Saturday, 13 June 2015 19:28

04.3 Mom Writing Her Life Story

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I inherited most of my Mother's writing. She had done much of her writing on PC's and DOS on the old five inch floppies. In transferring the files from DOS to Macintosh and from Word to OpenOffice, some of the formatting was lost. Someday, I may go back and edit this further but for now, I am posting as is with the formatting problems intact. 






This  is  going  to  be  a  very bitter and angry book.  I 

 don't  know why anyone would want to read it.  My advice, is to 

 throw  it  in  the wastebasket.  I have lived for over seventy-

 five  years,  and each year I have grown more angry, resentful, 

 hateful.   I can't imagine why I have such a wonderful husband, 

 who  never  fails to tell me he loves me each day--usually many 

 times.   When  I  ask  him  "Why?" as I usually do, he answers, 

 "Because  you are a sweet little darlin.'"  I always tell him I 

 am  not  sweet, and he answers that he ought to know because he 

 has  lived  with me for all these years, (now 28), and he knows 

 how  generous,  kind,  and   considerate I am.  Of course, that 

 sounds  great.   He  has always been one to uplift me and build 

 my  self-esteem.   I  know  he  is  sincere,  but  it is almost 

 impossible  for  me  to believe that he really can see anything 

 sweet, kind or generous in me.  I am a very hateful   person.

 Surely  no  one can be anything other than evil, and be so 

 full  of  hate  as  I  am.   I  hate everything.  I hate almost 

 everybody.   I  hate  the  wind.   I hate the cold.  I hate the 

 heat.   I  hate  the  dust.   I  hate  the insects.  I hate hay 

 fever.   I  hate  headaches.  I hate to work.  I hate injustice 

 and  pain, and fear, and heartache, and disappointment, and all 

 the  things  that make people unhappy.  It's a screwd-up world.  

 It's a mess!

Everybody  other  than  me, is a damn-fool.  Come to think 

 of  it, I am a damn-fool, too.  That doesn't make it any easier 

 to  stand  all  the other damn-fools.  I don't like anybody.  I 

 don't  even  like kids.  I don't like dogs.  I don't like cats, 

 and  I don't like old people.  No one could possibly be a sweet 

 darlin'  who  doesn't  like  kids  and  old  people.   Is there 

 anything  I do like?  Yes, I like rivers and trees, and horses, 

 and goats, and deer, and wolves, and birds.  I like good music-

 -just   the   kind   I   like.    I  like  kindness,  neatness, 

 consideration,  good  judgment,  intelligence,  information.  I  like  striving  for  excellence--in  others.   I  don't want to 

 strive for anything.

 Maybe  my  liking for kindness was learned from my mother.  

 I  resent my mother, because she never showed any affection for 

 me,  or  approval.  I resent that very much.  On the othr hnad, 

 I  recognize  that  she was a very fine and wise woman.  My dad 

 was  brilliant--and  crazy--but my mother was wise.  I remember 

 when  we  lived  at  the  "Green  Place,"  where  there were no 

 screens  on  the  doors,  how my mother used to hate the flies.  

 She  would  keep  the doors  closed until she almost roasted in 

 the  hot  summer time, in order to shut out a few of the flies.  

 Even  hating  them  so,  she would shudder and remark about how 

 burning  was  too  bad for any  living thing, when my dad would 

 get  up  in  the  morning, while the flies were immobilized all 

 over  the  ceiling,  and take a lighted piece of paper and burn 

 them.   Also,  even  though  my mother hated ticks to the point 

 that  she  would  literally  get  sick  when  she saw  one, she 

 didn't  want  any  of  us  to  put  them in the fire.  That was 

 really  the  only  way  we  could  be at all sure they would be 

 killed, as they are almost impossible to kill any other way.

 Anyhow,  these things go to show how exceptionally kind my 

 mother  was.   She  didn't  want anything, however menacing, or 

 excecrable,  to  suffer.   I guess I got some of that from her.  

 I  hate  to  see  anything  suffer.  I guess that's why I don't 

 like  this  world.   It  consists mostly of suffering.  I can't 

 understand  why  people  go  on  having  kids.  Seems to me the 

 worst sin anyone could commit.

 How  or  why  a  gentle, intelligent woman, like my mother 

 ever  married,  or  lived  with a man like my dad, I will never 

 understand.   He  was  mean, ill-tempered, and disageeable.  He 

 could  be  very  charming,  and  he  seemed to know everything.  

 That  wasn't  just  my opinion.  People used to love to come to 

 our  house  and eat brown beans, and mama's lightbread, instead 

 of  the  good food they could have had in their own homes--that 

 is,  when  we  had  beans  and  the  flour  for  mama  to  make 

 lightbread.   Many  times  we didn't.  On the occasions when we  did  have  this  much, people came as often as they could, from 

 miles  around,  to  eat and listen to my dad.  He could be very 

 interesting,  and as I said, very charming.  He certainly was a 

 different  man  when other people were around, than he was when 

 we  were  alone.  If we ever happened to say anything the least 

 bit  derogatory  about  him  in  the  presense  of any of these 

 people,  including  my  sister-in-law,  Annie--Deb's wife--they 

 would  insist  that  we were just angry because he wanted us to 

 "do  right."   Ha!  Little  he cared what we did, as long as we 

 kept  out  of his way; didn't cause him any trouble.  And those 

 same  people  who  admired him so much and basked in his charm, 

 would  have  been appalled, probably, if they had known that as 

 soon  as  they  were  out of our door and on their way home, my 

 dad  couldn't vent his contempt for them enough.  They were all 

 "damn fools."

 Mama,  even  though  she  was  a  gentle  and wise person,  

 didn't  seem  to  be  able to stand us kids any better than dad 

 could.   She  couldn't  even  stand  to have us in the house to 

 help  with the constant work of cleaning, mending, washing, and 

 cooking  when she had anything to cook.  She wanted us to carry 

 the  water  needed, and she wanted us to carry in wood, and cut 

 it  too,  when dad wasn't in the mood.  Occasionally, she would 

 allow  one  of us to bake a cake, or do some other chore in the 

 kitchen, if she could be in some other room.

 She  wanted  us to help with the gardening, when there was 

 a  garden,  the  harvesting  from  that garden when there was a 

 garden,  and  the picking of apples while we lived at the Green 

 place,  where  there  was a scraggly, little, dry-land orchard.  

 Sometimes,  we  were  wanted  to wash clothes on the board, but 

 even  that, she usually did herself, rather than have any of us 

 "in her way."

 She  wanted  us  to  run  to  the cellar to take the fresh 

 milk,  when  we had any, or to get the milk and butter, when we 

 had  any, or to bring potatoes, apples, canned fruit and so on, 

 when  there  was  any  there.   I guess we had something in the 

 cellar  about  as  often  as  there  was nothing.  If it didn't  happen  to  rain enough to raise a garden, or bring some apples 

 on  the  old apple trees, or if dad had got hungry for beef and 

 killed  mama's milk cow or butchered all her laying hens, there 

 was sometimes something to eat in that cellar.

