Memoir Monday August 5, 1966

 Aug 5, 1966

A new month had begun, mostly rather routine. I had still not found a way to leave but I was working on it. I was missing Dusty fiercely but on Aug 2, Charlie Mike did see Earl and  learned Dusty was now home in Kingman and his (adopted) Mom had come out from New York to stay and take care of him for a bit. He had rented a small house or a trailer earlier to  reinforce the legal separation and avoid hassles. 

It gets hotter every day. I still manage to keep busy. Got all the horse work done in the am, made cookies, rinsed and dried the dishes and helped with the washing. I got letters from Linda and Helen Reilly today. If I can’t get a job at Tellington’s… That would be nifty, really. Mrs R claims trainees of Tellington’s get $400 monthly  and room and board. That beats anything I ever heard of. I’ll have to see what Linda T herself says next. It must be 11:30 pm now. I’ve been busily writing letters. It’s too hot to sleep. If I’d let it this lawsuit stuff would really bother me but I know I’m not involved whatever the Boss says. My name is not on the real legal papers. At least I bathed tonight. I’ve been letting myself fall apart lately on personal cleanliness etc. It’s hard to care in this weather with these problems. Oh, how I wish someone was around on nights like this. I’m at that ‘in’ cycle where I about go stir crazy for just wanting to be loved. There are other guys in the world but the thought doesn’t move me much. I’m a very one-track-filly. What was the expression Dusty used? Anyway, I can just do a bit of remembering and practically fall apart. But keeping damn busy as I can is sure a start. Maybe there is something to this sublimation bit--with all the fierce energies I have, I should accomplish wonders if I divert them properly or tragedies if I don’t. I can see how this guy in Texas felt --he shot and killed sixteen people. It’s like Donna running away, that feel of omni-power for an instant.

Linda Tellington was a trainer in California who had a special project of training Arabians and Peruvian Paso horses for the Tevis Cup 100 Mile Endurance Ride.  Much like the Iditarod, it had checkpoints and the horses were carefully monitored by veterinarians. It was a rough ride, from Lake Tahoe down to Roseville, at the foot of the mountains . The trail crossed several deep canyons with rivers in them. I had a vague dream of doing it with a mule, which had not been done then. Anyway, I wrote her and asked about job possibilities, feeling I could do a good job for her.  Helen Reilly was another pen pal, I think, and involved with the effort to save and tame the wild mustangs in Nevada. She was also a bit in involved with the Bishop, CA mule celebration. Memory is very vague! Donna was another untrained mule and one we never made much progress with. She had some weird quirks and did chew a rope to get free a time or two to run away. 

The insane lawsuit stuff was really raging about now. Of course this was used to prove "I could not leave as I was involved." I had signed--under some protest--several affidavits and such but not ever the big pleas or actual suits themselves.  So, not so fast and not so much!. And an odd notion also emerged about here: I should go to college before long  and to law school!  At first that seemed too absurd to me but the idea did root a bit--one way to escape perhaps with some approval! So I tried to use it in my planning., and I told the  Cal Aunts and Uncle of that possible goal.

I was keeping as busy as possible; too busy to think or worry too much though I was gradually getting tireder and tireder. I admitted another day I was getting “tired of sore legs, cinch sores, sore backs, shots and all that. How I ever manage to keep loving horses is utterly beyond me. I must be some sort of nut” I had sworn I would not love any special one again and to some degree I did not, but several were still special to me and precious in many ways.

 Mostly the harangues and lecturers were now fairly low-key but there were still days when surly attitudes and nasty comments plagued me. I tried to let them roll off and not get too upset. I'd done that from about the middle of July on when there was some change after those major betrayals finally ceased. Judy advised me some on how to get by and I had promised Dusty when he left in March there would be no trips to the river etc.  Keeping a level of cool was thus part of my survival.

What photos? I was taking few to none now as most of my 'record shots' in anticipation of someday leaving had been done. Could not really afford film either. Found pop bottles did not net much spending money.  So some semi-oldies. First me with the Ford pickup I drove a lot that summer, still with no license. Then Alex and me with a baby burro--probably earlier as Alex was 7 in 1966. Last Charlie Mike with Twinkles who we then had in Clarkdale as a long yearling and were doing some light training. for her. He was in typical raggedy high water jeans and clodhoppers.

