Finally Starting Life

I will always remember the day my life truly began ― a couple of months before I turned 15. It was Friday, March 20, 1998.

I was a freshman in high school, and I was sitting in my last class of the day next to Tracy. This was the first year since elementary school that we had EVERY class together. The last class also was one of our favorites. It was science and we thought the teacher was funny and engaging. The teacher had presented some stuff, and we were all working quietly on our school work when Mr. Squier, the school counselor, came to the door and asked to remove Tracy from class. Everyone immediately started making sounds and saying things like, “Oooh, someone’s in trouble.” Tracy packed up her stuff and walked out with Mr. Squier.

Meanwhile, I was sitting at the table we were sharing as our desk space and freaking out! The minute he showed up at the door, I knew what it was for and got butterflies in my stomach and a heat enveloped my whole body. I was relieved, still sweaty and nervous, but relieved to still be in class. That was short-lived. A few minutes later Mr. Squier was back and asked to pull me from class as well. All the rumblings from everyone started up again while I felt my heart plummet. 

The school counselor’s office was on the second floor, and my class was on the first floor, basically as far from the office as possible. It felt like it took at least 20 minutes to walk to the office, but in reality it was only about three minutes. As we were walking up the stairs, Mr. Squier asked me if I knew what this was all about. I was terrified to speak and just kept looking at my feet as I walked, but I managed to squeak out that I thought I knew what was happening. 

I had told my brother, Fred, a couple of days before about something that was happening to me in our home. 

I knew this was something serious, but I didn’t realize just how serious until I walked into the office and saw Tracy sitting in a chair, gazing at her feet, while two police officers, a man and a woman, sat across from her. This scene made me even more nervous! There were cops!? All of a sudden my confession to Fred seemed so serious and scary and a big part of me wished I had never said anything. 

Lucky for me, I wasn’t required to speak. I sat in the chair next to Tracy, staring at my feet the whole time the cops asked questions and Tracy answered. I would speak up to confirm what was said but never added any more details or information.

I have no idea how long this whole process took, it felt like a lifetime. I do know that by the time we were done talking, we had missed our bus home. Before we left the office, the police officers gave Tracy and I a sucker for being able to share this information with them. Then we came out and saw that Fred was there waiting for us. At that time, Mr. Squier and the cops came to let us know that they had called our mom and she was on her way to the school. Our whole future depended on her reaction and whether or not she believed us.

You see, for the past several years, Tracy and I were being sexually abused by our step-father. He had recently threatened to kill our family dog, which made me, so I told Fred that I had something on him that could probably get him sent to prison for a long time. Once I told Fred some of the details, I clammed up and didn’t want to say any more. Fred said he had to do something. So, he found a number in the back of a phone book that looked helpful. He called and they told him this was serious and that he would need to tell a trusted adult what was happening. All of us agreed immediately NOT to tell our mom. We didn’t know how she would react, but we didn’t think she would do anything to help us. Once we ruled her out, I started to panic and told Fred it would be best not to tell anyone. We could continue living like we had been and it would be fine. However, we all really liked Mr. Squier and had a great relationship with him, so it didn’t shock me that Fred confided in him a couple days after we said we wouldn’t tell anyone.
So now we wait. 

Once the cops could talk to our mom, they could determine the best plan of action to move forward with this case. If our mom showed any signs of not believing us or didn’t seem to care about our well-being, we would be placed in foster care—foster care! This is something we had heard about, but could this really be happening to us?! 

Mom finally arrived at the school and was confused seeing us sitting there with the two police officers. All the adults went into the same room Tracy and I had recently vacated so the cops could fill her in on what we had told them. Mom came out and was visibly shaken, she believed us. The cops asked her if she had a safe place where she could take us, and she said we could go up to her parents house. There were no cell phones then, so she called them from the school phone and asked if it would be okay for us to come up for the weekend. It was a last minute trip that none of us expected. 

Before we could leave, the cops had to go back to our house to confront our step-dad and to make sure it would be a safe space for us to go to pack up some things for the weekend. The cops left, confronted him, and when they came back, they stated that he never once denied any of it. They said that is a sure sign that he is, indeed, guilty of what we were saying. So, they said we needed to get out of that living situation.
All three of us kids and mom piled into her van to go back home to pack for the weekend. The cops followed us there and told us we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and then we would need to leave. We packed quickly, grabbing whatever we thought we might need and headed “up north” to our grandparents house. They lived about two hours away. 

Once we arrived, mom made us kids sit in the van while she went into the house to tell them more details on what was happening. We would end up staying there for the weekend before returning to school Monday morning, but for the moment we were safe. We had a fresh start, and that is the day my whole world changed and I started to truly live.

Secrets in the Haymow

Warning: This blog contains mature content that may be triggering.

The effects of being raped and the emotions it produces are more complicated than a lot of people might realize. I remember all too well the mixed feelings I often had when my "dad" would come for me.

His visits often came at strange times, such as during chore time. My siblings and I would take turns going up to the haymow to throw hay down for the cows. While one of us was doing that, the other two would distribute the hay for the cows to eat. Between the ages of 11 and 15, my “dad” would often come up when I was the one in the haymow and have his way with me.

Those times up in the haymow are some of the most memorable, and definitely not in a good way. I was trying to do my job – because there would be severe repercussions if I didn’t do it correctly – and then my “dad” would show up. I had a love-hate relationship with seeing him enter the haymow. I knew he was there to rape me. Of course, I didn’t know that word at that age and didn’t even considered it rape until I was much older. But even though I knew what he was going to do to me, it was good to see him – because he was there just for me. He thought I was someone special, his little girl. The other part of me, the part that knew this wasn’t really right, was scared and nervous about what would happen. Often when he came to interrupt my work, he would be quick so that I could get back to my job. He would pull down my pants, no matter what the temperature was outside, and then he would pull down his own pants just far enough to pull out his penis. Then he would lay me down on a bale of hay or shove me up against a wall and rape me.

