One afternoon I climbed down from my favorite tree and continued to talk to myself as I walked around the back yard. I turned and noticed my mom staring at me.
“Debra Ann, what’s wrong with you? Only crazy people talk to themselves. You’re in Junior high now and you’re too old to climb up that tree. I better not catch you talking to yourself again.”
Was I crazy? With my head hung low, feeling ashamed, I vowed I would never again let her catch me go up the tree and from then on, I spoke softly, hoping she couldn’t hear me talking to myself.
The grass near the edge of our house was high and I would lean against the house and feel the warm breeze blowing on my face, with the tall grass swaying all around me. The quietness, the sounds of the birds chirping, the wind rustling in the trees and the smell of a fresh summer rain made me feel calm. It was here I would sit when I knew my mom was gone and would make up different worlds in my head. I’d speak as loud as I wanted to and pretend that everything was good and perfect.
To get away from the constant noise and chaos at our house, I’d go in the bathroom and sit on the closed toilet lid, it was another place I could find solitude. Grabbing the plunger, I’d talk into it as if it were a microphone, pretending to be a famous actress or an author and I would make up a story and be all the characters.
Soon footsteps could be heard and a loud bang on the door. “Deb, what are you doing? You’ve been in there forever. Who are you talking to?”
Every Thursday the Bookmobile stopped at our school since we didn’t have a library. I loved to read and would check out books about wolves, dogs, and horses. I would imagine I was Big Red, or Buck, the husky in my favorite stories. My fantasy life made it easier to get through 7th and 8th grade.
Strolling to the to the library on Saturdays, my sister and I chose our favorite books. Leaning against a nearby tree on the front lawn, I would read to Monica for hours before heading home. “Monica, are you listening? You’re not looking at me while I’m talking!” I’d say while glancing up from the book.
“Yea, Deb, I heard what you said.”
I was so bossy, but my sister was patient with me. Our favorite book was A Wrinkle in Time. It was a book I would go on to read to my own children.
Often on Saturday afternoons, you’d find the Griswold kids hanging out at the local indoor movie theater. We always seemed to come up with twenty-five cents for a movie and a five-cent candy bar, probably handed to us by one of Mom’s many boyfriends. The smell of freshly popped popcorn permeated the lobby as we made our way to our seats. I loved movies, television, and books; anything that would help me to escape the awful memories that robbed me of a normal childhood.
We had been back in our old neighborhood for a little over two years. I still continued to go to confession on Saturday afternoons and Mass on Sundays, although not as often. Thoughts about what was done to me in secret were never far from my mind. When I wasn’t daydreaming, I was still trying to be the perfect daughter, good in every way. I was always fearful when adults looked at me; I thought they knew the awful truth about me. How I longed to wake up one day and all the feelings of guilt and shame could be erased from my memory.
I enjoyed Junior high, I liked my classes and my teachers were nice to me. All the extra activities, such as dances and watching all the basketball and football games, were things I looked forward to. My best friend, Garrisann, and I went to all the school dances. We both had crushes on two basketball players, we would attend their games hoping to catch their eye. At nearly thirteen, I was still afraid of boys, but I sure liked looking at them and daydreaming about having a boyfriend.
In June of 1968, Bobby Kennedy was running for President. For some reason, he planned to visit our small town of Fontana. The neighborhood was ripe with excitement as we planned on leaving school early to head to City Hall. I especially liked Bobby because I had heard he had eleven children and he was the brother of John F. Kennedy. I made a handwritten sign on a piece of cardboard with a large stick attached. I had planned on holding it up so Bobby would see it. As a group of us started walking the three blocks to the mayor’s office where Bobby was supposed to show up, one of the older neighbor kids pointed to my sign and said, “Look at the way you spelled Kenedy it’s supposed to be spelled Kennedy.”
Feeling embarrassed, I handed her the sign and said, “You can hold it if you want to.”
My neighbor was glad to hold up my sign. I felt bad for my mistake but that didn’t deter me from heading out to see the Presidential nominee. It proved to be an exciting afternoon. Sadly, within the week, Bobby was assassinated. I cried many tears that night when I found out.
During this time, our dad lived close by in a small apartment with Sandy. He rarely came over, although he started calling my sister and told her he’d pay her to clean up his apartment. Suspiciously, I wondered why he asked Monica to clean when he knew I was the tidy one. It just didn’t make any sense.
I questioned her one day. “Why does Daddy want you to clean house? You don’t even do your chores at home.”
“I don’t know Deb, he just does.” Monica said with her long brown hair covering her face. She often walked around that way, with her face hidden.
Two days later on a Sunday afternoon Dad couldn’t pick her up so I offered to walk her to his apartment a couple of miles away. A few hours later I walked to his house to walk home with her. Knocking on the door, I waited what seemed like an eternity, feeling anxious. Why is it taking so long? I muttered under my breath. What are they doing in there?
Monica opened the door slowly. Pushing it aside, I looked in and noticed the room was still dirty. “What were you doing? I can see the house it’s still dirty. It looks the same as it did this morning, and where is Daddy?” I eyed her suspiciously.
