Mom, I can Carry that Pumpkin

The shopping trip

Shopping with Mom was rewarding, especially before Halloween. There were treats—a box of mini chocolate bars. I’d thank her, and she’d say,

“You can have some when we get home.” I would agree, even though waiting was never easy for me. Anyone who knows me knows I’m not great at that. Kevin is waiting for chocolate? Not likely.

I was twelve. I was trying to be more grown-up. I was learning about patience. I had even saved some Halloween candy for weeks, though I always ate my favorites first and left the ones I didn’t like for last.

I was a kid. That was my job.

That year, I wanted to show Mom I was stronger. I spotted a giant pumpkin at the store. “I want to carry that one home.”

She looked at it and then at me. “That’s a pretty heavy pumpkin, Kevin. Are you sure?”

“No problem, Mom. I can do it.” I wanted to believe it, even though I wasn’t sure.

I thought, “What if I drop it? No, Kevin. Don’t do that.”

The present blurs with the past. That is what happens with PTSD. I would not be diagnosed with it by a psychiatrist until I was in my early fifties.

Which pumpkin would be the perfect one? 

The belief that I would fail at this simple task was rooted in the childhood abuse I received from my father, Jim. He had schizophrenia. Dad would be kind one moment; the next, he would unleash cruelty. His words cut deep. “Kevin, your brother is smarter than you’ll ever be. You’ll always be a failure. Why are you so awkward that you can’t tie your shoes?”

The larger question was this: “Why didn’t I protect my mother, June, from being beaten?”

I came home one day from school at age 11. “Mom, I’m home.” I dropped my backpack and closed the door. “Mom, I’m home. Where are you?”

I started searching every room. As I went through the dining room, my eye was caught by the beautiful inlaid patio stones. Mom had laid each stone precisely the same distance from its neighbors. Even now, Mom’s attention to detail made me smile.

My smile faded as I continued to search. “Mom! Mom!”

Now my heart was pounding. Thump. Thump. Thump. I could feel my chest vibrate. My breath caught in my throat. My hands began to sweat. What had Dad done to her this time? Where did he hide her? Anger combined with panic. Where is he? Will he hit me if he sees me? That thought gave me pause. My legs start to shake, and my stomach hurts so bad.

Later, there would be time for revenge. But right now, I have to find Mom.

The vow

Then, in the icy stillness, I heard my mother crying. Her voice is full of despair. I listen to her faint voice, “Kevin.” There is relief that Mom is still alive. Dad didn’t murder her. I console myself that I could deal with anything, but suppose I had determined that I would carry out the vow I had made to darkness that my father’s death would be slow and painful. I would provoke him into rage by saying he isn’t a man. He is a coward.

That would do it. Then, as Jim lunges at me, I plunge a knife into his stomach with a quick upper thrust. I stand over him and watch him die.

I didn’t care that killing my father would have ruined my life. It would have broken Mom’s heart to see her youngest son, Kevin, whom she affectionately called Kevi, go to a youth reformatory and possibly incarceration in an adult prison when I turned 18.

I would fulfill my promise, as I stayed up late with insomnia, going through all the ways I had seen in TV movies, for the villain to slay an individual they hated or who knew too much.

One by one, I consider the methods of murdering my father. Rat poison. Too quick. Strangulation. I’m not strong enough. An accident, involving a hidden fishing line, occurs when I place it on the top of the basement stairs. Too difficult. Far from a guaranteed result of his death. But to dispatch my father with an agonizingly slow torture with a knife wound. He bleeds out. I wait until I hear no heartbeat as I listen to his chest. I delay calling 911 until he stops breathing. The paramedics are too late. He doesn’t get another opportunity to abuse my brother, Brian, either.

Golden son

He endured a different kind of harm that came with his father’s demanding, unreasonable expectations. He gave him the role of being the golden son, who could do no wrong. In that way, our father set Brian up to fail. There was no way in which he could be perfect.

Dad was vicious to Brian by comparing him to me. He was four years older than me. Kevin is dumb; you are clever. Brian is an athlete; Kevin is a klutz. Brian, I’m proud of you; Kevin, you’re a disappointment.

