Chapter 1: Mom Am I Crazy?

I would say there’s a small bit of importance to you reading this section 1st. It helps explain the possibly weird way I grew up.

I guess the only way to start is to start at the beginning, at least as far back as I can remember.

1950- year of my birth. According to my mother, Satan spawned another child.

1952- not that I can remember much, but later, thinking backwards, I could not recall my mother ever holding me. At this time, I just have vague recollections. You’ll notice the name ‘mom’ is never capitalized ... I hate the bitch.

1953- I DO have a vivid recollection of one incident here. I was watching my mom at her sewing machine. For some reason, I kept touching the cloth as it ran under the pressure foot. mom rewarded me by sewing two of my fingers together as she forced my hand into the works. I think now that she was scared of what she’d done because I was made to sit on a chair while she removed the thread from my baby fingers. I never told anyone. I didn’t know I could.

1954- She had Dad build a playpen for me on the side of our wash house. It was to keep me out of mischief while she did the wash. Trouble was, the pen was outside in the summer sun and I was there from breakfast until shortly before my Dad came home from work in the evening. Damned good thing I don’t sunburn easily. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one.

1955- I could not leave our yard and was refused playmates until their mother’s stopped asking. I didn’t know better, so I never complained.

I had an older brother- 17 years older, and an older sister- 11 years older. The brother was gone all the time, either at Jr college or off in the National Guard. As early as I could remember, mom told me I’d never be as smart, never make as much money, never be a football star [that was his only sport – our school only had 15 high schoolers in all 3 grades, so just going out for a sport meant a place on the team.] and finally, never grow up to be as handsome as he. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one.

Sis became my mother substitute. She tried to protect me as much as she could by keeping me with her outside, out of mom’s reach. I didn’t know any better. At the age of five, I DID notice I was getting a beating every time I turned around, at least during the day when Dad was at work. At 16, Sis was dating, ONLY the boys that mom approved of, being the sons of wealthy farmers in our area. In my eyes, Sis was a raving beauty; red haired, busty ... and most of the boys in her class thought so too.

1956- My world collapsed, as did Sis’s. Sis ran off and got married, and not to one of mom’s chosen. Sis was banished from the house. I THINK 9 months later she had my first nephew. mom refused to allow Sis, her husband or their new baby in the house. He joined the Air force and they moved a thousand miles away. My protector was gone and I was alone with mom ... all day long. I didn’t know any better, I told no one, but the beatings increased in occurrence and severity. Before, mom beat me with a switch that I had to go cut from a tree. If it didn’t meet her standards, I got to cut a bigger one. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one. Eventually, I got used to the switch, so mom changed tactics and moved to a belt of Dad’s. She’d whip me, pants around my ankles and bent over a chair until she couldn’t raise her arm anymore. Then I got to listen to her tell me I was an accident she blamed Dad for and wished I’d never been born. If she got worked up enough in her tirade, she’d beat me some more. Dad never knew any of this. I didn’t know any better and never told anyone.

1957- The beatings continued, but I’d gotten used to the belt, or at least as used to it as you can get. It even stopped hurting my feelings. mom told me I was being punished for the bad things I did when she wasn’t around. I didn’t know any better and I told no one. Since the belt didn’t hurt much more than my pride, mom changed to using an extension cord ... that fucking hurt and she wasn’t above drawing blood.

She did start doing something new at night. Her nightgown was a baggy shapeless thing with a stretched-out neckline and looking back, even then I knew it held no sex appeal for Dad. They’d slept in separate bedrooms for as long as I can remember. I’d go to bed and shortly, she’d put in an appearance, leaning over me, making sure I got an eyeful. I had a close-up look at her dugs, every night, but they meant little to me. mom would ask me what I was looking at and truthfully, I had no clue. It did, however, earn me several face slaps and a beating when I got up if Dad were gone. I didn’t know any better so I never told anyone.

1958- I changed. I went into puberty at the tender age of eight. Hair under my arms, sprouting around my penis and darkening wispy little hairs creeping out on my chin and upper lip. My child’s dick grew, along with my balls, I suppose. Later in life, a psychiatrist friend of mine [no, I wasn’t seeing him, he was an officer over me in the Air Force] decided it happened because of the emotional stress I’d been under growing up. Why had I never told anyone. I didn’t know any better and never knew I could.

Hah! A high point I can remember- every year for Christmas, we made the trek to Grandma’s house. My oldest cousin was 12 and grandma gave him an Uncle Wiggly game while I got a Gillette razor set with blades, aftershave and all. I was not at all popular that day with my cousin. Dad thought it was great, mom took a different approach. She still did her nightly appearance in the baggy nightgown only now, she bent over and made me look at her dangling breasts, then she’d slap me until my ears rang, asking me ‘WHAT was I looking at?’ Her attitude when Dad was away working changed too and so did her brand of punishment.