Monica mumbled something as we walked home together. But crazy thoughts went through my head and a feeling of anger came over me
11
Truth Revealed
“There is nothing covered that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known.” Matthew 10:26
Three days later on Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of the Season of Lent, I walked across the street from the Junior high school I attended to church. There was a morning service and all the Catholic kids were allowed to leave school. Of course, we were expected to return for the remainder of the day. Everybody knew who the Catholics were as we’d come back with ashes in the shape of a cross smudged on our foreheads.
As the service began, I don’t remember what the priest was saying, but suddenly, I started sobbing. I swear I heard a gentle voice in my head saying, ‘go home and tell your mother.’
Darting out of church, I ran home, sobbing all the way. Dashing in the house, my mom was surprised to see me home in the middle of the afternoon.
“What are you doing home? Why are you crying?”
“I was at church and I heard a voice telling me to come home and tell you something.”
“Tell me what?” Mom motioned me to sit down and handed me some Kleenex.
“When I was a little girl, Daddy did ah, he did sex things to me and he made me do, do things to him,” I stammered. “He kept doing it when we lived in the new, new house. Finally, when you guys got divorced it stopped.”
“Exactly what did he do to you? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Mom, he did everything to me that a man and woman do when they are married.” I sobbed in shame, my head hanging down. I couldn’t look my mother in the eye, I felt so guilty.
“That Son-of-a ______. I’ll have him thrown in jail,” she screamed!
Crying uncontrollably, I begged her: “No, no, he said if I told, you’d put him in jail. Please don’t, Mom, please don’t, I couldn’t live with myself if he went to jail. I feel so guilty, it’s my fault he did those things to me. I’m such a bad girl. He told me if I didn’t let h
im do it to me, he would do it to Monica. I had to protect my sister. But now I think he’s doing it to her too.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I went to pick her up at his apartment on Sunday. He said he wanted her to clean the house, and it was still dirty when I looked inside. Sandy wasn’t there and he never came to the door. I think he was upstairs in the bedroom. I feel so bad.” I could hardly talk as I laid my head in my hands and sobbed.
“Honey, it wasn’t your fault. You had nothing to do with it,” Mom said.
“But he told me it was.”
“I hate that man!” Mom screamed. “He lied to you. He was a grown man and he knew better than to touch you and your sister.”
Finally, Mom calmed down and I was relieved that I didn’t have to give her the intimate details. She didn’t blame me for anything. I knew that God had directed me to run home that Ash Wednesday and tell my mother ‘the secret.’
A couple hours later, my little sister nonchalantly walked in the front door.
“Debbie told me that your father molested her. Did he ever touch you?”
Monica nodded her head and hid her face in her hands as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“When did it start?”
“I don’t remember I was very young though, I didn’t know he was touching Deb, too.”
“Is it still going on?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Monica whispered through her tears, hanging her head in shame.
I was shocked and angry that my dad had touched my sister. I had believed him when he promised me he wouldn’t. Mistakenly, I thought I had protected her all those years. My martyrdom had been for nothing. Despair poured over me and I could hardly contain the pain that intensified in my heart. I had failed to protect my sister. I felt even more worthless. “I’m so sorry, Monica. I thought you had been spared.”
“It’s not your fault, Deb,” Monica reassured me.
“Your grandmother told me she thought Bob was messing with you girls. I just thought she was being a suspicious old lady. I feel so bad I didn’t believe her. I never heard of a father touching his daughters. I am sorry, girls, I wasn’t there for you.” Mom tried her best to comfort us.
My little brothers had come home from school and probably overheard bits and pieces of the conversation. Mom was still angry and continued to call my dad names and rant and rave.
My sister and I turned on the TV and avoided talking. It was just too painful.
Mom went to the catholic church early the next morning and talked to a priest. He encouraged her to reaffirm to us girls that we weren’t to blame. We had done nothing wrong. He said we should not feel guilty or ashamed about what had happened to us. That evening Mom sat down with us and once again reminded us, “Your father is a grown man who did some very evil things to you and he knew better. You girls don’t need to feel bad about it anymore. It wasn’t your fault.”
Because incest wasn’t publicly talked about in the early sixties and no counseling easily available that Mom knew about, my mother thought we girls were okay. Even the priest didn’t ask to talk to us, and by not talking about it we thought we were healed. It was then our mother realized why Monica had always thrown such horrible fits. Mom rarely hit Monica after that. We didn’t speak of it again until after we were both married.
Even though I had told my secret and I was glad Mom knew, it didn’t change how I viewed myself. I was still burdened with feelings of shame, worthlessness, guilt and self-hatred. Maybe in my childish expectations I thought I would somehow feel better when the secret came out, yet my perceptions about myself remained the same, even though Mom did her best to convince me that I had no part in the sexual molestation and I had nothing to feel responsible for. I still had a hard time believing her and I blamed myself. The self-hatred, blame, shame, and guilt would define my life for many years to come.
