Autobiography (rough draft)

Autobiography

I was born in the Winter of 1956.  My mother, just nineteen, was unmarried and had run away from her childhood home in Ohio, to sunny Los Angeles, California to give birth, and to be with her man, a Merchant Marine. 

She named me LuAnn Reynolds.  My father wanted to name me Debbie.  (Sure glad Mom won that one.)  We moved back to Ohio when I was still a baby. Several months later, my sister, Rose, was born. Our parents eventually married, but had a stormy relationship that continued off and on for a couple of years, ending in divorce, and leaving her a single parent.

Mother struggled to support us without help from the sperm donor. (Unless you would call buying each of us a pair of shoes and a bag of chips, helping.)  Mother never graduated from high school and worked hard to support us, usually as a waitress, or bartender, spending long hours on her feet.  She had grown up in the bar that her parents owned and operated, and was quite comfortable in that environment.  She thought nothing of bringing us along, so we frequently found ourselves perched up on bar stools, sucking down sodas, munching chips, and begging strangers for quarters for the juke box.  We were probably the only children on the block who knew all the words to every Jim Reeves song ever written. 

My sister and I grew up feeling we were a burden to our mother.  She never hid her disdain for parenting and told us often how much happier she would be without children.  We grew up knowing we were unwanted and learned to rely on, and care for one another.
         
    [Insert First Cooking Experience here.]
               
           
When Rose and I were three and five years old, our mother chose to "board" us with a young couple who wanted to keep us, and raise us as their own. 

Kenny and Sandra were their names.  They had no children of their own, and thus inexperienced and not prepared for the trials and tribulations that accompany raising children, but they were happy to have us, and that was reassuring.

We struggled to comprehend why we were no longer permitted to live at home, but as usual, we still had each other.

Our first morning in our new home, Rose, who was always small for her age, was placed in a high chair, across the table from me, for breakfast.  Before us sat two bowls of sticky, slimy oatmeal. We had never eaten oatmeal, and neither of us liked the texture. 

I sat quietly, staring into the bowl, willing it to disappear, while Rose whimpered and cried.  Suddenly, a hand slapped her across the face, and she slithered down and out the bottom of the high chair, to the floor.

The next day, and every day there after, Rose's left hand was tied to the high chair, perhaps as a reminder of what would happen if she didn't shut up and eat her oatmeal, or maybe to keep her from falling out of the high chair the next time she was slapped, I don't know.  I do know I harbored an oatmeal aversion for the next forty-five years of my life.  Rose doesn't eat oatmeal to this day.

Poor Rose was a bed-wetter. Every morning her wet, smelly, under-ware was ceremoniously placed on the top of her head, like a hat, and she was paraded up and down the sidewalk in a feeble attempt to cure her of this affliction.  I felt sad that she was made to suffer this daily humiliation, but at the same time, experienced a sense of relief that I was always dry.

Mother visited periodically, and on Rose's fourth birthday, showed up with a gently used, bright yellow tricycle. She didn't stay long, and although we didn't want her to leave, we recovered quickly and spent the rest of the day taking turns hauling one another up and down the front sidewalk.

Sandra and Kenny seemed to enjoy playing with us.  On rainy days we stayed in and played hide-and-go seek. Each adult would take turns hiding a child.  Once hidden, the other was sent to find her sister.

Hidden inside the washing machine, and wrapped tightly around the agitator, I was hoping to be found quickly.  I wasn't.  I'm not sure how long I remained in that cramped space, but once found, removing me became a family affair, and it took several minutes to pry me out. 

Sis was placed inside a roasting pan and slid into the oven.  She later told me that she was afraid that if I didn't find her, she would be cooked!  (Bless her heart, I'd take the washing machine any day.)

My first day of school was a memorable day indeed.  There were no tearful good byes from the bus stop, I was hurried out the front door and told to walk to school.  One small problem, I had absolutely no idea how to get there.  I cried and begged for some one to take me, to no avail.  I was simply pointed in the general direction and told to follow the other children. I didn't see any other children, but off I went, trying to be brave.

I had traveled only a few blocks before it happened.  A white car, stopped at the same intersection as I, and the woman driver who motioned for me to cross in front of her.  As soon as I got in front of her car, and for reasons that I still don't understand, she accelerated and down I went.  Hit by a car on my very first day of school.  Just the first of many hard knocks to come.
           