Previously, I mentioned I’d gotten used to getting a belt wore out over my ass. I’d been outside, playing by myself and was called inside. I hadn’t seen nor talked to my mom since breakfast and Dad had left for work. “Go in your Dad’s closet and get his belt.” Nothing new there. Coming back, she told me I’d grabbed the wrong belt. She wanted the one with a big bull rider’s belt buckle he’d picked up somewhere. I never remember him ever wearing it. “Drop your pants you little bastard” [first time she’d called me that].

OK, this wasn’t anything new, except for her choice of weapon. I bent over the chair with my ass sticking out when she said “No, stand up and move away from the chair.” Strange, but OK. She had me put my hands on my head and reared back and hit me across the groin with the buckle using the full length of the belt. I suddenly knew what pain was all about. Gawd, I never knew anything could hurt that bad but I managed to stand up straight and grabbed the belt out of her hands.

Both her hands turned to claws but before she could touch me again, I cold-cocked her. I took the belt back to Dad’s closet and hung it up, then went outside. I stayed out of the house until Dad’s truck pulled into the drive. For some reason, I said nothing about this afternoon’s happening. I hadn’t made up my mind that I wouldn’t get in trouble with Dad – I KNEW the shit would hit the fan with mom if I told. mom put supper on the table and as we ate, she calmly informed Dad I’d doubled up my fist and punched her. Without a word, Dad backhanded me out of my chair.

“But...”

“There is no but. You NEVER hit a woman and you especially never hit your mother.” I picked myself up and dropped my pants. Across my entire groin area was a bruise in the shape of that belt buckle.

“You want to tell me how you got that, son?” I explained mom’s new method of beating me. Dad grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into his bedroom and WW3 started. Dad came out later and semi-apologized for hitting me, however, he reminded me I was never to hit a woman again. For the first time, Dad took me out to his domain, the garage. He fiddled with some things on his workbench and I could tell he was working up to say something.

“Buck, I don’t know what to say about your mom, it wasn’t called for and it wasn’t right. Maybe my first reaction would have been to hit back ... I just don’t know. My advice is to do what I do- whatever she says, do it the first time around with no argument, get it done then stay the hell away from her.”

“What good is that gonna do?” I asked, “I get beat for things she THINKS I’ve done or maybe she’s just in the mood.”

“How often?”

“Every day, sometimes ALL day.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know any better and didn’t know I could.” Dad got real silent and stood shaking his head.

mom upped the daytime ante. At this point in my life, I didn’t know or appreciate what girls were. As far as I was concerned, they were weird, giggling ‘things’ with nasty cooties. The guys at school felt pretty much the same way, but then, I was different. I was shaving my stubble about every other week, my voice was changing and I never knew when I spoke if I was going to be a soprano or a baritone. Mom decided I needed to ‘observe’ when she went in the bathroom to pee and she was always there when I had to go.

1961- Dad’s job required we move 45 miles from where I grew up. New school, new kids, new house. Dad’s hours changed too. He’d go to work at 8AM and get home, a lot of times, around eleven or noon for the day. The more Dad was ‘underfoot’, the more agitated mom got.

I’d gotten up one morning to eat with Dad and after he left, mom was in some kind of state. I was ordered to pick up my room and sweep and mop my linoleum floor. Not a big deal. I was required to do it every week. I’d been following Dad’s advice and doing everything just the way she demanded. After straightening up, making my bed, sweeping and finally, mopping, I started to go outside and look up a neighbor kid to play with. I was in fifth grade.

mom locked my heels and told me to wait in the adjoining kitchen while she ‘inspected’. This was new. She’d never been able to raise any complaints about my room’s housekeeping before. About two minutes later, she called me in and peeled back my chenille bedspread. Clinging to the underside of it was a black, fuzzy dress sock. We weren’t religious and seldom, if ever went to church. The only time I’d ever worn those socks was the odd wedding or odder funeral where I had to wear my suit. Last time was over a year ago, so I didn’t have a clue how the sock got stuck to my bed spread.

mom started making real funny noises and ran into the kitchen to return with a steak knife in her fist. I stood there, wondering what in the hell she was doing with it until she stabbed me high on my chest below my left shoulder. Luckily, it hit a rib or something. I took the knife away from her and she was babbling totally unintelligible noises and cussing me, my Dad and my Sis.

I forced her to the floor and kept her in a leg lock until Dad got home a couple of hours later. My hands were free and having a smattering of first aid training from Cub Scouts, I kept pressure over my wound. By the time Dad got there, the front of my T-shirt was pretty well soaked. I released mom and backed away from her as quick as I could. Dad gathered both of us up and took us to the hospital. I got three stitches and an arm sling. They kept mom for a week.