Ashes to Ashes, Toys to Dust: My Bizarre Brush with Pace Assembly of God

You know, there are some things you witness growing up that just stick with you, not because they were particularly profound or life-altering in a good way, but because they were just…weird. And the whole "spiritual cleansing" through fire thing I saw in Pace, Florida, back in the glorious, big-haired, neon-drenched 1980s? Yeah, that definitely lands in the "what the heck was that?" category for me.

Now, I’m generally a live-and-let-live kind of person. Your beliefs are your beliefs, even if I’m scratching my head wondering how you got there. But this particular episode? It felt different. It felt…off.

Picture this: Pace, Florida, a place where it seemed like a new church popped up every other Tuesday. And towering above them all, the undisputed heavyweight champion of local morality, was the Pace Assembly of God. This wasn't your quaint little chapel; this was a full-blown megachurch, casting a long shadow over the county, especially since everything was drier than a popcorn fart thanks to the local alcohol laws. You could buy wine coolers and beer every day but Sunday and if you wanted anything harder or drinks on Sunday, you had to drive across the bay to Escambia county to indulge yourself, and many how cast their vote for DRY were the ones willing to drive to another county for their alcoholic needs.

Being the not-so-religious soul that I am (leaning heavily towards the "show me the receipts" side of agnosticism), I always found the intense fervor around these parts a little…much. And honestly, the hypocrisy was often thicker than the Florida humidity. You’d hear fire and brimstone sermons, yet the folks delivering them weren’t exactly walking on water themselves.

What always got under my skin, though, was the selective interpretation of faith. Take the whole gay issue, for example. People would thump their Bibles, quoting this and that about homosexuality, completely ignoring the fact that Jesus himself? Never once condemned it. Just a little food for thought I always found interesting.

But back to the bizarre. One day, the talk around town wasn’t about potlucks or Sunday school. It was about the burning. The Pace Assembly of God was having a…well, a bonfire of perceived unholy items. And the list of what qualified for this fiery farewell was something else.

We're talking innocent Smurfs and He-Man figures, deemed evil because of…magic? Barbie dolls, apparently scandalous because you could, gasp, undress them. Entire comic book collections vanished in flames. Horror movie VHS tapes – obviously gateways to demonic possession.

And then there was the music. Oh, the music. If it wasn’t praising Jesus, it was apparently fuel for the inferno. Madonna, Kiss, Dolly Parton, your favorite rock anthems, that catchy pop tune you couldn’t get out of your head – all deemed worthy of destruction. If a kid found joy in it and it didn't have a heavenly choir, it was perfect for the pyre. Members of this church were serious about this to the point where some were going out to stores, flea markets and garage sales to purchase things to contribute to the bonfire.

I wasn’t there in person but I remember standing in my living room watching it happen on the local news, a little bewildered, as Pastor (Lowry) Whoever-He-Was pointed at the growing plume of black smoke and bellowed something about seeing demons rising. Demons? Dude, that wasn’t demons. That was the lovely cocktail of burning rubber, melting plastic, the chemicals from comic book paper and vinyl records. I lived a couple of miles from this situation and it was in the air all over town and it smelled less like spiritual cleansing and more like an environmental hazard. The Pace volunteer fire department were there to extinguish anything that looked amiss but honestly, it was all amiss.

My one and only visit to the Pace Assembly of God was with my friend Candy Shelton and her brother when I was in the 6th grade. Let me tell you, that service was an experience. The first thing I was told when I walked in was blue jeans are a sin, I was not the only kid in jeans. During the service, something the pastor said felt as if I was singled out, “We have a homosexual and witches in the buiding today!” Hands shooting skyward, people speaking in tongues that sounded like they'd swallowed a dictionary of gibberish and a few folks taking dramatic tumbles onto the floor. It felt like a toned-down, significantly less venomous version of those Pentecostal churches you see in documentaries, the ones where folks handle handfuls of rattlesnakes, copperheads and cottonmouths like they're fluffy kittens. I love snakes but it is definitely not my cup of tea. They were awfully keen on getting my contact information, promising a follow-up visit with my parents and me. I had vivid memories of past incidents where my sister would visit churches with friends and shortly thereafter, we'd have pastors showing up at our doorstep for impromptu living room prayer sessions with my parents, who were far too polite to say no. So, spoiler alert: I politely wrote the wrong number and address to pacify their eager requests at the moment and needless to say, I never went back.