Everything would happen quickly then, and I remember him spasming in orgasm. It all seemed so weird, though I wouldn’t really think about it until I was older. I just remember feeling gross after he spasmed on top of me. When he was done, he would just get up, put his penis back in his pants and zip up. I would just be lying there, and eventually, I would get up as well. I never had any kind of towel or napkin or anything, so I would pull up my pants while semen was rolling down my leg. I would have to continue doing my chores – for several more hours – like this. The winter months were the worst because the semen would get cold REALLY quickly and feel as though it were frozen on my leg. But no matter what time of year, the sticky substance made it hard to focus on my chores.

No matter where it happened – in the haymow or in the bedroom – being raped was an emotional rollercoaster. I was just a kid, and the man who should have been protecting me was abusing me instead. It made me feel special, and it made me feel wrong. It would be a long time before I could make sense of it all.

The Price of Childhood

Warning: This blog contains mature content that may be triggering.

Watching from above became my new normal for the next several years of my life. I would watch this girl like she was someone else, all the while knowing she was me and that I didn’t have the power to stop anything that was happening to her.

One moment I would be a kid and the next I would be living a nightmare. For instance, if my siblings and I wanted to ride our bikes into town to hit up the only store there - to get ALL the candy - we would need adult permission. After all, we were only 10 to 12 years old. However, that adult permission came with a pretty big price. At least for me.

Looking back, it seems like I was more of an object than a person at that age, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. If we were to get permission to ride our bikes into town, I would need to be the one to ask my “dad,” and nine times out of 10, he would say, “Yes.” Of course, that, “Yes,” only came after he would have his way with me. He would lay me down on his bed and either perform oral sex on me, as I have previously mentioned, or he would take things even further.

Him going past the touching and oral stuff was something I didn’t talk about much when I was younger but have started to open up about more as I get older. I want it all out there. I want people in my life to try to understand how terrible life was and how the things that happened to me were really hard to talk about.

As I have mentioned before, my “dad” would often pick me up like a “sack of potatoes” and take me into my parents’ room. Then, it would start with him performing oral sex on me. However, that would quickly progress into something more. He would lie on top of me and French kiss me with his nasty tobacco mouth while he was naked, and before I knew it, he would be inside of me. The first time it happened was shocking. I can’t say I remember the specifics, but a part of me liked it and felt wrong all at the same time. This feeling persisted every single time he did it.

The good news is that, after he would rape me (his own “child”), he would give me the permission I had asked for so my siblings and I could ride our bikes into town. Sometimes, I would even get a little extra spending money so I could get more candy! So, you know, I suppose I won … right?

I was suddenly a kid again. For the time being.

Soulfire Gala in Lansing, MI 2017
This artwork represents my healing journey. See artist description below.
Airborne: The piece is about the cosmic bond between Trudy, her sister, and her brother and the strength they conjured to lift themselves from their trauma. The tree is a special symbol for Trudy and her sister, symbolizing rooted strength, growth and new beginnings. Marked in the tree you can see the term "give up" crossed out which is a reminder Trudy uses in her daily life to eliminate possibility of succumbing to defeat.

Running Away to Find Myself

Sometimes, life just gets to be too much, and some alone time seems like the best response. The farm had many places where I could go to be alone. Some places were actually hidden and others were just less-frequented by others. I loved going under a lifted ledge in the hayloft because it seemed close to everyone, yet no one would look there. There were a ton of spider webs, so sometimes that spot was even too scary for me. There was also an alternate side of the hayloft that wasn’t used much at that point in my childhood. It was very weak and couldn’t sustain a lot of weight, but I liked to test my luck to see if I would fall through it. Other times, I would hide between silos, in giant tractor tires or even in mounds of big, round straw bales. Sometimes I would make hidden forts in the straw stacked in the hayloft. There was also a spot I liked in the barn where we stored most of the food for the cows. It wasn’t really super hidden, but I could ball myself up so no one could see me - and when I was there, I could overhear conversations among the adults. When I was alone, I did a lot of thinking; sometimes it was more crying about things I couldn’t change. Mostly, I acted out every scenario I could think of to deal with a situation that was happening around me. Many of my thoughts centered around whether or not I would be missed if I just disappeared. I would try to stay hidden for as long as possible to see if it made any difference, even in the short-term. Life moved on. Every time. Like it truly didn’t matter if I were there. But that changed one day in the summer between third and fourth grade. I didn’t just hide in a simple place around the farm. I actually went out farther. I was so mad at Tracy for not wanting to play with me. She chose to play with Fred instead. Fred was the enemy. It hurt me so much that I just wanted to disappear and never play with either of them again. So I packed up some of my favorite toys, tied them to a stick like a "hobo lunch" and headed out. I ventured far out into one of our corn fields. Honestly, it wasn’t that far, but as a kid I thought it was really far away. It took a while for anyone to notice I was missing, but once they did, it was kind of pandemonium around the farm. EVERYONE started calling my name and searching for me. I even saw people go down the path next to the corn field, but they never looked into the corn. I was only a few rows into the field and was kind of laughing as I listened to all of this. I just sat there with my toys and played with them and drew with a stick in the dirt around me. It was a fun time for me. Then, I heard more voices! They had called my cousin’s whole family out to help search for me. I still didn’t come out of my hiding spot. I figured if they really wanted me, they would need to locate me and make me leave. I don’t remember who actually spotted me, but once I was found, I was taken to the house and Mom and “Dad” had a conversation with me about how scared they had been and how they had thought they had lost me. They asked me to never run away again. It felt nice to be loved wholly - even for those few moments. I even felt a little guilty because they said they had been about to call the cops to help try to locate me. However, even though my parents had said they would never want to lose me or have me run away or be out on my own, they ended up getting very upset with something Tracy and I did not much later - and actually TELLING us to run away. I think my feeble attempt at running away sparked some kind of response in them and put this idea in their head, leading to this strange command. On that day, Tracy and I were happy to be running away together. We decided we would go to our cousin Joey’s house and everything would be so much better once there. However, Mom and “Dad” said if we were going to run away, we couldn’t go together. So they actually told us to go to the end of our driveway and then to go in opposite directions. We both knew that either way would eventually lead us to Joey’s house, so we were still set to carry out our plan. After being out for only about 20 minutes, Mom drove a car to pick us up and bring us back home. She got Tracy in the car first and then turned around to come get me. When I saw it was her coming to get me and force me to come back home, I took off running. Of course, I had little-kid legs and couldn’t go far, but it felt good to rebel against my parents in that way. After that summer, I never attempted to run away again. I just went back to finding my hiding spots and spending time alone to think about my scenarios. In a way, I still do that today. I still find a way to hide away in order to seek solutions. Being alone in nature is one of my favorite ways of doing this. Maybe it stems from these times of hiding and just thinking about my life and seeking out answers. If I can work out a scenario in my head, then maybe it will be OK in real life, even if the scenario is rarely as I originally expected.