Memoir Monday, July 29, 1966

This July was not a hard one to say goodbye to.  It had been a bad roller-coaster ride going from almost level to way, way down... Although I was not keeping a diary or a journal, I did write notes off and on and squirreled the pages away among my paper dolls and dress designs which I was sure were safe from snooping. Once I had a new notebook safely stashed as I mentioned earlier,  I copied most of them into it and then went on as August began. I'll grab a few clips here and there and insert them in italics, some times with a date connected. 

        July 20: At least two small bits of knowledge lighten my heart. One is to know for sure tt was not my letter that brought Dusty on June 16. That one, misaddressed, came back to me finally. An answer to the re-sent letter has not come but that was because he was in the hospital. I learned yesterday he had been in LA in the hospital for about three weeks, Unfortunately that re-sent letter was probably intercepted by Blair, next down the seniority roster, who filled  in as foreman for B&B 6.That was not good, not at all... 

      July 24: Yesterday the local was late, We went over in the twilight to see it leave. Waited in the caboose while while the units (2201-2202) went up to the plant. It was dark but I felt perfectly at home. Makes you wonder about reincarnation, predestination etc. I love trains, CDW notwithstanding. Lantz (the station agent) seems to take us for granted. As if we had a right to hang around...

     It  has been a busy week but the nicest I've had for a long while. I feel so much freer without the pressure, upsets, intolerance, lectures, blow-ups  ad nauseum. Unless things change drastically I really can't stay on here after dad gets back, no matter what. But I shall do my best until then. One day at a time...

I did not specify exactly when but the Boss (aka dad) was gone for awhile. I'm sure he was over in the VA Hospital at Whipple. He was a hypochondriac, but really did have recurring problems with rectal-intestinal polyps. Of course they were always surely deadly cancer so we must all be very worried... I think it was a week or more this time and he did have surgery but never a colostomy or anything that major. While he was gone, Mom never told me anything to do or not do and the livestock management was totally left up to me. By now Charlie  Mike worked with me like a true partner or helper. I counted on him without question. I have no memory of exactly when or how but one of the last jack burros died about this time. Pepper was  such a mean and cantankerous son, I did not grieve. I think Charley Bryant helped me drag him up to the bone yard out at the pasture.

     July 26: We went to Prescott today and brought the Boss home. No upsets so far--even about the scratched door or Pepper's death.  Que milagrosa! Alex and I walked down to the depot and I got numbers on Gordon's B&B 3 and a yard full of freight cars. (Charlie Mike had collected can numbers almost forever.) Wonder if #6 has its regular foreman back yet? Maybe we'll see Earl or Thursday; Charlie Mike did not today.

     July 29: #6 doesn't and we didn't  I also got a very short scribbled note someone apparent mailed  for Dusty --postmark blurred. but his writing.  "Please do not write again for a long while."   I thought a sharp oops then and knew I would not. It hit me that Blair had probably gotten that last letter, maybe even read it--quite unethically!  Kind of oh crap. My $45 is in the bank and I now have $4.60 in change having bought this book, The rest is in 'cold storage' with no one knowing of it

I have no idea now where it came from but I had recently received $50, probably from my aunts, after they heard the college plans were at least initiated. They helped me pay PO box rent and urged I maintain a checking account. {An aside: Recently I have heard women could not do that alone until early 1970s but I had opened this one on my own back in the fall of 1965 when I was only 22 and definitely had no person cosign or authorize it. FWIW, eh? So there were exceptions for sure. Also the PO box was solely my effort and I obtained and paid.}

Well enough catch up here. By August there were journal entries again though not quite every day. Once more it was a roller coaster ride but there were starting to be a few actual highs and the lows were not quite rock bottom...