 I  don't  remember  of  my dad's ever working a day in his 

 life.   The  older  ones  talked  sometimes,  of  his working a 

 little  in  the  cotton  fields,  the  butcher-shop,  or in the 

 woods,  but  even  they  usually  admitted  that  that was very 

 little.   It  was  up  to  mama  to  keep us alive.  She worked 

 absolute  miracles  to  do  so.  She never seemed to resent the 

 fact  that  dad  didn't  work,  or  even do anything around the 

 house,  such  as gathering the wood, unless he just happened to 

 want  to.   She  seemed  to take it for granted that that was a 

 man's  prerogative.   The  boys,  when they were home, were not 

 really  required  to  do  anything,  either.   They  were to be 

 waited  on.  They were to sit at the table and be served first, 

 if  there  was any food in the house.  Their clothes were to be 

 washed,  and  their  beds  to be made, and their food prepared, 

 and  their  every  need,  insofar as it was possible, was to be 

 met--just as dad"s was.  

 There  were nine children in our family.  Mama and dad had 

 had  ten,  but  our  youngest sister, Nina Belle, died when she 

 was  less  than  two  years  old.  The children, from oldest to 

 youngest,  were  Deb,  (Delbert),  Haden,  Ray, Bert, (Bertha), 

 Flo,  (Florence),  Hank,  (Lois),  Ole,  (Olive),  me,  Nellie, 

 (Nudel--noodle for years), and Billie, (Lola).

 I  hated, and still hate, all my brothers, and my dad.  My 

 sisters  were  all wonderful people--but even they had faults--

 probably  none  of  them as many as I had, and still have.  For 

 some  unknown  reason,  I always wanted to be "good," and tried 

 every  day  of my life to improve.  I didn't have much success, 

 but I never could give up.  Kind of silly, really.

 Of  the  nine  children,  I was the "goat," of the family.  

 One  might  think that that was just my opinion, and I had even 

 begun  to  think  this myself, when one of my sisters said that  she  knew  this  was  true.   Flo  had  told  Ole  that she had 

 thought,  at  first,  that  I was just complaining, when I said 

 that  everyone  in  the  family hated me, but later she decided 

 that I really was the "goat."  Ole said that she agreed.

 If  that  is  true, I wonder why Ole seems to be as bitter 

 as  I  am.   She  doesn't  express her bitterness as openly and 

 often,  but  she  certainly is as bitter.  It seemed to me that 

 everyone  in  the  family,  and  everyone  else she met, always 

 loved  Ole.   That,  it  seems,  should have given her a lot of 

 self-esteem,  and  confidence.   It  surely  didn'w  work  that 

 way.    She  almost  never,  if ever, talks about her hatred or 

 resentment, as I do, but she shows her anger in other ways.

 "I  don't  feel that I have a right to the space I take up 

 on  this  earth," is one of the things she says, that shows her 

 anger.   Another  is  "Why  did  I  have to be the one that was 

 really  the  damn fool?"  Deb always called everyone other than 

 himself  a damn fool, no matter how intelligent, well informed, 

 and  reasonable  any  of  those people were.  I told Ole, and I 

 sincerely  believe,  that  the  one  that was the damn fool, in 

 almost  every  case,  was  Deb,  himself.  I believe, that like 

 dad,  Deb is brilliant.  He has an extraordinary memory, and he 

 has  always  read  a  great  deal--so he is well informed.  But 

 information  is  not  all  there  is  to intelligence.  Deb has 

 absolutely  no  power  to reason.  He has absolutely no "common 

 sense."   This  was  true,  too, of dad, Haden, and to a lesser 

 degree, Ray.

 Just  as  dad  was,  all these brothers were exceptionally 

 charming.   Everyone  seemed  to  think  they  were outstanding 

 people,  smarter  than  anyone else, more capable and even more 

 ethical  than  the  average  person.   Ha ha!  Ethics, justice, 

 understanding  of  anyone  who  disagreed with them, was beyond 

 their  ken.   Everyone who disagreed with them was a damn fool, 

 and  that was the end of it.  Deb is the only one of them still 

 living.   Well informed as he is, you would think he would like 

 to  converse with other people who were somewhere nearly on the 

 same  intellectual level.  Not he.  All his friends were picked from  the least informed, the least educated..  In this way, he 

 could  "lord,"  it  over  all  his friends.  He could make them 

 believe  that  he  was  the most important, and smartest man on 

 earth.   He  loved  that feeling of being judged to be up there 

 somewhere near the gods.

 When  he  was  accidently  thrown  with  someone  who  was 

 educated,  or  well  informed,  he  couldn't be vehement enough 

 about  what  a  damn  fool  that  person  was.   If that person 

 disagreed  with  him,  his  hostility seemed to know no bounds.  

 He  couldn't show his contempt enough.  He would not argue with 

 this  type, however.  He would bide his time, until he was with 

 his  "inferiors,"  again, and then vent his contempt for anyone 

 who  dared  not  think as he did.  His "arguments," were always 

 toward  those  whom  he  knew he could override, or with those, 

 like  his  sisters,  and nieces and nephews, whom he knew would 

 not  dare  contradict  him.   We,  his sisters, had always been 

 taught  that we did not dispute the word of the older ones.  In 

 fact,  I  was  scared  to  death  of  all  of  my brothers, and 

 believed  I  didn't  have  any  right watsoever to cross any of 

 them.   All  my  sisters  were  quite  a lot the same way, even 

 though  some  of them did not, and do not hate Deb as much as I 

 do--or claim not to.

                                      CHAPTER ll  


 I  was  born  near   Tulia,  Texas,  in 1913.  I was, as I 

 said,  the  eighth  child  of  Mattie  and   Haden Walling.  My 

 mother  admitted that she never did want any children, and I am 

 quite  sure my dad never did, either.  He almost always behaved 

 as  if  he  hated  us.   It is true, I think, that mama and dad 

 both  enjoyed  their  new  babies after they arrived, until the 

 next  one  came--then  the older  one was shunted over into the 

 annoying  "growing  up,"  group  and  the baby was the new pet.   Mama  always  carried  the new baby around on her hip while she 

 cooked  and  did the other necessary chores.  Dad liked to play 

 with  the  babies,  like  a  child with a new puppy, until they 

 cried,  or  needed attention, or until he tired of playing.  If 

 the  psychologists  are  correct, this is probably the only--or 

 one  of  the  only  things,  that  prevented  us all from being 

 completely  ruined  by  the  lack  of love and attention.  That 

 first  two  years, they say, are formative, and even though the 

 shock  of suddenly being no longer the pet, was devastating, to 

 say  the  least,  this  first  two years was probably extremely 

 beneficial for what mental stability we have.

 The  fact  that I realize that my brothers and my dad, and 

 my  mother,  too,  were  certainly  molded by the same kinds of 

 nonsalubrious  circumstances  I  was, does not make me feel any 

 more  love  for  them.   Like mama with the flies, and ticks, I 

 would  not  do  any  of them any harm, if I could.  I wish them 

 only  the  best,  but  my  hatred  is  not  lessened.  This, of 

 course,   brings   up  another  psychological  question.   Just 

 exactly  what  is hate; and what is love.  Can one hate and not 

 wish  the  object  of  that hate any harm?  Can one deplore the 

 actions  of  others, and that abject malevolence,  not be hate, 

 but  be  love,  because  you  do  not  wish  any  harm  to  the 

 perpetrator  of  pain  and heartache?  I am not sure.  I do not 

 believe  that anyone could say that I love my dad and brothers, 

 because   I  would  make  some  sacrifice  to  keep  them  from 

 heartache or suffering.