Battle Royale

Sibling fun. Trudy and Fred with Tracy off-camera holding Fred's face

If you have a sibling, then I’m sure you have experienced some sibling rivalry. And, I’m sure there have been times when you have hated having a sibling or maybe even wanted to hurt them. That was the same for us. Our lives may have been different in many other ways, but the sibling rivalry was there, and it was there in force!

From a very young age, Tracy and I were always viewed as one so we almost always fought as one as well. Even with two of us, Fred was unbearable! He was the meanest brother around and would beat us up any chance he could. He not only would beat up Tracy and me, but he also would beat up our cousin, Joey, and treat him poorly because he was so close to us. I don’t think Fred liked that there were three of us, so he would beat us up to prove that having more wasn’t always an advantage. Maybe it was just that we were all too scared of the consequences to fight back, so we always were the victims and Fred would get the worst of the punishments.

There were so many things that would provoke Fred to beat us up. Most of the time it didn’t make sense the things that would cause so much fury within him. If he felt left out because he didn't know what we were laughing about, that could cause him to beat us. If we said a swear word, that could incite a beating. If we didn’t help with his chores, he would beat us. If he was chasing us and we ran faster than him, he would wait for the perfect time and beat us up. Basically, anything we did on the farm could cause Fred to beat us up. It just depended on what kind of mood he was in. He rarely caused any real damage, which was usually more infuriating than if he actually had. He would punch, kick, hit or slap us, but there were rarely bruises that could be seen. Without bruises, there was no proof and therefore no punishment for Fred, but Tracy and I would get in trouble for tattling.

Sometimes when Tracy and I would tell on Fred but have no proof, the adults would find new ways to punish us. They would have whoever told on the other kid hold hands while doing chores with that kid. So, if I told on Fred for beating me up, they would make me hold his hand while milking the cows. It was annoying because it forced us to be even closer to the enemy.

When I was a kid, I basically had no muscles, but I was super fast. So many times, Fred would get mad at something Tracy or I did, and I would get him to chase after me instead of Tracy and I would run fast and far. He rarely caught me. It was truly terrifying because I knew that if he did catch me, he would beat the crap out of me, and I would be in a lot of pain. I literally could run for a few miles around the farm before he gave up and decided catching me wasn’t worth it. If only I had that speed now!

There were a few times when Tracy and I actually caused harm to Fred. The difference was, when we really hurt him, we felt bad. There was one time we were all kind of rough-housing around one of the metal beams in the barn where the hay was stacked and ready to feed to the cows. Well, it started out as fun until one of us pushed Fred too hard and he fell back HARD against the metal beam. His head was bleeding and it looked really bad. Turns out he had to go to the emergency room and get stitches. Of course, that was an extreme incident, and we both felt bad about it. I’m pretty sure we were both pointing the finger at each other, so I can't really say who was the one to actually push him that final time when he hit his head.

Most of the time, Tracy and I didn’t fight with each other or hurt each other, but of course, living on the farm, we did fight occasionally. And even when we weren’t fighting, there were accidents. I have lead in my body as a reminder of two of these times Tracy decided to get rough with me. Once, she was doing homework on the bed and told me to come up with her to do my homework. She had her #2 pencil pointed upward, and I didn’t see it when I jumped on the bed, and the point went deep into my knee. That spot is a pretty significant mark even to this day. It’s kind of fun to have this war wound, though, and I get excited to tell people about it. The other spot of lead in my body is in my upper arm. Tracy was playing doctor with a mechanical pencil and ended up pushing too hard when “giving a shot” so the lead went in and broke off in my arm. This spot is much smaller but can still be seen to this day.

Probably one of the more extreme incidents on the farm was something I did. Fred was being his normal annoying self and acting like he was better than Tracy and me. It was the summer, and we were a little older, 13 and 14, so we had the task of cleaning the pens. To someone not familiar with farms, this means nothing, but cleaning pens was the worst job ever. Poop was literally a couple of feet deep, and it could have been there a long time. We would have to get through the hard exterior layer to get to the stuff that was underneath that was easier to scoop out. This job was done using pitchforks and, I’ll say it again, it really sucked! For some reason, Fred thought he didn’t have to help us, and that pissed me off. He came by taunting us about the work we were doing and the fact that he wasn’t helping, and I just couldn’t handle it. So I took my three-tined pitchfork and heaved it at Fred like a freakin’ trident! It flew hard and fast, and I’m SO thankful that Fred jumped out of the way just in time. It missed him but went deep into the tire of the car that was parked behind where Fred stood - my “grandma’s” car. We worked together to pull it out of the tire, and then Fred joined Tracy and me and we diligently cleaned the stalls until we were granted a break. Shortly after the pitchfork was removed from the tire, “Grandma” took the car to go visit her mom. We later found out that she had to get it towed because the tire went flat. We never told anyone what happened. All the adults assumed that she must have run over one of the large nails that were around the farm. Honestly, I can’t say that I even feel bad about puncturing her tire. I would have felt bad if the pitchfork had hit Fred, of course, but I was kind of laughing that it went into her tire.