Pictures! To support my train fascination here are a couple of locomotives I pictured a bit later in Flagstaff. The two I mentioned above would have been similar but I think these were newer versions of the EMD "Geeps"(General Purpose). The ones in Clarkdale were GP-9s. The last is from my collection (not my shot) and shows the old 'zebra-stripe'  paint job once used on ATSF freight locos. before they adopted the blue and yellow. It is a flat nose GP-9; some were and some not.

Memoir Monday, July 22, 1966

 For Monday, July 22,1966

I know I have mentioned a time or two about small hints that things were gradually starting to change. I may have hopscotched a block or two when they did not fall on a date I covered  prior to the June exodus so here I'll summarize with some backtracks.

It was probably April or maybe early May when I went to one of the Family/Mental Health clinic interviews, probably pretty upset over the horse sicknesses and all. Anyway, Mr Peckham, the counselor, told me to call Mrs. Fitzgerald. A day or two later, I did. I have no memory of what was said but I believe she sounded me out on whether I really would like to go to college, mentioned it could still be possible. I said, "Yes," emphatically. I know there may have been some room for doubt since I had abandoned my scholarships fairly firmly after I graduated, though I did not promptly get married as the salutatorian did or go in the military. As I've already said, the forfeiture was done under pressure of the enmeshed family situation, my huge lack of confidence and my devotion to the critters, Now there was no question with too much handwriting on the wall.

I am not sure how Mr Peckham and Mrs Fitzgerald were acquainted but since she was the counselor at Mingus, it was not very peculiar. To backtrack a little, I always liked and admired her. She was my PE teacher my last two years and as counselor had talked with me quite a bit on grades, college plans and similar things,. I felt she cared about me as a person and a student and was probably concerned about my future. I had to look it up in my final yearbook--what was her first name? She was just Mrs Fitzgerald to me. It was Elizabeth. Anyway, I was glad to have her on "my team."

Actually little was done that I knew of until early to mid August but I am sure now a number of people were at least slightly involved from the git-go in what became a 'project' to get Margaret (Gaye) Morgan into college albeit belatedly. I know several of my former teachers put in a good word or two. Dr Joseph Pecharich, a family friend and our dentist, Dr Joseph Hudson over at the VA hospital and goodness knows who else had a small hand in it. As soon as I mentioned the possibility, my three aunts in California, all teachers/ administrators, also played a part. Aunt Ruth had done some summer classes  at NAU while it was still ASC and had been to UofA for seminars etc. so she had some pertinent contacts. 

There at the end of July I had only the slightest glimmer of hope this might actually happen. I truly did not dare to believe it was possible, much less that events would actually unfold as they did. In retrospect today, I can only most gratefully say "Thank You!"  to the Powers- that-Be, which I now name The Sourced and The Force, and to my guardian angel who worked behind the scenes through a number of good people to make this happen for me. In some ways. I still paid a further price and had to 'sacrifice' for this boon but I now call them offered willingly. It was meant to happen, just as it did. 

A few photos for 'tax'. First most of my Mingus senior year faculty including Mrs Fitzgerald, then the  cowboy girl as she worked those four long years and finally the  "sweet" girl graduate who had her brief moment of fame as Mingus's class of 62 valedictorian. So young and naive that day.  

Memoir Monday, July 15, 1966

For Monday, July 15, 1966--Interim Events

This didn't happen on the actual date but is relevant and kind of a fill-in on the time when no journal was kept. I know I had mentioned Dusty being ill before so I will pick up some more on that situation. I was expecting a letter after his surprise visit in June but one never came. I did not believe he had abandoned me but I did get worried. I was stumbling along after I made it through the betrayals and staggered on through the rest of that summer. It was awhile l before I found out what the cause of the silence was.  This is mostly extracted from my book-length memoir.

I had expected a letter not too long after the mid-June surprise visit, but one never came. I worried and fretted but could not believe he had abandoned me. It was awhile before I learned why. On July 20, Charlie Mike and I talked to Earl Ragsdale and learned that B&B 6 had a temporary foreman because Mr Watt was in the Coast Lines Hospital in Los Angeles. He had apparently collapsed on the job and been rushed out there, a very sick man. I do not think the borderline pneumonia had ever gone away and the combined stresses of some problems on the job, the situation with Johnny and worry about me triggered a very severe asthma attack. He was in the hospital for the better part of a month.

