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Gregory _____________________ A mother’s story written as a birthday gift to her son

Jorjan Jane

Copyright © 2013 by Jorjan Jane.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4836-0229-5 Ebook 978-1-4836-0230-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 03/23/2013

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Dear Gregory,

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago when I was young and carefree, I fell in love with a wonderful boy. For me, I thought my life was mapped out. I would marry, buy a home, have children and live happily ever after. How wrong I was. Some things simply aren’t meant to be. Gregory, this story was written for you as a forty-fifth birthday present. It tells about love at first sight and a beautiful courtship. It explains the trials and tribulations you and I had together. I remain optimistic, always looking for the cloud with the silver lining. I don’t believe in the term “closure” since it rarely erases events of the past, but, in some small way, it helped to write this. Happy Birthday! Love always, Mom

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I want to extend a special thanks to my son for giving me permission to have his story published. I put it aside five years ago. Every time I ed it on the bookshelf, I wondered if it would be appropriate to put in print. I concluded it may help others who have been in the same situation. It lays the truth on the line and that can either be a painful experience or promote healing.

CHAPTER 1

It was a great evening for a football game, greater than I ever expected, and one I’ll never forget. Autumn had come gently that year. There had been no freezing temperatures yet, but there was just a slight nip in the air. Fireplaces were lit to take off the chill, while small clouds of smoke billowed from chimneys, permeating the air. Trudy and I had arrived early, so we took our seats in the back of the school bus. We were just waiting for the football players to board. Naturally, we were revved up for the first game of the season, and we would be cheering at the top of our lungs. Our new cheerleading uniforms were outstanding, like no other I had ever seen. They were short kelly green skirts with green and white striped inserts that flared out when we twirled or jumped. Our mascot was a Bulldog, much to my chagrin. One of the boosters always brought his dog to the game. It was a mean, vicious dog that had to be kept on a short leash. It’s a wonder that he never bit anyone. I hated that damn canine, but tonight I was hoping that our team would be as ferocious and intimating as that malicious dog. As I peered out of the school bus window I nudged Trudy and asked if she knew the name of the new player on our team. “Yes,” she said. “His name is Randall and he’s a freshman from Gleneste.” He didn’t live far from her boyfriend, Robby, and they rode to school on the same bus each day. “I think I see him,” I said. “I wish it wasn’t so dark. Maybe he’ll turn around so I can get a better look.” Just then the bus driver started the engine and turned on the headlights. Low and behold, there he stood. I was speechless. My heart started pounding, and I just knew it was going to come right out of my chest. He looked like a Greek Adonis except for his blond hair. He had a finely sculpted nose, high cheekbones, and broad shoulders. I jumped out of my seat and ran to the other side of the bus to get one more look before he disappeared in the shadowy tree lined sidewalk. He was heading back into the school with a few

other players to gather their gym bags. “What on earth is wrong with you?” Trudy blurted, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ve never seen you act this way. Do you know him?” “I sure do.” I said emphatically.” “From where?” Trudy asked. I didn’t answer. I just stared off into space. I couldn’t talk and could barely catch my breath. Trudy had been one of my best friends since the first grade. We had no secrets, but she was now worried. “Did you stay up all night studying for the algebra test?” “No, not past midnight,” I said, as though that was the bewitching hour that causes all types of body and mind dysfunctions. “Listen to me Trudy. I’m dead serious. I’ve never met him, yet I’ve known him all my life. He’s my husbandto-be, my soul mate, and the father of my children. I know it doesn’t make any sense, and I can’t explain why I feel clairvoyant but I just got a peak into the future. I clearly see a darling blond haired, blue eyed, baby boy in my arms that would tug on your heart strings. Randall is standing by me, smiling.” Gregory, this was just the beginning, and son, you were the blond haired, blue eyed baby boy I imagined. Randall was your father. Trudy looked at me disparagingly and uttered, “You’ve been drinking!” “No, not a drop,” I said. Although, Trudy and I were known to tip a few. That’s how we got through French class. We credited our straight A’s to drinking wine as we studied. When in do as the French or was that when in Rome? Nevertheless, you get the idea. I didn’t utter another word until we got to the game. I was overwhelmed with the experience, strange as it may sound, but I just had a fast forward glimpse of my life, and I liked what I saw. I couldn’t describe much about Randall on the football field other than he was about five foot ten, agile and wore jersey #29. I didn’t sleep well that night. I tossed and turned, then finally got up and planned

my strategy. I was on a mission. I made it a point to introduce myself and invite him to the house after school for a cola and to listen to records. I was smitten. We didn’t talk much. I didn’t want to take my eyes off of him. He was a cross between the handsome movie actor John Derek and the innocent-looking, Ricky Nelson. His soft expressive eyes shown as bright as his smile. He had a cleft in his chin and a child-like giggle. We started seeing each other several times a week when he didn’t have football practice, or when I didn’t have cheerleading rehearsals or ballet lessons. We went to a small school so everyone knew I had a crush on him, and that we were seeing each other. It was so obvious. One evening, Trudy and I had a few minutes before the football game, so I pulled out the white, liquid shoe polish from my tote bag to give my shoes a quick shine. Something was bothering Trudy. She looked up at me so seriously and said, “I have something to tell you, but keep in mind that it’s over and never amounted to anything.” “What?” I asked curiously. “Do you last Friday night after cheerleading and football practice when it started raining hard and we went for pizza?” “Sure,” I said. “Well, Carrie Rizer asked Randall if she could give him a ride to Gleneste so he didn’t have to hitchhike home in the rain. But they didn’t leave the football field. She parked her car in the near by wooded area and took off her blouse, to entice him. She then offered all she had, just for the taking. I heard he couldn’t resist the temptation and probably thought, ‘What the heck, everyone else has had her.’ The whole school knows he likes you and this was just a one time thing,” Trudy said. Carrie was one of the few girls who had a car. She had been a transfer from another school, and hadn’t made many lasting friends since her parents moved around a lot. I knew that Trudy had heard the rumor from her boyfriend Robby. It was probably all the talk in the boy’s locker room. Randall and I were very close but not intimate with each other. Now, this was something I had to rethink since he

was finding love in all the wrong places. Did he want a good girl or a bad girl? That’s a silly question, I thought. He wanted his needs satisfied. It was as simple as that, and it wasn’t happening since we had been dating. When I saw Randall at school the next day, I acted as if I knew nothing. I smiled, winked, and asked if he wanted to come to the house after football practice. He accepted and I was ever so glad. Much to my surprise he began to tell me of the incident. He explained what had happened and how he followed through even though he knew it wasn’t right. He probably wanted to tell me before I heard from someone else. He apologized and hoped it would not come between us. All was forgiven and it was a thing of the past. We continued to enjoy each other’s company but my anger toward Carrie continued. For several months I found it difficult to speak to her as we ed in the hallway at school, nevertheless, I acted as if I knew nothing. The holidays were approaching and I hadn’t seen her lately. I just figured that she and her family moved again. Randall hadn’t been showing up for classes or football practice. I asked his friends if he was sick, but no one knew a thing, not even the coach. He had no phone, so I couldn’t call, and I didn’t have a car to check on him at his home. Then I heard the most shocking news from Trudy. “Randall quit school and married Carrie!” “What?” I blurted. “How can that be?” Trudy looked down, fidgeting and said, “Carrie told him she was pregnant.” I stood motionless with my mouth dropped open, unable to speak. Numb and devastated, I turned to walk away in hopes to gather my senses. Life would be so empty without him. I was always inquiring about him but there was little news. Months later, I heard he had ed the Navy and was overseas. I surmised that either Carrie tricked him into marriage, or she had a miscarriage, but the fact remained—there was no child. Randall returned from Barcelona, Spain after being away for six months only to find Carrie four months pregnant by someone else. I heard through the grapevine that he divorced her, and continued his navy stint working on the boilers as a fireman onboard the USS Gearing. Coming from a small town, all of this information about Carrie was hear-say, so I’m not sure if the story is true. All that I know for a fact is that I was crushed to

the core, but life goes on.

CHAPTER 2

I dated through high school, continued cheerleading and then went off to college in Cincinnati. Maddy, a friend of mine, from Batavia, also lived in the college dorm, one floor above me. We often double dated. I loved the week-ends because I would hitch a ride with Maddy and her boyfriend, Bob, to Williamsburg to the “in” spot called the “Toot and Tell It.” Yes, there really was a place with that name. I’m not joking. It had originally been a drive-up, fast food restaurant, where you tooted your horn and the waitress skated out to get your order. It was later turned into a dance hall. Without a doubt, it was one of the hottest spots in the area. I was expecting to meet Cliff at the Toot. He was such a good dancer, and we would play the popular tunes on the juke box and dance to every song. He hadn’t arrived yet, so I danced with a few boys from Williamsburg, and then went over to a table where I had set my purse and malt. As I looked toward the door, I saw a blond-haired fellow leaning against a post, smoking a cigarette, back handed, just the way Randall used to do. He held the cigarette near the tip of his thumb and the index finger, with the wrist turned in, covering the cigarette and controlling the smoke. My thoughts started drifting back to Randall. I wondered where he might be and what he was doing. Oh, how I missed him. I moved closer to the guy and planned to ask him for the next dance when he turned. Oh Dear God, it was Randall. Oh, Thank you Lord, Oh, it’s him! In flesh and blood, it was really him. My heart was beating out of my chest. I wanted to jump up and down and scream while throwing my hands in the air like a foolish teenager at an Elvis concert. But that was not my style. I kept a tight rein on my emotions, at least for outward appearances. The last time I saw him, he was a high school freshman and now he was a man. I was shaking from all the excitement of seeing him again. If I danced with him, he would surely feel me quivering. Oh, what the heck, I don’t care if I’m a nervous wreck, I’m going to dance the night away and find out how he has been. He turned my way and gave me an assuring smile, as though he knew he could find me at the Toot.

The song, The Great Pretender, by the Platters, was playing on the juke box. He nodded his head toward the dance floor. We walked out holding hands, and then embraced each other tightly. Little was said as we drifted back to the good times. We stayed on the dance floor for the next song by Clyde Mcfatter. You’re a Thousand Miles Away, but I still have your love to you by. I was literally in a trance as we swayed back and forth on the dance floor. Usually there was fast paced music to jitterbug to, songs like Good Golly Miss Molly, and Lucille” by Little Richard, and Maybelline by Chuck Berry. Tonight my fairy Godmother was evidently controlling the music by playing the slow romantic songs. As we walked back to the booth, a Tommy Edwards song started playing, I Don’t Have Anything since I don’t have you. We turned around and headed back to the dance floor. I felt so safe and secure in his arms. I wanted the night to go on forever and ever. Randall was home on leave from the Navy and was going back the next day. “Please give me your address,” I pleaded. “I’ll write if you don’t mind.” He smiled again and wrote the address on a scrap of paper. This night was unbelievable. Life is good. Before the college term was up, I saw Randall once again while he was home on leave. “Thanks for all the letters you wrote, it was so nice hearing from you,” he said. On Saturday night we double dated with Maddy and Bob. I had always wanted to go to a hot spot in Cincinnati called Scats, a nightclub that was in a bad area of town and your I.D. was never checked. So off we went. Upon arrival, we found there was a dress code. Bob had on slacks but Randall had on Levis. Our guys said, “Go on in and we’ll you in a few minutes.” I figured that Bob had picked up his dry cleaning and had an extra pair of slacks in his car. He and Randall were about the same size. When they walked back into the club, Randall was wearing a pair of khaki’s and all seemed normal. When I asked where he got the pants he shrugged as though he didn’t want to talk about it so we didn’t. We danced for about an hour having a wonderful time until there was a commotion at the front entrance. Bob whispered, “Meet us at the car.” He and Randall ducked out the side door. I figured there must have been a fight so we needed to get out of there quickly. Not only were we on the wrong side of town, we were also under age.

While heading back to the dorm, the fellows explained what they had done. Much to my surprise, they had removed a drunk man’s pants in the parking lot and put him in an unlocked car. It took the intoxicated guy a while to figure out where he was, and why he wasn’t wearing any pants. Then, of course, there was the mystery of why there was a pair of Levis on the car seat next to him when he had been wearing khakis? That damn drinking will mess with your mind every time. Won’t it? This was one side of Randall I had never seen. It was completely out of character, but I figured that he learned a thing or two in the Navy. Maybe he did it because he knew how badly I had wanted to go to Scats, and he didn’t want to disappointment me. The next day Randall hitch-hiked to the dorm to say goodbye before returning to duty. He arrived in uniform. Wow, he looked terrific. I wanted to break out into the Navy song, “Bell bottom tros, coat of navy blue, I love a sailor boy and he loves me, too.” It was hard saying good-bye, but I promised to keep on writing and write I did— everyday. When Randall’s Navy stint was over he headed home. He had a slick, lowered 1957, blue and white, Ford Fairlane waiting in his driveway. He and his dad had worked on it together. I only met his mom and dad once. They seemed like wonderful folks. They were from the Cumberland Gap area in Kentucky. His dad was Cherokee and his mom from a northwest tribe of the Blackfoot. The Indian blood was prevalent in both. Each of Randall’s parents came from huge families. It boggled my mind to think of his grandparents raising twenty one kids. Meanwhile, I had been back east at the Latin Casino dancing. When the club closed for a week to remodel I flew home. Randall and I were practically inseparable. He was working as a hod carrier for a man who put up concrete walls and poured walkways. His hands were rough from hauling cement, but it didn’t matter since he needed work, and this was a paycheck. When my contract ended I flew home again to Batavia. This would only be a short waiting period until I could find another dancing job, hopefully on the west coast.

