Despite KC's best attempts to wake me before the sun had officially rose in the sky, I did manage to sleep in, until about 8:30 this morning.

A feat in my eyes, since it pratically never happens that way. Whether it's Emma (the cat) knocking my angel collection of its shelf, KC causing chaos and mayhem downstairs where she can't be seen or the blasted duck hunters shooting their bazooka guns in the backyard, somebody or something always gets in my way of getting a full 12 hours.

I almost feel rested.

So the docket is full today. Between running into town for banking and grocery shopping, to coming home and finishing the chores I meant to do, but didn't get to doing last night. And then, I just don't know.

This time of year, there is actually more to do around here. Every little town hosting its own little Octoberfest, decorating tiny trees with a multitude of tiny tea lights shining like beacons in the darkness, while crafters sell their wares on a closed off street corner.

And who could forget the beer tents.

Though I must admit, I'm not a beer drinking kind of girl. But one more apt to drink a sissy wine cooler followed by a shot of tequila every now and then.

But I'm not big on drinking, despite having had my fair share in college.

I'm not the kind of girl, who feels the need to tie one on, just to have a good time. Too often, the experiences I remember of hanging out with a bunch of drunks, aren't that of the harmless, comical kind.

I grew up in a bar.

Not because we owned it, or lived above it, but because my parents at one point in their lives had drinking problems, and back then, when you wanted to go out and have a beer, you brought your kids.

So Amy and I had our very own barstools, and we played Pac-Man and the bowling game to pass the time away. When we got tired, we'd often retreat to a little red booth in the corner, that had soft vinyl seats. Soft enough to close your eyes and fall asleep if you were tired enough.

We were Charlie and Nancy's girls, affectionately termed the rugrats by the regulars in the bar, and sometimes given free quarters to slip inside the juke box to play our favorite country songs.

We grew up on Willie Nelson's, On the Road Again, and Patsy Cline's, Stand By Your Man, and on the way home, jostling in the old pickup truck, Alabama's tunes would be cranking from the speakers.

And it was at home, when things really began to get ugly.

Drinking has a way of changing a person. When my stepfather was sober, he was the kindest of all men. Solid and firm, he was a hard worker, willing to help anyone in need of a hand. He liked to build things, spending hours away in a dusty old basement, until you could run your hand over a piece of fine crafted furniture, and never catch a snag.

He even built me my own log cabin. A fort that didn't need a tree, when it could stand all by itself on the ground. He taught me how to hunt and fish, though neither one appealed to me all that much, and he took us camping, where my love for the wilderness began to grow.

And he showed me how to ride a bike. The kind you really ride, without the peddles. And when I accidentally steered myself into a tree, he picked me up, dusted me off and told me to try again.

He helped me bury my beloved animals. Waking in the morning to find a splattering or red over winter white snow, evidence that the dobermans from next door had broken free of their pens to decimate my small flock of ducks. He cleared the bodies away, so that it only seemed as if someone had decorated the snow with food coloring, with little splotches of pink around the yard.

And the morning when Butterscotch, my jersey calf, had died, his words were comfort, reassuring me that it wasn't from lack of care that she was gone. "Sometimes these things happen Stacey." he said. "That's the way life goes."

We buried her out in the field, in a shady path of trees and when he left me there, alone to say my goodbyes, I covered her grave with the wildflowers I had collected, yellow buttercups far outnumbering any other flower in my bouquet.

But moments like these, get lost when there's a drink in your hands, and when he had a drink in his hand, he was a person we didn't know, and to be truthful, one we didn't want to know.

Too many nights, the sound of screaming destroyed the tranquility of the darkness. It was loud, it was mean, and to a child, it was scary.

I was scared to sleep in my bed alone, monsters had a way of coming out of my closets and shadows on the walls were sent to torment me. Fearful of the darkness, I'd scamper to my sister's room, quietly opening the door, with favorite blanket in hand, making the climb it took to join her in her bed.

Sometimes she'd already be awake, and knew to expect me. Other times, she'd just move over in her sleep, to simply make room for the additional body in her bed.

But as the drinking increased, the nights grew worse, and soon even putting a pillow over your head, wasn't enough to drown them out.

Sometimes the fights were about us girls, Chick always telling my Mother how much she babied us, and how when it came time for dinner, despite how many tears would fall from our eyes, he'd make sure we'd sit there until everything on our plates was gone.

There were nights I sat there for hours, crying over a heaping dinner plate filled with venison, and brussel sprouts, my feet too short to touch the floor, with the fire from the wood stove burning my back, it was so hot.