In 1962 our mother married her second of three husbands, and decided that she was now ready to raise us herself.  We were ecstatic!  She was coming to get us and we were going to have a "new Daddy".  Unbeknownst to us, this would begin the longest, darkest, years of our childhood.  We would be physically, emotionally, and sexually abused by this incredibly cruel man, as our mother appeared oblivious. 

His name was Bill, but for the rest of my life he would be remembered as, "The Molester".  He was tall, had a receding hairline, freckles on his knuckles and smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.  He was full of stories of how lucky we were to have him, and of how awful it was to grow up in an orphanage, as he did.  He even took us to visit the orphanage in which he was raised, warning us that if we ever told anyone our little secret, this is where we would be sent. 

The boys and girls slept in separate, dormitory style rooms. Bunk beds lined the walls and were neatly made with one stuffed animal, or doll, per bed.  It was eerily quiet and the children appeared frightened or sad. The sound of laughter was noticeably absent.  I had nightmares about this trip for years to come.

Beer drinking appeared to be the most important activity in our home.  We were taught that children were to be seen, and not heard, and grew weary of hearing the phrase, "Do as I say, and not as I do."

We were assigned chores and did the bulk of the cleaning, but our most important function was to chase after the empty Papst Blue Ribbon bottles our parents rolled toward the kitchen, and promptly replace them with an open, cold one.  We were like trained animals and our parents enjoyed showing company how well we performed this trick.  I learned to hate beer long before I ever tasted it.

Our days were spent trying to stay out of trouble, but night time brought horrors far greater than the daily cursing and beatings.

Our happiest times were spent outside. We played in our yard, the neighbors yards, and rode our bikes all over the neighborhood.  In the Winter, we would sled down the levee bank for hours.  We felt a sense of freedom outside that we cherished, but the fun was inevitably interrupted by the shrill call of our mother's whistle, signaling time to return.

One warm summer day, while playing in our own back yard, we were delighted to find a huge, slimy, slug. We named it, drew it a chalk home, furnishing it with rocks of various sizes. We mothered that poor slug for hours before deciding he must be hungry.  Not knowing what slugs ate, we approached our step father for advice.  He was curious as to why we were asking, and we delighted in introducing him to our new pet.  He assured us he could help, and disappeared into the house, returning with a salt shaker.  "Slugs LOVE salt!" he said, handing me the salt shaker, "Pour this all over him, that's what he needs."  I'll never forget his sick laugh as we watched with horror as our new pet shriveled and died before our eyes.

The guilt I felt for having had a hand in killing a living being was overwhelming.  I think it was that very day, that I began to hate that man.  No doubt, that experience was the reason I began trying to save the poor little cockroaches that he hated, from drowning in my bath water.

One sunny Easter morning, we awoke to find two brightly colored live chicks in our Easter baskets.  We couldn't believe our good fortune, and played with those chicks all day, until mine fell off the table and died.  I was heartbroken, and couldn't stop crying.  Rose began gloating that she had the only live chick left, which added an element of anger to my grief.  The Molester, having had enough of the whole scenario, walked over to the table, grabbed Rose's chicken and promptly broke it's neck, announcing, "There, now neither one of you has a damned chicken!"

"Growing up in an orphanage must have made him mean", I thought.  I tried to convince myself that it wasn't really his fault.  Eventually, I no longer cared WHY he was like he was, I just hated him.

I first fantasized about killing him when I watched him remove a splinter from under my sister's fingernail.  He used the same dirty pocket knife that he used to clean his toe nails.  Her shrill screams went right through me, as he continued digging under her nail until the whole nail popped off, and he was finally able to retrieve the splinter. We spent the evening huddled close together, wrapped in a blanket, crying.  Her tears, for the pain in her finger, mine for the pain in my heart.  I wanted more than anything to protect my sister and I had failed.
           
Rose was his favorite.  He called her "Princess".  I was just "fat and ugly", so I associated the abuse with punishment.  Rose was told that she was special, and therefore, associated the abuse with love, so we grew up with totally different perspectives of the abuse.  Neither of us realized that the other was being sexually abused, and therefore found solace in believing that at least our sister was being spared.

The only unconditional love felt in that home was my love for food.  Eating became my favorite reason for living, and the food never let me down.  Besides enjoying the various tastes and textures of the foods, I also gained a sense of satisfaction in knowing, that as much as he hated to feed me, there I was, day after day, and week after week, enjoying the food he provided.  I didn't even mind fishing out the cockroaches that dropped from the ceiling onto my plate on a regular basis, I loved to eat.