This whole burning ritual, it was supposed to be about spiritual purification. But honestly? The people I knew who were enthusiastically tossing their kids' belongings into the flames often seemed to be the furthest thing from paragons of Christian virtue. It felt more like a wave of collective hysteria, fueled by the Satanic Panic that gripped the 80s. I know now that it wasn't just a Pace thing, this fear was everywhere, but in our little corner of Florida, it felt particularly intense. The following year, another was slated to happen but the fire department and EPA were on the scene to shut it down before it happened and at last minute, a member of the congregation who worked for a company that owned large equipment came in with a steam roller to roll over and destroy all of the belongings that were thrown into the pile before everything was scooped into a garbage truck and compacted for extra dramatic appeal to the masses.

Looking back, it just feels so wrong. Confiscating a child’s cherished toys and books based on some fear-mongering ideology? Suppressing creativity and innocent joy? It wasn't about fostering godliness; it was about asserting control and demanding conformity. And what’s truly unsettling is that, over three decades later, this kind of irrationality seems to have made a disturbing comeback, not just in the quiet corners of suburbia but across the globe. It’s like we’ve hit rewind on reason in so many ways.

What do you all think? Did anyone else experience anything like this growing up? I’m genuinely curious to hear your stories and perspectives. And, you know, if you found this little trip down memory lane entertaining or thought-provoking, and you're feeling generous, a small token of your appreciation would be… well, appreciated. Keeps the storytelling going, you dig? 😉

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Lost Paradise: Tiki Island Pensacola Beach, Where a Lifelong Love of Waterparks Was Born

A full view of the waterslides from the original Pensacola Beach Pier

Okay, let me take you back to a time when waterslides were as mysterious to me as the far side of the moon. It was the first of two summers my parents, bless their working-parent hearts, shipped me off to day camp during their working hours to keep me out of trouble. And that's when I first laid eyes on it: Tiki Island Waterpark, shimmering under the Pensacola Beach sun. There was something so raw and enchanting about the place, like a forgotten beach oasis.

Tiki Island shortly before the tower and slides were demolished.

I remember this quirky mix of attractions – a miniature golf course that looked perpetually closed, a silent rollercoaster hinting at after-dark adventures and a cluster of vibrant carnival rides and go-karts, all patiently waiting for the evening crowds. It always struck me as utterly bizarre that waterparks called it a day in the late afternoon when the sun was still high. Seriously, wouldn't a moonlit waterslide session be epic? Just me? Okay. There was also the classic arcade, buzzing with electronic energy and a snack bar promising the sugary fuel every kid needs. But let's be honest, the real magic lay in those four towering waterslides, beckoning us to conquer their heights one stair at a time.

Now, being smack-dab on the beach, you'd naturally assume you could just hop over the fence for a refreshing dip in the Gulf. Nope. Fenced off tighter than a drum. No in-and-out privileges. Talk about a cruel tease!

The imfamously hot splash pool.

Most of the kids, clutching their inflatable tubes and thin mats like precious treasures, made a beeline for the two twisty slides halfway up the tower. You know the drill – a few exhilarating turns before you were unceremoniously dumped into this ridiculously shallow, maybe three-foot-deep splash pool. It wasn't for lounging, that's for sure. A lifeguard's whistle and screams were your cue to get moving.

But me? Well, me and a few of the other self-proclaimed "badass" older kids (we were probably all of eleven, twelve or thirteen, bless our naive hearts) were drawn to the summit. We climbed those seemingly endless flights of stairs, our anticipation building with each step, all for the thrill of those two colossal, 78-foot freefall slides. Tiki Island, in its wonderfully understated way, had a simple sign pointing upwards: "Speed Slides." Just the name sent a jolt of pure excitement through me.

I'll never forget my first time. The lifeguard, a tanned teenage guy who probably saw hundreds of terrified kids a day, gave me a gentle but firm push. Suddenly, I was plummeting towards the earth. Panic flared. My arms shot up instinctively, grasping for something that wasn't there and my legs, in their infinite wisdom, decided to uncross. Let's just say gravity combined with my rookie mistake resulted in a truly epic wedgie and an…unforgettable…internal experience. But you know what? After surviving that initial plunge, a strange sense of invincibility washed over me. In my young mind, if I could handle that, I could handle anything. To this day, I think of that cute lifeguard and I associate the rush I get everytime I slide down similar slides with him and that gentle push he gave me.

The funny thing is, every single time I climbed those stairs again – and trust me, there were countless ascents – the lifeguard would remind me to cross my arms over my chest. And every single time, the moment I went over the edge, not out of fear anymore but this incredible, rollercoaster-like rush, my arms would instinctively shoot back up. It's a weird little quirk that's stayed with me on every drop slide I've encountered since. Some habits die hard, I guess!