We spent many happy hours together, taking drives, walking through the woods, picking wildflowers and simply enjoying each other’s company. I was so in love and felt such contentment. One memorable evening, about dusk, we made love in the woods, smack dab in a poison ivy patch. Of course we didn’t notice the green leaves turning red until we got up. For weeks I had this terrible internal itch that couldn’t be relieved. There was no way I was going to tell anyone about it. I had made up my mind to suffer the consequences. I became a lot more observant of my surroundings after that incident. When I was offered a contract in Houston at the Cork Club, I was hesitant to go, because I didn’t want to leave Randall anymore. I wanted to stay by his side. I hadn’t taken any dance classes for several months, and I needed to get back in shape. My heart just wasn’t in it. I simply didn’t feel up to par, yet I needed to go back to work. I signed the contract, and off I went. Every evening during the first show, I would get sick to my stomach at seeing and smelling the food on the customers plates sitting ringside. I went to the doctor and my suspicion was right. Yes, I was pregnant. I couldn’t have been happier. I wrote to Randall, and he was pleased, too. He said, “Come home right away, so I can take care of you.” Now more than ever, I needed the income. One hundred seventy-five dollars a week in 1961 was nothing to sneeze at. I was under contract for six months and breaking a contract was nearly impossible. But, under the circumstances, I would be released after training a replacement. Now the hard part would be to tell Mom. Randall said that he would be right by my side. We could tell her together when I arrived home. I dreamed about our life together, and the big family we would have since I love children. Gregory, I was three months pregnant with you but I kept working, one month, two months, three months longer. Finally, I wrote to Randall and said “I’m coming home, honey. My boss let me out of my contract, and I have finished training my replacement.” I don’t think that Randall believed me. I flew home and Randall came to the house the same evening. When he arrived, he seemed troubled, although he smiled and rubbed my tummy which barely protruded. He was probably thinking that Mom would come down on him like a lead weight. She was of German decent, and true to form with her strict disciplinarian, no nonsense ways. We sat in the living room for a while, but just made small talk. I wanted him to say “Let’s get married and live happily ever

after.” But something was wrong. He seemed to be avoiding the problem at hand. Little did I know that the problem was twofold. He looked at me and finally said, “I asked you to come home for months, but you just kept saying, ‘when I put some more money aside and train my replacement.’ I didn’t think you were ever coming home. I waited and I waited.” He then looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m engaged.” I couldn’t speak. It was as though my heart dropped to the floor like a lead weight. If anyone in town wondered what the loud thud was that night, the sound like a sonic boom, it was my heart dropping and splitting in half. Then he said, “You have a decision to make. You are very independent and can handle anything but my fiancée needs me, and makes me feel wanted. I’ll leave it up to you. Do you want me to break off the engagement?” Of course, I thought, I want all of you—body, mind and spirit, but I can see it’s not going to happen, because now you have a secondary obligation to meet. Reality hit hard. I felt extremely sick. So with every bit of strength I had left, I said, “No, don’t break the engagement. Go to her, have a happy life and I will go away and gracefully bow out of the picture.” Randall loved me because I was strong, so rather than act like a fool or throw myself at his feet, I walked him to the door and said goodbye, very stoically, with my head held high. When the door closed, I fell apart. I saw my life abruptly come to an end. I slid down against the door until I hit the floor, then I put my hands over my mouth to muffle the cry of agony. I have never cried so hard, or so long, in my entire life. I had lost all track of time but it seemed that two or three hours had ed. I managed to get off the floor, and drag myself up the stairs to my bed, where I wailed the whole night under my pillow. I didn’t want to live without him, but then I started to think about you. I could still have a part of Randall by having his child. Life will go on, it will just go on without Randall. My eyes were so swollen the next day, I had nothing but little slits making me look Asian. I ed it off as a bad allergy. Now it was time to face the music. I had to tell my Mom and it wasn’t going to be easy. Mom’s reaction was just as I predicted. She yelled, “Oh your dad is going to think that I’m a bad mother to let this happen.” My parents had been divorced for several years but only lived a block apart. “You can’t tell anyone.

You must have an abortion.” I refused and said, “I would never consider that option besides I’m almost six months along. It’s too late. “You can’t care for this baby,” Mom shouted. “Oh yes I can! I practically raised my little sister. I can do this, Mom, You’ll see.” “No,” she yelled, “you can’t have this baby! What will it do to our reputation in town? I don’t deserve this, and neither do your grandparents.” Then she got very dramatic. “Oh, I would have rather a doctor tell me I had cancer and was going to die tomorrow then to hear this,” she moaned. Now she felt jolted into action. Unbeknownst to me, within two weeks, she found a wealthy couple from Colorado who would adopt the baby, and pay for all the doctor bills. “No!” She wasn’t listening to what I was saying. “This is not happening.” I was going nuts from all the negative input. I had to leave. No one was going to run my life. If I made bad decisions—so be it. But they were going to be my decisions, and no one else would be to blame. I inquired at a home for girls in Georgia, thinking that I could stay there until I had you. But the home only took in girls willing to give up their child for adoption, and I wasn’t going to do that. I bought a one way bus ticket to Atlanta to visit my sister and explain my situation. I knew that I might never see my family and friends again, or at least for a very long time. I felt like I was going into the witness protection program and assuming a new identity. My grandmother died two years later and never knew I had a son. She would have been so pleased to know that you were the first boy born in two generations. Years later I returned home for my grandfather’s funeral. By then I was a married woman with two children, and no one was the wiser. There were no questions asked. But being home stirred up many memories. I longed for the old days when life was beautiful and carefree, when my only worries were getting a ride to the Toot, and what new songs were on the jukebox.

CHAPTER 3

I traveled with my sister and her husband for several months. As a civilian, her husband calibrated instruments on aircraft at various Air Force bases. I felt like a burden on them since they were newlyweds. For heaven’s sakes, I was invading their privacy. I was eight months along. It was time to find a more permanent place to live and a doctor to deliver you. We had been staying in Battle Creek, Michigan where it was 35 degrees below zero. It was difficult getting exercise when the wind was so cold, it would take my breath away unless I cupped my hands to my mouth to breathe. I planned to have the baby in Mobile, Alabama. I was going to fly there. The airlines were particularly concerned with pregnant women flying so I told them that I was only seven months along. It was a terribly bumpy flight. When we landed in Mobile, the stewardess reminded everyone to check under their seats to make sure they hadn’t left anything. I glanced at the woman sitting next to me and began laughing. “I’m afraid to look,” I whispered as I rubbed my tummy. She took in a deep breath and chuckled aloud. I stayed with my sister’s mother-in-law for a short while. I was simply being a nuisance to everyone. Finding a doctor was a daunting task. A few would not take me because they were afraid I hadn’t had the proper care or checkups during my pregnancy. Then when I finally found a doctor, I couldn’t remain his patient because I made the mistake of giving my real name. I ed Mom’s warning as she so frankly said, “There will be a big red stamp across the front of the birth certificate that reads ILLEGITIMATE, which would only add another injustice to your child’s life.” The paperwork had to indicate I was married, so I put my so-called married name, and stated that my husband was in the military. Two weeks before you were born, I had finally found a doctor who would delivery you only because I had not gained more than 18 pounds during the pregnancy. I advised him I had eaten properly, had taken vitamins and quit smoking.

The due date was April 15th so I was packed and ready to go to the Mobile Infirmary on Saturday the 14th. I arrived late that evening, and the nurses laughed when they told me the due date is only an approximate time. “Besides,” they joked, “tomorrow night is the full moon. That’s when we get the rush on deliveries. Honey, you need to go back home, and when you have signs like your water breaking (which it hadn’t) or labor pains, come on back and see us, Sugah.” I explained, “I can’t call a cab and go back home. I won’t have time to turn around and return. Besides, I don’t have enough money for cab fare twice. My baby will be born by early morning, I can assure you. It’s due on Palm Sunday. I’ve set my mind to this date for all these months. It’s going to happen. I already waited until the last minute to come to the hospital, because I don’t want the expense of another day added to my bill.” “Honey, is this your first child?” One nurse inquired. “Yes,” I said, as she snickered some more. “Well you need signs like labor pains.” “I’ve had labor pains all day and evening,” I blurted. “No honey” one nurse exclaimed, “You would be doubled over with pain by now.” I said. “Look, I’m alone. I can’t give in to my pain. I have to be in charge of this situation. But just for the record, my pains are about five minutes apart, and I’m going to have this baby soon.” They put me in a room, prepped me, and called the doctor who was fishing. I kept asking, “Where is my doctor? Is he here yet? Do you know how far away he is?” I kept holding off until I heard someone reply, “Dr. Farrell just arrived.” They quickly rolled me into the delivery room. You were born perfect with all your fingers and toes on April 15th at 3:53 in the morning on Palm Sunday. What a glorious day for your birth! When I came out of the anesthesia everything was hazy, but I could hear nurses

in the room. My first question was, “Did I have a boy?” “Yes”, one of the nurses said, “6 pounds, 11ounces, 20 ½ inches tall.” Although I was still groggy, a nurse put you in my arms. Here was my tiny bundle of joy. It was an overwhelming feeling of love. I opened my eyes wider then pulled back the blanket to see you. “Are you sure this is my baby?” I asked, because you looked like a little old shriveled man. The nurse laughed so hard uttering, “Oh honey child, he’ll fill out quickly.” And that you did. You were a blond-haired, blue eyed baby boy with a smile that would melt anyone’s heart away. I knew at least part of my premonition and dream was correct. I forgot to budget an extra twenty-five dollars for circumcision, thinking it was included in the doctor’s fee which I had paid in advance. I had saved enough to pay the hospital if I was only there for two days. It was going to be close on what little money I had left, but my income tax refund was due soon. I prayed that it would arrive, so I could pay the balance due. I had only chosen a boy’s name “Gregory,” so that is who you became. Your middle name would be after my wonderful grandfather. Your last name would only be your father’s name until I found someone who wanted to marry me and adopt you. I was so emotional at the hospital because there were proud dads arriving with flowers and baby gifts. It was evident they were filled with much happiness and pride. Then there I was, all alone and worried about where we would live, how I could pay the bills, and how soon it would be until I could get a job and go back to work. It was mind-boggling. Financially, I was barely squeaking by. My sister arrived to help, and that was a blessing. You and I only stayed at my sister’s mother-in-law’s home for a week because it was overrun with bugs. I was frantic. You were so swollen from over sixty mosquito bites. I had to keep you under a net made of cheese cloth just to survive. The net also protected you from the roaches falling off the ceiling. The entire house was infested, and I stayed up all night swatting the insects and stomping the bugs. In a week, my income tax refund check arrived. I was now able to split the cost of renting a house with my sister. I swore that once I left the south I would not return. I had too many bad memories there.

I was glad the food was cheaper in Alabama, but the price for a tube of ointment for diaper rash was too expensive, at least on my meager budget. I bought a three pound can of Crisco to use. It worked well and lasted a long time. I was not only hurting emotionally but physically as well. I had so many stitches that I felt like I was sitting on a prickly pear cactus. The healing process was taking too long due to a severed nerve. That didn’t matter; I simply had to get back to work if we were going to eat. I called Randall to tell him that he was the father of a darling baby boy. It was hard to talk. My voice was quivering and barely audible. I was only on the phone a minute describing you until he interrupted me saying, “My wife and I are expecting in September.” He seemed so happy. I congratulated him then abruptly said good-bye, before I started crying, wondering if I would ever see to him again.

OH WHAT A PITY

They say, “Oh what a pity that this young girl take the blame, To be unwed and bear a child and live her life in shame.” They say, “Oh how unlucky to be burdened with the load, Of great expense and small return from the seed that had been sown.” They say, “Oh how regrettable arrangements were not made,” But little did they realize that this thought need not be weighed. They say, “How irresponsible—with care she did not bother, Now the child must suffer and be raised without a father.” They say, “Oh how unfortunate she went through all this pain

Just to see the light of daybreak and to find her love in vain.”

I say, “Oh what a pity that these people never see, That out of love and the hand of God this child was meant to be.” I say, “Oh how unfortunate these people will never hold, This handful of such happiness to comfort when he’s cold.” I say, “Oh what a pity that these people never feel, The little hands a hugin’ tight from love he can’t conceal.” I say, “How disappointing that these people judge in haste, For sweet and bitter tears of life are ones they’ll never taste.” I say, “Oh, how I’m saddened that these people cannot grow, For I have gained a life fulfilled to one they do not know.”