 I  can  remember  some  of  the things that happened in my 

 life  before  we left Texas.  I was not yet three when we left.  

 I  remember of sitting on the dresser, which was in the living-

 room.   I remember mama sitting in a rocking-chair, holding the 

 baby.   That  baby  had to be Billie, of course.  I remember of 

 sensing  somehow,  that  mama  was  worried  that I would knock 

 something  off  the dresser top, or get the mirror, where I was 

 looking  at myself, soiled.  The Molotte girls were combing my 

 hair  and  making a fuss over me.  They were close to Flo's and 

 Hank's  ages.  I  was loving the attention.  I didn't want mama  to  be  worried,  but  I  didn't  want  the girls to stop their 

 attentions, either.  I honestly believe that from that day on--

 and  maybe  even  before--I  never had another day without some 

 guilt  or  feeling  of  failing in my obligations, and what was 

 expected of me.

 When  the girls decided it was time for them to go home, I 

 remember  of  them taking the little, dusty path that led under 

 the  wire  fence.   Flo and Hank were running up that path with 

 them.   I  was behind.  I ran as far as the fence.  I can still 

 see  Flo  and  Hank  crawling under that fence in the dust, but 

 couldn't get under it.  That is as far as I can remember, too.

 The  next  memories  I  have  are of arriving at Grandma's 

 house  in  New  Mexico.   We arrived in a wagon.  Aunt Mary and 

 Lou  came running out, in their long dresses, to meet us.  They 

 helped  us  down, and there again, we were treated like someone 

 could  care  about  us.   They  were  genuinely glad to see us.  

 They  hugged  us and led us into the house.  That is almost all 

 I  remember  about  that  occasion.  One other thing, is that I 

 remember  of  looking into the bright blue eyes of someone--the 

 others  disagree  on who it was--who picked me up by the ankles 

 and  saying  "Hold  your  back  tip,"  brought me in an upright 

 position, as I held my back stiff, to be even with his eyes.

 We  were really on our way to Montana, where dad and Haden 

 had  already gone.  We had come from Texas in the wagon, but we 

 were  to  go  the  rest  of the way by train.  When Billie, who 

 couldn't  have  been  more  than eighteen months old, heard the 

 plans  to  go  on  the  train,  she said, "I can't go.  I can't 

 straddle the train!"

 I  don't  remember  anything  about  that trip.  I do know 

 that  all  of  us  kids got sick, with measles, I think it was, 

 and  that  mama  had  to  take us off the train and remain in a 

 hotel  somewhere  until  we were released from quarantine.  How 

 she  paid  for  this,  I  have  no idea.  We never did have any 

 money.   I  wouldn't  be surprised to know that she had to wire 

 some  of  her  relatives for enough to bail us out.  That would 

 have  been  very  difficult  for mama.  She had a great deal of  pride.   She  never did ask anyone for anything, excepting in a 

 very few cases of absolute necessity.

 I  don't  remember  about arriving in Montana.  I remember 

 of  hearing  the  others  talk  about  it.   They  said dad was 

 working  in  a butcher-shop.  In fact, I think he owned a half-

 interest  in  it.  He was a good butcher.  Dad  could do almost 

 anything.   He could have made a good living as a carpenter, or 

 cabinet  maker,  or  probably  even  building furniture, or any 

 one  of  many  other things.  He just didn't want to work.  Who 

 am  I to judge him.  I didn't want to work, either.  I know and 

 can  explain  why  I didn't want to work but I can't understand 

 why he didn't.

 As  always,  we  moved  every few months, in Montana.  Dad 

 always   saw  "greener  pastures,"  somewhere  else...anywhere, 

 other  than  where  he  was.  He had dragged mama, and whatever 

 children  they had at the time, around with him ever since they 

 were married.

 Of  course  almost  all  the  work and worry of moving was 

 mama's.   Dad  never  did  much of anything he didn't just want 

 to.   Mama  was an exceptionally clean and sanitary woman.  She 

 never  moved  into  a  place  without  cleaning, scrubbing, and 

 making  the  place as neat as possible.  She never moved out of 

 a  place  without  leaving  it  sparkling  clean, too.  Well, I 

 shouldn't  use  the  word  "sparkling."   None of the places we 

 ever  lived  could  have been said to sparkle under the best of 


 Dad  sold  his  half-interest  in  the butcher-shop and we 

 moved.   Dad  had a falling-out with the man we rented our next 

 place  from,  and  wouldn't  stay there.  Haden and Ray went to 

 work  in  the  harvest  field.  Haden was young and strong.  He 

 had  to be about sixteen then.  Ray was a scrawnie kid, so thin 

 one  would wonder how his back held his body  up.   They worked 

 twelve  hours  a day out in that hot sun and dust, seven days a 

 week.   I  think  that  some  of  the  older ones said that dad 

 worked part of the time, too.

 I  still  have  a  letter  Ray wrote to me.  He told about  dad's  going  to  their  boss and collecting their wages at the 

 end  of the week.  He took the money and went into town and got 

 drunk.   He  also  had  always  to  have  his  tobacco, and his 

 coffee,  whether  there  was  anything  to eat in the house, or 

 not.   More than likely he bought a few groceries too, with the 

 boys' money.

 I  can  remember quite a few incidents that happened after 

 we  moved into what was called the "Fred Lowe" place.  Mama and 

 Bert  had  managed  to acquire a couple of nice milk cows and a 

 couple  of  heifer  calves.    It was wonderful to have all the 

 milk,  cottage  cheese,  cream  and butter we wanted.  Bert was 

 alway  a  "tomboy."  She and mama had problems over this.  Mama 

 wanted  her  girls  to be "little ladies."  Bert didn't want to 

 be  a  lady.  She refused.  I think it was probably a very good 

 thing  she didn't want to be a lady, because the things she had 

 to  do,  most young ladies would resent a lot.  She always took 

 care  of  the  cows  and  calves.  She took care of the horses, 

 too,  when  we  had  them.   She loved horses more than she did 

 anything else in the world, I think.

 Anyway,  when  I was about five, Bert began taking me with 

 her  to get the cows.  I loved pattering along after her in the 

 dusty  trails.   I,  like  she, enjoyed being outside more than 

 inside  the  house.  I spent every minute I could with Bert.  I 

 think  to  this  day,  I  have to give Bert a lot of credit for 

 saving  my  sanity.   She  seemed  to enjoy my company, and she 

 took  good  care of me.  When we found the cows each night, she 

 would  lift  me up onto Old Pale's back, and I would ride home.  

 It  was a joyful experience.  Just being with Bert was a joyful 

 experience.   She  liked to talk.  She was very intelligent and  

 creative.   She taught me many things.  She didn't know she was 

 teaching  me--there  was nothing pedagogic about her.  She just 

 talked  to  me about things that interested her.  Mostly how to 

 care for the animals.