Dad competing with my grandfather

My sisters, Judy and Valerie, were married. Mom, Dad, Brian, and I were living together in Owen Sound. In a manic state, our father sold our large home in the small town of Thornbury and the double lots for a fraction of their value. One of the ways the mental illness showed itself was that he had problems with impulse control. He had to have whatever he desired. One of the things he bought was a blacksmith shop, which included a barn, for $2,000. That doesn’t sound like much today, but $2,000 Canadian in the early 1970s would be worth over $12,300 today. 1

Jim knew nothing about being a blacksmith. I wonder, as I write this story, whether he might have been trying to show that he was as capable at that as our grandfather, Sandford Dobson. It was one of the things Sandy did to support his family during the Great Depression. He also threshed hay for 50 cents a day.

Jim felt he hadn’t received an education like the one the man we affectionately called Bompa had. Sandy took a correspondence course in engineering to operate and maintain boilers. He drove what was then a three-day or more trip to write multiple exams in Toronto. He passed all his tests. He helped another fellow who was failing his engineering exams to pass them.

Our father couldn’t say he had been a soldier. Sandy was. He lied about his age in World War 1 to enlist in the Canadian Expedition Forces. This was the forerunner to the Canadian Armed Forces. Bompa was only 17.

Photo of Senior Private Sandford Dobson, Canadian Expeditionary Force

Jim couldn’t say he had served Canada with honor. Sandy could. He received a medal from what was then Redwing Township in Ontario for duty nobly done. I have it as a gift from our Nanna among my collection of coins. The coins show that Bompa had been in France, Italy, and other countries. That must have been quite the adventure for a young man from the country.

Grandpa experiences losing a platoon buddy

Bompa also experienced the horror of war and the pain of losing a friend, a comrade in arms. Bompa didn’t talk much about his war experience. What our family knows from what our nanna, Mary, told us is that Sandy was with his buddy, who was also from a small country town. There was a lull in the battle. Sandy was talking with him one moment. He wondered why there was no response. He called out to his friend. No answer. He touched him on his shoulder to get his attention. No movement. No sound of his voice. No laughter. Then, his buddy slumped over as he shook him a little bit. He had been shot. He listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. He was dead.

The suffering in conflict

Jim couldn’t speak of the suffering of war. Bompa was exposed to mustard gas. Although he was wearing a mask, it was useless in protecting soldiers. The mustard gas would burn through the mask. The toxic gas seeped into Bompa’s respiratory system.

An unrealized dream

Our father had the potential to become an aeronautical engineer. In high school, he showed he had a sharp mind. He achieved high marks in the sciences and mathematics. Many who interacted with him said he displayed a quick wit.

Mom got pregnant with Valerie at age 17. June dropped out of high school to marry Jim.

Our father was offered a job by his father, Bill, repairing televisions, stereos, and radios. Osborne TV, founded by Bill, was the first store in the area to break into the new medium of TV.

Proud of my father

Jim worked long days. He would come home exhausted. His tool belt would be on him. They were the tools of his trade. When Dad was more himself, I would greet him with a hug. He would smile.

Jim didn’t understand that I was proud of him for working hard to support his family. It didn’t matter to me that he had no degree. Later, as I got older, I was sad for him that he never got to have his dreams. When he could have gone to university to become an aeronautical engineer, psychiatrists ordered that he receive electroconvulsive therapy treatments to treat his schizophrenia. Those treating Dad stole his agile and brilliant mind. That’s how they treated schizophrenia and severe mental illness as late as the 1960s. It reduced Dad’s aggressiveness at the expense of his docility. He no longer had the sharpness in his mind for aeronautical studies. In fairness to those who treated our father, pharmacologically treating the schizophrenia with lithium alone didn’t reduce Jim’s aggressiveness enough. Thankfully, more effective medications have been developed to better treat schizophrenia. Electroconvulsive therapy is still used when medications alone don’t control schizophrenia and severe mental illness.

Fading into the background

When I saw Jim’s loving side, I tried to tell him how proud I was of him. Unfortunately, his emotional volatility was increasing. I was seeing less of the father I loved and more of the parent I had to protect myself from by being quiet and fading into the background. Perhaps if he didn’t notice me, I wouldn’t be exposed to Jim’s cruelty. It was a delicate balancing act my sisters, brother, and Mom had to deal with.

The price of our Bompa’s war service

After the war, Nanna said Bompa would wake up every morning coughing for at least half an hour. I heard that when I was a five-year-old boy, I visited him and Nanna. Each second, I heard that ticking clock, which felt like an eternity. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I had to look away. It was too hard to listen to Bompa’s deep, from-the-lungs coughing.

