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| Granddad Anderson |
My Grandparents lived in a very large, and emotionally very warm, 3 story home half surrounded by a giant wrap around front porch. That fantastic old house had many many rooms for a kid like me to explore, roam and play in.
There were very wide front stairs in the 30+ foot high entry hall. It was lined with stained glass windows, dancing light rays and old brase gas jets that must have been used before electric lighting. In contrast there were dark unlit narrow servant stairs from the kitchen up to a back hall on the 2nd floor. And there were more stairs. Plain wooden stairs on the second floor led to a dimly lit open walkway, billiard room and bedrooms on the 3rd floor. Of course there also were creaky wooden cellar stairs descending to the basement wash tubs, open gas burners and large pots where Granddad made his own soap. Also In that huge basement, there was a room full of coal waiting to be shoveled (and in later years, stoked) into the usually roaring furnace that comfortably heated all four floors. Somehow that black steel crackling firebox managed to warm Granddad's old turn of the century home all winter long.
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| Hidden under the super size front porch was a giant fruit cellar |
Goodies that were to be shared with his kids, grandkids and neighbors for the long southern Pennsylvania winter to come.
The apples kept especially well and I'd trot down those basement steps drawn by the drifting gentle aromas of the slowly aging fruit., Sonetimes my excited anticipation of the delightful taste of a home grown red delicious, grimes golden or a dozen other varieties of carefully picked and sorted, apples, pears and more.
But on this day, when I hurried down the steps I heard a cacophony. Loud peeps, chirps and sounds I recognized as baby chicks.
Sure enough, there in the basement was a makeshift pen full of dozens of peeps. Electric light bulbs were strung around to keep them warm. Normally the pen would have been in Granddad's garage at the back of the property which in its day held six cars, and in later days like today, one car and many workbenches and tools.
Granddad bought chickens every spring. After it was warm outside, he transported them to a large chicken coop located in the orchard at his summer place at Conneaut Lake. All summer we enjoyed fresh eggs and chicken dinners as well as fresh caught fish and fresh everything else. Granddad's orchard and vegetable gardens covered about 2 acres.
But this particular year the baby chicks were in the basement. I was 6 years old and of course I wanted to take some of these fluffy soft down covered creatures home for pets.
When I shared my enthusiasm with Granddad, who was a very stern, very strict, but very loving person, he paused a minute, looked sternly at me, smiled just a bit and said "Yes". And so when we drove home that evening, there was one large cardboard box in the trunk and in the box were 2 peeps. There was also a bag. A bag full of chicken feed.
In the front seat my mother's raised voice was harshly scolding my father for allowing me to bring the chicks home.
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| My Parent's Former House In Pleasant Hills The basement window at the left was just above the makeshift chicken pen. |
Dad and I fashioned a makeshift cage out of a larger box, then put it on a corner table near the sink in our basement. Then we put some newspapers and gravel on the bottom, added an old adjustable desk lamp to warm the peeps, a dish of water and another small dish for feed. Presto, I had my first pets since my dog had mysteriously died two years before.
A few days later when I came home from school for lunch, there were no chicks in their makeshift cage. I had cried and been saddened when one chick somehow had died the previous day. So I hurriedly began looking for the other one. My mother came down and said she didn't know what could have happened. The sides of the box were too high for the chick to get out, or so I thought.
Then I found him, very soggy and very dead in the bottom of our open top, free standing, wringer washing machine. The washer stood on 4 short legs with wheels about 2 feet from the other side of the double wash tub sink.
Now with both chicks gone, I exploded with grief and sadness and with tears and crying. And even more tears and crying.
My mother also exploded, but with an irrational anger and scream the likes of which I had never seen or heard. Then she went upstairs. Then she came back carrying one of my dads leather belts. And she began hitting me with the belt.
Startled, I ran in frightened terror.
Thus began what was the beginning of what would become almost a lifetime of progressive physical and later mostly psychological abuse. The first that I clearly remember.
Later she called my school telling them I had fallen down the cellar steps and wouldn't be able to come to school for a day or two. Then she mentioned that 'she had a problem concerning my behavior and would like their help'.
She said to them 'that David was starting to tell tale tales'. She went on 'if he did that at school he should be admonished'.