The same day, I had lost my gold chain bracelet. I am not sure if it broke or somehow came off but it was lost and I never found it again. This was traumatic to me because I had known I should take it off and put it away but I could not bear to. It had been on my right wrist constantly since Dusty put it there the morning of December 1. I finally said it was not truly gone because I could still ‘feel’ it there but it was now invisible.

Charlie Mike and I really appreciated Earl Ragsdale. He was the local track inspector who took a motor car over the whole route before the Local came in each time to ensure the track was safe. He was an older fellow and we'd made friends with him earlier that summer. He was a good source of the latest news and often gossip for that part of the Winslow division of ATSF be it the train crews, maintenance of way or others associated with the railroad in whatever way. He knew "Mr Watt", as he spoke of Dusty, clearly with respect and regard, was a friend of ours though perhaps not why, how or to what degree. Still I blessed him for giving us this information. I realized there was probably no way I could safely communicate with Dusty under the circumstances so all I could do was hope and pray and wait. Those several weeks were interminable and there were few bright spots to see me through although some progress toward my getting to go to college that fall was starting to take shape. I dared not really hope and certainly not to count on it but positive little hints and glimpses sustained me. 

Few relevant photos but here is what I can offer.: First is the bracelet--it is the one on the right.  In making jewelry while in Alamogordo I got some chains mostly for pendants and one day thought of that long lost bracelet.  I had a brief flash of a delicate gold chain that somehow reminded me of a watch chain but much more fine and fragile. Voila--there was a chain somewhat similar so I made it. I do wear it off and on but not all the time.  Next is the Santa Fe Coast Lines Hospital in Los Angeles. The Railroad sold it in the 90s when more employees then used the mandated insurance instead,  but this is how it looked. I can visualize Dusty in one of those rooms while he was dosed with antibiotics and asthma meds until he recovered. The last is a summer scene taken by my friend July Carter with one of her windmills but those dark clouds seemed to represent the dark days I was living through that summer. But was there a bit of light reflected from a tenuous hope? 

Memoir Monday, July 8, 1966

July 8+1 1966 

This actually happened on July 9, 1966 but in the absence of anything for the proper day, here it is. This was kind of fun! We had gone to the Appaloosa Show in Flagstaff that weekend, which was for both business and pleasure. Few of the names mean anything to me now but I do remember the incident well. It was early afternoon, broken clouds but no storms close, and pretty hot. The mare was one of the 'roany looking' Appaloosa type, red and white in a "merle" blend (to misuse a herding dog term) that looked almost wine or muted dark red. I do not recall her being unduly spirited or difficult; in fact she did very well. No idea why no one else would ride her. I had never formally ridden in a show of this level before but had watched this class often. Doing it out in 'Big World' public' was something else so placing was a huge surprise! I had never been near that mare before I approached and mounted her. She accepted me, apparently knowing I was a horse person.

BTW I wrote this originally on a plain sheet of paper, not in a journal, and later copied it into a steno notebook I began to use shortly as I think I mentioned last time.  

July 9, 1966

Well, I've done it--I rode in a show and placed, even. I rode Mr Cochran’s mare Greola D in the Trail Class. It was quite sudden and a surprise, so much so that I hardly had time to be scared. I goofed up badly on the gate but still got a 6^th place beating Claire Johnson, Betsy Wallbridge, etc. There were about sixteen entries in the class. I wore my Wrangler tans, my 'circle-cross' shirt and used Betty Parish’s  saddle and chaps. I was really surprised that I placed. Long ago I wrote a poem, My First Ribbon”. I’ll have to see how closely it fits! Only of course I didn’t get it for it is the horse’s possession  or the owners, actually.  The horses, not the riders per se were judged. But no one else wanted to ride the mare--not sure why--so I did. I may ride her again in Western Pleasure tomorrow   But we did not ago back the next day, it seems.