I still continued to take it upon myself to feel responsible for my mother’s happiness and contentment. I felt compelled to be the good girl to ensure a place in my mom’s heart and God’s heart. I craved her love and affirmation. When she was good she was kind, comforting, and silly, but when she got into her moods, which seemed to be happening more often, she was depressed, angry, mean, and said hateful things to us. We never knew which mother we were going to get!
I don’t know what happened between my mom and dad after the secret came out. He never did ask my sister to clean his apartment again and it would be sometime later before he’d show back up in our lives. He and his second wife Sandy would eventually move to Canada. My sister and I simply felt relief once again, when our dad left.
12
Wes and The Grand Canyon
“There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you have to endure many trials for a little while.” 1 Peter 1:6
Not long after that, Mom introduced me to her new boyfriend. He was the most handsome man I ever met. He was a cross between Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Wes had a charming and boisterous personality. He roped the sun and made everything brighter with his laughter and his big plans. That is, until he got drunk, but I grew to love Wes and he became my new surrogate father. Wes was young and in the army and Mom lied to us kids about his age. She told us he was twenty-nine, but many years later she admitted the truth, he was only twenty-three when they began dating. I knew he was too young for me but I couldn’t stop myself. I was almost ten years older than him, she later said.
After a few months, Wes left his quarters at the nearby army base and called our casa his own. I liked drawing and Wes encouraged me and he made us feel proud of who we were. “Your Griswolds, this is your street, this is your home don’t ever forget how important you are.” No one had ever made us feel like that before.
Wes often took us out to dinner; we had never done that before. Whether it was the local Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or McDonalds, it was a treat for all six of us.
Early one winter morning, Wes got us all excited about a day trip he wanted to take us on. “Come on kids, get in the car, we’re going up to the mountains for the day.”
We could hardly wait to get there. It had been a misty-filled morning and had rained the night before. When we arrived at the mountain town of Big Bear, sixty minutes later, it was cool and cloudy. Marching up the street we noticed hundreds of little frogs jumping about. We were so excited. “Can we take them home?”
“Quick, let’s find something to put these frogs in,” Wes said, sounding as excited as us kids.
Hours later our car was filled with those little critters. It was my brother Mike’s idea to sell the frogs to the neighborhood kids. So, over the next few days we sold them for a nickel apiece and collected lots of change. We were so proud of our resourcefulness and hid our small fortune in an empty peanut butter jar, somewhere inside the garage.
Coming home from a picnic a few days later, my brother noticed the side garage door was open. Back then we never locked our doors. Nobody did. Mike jumped out of the car, ran inside and came out with the empty jar in his hand. “Somebody stole our money! If I find out who did it I’m going to beat them up!”
We were angry and heartbroken. We never did find out who did it, but it was obviously one of the neighborhood kids.
The holidays that year were filled with excitement. Wes brought silliness and good times into our home. He suggested characters we could dress up as for Halloween. He helped my mom prepare the Thanksgiving turkey. We all picked out the Christmas tree and decorated it together. On Easter, Wes and Mom took us to Lytle Creek to hide Easter eggs, later we grilled hot dogs and hamburgers. We even hiked way up the hill to explore a large cross. On warm, summer days, we went on picnics and to the beach. Wes loved barbecuing on balmy, spring evenings. It was a good time in our lives and I was happy to see my mom laugh and smile once again. She spent less and less time hiding in her bedroom. It was even better to see her in love. Wes is the l
ove of my life, she’d often express to us kids. She even tattooed a W on the inside of her right thigh. It hurt so much she never did finish spelling out the word WES.
Over the years we Griswold’s were well known by our neighbors for many reasons, whether it was for our pets or our habit of collecting money. Traveling around our neighborhood with our beat up red, radio flyer wagon, we’d collect pop bottles to turn in for cash. Two of my brothers had already gone to camp by selling toffee-covered peanuts to our neighbors. The summer before I turned twelve Monica and I sold peanuts for the local YMCA. The rule was if we sold enough of them we could earn money to caravan to the Grand Canyon in a truck with several other girls. Nevada was the only place we had ever been thus far and we were thrilled with the challenge. We collected pop bottles and sold enough peanuts and the magical day finally arrived.
Mom dropped us off at the YMCA, took a few pictures, and waved as we headed out. We had our sleeping bags, pup tents, and clothes collected in a black garbage bag. We were loaded in the back of a pickup truck with wooden fences enclosed around us and covered by a large tarp. Ten of us girls were crammed into the truck along with the leader’s ten-year-old son, Scotty. His sixteen-year-old sister, who traveled with us, was a chaperone. Riding in the back of the truck, proved to be an exciting journey for thirteen amazing days. Scotty’s dad, mom and uncle rode up front they were our other chaperones.
We stopped in Flagstaff, Arizona and camped beside a stream in the national forest. Evergreen trees surrounded us and pops of yellow and purple wild flowers carpeted the ground. It was a spectacular sight! After dinner, we sat around the campfire and the leaders told us silly and scary stories. Later with the camp lights turned off and the fire burning out, I laid in my pup tent. My head stuck out of the opening, while my body was wrapped in the warmth of my wooly, sleeping bag. I looked up and noticed millions of twinkling stars overhead. It was incredible. I watched them until I fell asleep.
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