7
A Mentor
Every child should have a mentor.
After completing my second and third year of school and into my fourth, living in The Dalles, my folks bought an acre of land outside of town next door to the Oaks farm.
And there, the Oak's oldest daughter, Lois, took a little nine-year-old under her wing. She would pull me up behind her on their big, part draft, part saddle house King, and we would take off.
We would ride to the little quick-purchase grocery for a soda or play around an earthen track near the house. In the summer, we wear swimming suits under our jeans, take the horses to the creek, and play in the water.
Her little sister always rode King's elderly mother and was a shy, withdrawn girl, so there was no contest between her, Lois, and me. I'm amazed that Lois didn't get tired of me, for I was often there and loved her and King.
The Oak's house was where the action was. Mrs. Oaks was a buxom woman, a Ma Kettle sort if you remember that movie character, with bosoms that could hold a dozen baby chicks—sometimes farm women would hold baby chicks in their bosoms if the weather got too cold. She invited anyone who came into the house for dinner, even a stray dog or girl from next door.
Four children were in the family, two older boys who were really men by then but still lived at home. They teased us occasionally but left us alone, except when we all climbed onboard a Case tractor. A Case has metal covering the body of the tractor and fenders covering the wheels. We kids hung onto that tractor for dear life while the driver, one of the brothers, tried to knock us off. In my way of thinking, it was not the safest thing to do, but in those days when we didn't have padded playgrounds, and if you went down a metal slide in the summer, you were likely to get blisters.
We thought nothing of standing in the bed of a speeding pickup with our hands on the vehicle's hood. And when riding the horses, we didn't let fences stop us. See the things Lois taught me. The Dalles was built on basalt, so the ground was rocky interspersed often with good ground soil. Farmers, to limit digging post holes, would sink a post, not the standard 6 or 8 feet, leaving a long gap between posts. The wires between the posts were held apart by floating posts.
Because of that long expanse of wire, we could usually find a place where the wire was limp enough to lie down.
Being farm kids, I wasn't really, but I was learning; we respected fences and always ensured they were secure behind us.
At the Oaks' house, I helped in the kitchen after the evening meal as Mrs. Oaks fixed the meal and the girls washed the dishes. I remember Mrs. Oaks peeling potatoes sometimes 3 times a day.
One day, I saw a saddle on King. It was the first time I had seen him saddled for Lois, and I rode him bareback. Mrs. Oaks would ride him as a protector, for Lois had gotten a new horse, Lydia, who was prone to bucking.
There would be no bucking on Mrs. Oaks' watch. And there wasn't. That mare's brain saved her behind.
I just love those farm women who could fry up the bacon, handle the house, the farm, four kids, and an errant horse and still have time to make taffy, which we kids pulled, and donuts, which we kids dipped in powdered sugar.
When hay season arrived, I joined in raking the windrows of hay into piles so the boys could load the piles into the truck and drive home to store them in the barn for the winter. In the cool evenings, we girls would run the horses through the field, trying to get them to jump the piles of hay. Usually, they plowed into them, scattering our hay out again.
Those kids would catch mice with bare hands as one scampered from beneath a pile the boys had picked up to throw into the truck. I learned to hold one by the tail. I tried that once after my dog Silver caught a ground squirrel, and I thought I was rescuing the squirrel by grabbing its tail. It swung around and bit me. I was afraid I would get rabies, but I never told my mother because I knew it was a stupid thing to do, rather like putting scissors in a light socket.
8
I Was in Hog Heaven Next Door to The Oaks
However, One day, an event changed my view of life again.
I was nine years old.
Mike and I were wrestling on the floor when he lifted my shirt and ran his mouth over my small, budding breasts. I held them and ran to my bedroom. He had been fun. He had played with me, and now I was faced with something I knew wasn't right.
He invited me into his bed one night when Mom was gone and touched me, and I would never go there again. Some mornings, I would awaken with his hands under my pajamas. What is this big fat deal? Is it titillating to push yourself onto someone? I didn't want it. I didn't initiate it. I wasn't a temptress. I was nine years old.
A psychiatrist once told me I needed to get in touch with how much I enjoyed it. I thought over my dead body.
Now, I would tell that psychiatrist to go F himself.
I know enough about psychology to know that often, even unwanted touching can feel good, and that sets up a girl for even more trauma.
When I was twelve, Mike needed me to drive the truck through the orchard while he loaded tree prunings or boxes of fruit. In the truck, he would try to kiss me.
He liked to take me on fruit runs. Get the kid away from mom, right?
On one such attempt to kiss me, I flew a rage, flapping my arms, swinging and spitting on him. He backed off and never touched me again.
That day, I took back my power.
Sadly, however, we moved away from the Oaks to the tune of a terrible stomach from me. Mike had gotten a job in Hood River as a bartender at an exclusive Country Club. Mike never drank. When he was in the service, his buddies would tease him that he could get drunk on Pepsi. The owner of the Club liked that about him and convinced him to move. And mom worked waiting tables for the one month we were there. I don't know what happened to break the alliance between Mike and the owner, but after one month of attending the fifth grade in Hood River, we moved back to The Dalles, and I was next door to the Oaks for another two years. That broke my association with the Catholic Church as I began conventional school as a fifth grader.