I cannot recall if anything was ever said after the day. No surprise, really. It was a validation for me, anyway. The mare had never seen me before yet she accepted me without hesitation. I recognized then that I really was a horsewoman and a trainer, because I was able to be calm and confident. She had done the course before and only needed minimal cues but paid attention to me as her rider. and I did not mess her up. 

Actually this was the last chance I had to do something like this. Sixty days saw me ending that opportunity forever due to fate and a choice I had no options but to make. That life would have been cut off within just over a year anyway, although I did not know either of those future outcomes on this day. Regrets? Some, but mostly over the fact  so much was beyond my control. I had came to a fork where only one direction was possible. Beware of what you wish for? There is much I still and will always miss  but I have to trust everything happened as it was somehow meant to to bring me to where I sit today. I can cherish many good memories to veil over and temper the bad. 

Pictures:  The first shows colors and patterns of Appaloosas. The mare  was similar to the second in top row although more red. Our stallion, Yavapai Chief, was the 4th there, classic chestnut blanket. Then there is a scrap of the red plaid fabric from which I had made matching shirts for Dusty and me. I was wearing mine that day. Sadly I never got a photo of it. And lastly my verse; not quite what happened but an odd coincidence!

My First Ribbon

There it hangs in all its glory-- 

Would you like to hear the story?

It’s not a red, much less a blue,

But I’m real proud, I’m telling you 

Of that green ribbon, new and bright

That I won one long-passed  night.

It was just a little show,

But the judge was hard, you know.

He was watching everything

When we rode around the ring;

He looked at me with narrow eyes

So it was a great surprise

When I heard them call my name.

I walked on clouds as out I came

To get that old green ribbon there,

At the horse show, at the fair.

My old pony looked so proud

Standing there before the crowd

With that ribbon by his ear

Gently fluttering, bright and clear.

Someday perhaps we’ll win a blue

Or even a silver trophy, too,

But none of them can ever mean      

More than that little bow of green.

GM, 1963   

Memoir Monday, July 1, 1966

This is the last of the "really bad stuff." It feels good in some ways to have it in the past, even sharing and discussing it! I can now basically lock it away in a dark box somewhere and call myself free forever more. It is a bad book I read or an ugly show I saw on TV, almost as if it were never real. 

The Final Betrayals

I mentioned the reason for my ceasing to keep a diary or journal in late June 1966. Although in some ways it was less 'damaging' to me than other incidents, I very much felt violated and ...well it seemed akin to being stripped naked and marched around the town with the proverbial scarlet letter painted on me. True,.I suppose only Mom and Dad read my private words and thoughts, but they had no reason and no right to do that! It would have been iffy if I was twelve or fifteen but I was a grown woman of twenty three. It was very much like tearing open and reading mail sent to another person, which in some cases is actually criminal. At least I am pretty sure they never read any of Dusty's letters for I kept them well stored away. At any rate that was the third betrayal. I will rehash it a bit. They found no clue that I was about to run away to 'live in sin' as I had so often been accused of preparing to do and always vehemently denied.  Still, I am sure that's what they looked for..

A very few days  after Dusty's visit on June 16,  I quit keeping a diary. or journal.  In one ‘talk’, on June 19, Mom and Dad revealed they had been reading my diary/journal while  I was out. With a smirk and a sneer, Dad blatantly quoted phrases and terms I had used. If that was the was the worst he found, it was pretty damn mild!! (Things like referring to him as "the Boss" and labeling a difficult day "A bad day at Black Rock"). I was beyond furious. This totally uncalled for invasion and betrayal was over the top. They claimed they were trying to “help” me. If that was help, I’d rather take poison! If trust had not already been mostly shattered, it was now dead, completely erased. I was even too angry and hurt for violence. Defiant, I wrote a day or two in Spanish. Mom knew French and Dad knew German but real Spanish was beyond them. Then I completely stopped, keeping only a few business related notes for the next several weeks. Before August 1, I had gotten a new steno notebook and kept it in the shop yard shed for which Charlie Mike and I had obtained and installed a padlock. Oddly that was never even mentioned nor did it become an issue. Strange, no?. I wrote sporadically then through the rest of the summer. Even now, fifty plus years later, that is the most unforgettable and unforgivable act of all. I felt my privacy and identity  had been completely violated. I might call it rape of the spirit .

