Hookers, Midgets, and Fire Trucks
An Invitation to Our PartyBy Linda Gayle ThompsoniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Linda Gayle Thompson
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-9834-2Contents
Prologue...........................................................................xiChapter 1 Linda, the Beginning....................................................1Chapter 2 A Growth Spurt..........................................................7Chapter 3 The Lice Incident.......................................................16Chapter 4 Enter: Don Quixote......................................................20Chapter 5 "A Little Minor Setback"................................................27Chapter 6 A Promise...............................................................33Chapter 7 Touch a Spot............................................................35Chapter 8 The Miami Project.......................................................39Chapter 9 Bathing with the Neighbors and a Topless Donut Shop.....................46Chapter 10 Bungee-cord Me to the Mast.............................................51Chapter 11 Our Family, It's All True..............................................57Chapter 12 Why? Where? How?.......................................................67Chapter 13 Messages from the Other Side...........................................80Chapter 14 A Beginning............................................................86Chapter 15 The Last Windmill......................................................89Chapter 16 Divine Intervention....................................................93Chapter 17 She's Back.............................................................98Chapter 18 The Beginning of Wisdom................................................101Resources..........................................................................105
Chapter One
Linda, the Beginning
I was born Linda Gayle King on August 14, 1949. It was a time of innocence. Ed Sullivan was the hit on television, but we didn't have a TV. Perry Como crooned the beautiful love ballad "Some Enchanted Evening" on the radio. We never heard a four-letter word. The new toy was Silly Putty—no sex or violence there. Did the censorship help us or hurt us? I don't know. What I do know is that I was born with the great fortune of having parents and grandparents who loved me, and our home was usually filled with fun and laughter. Even considering their human qualities, mistakes and all, as far as earthly angels are concerned, I attribute much of my joy to my parents, Warren and Bessie King, and to my paternal grandmother, Lola Olivia King, whom I called "Granny." I vividly remember sitting on Granny's sunny front porch at age eight with giant purple hydrangeas in the flowerbed beside me, and it occurred to me: I am the happiest person on earth.
We were a typical middle-class family in the fifties. My parents, who both worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad, were raising two kids in a modest home in Bellaire, Texas. My sister, Denise, with her beautiful, dark brown ringlet hair and large, expressive hazel eyes, came along almost seven years after me. Our life was golden—which had nothing to do with money. Mama quit working when I was three, and although Daddy never missed a day's work, I can still remember Mama saying, "Eeney meeny miney moe," letting fate decide which bills got paid each month. Even in a golden world where the happiest person on earth resides, innocence has a way of slipping away when no one is looking.
It was September of 1961, and Hurricane Carla was in the Gulf. The ceiling fan in the hall sucked air in through the windows that were cracked open one or two inches all over the house. It was hot and humid. The wind was blowing hard, dark clouds rumbled, and lightning streaked across the sky.
Daddy, Mama, their friends, Jerry and Maddy, Denise, and I were watching the weather. The Citizen's Band (CB) radio droned and buzzed its alerts. The small, white three-bedroom, one-bath frame house we had been living in from the time I was born creaked with the onslaught of wind.
I was twelve, a really gawky, skinny girl, stuck in that awkward in-between stage, but I was mostly kid, still innocent. I did everything I was told, respected my elders, said "yes, sir" and "no, ma'am," and above all never questioned anything Mama and Daddy ever said. Maybe that's why I wasn't frightened as I peeked through the venetian blinds to see garbage cans flying down the street of our neighborhood, which included lots of other small, wood-framed houses. My parents weren't worried about the storm. Why should I be? Heck, they were playing cards with their friends.
Jerry stretched his arms, leaned back in his chair, and said in an annoyed tone, "Y'all mind if I move that CB to the back? I can barely hear myself think." The other three adults nodded in agreement and continued arranging their cards. Our house only had a small kitchen, a dining room open to the equally small living room, where the bridge game was being played, a hall, and three tiny bedrooms. Jerry moved the CB to the middle bedroom, Denise's room, and closed the door as he came back to join the game.