 When  we  got  back  to the barn with the cows, Bert would 

 send  me  to the house to get the milk-bucket.  Mama always put  some  hot  water  from  the teakettle in it, so that Bert could 

 rince  the  pail out before milking.  Bert usually sat me up in 

 the  manger  while  she milked.  I was afraid of the long horns 

 the  cows  tossed around.  Quite often, Bert would have to send 

 me  back  to  the house to get a five pound lard pail, in which 

 to  finish  the  milking.   When  the weather permitted it, she 

 milked  outside.   Even though there were times in my life when 

 Bert  got  irritated  with me, and one time she slapped me very 

 hard  for  I  know not what even to this day, I still feel that 

 Bert  simply  was  not  on  the  same level with other mortals.  

 Well,  actually  she  wasn't.   She  was  more intelligent than 

 most,  and  far  more talented than anyone else ever realilzed.  

 She  never  had  any  idea, I believe, herself how talented she 

 was.   She  used  up her life and wasted her talent working for 

 wages--to  support  a worthless son and his children.  The only 

 other  person  who  realized her full potential for art, was my 

 son,  Jim Tarbert.  He remembers and often talks about the fact 

 that  she could draw animals with a few scribbles of the pen or 

 pencil.   They  were  as  uniform as any picture could possibly 

 be.   It didn't matter what position the animal she was drawing 

 was  in--a  horse  bucking, a dog jumping, a rooster crowing, a 

 man  falling  from  a  saddle,  or anything else, it was all in 

 proportion,  each  joint  just  as  it  would  be  if it were a 


 I  don't think most people, even most artists, realize how 

 hard  that  is  to  do.   Even  Leonardo  Da Vinci, had to make 

 several  marks  with  the pencil, from which he then chose that 

 which  looked  most  right.   That  is  the  way  he taught his 

 students  to  do.   Bert never erased a mark, nor had to choose 

 among  them.   When she made one, it was already right--always.  

 What  wouldn't  I give for a smidgeon of that talent.  Millions 

 of  other  people  would  give  a  great deal to have that much 

 talent,   too--but   few,  if  any  anywhere,  were  ever  that 

 talented.  What a waste!

 All  of  us  were  talented.   Any  of the boys could play 

 almost  any  musical  instrument  they picked up.  They all had  wonderful  voices, too.  Ray had the best.  His voice and dad's 

 were  capable  of  raising emotions one hadn't previously known 

 one  had.   Ray could make you cry or laugh, or want to do both 

 at  the  same  time.   He could make you feel that you had been 

 carried  away out of your own body and existed without body--or 

 that  your  body had been reincarnated into anotherr completely 

 different.   Actually,  no  one could describe what he could do 

 with his singing voice--so I don't know why I am trying...

 How  hard  to  believe that a man gifted with such unusual 

 qualities,  along  with  his great charm, handsome countenance, 

 good  body,  beautiful  eyes,  strong,  white teeth, could be a 

 molester  of  children.   What  made  him  so  unhappy.  People 

 adored  him,  men,  women  and  children.   He  could have done 

 anything  with  his  life  he  chose.   He  could  have  become 

 president  of  the  United  States.   People swarmed around him 

 like  flies after honey.  There would have been a lot of energy 

 thrown  behind  anything  he  wanted to do, as all these people 

 would have backed him to the Nth degree.  

 He  died  a miserable drunk, without ever realizing any of 

 his  potential--without,  indeed, ever even knowing he had that 

 potential.   He  was  always  unhappy and depressed.  He had no 

 self-esteem,  no  confidence  in  himself  or  his ability.  He 

 never  got  to  enjoy all the gifts he had been handed.  what a 


 Who  knows  what  drove  him  to  molest  little girls.  I 

 believe  that  there  is  something in the lives of people like 

 him,  that  causes them to be perverted.  I have read that some 

 large  per  cent  of  all  sexual  molesters  of children, were 

 sexually  molested  when  they  were  children.   I  don't know 

 whether  anything  like  this ever happened to him, or not.  It 

 certainly could have.

 It  makes me wonder about myself too, when I think that he 

 came  within  a  hair's breadth raping my daughter when she was 

 only  about twelve, and that I can still feel more love for him 

 than  I  do  for Haden, Deb, or my dad.  While I do not believe 

 there  is  a  more  heinous  crime than child abuse, especially  sexual  abuse,  I  supose  the fact that Ray treated me with so 

 much  more  respect than the others did, that my feelings about 

 him  were not so twisted.  While I do not believe that Haden or 

 Deb  or  my  dad  would have sexually abused a child, certainly 

 they  abused  me,  and all the other children in the family who 

 were  young  enough that they could manhandle them, or maneuver 

 them,  or  control  them.   Maybe  that is part of the reason I 

 don't  feel  even as much hatred toward Ray, even though I feel 

 more hatred for his crimes.

 When  we  had  to  leave the Fred Lowe place, Dad sold all 

 our  cows.  They wee Red and Pale, with cales, Sunshine, nearly 

 ready  to  calve  and  and  Tulip,  a  young heifer.  Tulip was 

 red,with  little  freckles  on her hooves.  Bert led me over to 

 her  and  stooping  down,  pointed  to one of tose freckles and 

 said,  "See  that little freckle?  Don't ever forget it as long 

 as you live.

 When  I  was a a child, I had terrible nightmares.  I feel 

 sure  in light of the psychological books I have read that they 

 were  a result of my fear and hatred of my brother Haden and my 

 dad.   Haden  hated  me,  and  he never lost any chance to make 

 that  known  to  me.   Mama  said that when  I was about a year 

 old,  Haden came home, after being away for several months.  He 

 came  over  and  picked  me  up and I squalled.  Haden was like 

 dad.   He  liked  kids  as  long  as  they  didn't give him any 

 trouble,  and  were  fun to play with.  He couldn't stand a kid 

 that  "squalled."  Ever since that day he hated me.  He kept me 

 in misery any time he was near, for the rest of my life.

 Haden  liked  Flo  and  Ole  and Billie.  They hadn't ever 

 squalled  when  he  wanted to play with them, I guess.  Flo was 

 the  most  daring  one  of  the  girls.  She defied him now and 

 then,  and  he  liked  her  "spunk."  Ole was so quiet that she 

 never  caused  anyone  any trouble of any kind.  Billie was the 

 baby,  and  she  too,  showed her spunk.  One time when we were 

 all  on  the train, Ole and Billie were riding in the seat with 

 Haden.   Billie stood up and when Haden started to make her sit 

             down,  she said, "I'll spit in your eye!"  Haden laughed and no 

 one  in  the  family  ever  forgot that.  If I had ever had any 

 spunk it had all been taken out of me long before that.

 I  may  never have had any, but I am inclined to believe I 

 had  had.   I  was  always called "feisty."  I was the one that 

 always  fought back, other than to Haden.  I don't know whether 

 the  family  disliked  me  because  I  was  feisty--that caused 

 "trouble"--or  whether I got feisty from knowing that I was not 

 capable of achieving approval.

 In  one  of the homes we lived in in Montana, we girls all 

 slept  upstairs.   I  was  scared to death.  When we moved into 

 that  house, we were told that it was"haunted."  There were big 

 stains  on  the  stairsteps,  and  we were told that they  were 

 blood  stains;  that  a  man had been murdered there--or that a 

 man had murdered his wife.  Of course we kids believed it.

 Anyway,  by  this  time,  I was having terrible nightmares 

 every  nitht,  which  helped  further  to take all that "spunk" 

 Haden  admired,  out  of me.  I discovered later, that Hank had 

 nightmares, too, which kept her in a constant  nervous state.