As we got older and learned more words, especially swear words, we would say them just to see how the adults would respond. Mostly, the adults didn’t care. But Fred, he cared. He was constantly telling Tracy and me to respect our elders (because he viewed himself as an elder, at 14 months older than us) and would get PISSED if we directed a swear word at him. This would incite a beating if he was close enough to conduct one. There was one time he was driving us home from school and one of us said something he didn’t agree with (likely we were swearing). He was furious that we wouldn’t apologize, but he was driving so he couldn’t do much. He literally pulled over on the side of the road and spit at us! The giant wad of snot stuck to the side of the van. It was disgusting! And then he continued driving home. We hated him for the majority of our childhood and into early adulthood.

Eventually - several years into college - our relationship evened out, and we were able to treat Fred as a normal person and not the mortal enemy (and vice versa). But back on the farm things always seemed like a battle for survival, and hopefully these stories provide some insight into how sibling rivalry can take on a whole new do-or-die meaning for farm kids.

Living That Bullied Life

When I was growing up, there were bullies in school, but bullying was something that was kind of glossed over. It wasn't really an issue that was discussed much, which meant I had to deal with bullies without really having a word for the problem or an understanding of why people would be so mean to my siblings and me. Of course, I knew the specifics of why people made fun of us - we were the “stinky farm kids.” However, there was really nothing we could do to avoid being stinky. Since we lived and worked on the farm, it was hard for us to even realize we smelled bad. To us, it was just life.

During our elementary school years, kids didn’t seem to DIRECTLY taunt us too much about being stinky, but they still WHISPERED about it around us constantly. We started to be very aware that we were being talked about and would tell our parents, but nothing changed. Our parents, mostly “Dad,” would say that they would “show them,” but they never did anything. It was mostly a lot of talk from those who should have protected us. We still had to help with chores before school but weren't allowed time for baths or showers before we had to run to catch the bus. There was never even talk about changing our schedule so we could bathe daily; we were told we could only take baths every other day. So we would wear zip-up hoodies with the hoods tied tight around our faces or wear bandanas tightly wrapped around our hair to try and protect the stink from reaching us. Now I know that no matter what we did, the smell would permeate all layers and there was no getting away from it - unless we stopped working all-together.

By the time we made it to middle school, the bullying had reached an all-time high, and it was basically a nightmare to go to school every day. My place of escape had lost its glamour because kids were so evil. We continued to do what we could to not smell bad, which included wearing perfume and lots of deodorant, but nothing really removed the smell. 

Not only were we the stinky kids, but we missed the first day of school in sixth grade! Sixth grade was the first time we left our tiny school, where we knew everyone, to go to a large school that included children from three other schools. At the end of fifth grade, two of the best friends Tracy and I had suddenly became friends with each other and ditched us. So not only did we start in a new, larger school, where we had no idea where our classes were (this was the first time we changed rooms for each class, too), but we also had no friends outside of each other. Tracy and I didn’t have any classes together that year either, which sucked. 

Every year in middle school, we were assigned lockers. Sometimes we could pick a locker partner, and sometimes one was assigned to us. Having lockers for the first time turned out to be dreadful. Lockers were places where people did evil things and made us feel absolutely terrible. We had many car fresheners tied to our jackets, and we had room freshener sprayed all over our things daily. We would also find notes calling us “stinky” and telling us to take a shower and clean ourselves. The bullying didn’t stop at our lockers. We were also called names as we walked down the halls, and we were sprayed as we walked quickly from our lockers to our next classes. I still loved school, when I was in a class, and it was still better than being on the farm, but I hated the feeling of constantly being on edge and wondering what would happen next as I walked down the halls or went to my locker.

We didn’t just suffer while walking the halls of school. Kids thought it was fun to do mean things to us from the moment we got on the school bus until the moment we got off. Sure, there were some days when we were left alone. But more often than not kids would bring room freshener, body spray or perfume and spray us the minute we sat in our seats. Sometimes the spray went in our eyes, but it never seemed to matter. I don’t recall any kid ever getting in trouble for bullying us. However, it may have been that we didn’t ever tell on them because we didn’t want to be labeled as snitches. What I do know is that if I was ever given a chance to go back and relive any of my younger years, I'd pass.

The Great Escape

I always felt differently about school than other kids did. Growing up on a farm made me both love and hate school

Going to school meant I would see how other kids got to live and all the things they got to own. We were always poor, and we couldn’t afford any of the new toys. So there were many times we would just watch as other kids played. We couldn’t really join in unless the games used imagination. But that all changed one day in first or second grade when our mom FINALLY bought Tracy and me each a My Little Pony figurine. We were so excited to have toys like all the other girls in our class, so we took our ponies to play with the girls. But at some point during the day,  someone took our ponies when we weren't paying attention! No one would fess up to it, and there was nothing we could do about it, so we went home as sad little girls with no ponies. We never got ponies to replace them and never wanted to bring our favorite toys to school again.

Even though I couldn’t take any of my toys to school for fear of losing them, I still looked forward to going to school - because it meant I could get away from the farm work. To a child, the farm work seemed so hard! I just wanted to run around and play all day, but I wasn’t allowed to because running a dairy farm takes a lot of work and people. After working on the farm for only a year or so, I realized I would never have the kind of childhood others had. We would have to get up early every day and put in an hour or so of work before getting on the bus to go to school. The chores took up a large portion of our after-school time as well. We only had 30 minutes to an hour of actual "kid time" before it was work time. Our "kid time" was generally when we could play, but sometimes we had too much homework and didn't even get time to play. So, we would come home after school, do some homework, maybe play and then go out to do some more chores. So while most kids hated going to school because it was work, I loved going to school to get away from work.

In addition, school was one of my favorite places because I loved learning new things. I especially loved learning to read! As soon as I could read, I read everything. I would ask to go to the library as often as possible and would check out four to eight books every time we went. I would bring them back and read them out loud as we were doing chores around the farm, and I would read to myself when I had some down-time. For me, reading a book let me visit a world that was so different from my own, an imaginary world that helped me forget that I lived on a farm.