 There was one more event. It seems almost anti-climatic but for reasons I cannot unravel even to this day. it marked a major turning point. It was the last betrayal, the last real savage or vicious abuse I suffered. And one time, I did not cave in.

One essentially final act in the abuse and harassment scenario took place during the time I was not recording. Thus I do not have an exact date or any at-the-time details so it has to be just what I recall. It was probably during the last few days of June or the first week of July. The sun was still up so it may have been shortly after supper. I cannot remember the context but Dad was after me--as had become so usual--still trying to force me to forswear Dusty, promise never to see him or contact  him again in any way, and making harsh threats when I would not do so. I stood  at the end of the big table. I’d finally had all I was going to take so I said something like, “Make me.” It was not those words but that was the meaning, the implication anyway.

He jumped up, moving much faster than usual, and hit me in the face with his doubled fist.  Stunned, I fell under the old fashioned kitchen sink as my glasses flew off. When he snarled something like “Get up, chicken” or “Go on, be a coward”, I struggled to my feet, still dizzy. “Go ahead, hit me again,” I managed. About then Mom shrieked. “Stop! You’ll kill her!”

That was when I heard a car drive slowly down the street. I ran as fast as I could to the front door, intending to dash into the street screaming. Dad caught me just inside the screen door, grabbed me and slammed a hand over my mouth. I was past fear, past caring, past accepting anything more. As I tried to move my head to breathe or speak, I felt a finger and bit down as hard as I could. I mean I really bit, like a bulldog. Not sure if I drew blood, but I am sure it hurt like crazy. Needless to say, he let go. If there were any further repercussions or violence that night, I do not retain such memories. I  did not run off to drown myself etc. either. 

The next day I had a prize-fighter’s black eye but fortunately my glasses survived and I went on about my normal business. I do not remember ever being hit or even majorly threatened again. I am not sure why. There were still ‘talks’ but they were relatively mild and it seems "that man" was never mentioned again, even by inference. 

Did Dad think I would go file charges? Did he give it up? I can hardly believe that as he was one determined and stubborn man, always convinced he was right. Did Mom actually take a stand?  I guess I will never know. At any rate, I never got any more of that kind of abuse for which I thank all the Powers. I could not have survived much more. I never told Dusty anything about this; I hate to think how he might have reacted but that was soon moot for some time since he could not do anything to help or avenge me while he was seriously ill.  (More on that later as I continue the next few posts for July.)

I am still mystified. Did my willingness to actually fight back change the dynamic? Did some level of sanity and decency awaken and my father realize he had gone way too far?  Did Mom finally take a stand and say she'd leave or go to the cops or something if it ever happened again? I really cannot dredge up anything to give me a clue but to this day I thank the Source for whatever happened or was done that spared me any more of the same, at least on that level. July and August were not easy, no walk in the park or free ride but the balance had shifted. Then the first week of September, my life took a sudden huge change so it was almost as if I was reborn because things were never the same again. 

I really have no illustrations here. Certainly no photos were taken of these events or during their course. Even a few words did not find anything in the stock photos. I will just use three very different pictures of me, the child who had never known such trauma, the teenager beginning to feel curtailed and mistreated and the cowboy girl who finally got to the point of saying "No more." First is the 'tuff little girl' at about nine; then probably my second junior year when  I no longer smiled in photos, my face was set and stern; finally beside the truck I then drove a lot --edging toward defiance that was building toward the eruption. .My posture reflects that a bit.  

Monday Memoir, June 24, 1966

 A Plague of "Betrayals" 

I will backtrack a bit here. Bear with me. I know I did at least mention this first instance since I wrote about the following day a over a month ago. It was April 1. Here is the actual entry for the date it happened, March 31, 1966 with a bit of discussion.

March 31, 1966

On March 31 one of the rough days had happened. I’d been busy with the horses and when Charlie Mike got home we rode Buzzie and Lyno out around Peck’s Lake to look for the missing mules. We were having a continuous problem with them straying into Tavasci’s which almost became ugly several times. It was a nice ride but when we got home we were in for a shock. 