 I  don't  remember  whether it was before we lived in that 

 house  or  after,  that  we were all out playing one night.  We 

 had  some  company,  but  I don't remember who the company was.  

 anyway,  we  were all running and having quite a good time.  It 

 began  to  get dark.  All the company left.  Somehow, Haden got 

 Hank  and  me over to an old abandoned cellar and down into it.  

 I  think  we  must  have all gone into it at first.  Anyhow, he 

 got  everyone  out excepting Hank and me, and then put the door 

 down.   It  was very dark, damp, spider-filled, and smelly.  Of 

 course  Hank  and  I  became  hysterical.   We could hear Haden 

 laughing  up  above.   I  don't  remember how we got out, but I 

 expect  Flo  induced him to open the door.  Incidents like this 

 certainly didn't add to our showing any "spunk"

 He  hated  Hank,  too,  and treated her in the same way he 

 treated  me.   He  caused  her to have a nervous breakdown.  We 

 didn't   know  what  a  nervous breakdown was at that time, but  after  I  learned  what they are like, it was easy to know that 

 was  what  she  suffered.  She  couldn't  ever  relax.  She had 

 nightmares,  too, and had "trembling" spells.  One time she was 

 looking  down  over  the  banister  and  saw Bert.  She started 

 screaming.   She  was  so  frightened  she  almost fainted just 

 ecause  she  hadn't expected to see Bert there at that time.  I 

 don't  know  what  all  he  did  to make Hank so nervous, but I 

 expect  that  he  started  in  on  her  years before he started 

 torturing me.  She is five years older than I.


 As  poor  as  we were and as much as we moved around, mama 

 always  managed  to  keep her feather-bed.  She made it up each 

 morning  and spread it over with a snow-white sheet.  (We never 

 since  I  can  remember,  had sheetss for our beds, but somehow 

 mama  managed to keep that one, and keep it sparkling white for 

 her  feather-bed).   Most  of  the time that feather-bed was in 

 the  living-room.  Everyone in the house knew that it was taboo 

 to  go  near  that  bed.  Mama would not have any dents made in 

 it, or any grimey hands touching it.

 However,  if one of us was sick enough, mama would usually 

 put  us  in  her  sacred feather-bed.  I had begun to have very 

 severe  headaches  by the time I was five.  I expect the causes 

 were   mental   and   physical--fear,  dread,  lack  of  sleep, 

 malnutrution.    Anyhow,  Mama  put  me  in  her  bed  at these 

 times.   On  several different occasions Haden came to the bed, 

 picked  me  up  by one  heel, swung me around.  "You don't have 

 any  headache!" he said.  "Get out of that bed and quit puttin' 

 on."   Mama never said a word.  As I said before, I believe she 

 and  dad were afraid of Haden.  Maybe he had taken the "spunk," 

 out  of  them,  too, by that time.  He was seventeen when I was 


 My  hatred  of Deb seems to me as intense as my hatred for 

 Haden.   I  can't  understand this myself, because in many ways 

 Deb  did champion me at times.  I remember of calling him "good 

 Haden,"  and  Haden  "bad  Haden," when I was little.  I really 

 didn't  know them apart, otherwise.  They were gone out to work 

             sometimes  and  when  they would return, I never was sure which 

 was  which.   Deb  did  make  Haden  put  me down on one of the 

 occasions  when  he picked me up by the heel to swing me around 

 when  I  had such a splitting headache.  Deb was older, and had 

 probably  put  the  fear  of  God  into  Haden  when  they were 

 small.     As far as I know, he was the only person who had any 

 influence whatsoever on Haden's terrible behavior.

 When  we  lived  in  the  house with the upstairs, Deb got 

 sick.   He  was  in bed in a room downstairs.  We kids would go 

 in  to see if he needed a drink of water, or something,  Two or 

 three  different  times,  when  I did this, he grabbed my wrist 

 and   wouldn't  let  me  go.   This  brought  on  contradictory 

 emotions.   It  scared  me  because  I was helpless.  But I was 

 flattered  that anyone would want me around enough to hold onto 

 me  in  that  way.  I thought (much later),  that it might have 

 been  an  opening to sexual child abuse.  My sister says--and I 

 am  inclined  to believe now that she is right--that he did the 

 same  thing  to her, and that she believes he was simply lonely 

 in  there  hour  after hour by himself, and wanted our company.  

 In any case, it left a pretty deep imprssion on me.

 When  we  lived  at  this house, we owned two horses.  One 

 was  Old  Nell.   She  was very old, In fact, I believe some of 

 the  neighbors had turned her out to "pasture."  Dad got her in 

 and  used  her  to pull the buggy and to plow the garden and so 

 forth.   We  also  had  a beautiful horse named  Rosenanti.  He 

 was  a  good  saddle-horse.   Bert loved to ride him.  Mama and 

 dad  worried  about  her  as  they  were not sure the horse was 


 At  this  time  Mama  still had a nice old coat her mother 

 had  given  her.  It was cut in at the waist, and flared at the 

 bottom,  as  was  the  style.  Mama also had a becoming hat she 

 had  been able to hang onto.  Once in a while, she would decide 

 she  could dispense with her everlasting chores.  She would get 

 dressed  up,  put  on  her hat, hitch up the horse to the buggy 

 and  drive away to "Aunt Betty's."  Aunt Betty was her mother's 

sister.   She  had  married  a Divine.  They were comparatively 

 wealthy  wheat  farmers.   I think they had had an influence on 

 mama  and  dad  in  getting  them  to go to Montana from Texas.  

 Mama  usually  took me with her.  She was irritated with me for 

 having  to  go, but she didn't dare leave me at home when Haden 

 was  around.   I  hated  the long, dusty trips, but I did enjoy 

 being  at  Aunt  Betty's.   They  always  had  good food, and I 

 always  was given some kind of treat, often an apple.  Also, it 

 was a pleasure to be dressed in my best clothes.

 One  time when we went to Minnie's, I was trying as usual, 

 to  be  good,  but  the  strong smell of apples assailed me.  I 

 said,  "I  smell  apples."   Mama scolded me and shushed me up.  

 She  believed that I was bidding for an apple.  As much as this 

 might  have been like me, on that occasion, I was not hoping to 

 get  one--but the wonderful smell overwhelmed me so much that I 

 lurted it out.  I got an apple.

 Someties,  mama  would take some of the other children.  I 

 think  they  enjoyed  going on these trips, too.  Minnie Divine 

 was  mama's  cousin  and  they  loved  each  other.   Orion was 

 Minnie's  brother.   There  was  also  a retarded boy, Paul, in 

 this  family.   There  were  two married sister's.  Their names 

 were  Molly  Henderson  and  Nannie Bivens.  I believe they had 

 both  gone to Oaksdale, Washington, to live at the time we were 

 in Montana.

 We  used  the  poor old worn out horse, too, to go to pick 

 chokecherries.   Flo  and  Hank  and  Ole and I usually went on 

 these  trips.   I wasn't able to pick enough berries to make it 

 pay  to take me along, but I was at least out of mama's way.  I 

 enjoyed  these  excursions.   It  was cool by the pond where we 

 went.   I  liked the bitter chokecherries--we were all probably 

 starved  for  fruit, and the chokecherries were rich in citrus.  