Not only did I like to learn new things in school, but I always wanted to be the best at any new thing I did learn. Throughout kindergarten through 12th grade, I rarely got a grade below a B, and I would be so upset at myself if I got a C. I always worked very hard and studied non-stop to shoot for those A’s. However, even with all the effort I put into getting good grades, my mom would often tell me I was stupid. I didn’t know how to not be stupid, and I kept trying my best to get better grades. Now, I can look back and realize it was never about the grades. My mom just felt powerful when telling me I was stupid - so I could get all A’s on my report card, and it still wouldn’t matter

Like most kids, we sometimes thought school seemed too hard, and we would hope for a snow day. However, when we would actually get a snow day we would truly miss school. Snow days, for farm kids, meant a lot more work. Many times, the adults would just pile on more work that needed to be done. So we would do the normal day-to-day operations and then also have to do other chores that otherwise would have waited for a longer break from school, like Christmas or summer. So snow days were generally not fun, and we'd get sad when we heard the news of school being closed. Other kids got to do fun things like go sledding. We got to do those things, too, but only if all of the extra chores were completed.

So, like we did in so many other ways, we lived a sort of reverse life. While other kids escaped FROM school, we escaped TO school. It provided a strangely comforting break from life on the farm.

The Secret Lives of Farm Kids

Some of the things we did as kids on the farm could be seen as unusual and definitely weird, but to us, it was simply the way things were. These were things we actually enjoyed, and they helped us deal with the bad things that came with living on a farm.

During the summer months, when we were home for longer periods of time, we would get bored, so we would have to find ways to entertain ourselves. That meant improvising and turning the farm into our own playground. There were many hot days when we would take a short swim in the tanks where our cows drank. When we did this, we were surrounded not only by refreshing water, but also by cow snot, algae and water bugs - all of which lived in the tanks. 

If we completed our chores and didn’t fight, we were treated to something even better than swimming in the cow tanks. We would either go for ice cream in the nearby city of Millington or go over to a family friend's place and swim in their actual pond! All of us kids would get so excited when our parents would talk about a “treat” because we knew it would be one of these two activities. We wouldn't always know until we got in the car which it would be because they would tell us to put on our bathing suits and come prepared. The best was when we were treated to both! We would go swimming and then out for an ice cream cone dipped in either chocolate or strawberry.

Many days, Tracy and I would walk all around the farm completely barefoot because we decided we didn’t like to wear shoes! This meant we would walk through A LOT of poop. The outdoor pens, where we kept the heifers that couldn’t be milked yet, got rained on frequently, which meant the poop there was a super soupy consistency. Tracy and I used to love walking through that and feeling the poop squish between our toes. Obviously we would rinse off after walking through that much poop, but it was always this weird, exhilarating moment.

Another fun game we liked to play could have been dangerous. There were five silos around the farm, but not all of them were used to store feed. A couple of the older ones were left empty, so we used to play inside of them. One of my favorite things to do was take in several bouncy balls from the quarter machines and bounce them to see which ones could go the highest. All of us kids would go inside the silo and compete. But it was sometimes confusing because we each brought more than one ball, and after locking ourselves in it was hard to see and avoid getting hit by all the bouncing balls. Several times I got nervous that we would get locked in the silo - and with no adults knowing where we were, this could be dangerous. So, more often than not I would try to leave the door at least cracked open.

Sometime while we were in grade school, we learned about trampolines and decided we needed one, but our family couldn’t afford one. Then, once again finding things around the farm to make into toys, we found our own trampoline! Granted, it was pretty gross and didn’t last, but it was fun for a few days. One of our cows had died and was buried in a field, but apparently she wasn’t buried deep enough, so she bloated up, making a mound in the field. We had so much fun jumping on her while she was all bloated and were sad when the bloating went away and we no longer had a trampoline. It wasn’t until a few years later that we actually received a real trampoline. Even this real one wasn’t the safest thing around though. It had been sitting on the property of one of our neighbors and had been surrounded by weeds, nearly a part of the land from years of no use. We were so excited to have it. This trampoline wasn’t round like most of them are. Instead, it was a large rectangle, and it was missing several of the springs from around the edges. As we started to bounce on it, we realized the springs that were remaining didn’t necessarily want to be there either - because they would fly off! If you weren’t careful they could hit you as they went flying through the air or you could slip while bouncing and fall between the frame and the bouncing pad. Since there were missing springs and there was no cover on the remaining springs, slipping while bouncing was the main concern, but we truly loved that thing.

Looking back, it was the strangest things that brought us moments of true childhood happiness.

Floating

After my “dad” used my hand to masturbate that first morning, it became the ritual for the next few months of winter when we could be hidden beneath a blanket. It may not have occurred every day, but it happened more often than not - until the day things progressed to something more. Things started to change sometime during the summer between fourth and fifth grade.

It’s not as clear to me when things moved beyond him just using my hand for his pleasure to him touching me. Because, in the beginning, he would simply touch me. Not that that is acceptable, but it seemed less harmful than what was to come. He would touch my vagina and breasts and comment on how soon I would become more of a woman and have bigger breasts and hair and how he was looking forward to when that happened.

There were times he would pick me up “like a sack of potatoes” over his shoulder and carry me into his room, lay me on his bed and get on top of me to start French kissing me. I hated when he would stick his tongue in my mouth. He used chewing tobacco, and it made me want to vomit every time he did this. I don’t recall ever kissing him back, but he continued to do this to me. I always thought this was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I was wrong.

He eventually escalated to more than just kissing me and lying on top of me. Mind you, he was a big man, 300-plus pounds, so it felt like he was crushing me most of the time. He would eventually slide off of me, taking off my pants and underwear on his way. Then, he would either sit on his knees or stand next to the bed with my legs draped over the edge of the bed or lifted and wrapped around his head. Then, he would proceed to stick his tongue in my vagina and perform oral sex on me.

During all of these times, I never fought back or said anything. It was easier for me to pretend this wasn’t even happening to me. I would just lie there with my eyes mostly closed. I would open them every once in a while to see where he was and what he was doing, but I would shut them immediately if we happened to make eye contact. A part of me knew what he was doing was wrong, but I didn’t know how to get out of it, so if I just pretended like it wasn’t me, then I could get through it. I would literally imagine myself floating above my body and watching this girl have these things happen to her - over and over and over again.

