You go with the family you have, and I was content with that insofar as it was possible. People say they’re Catholics or Protestants, or Jews or Buddhists or whatever, but despite the fact we sometimes wallowed in the aisles of a holy roller Armageddon-NOW! Baptist MILF harem, my parents were almost morbidly unencumbered by any ology. Theo, Bio, Geo, you name it, we didn’t have it.
They weren’t atheists, because that was an affront to God, and they weren’t going to sell their ass to Pastor Couch either, because it was obvious to the most docile of the flock he was starting to bang anything that would even reluctantly offer it’s hinderparts to him. The area was already populated with screaming white haired children who bore his tragic, equine face, and similarly sloppy aphorisms. I’ll never forget being shoved into an icy stream by a large, prematurely gray Rorschach blot of a preadolescent who hissed “When the MOON gets behind the CLOUDS it’s going to get DARK!”
My father would take us on long aimless drives, often winding up at at motel we couldn’t afford. We visited the shrine of Stonewall Jackson (well one of them, seeing he was buried in segments), the holy sepulcher of Robert E. Lee and the whole motherfucking Custis family, representing in their humble neo-Georgian way a complete apostasy from humanity, and, as an afterthought, the natural bridge.