 I  even  got  a  few in the bottom of my bucket to add to those 

 taken  home  for mama to make chokecherry syrup.  The old horse 

 was  allowed  to  drink and browse while we picked berries.  We 

 usually  had some kind of lunch, too.  I don't remember what it 

 was,  but  it did make the whole day seem like a picnic outing.          No  small  part  of my liking to go along was that we were away 

 from  my  dad all that time.  I wasn't as afraid of my dad as I 

 was  of Haden, but I hated to be around him, and tried to avoid 

 him any time I could.

 One  day  Old Nell could not be found.  Hank worried about 

 her.   One  of the neighbors reported that he had seen her over 

 near  the pond.  Hank and one of the others, probably Flo, went 

 to   look   for  her.   She  was  there,  bogged  down  in  the 

 quicksand.   Han  and  whoever  was  with her tried to help her 

 out.   Of  course  their efforts were worse than useless.  Each 

 struggle  the  horse  made, caused her to sink farther into the 

 mud.   She  lay there and died.  That was almost more than Hank 

 could  bear.   It  seemed to leave a greater scar on her psyche 

 than it did on the others.

 There  was  a  heartbreak too, for Bert over Rosenanti.  I 

 don't remember just what happened, but I believe dad sold him.


 From  there  we moved to Carter.   We didn't have any land 

 there,  or  any  milk  cows, even though it was in the country.    

 We  lived  about a mile from the town.  I was not old enough to 

 go  to  school,  but  once  in a while, I was allowed to go and 

 visit  in Ole's room.  I remember two incidents there.  One was 

 when  the  teacher  told  the  children  to go to the board for 

 something.   I  went  along,  not  knowing what was expected of 

 me.   As  I  stood there I felt the warm wet urine pouring down 

 my  legs.   I  wet  my pants and wet all over the floor.  I had 

 been  so accustomed to not having any "spunk" that I was afraid 

 to tell the teacher I had to go to the toilet.

 Another  time,  Ray  came  in  to  meet us when we got out 

 ofschool.   He brought each of us a box of cracker jacks.  What 

 a  treat!    A  special treat like that was something we hardly 

 ever  had.   It was delicious, besides the wonderful feeling of 

 having  it  seem  someone  cared about us.  That was the way it 

 was  for  me,  anyway.  Maybe things like that were some of the 

 reasons  I  could  forgive  Ray  for  his  abhorant crimes more 

 easily than I could Haden and Deb.

While  we  were living at that house, Hank and Flo and Ole 

 were  caught  in  a showstorm.  They almost always cut across a 

 field  to  go to or from school.  It was freezing weather.  The 

 storm  became blinding.  Ole was so cold she could hardly move, 

 and  almost  refused to try.  She had been with the older girls 

 on  another  occasion,  when  they  were  caught in a blizzard.  

 That  time,  dad  went out and found them.  He always got a lot 

 of  credit  for  knowing just where to look, and for being able 

 to  find  his way in the "white-out."  When he got the children 

 home,  Ole's hands were frozen.  Dad soaked them in cold water, 

 and  then  a  little warmer and a little warmer until they were 

 thawed  without serious damage.  However, to this day, when her 

 hands  get cold, they become almost paralyzed.  Probably one of 

 the  things  that  made  it  so difficult for Ole to keep going 

 this  second  time  was  the fact that her hands were so nearly 

 frozen again, and had lost all feeling.

 Flo  and  Hank  got  Ole's  muffler  from her neck, put it 

 around  her  middle  and  pulled  her  along  to  make her keep 

 going.   They  arrived  at  a  neighbor's  house about two city 

 blocks away from our house.

 The  neighbors  were  afraid  they were going to be blamed 

 for  Ole's  frozen  hands,  or  for delaying the children about 

 getting  home,  so  they  were  not  very cooperative.  Flo was 

 always  the  aggressive  one in our family.  She went ahead and 

 soaked  Ole's  hands  as  Dad had done, and probably saved them 

 from  being  completely  ruined.   Hank  stayed with Ole at the 

 neighbors  and  Flo went to get dad.  Dad went down and carried 

 Ole home and ministered to her hands again.

 There  was  a  country  road  up between the wheat fields, 

 where  we  kids  liked to walk.  One time we were walking along 

 up  this  road.   We saw an old broken colored, glass door-knob 

 lying  in  the  road.   Hank and Flo told Ole and me it was the 

 devil's  eye.   I don't think it bothered Ole, but it scared me 

 out  of  my  wits.   One  thing that did scare Ole, though, was 

 that  the  older girls asked her to run up ahead for something.  

Probably  some  game  they  were inventing.  When she had run a 

 few  dozen  yards, they yelled "That's far 'nough."  Ole turned 

 and  ran  back  as  fast  as she could, crying "Where's Farnuf?  

 Where's Farnuf?"

 We  still had a buggy, even though there were no horses to 

 pull  it.   We  kids liked to take the buggy out and coast down 

 the  hill  in  it.  The older ones fixed it up some way so that 

 it  could  be  guided  to a degree.  We wuld all get in it, and 

 start  down  the  hill.  It was exciting, if far more dangerous 

 than we knew.

 It  was  at  this  house  too,  that Deb somehow had got a 

 motorcycle.   He  was  riding  it  down that same hill, when it 

 flipped  and  threw  him  off.   He was quite badly injured.  I 

 didn't  know  it  for  years,  but  he  and Haden were drinking 

 whenever  they  could  get  hold  of  anything  intoxicating to 


 I  don't  know  what  we  lived  on at that time.  I don't 

 remember  of any of the boys or dad working, but there may have 

 been  some  work  in  the  harvests in the fall.  Bert and Flo, 

 young  as  they were had jobs when school was out, in the homes 

 of  people  who  wanted help with their housework.  Bert worked 

 for  a  family  by  the  name  of  Miers.   They  were terribly 

 stingy.   They  wouldn't  allow  Bert to have more than one egg 

 for  breakfast,  and showed their parsimony in many other ways.  

 While  she  was  working  there,  also, Bert had to fend of the 

 advances  of  Mr.  Meirs.   She  was about fifteen years old at 

 that time.

 Flo  worked  for  a family by the name of Fourboards.  She 

 didn't  enjoy it, but didn't have as much trouble I believe, as 

 did  Bert.   Of  course, as I said, Flo was the most aggressive 

 one  of  the  children,  and  would have made demands that Bert 

 wouldn't  have. It always seemed like forever between the girls 

 visits  home.   It seemed like Heaven  too, to us younger ones, 

 when they could come home for a day.

 I  don't  know  why;   I  never  did  know why we moved so  often,  but  we  moved  from  that  house  to  Eureka.  When we 

 arrived  there,  we  found  a little house up on a hilltop.  We 

 got  into  it  somehow, and stayed there overnight.  Right next 

 to  us  was  a  family by the name of    .  They evidently were 

 French.   They  had  a girl by the name of Fifi, and one by the 

 name  of      .  they were close to Bert's age, and they became 

 quite  good friends.  Almost sixty years later, when my husband 

 took  me  to  Eurika to see if there were any thing left that I 

 could  recognize,  we  found  the house in which the     's had 

 lived, and several others that we recognized, still standing.