Tiki Island's 78 foot tall Speed Slides

While I did enjoy the slightly tamer twister slides – they were fun in their own way, and the option of a tube or mat was nice – my heart truly belonged to the freefall. But even on the twisty ones, I had my own little rebellious streak. Armed with a mat, I'd "accidentally" roll off mid-slide, my bare back hitting the slick surface. Talk about speed! I'd shoot into that lukewarm splash pool like a human cannonball, leaving the mat-clutching kids far behind. Still, that splash pool was never my happy place. The water always felt a bit tepid, like pee and you were practically ejected the moment you landed. Nope, the real draw, the true motivation for those sweaty climbs, was often competing with a cute older boy named Johnny Joffrion. Following him up that tower for the sheer, unadulterated thrill of those speed slides? That was pure summer magic.

The following year, things took a strange turn. The very top level of the tower was mysteriously off-limits and the legendary speed slides had been…modified. They lowered to maybe around 50 feet, which honestly wasn't bad. It still delivered a decent freefall and surprisingly, more of the younger kids actually braved it at the slightly less intimidating height. But the year after that? Silence. The slides stood still, lifeless. And then, one day, they were gone. The entire tower, the heart of Tiki Island, was demolished, leaving no trace that it had ever existed. It was like a vivid dream that had simply vanished.

Another view of Tiki Island from above, early to mid 80s.

After that first unforgettable summer, the quirky rollercoaster and all those vibrant carnival rides that used to line the front parking lot disappeared, never to return. To this day, a part of me wonders who actually owned those fleeting sources of joy – the "Viking" pirate ship, the Zamperla "Convoy," the Mack Music Express and all the other nameless thrills. Considering they were only there for the summer months, my guess is it was a traveling carnival company, using that sweet spot between spring and fall fair seasons. Maybe it was Link Shows or Nova Expositions, Cumberland Valley Shows or perhaps the show Ed Gregory owned as he was a resident of Pensacola at the time. Though I can't quite remember any of those shows travelling with a "Viking" ship, I'm sure it could have been possible. As for that compact wooden rollercoaster, I have a vague memory of hearing it might have found a new home in Ft. Walton Beach or Destin before eventually meeting its own demise or moving on to another forgotten adventure land.

My friend Jenny Reeves and I still reminisce about Tiki Island and other day camp escapades. But those Wednesday afternoons, conquering those towering slides, those are the memories that really stick. Tiki Island, despite its short lifespan and somewhat limited offerings, ignited a lifelong passion for waterparks in this once-clueless kid. It was a small, slightly strange, utterly thrilling chapter in my childhood and for my eleven and twelve-year-old thrill-seeking self, it was absolutely incredible.

The final year for these slides.

Wow, thinking about Tiki Island brings back such a rush of memories! I'd love to hear if any of you out there remember this little slice of Pensacola Beach history. Did you ever brave the "Speed Slides"? What are your favorite waterpark memories from way back when? Share your stories in the comments below – I'd love to take a trip down memory lane with you! And hey, if you enjoyed this little blast from the past and want to help fuel more nostalgic storytelling (maybe even a quest to uncover the fate of that Viking ship!), well, let's just say virtual high-fives and any little tokens of appreciation are always welcome. You know where to find the "support" button if you're feeling particularly generous! 😉 Thanks for reading!

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The Magic of the Waterbeds My Sister and I Got After Moving to Florida: A Nostalgic Look Back

Back when my family first moved to Florida, my parents decided to surprise my sister and me with waterbeds from Waterbed Gallery. It was such an exciting moment! I got a super single, while my sister was treated to a queen-sized bed. Both of them were full motion, which was a blast at first. The gentle swaying motion of the waterbeds was something we quickly fell in love with, making bedtime a fun experience. The feeling of the water gently rocking us to sleep was like nothing we’d experienced before.

One of the coolest features of our waterbeds was the heater. During the hot Spring, Summer, and Fall months, we discovered we could turn off the heaters to stay cool while we slept. It was like having an internal air conditioning system built right into the bed! This was incredibly useful during our summers spent under the Florida sun. We were always warm to the touch, whether from a tan or a fever, and the cool bed offered such comfort. When the temperatures dipped in the winter, we’d switch the heaters back on, making our beds warm and cozy. It felt so luxurious to snuggle up in a heated bed on a chilly night. The flexibility of adjusting the bed’s temperature to suit the season was something I absolutely loved.

My granny would come to visit and she would often sleep on my waterbed. Despite it being quite different from a traditional mattress, she really liked it, often stating that her back didn’t hurt as much. Though I would be sequestered to the living room couch while she was with us, losing my bed for the duration of her visit, I loved having her stay. It was worth it to see her so comfortable and happy on my unique bed.

