Hello Mutha, Hello Fatha

Here I am at...Camp Pennsyltucky

Well, I’m sitting in the Detroit Airport with my daughter as we wait for the next leg of our flight to Pennsylvania, my home state. We’ve made this pilgrimage three summers in a row and it’s becoming a tradition that we both look forward to more than we’d ever anticipated. 

• Station Break - (Flight in progress…omg we have ZERO legroom on this miniature toy plane. And apparently the AC is on the fritz in here because I kid you not, the flight attendant is walking up and down the aisle blowing her face with a personal fan. I told her I have the exact same fan in my bag and we looked deep into one another’s hot flashing souls as only menopausal women can…) 

Okay, I had to pause while we took the planes, trains, automobiles and covered wagons required to make the rest of today’s trek. But we’re finally HERE! YAY! And also, holy f*cking whew. I mean, it *only* takes a solid 9-10 hours to get here from Madison, WI. And that includes dodging the Amish dudes cruising in their buggies at a blazing 15 MPH while my mother cusses in her uniquely censored way: GOD BLESS US EVERYONE! WE JUST NEED TO GET TO THE G-D DOLLAR GENERAL! 

My mom and stepdad live near a tiny town in north central PA, at the exact intersection of the Appalachian and Adirondack mountain ranges. It’s gorgeous here - like, breathtakingly gorgeous. Which is wonderful because there is nothing to do. 

Okay, fine, there ARE some things to do. Like tonight, I ate an amazing fish fry at a local bar while simultaneously encouraging my 14-year old daughter to gamble on scratch-off cards because SHE NEEDS TO LEARN MY HERITAGE. (Btw, she won $20 on her first scratcher, an event that brought our family just as much joy as an outstanding report card. It’s called priorities, people.) 

Even though I’m here with my incredible mom, who I love and have missed dearly, I was strangely pulled earlier this week to focus some of this blog post on my dad, who passed away a few years ago. He was a wild card in his youth and, honestly, in most (all?) of his subsequent years. Even his death was a dramatic, sudden and shocking affair. But I was ultimately able to say goodbye to him in his final moments, something I’ll never regret. 

I’m thinking I’ll probably start writing about him in this post, but ultimately share a lot more in future posts. You know how things change on a dime? (Also, serious question: Do any of you know where that phrase “change on a dime” actually comes from? Because I don’t and it’s weird.) Anyway, things changed as the week wore on and I started to realize that coming home to my mom was where my energy and heart was focused. 

So I’ll just begin with the basics about my dad, with a true intention to fill in many blanks as these posts keep rollin.  

For now, here’s a nutshell beginning. As many of you amazing readers know, I was born in a group - later classified as a cult - called the Church of Bible Understanding (COBU). If you want more info on that mess, please refer to my podcast Cult Talk With Erin Martin on your podcast player. 

It seems very telling that I interviewed only my mom on the Cult Talk podcast, but refused to reach out to my dad - even off the record - for any information from his perspective. My dad and I were estranged throughout much of my adult life, but I kept track of where he was. 

And I know he attempted to keep track of me even if those attempts were feeble at best and downright bizarre at worst. Example: He texted me at one point in my mid-thirties to declare, “Hey, I lost your number honey…can you send it to me?” To which I answered, “um, whaaaaaaaah?”

Please tell me you’re feeling the pain and friggin confusion of that moment. Because the pain and confusion were indeed BROUGHTEN.

But this isn’t always who he was. He was a many things - a Kentucky boy rejected by his parents and raised by myriad willing relatives, a middle school dropout, a teen who ran from Florida to California to sell jewelry on the streets while really wishing his mother living in Hollywood would throw him a scrap of love, and a young man who was told on these same streets that Jesus would give him all the love he’d ever need if he’d only turn his entire life over to this *very hip* group of acolytes all beginning a communal revolution. 

That group was called the Forever Family (later renamed the Church of Bible Understanding…for obvious and unfortunate MANSON MURDER comparison reasons. Oops!). And it drew my father to the East Coast where he met a group of people willing to love-bomb him into a new kind of life. A life that probably felt warmer and safer than anything he’d known before, but sadly a life that would turn into the scariest experience he’d maybe ever face. 

When I think about these early years of my dad’s life, I wonder, would I have made the same decisions given his circumstances? Magic 8 Ball says: SIGNS POINT TO YES.  

And with all the weird and winding turns that my life has taken this past year (see previous blog post), I guess I’m trying to finally understand his life from a different perspective. Maybe from many different perspectives? As with pretty much all things these days, I just don’t know. But I’m willing to try.

DEAR BEAUTIFUL READERS: Thank you for being here! I still don’t know where I’m going with this, but I’m sure as hell glad you’re with me on the ride. More next week. Until then, please feel free to comment below! But as always, MAKE IT NICE HERE.

Love, 

Erin