Slanted, driving rain battered the windows, and Mama looked up from her card game to see the hardwood floors getting wet. "Girls, go around and close all the windows, and then, Denise Kaye, it's eight o'clock—time for bed." I was older, so I got to stay up till ten.
Denise whined her usual complaint, "Why do I have to go to bed and Linda gets to stay up?"
"Because I said so." Mama's response never varied from one night to the next, but I guess when you're five you still have to give it your best shot. Mama never vacillated and came out the victor every time. Denise and I closed the windows. She gave hugs and kisses to our parents and then the customary "I love yous" were exchanged. I marched her back to bed to tuck her in.
Seven years is a pretty big age difference. I always felt more like Denise's mother than her sister. The CB radio crackled. I turned the volume down. As I pulled the covers over Denise's chest, she pleaded, "Linda, please let me sleep with you tonight."
"Denise, you know there's nothin' to be afraid of. Carla's a long way away—all the way to Galveston."
"No, Linda, it's not that. I just don't want to sleep by myself tonight. I won't pee the bed, I promise."
"Denise, you say that every time, and every time you pee all over me."
"No, really, Linda, Mama just gave me honey. I won't pee tonight. It helps. It really does."
"Denise, I'm not sleepin' in a wet bed tonight. Now go to sleep." I turned off the light, walked out, and closed the door.
Mama served chips and Cokes. The card game continued, and Jerry got up occasionally to get updates on Carla. The wind howled. Denise got out of bed several times and got in big trouble.
Daddy stepped in, saying, "Denise, you get out of bed again and you're gonna get a whippin'."
Daddy and Jerry won a game, and the ladies shuffled and dealt. Jerry got up and went into Denise's room.
Denise yelled, "Linda, come 'ere!"
Daddy and I exchanged glances. "It's okay, Daddy, I'll check and see what she needs. Maybe she's scared of the wind."
I walked into Denise's room and flipped on the light. Jerry was in the corner, kneeling down by the CB. Denise was in her bed. The static from the storm update crackled. Denise's huge hazel eyes were filled with raw fear. She threw her arms around my neck and whispered, begging, "Linda, please don't leave me."
Instant recognition of totally blocked memories flashed like the lightning outside. I was five. Jerry was carrying me on his back. His finger slipped into my panties, innocent tiny girl panties, and probed. Oh my god! How could I have forgotten? Now she was his victim too. Denise's and my eyes locked.
"I won't leave you, baby girl," I said as I unwound her arms from my neck. I stood up, turned around, faced the monster, and found fury.
Jerry stood looking at me, and I saw he knew I knew. He was afraid I was going to tell, and I was glad he was afraid. With a voice that could not possibly have come from me, an innocent, I said with quiet, fiery hate and without a doubt, "If you ever touch her again, I will kill you. Get the hell out." He left.
I set the CB radio out in the hall, flipped off the light, closed the door, and climbed in bed with my little sister. "I'm so sorry, Denise. I'm so sorry, baby girl. I'm so, so sorry." We were both crying quietly. We were good girls, polite. We had been taught to protect the monster.
Through the closed door, I heard voices in the living room and Mama telling them they couldn't possibly go out with the wind blowing like it was. And then I heard the front door close. I knew he was gone.
I was on my side, facing Denise. She turned with her back to me, snuggled close, and drew my arm around her. We spooned and fell asleep. In the early morning hours, Hurricane Carla raged wildly outside, but I felt really warm. And then I felt really cold. The honey didn't work.
The following morning, the storm still raged, and I knew Daddy didn't have to go to work. I woke up before Denise, got out of my damp clothes, and showered. My mind raced. It seemed impossible to me that I had totally forgotten, completely blocked the bad memories of a family friend who had touched me on my privates. I wondered what he did to my little sister. The monster had to be stopped. My parents would know what to do. I had to tell them, and they would see that he was punished.