That waterbed lasted over 10 years and through three moves before it finally sprung a leak in one of the seams that couldn’t be patched. It was a sad day when my dad and I realized it was beyond repair. When we priced a new waterbed mattress, it turned out to be too expensive to justify, especially since I was in and out of town a lot by then. So, we opted to buy a conventional mattress and use the waterbed frame as my base. The waterbed had served me well, and I had to let it go. Its durability over the years was impressive, but all good things eventually come to an end.

Not to mention, kids in the neighborhood were super jealous of my waterbed and always wanted to sleep over. But I hardly let anyone on my bed because I was afraid they would mess it up. Years later, my boyfriend in Kentucky had a waterbed too, but his was motionless and definitely not the same. Looking back, my waterbed was one of my favorite beds ever. It had that unique mix of comfort and fun that’s hard to beat. Of course, nowadays I sleep on a Serta iSeries memory foam mattress, which I love for its support and comfort. But there will always be a special place in my heart for those waterbed days and the fond memories that came with them. From the gentle rocking motion to the customizable warmth, it was an experience that brought joy and comfort in equal measure.

I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane, reminiscing about the magic of waterbeds. Do you have any fond memories, personal stories, or experiences with unique beds? I’d love to hear about them in the comments. Your stories make this journey all the more special. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support my storytelling journey, any small token of appreciation is always welcome. Let’s keep the joy of sharing memories and stories alive together!

Discovering the Truth About My Middle & High School Bully

High school was a rough time for me, especially being gay in an environment that wasn’t always accepting. The administration, including the principal, Frank Lay, as well as counselors and other staff members at Pace High School, advised me and other queer students never to confirm our sexuality. I dealt with the same thing at Pace Middle School but on a more low-key level. I faced a lot of bullying and name-calling because I wasn’t exactly like the other boys. For years, I harbored resentment towards a kid in my grade named Kyle Norris, who I believed, and was led to believe by others, was the main culprit of a prank that went on for several weeks. The graffiti in the boys’ bathroom with my name on it and the love letters to Jason McBride, who I never even liked, were just a few of the humiliations I endured.

The graffiti was the start. Seeing my name scrawled on the bathroom wall with a sexual message directed at someone I had no interest in was like a punch to the gut when I walked in to see it. Kyle had come out of the bathroom and made a beeline directly to me to inform me that there was something in the bathroom that I needed to see. It felt like there was no escape from the constant ridicule. Shortly thereafter, there were the love letters to Jason McBride. Someone thought it would be funny to sign my name to them, making it look like I had a crush on him. It was mortifying, especially since I had no feelings for Jason at all. At one point, I was called into the office of Herb Cannon, our assistant principal. Herb presented himself as a bigoted judge with the assumption of guilt and threatened to get the police involved with the accusation of harassment. What really upset me was the fact that he mentioned he knew my family really well and knew they would be really ashamed of this situation. My sister was close with Herb; he was her basketball coach for a few years, taught her how to drive, and helped her get her driver’s license. I was mortified and never mentioned any of this to my family, though I now realize I should have. It’s interesting looking back, seeing the way that people who were in a position to help were blinded by their own bigotry.

For years, I blamed Kyle Norris for all of this. I was convinced he was the one behind the bullying because he always seemed to be the messenger when something would happen. I recently told my friend Jenny Reeves, who has remained friends with Kyle since high school, that every time I thought about high school, my anger towards him would flare up. Jenny decided it was time to clear the air between Kyle and me, and he and I chatted for hours, not only about the situation but our lives during and after school. The truth: Kyle was innocent. He wasn’t the person or connected to the people who tormented me. Kyle was simply the messenger or an individual who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a shocking revelation that turned the way I thought of some of the people I went to school with upside down.

Finding out that Kyle wasn’t my bully was a mix of emotions. On one hand, I felt relief knowing that Kyle was innocent and I had wrongly accused him. On the other hand, I was angry at myself for holding onto that resentment for so long and letting it block my chance of a friendship that could have been. This shows how important it is to get the facts before jumping to conclusions.

This experience has taught me a lot about forgiveness and letting go of the past. It’s not easy to move on from the pain of bullying, but holding onto anger only hurts you in the long run. I’m still processing everything, but I’m hopeful that this new understanding will help me heal and move forward. Now that I’ve cleared the air with Kyle, we are actually friends. With all this said, some good things came out of the love letter situation. I became friends with Terry Kelly, another gay boy in middle school, and we shared each other’s secrets. I began to trust people less, which helped me become less gullible, and I learned how to see through people’s facades. Now that Kyle is no longer negatively living in my head rent-free, I wonder who the actual culprits were during my middle school years.