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Nearby the house that my family lived in between the years I was four and eight, there lived a family called the Bakers*. Their backyard adjoined onto the same orchard property that ours did, so by slipping along the treeline at the edge of the orchard, my brothers and I could quite handily arrive at the back entrance to their house.

The Bakers had a son who was considerably older than us, fourteen to my eight, with whom we often met up to play. His name was Lyle. Tall and skinny, with glasses and a mop of streaky-blond hair, he had a loud mouth and a definite antithesis to authority. His parents, both his very fat, loud mother, and his fat, bald, passive father, tried to keep him under control by screaming at him. Lyle would simply mouth off and do as he pleased. He had an older sister who was overweight and painfully shy, to whom he was unmercifully cruel; and a much quieter, better-behaved younger brother who sometimes joined our games.

My brothers and I, at that age, were not very choosy about our friends; especially as we didn't have many in the neighbourhood. We welcomed anyone who would play with us, no matter how unsavoury their character.

So we'd play baseball in Lyle's backyard; or legoes in his house (jeopardized by his family's constant fighting); or roam the orchard; or swing at our house. All was very fine and innocent until Lyle's friendship took an unexpected and unpleasant turn.

Lyle announced to us very suddenly one day that I was to be his girlfriend. What this meant was that I was now expected to hold his hand as we walked through the orchard.

I, having little choice in the matter, found holding his hand repulsive and would take the first opportunity to drop it, seemingly artlessly, as we walked along. I most certainly did not want to be Lyle's girlfriend but as long as his designs on me were so innocent I compromised, as children do, to continue the friendship.

However, Lyle's desires soon intensified. At the back of our house, conveniently out of sight of the windows, was an old carriage shed which was seldom if ever used. He began pressuring me to accompany him into the shed for extended periods of hugging and kissing. After all, I was his "girlfriend"; and it was his "right".

I did not want any part of this and I refused. But I hadn't counted on Lyle's personality. He would not take "no" for an answer and began using physical force to bend me to his will.

Thus began one of the most frightening periods of my life. To this day I cannot recall exactly how long it lasted. It might have been a couple of weeks; almost certainly it was no longer than a month. To a child time stretches forever so I am sure it stands in my mind as more than it was.

Going outside became hell. Once venturing outside the safety of my front door, I became helpless prey for a very capable predator.

Lyle would inevitably turn up soon after my brothers and I had gone out to play, swooping down on me like a hawk on a mouse. My brothers, God bless them, would try to defend me by throwing their bicycles into his path. But they were smaller than I and I was an eight-year-old girl and Lyle was a tall, long-legged and very strong teenager. He would run me down no matter how hard I fled, grab me, and physically drag me into the shed, despite my protests.

You might ask why my parents didn't notice something like this going on in their own backyard? I don't know the answer. Most of the time my parents were incredibly naive about our whereabouts. I think my mother was depressed for much of the time I was growing up and she was certainly never very well apprised of what was happening out of her sight.

I'm thankful that this period of time lasted so little as it did. If not, I am certain Lyle would have advanced well beyond what he did. Once inside the shed, he would force me to hold and to kiss him for long periods of time, probably imitating what he had seen on TV and in movies. Once, he wanted me to press my bare stomach against his as we kissed. I fought like fury at this but I well recall him overpowering me, pinning me down, unzipping my jacket, pulling up my shirt, and forcing me to do as he asked. I don't like to think what would have happened had he been allowed more time. Thankfully he wasn't.

One day I could stand no more of the terror and I told my mother. "Lyle makes me go into the shed with him and hug and kiss him," I complained. She asked few questions but the next time Lyle came over she confronted him. I well remember standing on our front porch between her in the doorway and him standing on the steps as she reiterated my charges. Loudly and vociferously he denied it all: absolutely untrue and unfair, gesturing in angry protest at such a travesty of justice: him, charged with what?! Something he would never think of!

"Well, OK, just see that nothing like that ever happens," said my mother, and retreated into the house and closed the door.