I hated sitting in that kitchen. I hated those chairs, with their straight backs and their hard seats. Hated everything about being in that kitchen, until I even began to hate the man who made me sit in there.

They say that in your life, you become the sum of everything you remember. I've always subscribed to the belief, that one moment in your life doesn't have to be the entire definition of who you are, but rather an event that has the power to shape your life, in the person that you become. My childhood was full of these moment, extreme happiness followed by extreme sorrow, and the icy cold fingers of fear.

When I think back, key moments come back to haunt me.

I remember one night, standing in the shadows, behind a half closed door watching as my mother writhed on the floor in pain, crying for my stepfather to take her to the hospital. And I remember him refusing at first, telling her to toughen up because it was nothing, as he walked away leaving her on the floor, until her cries were something that even he could not ignore.

And I remember waiting at home, all alone in my bed, waiting for word of my Mother, thinking that she was going to die. With no one there to comfort me and tell me everything would be ok, my fears seemed justified.

Thinking back, I find it funny that I don't remember whether or not anyone ever came home to tell me that she was fine, though lucky to have survived having her gallbladder removed after it had ruptured. All I remember is being alone.

But it's the image of a child, brown hair blowing in the wind, standing outside barefoot in September, with a rifle pressed against her shoulder, that has burned itself into my memory.

One small girl standing, the ribbons on her nightgown whipping with fury against the wind as everything else stood still, holding her ground, chin raised in stubborn determination.

Drunk again, the fun and games had long been over, leaving in its wake a temper that could not be deterred despite the lateness of the hour.

When the screaming began, I was already in Amy's bed, needing the comfort that only a big sister can provide. Together we waited for the night to settle down, holding our breaths as dishes went flying across the room, and sounds of a scuffle ensued outside in the hall.

I remember a door banging loudly, and then another. A sure sign the arguement had found its way outside.

Amy and I peeked out the window. In the moonlight, we could see the shadows of our parents, whispering across the driveway, weaving in and about the cars.

But tonight, something was different. Some unseen evil feeding from the terror in our home, had made this fight a dangerous one, and we were scared.

I remembered thinking that this time, he was going to kill her.

I begged my sister to do something, watched as she in her matching night gown, pulled back from the curtains and jumped down from her bed, landing on the floor with a light thud.

"Go get Jimmy." I whispered.

To a child, getting an adult from next door seemed like a wise idea to stop the fight, and like lightning, Amy was gone,braving the darkness and the spread of lawn that separated our two houses to find someone who could help.

But I couldn't sit there quietly, it was my job to protect my Mother, and I did the one thing I knew better than to do ...

I retrieved the BB gun from the forbidden closet, and I slipped outside, where under the light of the moon, I saw my mother down on her knees, my stepfather twisting her arm behind her back, and I was enraged.

I could feel it burning a hole into me, raw anger bubbling up from a source I never knew I had locked deep inside, until I shattered from its intensity.

I raised the gun.

One small move, and the safety was off, I was a good enough shot that had I wanted to, I would not have missed. But I stood there, still and silent like a tiger creeping up from behind, readying itself to pounce.

"Let go of my Mother." my small voice quivered, my arms locked on keeping the rifle in its place as I waited.

They both looked up at me, and for just one moment, clarity seemed to come alive in their eyes. Maybe the sight of their youngest child, aiming a rifle at their head, was enough to sober them up, though it was doubtful.

In the distance, I could hear running, the sound of footfalls rustling against the grass and the leaves that had fallen down to make their winter home. Voices called out into the night.

I held my ground, one small soldier against an army of demons.

"Let my Mother go." I said again, my voice issuing a clear warning. I sighted the weapon, aimed it directly at the center of his forehead and waited again.

My Mother looked up at me with imploring eyes that quickly turned to anger.

"Put it down Stacey!" she yelled. "Put the gun down!"

But I couldn't, and in this, I did not listen. I didn't trust my Mother enough to know that what I was doing, was meant to help her, was meant to keep him from hurting her any further. It didn't matter to me, how angry she got at me, just as long as she was safe. I chose to ignore her.

I never fired that weapon. Amy and Jimmy appearing from the darkness, with a voice of reason that our two parents could not deny.

Somehow we all managed to get back inside, back into the house where tempers calmed and sleep gently lulled the last little bit of anger to nothing, leaving it to die like an ember seperated from its flame, until its bright shiny center turned red with cold.

All these years, and I don't remember much more of how it ended, though a fair guess would say that I was duly punished for having raised a weapon against my parents.

Still the memory is mine to own and claim, a testament to a time better left, but unable to be forgotten, like the feel of cold pavement beneath your feet.