I'm skipping ahead to 1975. My father had been out of work for almost three years. My mom was very active with the Children's Aid Society. The director of the home asked them to be house parents. A sweet job for them, as they worked together, for ten hour shifts, four days over the weekend. And I at fourteen, was allowed to come with them. The shift started at one in the afternoon to eleven at night.
Dad loved the station wagon, piling the kids into it for a ride in the evening. Sometimes to pick me up or to take me home after supper. Now, I can see how dangerous this was, as some of the teens had been one step away from Juvenile Delinquent home. He opened up where we lived and they knew I was alone sometimes.
My parents loved the kids. I did, too. It seemed a dream, the big house, a library, the dining room. Food on the weekends with Nellie was better than during the week. Although Jane did the best she could with the budget, I'm sure.
So Dad was naive. We were that way, believing the best in every one. Sometimes, oblivious to danger or that best intentions could be misconstrued.
My parents never saw the records of the youths coming into the home. Sometimes they came in drunk or high. It was not pretty. Yet, the hope that they could be redeemed grew in my parents' hearts.
I heard this song yesterday on the radio by Death Cab for Cutie-You Are a Tourist. The line "There's so many places to call home, Cause when you find yourself the villain in the story you have written, it's plain to see that sometimes the best intentions are in need of redemptions. Don't you agree?"
I hope I have a little of that, still believing the best in people. And asking forgiveness if my best intentions are offensive.