I was angry: furious and disappointed that he had lied; that she seemed to believe him rather than me; and that he had gotten off the hook. That was the end of the matter. My mother never mentioned it to me again but thankfully after that Lyle left me alone. We moved soon after that and as I recall that incident spelled the end of our friendship anyway.

Years later I learned that Lyle had died unexpectedly in his sleep of heart failure, at the age of 20. He had grown grossly fat and was a social outcast. I bear him no ill will but I do not necessarily mourn his death; I am afraid of what he might have done allowed to live longer. He was a bad combination of a complete lack of discipline and social ill-adjustment, who even at a young age seemed not to have a conscience. I wish that I could have extended him forgiveness, but I never had the chance.

*names changed

A few months ago, I spent a week living with a family who kindly offered to take me in when my then-residence was overrun by relatives, necessitating appropriation of every available sleeping space. So for a week I inhabited the second family's basement guest room.

Living with anyone is an interesting and educational experience: you quickly get an honest and intimate portrait of who they are as people that is simply not possible any other way. It is rawer, realer, and sometimes drastically different than their social face. In their accustomed habitat, it is impossible for people to hide themselves. Everything from eating habits to leisure time to handling conflict is an open book to those with whom you share living quarters.

This can be a good or a bad thing. The revelations range from the trivial (they eat a lot of sugary cereal) to the shocking (she's been viewing online dating profiles even though she has a boyfriend). Sometimes they can verge on the unbearable (she keeps using my things, leaving the window open in the freezing cold, and bossing me around about everything I do).

Having lived or stayed with many different people, for differing periods of time, over the past several years, I've had plenty of up-front opportunity to avail myself of this education in humanity.

But I digress.

One of the things that surprised me the most about this family I stayed with was the leisure-time habits of their three young boys. Ranging in age from five to eleven, they came home from school every afternoon and promptly flopped down in front of the TV. Flicking it on, they lost themselves in rapt contemplation of kids' programs, movies, or video games until bedtime. Even things like eating or doing homework seemed to be viewed as interruptions to tube time: they'd reluctantly get up, quickly do the task assigned, and released, flop back down in front of the TV. Nearly every waking moment not taken up by absolutely necessary functions was devoted to the television. I don't mean they did nothing else with their leisure time: but their attention almost inevitably gravitated toward the TV at any given opportunity, like some kind of invisible but invincible pull of natural law. Even though the weather was nice, I never saw them play outside.

I suppose the reason I was surprised was that it was so different from how my brothers and I grew up. One of the quirky policies of my family that I am thankful for (amid the many I am not), was the banning of television from our home. Even though it was done for reasons I would not necessarily agree with now, I am deeply grateful that it was because I'm convinced it contributed to our intellectual and physical development.

Deprived of mindless entertainment, we were forced to turn to other occupations. Every waking moment not taken up by school was spent outdoors when the weather was fine. Joining up with our neighbourhood friends, we organized ourselves into teams to play the sport of the moment (football, baseball, basketball, dodgeball, road hockey, 4-square, obstacle courses, hide-and-seek, or one of many others depending on our mood). Our choice aligned itself with whatever big-league play was on at the time or simply our latest fad. Apart from sports, we often constructed imaginary play scenarios and acted them out together, or built legoes and created elaborate storylines for them.

Even bad weather was no hindrance. On rainy days, we'd gather inside to play board games or just to talk. Winter presented us with unique possibilities: snow-fort construction, always striving for the biggest and the strongest. Snowball wars, divided up into teams and with rules about permitted materials (ice not included) and body zones to avoid (head shots didn't count). "Sledding" down the meager mounds we built from the snow shoveled off the driveway. When we couldn't feel our toes and fingers anymore, we'd collect inside to drink hot chocolate and play Monopoly.

Darkness didn't stop us. On those endless summer nights of fireflies and seductive warmth we amused ourselves with a much trickier variant of hide-and-seek called "flashlight tag". The person who was "it" wielded the flashlight, and anyone caught in its beam was out. This necessitated much more inventive hiding and commando-like sneaking through the brush. Strategies included black clothing and face paint for camouflage.