Sticks and Ashes

Everyone says that Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. If only that were always the case. Growing up, I enjoyed the holiday, but I never truly felt like it was overly wonderful. And never was I more disappointed with it than the year "Santa" gave us sticks and ashes. 

Tracy and I were 10 and Fred was 11 the year "Santa" brought us these gifts from our grandparents' wood burning stove. Needless to say, I felt disappointed and angry that this was my holiday experience. 

That particular year, we had been fighting a lot, but it felt like no more than previous years. Still, our parents were not happy and kept threatening that Santa would notice and we wouldn't get presents if we continued to be naughty. 

The minute I opened my box and saw what was inside, I felt angry and certain that Santa wouldn't be this mean. That was the year I stopped believing in Santa Claus. I may have been older than most, but my belief in him was something to hold onto to make the holiday special. But this act of getting sticks and ashes felt like a betrayal and something evil - definitely something my mom would do. We opened those gifts before our morning chores. Then, it was business as usual. We had to go out and do our chores without being angry or disappointed because that would cause more problems and backlash from one of the adults. 

After we completed morning chores, we sat down for our break and were asked if we'd like our "real" gifts from Santa. We were told that he had given them to our parents because we were naughty. But even these gifts turned out to be nothing special. We each received a new backpack for school and a handheld game that was relatively cheap at the time. Later that day, I was snooping around in my parents' bedroom when I saw the receipts for our backpacks and games. This solidified my suspicion that these gifts were bought and that Santa was not this evil person, but rather a made-up person to try to make children behave better. 

The hardest part of Christmas was when the winter break was over and we had to return to school. All the other kids were bragging about all their awesome new gifts while we were like, "Yeah, I got this new backpack so I could carry my school supplies..."

Merry Christmas to us.

The Day I Lost My Innocence

I’ve previously mentioned that my siblings and I suffered physical, emotional and verbal abuse - mostly from our own mother. However, that abuse never prepared me for a new kind of abuse, a kind I had never even heard of and had no idea was classified as abuse. To be honest, none of the abuse I experienced as a child felt like abuse at the time - it was just the way life was, and it was expected that I would take it and deal with it.

Because most of the abuse we endured came at the hands of our mom, I never thought our “dad” could do anything terrible to us. And I didn't consider anything he DID do to be really all that bad.

If you have been reading my blogs, you know my siblings and I were adopted when I was 8 years old. After the adoption, I was always looking for ways to truly feel like part of the family.

About a year after the adoption, I thought that moment had finally come! Every morning before chores, we would all sit as a family to watch the news, mostly to see what the weather had in store since we would be working in the elements. I remember perfectly how things changed on this particular wintry day. We were all watching the news like normal when my “dad” saw I was cold and put his blanket over me, so we were both covered by it. After a few minutes of sitting under the blanket together and warming up, he took my hand in his. What happened next shocked me and made me feel weird and a little wrong.

He put my hand on his penis. Then, he proceeded to use my hand while masturbating. My hand was under a blanket on my “dad’s” penis, which I had never seen, let alone felt, before! When he was finished, there was weird, slimy goo on my hand. At the time, I wasn’t aware of what that was. It was his semen. There wasn’t a lot, so he kind of wiped it on his underwear, put his penis away and then took the blanket off of us. It was time to get dressed and start our morning chores.

This was the first of many times this happened over the next year. I never told anyone. A part of me finally did feel different - special. I now had this secret that connected only me to my “dad” and helped secure my spot as “daddy’s little girl.” I was 9 years old and had officially lost my innocence.

Having a Cow

Growing up on a farm is definitely hard, and it takes a lot out of anyone, especially a child. But there are some good parts about it, too. One of the coolest things about living on a dairy farm is that there are cows everywhere! Plus, new calves are born regularly. 

As dairy farmers, we would keep only the female calves and would send all the bulls to the Marlette stockyard, where they would be sold. We would also send females to the stockyard if they were no longer producing enough milk. Running a dairy farm is all about having milk, so we couldn’t keep those that didn’t produce, even if we liked them.

Speaking of liking cows, we would give every new calf a name from a baby book. It was fun to come up with names and mark them down in our records. Eventually, all of us kids had a cow named after us, too! It was incredibly cool to share a name with a cow. Since Fred was obviously a boy, and we got rid of all the male calves, the cow with his name was actually Frederica. 

There was this huge chart where we would keep track of the cows that were fertilized to monitor when they should have their babies. A veterinarian would come out to the farm on a regular basis to help keep track of the cows and make sure there weren’t any complications. He could also let us know if a cow was going to have twins. Usually, if a cow had twins, both calves were sent to the stockyard to be auctioned off, no matter what their sexes were. Generally, a calf that was born as a twin didn’t produce enough milk to keep. 

However, we did get to keep some of the twins. Tracy and I loved when we got to keep twins! One particular set was born early, and they were so tiny that they both fit in a wheelbarrow together. We kept them around because they were both females and because they were so tiny we wanted to nurture them to see if they would be good milk producers when they got older. They actually turned into some of our best cows, but when they were babies they were just super cute! They were so tiny they could slip right under the gates that kept in the others, so we created a straw pen that prevented them from escaping. I remember spending a lot of time hanging out with those little girls because, for a while, it was touch-and-go as to whether or not they would survive. 

It was always amazing to see new life when a calf was born. I’m sure it would gross out some people, but it was always awesome to experience a birth and to be there to help deliver a calf if the mom was having trouble. We would put chains around the ankles of the calf while it was still inside the mom, and then we would pull. If the mom was standing up, we would have to be extra careful and have someone to help make sure the calf didn’t fall to the ground and get hurt when it came out. There were also times when a calf would start to come earlier than we had planned and we wouldn't have time to get the chains. We would just have to hold onto the legs and pull. That mostly happened when one of us kids saw a cow going into labor and wanted to be the first one to see the new baby and bring it into the world without the adults knowing. Some calves were born with a lot of goop in their mouths and noses, so we would have to pull all of that out. Sometimes, we even had to do a sort of mouth-to-mouth with a calf. But the minute the little baby mooed, we knew it was going to be OK. The miracle of a baby being born is just magical,

and it made all the issues of farm life seem insignificant for that brief moment. 