The summer I graduated 6th grade, Mom and Mike bought a 32-acre fruit farm. I often visited the Oaks and rode King, but it was always different from living there. And then, when I was 12 years old, I received the most precious gift of my life.
Whether it was out of guilt or generosity or if Mike was buying me off, I don't know. I didn't care. The gift was my horse Boots. How I loved that horse. Mike never touched me again, except he wanted a good night kiss before he left for work, as I often fixed his lunch for his night shift. I exited the room before he left.
Mike had many endearing qualities, like his generosity and fun nature. He would brag about me and compliment my efforts or accomplishments. He accepted me as a daughter, and back in Illinois, I suspect that Grandma didn't like him because she saw something we didn't. Of course, he would soon take her daughter and only grandchild away from her forever. I hesitated to put the negative aspect in this book, but would my story be complete if I didn't?
I had written of it in the book Mom's Letters… and mine by Joyce Davis. I thought I was done with it. And it is true that when you stop telling the story, it drifts away, not completely forgotten, but no longer irritating you. It becomes a dim memory. You've done it. You've completed it. I fell off a horse once (more than). I got a concussion once when Boot fell with me. I had strep throat once. Mumps, measles, chicken pox, it's over. Gone. I don't want to dwell on it anymore.
It is a challenge to know when you are avoiding and when you are complete with an issue. You must notice how you feel. Your body will tell you, although I know you might wallow in the mud for a while.
I know many girls are pressured by a man, an authority figure they like or love and trust, only to have that trust broken. It is so prevalent that I felt mine was simple. Still, we should not trivialize such an event or make it insignificant. It can affect women for life. And usually does. Many women I know had some uncomfortable advances or experiences with men. One of my friends was forcefully placed head-first in a garbage can when she wouldn't let that man touch her. While upside down in the can, she saw rats. She feared rodents, mice, and rats for the rest of her life, yet she lusted after men. Displaced phobia, I suppose. I once heard of a horse who developed a fear of black hats after a man wearing a black hat abused him. Strangely, it wasn't the man he feared but the hat. With my friend, it wasn't men she feared; it was the rats.
And girls keep quiet.
As I did for years.
I have put those years behind me, for I know Mike's neurosis and see his flaws. It had nothing to do with me. I was there, convenient.
But I tell you, it was hard to confront him, and I never did it face to face. It was a love/hate relationship. When we depend on that person, when they are an authority figure, when our livelihood depends on them, we are in a bind. Yet the groping makes us hate them. Even at age nine, I knew what he was doing to me wasn't right.
From my view as an adult, I see the dynamics. I know the pressure and how it feels to be torn. A time after Mike had passed away, a few of the young family members got together and discussed that there was a sexual problem among most of the boys of that family. Somebody blamed the father. I believe there was one man, a straight shooter in the bunch, a trusted one. I felt betrayed by the family if they knew such was going on. However, after Mike was gone, most people in that room were younger than me. And more apt to talk about such things than the previous generation.
When I complained to my daughter that we need angst in a book, she said, "Without it, you have no story." With that encouragement, I wrote this episode.
My daughter is wiser than me.
I thought I was protecting Mom by not telling her how Mike had treated me. Mike never warned me against it, neither did he threaten me. I thought Mom would divorce him if she knew, and then where would we be? And she would blame me for breaking up the family. I only told people once I was grown.
My sister, Jan, was wiser than me, and when she was older, she told her stepmom. The stepmom told her to "Forgive and forget." Jan told both Mike and the stepmom that unless they agreed to therapy, she wouldn't have anything to do with them. They didn't, so she didn't.
Many so-called experts say that the mother knows. I've thought about it and can accept it if it is true, but I sincerely believe she didn't. Once, she heard that a little girl's mother discovered her daughter had been touched when the bath water stung, and Mom had a fit.
I was on my way home after a trip to attend a Ramtha week-long event, and while in a hotel room, I decided it was time to confront Mike. By then, I knew about screaming into a pillow, often used in our training at the World Healing Center in San Diego, California. So, a pillow caught my scream and provided a pressure release valve. I told Mike I was calling about the sexual issue.
He said, "Forgive me, my innocence."
I didn't know what to say, so I let it go.
My therapist said he was sweeping it under the rug and to write a letter to him. I did.
I sent him a letter saying if he ever touched my girls, I would rip his face off, and if he ever touched my sisters, I would have him arrested.
He had already touched my sisters, but I didn't know that until years later.
When Mom and Mike were ready to adopt a little girl, I foolishly thought that Mike wouldn't do that, not to his child, not his own baby. I rationalized that I was older when I came into the family. It was different. We weren't related.
But Jan told me years after Mom's death that he took her on the fishing boat, giving him an opportunity.
Men who do this don't see how it robs girls. I felt guilty that I had not protected my sister. I was off living my life across the country and in college. Mike wasn't a terrible person. He was deluded, confused, and flawed. He had probably been damaged in childhood, for I know his oldest brother was worse. One hopes their flaws don't hurt others, but Mike hurt my sisters.