G.J. Lee

CHAPTER 4

I flew from Mobile to Cincinnati and stayed with my French friends for a month on their rural farm. I was waiting eagerly for a telegram advising of a job opening. I needed desperately to dance and work again. The Picard’s had relocated twenty years ago to the farm where they raised tobacco. They were a financially poor family but rich in culture. I was in hiding, and I knew they could keep a secret. Mom had the opportunity to see you, but no one else in the family. Dad was drinking heavily at the time, so I was laying low. It wasn’t until five years later that I told him about you, and that I had a son before I was married. He never asked who the father was, and I didn’t say. He was as accepting as I knew he would be, but disappointed I didn’t tell him sooner. He hugged me and said, “You could do nothing to stop me from loving you,” as I choked back the tears. Gregory, you are so much like your Grandpa Jim, kind, sincere, helpful, never judging others by their status in life and sharing with those who have nothing. I never told anyone who your father was because Randall had a family too. I vowed I would never be bitter. No harsh words were ever spoken about him. How could I ever do that? I loved him. While on the outskirts of Cincinnati, on a tobacco farm, I was hidden from all. One morning, while you were sleeping, I laid you on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor. I went to the kitchen for coffee. After ten minutes, I went back to check on you, but you were gone. Oh no, where could you be? I yelled to the Picard’s, “Gregory’s gone. Something bad has happened. He can’t crawl yet. He’s only three months old. His blanket is here on the floor but he’s not.” Foolish as it was, I started looking behind the chair, the sofa, the coffee table, even though I knew you couldn’t have crawled off on your own.

“Oh Lord, Where’s the dog?” I cringed. “Oh please Lord, don’t let the dog have him.” With fear and apprehension we looked in other rooms for signs of torn clothing. We looked outside and around the well. This just didn’t make any sense to me. The only probable answer could be someone sneaked into the living room through the unlocked screen door and took you, but we hadn’t heard any noise. Lucienne looked down the long road leading away from the house and saw someone rounding the bend by the mailboxes. “Quick,” she yelled to her husband, “get in the truck.” I also ran to the pickup, but she said, “You have to stay here.” “Please, I have to go,” I cried. “No, we’ll be back soon. I think I know who took Gregory and a stranger will scare her.” I watched as the truck sped off leaving a cloud of dust for a mile or so down the old farm road. I thought, “I can’t stand here and do nothing” so I started running as fast as I could until I reached the mailboxes. As I went around the curve I could see in the distance that the truck had slowed down and was driving alongside a short, extremely chubby girl probably weighing 250 pounds or more. This girl ran awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle. It looked as though she was so top heavy, she was going to fall on her face. I tried to picture what she was doing. Wait, I think she’s carrying something. Oh my heavens, I was sure it was you. If she fell, with you in her arms, she would crush your little body. I tried to piece the puzzle together. It looked like the Picard’s had persuaded her to stop, so they could give her a ride. I watched as Lucienne took you from the chubby girl’s arms and pointed to the back of the truck. I expected them to turn right around and head back to the farm but they didn’t. Maybe they took her to the Sheriff’s Department. It seemed like hours before they returned. I was still sitting along the road, when I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. It was the Picard’s old truck. When they stopped, Lucienne handed you to me with a smile and said, “He’s okay. Hop in the back and I’ll explain everything when we get home.” I kissed you, hugged you and held you so tightly. I rocked back and forth with you in my arms, so relieved that my prayers had been answered. Over a cup of coffee, Lucienne explained a mentally challenged girl named Francis had walked away from her foster home at the Haskell’s. Mrs. Haskell was a warm, caring person who lived three miles down the road and took in special-needs kids that no one else would take. Lucienne said she and her

husband had approached Francis slowly, so she wouldn’t throw you in the ditch. Lucienne and I had more coffee as she relayed what transpired. I sat on the edge of my chair, with you in my arms, listening to every word. “Hello Francis,” said Lucienne, “How are you doing? Aren’t you tired from running so far?” I see you have a baby with you today. He’s cute. What’s his name?” “Baby”, said Francis sheepishly. “His name is Baby!” “Where are you taking him?” Lucienne asked. “To Mama Haskell’s,” she said. “Only Mama Haskell can take care of little babies. This baby will live with us. It’s my baby now since I found him, and I’m gonna keep him.” “We’ll drive you home, Francis. Hand me the baby so you can climb in the back of the truck.” Lucienne explained that Francis didn’t want to hand you over, but she was too clumsy to lift her leg over the tailgate and get in the back of the pickup without using both hands. Lucienne said that if Francis held on to you, then realized she had done a bad thing, she might throw you out of the truck to get rid of any evidence of misconduct. When the Picard’s arrived at the foster home Mrs. Haskell ran out of the house in a panic saying that she had looked all over for Francis, and no one had seen her. Lucienne told Mrs. Haskell what had happened. Mama Haskell scolded Francis, and told her she couldn’t keep the baby. He belonged to another mama. “No” said Francis, trying to pull you away from Lucienne. “Baby has to live here. He’s mine.” Mrs. Haskell said sternly, “Francis it’s not our baby. It doesn’t belong to us. We can’t take a child that the court hasn’t given to us. This baby already has a loving mother. Now go up on the porch and wait for me.” Francis hung her head and drug her feet pulling up tufts of grass as she trudged to the porch, pouting. She knew that there was going to be a scolding from Mrs. Haskell.

CHAPTER 5

You were just four months old, too young to be uprooted again, but I had no choice. I signed a one year contract and asked for an advance in pay, so I could buy an airline ticket. We were en route to Boston where I would be dancing at Blinstums nightclub. I checked a suitcase and footlocker, while carrying a diaper bag and a small plastic car bed with a flimsy aluminum frame. Up, up, and away we went. I stuck a pacifier in your mouth to suck on, so your little ears wouldn’t pop from the altitude. I asked the stewardess to refrigerate two bottles of formula, but when we changed planes in Chicago, I forgot to ask for them. You had to drink regular milk, and I prayed that it wouldn’t upset your stomach. We stayed at the Copley Hotel the first night in Boston compliments of my boss, George. He was the show producer who made the arrangements for me. I was up early perusing the classified ads for an apartment and a babysitter. I looked at three apartments and decided on a small efficiency. I signed a six month lease and planned to move right away. I couldn’t if I saw a refrigerator in the apartment. Before moving my things, I returned to take another look. There was no refrigerator. Oh darn. I went back to the manager’s office to inquire. He said that no apartment comes with a refrigerator. How absurd can this be? I pleaded with this uncomionate man to please give back my deposit and first month’s rent (which I had borrowed), so I could look elsewhere. He finally gave in and tore up the lease in front of me shaking his head in disgust. My search continued until dark. I had missed the check out time at the hotel. I was really stressed. You needed to be fed and have your diaper changed again, so I headed back to the hotel knowing already that I would have to pay for another night’s stay. When I arrived, I found our belongings had been removed from the room and put in a storage area. The hotel was completely booked for a big convention in town. There were no vacancies. I panicked knowing tomorrow was the first day of rehearsals, and I had no place to stay or a babysitter. I called my boss. “George, I have a dire situation.” After explaining what had happened, he said he could possibly help.

“Stand by the phone until I call you back.” Fifteen minutes later the pay phone rang. “Hi, it’s George; I have one of the dancers from the club en route to get you and the baby. Her name is Carol and you can stay at her place until you find an apartment. She has a little girl who is one year old, so she said her babysitter will also take care of your son until you find someone.” “Wow, what a relief. Thanks so much, I really appreciate all you have done, George.” “Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, but I can’t lose one of my best dancers now, can I?” “George, you’re just being kind. Yes, you would do it for anyone. That’s why you are so well respected. Thanks again, you are terrific. See you in the morning.” “I hope you are bright eyed, bushy tailed, and fleet of foot tomorrow,” said George, chuckling. “Sure thing,” I answered. “You can bet on it.” When Carol arrived at the hotel I recognized her right away by the way she walked, her stature, and her hair pulled straight back. She was definitely a dancer. She smiled broadly and introduced herself. We put all my worldly belongings in the car, and could barely fit the footlocker into the trunk. Thank goodness she had a big Buick. After arriving at an old brownstone in Allston on the outskirts of Boston, we began to unload. I was glad that she lived on the first floor. It was a warm, cozy two bedroom apartment. Her husband put a rollaway bed in the nursery, where we would be sharing the room with their daughter, April. Your little car bed had been invaluable in so many ways. It got a lot of use serving as a car seat, tote, and crib. It had been a long day, yet I was restless and couldn’t sleep. Suddenly I sat straight up in bed, when I thought that I smelled smoke. “Oh Lord, the building is on fire!” Someone was pounding on the door instructing us to evacuate immediately. I grabbed the handle of your car bed, another blanket, and put my shoes and coat on top. I picked up April in my left

arm and ran to wake Carol and her husband. With both hands full, I could only kick on their bedroom door. I was barefoot so I wasn’t making enough noise. I yelled, “WAKE UP, FIRE, WE’VE GOT TO GO!” I finally aroused them from a deep sleep as they frantically came to the door. They grabbed their robes, and April from my arms, and we ran through the smoke to the front door. It was miserably cold outside. The heat from the roaring flames did little to warm us. I watched in fear as the fire billowed out the second story windows. You could hear the glass popping, then the crunching sounds of the firemen’s boots trudging up the stairs with their hoses. I walked to the end of the block to avoid the heavy smoke as it rose into the night sky. The flames formed psychedelic designs going in and out of the windows being enticed by the wind. I had put on my coat and shoes, and sat shivering on the sidewalk until seven in the morning when the firemen let the fist floor tenants back into the building. Other than the nasty smell of smoke and the slushy hallways, Carol’s apartment was still intact. There were a few apartments on the second and third floors that were badly damaged. We only had time to throw our rehearsal clothes into a tote bag and head for the club, with our first stop being the babysitter. We were not only tired, but we reeked of smoke. I cringed as we rehearsed one of our dance numbers, The Can-Can. Not that I didn’t like it but at the finale, we would jump in the air and come down in the splits. Oh yuk! It was excruciating since I hadn’t healed completely from all the stitches. But you do what you’ve got to do. Rehearsals went reasonably well that day, and we got off an hour early. With a little extra time, we agreed to stop at a few apartments on the way home. I found one on Commonwealth Avenue that I could afford, and it was only a few blocks from Carol’s. It was an unfurnished basement apartment. Although dreary, I was in no position to be choosey. Carol was a wonderful friend who helped me move in, and also drove me to and from work, when she didn’t have to drive her husband to his job. We would leave at six-thirty in the evening and get home at two in the morning. We were using the same baby sitter which was very convenient. One night after work we saw a mattress on the curb, just a block from my apartment. Carol said, “I’m going home to park the car. Let me take Gregory to my apartment with April, so my husband can watch them for a while. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes, and we’ll carry the mattress to your apartment. It

beats sleeping on the cold floor.” I agreed. When she showed up, we thought of ditching the idea, because when we turned it over it had a large burn hole in the middle the size of a dinner plate. She said, “Oh well, you can stuff a towel in the middle, spray it with disinfectant and put on a mattress pad. It will be just like new,” she joked. Trying to carry it was awkward, to put it mildly. If I had a good grip, she didn’t and vice versa. We kept dropping the damn thing—twice while crossing Commonwealth Avenue. Thank goodness it was late, and there was little traffic. Several times we slipped on the ice, falling onto the mattress, then sliding on top of it until we hit a parking meter or garbage can on the curb. It looked like we were taking off on our magic carpet. A car load of guys drove past us, whistled, and yelled, “Do you do curb service?” Oh heavens, did we look that silly? Then a police car drove by slowly, the officer was probably thinking, What on earth are these two girls doing at two-thirty in the morning hauling a mattress down Commonwealth Avenue? He rolled down his window, leaned out to say something, but before he could speak, we smiled and said, “Just moving officer.” He shook his head in disbelief and drove on.

CHAPTER 6

The top priority on my to-do list was to find a babysitter. Carol offered to help, since she was familiar with the city and could recognize addresses in the paper that were near the club in south Boston. The area had deteriorated. Nevertheless, the club drew big headliners of the day. I had a few phone numbers circled in the ads that sounded promising. I called to set up a time to interview a woman who lived a few miles from the club. We left early one evening to keep the appointment. The address was an old run-down building with lots of garbage along the alleyway. We walked up three flights of stairs, since there was no elevator. I was getting a creepy feeling and wished I hadn’t given her my name, or where I worked. But I couldn’t back out now, so I figured I’d see it through. I decided I would tell her the area was not suitable. The hallway was poorly lit. We had a difficult time seeing the apartment numbers, but we finally located apartment thirty-five. There was a bare light bulb hanging from a frayed cord over the number. I knocked on the door, and I will never forget that night if I live to be a hundred. The door slowly opened, and a high pitched voice beckoned us in. We took a few steps inside, when a thin arm reached out and slammed the door behind us. As the person turned around, Carol screeched and held a death grip on my arm. I gasped, then tried to get control of the situation and to, hopefully, hide my fear. I was shaking so badly I couldn’t talk. My mouth opened but the words wouldn’t come out. Carol grabbed for the doorknob ready to bolt, but the door was locked. This was worse than any horror movie I had ever seen. The woman had no face. I say it was a woman, only because she had on a long housedress, and her voice was high. Her face had been badly burned. There was only a hole for her nose and a horizontal slit where the mouth should have been. She had no lips at all. One eye was sewed shut, and the other out of place and bulging, with no lid or lashes or anything else that looked human. She said, “Please don’t be afraid of me, I know I look bad due to burns from an explosion, but let me show you around.”

