In the beginning...

The best place to start any story is in the beginning. When I was born I was the second child of a young family that was already in trouble. My father claimed he wanted children. I think maybe he did but I'm pretty sure he wanted to wait till he was older so he could be a carefree young married man. When my sister came it was kind of a surprise to him. Its not like family planning was practiced much in the late 50's.

He didn't like his first daughter from the start. She wasn't what he expected. He didn't like the lifestyle changes a baby brings. After the first child arrives everything changes. Sleep is interrupted. The wife is now busier and more tired. A romantic get away meant extensive planning and schedules that couldn't be changed on a whim. There were things that must be done before leaving. Like finding a sitter and packing a diaper bag (this was before disposable diapers too.) There were the bottles, changes of clothes, blankets, a hat (no sunscreen yet), stroller, and the car seat at least. Dinner and a movie became difficult unless it was take out and a drive in where the baby could be put to sleep in the back seat, easily changed and fed without disturbing others.

In very little time he hated my sister. Hated probably isn't a strong enough of a term for it. Loathed maybe, nope still not strong enough. Maybe I'll figure it out later. He wanted a boy. She was not a boy. He wanted to keep his ability to be a young spontaneous couple and she put a distinct crimp in his style. She wasn't perfect. She didn't stick to a perfect schedule. She wasn't something you played with and put away at your convenience. She required feedings both day and night. She woke up at awkward like times like when he was in the middle of having sex. She required attention he felt was being taken away from him. In short she was a normal baby.

By the time I came along he had gotten used to the idea that his life had forever changed. He was looking forward to having a son but alas didn't get his way again. He tolerated me much better than he had my sister. He still blamed my sister for the disruptions in his life. He blamed my mom for not having a son.

My grandmother claimed the first bad beating of my life occurred even before I was born. I don't know the whole story because my mom's version is different than the one my grandmother told. Gramie's story was that she took in my sister while my mom was in the hospital recovering from a severe beating that almost caused Mom to lose me. Mom's version is that the doctor put her on bed rest after some complications. With my father having to work my sister went to live with our grandparents and after being released from the hospital Mom stayed with family friends who could give her the care she needed until I arrived. I think a beating could cause those complications and I never knew my Gramie to lie but again I wasn't there yet and there is always two sides to every story.

In the early sixties you could beat your wife and as long as you didn't kill her you would get away with it. For that matter you could beat your kids and nobody would do anything about that either.

Three years after I was born my father got his son. It was about that time or maybe just before he was born that I remember my first real beatings. He was brutal. He used whatever was handy and seemed to hit until his anger subsided or my mother intervened. She intervened a lot. He pushed us off the sofa or bed or chair, slammed us into walls, yanked our arms, slapped our faces, pulled our hair, stood us in corner for hours and was just all around mean.

The first time I remember my brother being included in the beatings was this one time someone scribbled on the sofa with a black marker. I never knew who did it but that never mattered anyway. If one of us did something wrong and he wasn't positive who did it, we all got punished for it. This particular time we were taking our bath. Back then we were all plunked into the tub at the same time. (probably easier that way. He had us stand in a line in the tub and used a stick (the kind they used to tie balloons back then, kind of like a very thin dowel) to hit us with. It caused these angry looking thin welts to spring up with darker red lines through the middle, all over our upper legs, buttocks and lower backs. You could see little dots of blood in the thin dark red lines. My sisters bled, he hated her most.

That was the first time we all got it together.