A Throwaway Childhood

We were Fowlton Clayler's renters. The house was situated outside of town. The closest building to us was Fowlton's store — directly across the road.

About a whole block back up toward town lived my aunt. In the house beside my aunt lived a very tiny woman with very tiny kids — in our age range, but smaller and not "little people," just really short. I was five and could wear the lady's heels. That was fun.

It was a mad house over at the short lady's. Slamming doors, two boys running wild and tormenting us and their sister. The boys wore overalls with no shirts and no shoes — wild little country boys with a father in the grave and an overwhelmed mother who drank.

The back half of our house had a large kitchen; the other part of the back half was mom and dad's room and then another room about six by eight or something.

We used the little room as a playroom. It was empty; no furniture and no toys — except for the Pepsi bottle with the doll's head on it. I'd sit on the floor in that unfurnished room right in the middle of a square or two of the sunshine coming from the window. I'd wrap Grandma's quilting squares around the bottle for clothes.

We also had some Childcraft books I loved to look at. I especially loved the craft ones. I would look at the pictures detailing how each project needed to be done. I'd study the pictures and work things out in my head until I knew exactly how to do it. That was all I could do. Not one craft was ever created in reality. But, those books enriched my life immeasurably.The Pepsi doll and the books are my foremost memories from there.

The Pepsi doll and the books are my foremost memories from there. The other memories are rather scattered; some are more filled out than others. I don't remember where the bathroom was.

I do remember that it was the house we lived in when I found my brother out in the back yard digging his way to China. That was the first time I had ever heard of China. He was so industrious and intent upon his goal. I do believe it suckered him, though. I wonder if he remembers that. I'll have to ask him one day.

I do remember my dad using angry monster faces drawn on old calendar pages for scary masks. He'd hold one to his face and chase us around the house and yard. The concept of "running away from home" came to me in one of those moments of panic and terror. That day, I had stayed out in the cornfield solidifying my resolve. When I got back, I told him that I was definitely running away from home if he did it again. I don't remember if he ever did. I do remember that we found a mask one day laying under the table. It looked totally helpless and failed to scare me from then on.

I had a nightgown that had pretty little strawberries all over it. I would stand bashful behind the screen door in that little gown and wave my brother off to school. One day, while waiting for the bus, the dog that was trying to adopt us, was ordered off the property. "Get him outta here; we can't have a dog here. Run him off!" my mom said to my brother. My brother, a seven-year-old being screamed at, ran the dog out into the road in front of a car. The poor dog lingered at death's door in a ditch about half of a block from the house.

My brother and I went down there that afternoon to check on him. He was suffering. He couldn't get up, but he was alert. I don't remember anything else except that he did die. My memory of fur in a ditch still comes with its accompanying feeling of horror and despair.

In the backseat with my sister, having fun, drinking Pepsi, eating Moon Pies and Baby Ruths and Vienna sausages, I had lost track of where we were. I knew that we had been moving into unfamiliar territory, though. Mom and her "man friend" were focused on the upcoming lights. Her friend points to his right, "That's it!"

Getting out of the car, I see nothing on this straight stretch of two-lane highway but two juke joints across the road from each other. Their neon signs and carelessly-strung Christmas bulbs are doing a great job of gathering up a crowd of people seeking to forget.

Soon, my sister and I have a couple of new friends. The two girls are older than our 11 and 12 years. They are probably 15 or 16. We chatter away as if we had known each other forever. When the jukebox plays, we all go out on the dance floor and move to the rhythm of life.

Later on in the night, mom moves us across the road to the other juke joint.

After awhile, a couple of guys come in and start eyeing our two friends. Shortly after that, we don't have our new friends any longer; they've gone outside with the boys. When they finally come back in, the girl I had bonded with the most, was acting quite weird.

She would hang her head, not look me in the eye, and when she went to go sit back down on the bench that went end to end along the back wall, she moved as if she were made of lead. Her head flopped backward as she sat down; she left it resting on the wall for a few moments.

In my naivete, which lasted for many years after this incident, I thought the boys must have done something to her that maybe she didn't want done. After so many years of turning it over in my mind, I now know that she had taken a Valium-like sedative.

Later on in the night, mom has moved us across the road to the other juke joint. Sis and I are rolling with the flow. We dance, we drink Pepsi, and eat pork rinds, candy, hot dogs and hamburgers, and chew chewing gum. We play the jukebox when some of the old guys still sober enough to talk beckon to us and give us quarters telling us to play what we want.

The Valium girl is here, too. She's getting worse; she can hardly walk now. I speculate to myself that she is drunk in order to try to drown her sorrows from the poor treatment she had received when she went outside of the other joint with those two guys. She had no notice of my sister and I any longer, so we just let her go on her stumbling and mumbling way. Every once in awhile, she'd shuffle by us, and she so completely ignored us, it was as if we didn't exist and never had.