I was raised to have comion for others so I thought, okay, one quick look and I’ll tell her it’s not suitable. Carol, in her traumatized condition, was pulling me backwards with tears still streaming down her face. The place looked fairly clean but reeked of cat odor. The old woman walked into another room filled with several small cages and one large one. She said, “This is where I keep the mice. The cats would love to get in this room.” I didn’t ask what was in the big cage. I figured I probably wouldn’t want to know. I looked at my watch and said, “Oh, we have to go or we’ll be late for work.” “Little boys love mice,” she continued. Then she pointed her long skinny finger to the large cage and was anxious to show us what was inside, but we had seen enough. It was time to get the hell out of there. Oh my God, I could never leave you in a place like that. “I’m sorry but this is not suitable,” I said. Then like a banshee she started screaming at the top of her lungs, “It’s not fair that you judge me on my appearance; you have to give me a chance. I need the work and the companionship. I’d be a good babysitter.” I was still shaking my head, “No.” As Carol and I stepped back into the living room, one cat curled his tail around my leg, and another jumped off the sofa at Carol. I couldn’t hold her back any longer. She ran to the door, and kept fiddling with the lock, as I kept backing up, quickly. I said again, “Sorry, it’s not suitable.” The woman screeched even louder, “It’s just not fair!” I shook my head, again. “I can’t leave my son here. He’s allergic to cats,” I shouted. I made a beeline toward the door that Carol had finally opened. We both struggled, shoulder to shoulder trying to get though the narrow doorway at the same time. We bolted down the steps, as Carol tripped over another cat in the dim stairwell unnerving her further, if that was at all possible. At first we thought the old lady was following us, but it was only her voice resonating from the third floor. She yelled, “You haven’t seen the snakes yet.” “Holy shit!” Tears were streaming down our faces as we jumped into the car, locked the doors, and sped off like a bat out of hell.

When we arrived at work someone said, “You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.” We just shook our heads and said, “Worse than that! You just wouldn’t believe it if we told you.” Two days later, I found the ideal sitter. She was a ed nurse, and her husband was a minister. Their house was clean, in a nice neighborhood, and only a few blocks from the bus stop. At last my worries were over, or so I thought.

CHAPTER 7

Carol continued giving me rides to the club when she didn’t have to take her husband to work. When she couldn’t drive me, I took two buses and a subway to get to rehearsals. If I wanted to save fifteen cents for a warm cup of coffee, I would walk the last three miles. It snowed early that year, and it was brutally cold. One day there was a blizzard, and I could barely see the bus stop. When I transferred to the downtown bus I got off at the corner, where there was a shoe store advertising unbeatable prices. I saw a pair of tan leather boots in the window on sale for five dollars. I marched right in, tried them on, without socks and wore them out of the store, carrying a bag with my only pair of shoes, a black pair of barefoot sandals. Oh, the boots were so warm. I loved them. By the time I got to work, I was feeling guilty for spending the money on myself. I tried to sell them to my cohorts as slightly used, but no one would buy them. When Susie asked what size they were, she got an elbow in her side. The other dancers knew how badly I needed the boots to keep my toes from being frost bitten. Sandals were fine for summer, but not in the snow. Work was tiring, and I wasn’t able to spend much time with you, due to the all day rehearsals two weeks out of each month. Every time there was a different headliner, we had new dance numbers. We would do two shows a night, eight o’clock and midnight, and three shows on Sunday. We had to do a matinee at three o’clock in the afternoon. So much for, “ the Sabbath and keep it holy.” The Catholic Church was around the corner from the nightclub, so the owner stayed in good graces by feeding and entertaining the Cardinal and some parishioners. We performed for them every Sunday. We didn’t get paid for it either. That’s right, it was free-gratis. We were told to deduct it from our IRS taxes at the end of the year as a charitable contribution, as if that was any consolation to us. It sure didn’t help with the rent. At one forty-five in the morning, when the last show was over, I would first head to the babysitters’ house, always being grateful when Carol could give me a ride. When I was back at my apartment, I would gather the laundry and then head to

the all night laundromat, seven blocks away. I would be carrying you, all bundled in a warm blanket, toting a bag of dirty clothes, diapers, detergent, bleach, and fabric softener. It was all I could carry. One cold November night, as I got closer to the laundromat, I saw several police cars parked in front of the laundry. I noticed the yellow tape which had cordoned off the entrance. As I approached the officers, I was told that I would not be able to use the facility, because a dead woman was found going around in one of the commercial-size dryers. Oh dear Lord, that could have been us if we had been there a half hour earlier. I was thankful I heated a bottle of milk for you and dilly dallied around by cleaning the bathroom before leaving. Living in Boston at that time was scary, since the police hadn’t caught the Boston strangler yet. Everyone was jumpy. No one wanted to open their doors to a stranger or a repairman, let alone have to be out late at night on the street, whether waiting for a bus or walking somewhere. But I had no choice. The worst thing I did to save time and get a little more sleep was to steal linens from the club. The laundry truck would make their deliveries on Mondays and Thursdays, leaving large bundles of napkins and tablecloths by the dressing room door. When we had early rehearsals, rather than stay up all night toting you to the laundromat, or risking our safety being out late, I would steal a dozen linen napkins. I must say you had the fanciest diapers in town—Irish linen with a four leaf clover imprint.

CHAPTER 8

With rent, bus fare, food, laundry, and the babysitter, there was little left from my paycheck. (Sixty cents, to be exact.) I was glad that you weren’t a fussy eater. I fed you oatmeal, applesauce, and green beans. I ate yogurt, except on payday, when I would buy the cheapest can of tuna to eat. Once in a while I would swipe crackers from the club. I would put a few packages in my purse, but they were usually broken to bits by the time I got home. I ate the crumbs anyway. One day you were listless and feverish. You wouldn’t eat, and I was quite concerned. By late afternoon you were no better, and now you had a rash on your stomach. I called Carol to get the name and phone number of her doctor. I called the office right away. The nurse could hear the panic in my voice. “The doctor could see your son today, if you could be here by five o’clock.” It was already four and more than an hour’s bus ride, if I made all the connections. “I can’t be there before five because I live in Allston.” “Hold on a minute, I’ll put the doctor on the phone.” There was a long pause. “Hello, this is Dr. Tuttle. The nurse told me that you live in Allston. I through Allston on my way home. If you give me your address I’ll stop by and check on your son.” “8735 Commonwealth Ave., apartment #1, in the basement.” When the doctor arrived, he said, “I need a dining room table on which to place your son for an examination.” I shook my head and said, “I don’t have one.” “Any table will do,” he continued. I shook my head again.

“Well how about a chest of drawers?” he said. Rather than to say “No,” one more time, I lead him to the bedroom with the mattress on the floor, and your playpen which served as your bed. You had outgrown your car bed and also a single dresser drawer, which I had found on the curb prior to garbage pick-up. The doctor knelt down, as I placed you from the playpen to the mattress. In a few minutes, he looked up over his wire rimmed glasses and said, “Your son has roseola infatum.” I gasped and looked wide eyed thinking it was a serious disease. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s only the baby measles. It will be gone in three days. Keep the light out of his eyes.” (That was not a problem since the basement apartment was dark all the time.) “Put calamine lotion on his stomach, back, and chest, as the rash worsens” he said. Then he struggled to get up from the mattress to a standing position. I asked how much I owed him, knowing that a house call was going to be expensive. He graciously said, “Five dollars will do.” I was relieved, knowing that, if I could sell my boots, I would have enough to pay the rent.

CHAPTER 9

Our line captain, Penny, dated a rather old, but handsome man who frequented the club. When I asked one of the other dancers who he was, she just nodded her head as if to say, “Don’t ask.” What was the big secret? Was he married? A week later, I had the opportunity to meet him, when several of us were invited to a party at the Whitmar Hotel. This was not a date—just a party. I hadn’t been out in such a long time, I thought it would be a nice diversion. I called the babysitter to see if she would keep you a little later. She said it was not a problem. A long black limo picked us up after the show and served us drinks en route to the party. Whenever the limo would come to a stop light, old bag ladies, recognizing the car, would run up with their hands out calling, “Mr. V, Mr. V.” He would roll down the window and give them a hundred dollar bill. Damn, this guy must be rich! We arrived at the hotel’s ballroom where the private party was being held. The band was playing old favorites, and all the guys were dressed nicely. I danced with Nick, then Carmine, but I wasn’t comfortable with my arm around them. Both had unnatural bulges under their arms. Yikes! I suddenly realized they were wearing shoulder holsters. Good heavens, these guys are the mob and Penny must be dating the mob boss. After a few hours we all left the ballroom and headed to a suite on the fifth floor. Well, I must say, they go first class, and the food was delicious and plentiful. I was so tired of eating yogurt. I seemed to gravitate toward Nick that evening, chiefly because he was a good dancer. I watched him walk out of the room arguing with a few guys. Twenty minutes later, Penny quickly approached me saying, “Go out the door, turn right, get on the elevator, and go to the eleventh floor, room #1134. Go now, as she repeated, #1134.” I did as she requested. When I got to the room, the door was unlocked. I noticed Tony and Vito looking out of the window, until I walked their way. They closed the curtains immediately. Room service arrived bringing more food and drink. There was a round of applause. It was obvious just looking at these guys, that they rarely missed a meal. The waiter went over to Mr. V to sign the bill and get a generous

tip. Penny and Mr. V were in the corner on the sofa and seemed to ignore the sounds of the sirens outside. I walked over to Carmine and asked, “What’s going on?” He shrugged saying, “I guess someone got pushed out the window.” Whoa, this is bad! “Who?” I asked. “Nick,” he said, and then walked away mumbling something about the rat. The next day I read in the paper that Nick Bellini had jumped from the fifth floor falling to his death, an apparent suicide. Yeah, right. Oh no, this is not the crowd I want to be around. Sure it was fun dancing, drinking and eating fine food, and they were generous to a fault but I don’t want to be associated with the mob, or be one of their so called “broads.” I decided that there could be no more lavish parties for me. Christmas was approaching. I was so grateful you were only eight months old, and not aware of the festive holiday. It would be tough coming up with all the rent, since I splurged on that pair of boots, and paid the doctor. I held you up in my arms and said, “Sweetheart, there will be no Christmas tree or gifts for us, but that’s okay. We have each other, and that’s the best gift of all. I know you don’t understand what I’m saying to you, but our money is needed elsewhere.” I gave you a big hug and put you down for a nap in your playpen. On Christmas Eve there was a knock on the dressing room door. Cindy was closest, so she put on her robe and answered it. She looked my way and motioned for me to come. I thought, Who on earth could that be? I knew no one in Boston except the girls I danced with. I didn’t have a boyfriend, so I looked back at Cindy and said curiously, “Who is it?” “Just get your buns over here,” she said. “It’s Santa.” “Yeah,” I laughed, “I’ll only get coal in my stocking this year.” I opened the door wider to peer out, and I was in a state of shock. There were piles of gifts from floor to ceiling with the name tags reading, “Little Gregg.” I couldn’t believe what I saw. There were stuffed animals, a sled, winter snowsuit, blankets, tiger house slippers, pajamas, and even a little comb and brush set. Those were the obvious gifts. There were other packages beautifully wrapped with curled

ribbons flowing over their sides, plus an envelope filled with money and a note reading, “For you and your mommy’s needs.” I was so overwhelmed, that I couldn’t help but cry. The tears were flowing down my cheeks smearing my stage makeup all over my face. I tried to make a joke about Santa’s elves getting the list mixed up, but I was too emotional to pull it off. I walked over to the dressing table and grabbed the side to stay upright. I felt faint. Penny yelled, “Quick, put a wet towel on her neck.” I came around just in time to touch up my makeup and head to the stage. Sitting ringside was Mr.V and his entourage. I knew as he looked my way and nodded, that he had ordered all the gifts delivered, and I didn’t know how to act. I was half elated and half scared. I didn’t want to be indebted to anyone especially a mob boss. When we finished the number and returned to the dressing room, there was a diamond watch at each dancer’s place on the long dressing table—eight in all. It was hard not to be grateful, and yet I knew that his money came from corruption.

CHAPTER 10

It was now 1963, and I was hoping to survive another rowdy New Year’s Eve. By the time the midnight show began, the majority of the audience was drunk. Men would start climbing onto the stage to dance with us during our routine. The men that sat ringside would try to grab our ankles, so we had to stay an arm’s reach away. Alcohol can make some people act uncouth. Working seven days a week seemed normal to me, since that was the only schedule I knew. It instilled a good work ethic in me. I never knew what a nine to five job was like, or a job with week-ends off. That was completely foreign to me. In the latter part of January, I received an emergency call at work from Janice, the babysitter. She said, “Meet me at Boston Children’s Hospital right away. Something is wrong with Gregory, and I’m really worried. He keeps breaking out in bruises, and that’s not normal. The more I look at him, the more bruised he becomes,” Janice continued. “The only time I have seen this happen is when I worked in pediatrics with children who had leukemia. I’m leaving the house now. Meet me at the hospital.” I thought to myself, She’s a ed nurse so why am I hearing such panic in her voice? I left the club, knowing that I would probably get fired for missing the second show. When you are under contract, you must show up no matter what. You could have an acute attack of appendicitis, or a death in the family, but it doesn’t matter to the club owner. You will perform and keep on smiling. In the show-biz world, the old saying is true. “The show must go on.” I found out the next day that the other dancers covered for me that night, and no one was the wiser. They knew how badly I needed the job. After the panicky phone call from Janice, I hurriedly grabbed my purse and ran outside the club to hail a cab. The taxi dropped me off at the emergency entrance of Boston Children’s Hospital. As I entered, Janice ran to me, distraught, saying, “Gregory has had his blood drawn, and he is now having x-rays.”