 We  finally  settled in a little house down over a hill to 

 which  there  were several wooden steps.  For some reason there 

 was  a  barn.   However, there was no room for a milk-cow, or a 

 horse.  We  lived  right in town.  Mama did have a fine garden.  

 There  was  a  sawmill  where  Haden  got  work.  I believe Deb 

 worked  at  the  sawmill,  too,  for  a  while.  Dad, as usual, 

 didn't  do  anything.   There  was a period in there somewhere, 

 when  he  and  Deb  and Haden worked in the woods.  It must not 

 have  been  for  very  long.   It was as long, I expect, as Dad 

 enjoyed  the  good  food they could afford out there where they 

 camped  and  the freedom to drink and do as he pleased, without 

 interference.   Mama  never gave him much trouble, it seemed to 

 me,  about anything, but she did hate for him to drink, and let 

 him  know  it.   I  don't remember of their ever fighting about 

 this, but Ole says they often did.

 The  boys,  Haden especially, must have given mama some of  

 his  money.   Anyway,  we  lived better there than we had for a 

 long  time.   We  had  food  on  the table most of the time.  I 

 remember  of  wanting  a pink dress more than I wanted anything 

 in  the world.  One time mama went to town and brought home two 

 pink dresses for me.  I could hardly contain my happiness.

 Mama  took in washings.  She had to do all that laundry by 

 hand  on a washboard, of course, besides taking care of all her 

 family,  doing  all the cooking, mending and so on, and keeping 

 our  clothes  clean.    Flo  and  Hank sold mustard plasters to  earn  a  bit  of  money.  They did pretty well with them.  Mama 

 even  had  to  use  some  of  the  mustard plastars on her poor 

 aching  muscles,  in  order to keep going.  As I said, I cannot 

 imagine why she ever lived with dad.

 .    We  kids had to deliver the laundry.  Once, when Ole and I 

 delivered  some,  we  saw a tricycle on a big, shaded porch.  I 

 ached  to  ride  it.  I don't know how we managed it, but I did 

 wind  up  by  riding  it  up  the porch.  I couldn't express my 

 thrill at that once-in-a-lifetime event.

 There  were  some  people  living abut three-quarters of a 

 mile  from  out  farther from town than we did.  Thier name was 

 Gardner.   There was a girl named Aida, who was Ole's age.  She 

 and  Ole  became  quite  good  friends.   She  had some kind of 

 speech  impediment.   She  had an older sister named Irene, who 

 was  about  Bert's  age.   Irene was cosidered a little "wild," 

 and  mama hated for her daughter to be friends with her.  Also, 

 there  were two boys in the Gardner family, Orb and Clyde.  The 

 boys  liked  to  drink and I think Irene did, too.  Bert didn't 

 like  the  boys,  and  she  never  did drink, but I'm sure most 

 everyone  who saw Bert and Irene together so much, thought Bert 

 was as wild as Irene was.

 Deb  liked  the  boy--or  at  least he liked to run around 

 with  them  and  drink  with  them.  They drove to Canada every 

 time  they  could  and  brought back bottles of whiskey.  Haden 

 liked  to  drink  too,  but  he didn't spend much time with the 

 Gardner  boys.   I  think  we  have a picture, though, of Haden 

 taken  with the two boys.  Also, we have a picture of Ray taken 

 with  Clyde Gardner.  This picture shows how scrawney Ray still 

 was at that time.

 There  was  a  girl named Hannah Broderick, who lived down 

 the  road  from us, too.  She limped.  Somehow, this frightened 

 me.   One  of  my worst nightmares was a dream that someone was 

 cutting  off  my  kneecaps--and  I  thought that was why Hannah 

 limped;  because  her  kneecaps had been cut off.  We never did 

 get  very  well acquainted with her.  Maybe her limp frightened  everyone else, too.  She always walked alone.

 Next  door  to  us  lived a woman and her little daughter.  

 Their  name  was Sullivan.  Mama said afterward that the mother 

 was  crazy.   I  am inclined to believe it now.  We saw her out 

 nailing  boards  over  all her windowd and doors.  She said she 

 was  nailing them up, so that her husband couldn't get in.  She 

 was  kind  of  a pretty woman, and not any older, I think, than 

 Bert.   Her daughter, Cora, was four years old.  She introduced 

 me  to  sex.  In fact it seemed that sex was about all that was 

 ever  on  her  mind.  I was appalled at first, but childlike, I 

 began  to  enjoy  the sex games.  I felt guilty, because it was 

 against  the  rules in our house to ever mention anything about 

 our  "private  parts,"  or  show  our  naked selves to even our 

 sisters  or our mother.  I began to play sex-games even with my 

 doll.   Of  course,  guilty  as  I  felt,  my feelings were not 

 really  very different about myself than they had always been--

 I  had  always  felt  guilty  about  most  everything I did, or 

 thought.   I  thought  I  was  a "bad" person, in any case.  In 

 later  years  I  tried  to  draw  Ole and Billie into these sex 

 games, but without much success.

 About  a block up the street from us lived a family by the 

 name  of  Welling.  There were four or five girls and they were 

 all  beautiful.   One  of  them  was  about  my  age.   When my 

 youngest  sister  died  while we were living at that house, she 

 came  down  one time and sat on a little bench beside the house 

 with  me.   She  told me that she thought it was her fault that 

 Nina  had  died.  She said she had hated Nina, because Nina was 

 prettier than she was.

 Mr  Welling had a patch of potatoes.  He wanted us kids to 

 come  up  and  help  them  hoe up all the weeds from the potato 

 patch.   I  went  along.  I couldn't tell the potatoes from the 

 weeds,  and  proceeded  to  hoe  up  as  many potatoes as I did 

 weeds.   Mr.  Welling  seemed  a  little  irritated,  and  kept 

 showing  me  which  was  which,  but  he never did make me stop 


We  kids  all liked to play in the old barn.  Flo and Hand 

 were  good  at  inventing games.  There were big square cuts in 

 the  upper floor which had been used to pitch hay down through. 

 One  day I fell down through one of those holes, and fell right 

 on  a  stack  of  old  lumber,  where there was a nail sitcking 

 straight  up  through  a board.  The older girls took me to the 

 house,  where  I  was  taken care of--but what I remember best, 

 was  that  I  was scolded for being dumb enough to fall through 

 that hole.