Sometimes, we'd just sit outside and look up at the stars and wonder at the universe.

The nearby creek represented endless discovery. Despite the shallowness in summer, we waded into the deepest part to "swim", carefully avoiding the multitudinous crayfish and their tiny but vicious pinches. We constructed dams out of rocks and congratulated ourselves on the deepness of the pools that resulted. We caught crayfish, utilizing the most accurate method (carefully and slowly sneak a net or container down behind them, then scare them from the front, making them shoot backwards). We netted small fish: once I kept a stickleback for several months, until it slowly nibbled away at a tadpole I added for company. We went fishing, despite the fact that our most impressive catches rarely registered over six inches. We waded across and explored the woods on the other side, using a downed tree as a "fort". Once three of our most adventurous friends constructed a raft and floated down the creek into the pond, nearly capsizing themselves in the process and having to be rescued.

We spent entire days hiking through the forest and swinging from the ponderous hairy vines that hung from the trees in a way that would have credited any tropical forest. We climbed trees: one in our yard was so perfect and climbed so frequently that I could swing up it as smoothly and as quickly as a monkey. One of my favorite spots to read was perched on the low branch of another tree. The giant willow with its two tire swings amused us endlessly until it came crashing down in an ill-fated windstorm.

There were also more solitary pursuits. I was an inveterate collector and our yard represented collector's paradise. We theorized that it must have been a colonial dump due to the number of glass bottles, porcelain pieces, doll parts, and rusted iron implements we dug up. Once I found an African coin complete with a full-masted clipper on one side and a hole through the top (sadly lost long ago). I had a lovely collection of intact glass soft drinks bottles, including Pepsi and the famous Coke bottle. Ours was also an area rich in fossils, and my entire room turned into a display of my prized collection. Finally, fed up with dirt and stray rock bits, my mother made me move the impromptu museum into the basement: a transgression I have only recently forgiven her for since they all disappeared.

Because we were solely responsible for coming up with our own entertainment, we were nearly unlimited in our inventiveness. My two younger brothers and I had to be forcibly pried away from spending every spare moment with our friends and outdoors. When we were (our parents were of the opinion that too much time with them wasn't good for us), we mourned. Nobody had to put us into a summer program, or convince us that physical activity was a good thing. We were lean and strong as whips and happily self-motivated. We got messy and dirty and cut and bruised and gloriously tired out. And we enjoyed it.

When I look back, this part of my childhood seems like paradise: the writer's dream of a long, lazy, free existence owned by a gang of kids who roam at will.

In a typical memory, it is summer. The sun has come up through the tree outside my window with the promise of another blazing-hot, perfect day. We will gather together with Casey, Mike, Dave, and if necessary, our wider circle of friends, and we'll plan what to do for the day. We'll pick teams, and go. All day long, until we are reluctantly called home for supper, we will play. We'll make plans to gather up again after supper. And we'll play again until our curfew cuts us off and we have to troop home, with assurances that we'll do it all again tomorrow.

I never thought I was old enough for this kind of nostalgia. But when I compare our healthy lifestyle with the children who spend most of their time in front of a computer or a TV, I feel very lucky indeed. We were fierce and wild and untameable, but mostly innocent, and we had lots of fun. Thanks to my parents, for one choice well made.

So my dad is one of my all time favorite people.

I don't have many early photos of my dad at my house but I came across these so I am going to share...

It sounds trite to say he is patient and he is kind but those are two words that always come to mind when I think of my dad. He has never raised his voice and never yelled (except FOR his children as we were playing sports and then he REALLY yells!) And no matter what situation we got ourselves into as kids (or continually as adults), he would always approach it with such ease, usually adding a joke to calm us down. I could only hope to be half the parent this man is.

Let's ignore the fact that it looks like I just ate a bag of Sour Patch Kids...