The night wears on. Mom is having fun drinking with everyone and the place is swinging. We stay until closing.

Out in the parking lot, people are shouting goodbyes, cranking up cars, and deciding whether or not to go for breakfast or just go home. Dew shimmers on the cars and trucks. We find our car and pile in. I am chatting it up with my sister and some guy that is coming with us to be dropped off on our way home. I'm vaguely aware that mom is up in the driver's seat about to crank up and head out. She's sitting there with her hands on the steering wheel talking with a small group standing by her door.

Then the screaming starts. I look up to see that one of "They may have killed that man!" the women has both of her hands full of my mom's teased hair. The woman is hanging on tight and mumbling through clenched teeth something about "messing with my husband, b____." My mom is screaming at her to let her go. Little old me wants out. I want to get that woman.

At the time, I was enraged at the guy we were giving a ride to because he did everything in his power to keep me in that backseat. I thank him now for his gently firm and completely sensible resistance. My sister, my mom, and I are all screaming at the top of our lungs.

Finally, the woman lets my mom go. Everyone's attention is drawn to the front of the car where a brawl is going on between seven or eight men. Our headlights are trained on them; we couldn't have had a better view. By this time, we know not to get out of the vehicle. I am screaming about getting down the road and calling the cops. All of a sudden, the men start separating. Whew! The fight stopped, just like that.

Once they clear away, though, the headlights of the car show us a man sprawled unconscious in the wet grass. His face is covered in blood. Mom hits the gas pedal and gets us out of there before things get even worse.

We drive in the early morning hours toward our home about an hour away. No one speaks. My agitation grows. I rub my hands together, I try to stretch out my legs, I grab my head in both hands and pull on my hair. I am hyperventilating. Finally, I wail, "They may have killed that man!" Mom says nothing. She's focused on the highway ahead, gripping the wheel. The air is thick with the horror of it. Suddenly, mom hits the breaks and turns the car around. We look until dawn, but don't find him admitted to any of the hospitals or taken to any jails in the area.

At home, we fall into bed, completely exhausted. As the following months passed, I could tell when my mom or sister were thinking about it. It was in the silence. I worried about the man for years. My sister and I have recently talked about it for the first time since it happened about 40 years ago. We've never spoken with our mom about it.

The house sat on the corner out in the country. It faced the paved road and had a well-used dirt road beside it. I had seen its We learned that they had a son; he was away in the army, and they missed him very much. long white facade in passing many times. But, this day, Mom and friends, and my sister and I pulled into the driveway.

My sister and I went to explore the yard, but soon found ourselves in the kitchen getting a look at the old couple that lived there. They were very friendly to my mom and her friends. Soon, they turned their attention to us. We learned that they had a son; he was away in the army, and they missed him very much. They treated us kindly and gave us snacks.

By and by, I learned that my sister and I were now at our babysitters for the night. Yes, soon, we were going to be left here with strangers and to sleep in strange beds. Reconciling myself to it, I told myself that the old man and the old woman were treating us well, and that it would probably be better than being dragged here and there and left to sleep in the car. We were about 7 and 8 years old.

When it was time for bed, we were given their son's room. The lady pulled down the covers and I saw that the pillow case still had the oil from her son's hair. I didn't want to sleep there. I had no choice, so I pushed the pillow out of the way and told the old lady that I didn't sleep with a pillow. With the old lady gone and the lights turned out, I laid there with the low murmurs of the strangers on the other side of the door as a backdrop to my feelings of powerlessness. I raged inside at this imprisonment.

Into the night, I was jolted awake by loud voices. The old couple had gotten drunk! They were in the other room barking and spitting hate-filled accusations and insults at each other. The prison doors had just slammed shut.

My mind goes blank on the rest. My next memory of that time is of my subdued mom coming to pick us up shortly after lunch the next day.

I have rewritten this section many times. This is the statement I am most satisfied with:

I love my parents; they were damaged in their childhoods, and the cycle of abuse and neglect continued with their children. If you were damaged, too, please let my story give you the courage and the motivation to stop the cycle.

You probably can't do it alone. If you could do it all by yourself, I suspect that you already would have. :) I recommend Parents Anonymous® Prevents Child Abuse & Neglect: New Research Demonstrates Evidence-Based Program. Give it everything you have and then more. That's what you'll have to do if you've taken on the task of stopping the cycle. Keep your eye on the prize!

Note: If alcohol or drugs or any other addictive disease is in the mix, you would, of course address this in conjunction with Parents Anonymous or before Parents Anonymous. Also, since I am not a doctor, it is my duty to advise you to consult someone in the medical community before making any plans or decisions based upon what you find on this page.