This was the hospital where Janice worked for the last fifteen years. She knew practically everyone on the staff. When the doctor came out of the room, he looked around for a quiet spot to talk to us. He asked Janice to explain again what had occurred. “I went to the corner market to get milk. When I returned I heard one of the babies crying. You see, I take care of five children, one being my own son. I went upstairs to check on them, thinking one might be thirsty or needed a diaper changed. I first saw Gregory. He was bleeding from the mouth. I checked his tongue and there was a chunk out of it. Evidently he had cut it on the plastic rail of the playpen. Since he was teething, he chewed on everything. When I picked him up his body seemed to go limp. I unsnapped his pajamas to change his diaper when I noticed swelling and bruising on his legs. I then removed his pajama top and found more bruising. I figured that he must have had a convulsion, and thrashed around the playpen injuring himself.” The doctor looked at Janice harshly and said, “As a nurse you know that a child can’t throw himself around that roughly. No, Janice, his chest is caved in, as well as the top of his head. This child has been beaten. Tell me what really happened?” I looked at Janice in disbelief. She looked back at me shaking her head. “No, I was only gone a few minutes. John was keeping an eye on the children until I returned. He had been working on his sermon for the next day.” “Well,” said the doctor, “This child looks as if he had been thrown down several flights of stairs to be in such bad condition. If you weren’t home, then it had to have been your husband.” “No,” she said, emphatically, choking back the tears. “John wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s a loving father, minister, and a pillar of the community.” I could see the pain and horror in her eyes. The doctor said, “I have to notify the police, and report any child abuse that comes into the emergency room. Janice, I will do whatever I can do to help you, but, for now, give me your husband’s full name and your address.” When you were back from x-rays, I walked into the bright, sterile room to see you and suddenly felt a rush of relief. It wasn’t you after all, but one of the other children that Janice watched. It was sad that this little child had been injured

badly, but I was grateful you had been spared. The child laid on the gurney almost motionless with dark circles under his swollen eyes from crying so long. I could see where Janice mistook this child for you, because he was wearing your pajama top. His shoulders were so hunched, that they touched his ears. I took in a deep breath and said to the doctor, “This isn’t my son.” He looked at the chart then at me and said, “What distinguishing marks does Gregory have?” I said, “Well, the top of his left ear never opened all the way.” The doctor gently turned the child’s head to get a view of the ear. As I peered over his shoulder, I could plainly see the child’s upper ear was closed. I started shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, dear God!” I said, in a desperate whisper, throwing my hands to my mouth. As the painful realization set in, and I was shaken to the core. Just a few hours prior, I had dropped you off at the babysitters, my bundle of joy, all dressed in your yellow print pajamas and new blue snowsuit. I had you wrapped in your alphabet quilt with my cologne sprayed on it, so you would think that I was nearby and wouldn’t fret. But now, what has happened to you? There were no clear answers as to the reason why, only the fact that you had been beaten to a pulp. The only time I left the hospital was to go to work and return after the last show. I spent the nights sitting up with you in the stark white room. I watched as you tossed and turned, so restless from the pain, praying there would be no permanent damage. I wondered what prompted the minister to do such a terrible thing. It was beyond my comprehension. You were only eight months old, and your bones still soft. Not until you were four years old did I find out the full extent of your injuries. You had five broken bones in your arms. I wondered how badly this traumatic incident had affected your subconscious. Surely there would be ramifications for the rest of your life. Years later, I found out. The Mormons came to visit, bring food, and pray for you every day you were hospitalized. I was not only stressed because you were hurt, but my conscience bothered me. I had not taken the time out of my busy schedule to have you baptized. To me, baptism was the protective barrier that guarantees a place in heaven for you. I didn’t want you to die without being baptized. The Mormons didn’t believe in baptizing infants. They explained that little children cannot sin

until they are old enough to be able for their actions. Instead, they believe in “blessing” little children by the laying on of hands in the name of Jesus Christ. And so it came to be. I felt a bit relieved after the blessing. I had no health insurance, so it took me over five years to pay off the debt. A social worker was assigned to the case, but it was as though I was the one accused. Everyone thought that a minister could do no wrong. The social worker was young and inexperienced. She made me out to be the bad one, a single mom, always working, not spending much time with you. My feet were to the fire. John, the minister, never itted what he did, and held fast to his innocence of that night. But God knows. Even though I am not one to hold a grudge, I secretly hoped that his conscience would eat him alive. I bet that Janice divorced him shortly after that incident. She was such a kind woman. How could she live with a liar and a child beater? Once the trust is gone, there’s no reclaiming it. When John flipped out that night it could have been their son that he beat. He was the same age as you. I think that while John was trying to write his sermon, the babies were crying and driving him nuts. He was going to shut them up. John probably walked up the stairs angrily, and grabbed the first child he came to, which was you. He took out all his frustrations by slamming and throwing you about. How could anyone do that to an innocent little baby? In my mind there were so many times that I went back, reflecting on the day you were hurt replaying the chain of events. I ed us taking a bus to Cambridge earlier with another dancer from the club. She was a Mormon and attended a Latter Day Saints church near Harvard University. My girlfriend wanted me to become a Mormon, and, at that time, I was considering it. We met in the host home that housed the missionaries. The deacon and his wife had numerous children, including two teenage girls who took you to their room, so we could discuss the church philosophy. At one point I heard you scream. I jumped up and headed your direction until the deacon’s wife said, “Oh don’t worry. He’s okay. My daughters are used to taking care of little ones. I have nine children.” You didn’t cry anymore so I figured everything was alright. Nevertheless, you were restless all day and I couldn’t figure out why, other than you were cutting teeth? I often thought that I may have falsely accused the babysitter’s husband of beating you, when in fact, it may have been the Mormon girls who twisted your

arms. But that didn’t for the indentation on the soft spot of your head, or your chest caved in. Wouldn’t that have alerted me right away? Wouldn’t I have noticed this in Cambridge? Wouldn’t Janice, being a nurse, see something was wrong as soon as I dropped you off at her house that evening? If I were a betting person I would say that the odds were 80% chance that the minister beat you and 20% chance that the Mormon girls did something to you—or both. Mr. V asked the name of the preacher but I wouldn’t tell him. I didn’t want to be accused of having him bumped off. Although I think I could have done that myself without any help. When you were well enough to travel, I left Boston and went back to the Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I wanted to leave all the bad events behind me and start afresh.

CHAPTER 11

I was puzzled but pleasantly surprised when a Mormon family met us at the airport in Philadelphia, and drove us across the bridge into New Jersey heading to Cherry Hill. They had found an apartment near the club, as well as a day care center where you could stay during rehearsals. Of course they wanted to find me another job like a teller in a bank. No, thanks. I loved dancing, and I was going to continue. The Mormons thought that we were around the wrong environment. Being around people in a nightclub setting, or who drink alcohol isn’t bad to me. I know what bad is! Oh heavens, if they only knew some of the things I’ve seen. Later they tried to take the coffee and tea from my apartment, even though I had stopped drinking it at that time. But I wouldn’t let them remove it, because I had friends that drank coffee and tea, and I wanted to have it on hand. Why not be hospitable? On Friday, when I picked you up at day care, I saw broken blood vessels and abrasions on your face. “What happened to him?” I yelled, ready to make someone able for this. “Oh some of the older kids threw toys on top of him while he was in the play pen. We heard him crying but we couldn’t find him at first,” laughed one of the helpers, so nonchalantly. “But we found him under the pile of blocks and big Tonka trucks.” By now, I was frothing at the mouth. Gregory, you never went back there again. I kept ice packs on your face and arms until the swelling went away. I called a babysitting agency that afternoon and had them send out a licensed and bonded sitter to our apartment. You had more than your fair share of injuries, for the short time you had been on earth. “No more,” I vowed. I worked five more months then flew home to Ohio for a few weeks before my next contract in Lake Tahoe. Mom had moved to a suburb of Cincinnati, and no one knew me there. I was safe to walk around with you, and not stir up any gossip. Two days before I left town, you were burned badly. Your aunt didn’t see you

crawl into the kitchen. She accidentally tripped over you spilling a pan of hot chocolate down your right arm, back and chest. I rushed you to the closest hospital, but they wouldn’t accept you. I had to get another cab and go to Children’s Hospital where there was a burn center. I ed out as they tried to smooth the burned skin back into place with what looked like a popsicle stick. You were there six hours then released. It was awkward trying to carry you due to all the bandages and a sling on your right arm. I was afraid to touch you anywhere, because it must have hurt so badly. That was not the last time you were burned, and I cringe to think of all the pain you’ve been through. I was trying so hard to keep you safe! I flew from Cincinnati to Reno, then took a cab to the hospital to have your burns checked and bandages changed. It was sheer luck that I was able to get places I needed to go, since I have no sense of direction, or any clue of where I’m was going. The cab driver could have literally taken me for a ride, but I figured that he probably felt sorry for me traveling with a small child all bandaged, and toting everything we owned. After leaving the hospital, I took another cab to the bus station, and headed up the mountains to Lake Tahoe. Harrah’s Club at Lake Tahoe was a top notch place with popular headliners. I found a babysitter right away. She was the wife of a stage hand who lived close to our apartment. On Thanksgiving, she didn’t show up, it was getting later and later. I needed to get to the club, because my pay would be docked if I didn’t arrive on time. I bundled you up in your warm coat and headed off. I asked the wardrobe mistress to watch you during the first dance number. I was horrified when I heard a little voice saying, “Hello Mommy” as you were ready to walk out on stage. I looked into the wings and saw Jimmy Durante, taking you by the hand and leading you away. When the dance number was over, I ran to Mr. Durante’s dressing room thinking I was in big trouble. He had his little three year old daughter, Cici, in his dressing room, and you were both playing together. He was happy that she had a playmate, and asked if you would stay until the end of the show. Oh boy, was I relieved. I found another babysitter who watched you during rehearsals. One icy day while you were walking with her hand in hand, she felt you slipping on the ice. She jerked your arm up to keep you from falling down. That pulled your arm out of the socket. X-rays showed that your left arm had been previously broken in

three places. I explained to the doctor about the minister beating you at eight months of age. He ordered more x-rays, and this time of your so-called good arm only to find it had also been broken in two places. The doctor explained that at such a young age when you were injured, your bones were too soft to identify breaks, or to put your arms in casts. The doctor then put your left arm in a sling. You were still in a sling for Christmas that year, but it didn’t interfere with opening presents. That was only the beginning of the problems with your arms. At that time, the doctor said that it might affect the growth of your arms, but I prayed that it wouldn’t. I wrote to Randall at his Mom’s address knowing she would see that the letters reached him. It was my only way of keeping him updated on your progress, but he never wrote back. Nevertheless, I continued to write on important dates like your birthday or when you were sick or injured. My persistence didn’t pay off so, after four years of no response, I gave up.