Why no healing?

I cried. Oh, how I prayed for God to heal Bompa. Why wasn’t He? That’s not the loving God Mom, Nanna, and our Sunday School teacher taught us about. Why couldn’t God just fix him?

I didn’t know then that there are many times God doesn’t heal someone for His reasons. Like Pope John Paul II or Pope Francis, the absence of this is a way our Father uses to show how He helps us live with that cross. People don’t understand why they smile, and they show openness toward those who suffer. It is because they know what it means to have your body slowly declining. You depend on God more to get you through one moment at a time.

Our father didn’t experience the silent suffering of losing a friend to a gunshot like our Bompa had.

Dad is jealous of our grandfather

With my psychology training, I have a deeper insight into what might have been going through Dad’s mind. Perhaps there was a smoldering jealousy of Bompa’s education and war experience.

The suffering my sister, Judy, endured

The other issue Dad had to deal with was that Bompa didn’t have a high opinion of the Osborne family. Bompa shared more about that with his daughter, June, than he ever told us. I know something wasn’t right mentally with my grandmother on our father’s side. There was a story of her smashing a teapot with an axe.

She was babysitting my sister, Judy, when she was two. Grandma said she accidentally spilled boiling tea on Judy’s sweater. She explained that she couldn’t reach Judy to pull the sweater off her because her back seized up with a spasm. None of us believed her.

Judy had life-threatening burns to her skin. She was hospitalized. The road to recovery was a long one.

Mom never agreed to Judy visiting Grandma after this incident.

June, don’t marry an Osborne

Our Mom told us one day that Sandy disapproved of Mom marrying our father. She said Bompa had advised her not to marry an Osborne. “June, don’t marry an Osborne.” I say this in no deference to the Osbornes. That’s how our Bompa felt about them. He was a quiet man who kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps, June saw a gentleness in Jim. Dad could be. But as the schizophrenia worsened, he was cruel with a biting sarcasm, much more than the times he was kind and loving.

These thoughts go through my mind as I reflect upon the past and how it helps me understand the present. As I look at a photo of Bompa in his uniform when he was Senior Private, Sandford Dobson, the courage, the man of his word, stirs in me a prayer that I would live as he did with bravery in war, and as he struggled with his breathing every day for the rest of his life, to live with purpose and joy.

Bompa, the romantic and comedian

When Bompa had a few belts of whisky, he could be quite the romantic and comedian. Instead of it’s a long way to Tipperary, he would, with a mischievous smile, blast out, “It’s a long way to tickle Mary. It’s a long way to go. It’s a long way to tickle Mary, but my heart’s right there!” Mom said Nanna, with her face red with embarrassment, replied, “Sandy, you ass!”

Failing doesn’t have to mean failure

I have so many memories of my childhood going through my mind as I write this story about an atypical Halloween when I learned that failing doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It’s getting back up, which is the measure of your character. I have been knocked down and sometimes taken out of the fight of standing up for the rights of others. I know what it means to be belittled not just by our father, but by others who have hurt me with their words and actions.

The challenge of overcoming my pride

I understand what it’s like to be disappointed in some of my Christian leaders. Still, I have learned that I, too, have had times when I was wrong, when pride took hold of me, when I failed to listen to wise counsel because I thought I knew better than the people God had put in my life to guide me. To them, I offer an apology for my conduct. Perhaps God is calling me to include that confession in my story to encourage you to go to the Christian leaders who showed their human frailty and disappointed you, and realize that you may have been wrong at some level. We put them on lofty pedestals, but they are earthly vessels through which God works.

A new commandment

The parting words of Jesus to His disciples are an example of the ultimate in forgiveness. “I am giving you a new commandment, that you love one another; just as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all people will know that you are My disciples: if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35, NASB).

We must ask ourselves how much those who believe in God follow Christ’s advice. We live in such a time that hate has taken a firmer grip on America and throughout the world. Our challenge is to be living examples of godly love. We won’t always get it right. We all sin. We stray from the path of doing what is right.

The challenge to love and treat people equally

We aren’t pure white, nor are we all black. Sometimes, our natures get the best of us, and other times, we shine because Christ’s light glows from us. It is a radiance that draws people closer to us. Walls of race and inequality are broken down. We don’t see a divide between the poor and the rich. We see people experiencing homelessness as fellow human beings, trying and failing as we do.