Just Beat It

As a kid, I thought my siblings and I had a pretty normal life, and I believe others thought so, too. At least from the outside looking in, it seemed to be normal. My mom would beat us if we lied or lost something, but, “Didn’t all moms do this?” Since she began beating us when we were very young, it seemed normal when other adults treated us the same way. This was all we had ever known, and so we thought that every kid must have been experiencing the same things in their own homes.

After moving to the farm and developing routines, we would get beaten or punished if things didn’t go according to routine. It seemed that Fred would get the most beatings and punishments, but that was mostly due to the fact that he would talk back to the adults more frequently and the adults absolutely hated that. We were also constantly told to respect our elders, which meant we always had to abide by what the adults said. Fred sometimes would act all high and mighty around Tracy and me and tell us to respect our elders because he was a whopping 14 months older than us. It was that kind of language that landed him in harms way more often than not.

But none of us were immune to trouble. Even the smallest lie could result in a beating. Our tiny single-wide trailer wasn’t the most well-built house in the land, so things tended to break pretty easily. Once, the toilet paper holder in the kids' bathroom broke when Fred was in there and was kind of hanging on by a thread. We knew it was broken, but we were all afraid to tell our parents, so we just acted like it had never happened. Eventually, they noticed it was broken and asked who had done it. No one wanted to fess up, so we acted like we had no idea it was broken and no idea when it had happened. Because no one would take the blame or point a finger, we all received beatings with a wooden paddle. We were each hit at least 10 times on our butts. It was not the first time we had received beatings like this, which was why we all had been afraid to say anything. Unfortunately, our silence meant we all paid the price.

We went to the flea market up by our grandparents' house often in the summer months. While there, our mom would come across new paddles and would ask us which we would like best for our next round of beatings. There were plain wooden ones and wooden ones with holes. Mom liked to point out that the ones with holes would actually hurt more because they could catch wind before hitting us, so of course, no matter our preference, she would end up purchasing one of those. But she wasn't limited to paddles when beating us. She would use basically anything lying around the house if she couldn’t get to the paddle she had bought. So there were times we were beaten with a fly-swatter or belt along with our chosen wooden paddle.

One time, our mom misplaced her knitting needles and insisted one of us kids had taken them and needed to return them immediately. It turned into this frenzy, with all of us searching the house frantically to locate them so we wouldn’t get beaten, because we knew that was coming next. After searching for a while, we still hadn't located the damn needles, so we were all lined up, and we prepared to get our beatings. If we knew a beating was coming, then we might be sneaky enough to pad our pants with a shirt or something inconspicuous so it wouldn’t hurt, or at least wouldn't hurt as badly. We all got hit another 10 or so times. Shortly after receiving our beatings, we located the knitting needles, and they were exactly where Mom had left them. She never apologized for beating us, even when she had to have known she was in the wrong. That’s just the way it was in our household. You got a beating and understood that it was always your fault.

When Tracy and I were still relatively young, I’d say around 6 or 7, we were doing one of the “easy” jobs on the farm. We were holding the cows' tails so the adults doing the milking wouldn't get slapped. Suddenly, the tail Tracy was holding slipped out of her little hands and hit our “dad” in the face. He was not impressed by this so he took the tail and swatted her HARD across the face. She had a nice-sized gash across her cheek for several days and had to go to school looking like that. I don’t remember anyone asking her about that mark.

Looking back, I realize that our “dad” rarely ever beat us or made us afraid that we would get a beating for doing something wrong. He always seemed to be the more nurturing parent. However, there was one time when he got really pissed at Tracy and me. We had to have been pretty young, like 6 or 7, when we thought it would be fun to stand on the roof of his car. Apparently, this car was his pride and joy - some kind of fancy make or something - and he was NOT happy to look up and see us. He’s a big man, over 300 pounds, and we had rarely seen him move quickly. However, that day, he ran pretty fast and chased us around our trailer until he finally caught us and gave us each a good beating. Outside of that one instance, though, I don’t remember him ever being the enforcer of beatings. If he did seem unhappy with something any of us had done, he would just threaten to tell our mother. No one wanted that!

Our new "grandpa", who never even cared to learn our names, loved to beat us and took joy and pleasure in finding new ways to hurt us. He didn’t use the paddles that our parents bought. Most of the time, he would just use his own strength and force over us. I remember one specific time I was on the receiving end of his abuse - and it was not fun. Usually, it was Fred whom he targeted, because Fred would talk back to him and our new "grandma" a lot. Our "grandpa's" favorite way to punish us was to slam our heads into a cinder block wall. In this instance, I was slammed into the corner of the wall so that the sharp, protruding portion went into my head. It hurt a lot! Since I had long hair, it wasn’t noticeable, but there is still a small bump on my head from when this happened. Fred got his head slammed into the same cinder block wall or another wall countless times by this man. As we got older, our "grandpa" would try to find new ways to hurt Fred. One of the worst things he ever did was hold Fred up by his neck and choke him! Fred couldn’t really breathe, but our "grandpa" didn’t care. He was mad that, once again, Fred was mouthing off to him. After that particular incident, Fred had actual hand-prints around his neck! I don’t remember the timing of when that happened, but I think it was over a summer break. All of us kids tended to get in more trouble and fight more frequently over the longer breaks from school because we were expected to do so much more of the farm-work during these breaks.

We were constantly walking around in a state of fear, wondering what we would do wrong next to incite another round of abuse - be it physical, verbal or emotional. Looking back on all that we went through and all that had to have been apparent as abuse, it’s a wonder our school-teachers never got involved to call the authorities. I know, that today there would definitely be more questions and concerns from teachers and school staff. It just goes to show how much things have changed in the past 20 years.