At the time I couldn't understand why she said those things. I had not fallen. I didn't lie. The rest of what she said I didn't comprehend at the time.
I made the mistake of asking her why she said that. Raising her voice, she yelled again. "Don't you tell your father or Mrs. Christenson (my teacher) you were whipped. They would be ashamed of you for crying and acting like a baby. Don't tell anybody or it'll be your end.” Then she added “Nobody will believe you anyway". If I close my eyes I can still see and hear her.
This seemingly good and apparently gentile woman, raised in the best of families with solid values and a strong religious background, had a very dark, sadistic, side that she had kept well hidden.
Like most abusers, lying and publically labeling those she abused became one of the ways of covering her progressively sadistic deeds. And like most abusers, creating a negative image of the abused person in others eyes, became an obsession. At the time I was far too young to comprehend that or be aware of the effects her preemptive gestalt shaping statements would have then and throughout my life. She carefully told demeaning stories of her youngest son to relatives and others for years to come. Many believed her, a few did not. Incredibly she even falsified entries in her diary to cover up her ill deeds**.
My mother never permitted another pet in our house, but over almost the next decade that black leather belt became one of her favorite tools for punishment.
Like most children who are or were abused, I was caught. Frightened. Trapped. After that terrible day with the baby chicks, she never ever hugged me in private or displayed normal affection again. However, when in public with relatives or friends, she would pretentiously display affection.
My security was badly shaken. With feelings of love and tenderness for my mother complicated by feelings of a terrible fear of that same mother. Those very complicated and mixed feelings grew as her private behavior worsened. And for sure, I was not going to be a "tattle tale". I would never tell, or so I thought during those years.*
But in countless other ways she was a 'good' mother. She took us kids to museums, libraries and on trips around the country. She took us to church and encouraged religion and participation in church events like choir and youth fellowship. She encouraged education and academic excellence. She gave us a small allowance in return for our doing our share of the house work . She encourage reading, which became one of my ways of 'escaping or blocking out the terror and the memories of abuse'.
Fortunately much of her abuse ceased in the summers when we lived at or near my grandparents summer home.
Footnotes:
At about the time the abuse from my mother started when I was about six, my dad was publically flaunting more than one lady friend. Later he even moved one of them into our house. Whether this and related events including ties to a cult triggered the changes in my mothers personality from compassionate to sadistic is unknown. I can only guess.
* A decade later I finally did try to tell, and when my mother found out the consequences were beyond imagination. If there were child services back in the forties and fifties, I had no awareness of them.
** When about 10, when using the phone on her desk, I glanced down at her open diary. I was surprised to read descriptions of events that never happened. At that age I couldn’t comprehend why she’d record events and actions that never happened. Today I understand it all too well.
By my teen years, the outward physical abuse diminished but a more terrible more criminal abuse grew. The overall abuse was enhanced by my mothers persisting psychological abuse including the ongoing, methodical demeaning of her youngest son. Especially to my relatives and friends. Even to my wife and later, more subtly, my children.
Its hard for me to comprehend, even today, that the same person who fed and cared for me, who rocked me to sleep, could do the terrible things she did. And its harder to understand that no matter how much I tried to love her and do things for her, that the darkness and apparent hate in her persisted and grew to an obsession.
In 1987 or so, apparently after reading an article about kids suing their parents, my mother asked me if I intended to sue her. I said no and never did.
In the 1990’s, about 50 years after the abuse began, lawyers, acting in my behalf, began attempting to squelch her behavior, without going to court. They had little success.
Reason doesn’t seem to work with abusers.
In 2002, the attorneys finally convinced me to cut all ties with my mother, and with my two siblings who had willingly become a part of decades of a markedly different type of abuse, slander and far worse. The lawyers sent letters inferring there would be criminal charges if the abusive and related actions or statements continued. I guess I never filed criminal charges because I was concerned of the effect that would have on my children.
I cut those particular family ties to my mother and siblings with a great reluctance and sadness. The attorneys had even scolded me, because if they said something bad about my family, I tended to defend that family.
It was stupid to wait 50 years. But as an idealist, however naïve, I guess I delayed hoping it wouldn't be necessary.
Now in my 70’s and in failing health I decided to support websites about abuse and share some of my abuse experiences in the hope it might help others.