CHAPTER 12

Wednesday, after rehearsals, I was asked to report to the club owner’s office for some unknown reason. What I was about to hear affected me for a long time. It made me think back to my youth when Mom use to call me her “little ugly duckling,” then pat me on the head and say “but I still love you.” At this meeting, I was bluntly told, “You have to have a nose job or look for work elsewhere. When you turn sideways, your nose is too long. That’s not acceptable for the show’s billing of America’s Most Beautiful Girls.” You look like a foreigner—too plain to be on stage.” Now Mom’s words echoed in my head, Ugly Duckling and Plain Jane. As a child, I had never taken Mom’s words to heart. But now they rushed back into my mind in a brash and hurtful way. It was like a flashback. I could actually hear my Mom’s voice calling me those names. My Dad would build up my self confidence and Mom would tear it down. She would always add, “You want the truth don’t you?” I wanted to say to her, “No, not in this case,” but I wasn’t allowed to talk back. Well, I wasn’t going to comply with the management’s wishes. Besides, it would have been more down time from recuperating after the surgery, and a big medical expense, since I had no insurance. Then there would be no paycheck coming in for probably a month or two. Didn’t it matter that I had worked hard for my boss, George, for five years? I guess not. But it puzzled me because it wasn’t George’s mode of operation. He was much too kind for a callous act like this. Whose idea was this? I wondered. I found out later that it was George’s wife and the club owner, who wanted me out of the show for an ulterior motive. They already had a replacement. I didn’t have the money to get a nose job and I wouldn’t have had one anyway. This is how God made me and this is how I’ll stay. I was fired for my looks and

given a two week notice. I went out of the office in tears. My mind was reeling. I needed to find another job, soon. Dancing jobs weren’t readily available. The market for dancers was only in New York, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas. The personal manager for one of the headliners had been sitting outside the club owner’s office, and he heard everything that was said. After I left, the club owner’s secretary called him into the office for a meeting, but he waved her off and didn’t keep his appointment. Instead, he walked along side me as I went down the hall. He put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke to me like a father trying to raise my spirits and console me. “That was the cruelest thing I ever heard anyone say to a person. Don’t let him get you down. You have a unique look about you. Anyone can be beautiful, but they are just another pretty face in the crowd. Actually they don’t have any traits that can pinpoint just who they are. They are the ones I call nondescript. How many people look alike when you describe them as beautiful, blond, nice legs, average height, and shapely? Yes, in Hollywood they all look alike. Now take you, for instance, I could describe you as the elegant looking girl on stage with an English nose and darling dimples. Everyone would know who I was talking about. You made the right decision. Don’t ever change your looks to please someone else.” I appreciated his kindness, it was a beautiful gesture, but I still felt devastated. I couldn’t even talk about it with the other dancers for several days, until special rehearsals were called, and they had no idea why. I told them they were getting a new replacement, as I swallowed hard due to the lump in my throat. “Who’s leaving?” they asked. I paused, took a deep breath, and said, “Me. I was fired for not being pretty enough to work here.” On Monday, rehearsals began with my replacement. She was the club owner’s new girlfriend. She was a ravishing beauty, but couldn’t even keep time with the music, let alone dance. What a shame, she brought down the caliber of the other dancers. One klutz can ruin the reputation of the rest. That, too, is show biz—the seedier side of it. I was going through an identity crisis so I flew to Phoenix where Mom had moved. Yes, that was a masochistic thing to do and a strange place to go since

she had always compared me to my beautiful siblings and I was the girl who looked like one of Cinderella’s ugly step-sisters. I just told Mom that my contract ended because I didn’t want to hear anymore about my looks or lack thereof. The same week that I arrived in Phoenix, I found an ad in the newspaper: Wanted—Hawaiian dancers to perform at luaus. Short hours, free food. I don’t think that anyone else applied, so I got the job if I would agree to dye my long red hair black. I did. I didn’t anymore look Polynesian than the man in the moon, but it would do until I could find something else. I worked three evenings a week. After a month, I could barely look at the grass skirt and the bra top, made of coconut shells, that covered my boobs. I thought to myself, With all my years of ballet training, I have resorted to this. Surely there is a better job out there just waiting for me. I gave myself a pep talk and started brain storming.

CHAPTER 13

We took a bus to Las Vegas and found an apartment. I applied for unemployment, but only received a few checks before landing a job. I had auditioned for the patriotic show, Hello America, at the Desert Inn. I guess I looked American enough to get that job. I was hired. Hallelujah! During the Christmas holidays, I took you downtown with me to Fremont Street. I walked into a department store to buy you a pullover shirt. We had been holding hands, until I let go for a moment to check the size of the polo shirt. I turned around to hold it up against your chest, but you were gone. I was just holding your hand a minute ago. How could you disappear so fast? Oh good Lord, where could you have gone? I called your name as I ran through the store in a frenzy. Then I looked up at the store balcony, and figured that you may have been fascinated with the escalator. I ran to the foot of the escalator, looked all around, then rode up to get a better look from the mezzanine. My eyes darted from counter to counter as I searched for you in your navy blue coat. My heart was pounding hard. If you walked out of the store, it could be disastrous. I prayed that you would be found. I stopped a sales clerk and told her what happened, she called someone else, and, before long, the entire work force was looking for you. It was now evident you were not in the store, so I hurried out onto the sidewalk and spotted a police officer across the street. I ran to him, out of breath, and said, “I’ve lost my three year old son. He’s wearing a navy blue coat with a hood and blue jeans. He’s blond and has on white high top shoes. We were in the department store across the street on the first floor when I turned to him, and he was gone. Oh, officer, please help me!” “Don’t worry Ma’am, we’ll find him. What is his name?” “Gregory” I said, as tears streamed down my face. “I’ll take this side of the street,” he said. “You can look across the street in the stores.” I ran into each shop for a three block radius scared to death you had

crossed the street by yourself with all the holiday traffic. I was frantic. It was dusk but not getting dark on Fremont Street. The billboards and hotel lighting was so bright that it always looked like daytime. I ran down the fourth block just knowing that you could not have strayed that far by yourself. On the corner I could hear a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army. Maybe he saw something. As I approached him, I saw a little boy ringing a bell and saying, “Merry Cwissmas, Merry Cwissmas.” I cried as I hugged you so tightly. I looked up and whispered, “Thank you Lord for keeping him safe.” “Please don’t take him,” said the Salvation Army volunteer. “I’ve made more money in the last hour than I have made the previous two nights.” “Sorry,” I said, “But I have to get to work.”

CHAPTER 14

My apartment neighbor was a shy man who evidently didn’t feel comfortable talking to a female he didn’t know. He wanted to ask me out on a date but was too bashful to do so. He paid the landlord fifty dollars to introduce us. She was happy to do so and kept her part of the bargain. He began saying, Hello to me as we ed each other on the apartment steps. He was heading to work early in the morning, and I was just coming home from work late at night. After he got up enough nerve to ask me out, I turned him down. I already had a date. He said, “If you change your mind just let me know.” Then the strangest thing happened. My date couldn’t find apartment six. Someone took the top nail out of the number, so it had swung down to look like the number nine. When my date didn’t show up, I figured I was either stood up or he couldn’t find the apartment. I thought I shouldn’t be going out with someone who couldn’t figure out that between numbers five and seven was apartment six. That didn’t take a rocket scientist. Maybe he wasn’t playing with a full deck. Either way, I lucked out because my neighbor, Red, knocked on the door and asked if I would reconsider going to dinner. “Yes, I said, I would love to go out with you. Can we be back by six thirty, so I can get ready for work?” “Sure,” he replied. I had already made arrangements with the landlord’s daughter to babysit, so we were off to dinner. The evening turned out to be a disaster, but who would have guessed he would run into an arch rival from the union hall with whom he nearly came to blows. Red had already ordered his meal, when he spotted the secretary-treasurer of the Teamster’s Union. He quickly excused himself and headed for the parking lot. I watched out of the restaurant window wondering what was transpiring. There was a heated argument with lots of yelling and figure pointing, but, thankfully, no fight. Forty minutes had ed, our dinner was served, and I didn’t wait any longer to eat. By the time he returned he was so angry that he asked the waiter

for the check, and we left. I never found out what the problem was between the two. I had bought a Volkswagen bug that I didn’t know how to drive. The previous owner delivered it to the apartment parking lot, where it stayed in that same spot for three months. It didn’t have a license plate either, so I continued taking a cab to work each evening. One afternoon, Red said, “Is that your Volkswagen parked behind the apartments?” “Yes,” I answered. “Well, why are you taking a cab to work, when you could be driving your own car?” “I don’t know how to drive it. It is not automatic” Since Red was a truck driver at the Nevada Test Site, he offered to teach me how to drive a straight stick vehicle with four forward gears. That was a smart move on my part. In later years, he couldn’t criticize my driving by saying “Who in the heck taught you to drive?” After getting my driver’s license, I would pull up to a gas attendant and say “Fill it up—ethel.” Gregory, you were four years old, and felt that you were grown up enough to tell the attendant I wanted ethel. You would blurt out, “Fill it up, Atholl,” The attendants would glare at me as though I had taught you nasty words. That was not the end of it. When we lived on Falcon Lane, you couldn’t say the street name plainly. If anyone asked you where you lived, you would blurt out, “Fuckin’ Lane” I would always get raised eyebrows at that point. You had a slight drawl so when people asked you where you were from, you didn’t say, “Mobile.” Instead you answered, “AutoMobile, Alabama.” That always tickled me. One morning Red asked if I wanted to go to breakfast with him. I accepted, then found out that he planned to go to Los Angeles to eat. “Whoa, how do you expect to do that, and get back in time for me to go to work?” “I have my own airplane,” he said. “We’ll fly down, eat, and return by early afternoon.” I was impressed. I had already ridden in his new burgundy Grand

Prix Pontiac with white leather upholstery. That was a beautiful car. When I found out that he was from Oklahoma that cinched it for me. I knew that he must have an oil well. I, jokingly, told him I was going to marry him for his money. He just laughed. He made excellent wages at the Test Site, but rarely had anything left at the end of the week. He had an airplane payment along with insurance, hangar space, a new car payment plus car insurance, gasoline, rent, utilities, and food. He ate all his meals out. Thank goodness he didn’t gamble. He was the only guy I dated that made more money than me, with the exception of headliners, and most of them were not the marrying type, or married, and not acting as if they were. Red and I had a whirlwind romance, then set a date to get married, but it was the day before he got paid. I had the chance to back out, when he didn’t have enough money to pay for the marriage license. At that time the license fee was only two dollars. I had to pitch in a buck. What’s with this? I thought. He stated he had no objections with a woman paying her own way. There was nothing chauvinistic about him. His philosophy was if I paid half, then I had vested rights. We were partners fifty/fifty, so why not look out for my investment? He talked a good story, and most of that was BS, but I liked his way of thinking, and didn’t change my mind about marrying him. I went along for the ride, not knowing if it was going to be a bumpy one, but I was in for the long haul. We actually negotiated a deal. This was before prenuptial agreements were popular. He needed someone to cook for him and I needed someone to be a father to you. It was like a union contract. We each had one stipulation. If he gained a lot of weight and became fat (other than for medical reasons), I didn’t have to stay married to him. If I cut my hair, he would leave me. That was it. We were as different as night and day—different religion, different political party, different educational background, different upbringing—the list goes on and on.

SIMPLICITY

I only know simplicity, for that’s where my heart lingers, No matter what my job is—a dancer or a singer

I always return to days of youth when thoughts were clean and good To forget about the things uncouth, the gambling and the hoods. To be in lights is all so grand but such an unreal life No more phony people hanging ’round if I’m to be your wife. Let’s live a little like we should outdoors beneath the stars To run barefoot in a country field and stay away from bars. We’ll find life more enjoyable the natural, simple way But not by staying up all night and sleeping all the day.

G.J. Lee

We have been married for a long time and look forward to celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary. We can only attribute the success to laughter, honesty, and the respect we have for each other’s opinions, even though vastly different. Gregory, Red was the best thing that happened to us. He gave our life stability at a very vulnerable time. I am forever grateful for that.

CHAPTER 15

I danced in the show Hello America at the Desert Inn on the Las Vegas Strip. When that contract ended, I was hired by the Dunes for the revue, Casino de Paris. Ironically, I was hired for the show because I looked French, Oui, oui. When I would take you back stage, you were so interested in the tigers and the bears that you didn’t even notice that the showgirls sat around in the dressing room-topless. Well, that was then. You were only four. The other dancers would invite you to their kids’ birthday parties. It was fascinating to watch the interaction of all the foreign children. It didn’t matter that few of you spoke the same language. The French kids would run right up to you as you entered the door, and kiss you on both sides of your cheeks. The German girls would take you firmly by the hand, and lead you to the table with the gifts. The Hungarians would try to intercept and get the gift away from you so they could put it on the table and take credit for it. The Scottish kids already had cupcakes and wanted to share their sweeties with you. The Italians wanted to pull your blond hair and start a ruckus. Regardless of nationality, kids will be kids. Some would share toys and others would fight fiercely to hang on to them. You would play for an hour or two even though no one could understand what the other was saying. But it didn’t matter, it was simply party fun and you loved it. When your little brother, Travis, was born, you not only adored him, you were fiercely protective of him. You charged the neighbor kids five cents just to get a glimpse, and you warned them not to touch. Once I walked into the nursery to check on Travis. To my dismay, I found an old nasty fishing worm by his face. I screamed, “Gregory, come into the bedroom, immediately.” You ran to me, smiling. After all, you had given your baby brother your most prized possession. How could I be angry at that unselfish gesture? I had a problem with anyone disciplining you, since you had been beaten as a baby. It was an unwritten rule that no one lay a hand on you. I would be the only one to delve out the punishment. For Red that was a hard rule to follow. He was

trying to instill discipline to your younger brother, yet couldn’t spank you when you misbehaved. It was a double standard. Other than the discipline issue, he has always treated you and your brother equally. One day Travis was going to get a spanking. I can’t even what he did to deserve it. You gallantly stepped in front of me and said, “No one touches my brother. You aren’t going to spank him!” “Move aside, Gregory,” I warned. “No,” you said, as you shook your head stubbornly. I reached around you to get to Travis but you pushed me back harder than you realized. My elbow went through the kitchen window, breaking the glass, but no damage to my arm. Travis didn’t get spanked, and we all helped clean up the glass. You felt so badly about shoving me, but you wanted to protect your little brother. You both went to your rooms for time-out. Before you started school in September, Red adopted you. This way you had the same last name as the rest of the family. I bet you being in the judge’s chambers when he announced your name change and the completion of adoption. He hit his desk with the gavel. It came down with a loud thud. Then he handed the gavel to you, so you also hit the desk top a few times, too. A week before school began you had something important to ask. “Mom, can I get a ‘store bought hair cut’ rather than the ‘buzz cut’ Dad gives me?” We agreed to take you to the barber, and you were so happy. Problems with your arms weren’t noticeable until you were six. At least that was the first time I saw a difference. You were standing next to your brother, side by side wearing only your underwear. His arms were a lot longer than yours, and he was only three years old. Mom told me about a miracle worker in Santa Monica who was a “rolfer.” She worked on muscles and surrounding fascia, similar to a chiropractor who would work on realigning your bones by making necessary adjustments. Stacy worked on accident victims, and those in wheel chairs, to get them functioning again. Red flew us to Santa Monica for your treatments. We hoped that Stacy could stimulate your arms to grow but there was little change. One arm grew about three inches more, but the other stayed the same. There was simply too much