Read 12337 times Last modified on Saturday, 13 June 2015 19:29
More in this category: « 04. Ole


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1957-1958 1st Grade- Click to read story.
1970's Promiscuity- Click for story.
2001 Trip to Cancun- Click to read story.
5th Grade in Abilene Tx- Click for story
1964- Luv Please- Click for story.
Me in first grade- Click for story.
Forbidden Dreams of Love- Click for story.
1982-1993 Waller Street- Click to read story.
Palouse- Click for story
2005- Darlene Visits for Gay Pride- Click to read story.
Darlene Marries Chuck- Click for story.
2005 Darlene Visit for Gay Pride- Click for story.
1973- Psych Tech Program- Click for story.
1974- First Trip to Europe- Click to read story.
2014- Road trip to San Diego- Click for story.
Where I was born- Click for story.
Amber- Click to read story.
1974- On Larkin Street- Click for story.
Grandview- Click for story
Earthquake! Click to read story.
Escondido 1960's- Click for story
2015- 2nd Gay Cruise- Click to read story.
Black Men in Oils- Click to read story
2001 Trip to Cancun- Click to read story.
Second Gay Cruise- Click for story.
Me in 3rd grade- Click for story.
1967- Summer of Love- Click to read story.
Click to read "Introduction."
4th Grade- Click for story.
My Dad's Family- Click for story.
2015- 2nd Gay Cruise- Click for story.
Gay Disco 70's- Click for story
1973 "You have to be hurt..." Click to read the story.
Me in my 20's in 1970's- Click for story.
Photos of Dad & His Family- Click for story.
1958-1959- 3rd Grade- Click to read story.
The Psychedelic Experience- Click to read story.
Summer of Love- Click to read story.
Beatle haircut- Click for story.
Women in Oils- Click for story


01. Introduction

03- Dads Family

03- Photos of my Father and his family

04- My Mother's Family

04- Photos of my Mom

04- Video of my Mom

04- Walling Family Reunions

04-Audio Files of My Mom

04. Billie

04. Ole

04.1. Forbidden Dreams of Love

04.2. Flames of Forbidden Love

04.3 Mom Writing Her Life Story

05- Jim Tarbert

05. Roger

1950's Grandview to Toppenish

1957-1958 1st Grade

1958-1959- Third Grade

1959- Palouse

1961- 4th Grade- Last time I wore a dress

1962- Abilene

1963- Escondido- Early 60's

1964- Darlene Marries Chuck

1964- My Beatle Haircut

1964-The Luv Please

1965 or 1966- Steve Castle

1965- In Foster Care

1966 Living with Darlene & Chuck in Seattle

1967- Juvenile Hall

1976- I Praise Thee (poem to Stanley)

1976- My Second Lover, Stanley Dunne

1976- Paul McCartney and Wings

1976-1330 Bush Street #9J

1977- 1667 Haight Street

1977- Trip to San Diego with Mary Jo

1977-1980- Tumultuous Relationship with John Perry

1978- 525 Haight Street

1979- September- Dad is Murdered

1980's- AIDS- Death and Dying

1980- Winter- First Trip to New York

1980- Word, Sound and Power

1981- Milton- Falling in Love

1982-1993 465 Waller Street

1982-1994 Computers to MacNursing

1984- 33rd Birthday

1985- Graduation from Nursing School

1985- Trip to Hawaii (Oahu)

1988- MIdnight Caller

1989- Earthquake!

1991- Aug 10th- Mom Passes Away

1991- Black Males in Oils

1991- Crack of My Life

1993- Move to Vallejo & Our First Home

1995-1. Road Trip to Washington

1995-2. Surprise Trip to Vegas

1995-3. Grandmother Rogers & Aunts Visit Darlene's

1995-4. Amber

1998- Camping at Russian River

2000 -Thoughts about Progressive Christians

2000- Resignation from John George

2001- April- Trip to Cancun

2001- Peace and Justice

2001- September 11th

2002- April-Puerto Vallarta & Blue Bay Getaway

2002- Nov 12th- My Stepfather, George McHenry Passes Away

2003- Trip to D.C. and N.Y.

2004- Feb- Road Trip to Baha Mexico

2004- Walling Family Reunion in Spokane

2005- Christmas Poem

2005- Darlene Visit for Pride Celebration

2005- Trip to Orlando

2005-1. Europe- London

2005-2. Europe- Paris

2005-3. Europe- Venice

2005-4. Europe- Florence

2005-5. Europe- Rome

2005-6. Europe- Athens

2005-7. Knee Surgery & Tongue Biopsy

2006 Christmas Poem

2006- February 23- Times Herald

2006- Palm Springs White Party

2006- Trip to Seattle

2006-July 8th Solano Peace and Justice Coalition BBQ

2007- Feb- Carnival Destiny- Our First Cruise

2007- Tre and Casey Visit

2008- Aug 15-18 Spokane Visit

2008- Psycho Song

2009- Honored by Vallejo Gay Network

2009- Women in Oils

2010 Christmas Poem

2010- Feb. R.C. Mariner of the Seas Mexican Riviera Cruise

2010- June 24- Badlands

2010- Trip to Seattle

2010-1. Europe- Amsterdam

2010-2. Europe- Paris

2010-3. Europe- Barcelona & Sitges

2010-4. Europe- Madrid

2011-1. Feb. My Fabulous 60th Birthday Weekend

2011-2. April- L.A., Palm Springs & "The White Party"

2011-3. Poem- Girl From Medical Lake

2011-4. Old Man Dancing

2011-5. May- Misty and Alex Visit

2011-6. August- Darlene and Sean's Visit

2011-7. Alex 16-18 & Pics

2012- March- Carnival Splendor Mexican Riviera with Family

2013- Wedding

2014- Christmas Poem

2014- First Gay Cruise

2014- September Road Trip to San Diego

2015- Seasonal Affective Blues

2015- Second Gay Cruise

2015- War on Christmas poem

2015-"Badlands" and Gay Bar Etiquette

2015-September 8. Political History

2015- Liberals vs Conservatives

2016 Do Not Speak for Gay Males

2016- April- Palm Springs RV Adventure

2016- Not Going Along to Get Along

2016- Letter to a Third Party Voter

2016- May- Why I Decided to Vote for Hillary in the California Primary
2016- Trump Dystopia
2016- Which Democrat For President 2020?
2017 Atlantis Events Allure of the Seas cruise

2018 Vallejo Blight

2018- Favorite Folsom Street Fair Photos From Past

2005 Darlene Visit for Gay Pride- Click for story.
2015- 2nd Gay Cruise- Click for story.
1973- Psych Tech Program- Click for story.
Second Gay Cruise- Click for story.
Darlene Marries Chuck- Click for story.
Forbidden Dreams of Love- Click for story.
Black Men in Oils- Click to read story
1958-1959- 3rd Grade- Click to read story.
Where I was born- Click for story.
2001 Trip to Cancun- Click to read story.
Me in 3rd grade- Click for story.
2015- 2nd Gay Cruise- Click to read story.
1974- First Trip to Europe- Click to read story.
1973 "You have to be hurt..." Click to read the story.
My Dad's Family- Click for story.
5th Grade in Abilene Tx- Click for story
2001 Trip to Cancun- Click to read story.
Gay Disco 70's- Click for story
2014- Road trip to San Diego- Click for story.
Escondido 1960's- Click for story
1974- On Larkin Street- Click for story.
1982-1993 Waller Street- Click to read story.
Women in Oils- Click for story
1957-1958 1st Grade- Click to read story.
1964- Luv Please- Click for story.
Photos of Dad & His Family- Click for story.
1967- Summer of Love- Click to read story.
2005- Darlene Visits for Gay Pride- Click to read story.
The Psychedelic Experience- Click to read story.
Cockettes & Angels of Light- Click for story
Me in my 20's in 1970's- Click for story.
Earthquake! Click to read story.
My Mother- Click for more photos.
Amber- Click to read story.
Beatle haircut- Click for story.
Palouse- Click for story
Summer of Love- Click to read story.
1970's Promiscuity- Click for story.
Me in first grade- Click for story.
4th Grade- Click for story.
Grandview- Click for story
Click to read "Introduction."