God help us if we think ourselves better than the drug addict, prostitute, gambler, or convict. I want to say I have never shown any bias towards anyone, but I have. Sometimes I catch myself talking about someone to a family member, friend, or colleague. Often, it occurs as I empathize with the wrongs, the multiple injustices, the abuse of power, and those whom I care about, facing them. I enter into their world.

Boundaries are important

I find myself talking as they do when I shouldn’t. We can go too far with that. When we do, we become like the people we are speaking with. How often do we pat ourselves on the back and say we are better people?

Cliques and abuse in the Church

How many churches have cliques where you are either on the inside of them or feeling eyes glare at you because you don’t want a part of that, yet you feel left out in the bitter cold? Those glares of judgment are like an Arctic chill to your spirit.

There is emotional and physical abuse in the Church. The mental abuse comes from people in churches, letting those they deem lower in character or being among the poor be second and even third-class individuals. The physical abuse occurs in every denomination because abusers are well embedded in our churches and in communities. Many are considered respectable for achieving success in their careers. They tithe a great deal of money to their churches. They are pillars of their community. They are sick. They have to be to abuse their spouses and children.

There is sexual abuse. Many Christian leaders are finally acknowledging that clergy and laity have sexually abused children. It must weigh heavily upon them when they learn about it. But as with the hidden abuse by Jim, much of the perversion of pedophilia is buried. Those committing acts that offend the goodness within us are moved elsewhere. It is a systemic leadership failure that needs to be addressed.

Someone failed these precious children. Someone failed to speak up for them. Someone harmed them. Someone is responsible for what can be a lifetime of psychological damage-wounds that may never heal fully until God calls them home.

Abusers need treatment and accountability

What I need to remember is that those people who do these horrible things — the things we don’t want to face — the things we don’t want to speak about — they are ill. They need treatment. But for the good of those they have abused and for their healing, they need to face accountability for their actions.

God forgives them when they are truly repentant. Still, He never says to anyone, especially the ones who sexually abuse children, that they get a get out of jail free card. The ones who rob the lives that might have been if children hadn’t been abused need to understand there are consequences for their actions. If they think they can escape judicial punishment, it emboldens them to commit more violent crimes.

I do believe that with counseling, the abused and abusers can go on to lead productive lives. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have trained in psychology and counseling for several years. It would have been a waste of my time and energy if that weren’t the case.

I offer this prayer for the abused and abusers

Father, help me to love the abused, which is easier, but also put Your love in my heart for abusers, which is more difficult. Both need to know I care. Please help me to listen and not judge abusers. They are injured deep inside. Whether dysfunction comes from their childhood when they witnessed or were abused themselves, their distorted thinking needs healing. Otherwise, they can grow up to become abusers.

Somewhere, we have to stop this repetitive cycle of the abused becoming abusers. Show us how to do that.

Let how Your heart cries out for the abused and their abusers be felt and responded to by me and all of us. Amen.

The beliefs I have today are rooted in my childhood. But now I share a painful memory of saying goodbye to the home our family grew up in.

Goodbye house

We said farewell to the spacious rooms, the large kitchen, the backyard, the dining room, and the living room. We cried inside as we saw that long oak staircase for the last time.

When Dad was more himself, we would sing in the kitchen. It was our family meeting place. The sweetness of apple pies with a hint of cinnamon and blueberry pies with a touch of lemon to make them a little tart, sitting on the kitchen windowsill—those smells that called us in from playing outside linger in my mind as if it were today.

Flashbacks of abuse

You can think of many things while being worried. For the abused, those painful memories often come in flashbacks, bits and pieces of this and that. They are fractured. They wonder whether these terrible events occurred as they remember them. Am I filling the forgetfulness with the way I want to recall the abuse? Perhaps I am viewing this horrifying movie from my life, leaving out the more graphic details.

Some of the thoughts going through my mind as I consider which pumpkin to choose

I thank God I didn’t get the opportunity to murder our father. Nearing Halloween was more like Thanksgiving. I had a lot to be grateful for. That night, I tossed and turned in my sleep as our mother’s words to Brian and me from that evening played repeatedly like a recording on repeat.

“Before you go to bed, put one bag of your clothes together. Tomorrow, when your father is out driving a taxi, we will leave.”

Was this the answer to my prayer to God under that willow tree by our home when I was five? It was a hot summer day. The cool breeze felt like God’s caress. It cooled me down on a humid summer day.