The Perils of Farm Life

When you work and live on a farm, you’re bound to experience some hardships. Most of them seem manageable, but there are some that are so bad they land you in the doctor's office or emergency room. I already shared the story of getting kicked in the nose when I was 5, but that was not the last time I would end up in the emergency room.

Being on the farm gave us kids ample access to things that were dangerous - and some things that really shouldn’t have been dangerous but that we made dangerous in our quest to make things interesting.

When I was 9 or 10, Fred, Tracy and I all decided it would be fun to stick soybeans in our ears. However, I was the only one that really stuck them in there deep. Fred and Tracy kind of placed them on the edges of their ears, so when our parents called us for something they shook them out. I wasn’t able to get the beans out of my ears and we were afraid of being late - so I just ran with them in there hoping they would eventually fall out. Well they never did.

A couple of days later when my mom asked me a question I said “What?” one too many times and she got mad at me asking what my problem was. Fred and Tracy were kind of snickering of to the side so she snapped at them, too, wondering “What is so funny?” They proceeded to tell her that I had soybeans stuck in my ears. Mom looked into my ear and tried to get it out only to realize it wasn’t coming out and was concerned because it looked as though it was sprouting inside my ear. So off to the emergency room I went with Mom!

Once we got to the emergency room the doctor asked what ear had the soybean and I replied “Both” at the same time my mom was saying “The left ear.” At that moment, my mom looked at me, completely perplexed. When it was one ear it was bad enough, but to be stupid enough to get beans stuck in both ears...! The doctor tried a couple of different methods before finally settling on a suction device that was able to break the beans free and suck them out of my ears. Once they were out, it was clear to see that they had, indeed, sprouted and started to grow inside my ear!

I was not the only farm casualty. When Tracy was about 8, she was playing around with a milker and stuck it on her face. That may sound innocent enough, but the milkers had a pretty good suction on them - kind of like a vacuum. So next thing we knew, she had a quarter-sized mark on her face! The mark looked kind of like a bruise, and she had to go to school looking like that. We all still kind of laughed because she should have known better by this time. We had stuck the milkers to ourselves previously, but only for a few seconds. This time, she had left it on too long and had to pay the price.

A few years later when Tracy was 10 years old, she had another incident. After morning chores we usually had a coffee break, where we would eat some kind of sweet treat and drink milk or coffee. Because we were still in the barn, we didn’t really have seats, so most of the time we would stand around or find an old 5-gallon pail with a lid to sit on. Most of the old pails around the barn were from this strong soap mixture or from acid that was used to clean the milk tank and keep it sterile. Well, one of these pails had some excess acid sitting on top of the lid when Tracy sat down. We had sat on it before and never thought anything about it. However, this time the acid seeped into her pants and through her underwear. Within a few hours, it was apparent that the acid had done some damage. Tracy’s butthole was in a lot of pain, and she had to spread her cheeks for Mom, “Dad” and so many other people to see what was going on. Eventually, she went to a doctor, and they confirmed what we thought had happened. The acid had burned her butthole and was causing intense pain. So the doctor prescribed her a “donut” to sit on, which is basically a small inner tube. She was pretty embarrassed to take the donut to school and sit on it while in class, but it was better than being in pain. She was in fifth grade at this time, so it was not a good time to bring this kind of attention to herself.

When Fred was a kid, and even to this day, he became obsessed with plants and agricultural stuff. He has always had a green thumb and could make anything survive, whereas I would kill all plants. On the farm, he especially got into marigolds and black soybeans. When we would open the pods of soybeans there would be black ones intermingled with the normal white ones. Well, he did an experiment and planted several black ones, and sure enough, we soon had a ton of black soybeans. Even though he truly had a love of black soybeans, he also was insanely obsessed with marigolds and would save the tops of them in Mason jars so he could plant them the next year. I never got the obsession. To me, marigolds smell really bad! He would plant his marigolds around the front of the barn and would be in charge of maintaining them. One summer, when he was 11 or 12, he was especially proud of how his marigolds were doing when it was suddenly jeopardized! There was a thunderstorm rolling in, and our Australian Shepherd, Ace, was not a fan of storms. In fact, he was downright terrified of them. So he went to the place that seemed the safest in this situation - a corner in front of the barn, right on top of Fred’s marigolds. Fred saw this and turned furious! Tracy and I watched as he walked up to Ace and hit him HARD on his stomach. Of course, Ace was not pleased with this treatment and was already terrified of the storm, so he retaliated the only way he knew and bit Fred on his forearm. The teeth went in deep and Fred was bleeding pretty badly. So once again, Mom was off to the emergency room with another child. I can’t remember exactly, but Fred may have received a couple of stitches for two of the cuts that were deeper, but he was mostly just bandaged up and told to keep an eye on it. From that day forward, we all knew to keep our distance from Ace when he was frightened.

A few years later, Fred would be rushed to the hospital again, this time for something that seemed much more severe than a dog bite. By ages 14 and 15, we kids were basically running the farm, but there were still a few things that were best left to the adults because of their dangerous effects. Well, one day Fred went out and wanted to get a jump start on the chores, much like 5-year-old me had the day I was kicked in the face. One of the longest and most tedious jobs was cleaning and sanitizing the milk tank. It had to be kept up to standards that would allow our milk to be picked up and later sold in stores - so that whole soap and acid mix that Tracy had sat on was a very important part of running a dairy farm. Fred started the process of cleaning the tank. It started with a cycle of the heavy-duty sanitizing cleaner, and then the acid would get added and run through its own cycle. Well, apparently he didn’t wait long enough between the cycles or didn’t rinse thoroughly enough before adding the acid. The effects were bad. He inhaled the mixture and immediately started coughing and having difficulty breathing. So off to the emergency room again. It turned out that when he inhaled the chemicals his lung had collapsed! This resulted in him being put on inhalers and getting medical treatments to help him heal from getting these chemicals deep into his system. That was one of the scariest things I ever saw on the farm, and I was pretty worried for Fred.

Each of these short stories shines a little light on farm life and how difficult it really can be. Although not all of these directly relate to the work we did on the farm, they all tie into the dangers of working at such a young age and being around machinery and chemicals.