Growing up, my dad was always at every sporting event, every dance recital, every art show...if it was important to us, he made a point to be there. He has always put family first and I respect that. No one cares more about family than this man! We will barely be through our Thanksgiving supper and he is already planning Christmas!

Let's ignore the fact that my mom looks like a Stepford Wife! lol
Love you mom, you look gorgeous, just Stepford-y.

Speaking of Christmas, no one loves Christmas more than this man! I think he starts listening to Christmas music in September to gear up for the holiday. Again, I think part of the draw is more time with family. He takes the entire event in-the smells, the sounds, the tastes...I love to see Christmas through his eyes. Growing up, he would "play Santa" by handing out the gifts and he would make it last all day like from 8 am until 5 pm hanging on to every second, not wanting to let go, taking in every memory and capturing it with a photograph or a video or even a tape recorder depending on what decade it was! Of course at the time my brother and I groaned about it but now I couldn't be more thankful.

Let's ignore the fact that I have 90's Brook Shield eyebrows and dyeable shoes on.
Oh, I could go on about the things I want you to ignore but this is not about me...

I included this photo because I know it was a proud moment for my dad, when I was on Homecoming Court in high school, as it was something that him and I could do together (especially at a time when teenagers don't want to spend time with their parents) but what he doesn't know is that it was a proud moment for me also as I was able to show him off.

Let's ignore the fact that this isn't my best side..

I LOVE this photo of my dad!
We were tearing up the dance floor at my cousin's wedding. My dad has such a youthful spirit. Our family always jokes that he has an actual age and a mental age. He will play with my nephews as if he is one of them. When my brother was in college at UGA, he would wear khakis and a tie to the football games and hang out at the fraternity house (also his fraternity) like he was one of the guys. He is blissfully unaware that he doesn't belong which is ironically part of his charm.

If you know my dad, you know that he is a funny man. He cracks everyone up, especially himself which is one of my favorite things about him. He has a silent giggle where he puts his hand over his mouth when something is funny but you aren't really suppose to laugh...like if someone falls or says something inappropriate or does something embarrassing...kinda like a kid does...I love it, it makes me smile.

There is so much more I could say about my dad but I want to end on that note...the silent giggle.

Happy Father's Day, Dad...not sure you will ever see this because you don't have a "Blogging Machine" (his words) at home but I love you very much.

Eclectic Interior Design Group is a full-service design firm based in Charleston, South Carolina working on both residential and commercial spaces. Please email sidney@eclectic-idg.com for additional information.

Eclectic is a retail shop/design studio located in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina selling an array of vintage pieces, repurposed items, new products and locally made art with a fresh Modern meets Coastal aesthetic.

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You may (or may not!) have noticed that things have been a bit quiet around here lately. I've been focusing so much on getting work done I haven't found the time to update over here very often, or even visit all the blogs I regularly read and love (like yours!). I realised that it's sometimes too easy to let everything get on top of you and after a not so good first half to this year, I just jumped right into my work without allowing myself time to pause. As a freelancer there aren't any paid holidays or any allotted number of days off in a year. It's simple: if I don't work, I don't get paid. So I find it difficult to book time off and to allow myself to enjoy any time away from work without a horrible panicky, guilty feeling that I should be doing something. This can't be good! So, I've come to the agreement with myself that it's ok to take some time off every once in a while to just breathe. I'll be back here in a week or so, but for now I need to just... stop.
I'm looking forward to this much needed break and can't wait to come back refreshed and ready to go again, so I just hope I can learn how to switch off from it all (something I find insanely difficult). Does anyone have any tips or ways of doing this? Do you have any techniques of how to cope when a million things are spinning around in your head 24 hours a day? I'd love to hear them!
Until then...

I'm moving yet again this Saturday, which will mark the sixth place I've lived in just over a year. It's getting old, this moving, packing up and roving on when something about the place I'm in becomes unsuitable. Or intolerable. On the other hand, I'm kind of getting used to it, paring my possessions down to the absolutely barest minimum to avoid unnecessary haulage.