One day while eating dinner, the usual silence was broken in a rather curious but delightful way.  The Molester tossed his fork like a spear.  It sailed across the table and landed in the plate of pork chops.  He loudly proclaimed, "Pass my fork". 

We erupted in laughter, and continued laughing as we passed his fork, complete with pork chop, to the head of the table. 

I immediately took advantage of the joyful mood, fearlessly requesting a second pork chop. 

Not a bright move, as usual, I was blamed for ruining all the fun.  He slapped my leg so hard that my nose started bleeding and I was excused from the table to nurse my wounds. 

Sitting behind the bathroom door, on the toilet, holding a wet rag to my nose with one hand, and tracing the lines left by the creases in his hand with the other, I asked myself, "How I could be so stupid?"

We were adults before Rose and I ever actually spoke about the abuse with one another, and were each devastated to learn that we hadn't protected the other as we had always believed.

Growing up in such a negative environment, I was beginning to think that maybe I WAS worthless, then along came Mrs. Wenrick, my fifth grade teacher, and best friend's mom.  I idolized her.  She treated me as though I was special, and frequently invited me to spend the night with Georgene on their farm. It was there that I got my first look at what normal family life was like, and I was smitten.

George and Sarah Wenrick had met during the second World War, where he was a soldier, and she worked as a nurse with the Red Cross. They were an odd looking couple. He was a rather tiny man and had most of his lower face blown off in the war. Plastic surgery was in it's infancy, leaving him horribly and permanently disfigured.  Sarah towered over him by at least six inches.  He was extremely quiet, and she, his total opposite, but they made a wonderful team.  They were much older than my parents.  They didn't smoke, drink, or curse. Their home was always clean, orderly, and smelled of Spring flowers. Georgene always addressed them by their first names, something I had never seen before. I didn't think Georgene knew how good she had it.

Six weeks into the fifth grade, I received my grade card, and studied it closely as I walked home.  I knew that my grades were acceptable, but I was perplexed by the hand written message.  Mrs. Wenrick had written, "LuAnn is a gem", and not knowing what a gem was, I feared being punished. 

Once home, I nervously handed my grade card to my mother and watched her face closely as she read.  She congratulated me and with a sigh of relief, I asked, "What's a gem?"  I felt so proud as Mother explained that a gem was something that was beautiful, valuable, and rare. From that day forward, I held my head high and thought of myself as special.  With just four little words, Mrs. Wenrick single-handedly changed the course of my life.

I never forgot those words, "LuAnn is a gem", or the impact they had on me.  With Mrs. Wenrick's guidance and support, I blossomed.  Feeling empowered, I discovered that I had many talents.  I could sing, act, and learned to play the cornet. These things I would continue throughout my school years.

My weekend visits with the Wenricks continued, and I drank in my surroundings like a dry sponge. Everything was different there.  We got up in the morning, before the sun, and after making our beds and washing our faces and hands, we sat down to a breakfast feast, complete with fresh fruit, orange juice, AND milk. I had never seen so much food at one time.  Yep, farm livin' was definitely for me!

Both Georgene, and her sister, Matilda were talented pianists. I listened intently as they practiced their  lessons.  Once finished, we were off to explore the farm. 

The farm was more like a compound, as it consisted of not only Georgene's house, but also included her grandmother's home, across the road and the neighboring houses of her two elderly aunts.

There were horses, pigs, and chickens to care for, and barns, fields and streams to explore. We only returned to the house to eat and sleep.  I loved being a part of it all.

At home, I was asking for a lock on my bedroom door.  Mother never even bothered to ask why.

Georgene did get to spend the night with me once.  We had a blast until I accidentally planted a dart, right in the middle of her forehead. (Hey, I had warned her about running in front of the dart board before I had finished throwing all three darts.)

She fell backward and landed on the ground with a thud, eyes wide open.  I thought I'd killed her when suddenly she screamed, "Take it out!" I was frozen. I couldn't do it. What if her brains were to leak out?  When she yelled again for me to remove the dart, something snapped, and I sped into action, ran into the house, and retrieved Mother, who promptly removed the dart and applied first aid. Incidentally, this was also the LAST time Georgene got to spend the night with me.

