BRUTAL END TO LIFE

Don't come to my house expecting normal.

The rhythms of my very early childhood revolved on hours of daylight in a culture where church and anything else commenced when most everyone got there.  
We were free and unfettered from access to electricity or running water in the bathroom.
Before dusk the kerosene lamps were ready to be lit for a limited time, however, by night fall basically everyone went to sleep.

Upon awakening, satisfying myself with the sounds of hand patted tortillas and the smell of coffee eminating from the outer kitchen at the crack of dawn, I was tempted to snuggle tightly under the covers.
Provisions were set out on the extra wide, adobe depth, window sill to keep cold or gotten by trundling down the mountain path on market days for fresh vegatables or meat.
My father brutally ended the life of the chickens as I grasped the beak,  then dunked in scalded water, plucked, disemboweled, and pressure cooked as I watched.
  After church, we often took home one of the tethered to the platform or wood bench chickens that had been offered as a tithe or offering as the proceeds contributed to the church budget.

For lack of refrigeration, our milk came in the commonly instant powdered form. Milk known as Nestle's Nido.  There's one problem...it tastes nasty.
Needless to say, it was quite an adjustment for entry into a more material, easier life and an appreciation of the gifts I enjoy today.