But this time, I'm feeling a little bad. And some guilt, or sadness, is creeping in.

It's because of my landlady. Shortly after moving in with her, I discovered her issues with serious depression. She's an older woman who trained for the bar and is a recognized lawyer. Or was. That is, until the creeping, overwhelming sadness took her over and forced her inside, living on disability, lying on a bare mattress all day and all night except when she ventures out for therapy sessions or psychiatric appointments, barricading herself around with hoarded possessions as if they could give her the security she craves. She lives all day in her underwear and a sloppy t-shirt or sweater, her gray hair stringy and unkempt, only trudging around to make herself coffee or something to eat. She rarely if ever cleans and dishes pile up in the sink to sit for days. I quickly learned that if I wanted something cleaned, I'd have to do it myself. Even if it wasn't my mess.

I liked her and we got along well; she is a clever and at times funny person, despite the marked slowness the depression causes in her physical movement and speech. I felt uneasy around her at times—the darkness surrounding her is almost palpable; and the bitterness she spewed whenever she talked about members of her family or someone who'd done her wrong was wince-inducing; but all the same she is a likeable person, markedly vulnerable but at the same time appealing. I brought several friends closer to her age to the house for an Indian takeout and included her, hoping she'd make connections. I invited her to church, but anything outside her proscribed circle was maddeningly fearsome.

I knew there were problems when I moved in; but at the same time, I was escaping an intolerable situation and was glad to find something that was within my price range and close to the town I worked in. I figured that because our living spaces were so separate, and the cleaning duty so light, it wouldn't affect me. Coming after the unyielding expectations of my previous landlord, this one's uninvolvement was a welcome relief.

But shortly after I moved in, my trouble sleeping began. I'd never had difficulty sleeping in my life before; I'd drop off within moments of lying down and sleep like the proverbial log till ten or twelve hours later, if duty or an alarm didn't intervene. Even thunderstorms and other loud noises didn't disturb me.

Sleep became difficult to obtain and light; I'd jolt awake early in the morning and have trouble falling back asleep. Formerly a notorious sleeper-in, I could no longer doze past seven in the morning, even on the weekends.

For a long time, I tossed off friends' suggestions that her mindset could be affecting me; but deep inside I knew better. I knew whatever darkness haunted her had somehow made me a target as well; not consciously but subconsciously, attacking me as I slept. The last straw really came when she bought a place of her own and we moved to a town twenty-five minutes' drive away. For the last three months I've only slept there; carrying my possessions in my car like a nomad for my working, church, and social life which stretches from early in the morning till past nine most nights, and all day on weekends.

I could possibly have tolerated it longer were it not for the practical implications. But too many factors are making it unthinkable to be there any longer. However, now that I'm moving out, a guilt and a sadness are creeping in. I think of her coping by herself. I wonder who's going to clean. Who's going to take out the garbage, or bring in the mail. Who's going to remind her about things that she should take care of by herself. Who's going to take care of the cat when she makes one of her frequent three- or four-day stays at the psychiatric hospital, as has just happened again. The poor cat, a desperately social animal, hates being left by himself, and I'm hardly ever home to pay attention to him. He was pathetically clingy and bouncily joyful to see me this morning, though I barely had time to cuddle him a bit and put food in his bowl before my morning rush to leave for work.

So I'll pray about what to do, leave her a note with my phone number, and take her up on her suggestion that we go out for Indian food one day. I can't help but pity her and wish that I could help, somehow, though I don't think my six-and-a-half month stay with her has made any real difference. I wish that it had. I wish that I wasn't forced to leave.

How many other people like her are out there? How many, living desperately sad and alone, without family and with few friends who are mostly there to pity and provide practical help when needed? It makes me wonder.