Six years I had waited. I had begged God for too many sleepless nights to remember. I pleaded for release from our family’s living hell. Why did the Lord take so long in answering the prayers of a helpless, despairing five-year-old boy? That’s more than a lifetime.

Why was freedom from Kevin’s torturous prison coming now?

I began to think our Father was being mean, but why? That wasn’t the Lord Mom had taught us about, and it wasn’t the loving God our Sunday School teachers educated us about. As children often do, I thought I had done something wrong to tick God off.

I asked myself, “Does God love me as much as I need to be loved?”

That’s it, I thought. That’s the answer, or maybe God doesn’t love me as much as the Bible says He does.

The vow maker

God is holding it against me that I had made a vow to kill our father. But that was a way of thinking I refused to change. Dad deserved death. I stubbornly told God I wouldn’t forgive our dad. That was asking too much. Give an abuser grace? No way. Never. I hated his guts. That was a stronghold I would not relinquish.

The struggle towards forgiveness

Decades later, I did. Tears of forgiveness poured out of my soul in droplets of mercy, a little here, a tiny bit there. Sometimes darkness won, and hate took the place of love. Vengeance demanded an accounting. I must balance the books. A life for the lives he stole from us. It was more than a fair exchange.

Ask me anything else, but don’t ask me to forgive our dad. I will have no problem agreeing to that, Lord.

He said to my conscience, “Kevin, I allowed my one and only Son to die for your sins. You don’t fully accept that truth now, but you will in time. What I’m asking of you is small compared to that.”

The search for our mother and God’s call to forgive

Words echoed like a song as I was searching for Mom. “Kevin, please forgive your father. I beg you not to listen to evil’s promise that revenge is as sweet as maraschino cherries you use to make yourself and mother those concoctions formed in ice as you freeze them. I understand you’re furious. There will be consequences for your father. He’s a sick man, Kevin. He needs help. It’s the care he needs to improve his mental health. But, my child, you must listen to your sister, Valerie. There is a hard edge to his character. I will change that in my time. Be assured of that.

But right now, as you are full of bitterness towards your father, Jim, I need you to focus. Your mother’s voice is coming from the basement. Get a flashlight. The light there is dim. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.

Follow the sound of June’s voice. That’s right. You hear it coming from the basement storage room. Before you open that door, I need you to prepare yourself for a shock. Your mother has been beaten. She is terrified, frightened like a child. Please listen to and comfort her.

Open the door slowly. You don’t want to scare June any more than she already is. Shine the flashlight.

Kevin, never forget this truth. I am the Light that shines in the darkness of people’s hearts. You, your Mom, and Brian will need to cling to that in the rough times. ”

The Discovery

I opened the door to the storage room.

Huddled in the back of it was our mother. Tears come as I remember Mom shaking. She wept. Dad punched her like a boxer hits a punching bag. Mascara ran down her face. Mom’s legs have blood on them—pieces of wood stick to the blood—fragments of rage’s goal to cause an unspeakable terror.

“Mom, please let me put my jacket over you.”

I placed it lovingly, tenderly, gently over her. I cried. But I had to be strong. Our mother needed all of me — all the love I could give — that God could provide within me. I knew enough about God then to know my love would surely fail.

“Mom, you look so cold. What happened?”

I didn’t want to know. Would the answer be too much to endure? I had never desired to exact my revenge as much as I did that day. I needed the gruesome details to offer Mom love that understood and could deal with the knowledge no child should ever have.

Mom spoke. Her words are interspersed with tears. “Kevin, your father got angry…. at me….for no….reason. He dragged me down the wooden basement stairs. That’s why I have wood splinters on my legs.”

I squatted down. I sat beside Mom. I hugged her. I exchanged a son’s soft yet firm embrace for his mother’s love.

Comforting our mother

I listened as Mom poured out her soul. I had become really good at that. It was a skill honed through repeated practice. Something I learned as a child through multiple times of consoling Mom after Dad beat her.

“Mom, are you feeling strong enough to stand up and walk back up the basement stairs? I’m not in a rush. I will hold on to you.”

“Yes, Kevin, I am. I’m sorry you’re seeing me like this.”

“Mom, don’t you worry about that. There was nothing you could have done to stop Dad beating you. It’s not your fault. It never was.

“Let’s get you out of this dark and dismal room. Hold on to me.”

