The Trip

When I was 16, dad took me and my younger brother on a trip from our home in Illinois to Texas to visit relatives. He had just bought a fully-loaded Ford Econoline luxury van and asked me to go to help him drive. By that time, I had completely withdrawn from as much contact with him as I could and had managed to avoid his groping hands for months. I was confident that he wouldn't touch me again. The temptation of going to Texas to visit relatives I had never met before was exciting and I decided to go. Hell, I reasoned, my little brother was going, too. It wasn't like I was going to be alone with him. I can not tell you how much I lived to regret my decision.

For that entire week, there was no bedroom for me to run and hide. There were no locks on doors. During the road trip, he made me pull into rest areas for the night. My pleas for him to allow me to continue to drive while he and my brother slept fell on deaf ears. By the time we had stopped, he'd emptied the sterling silver flask of Wild Turkey he kept close by--his bottled courage. He made my brother sleep on a reclined captain's chair in the front of the van and forced me to lay next to him on the makeshift bed in the back. I can still hear him whispering that no one would love me like he did, his rancid breath making me gag. I can still remember trying to scream, his hand over my mouth suffocating me. My sobs were met by his harsh whispers to be quiet. He taught me to weep silently. He taught me shame. He refreshed the fear used to control me.

To date, my younger brother, Robert, struggles to understand why I refused to let my father have contact with my daughters. When we were reconciled just before my father's death in 2004, I tried to explain. He had just become the proud daddy of his own baby girl, so I truly believed that he would understand. Before I could say even a few words, his eyes turned cold and he boomed, "We're not even going there." It scared me enough to make me jump and bring tears to my eyes. In his defense, Robert was facing the imminent death of his father. To agree with me would have been impossible for him to do with his dad laying in a coma near-death.

Since my father's death a little over a year ago, Robert has emailed me to tell me that by becoming the loving father of a precious daughter, he was beginning to understand that I had done what I needed to do. That by ignoring the past, we were doomed to repeat it. Finally. The shame has begun to lift as the blame begins to shift.

Family Affair

Where we had been, I don't remember, but my mom, my brothers and I returned home very late one night. I was about 8 years old. Climbing sleepily up the dark enclosed stairway to the second floor of our house, I undressed on my way. I stepped into the dimly lit hallway and pulled open the dresser drawer where my favorite nightgown was always kept. It wasn't there. Rifling through all of my drawers, I still couldn't find it. Mom came upstairs and told me to wear something else. She helped me slide my legs into a pair of my brother's Spiderman pajamas, then slipped one of his pajama shirts over my head. After tucking me and my brother in, she gave us both a goodnight kiss. I plopped my thumb in my mouth and was asleep before her creaking footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.

The next morning, sounds from downstairs woke me and my brother. Yep, there were definitely kids down there. Excited and expecting to find our Aunt Chris and our six cousins had come to visit, we jumped from our beds and raced downstairs.

My brother reached the bottom of the stairs first and wriggled the door handle back and forth a few times until finally swinging it open. Jumping off the last step onto the dining room floor, Floyd and I stopped short when we realized that the voices we had heard belonged to strangers. A woman with pitch black thick curly hair sat at the table next to my dad. Seated around the table were three kids. Everyone had turned their eyes toward us and were staring. I shyly stepped behind my brother and quietly stared back. There was a little girl about 4 years old with blond pigtails and a round face, a little boy no more than 6 with eyes magnified by the thick glasses perched on his nose, and a girl with long dark hair who looked like she was our age. And she was wearing...my nightgown!

That was our introduction to our new family. My father had moved his current girlfriend, Helen, and her three kids (Jackie, Bobby, and Tina) into our home sometime before we had arrived home. Of course, we weren't told that Helen was my father's girlfriend (I would figure that out on my own soon enough). We were just told that Helen and her kids needed a place to stay because her husband had kicked them out. For several years, we lived as sisters and brothers. I loathed Helen. I had to hand it to her, though. She was as mean to me and my brothers as she was to her own kids, showing no favoritism.

I don't recall any good times, but I do remember loving Jackie, Bobby, and Tina like they were truly my siblings. Then, one morning we woke up and they were gone just as they had appeared. We weren't given any explanation except that they had gone back home. I cried for days.