Denise was still sleeping. I went to Mama and Daddy's room. Their door was open, and they were still in bed but not asleep. I walked in and closed the door. I knew without a doubt my parents loved me, and they loved Denise too. They said it. They showed it. And they meant it.
I felt strong. I was doing the right thing. I began my story.
"When I was little, Jerry put his hands on me. Then I forgot all about it. Now he's doin' it to Denise."
Mama and Daddy's horror was plain to see. Daddy's face was a combination of rage and compassion. He questioned, "Linda, what did he actually do to you?"
"Not much. When I sat down at the piano, he sat next to me and put his hand on my leg ..." I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell all he had done to me, shoving his finger in me. My mother's response was not what I expected. Her voice was almost shrill.
"Linda Gayle, why didn't you tell us? If you told us, Denise wouldn't have had to go through it!"
My response was short—"I know."
Daddy softened the blow, saying, "Baby, your mother and I need to talk about this."
In my twelve-year-old mind, we had just summed it up. Denise had been molested, and it was my fault. As I left their room and closed the door, Denise walked out of her room.
"I'm sorry I peed on you, Linda."
"It's okay." I shrugged.
Mama and Daddy didn't often argue, and never in front of us. We could hear their muffled voices coming from behind their door. I ushered Denise into the kitchen and made us both a bowl of cereal.
About an hour later, our parents called us into their room. Daddy called Denise over to him and gave her a hug. "Linda told us what Jerry has been doin' to you. If a man ever tries to touch you again, you kick the hell out of him as hard as you can right here." Daddy demonstrated by putting his hand over his crotch. "Got it?" Denise giggled and nodded she understood. He continued, "Mama and I have been talkin', and we have decided not to do anything about this because if we took him to court you girls would be dragged through the mud."
Mama chimed in, "And we have to remember Maddy's feelings."
At the time I didn't question their decision. I never questioned anything they ever said. The monster got away.
My insecurities began early. It's a common side effect of molested children. But there was more. Isn't it weird and horrifying how children attach themselves to negativity? My father, who was incredibly kind, generous, loving, and funny, teased me by calling me his "dumb kid." Back then, calling your child dumb or worse was commonplace. Daddy would also tell me to show people my feet. He said they were the eighth wonder of the world. I had long, skinny, big feet. I laughed a lot with him about the feet. I didn't laugh about the dumb kid part.
Words, even when said in fun and with no malicious intent, can be like the crushing blows of fists, especially to a child. Adults would do well to censor every word said to a child before it exits their mouth.
Unfortunately, I believed my dad. Even though hurting me in any way was the last thing Daddy would have intentionally done to me, that belief—that I was dumb—and the sexual trauma I experienced as a child became the basis for most of my insecurities. I was well into my thirties before I realized I was an intelligent human being.
Being a "dumb kid," I hated school. I was in the Yellow Bird reading group. There were Red Birds and Blue Birds, and then the "dumb kids" were in the Yellow Bird group. To make matters worse, my first grade teacher was evil. She terrified me, spanking my hands with a ruler and humiliating me in front of the class when I couldn't read as well as the others. School was agonizing for me, but somehow I managed to survive grade school and junior high, and then in my sophomore year of high school, Daddy and Mama decided to move to Lufkin, where they bought a tract of land deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. The thirty-five acres they bought had a small wood-frame house on it, a place for us to live while they built a new home.
Having grown up in the big city, I realized I was a country girl at heart. Helping Daddy with a garden, making homemade cream corn with our new neighbors and even baling hay all came as natural to me as breathing. At age fifteen I could feel a positive change taking place in me. Maybe it was watching things grow, the fresh air, or maybe I was just reaching puberty late ... Whatever it was, I know I felt at home.