Since we rarely did anything fun as a family, we were beside ourselves when told we were going to the zoo.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  The air was electric.  We were dressed in our matching green and white, striped short sets, straw hats and sun glasses.  Unable to contain our joy, we giggled as we raced out of the house and in to our 1964 green, Rambler.

I settled into the back seat behind Mother, and she yelled for me to shut the door.  As I reached for the handle, I noticed that her hand was wrapped around the door jamb.  Closing the door would smash her fingers. Before I could explain, he chimed in, "LuAnn, did you hear your mother?  Shut the door!" I hesitated and attempted to explain, one last time, aware that I could be back-handed at any moment, when they yelled out in unison, "LuAnn, shut the God-damned door!" Out of chances, I knew I had to do it, so I shut the door. 

It seemed like an eternity before I heard my mother calmly say, "LuAnn, open the door."  I couldn't help thinking she got what she deserved. She did apologize for ruining our trip to the zoo.

One day we were told that we would be meeting The Molester's son, who was coming home from the army. We were delighted to find out we had a brother. When he arrived in his army uniform, we were giddy.  We even parted with our forty-five record of Crimson and Clover when he told us it was his favorite song.  We would see Paul again, but it would be years later, and under very different circumstances.

After several years of being molested, I began to fear that I could become pregnant.  I became nearly obsessed with this thought and felt I had no choice but to ask my mom if a girl could get pregnant if a man put his hands in her pants.  Finally, the bells and whistles went off in her head and she asked, "Why, is someone putting their hands in your pants?"  With that, the proverbial cat was out of the bag.  My sister was confronted and denied being touched.  I was sorry for asking.

We were marched across town and I was made to tell, first Grandma, then the police what had happened.  I'll never forget the officer talking Mom out of pressing charges because he was "a good man", and this would "ruin his reputation."  I hadn't a clue what a reputation was, but figured it must have been more important that me. 

We walked from the police station to Cassano's Pizza, where my uncle was the manager. I was asked to repeat the stories I had told the police.  It seemed so much easier to tell over pizza. Then we walked home, packed a suitcase and were sent to the Wenricks, where I wanted to stay forever.

Unfortunately, it didn't work that way, and soon we were made to return, petrified of what he would do to us now.

Neither one of us remembers what happened upon our return.  Not sure if nothing happened, or if something awful happened and we managed to block it out, as we often did.  We had become experts at dissociation, the process of mentally leaving one's body in order to escape the abuse. 

Whenever he would sneak into my bedroom, I would say to myself, "OK, time to leave", and off I would go, to another dimension, deep within the recesses of my mind, where I was protected from fully experiencing the abuse.

Rose and I, while fiercely protective of one another, were not above fighting each other. We had several knock-down-drag-out fights. One of our best occurred when we were pre-teens. I was about a foot taller than she, but she was tenacious, and very strong when angry.

Our parents had walked to the corner store, instructing us to do the dishes while they were gone. We stood before the kitchen sink, arguing about who was going to wash and who would dry the dishes.

I usually preferred to wash, because the washer finished first, but for some reason, I had decided I'd rather dry that day.  (Probably lazy and not wanting to start yet. I was always looking for a way out of doing my chores.)  We argued for several minutes before I played what I felt was the hands-down, winning card.

"I can't wash", I whined, "My sleeves are cuffed and can't be rolled up." 

Before I know what hit me, she had grabbed my sleeve with both hands and ripped it right out of the shoulder.  She tossed it in my face and shouted, "There, now you can wash!" 

After recovering from the shock, I ran down the street to the store, waving the sleeve in the air like a victory flag, screaming, "Look what Rose did!"

I gloated while she washed and dried the dishes alone, but she and I both knew that she was clearly the winner.

Mom eventually stopped working nights in a bar, and took a day job in a factory. I'd like to think she was trying to protect us. 

I was thirteen when Mom was diagnosed with cancer and had her right leg amputated.  The Molester told her she was "half the woman she was", and reminded us, that if she died, we would be sent to the orphanage.

By this time, they were arguing almost constantly, and Mother had begun a relationship with her boss at work.

I was in Junior High, and immediately suspected that her new "friend" just might be our ticket out of the hell in which we were living.  When I confronted Mother with my suspicions, she admitted she was "in love" and swore me to secrecy.

He lived in what I thought was a mansion, next to the Catholic Church. A huge brick house.  It had 16 rooms, a black rod iron fence, and gas lit porch that stretched across the front and wrapped around the side of the house. We had walked past the house for years and I would imagine what life must be like inside.

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