I have a habit of storing plastic bags, and, when I go to the supermarket to do my shopping, taking them along with me. This is to prevent myself receiving fifty gazillion more each and every time I shop which will carry my groceries for perhaps ten minutes between the store and my house and then go into a landfill somewhere to do their bit to clog up the biosphere for ten million years (do plastic bags ever break down?). This way, the idea goes, I will be doing my bit to save the environment and put a tiny finger in the very leaky dam that stands in the way of the flood of thousands and millions and trillions of plastic bags leaving supermarkets every day. Every day. Think of it. Think of how many they give you, then multiply that by how many people shop at your supermarket, and contemplate the staggering amount of plastic bag wastage that goes on at one supermarket alone. Then multiply that by all the stores in the world and, well—it's frightening.

I severely miss the supermarket I shopped at in Toronto, which charged you 5 cents per plastic bag. The bags were capacious and sturdy and if you had forgotten to bring some of your own, it was worthwhile buying a few because they could be stored up at home for the next trip or used as dandy garbage bags. Failing that, there was a helpful stash of empty cardboard boxes that produce and the like came in to be had for the taking, if you were driving or had the African habit of carrying things on your head. This served very nicely to keep to an absolute minimum the number of plastic bags leaving the store, and to encourage everyone to bring their own and to stuff them as fully as possible. It was a brilliant system. And since most of the people who shopped there were recent immigrants from India, Africa, the Middle East, China and the Caribbean, who knew about economy and whose cash flow was generally not overwhelming, people followed it scrupulously.

But, sadly, there is no supermarket like it, that I know of, in this area.

And so, at the checkout registers of the supermarkets, plastic bags flow as freely as water. Buying a pack of gum? Put it in a plastic bag. Bread? Has to go by itself in another plastic bag. Cans? Three of 'em will be put into a double-bagger. By the time it's over, fifty dollars' worth of groceries has procured you fifty bags to boot.

Most people are quite happy with this system. They stroll with their trollies stuffed full of bags to the car and take them home where presumably they keep some of them for cat litter and garbage bags and, I don't know, throw out the rest? I can't imagine one household creating a demand for that many plastic bags in one week, ever.

Cashiers and bag boys like giving you plastic bags. It is what they are used to. Your purchases can be swiftly and easily deposited into bags using the neat little hanging system they have by their counter and hoisted into your trolley for takeaway. They know by heart what things should go into what bags and how many things to put in each bag and what to double-bag and what needs to go by itself. They like their little system. It is safe, predictable, easy, quick, and they can do it without thinking. I don't blame them. It's their job.

And then along come I to put a monkey wrench into the works.

Because I politely request that they use the plastic bags that I've brought. Or if it's just one or two items I just say, "I don't need a bag, thanks." Most of the time they are in the midst of swift and automatic movement to deposit my purchases into a bag. And they have to stop, and re-calculate. And look at me as if either I've grown three heads and announced that I'll be commuting home in my spaceship, or as if they've had to take their brains out of park to deal with me and they are not very happy with the disruption to their routine.

Most of the time, they will politely comply. However, this is with varying degrees of success. Often, the bag boys don't realize that the giant canvas bag I carry my bags in is actually a BAG, and thus capable of stowing groceries in. So once I had a kind but befuddled bag boy give me new plastic bags in lieu of using the canvas one, which he folded neatly and returned to me. Once I told a cashier I didn't need the bag she'd put my purchase in, only for her to turn around and throw it out (I suppose it was unusable after holding a fleece jacket for all of three seconds).

Last time I went shopping, the cashier, who hadn't heard my request, swiftly stuffed the few remaining items the bag boy hadn't yet gotten to into three new plastic bags. Then, the bag boy, now having two of my original bags left over, kindly put them into ANOTHER plastic bag for me to take home! I was staggered. I don't know what kept me from saying anything because it lurched forward out of my protesting brain and then somehow got stopped at my tongue. I suppose it's fear of making a public scene, or being perceived as peculiar and idiosyncratic, or of annoying someone who is doing you a service by requesting them to do it in the manner you actually desire. Whatever it was, I didn't say anything, but I carefully and vengefully left those three or four extra bags in the trolley when I returned it. I don't know what happened to them. Probably they just got thrown out. But at least it wasn't me who did it.