Each step Mom took was halting. She was more concerned about me than herself. “Kevin, I’ll be okay. Just some scrapes and bruises. Nothing broken.”

Nothing broken. That was relieving to hear. But, Mom, you’re wounded. Dad is responsible. I’ll make sure he pays dearly with his life. He crossed a line. You’ll see, Mom. I won’t fail to protect you ever again.

The admonition to Dad

I’m thankful today that my vow of exterminating Jim like a bug I would squish the life out of didn’t happen. I forgave him for the abuse as a gift to myself. When he challenged me that I must forgive him as a Christian, I said, “I do forgive you, Dad, but I will never forget. You harmed us. We carry the scars of physical and psychological abuse.

Forgiving doesn’t excuse you from accountability to God for your conduct. Dad, we will all have to account for what we did with the life God gave us.”

Jim never liked it when I reminded him of God’s truth.

Scenes from my life come to me as distant memories, buried but not forever. They play. They stop. More come. Difficult ones surface. Then, they hide like a leopard with its spots blends into the jungle.

I go back to when I was twelve, choosing the right pumpkin.

The Selection

I picked up that pumpkin. It was awkward and heavier than I thought. I followed Mom, who had the rest of the groceries in her cart. My arms started to ache, but I kept going.

Don’t drop that pumpkin.

We got to the stoplight. It was red. Holding the pumpkin, I had to stand there, and it felt like forever.

I thought, “Will it roll out of my hands and smash? Will I fail at this simple task? Will I let down Mom again?” No child should have these thoughts, but it was part of me. I had been free of the abuse for a year now. Still, as I carried and fought a mighty warrior’s battle to hold its Herculean weight, the abuse seemed like it was occurring again. It was eating away at me. It gave me a false message that I would fail Mom again, as I did in Owen Sound.

“Don’t drop the pumpkin.”

That was the last thing I needed to hear. Suddenly, it felt even heavier. For a second, I wondered if this was how Atlas felt carrying the weight of the world. Only my world was bright orange and about to slip out of my hands.

The failure that Mom turned into a message of success

Halfway across the street, I dropped it. A man in a car tried not to laugh.

I imagine him thinking, “I shouldn’t be laughing. Stop, but as much as I try, I can’t. I will cup one of my hands over my face to hide my facial expressions.”

I picked up the pumpkin. Mom offered to put it in her cart.

“I can carry it, Mom.”

A few steps later, I dropped it. This time, it hit hard and cracked a little. I picked it up, even though I felt embarrassed. My arms were tired, but I made it the rest of the way.

At home, Mom hollowed out the pumpkin and gave it a face. It had cracks all over it, but she didn’t get upset. She put a candle inside it, and light came out through all the cracks, not just the face.

I felt bad every time I looked at it. Every crack reminded me I had dropped it. I was sure I’d let Mom down. June must have known how I was kicking myself for dropping that pumpkin. She came over to me.

Mom gave me the words I needed to hear. “Kevin, I’m proud of you. You didn’t give up.”

Mom hugged me while I cried.

The lessons

I remember that pumpkin and how Mom saw the good in it. She let me try, fail, and try again. That day, I learned that being strong isn’t about carrying the heaviest thing. Sometimes, it’s about not giving up and knowing when to ask for help.

I am thankful to God that He rescued me from the abuse. I took back the vow I had made that I would kill Jim. Thank you, Lord, for the blessing of forgiving him and yet not forgetting. It prevented me from a physical prison and a spiritual confinement.

Perhaps you are going through a circumstance that feels too difficult to overcome. I pray my story has encouraged you that, even if you think you’ve failed others, God will help you keep trying until you succeed.

Thanks, Mom, for letting me carry—and drop—that pumpkin.  

Sources:

1. https://www.officialdata.org/canada/inflation/1974?amount=2000

Dr. Kevin Osborne and Karen Osborne are on the faculty of St. James the Elder University. Dr. Kevin Osborne is a doctor of theology candidate through SJTEU. He is a therapist, chaplain, writer, poet, and singer. He helps people in their inner healing journey. Dr. Osborne and Karen Osborne live in Timmins, northern Ontario, Canada. Karen has a B.A. in Clinical Christian Counseling from St. James the Elder University. She is a counselor, writer, and editor. Kevin and Karen enjoy reading passages from books to one another while having a coffee and donut and discussing what they are reading.