chapter one- autobio

My Earliest Memories


My father was, as I said in my introduction, a Baptist minister when he met my mother. He soon discovered, however, that it was nigh impossible to support his wife and child on a minister’s salary, so he enlisted in the NAVY. I don’t remember him leaving for boot camp, but there are a few things I have been told since then about the time he was away that stand out in my mind.

The first thing is this; when he left, my mother was very upset and quickly realized that she was not emotionally capable of dealing with a screaming infant, so she would leave me with her cousin, Rachel, while she went out to “relax”. (Personally, I think she was really meeting up with her brothers to make some fast cash on the low.) Rachel had a young son, about four or five years older than I. His name was Chris.

Rachel’s husband, Holden, left her when Chris was only a year old. Since then, she had supported herself and her child solely on her wages at Taco Bell. He went to a daycare center during the day, and, on occasions when she had to work late, he went to spend the night at her mother’s house. Ok, let’s stop here for a moment so that I may inform you, my reader as to how this family I was born into was set up.

Let us begin with my mother’s mother, Caroline; she was married, at the time, to an alcoholic whose chief amusement it had been to molest my mother when his wife was at church. Caroline had a sister named Rebecca who was married to my father’s father, AKA my grandfather, Richard. Now, my father’s mother was a nurse who had a faulty nervous system. She had borne three children for her husband, and they had stayed together just until the youngest turned 18. I can say nothing of this marriage because, of course I was not there, but there is suspicion among the family that my grandfather was fooling around with his second wife long before he had the first marriage terminated. Anyway, I have told you all of that to let you know that my Aunt Rachel’s Mother was married to my father’s father, and their home was were her son, occasionally, I, spent the night when she had to work.

It was not an uncommon occurrence for my mother to need some “me time” as she called it. She would drop me off with her cousin, as I have said before, sometimes as early as 11 A.M. and return around 9 P.m. to pick me up. I have to admit that I really gave my Aunt Rachel a hard time, but it wasn’t because I meant to, I just did not like her very much, and she made me eat healthy foods like spinach and broccoli and other foods detestable to children my age. I also didn’t care for her son very much because he was mean and hateful to me. I believe he was jealous because, being younger, I got more attention than he did.

At any rate, it was on one of these occasions when my mother left me with her cousin, that shit began to hit the fan. My father was due to be home any day from basic training, and my mother said she wanted to go out and buy some nice things to wear for my father when he got home. My Aunt Rachel was very understanding, and told my mother to take her time and chose something cute. Well, we spent the day watching Popeye videos and watching my cousin play with his train set. It was actually a pretty good day until midnight struck, and stills no sign of my mother. Aunt Rachel called my parent’s house and got no answer, so she finally put me to bed, and called it a night. The next day, she had to work, so she took Chris to his daycare, and me to my grandparents. When she explained the situation to them, they said that suited them just fine, as they hadn’t seen me in a few weeks.

So I spent the day with them, drawing, coloring, watching old westerns and cartoons with my grandmother, and then, when my grandfather came home from work, we went to pick Chris up from daycare. Still, no word from my mother. For a week, no one saw her or heard from her; then my father came home.

It was either really late or very early when he arrived at my grandparents’ home, because it was dark outside, and everyone was asleep. I heard a loud noise outside, and looked out my window. It was my father slamming the door of his black ’82 Camaro we called Missy. I jumped out of bed and ran out the front door to greet him, but he just sat on the porch swing and looked at me as though I were someone he did not know. I believe it was in that moment, at the young age of 3, that my father and I became strangers. After that night, he never again held or hugged me, and I never understood why, though I now have my suspicions. I believe that he knew, without knowing, what kind of life I was destined to lead.

He took me home the next morning, after he and my grandparents had a long discussion. I don’t know everything that was said, but I do recall hearing my grandfather tell my father “Satan keeps his own”. That was all I heard before I was told to go out and play.

My mother came stumbling into the house three days later, eyes red, hair ratty, wearing clothes that barely covered her. She was wearing makeup, too. My father did not like for her to wear makeup. He said that if she was ever going to get over her sinful past, she must leave all things associated with it behind.

So in stumbles my mother in all of her crack-head glory. She leaped into my father’s arms, and he carried her into their bedroom, where he proceeded to beat the living hell out of her. I remember hearing him use terms like “filthy whore” and “devil’s harlot” amid her screams. I also recall hearing, after he had exhausted himself with beating her, that he told her if she EVER made him look bad in front of his parents again, he would kill her. I believe he was angry because she had left me with other people for so long without checking up on me, and that made him look like he was not in control of his household.


I suppose you are wondering now how a man who had sworn his life in service to God could become a violent lunatic so quickly? I can only say that there were a lot of things about my father that had changed in his time at boot camp. He had taken to smoking cigarettes for one thing, and he drank beer, and he used language I had only heard from my mother until that point. He kept a very close eye on my mother when he was home, and laid a new set of very strict rules for her for when he was at work. She was to stay at home and go nowhere else. If we needed groceries, she would have to call him at the NAVY base and let him know what was needed; she was only to leave the house if he gave permission. To insure that she did not leave without his say-so, he would call her periodically throughout the day and check up on her. If she did not answer the phone when he called, he would know that she had gone out, and there would be severe consequences. She was to have dinner on the table by the time he got home, and the entire house was to be spotless; no dirty dishes in the sink, no soap scum in the bathtub or shower, no slimy mess under the soap on the bathroom sink, fingerprints on the windows, well, you get the idea.

It wasn’t long after this new set of rules was implemented, that my mother told him she wanted a divorce. He told her that the only way he would give her a divorce is if she cheated on him and he found out about it. I would like to take this opportunity to explain, for those who aren’t familiar with military policy, that any military personnel who divorces their spouse is required by law to give their departing spouse half of everything they own, and half of their every paycheck for the rest of the military personnel’s career, or the spouse’s life. The only exceptions to that rule are in cases of adultery or if one could present the court with proof that the other spouse is psychologically unstable. So, my father was trying to play it smart. He did not want her to receive half of his wages for the rest of his military career.

The next day when my father went to work, my mother started making phone calls. It was not long after lunch, when I had been put down for a nap, that there was a knock at the front door. I heard a man’s voice, but don’t remember what was said. I knew it wasn’t my father, because this voice had a strange accent to it. A few moments later, the phone rang. My mother picked it up and I heard her say, “Yes, I’m still here! Where the fuck can I go with you threatening me if I leave the house, and I can’t get a sitter for the kid?” She hung up a few moments later and then I heard strange moaning noises from the living room. I forced myself to tune them out and I fell asleep.