* * *
Linda's Lessons
Over the years I learned that molested children often have a difficult time talking about what happened to them and it is very common for them to block memories of their abuse. After sixty years of carrying the guilt of being the cause of my sister's molestation, I am finally able to lay it to rest.
Thinking back on my experiences in first grade, I remember mostly fear. School should be a place children feel safe and motivated in a positive way. To most of the world's teachers who inspire, love, and create a positive atmosphere in the classroom for all students equally, I commend you. The world owes you a huge debt, which should be given to you in the form of respect, honor and at least double the salary!
Chapter Two
A Growth Spurt
Lufkin is where I "got religion." Our family had attended church a few times while we lived in Bellaire, but we always just stopped going. When we moved to Lufkin, I was drawn to the tiny, white-frame church just up the road from our house.
I attended the first Sunday by myself, and afterward Daddy confided in me, "You know, baby girl, I promised God if he would help me get a place in the country, I'd start goin' to church. Can I go with you the next week?"
That was the beginning of how our family became Baptist. Mama, Daddy, Denise, and I would load up in the car on Sunday morning and head for church, and Mama would begin her lecture, saying, "Now, listen, all three of you, if you get tickled in church again I'm gonna stop coming with y'all. It's embarrassing."
Denise's response was always outright giggling, but Daddy, who always drove, would peek back at me in the rearview mirror and wink. He and I would both restrain our smiles, and then I would say, "Yes, ma'am."
And he would say, "Yes, ma'am."
And then Denise would laugh and say, "Yes, ma'am."
I guess laughing is not something a person normally associates with going to church, but we went to a wonderful, special church. The Berryhill Baptist Church had its characters. Aunt Fanny would pray, and when I say pray, I mean for fifteen minutes or longer every time. Everyone in the church was always relieved when the preacher asked Aunt Fanny to pray when we were sitting down. Of course, that was bad too, because the seventy-year-old deacon, Hardy, who sat right up front on the left side of the church, would always fall asleep when Aunt Fanny got to praying. When Hardy fell asleep, he would start snoring. Aubrey, the deacon who became our good friend, sat right behind Hardy and was baldheaded. When Hardy started snoring, Aubrey's bald spot would turn red, which meant that he was tickled and trying to keep from laughing. When Aubrey's bald spot turned red, there was no hope for Daddy and me. I always sat next to Daddy, and when I could feel him shaking and laughing with no sound, I was done for. Mama always leaned forward and took on the look that meant, You two are in so much trouble. And of course that made the whole thing that much funnier.
So many funny things happened at church. One summer Sunday when it was over one hundred degrees outside, we had a full house. Berryhill Baptist had no air conditioning. There was going to be a picnic on the grounds following the service. Oh, the food those country ladies cooked was good. Inside, though, the temperature was probably close to a hundred. Fans stirred the hot air around, but we were all still sweating. The only protection we had from the bright sunlight was some very old, very yellowed roll-up shades on the windows. Our little family always sat on the left side about three rows behind Aubrey. Jimmy, five years old, was the worst little hellion in the church, and he sat with his family right behind Hardy, who sat by himself in the front row. Hardy had earned his place of distinction due to his age and years of service. All was well on this day until the sun started blaring through the window next to Hardy, sort of blinding him. The preacher had built his sermon to a fever pitch and was bringing it back down a notch or two so that it was relatively quiet in the church. Hardy began to slide quietly across the pew to rectify the bright sun situation. When he reached the end of the pew, Jimmy now sat directly behind him. With the utmost quiet, Hardy stood up, bent over, and reached for the shade. At the same time, Jimmy jumped up onto his seat, leaned over the front pew, and goosed Hardy right between his butt cheeks. Hardy bolted straight up in the air. It seemed that his sphincter muscle connected to his hands, because he grabbed the shade and ripped it off the wall.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hookers, Midgets, and Fire Trucksby Linda Gayle Thompson Copyright © 2010 by Linda Gayle Thompson. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