The entire situation was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

Playing Tootsie

How lovely they looked, setting upon the glass-top counter of our small town’s grain elevator shop; a bouquet of brightly colored wrappers atop white paper sticks. A nickel would buy an hour of utter bliss. Each swipe of the tongue was accompanied by a number as I counted to see just how many it really did take to reach the delicious chewy chocolate center. Smoothing out the wrinkled colorful paper, my eyes scanned for that hidden icon—the majestic Native American wearing his headdress and that glorious star always found right beside him. Finding that elusive star would have me running back to the shop to redeem another hour of delight. I never knew if the shopkeeper actually got paid for those special wrappers. I often wondered if it was something she did just to see us smile.

Will You Do It?

"Wake up, baby! Wake up!" I heard my mother's urgent, quivering voice moments before opening my eyes and stretching.

I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time it happened, but it had to have been before the age of 5 because my little brother hadn't been born yet. I only know there were many more late night family meetings after that terrifying mid-night event.

Mom led my twin brother and I downstairs, sitting us at the table where my bare-chested dad waited. Through sleepy, curious eyes, I noticed a half-empty glass of amber liquid next to a tall bottle of whiskey. Next to that lay a black pistol...an ugly, gleaming, black pistol.

"Hi daddy," I whispered. He said nothing in return, his head hung low. The black hair on head was uncombed and his red mustache and beard were bushy and messy. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his glasses were resting on the end of his nose.

Looking for reassurance, my eyes turned to mom, watching as she pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table and sat down and rested her nervously clenching hands on the table.

I remember being very cold. Shivering.

"Grace," he slurred, his bloodshot, glassy-eyed gaze rose to fix on my mom across the table. "Will you do it? Swear to me you'll do it!"

My eyes filled with tears when I saw the tears falling from his eyes. Why was daddy crying? I looked at mom and she was crying, too. I started sobbing, my wails indistiguishable from my brother's.

"Grace!" he demanded loudly when she didn't immediately answer, his hand now clasping the gun where it lay on the table, his eyes never leaving my mom's.

"I swear, David," she responded, her wavering voice filled with emotion, "but please, David, please don't do it!"

"I just can't do this anymore," his pleaded with her. "God damnit! I need to know you'll pull that trigger after I do. Swear to me!"

"I swear, David. I swear!" she said in between sobs, pushing her chair back and rushing around the table to wrap her arms around him.

Time stood still. I don't remember what happened next. I don't even remember how I ended up back in bed. I do remember the feeling of fear, though... so tangible, dark and heavy. The seed of fear was planted deep in my soul that night, It grew and matured through years of nourishment supplied by my father, dying only in December of 2004 with his death.

Mud Puddles and Earthworms

I was raised in a tiny town in the middle of cornfield country. Though some might believe there wouldn't be too much to keep children entertained in such a place, a little creativity and some help from Mother Nature went a long way.

A distant crash of thunder on an unbearably hot summer day would send me and my brothers racing to a westerly-facing window of our home. We'd watch dark ominous clouds and a thick curtain of rain hit the edge of town and speed toward our shabby house.

Once it hit, we'd race onto our covered front porch to wait impatiently for it to pass. Our shoes and socks were carelessly tossed aside the moment we saw the small lake growing in our front yard. Barefoot, we'd circle around porch columns, reaching out to capture raindrops and counting "one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand," after each lightning strike. Watching the storm exit town through the cornfields east of the orchard, we'd bounce up and down on the springy planks of our old front porch with restless anticipation. We knew that all of our friends were doing the exact same thing--waiting out the storm.

Finally, Mom would give her nod of approval through the tattered screen door. Dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, I can still remember the sensation of cold water and mud splattering my legs when I jumped off our sidewalk into the soaked turf at the edge of our ditch dodging earthworms.

By then our playmates had joined us, and the air was filled with the squeals and laughter of happy friends. None of us cared that the water was muddy. We only knew there wasn't much time before the water would completely disappear into the soggy ground.

Life in a small town was an experience I wouldn't have traded for anything in the world.

Peanut Butter

I love peanut butter! Crunchy, creamy, low-fat, or sugar free--I'll take it! One of my fondest memories as a toddler was sitting beside my daddy with a hefty jar of peanut butter balanced on my legs while I scooped out spoonful after spoonful. Mom arrived home just as I was hitting the bottom of the jar. She would never have let me eat right from the jar! That day, Daddy became my hero.