damage from the preacher’s beating. When you were seven, one of my friends gave you a puppy. I didn’t speak to her for a week but she insisted that all boys needed to grow up with a dog. Finally, I was able to think of it as an opportunity to teach you some responsibility. The dog was a cute little black Labrador retriever with tan feet. You named him “Boots.” You could not stand strong odors, so you were unable to clean up after him. You would moan, groan, and gag every time you had to clean up dog poop from the yard. One day Boots was in the garage and pooped. It was your dog so you had to clean it up. The smell made you so sick you threw up on the concrete floor. Boots ran over to lick it up, and there was no way you could stop him. “Oh, Mom,” you yelled, “Make him stop!” You got sick all over again. You ran into the house horrified, holding your hand over your mouth. Oh well, so much for that learning experience. I thought just wait until you have children and have to change a messy diaper. That should be interesting. Boots always wanted to be inside with you and your brother. He was an outside dog and not allowed in the house. If the curtains were left open, and he saw you playing, he would take a flying leap through the window, glass shattering all over the hearth, wagging his tail like he had done something wonderful. He did this stunt four times. Remarkably, he was never hurt. But Red had enough. He said, “That’s it! I’m not replacing another window. Boots has to go.” You bowed your chest out, and standing as tall as you could, you looked your dad straight in the eye and said, “If Boots goes, I go.” Then Travis stepped up as close as he could get to you, stretching to stand as tall as he could, and said, “If my brother goes, I go.” Travis paused for a minute then ran to the kitchen and got a box of cereal to take with him. What are parents to do? We were about to lose our family, so we caved in and the dog stayed. Sadly, Boots ran away when we were on vacation, and he couldn’t be found. A friend had been feeding him while we were gone and inadvertently left the gate unlatched. You and Travis were crushed. I know you had a hard time believing we didn’t have something to do with the disappearance. But we didn’t.

CHAPTER 16

Red and I wanted a permanent job with sick and vacation leave, insurance, and fringe benefits. We both ended up as police officers after going through the rigors of the police academy. We didn’t realize that our job might have posed difficulties for you and Travis. Gregory, when you were thirteen, I think you were afraid to bring your friends to the house, for fear of us frisking them at the door. We always tried to impress on you to obey the law. We wanted to keep you from suffering any harsh consequences. You also wanted to be called “Gregg” so we complied. I guess it sounded more grown up. When you were fourteen we thought you were old enough to stay home by yourself. Not so. When we came back from the grocery store, you had nearly cut off your index finger from the rotor on a battery operated helicopter you had been playing with. I realized it doesn’t matter how old you are, accidents can happen any time and at any age. Early Sunday morning on a beautiful Mother’s day, we left you and Travis at home, while we went for coffee, and to check around for yard sales. At this stage in your life you and Travis were interested in motocross bike racing, so you built a wood ramp in the street to jump over. To make it more interesting, you wadded up newspaper, placed it under the ramp, then poured on gasoline and lit it. You were not aware that you had spilled some gas on your clothes, so, when you jumped over the ramp, your Levis caught fire. Your sock and gym shoe melted onto your right foot. When Red and I returned, we found a note taped to the front door from a neighbor. “Gregg was burned badly. We took him to the hospital” Jumping in the truck, we headed to the nearest hospital. You weren’t there. We tried another one that was close in proximity. If only cell phones were available then we could have been notified right away. You were still in the waiting room. After lots of paperwork and signatures, you were seen by the emergency physician. Your leg was burned badly, but your foot and ankle were worse. The

doctor used tweezers to remove the embedded sock and rubber shoe from your skin. It was tedious and time consuming. You laid on the gurney never making a fuss. As for me, you guessed it, I slid down the wall to the floor and ed out. I couldn’t handle the awful sight. It was ridiculous to think that I once planned on going to medical school, like my grandfather. I was clearly too squeamish for that line of work. I took you back to the hospital’s burn center everyday to have your bandages changed, until a nurse showed me how to do it without pulling off any more skin in the process. I bought bandages and burn ointment by the large grocery sack full. One hot summer day after having the bandages on for two months, you had your fill of pampering your burns. You had not been able to get your leg or foot wet for a long time. As I looked out the living room window, I saw you swimming in the neighbor’s pool. Fortunately, your foot and ankle had healed enough so that you didn’t get an infection, and it didn’t cause the scaring to be any worse. You liked motorcycles, which was not a mutual fancy on Red’s or my part. You would put a wood ramp on the tailgate of the pickup truck, and load your cycle to take it to the desert. One week after getting a new carport installed, you loaded the cycle the same way you always did. As you rode the cycle up the ramp, BAM! You hit your forehead against the edge of the new metal carport, cutting your head badly, bleeding profusely, and going backwards off the ramp with the cycle falling on top of you. It’s a miracle you didn’t cut off your head. Wonders never cease. When you were in high school, it terrified me when you ed the wrestling team. I talked to your coach, telling him it was impossible for you to be on the team with your arms so messed up. The coach said, “Let him do it if he wants.” I knew the serious ramifications, but let you do it anyway. This was a big mistake, because you could have hurt your arms worse. I cringed at every wrestling match, thinking you would hurt your arms. I would actually come home from a match so tense and stressed that I would vomit. We both have sensitive stomachs. It was difficult for you to do pushups, because you couldn’t straighten you arms. Neither could you put your arms behind your back. You had a naive belief that nothing could happen to you, because there was no way that another wrestler

could pin your arms back. Yeah, right. Somehow, you were unscathed from your wrestling experiences. Thank you, Lord! I always pleaded with you, “Please don’t get in trouble with the law, because a police officer will think you are resisting arrest when you can’t put your arms behind your back. They could easily break them trying to get them in handcuffs.” The officers will apply as much force as they deem necessary to achieve their goal. It doesn’t matter what you tell them, because they are used to hearing every type of an excuse under the sun. Gregg, you were too accident prone. I decided to take you to a hypnotist to find out why, and to give you a post hypnotic suggestion to stay safe. I had already had a lot of success with hypnosis in my life when I sought help for my queasiness at the sight of blood. I had to get a handle on it, before I lost my job as a police officer. I was so impressed with hypnosis, that I was training to become a hypnotherapist. One of my instructors agreed to put you under to find out the underlying cause of your accidents. What I heard shocked me, but it made a lot of sense. She relayed what you said to her. “I must have been a very bad boy as a baby to make a minister so angry that he nearly beat me to death. I don’t deserve good things to happen to me.” I thought, How sad that an adult, worse yet, a man of the cloth, could take out his frustrations on a small child and physically and emotionally maim him. It wasn’t fair. The hypnotist said you were actually sabotaging yourself as a form of self-punishment. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. For example, if you tell a child that he’s stupid, he spends the rest of his life thinking it’s so. The remarkable thing after hypnosis was you didn’t have another accident for years. When you started having accidents as an adult, I should have given you reinforcement using post hypnotic suggestions. Gregg, I think throughout your life, you got in your mind that you are in some way inadequate, maybe your grades didn’t measure up or you lost a girlfriend. Some people lose jobs, wreck a car, or get a divorce during phases in their lives. I think you need to quit beating yourself up for things that have happened in the past, and move forward with confidence and faith. You have so many wonderful qualities—kind, caring, helpful, smart, persistent, and nice looking. What’s not to love?

I think you and others need a yearly mental checkup the same as you need an annual physical exam. That way you can nip emotional trauma in the bud. Hypnosis is the quickest way to achieve these results.

CHAPTER 17

Your friends called you “Popeye.” I hated the nickname. To them you looked like the sailor in the cartoons, the hero character with big biceps and short arms. The only real similarity was you both liked spinach. Gregg, I don’t think I ever mentioned to you that your father, Randall, had tattoos of birds on his chest. When he flexed his pectoral muscles the birds looked like they were in flight. Randall got them while in the Navy. One day without permission, you had your girlfriend’s name tattooed on your forearm and other tattoos followed. That was shortly after the fiasco of getting your ear pierced, and wearing an earring in the shape of a marijuana leaf. As parents and police officers we were not pleased at that show of individuality. I was afraid you would run away to search for your biological dad. So when you turned fifteen, Red and I took you to Ohio to meet your father. I had written to Randall years ago but I never heard from him. Writing was my only way of letting him know how you were doing. It was like a progress report, yet he never responded. When I finally set a time to meet and made , I asked, “Why didn’t you write back to me?” He said, “I never received a letter from you.” “But I wrote to you at your Mom’s address,” I asserted. He called his mother right away and asked her about the letters. She was truthful with him. “Son, I threw them all away unopened, because you are a married man and didn’t need any family problems.” Believe it or not, I understood her reasoning. But Randall had missed out on all the significant events of your early years. You looked forward to meeting your Dad. You only had an hour together but that hour was so important to you. It was the best thing I could have done. I was so thankful that Red also agreed that it was necessary. I asked Randall not to tell

you that we had never married, unless you asked point blank. It didn’t come up in the conversation. I was waiting for the right time, knowing it would be within a year or two. My selfish reason for not fes sooner was my fear that you would think less of me. It was not fair to you. I had always told you your Dad was a good person, but we just didn’t see eye to eye and grew apart. It didn’t mean that either one of us was flawed. We just had to go our separate ways. Now you were able to put a face to your real Dad. You could compare looks, personality, and yes, ears. Randall had an ear that never opened all the way at the top just like yours. Deep down in my heart, I don’t think Randall was convinced you were his son until that day. I had a different lifestyle, traveling a lot and working with many entertainers. He probably thought that I lived a wild life, once I was away from the little town where I grew up. That was not so. I didn’t date for a year in an half after you were born, and then I would only accept luncheon dates. I was not going to get involved romantically. Been there —done that. You and I were a package deal—double or nothing. Where ever I went, you went. Those were the conditions. They could take it or leave it! You grew up to be so much like Randall. There is a lot more to genetics than meets the eye. You laughed alike. How could you do that? You had never been around him to imitate his laugh. Randall’s love for nature rubbed off on you, but how? You craved the great outdoors, even though you were never around that way of life. You had a real need to hunt and fish, yet we had always lived in the city. I guess your Native American traits were inherent and always brewing inside of you. I understand inheriting the same body build through genes. I understand how you walked just like your Dad, but the other idiosyncrasies like the way you smoked, the way you would tilt your head, or the way you would lean against a door frame remained a mystery to me. How could you pick up these habits, when you weren’t around him? Sometimes sadness would come over me when I would think, What if Randall becomes ill? There would be no way I would find out, and no way to help. Oh, what if he died, and I didn’t know about it. Would my intuition kick in?”

What would I say to him if I ever saw him again? I know the answer to that question. I would say he had brought me much happiness when we were together, and I wish him well in whatever he does. Without him I would not have learned the depths of love, nor the independence and responsibility needed to be a single Mom. I would wish him a good life, and tell him that I never had any harsh words toward him. I would say he made the right decision years ago, to marry the woman who made him feel so loved. My life has been a fruitful one and very fulfilling. I learned the beauty and spontaneity of a first love, and that love the second time around can be more beautiful, down to earth, and lasting. Red and I have been married for many years and attribute the success to lots of laughter, honesty, and respect for each other’s opinion, even though vastly different. I joked that I majored in psychology because he was going to be my lifetime project. It would take me that long to figure out how and why he thinks the way he does.

MARRIAGE

I’ve never seen a perfect marriage, Because I’ve never seen a perfect person. As humans, we all have our faults and frailties. A good marriage requires teamwork, not competition. It’s heading in the same direction Toward worthwhile goals, Always striving to reach your dreams. Marriage is a lifetime project, Where selfishness is a thing of the past.

It’s a leap of faith, Where you can hopefully land on both feet. It’s being lovable when the other is being obstinate. It’s having mutual respect for each other, Whether you agree or not. It’s never letting in-laws or kids dictate your actions. It’s never swearing or throwing insults at the other, Or resorting to deception or manipulation. It’s being kind in the face of rudeness, And never saying “I told you so,” Or trying to get in the last word. It’s being patient when the other isn’t, And a willingness to go the extra mile. It’s being comionate when your partner is hurting, And fixing a bowl of soup when the other is sick. It’s gaining an earned trust between the two of you By always being honest, loyal and fair. It’s sharing joys, fears, a bed and kids. And not necessarily in that order. It’s helping with the chores and the financial burden, And giving no mandates or ultimatums.

There’s no possessiveness, Because love only wants the best for the other. It’s giving a compliment when due, And a wink when unexpected, Throwing in an occasional surprise and a candlelight dinner. It’s forgiving and overlooking mistakes, And being as flexible as possible. It’s laughing at yourself and with each other, As often as you can, And holding hands every chance you get. It’s bringing smiles to the breakfast table, And sharing after work hugs. For the world would be a dreary place Without the sunshine you bring to each other. And the rewards of this teamwork are priceless. It brings strength, contentment and stability To the institution called marriage. And if it doesn’t, there’s no marriage, Only the institution.