The old icebox that sat outside the tack shed was tipped over with iron bars sticking out every which way. One might almost imagine the Mau Mau had attacked. The Old Man had thrown a huge tantrum. Charlie Mike later said it was over his collection of liquor bottle labels stowed inside. I had no clue. Anyway,  my treasured little sun-glass pieces lay shattered across the yard. They had been on top and inside the old box. I’d felt lousy all day and at that sight, I pitched a hissy fit.

“I hate you!” I screamed at dad.  “You are trying to destroy every trace of beauty in my life.” Then I began to cry. He came over to me, I thought at first to apologize. Instead he slapped me across the face as hard as he could, twice. One landed across my right ear which went instantly deaf. If I could have, I would have left within five minutes.

Nobody had hit me since I was ten years old.  I was not so hysterical as to require that kind of action.  He was not ever really sorry because I know he had wanted to do that, or worse, for quite awhile. I’m not killed, I said in my journal, but it hurts. My ear was bubbly and odd for weeks. It was the same one I had the infection in when I was six. Somehow my hearing survived.  After we did the chores, I helped Charlie Mike right the box. He could not lift it by himself. It was heavy, even with the pounds of iron bars removed. The next day I had to apologize for my ugly speech before Dad would and I got a very half-baked “I’m sorry” in reply.  In his view, I deserved it, and surely more.

I do not think my sun glass was ever an object or intentional casualty but almost all of it was destroyed. It had a lot of sentimental value to me and one could actually sell whole pieces to some collectors so it was not worthless at all. Charlie Mike says the target was a liquor bottle label collection he had inside the box but I do not know if that was true or not. It was a cruel act to me and difficult to forget, much less forgive. 

The next case I do not think I have alluded to at all previously. It was May 17, 1966 and here is that entry. 

On May 17, one of the cruelest of Dad’s nasty tricks played out. Mom and I got home from the pasture and came in to rest a minute. Almost gleefully, Dad began to relate what he had (allegedly) just heard on the radio. A Santa Fe employee had a domestic violence issue in Kingman, perhaps Sunday, to which the cops were called. The man shot at one cop and took two bullets himself, dying on the spot. I knew to the roots of my soul that was a blatant lie but it began to chew at me. I went on about my business with almost no response and hung on grimly until Charlie Mike got home from school. As we saddled up, I told him. He went up town with me where I called Prescott. B&B 6 and its foreman were there, and the agent I spoke to said he would give Mr Watt my message. I made it something innocuous, going weak with relief. I had not and could not believe the tale, but had still pictured Dusty dead. I can never forgive the senseless blatant cruelty of that incident. I don’t recall any reaction from Mom at all and we never spoke of it. 

If this cannot be termed a betrayal, I do not understand the word! I cannot imagine the fiendish imagination applied to concoct this tale and the only purpose was obviously to hurt and upset me. I kept my cool very well, or think I did, and hardly reacted at all. Did that disappoint the teller? I shall never know. But how could a parent do such a thing to a child, albeit a grown one? How could he have such hate and ugliness to lay this on me?  No, I do not forget; I forgive moderately but forget, NEVER!!

There were two more incidents I considered or labeled betrayals which I will cover next week. Looking back  I can only offer my deepest gratitude to the Source and the Force, as I term the Divine Entity and their energies, for all that took place permitting me finally to make my escape. In early September I was able leave before I ultimately totally lost it and "went postal" one way or another. I was never again truly helpless, at the mercy of contempt, malice, pressure, and abuse from those I had trusted.  From then on I was always on the periphery of family catastrophes with a different degree of duty and responsibility. i was no longer dependent.  I still did not use that sort of language much then but I could at least think if not say "Fuck It. I don't care!"  My brothers were the only "family" I was now concerned about.  That may sound cold, but it was the truth.  I felt my parents had 'divorced' me by their actions.

I found stock photos to illustrate what I had no way to picture. Yes, I was "kicked off the cliff"  ,more than once.