off so easily to do things like this. You’d think they would warn you. I'll just do it anyway, right through the stockings. Men, they just don’t think about some things.”

We are having a yard sale out front to raise money for a youth trip, or camp, or VBS. We start early. Fortunately, breakfast tastes even better when you eat it at church.

Sister Louise can’t have any sugar, but she loves coffee. It is in that moment that I learn that coffee doesn’t have sugar in it. It had never occurred to me. Occasionally, when I’m adding sugar to my coffee, I’ll remember that moment of clarity and see Sister Louise smiling at me.

We put on Christmas programs, and everyone who wants to gets a chance to sing. No auditions, and no one is left out here. We gather for weekly Youth Group, and giggle about things that are new to our developing bodies and minds.

We form bonds. We are a family. Nothing designates where my family ends and your family begins. We are all one.

My first concert!

Mom works at the Post Office. Sometimes, after school or on a Saturday, we get to go hang out “behind the scenes.” There is a sing-a-long tape of classic Christmas songs, with clay-mation Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, and The Island of Misfit Toys. We watch it over and over and over. Sometimes, there are treats at the table in the lunch area. Usually not, though.

I get to put bulk mail into the post office boxes from the inside, and sometimes a key turns from the outside and I hide from view. I don’t want to spoil it if the mail-seeker thinks all the letters get in there by magic.

There are rubber bands everywhere. And little plastic sleeves for your thumb to help you snag one piece of mail at a time, allowing you to keep sorting mail, even if your hands are dry.

Papaw also works at the Post Office. He’s a mailman. He gets there really, really early, sorts stuff for his route, loads up his car, and heads out on the road. He’s usually back to the post office by 2:00. And home by 3:30.

I love being “behind the scenes.” Seeing the different slots for “Local” or “Out of State” mail sorted, packages piled high. When Mom works the front counter, people buy stamps or send letters or come to pick up a package and she sends me back to the stacks to find it.

One day, Mom comes home from the Post Office and tells me she has a surprise. The Backstreet Boys are playing a concert in Indianapolis and one of the ladies from town came in to drop off a package and offered us her tickets to the show! Aah!

The Backstreet Boys are a big deal. Hearing “I Want It That Way” is the first time I ask Mom to keep it on that radio station in the car. I am in love with Brian. I know that he’s shorter than me. And from Kentucky. But I love him. I just know I’ll get to meet him at the concert!

We get to the concert a little late, which is the usual when you travel somewhere with Mom as the pilot. We sit next to tiny children who are way too tired to be surrounded by screaming adolescent girls. I can just make out the band members on stage, but I can see their faces on the huge screen facing our high, high balcony seats.

None of it matters. For one moment, Brian flies through the air in a harness; he looks right at me through that screen.

It is magical.

Nana, Sissy, and I are taking line dancing lessons. Well, we’re taking a lesson. Mike’s Dance Barn is out by Ski World on the way to Bloomington, so you have to be on your way there to get there. You never just end up at Mike’s Dance Barn on accident.

We wear jeans and tennis shoes. We don’t really know any line dances. We don’t even know all the music the live band is playing. We are beginners.

The others in the session are hardcore. Worn, scuffed boots. Blue jeans. Cowboy hats. Giant belt buckles. The men have handlebar mustaches and the women have large permed hair with tall, poofy bangs in the front.

We stand in two rows, facing each other. The man on stage calls out turns and steps and moves and I am beyond lost. I have no idea what I am supposed to be doing, but what I am doing is trying not to get stepped on or throw off anyone else’s groove.

Finally, it’s break time. Nana gives me some cash for the concession stand. Score! I get a soda and some candy and head back to the table where she and Sissy are sitting. The “barn” is set up with a dance floor in the center, the stage at the front. The entrance, bathrooms, and concessions are at the back of the dance floor. Along both sides, long tables with several chairs each line up along the walls next to the windows.

We have homecoming here. We have a winter dance here. And we have line dancing lessons here.

The band plays a note or two, signaling that it is almost time to get back at it. I look at Nana. She looks at me. I am done. Nothing in me has any desire to rejoin the herd, ending up a casualty in the synchronized stampede.

Instead, I make my way out to the car where I have my latest romance novel stashed in my backpack. I no longer care if the lessons last 10 hours straight. I have a book. I climb into The Jeep, stretch out in the backseat, and lose myself. I jump when someone taps on the glass.

It’s been an hour. The sunset a while ago. I’ve been reading by the security light through the car window. Nana and Sissy are sweaty and tired and feel all exhilarated from the dancing. They chatter and bicker good-naturedly all the way home.

Luckily, someone in the car behind us has really bright headlights. I hold up my novel and read by the glow of the low beams.

I guess line dancing isn’t so bad after all. 

Celebrating the New Year.

We watch I Love Lucy reruns from 10pm to midnight, sitting on Nana’s lap in the recliner. My brother on one side, me on the other. Papaw went to sleep ages ago. Mom and Dad are out celebrating at a party for grownups. All of the lights are off and it’s cozy and I barely make it until midnight. I am snuggled up in bed by 12:03 am.

An Elvis Presley marathon started at noon and lasts through the New Year. I watch Elvis sing in a convertible, wear leis and play a ukulele, blush awkwardly as a shy country boy asking out the prettiest girl in town. I stay up well past midnight. Everyone is in bed. I vow then and there to watch every single Elvis movie ever. A resolution, I guess.

Mom makes cheese and veggie trays. We fondue and dip bread and crackers in the chocolate. We string “Happy New Year!” banners across the living room and turn up Dick Clark as loud as we dare. Whistles, blowers, and streamers. Shiny gold and silver top hats are swapped and traded with the  shimmery paper tiaras that say “1999” or “2003.” Everyone gathers around the tv when we get within a few minutes of the new year. The ball finally starts to drop in Times Square and everyone is kissing and streamers are going everywhere. We blow our whistles and toot our horns and fight for the bathroom because all of the cheese and chocolate is leaving us in quite a bind.

The interesting thing about ringing in the New Year with the television set is watching them clean up afterwards. They show Times Square at 12:33am and it is barren. Trash is everywhere. Some lonely street sweeper is out there with a broom and a bag, cleaning up everyone’s mess. I hope he gets a big bonus on this night each year.

Finally old enough to go out for New Year’s! Four of us head out in the big, huge, gigantic city of Indianapolis. We pay $20 just to get in. I am simultaneously appalled and intrigued. We toast our “free” champagne at midnight. It is terrible. We see a man physically restraining and nearly abusing his girlfriend on the dance floor. Someone grabs my butt. We are done here.

My friend is hosting a New Year’s party in his penthouse overlooking The Circle in downtown Indianapolis. I ride the elevator all the way up. There are people everywhere. We pop bottles of champagne on the balcony and toast at midnight. My love is here. Champagne and a kiss at midnight? This is what I’ve waited for my whole life. It is just as magical as I ever expected.

My family keeps having chocolate and cheese and crackers. They call me when the ball drops. They post pictures of everyone wearing those silly, shiny hats and blowing the blowers. Nana and Papaw look exhausted by 10:30pm. Kids are passing out on the couch in the background.

I miss that.