We'd go to the workhouse after services on Sunday. I hated the workhouse more than I hated church.
I didn’t hate the workhouse because my father was there. I hated it because I had to see him there. I didn’t hate him being there. When he was there he couldn’t slap my mother, beat us kids, or take my paper and shoe shine money.
We didn’t own a car so my uncle Bob would drive us. My mother, brother, and two sisters.
Sometimes the smell and motion made me sick. Sometimes we had to pull over so I could throw up.
He would be at a long table with a lot of other men seeing their families. He would tell my mother how sorry he was for whatever he was in for. She’d hold his hand and say she forgave him.
He always said he was counting the days until he would come home. So was I?
= new reply since forum marked as read
What a difficult childhood made worse by making you go to church and then have to visit your father at the workhouse every Sunday and act like everything was fine.
able to get over the fears of childhood that some of us have indured. I wish I could be as acceptant as you today. I wish I could not the let the past overwhelm me so much. I am happy for you friend that you seemed to have put it in it's place. I thought it was normal too.--there was alot I thought was normal. Only after I left did I realize it wasn't what I child needs and deserves. Bless you Turbo,