G.J. Lee

CHAPTER 18

Gregg, when you were a senior in high school, the perfect time to tell you about your real father came. You were in the hospital having surgery to remove a cyst on the end of your tongue duct. The cyst was caused by the nasty habit of chewing tobacco. Your girlfriend was sitting by your side when you told me that you had something important to tell me. I noticed that you were anxious so I said, “Go ahead sweetheart.” You hesitated for a moment then blurted, “I’m going to be a Dad.” I took a deep breath and with a smile said, “Congratulations.” Then I asked Sherry to leave the room for a minute while I had a word with you. She must have been worried that I was upset about the situation, but this was that perfect time I had been waiting for. The man in the next hospital bed got an earful that day. He heard me tell you that Randall and I were never married and some of the details. When Sherry came back into the room, he heard me tell her that I was not angry. In fact I had been in the same situation years ago, and I now wished you both the very best. This must have sounded like another episode of a soap opera. As much as we disliked hospitals, we spent a lot of time in them during that year. Red had been shot in the head three months prior to your cyst surgery. On March 2, 1980, he was working graveyard shift, patrolling the Westside of Las Vegas. At first, I was not sure he would survive. Secondly, if he pulled through, would he have brain damage or diminished capacity? He bounced back after a year of numerous surgeries and physical therapy on his mouth plus two years of dental reconstruction. Those were trying times. I always knew he was a tough guy, but I was shocked that he went back to work within three months. He still had a bullet in his head and was unable to open his mouth. He acted as if he was practicing to be a ventriloquist. He could have taken a medical retirement, but that was not for him.

You married Sherry and had a daughter then a son. You worked two jobs to make ends meet. You were literally chief cook and bottle washer. Whenever you came to visit, you had the children with you. I enjoyed watching you, as a dad who was very attentive toward his children. You divorced five years later. Sherry served you papers the day after Christmas. I so vividly, because I took a lot of pictures during the holiday. You and Sherry were lovingly snuggling on the sofa and playing with the two children. Little did any of us suspect the despair the following day would bring. It was harder on you than I ever imagined, and I never gave you the emotional you needed. I am sorry for that. Sherry remarried right after the divorce. She kept taking you back to court for more child- every time you received a pay raise. The kids didn’t want to spend any time with you, because you had rules. They had to do their homework and chores. When they were teenagers they dropped out of school, neither going past the ninth grade. It was a long time before you found out that they had quit school. You would have never allowed that if they were living with you. Sherry died much too young at age thirty seven of a blood clot. By this time the kids were already on their own, hanging out in the streets. Later, after much consideration, and a trip to Ohio to see your Grandpa Jim, you decided to remarry. I think you must have asked your grandpa if he felt you should marry again. You needed someone else’s advice. I know you were scared to death about going through all that emotional upheaval, but you needed to learn to trust again. You and your new wife, Kalani, got along well. She was lovely, smart and gracious. She was also a hard worker and wonderful cook. You had a beautiful daughter. What a welcome addition! Your financial situation was quite constricted since you paid the maximum child for your two children with Sherry. You even paid child for your fourteen year old daughter after she had run away. You weren’t told of the situation for months. As an adult, I think the job you liked best was fireman and EMT. It was a career

where you could help others and often save lives. Because you were such a good cook, you could almost name the fire station you wanted to work at, unlike the other rookies. Then your life began to erode from marital problems and post traumatic stress of the job. I watched you go through depression and felt so helpless. After eighteen years of marriage, you divorced. I’m going to let you write the sequel of this story pertaining to your trials and tribulations as an adult and a parent because I don’t know all the facts, and I don’t want to slant or distort the truth.

CHAPTER 19

You had so graciously offered to take care of your grandmother who was living with Red and me. We were in dire need of a vacation. When we arrived home after two glorious weeks in Cancun, there was a huge stack of mail to go through. What’s this? I thought when I saw the letter addressed to you with your real Dad’s return address. You had opened the letter, and evidently left it there for me to read. I knew that you had been trying to Randall to find out about any health problems you may have inherited. The letter was not from him but from his wife. She wrote, “Enclosed are a few pictures of Randall. Unfortunately, this is all I have. He had been ill for a long time… He ed away here at home on his 64th birthday. The words became blurry, and I couldn’t read anymore. I ran to the bedroom as if it were only yesterday we were together. I cried and cried. No one else was in the house at the time, so, with red eyes and a runny nose, I went back to the kitchen to read the rest of the letter. It was a beautiful letter that told of your real Dad’s strengths. “He was a man’s man. One of few words who lived a simple life,” she wrote. I was so sad, but I could not outwardly mourn his death. I would secretly go to the bedroom, if I felt I was going to cry some more. I did this for months until the pain slowly subsided. Since we had a child together, there was a bond between us. Regrets are a terrible thing to store inside. I don’t wish anyone to suffer this burden. Regrets are bad because they imply unfinished business. I mourned because it was too late for any sort of resolution or forgiveness. I grieved for the errors of my past. I had lied about the circumstances, because, unlike today’s culture, being an unwed mother brought shame to me and my family. I wanted to avoid that at all costs. I have lived a lie for much too long. Gregg, I also grieved for you because you missed out on all the things you loved to do like hunting, fishing, and living in the country. Instead you lived in big cities, owned silk shirts, Italian leather shoes and wore expensive cologne. That

was your Grandpa Jim’s influence on you, but it wasn’t who you really were. To lament over things that could have been is useless. Do what you can to mend fences. Say what you can say to resolve issues while that person is still alive. Make sure you do it. Then there will be no mourning, no regrets and that’s a good thing. I kept thinking about the song “Suzanne” by James Taylor. It played over and over in my mind. “Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, I’ve seen lonely nights that I thought would never end… But I always thought I’d see you one more time again.” The last stanza stabbed at my heart. The melody was haunting. I couldn’t make the words go away. I’d stare off into space as if in a catatonic state yet distantly hear the words repeating, “But I always thought I’d see you one more time again.” I also thought of you, Gregg, and how you only spent one hour with your biological Dad your entire life. Your first meeting was your last. It was disheartening. When you were forty-four, I received a surprise phone call from Randall’s son, Jerry. He knew about your existence. Someone had told him the whole story. He wanted to know when he could meet you. He said that he had always wanted a brother, and now he had one. What a wonderful conversation we had. Right away I felt close to him. He said, “I have a few things of Dad’s that I would like to give to Gregg. I really want to know him better. Please have Gregg call me.” You called Jerry back and kept in touch with him. A year had ed until you had saved enough money to fly back to meet your new family. It was good that at last you were getting acquainted with your brother and sister. They accepted you with open arms as did their mother. I was touched when your brother, Jerry, gave you Randall’s watch and pocketknife. After your divorce, I thought it was so nice that Jerry offered to fly to Las Vegas

to help you pack, and move back with him and his wife, until you could find a place of your own. While in Las Vegas Jerry would stay at Red’s and my house. You went to the airport to get him. I was so excited anticipating the arrival. When I heard the car drive up I ran to the door. I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. I stepped back to get a better look. He was taller than I expected and his hair was pulled back in a long braid. He shyly said, “Well, was I what you expected?” then he grinned and laughed like Randall. “Oh Yes, I said. You’re just right.” As we ate dinner I watched his every move. I could see Randall in him just like I see Randall in you. As you both ate, I thought about the words to the song that had been haunting me, interfering with my peace of mind. “But I always thought I’d see you one more time again,” And now as if a cloud had lifted, I felt peaceful. I did see Randall one more time again. And every time I looked at you and your brother, I could see Randall. He’s still alive in both of you. When Jerry left, I found a lovely thank you card on the nightstand with a note inside saying, “I’ll keep an eye on him. Got you covered.” Jerry knew I was worried about your state of mind. He was a Christian, had served in the military and took care of his dad until he died. Having the opportunity to meet him made me so happy. I thought, Now the boys are going to recap their lives to each other while sitting on a creek bank fishing. They are going to hunt together and share experiences. Gregg will be wearing Levis, flannel shirts, and boots. You and Jerry became very close. How great is that! Five months later, Jerry felt sick. “Just indigestion,” he told you. He was in denial, he was having heart problems, and a possible heart attack. Luckily you were there to give him the help he needed, and get him to the hospital. Your EMT training paid off. Life takes so many odd twists and turns but as long as we are persistent in our search for happiness and contentment, we will survive. Isn’t life grand!

EPILOGUE

Nightmare in Kentucky

Gregg had only been in his new house two weeks when we visited him. He had to trim trees, so we were able to get the motorhome back though the thick woods where he lived. It was the last house in the holler. The home had three bedrooms and two and a half baths with a large basement. He had a wood shed and a big barn with a porch on the back—yes, a porch. Red and I have traveled a lot but we have never seen a porch on a barn. Gregg said that the area was used by the previous owner for entertaining, and for the bluegrass musicians that would drop by. Our son dug a large fire pit, where he could barbeque outside, near a clearing of trees close to some old wood benches and a picnic table. It was a perfect setting for a romantic afternoon, peaceful and quiet. The only sounds were from a waterfall and the whip-poor-wills. We were so pleased with Gregg’s decision to buy the home. It was on six acres of land on the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forrest. It was rugged land, with a natural beauty to it. There were waterfalls and caves hidden down in a steep ravine. There were wild blackberry bushes, grapevines and numerous fruit trees on the property. Each fencepost had a birdhouse on it—twenty eight in all. The land was well suited for him, especially since he loves to hunt and fish. Deer and wild turkeys would walk around as though they owned the place. Of course, I didn’t like the copperheads and water moccasins in the area. Nor did I like the howling of the coyotes at night, and the news of a bear being spotted on top of the ridge. But I guess that comes with the territory. Our son had finally found some happiness. It was not only a relief but a joy to see him turn his life around. He had seen some dark days and tough times, but that was all a thing of the past. We spent a glorious week with him. He even had a birthday party for Red, the night before we left. It was only June 24th but we also had an early Fourth of

July celebration before heading back to Las Vegas. Little did we know that just two hours after leaving Gregg’s home, all hell would break loose. Five vehicles barreled down the dusty gravel road, lead by the local sheriff and Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms (ATF) officers. They jumped out of their vehicles and released the search dogs from the suburban. They pounded on Gregg’s door. When he answered they pushed their way into the house. They jerked open cupboard doors and threw things to the floor. They yelled, “Where’s the gun you purchased at the pawn shop three months ago?” Gregg pointed to its location. He had showed it to us earlier in the week, and it was a beauty. It had one of the most unusual wood stocks that I had ever seen. The striations of wood looked like marbling. The sheriff immediately confiscated it, and stated that he had violated the Brady bill. An ATF agent said, “You are not allowed to purchase a gun when you have an outstanding warrant from the state of Nevada. You knowingly lied on the gun registration form.” “I don’t have any warrants,” said Gregg, emphatically, but they pushed him aside. “Do you have any other guns in the house? “Yes,” Gregg answered. Another ATF agent yelled, “Show us where they are.” Gregg complied by taking them down to the basement, pointing out his hunting rifles and hand guns. All of them were immediately confiscated as well as the ammunition. “You can’t transport guns across the state line,” growled the sheriff with a conniving grin. “How was I supposed to move from one state to another without bringing all my belongings? Was I supposed to leave my guns behind?” asked Gregg. No one answered him. A third ATF agent shouted, “Where are the rocket launchers and the grenades?” Gregg said, “I don’t have anything like that!” They grabbed his girlfriend and said “show us the barn.” They all headed to the back yard while Gregg shoved open the barn door. Carla pointed to a few left over bottle rockets and sparklers from the birthday celebration the night prior. An agent yelled, “Don’t insult us by showing us fireworks. Gregg, what terrorist group do you belong to?” Gregg stood there in shock and just shook his head saying “None, absolutely

none!” They searched through the barn and spotted two ammo boxes that Gregg’s brother, Travis, had bought at Phil’s Salvage, an old military supply outlet in Las Vegas. His brother gave them to him for storage right before he moved. ATF opened the boxes only to find some tools. They left his girlfriend, Carla, behind while they led Gregg and the dogs down the ravine into the caves. “Where’s the still?” hollered the fat sheriff panting from the exertion. “I don’t have a still!” Gregg insisted. They ignored him. The sheriff pulled up a plant called clematis and said he would also be booking him for growing marijuana. This variation of clematis has a beautiful purple bloom, and the leaves are nothing like the seven leaf marijuana plant. “What is going on, said Gregg? I’ve only lived here for three weeks. Where are you getting the information that I’m a terrorist, growing marijuana, transporting guns illegally, and have a warrant in Nevada? It’s all erroneous!” His words fell on deaf ears. After hours of combing the property, the law enforcement headed back to the house. Gregg had some boxes that weren’t unpacked yet but ATF took care of that. They threw the contents on the floor with total disregard to the cartons marked “fragile.” “There,” shouted the sheriff, as he stood back watching and occasionally kicked a few boxes trying to appear important. He pointed to half of a white pill, the other half crumbled in the bottom of a box. It was booked into evidence as meth. It was really an Imitrex for migraine headaches. Gregg’s ditsy girlfriend, who I met in Las Vegas, had followed him to Kentucky. Carla was Romani, a true gypsy. She stood in the kitchen frightened at what was happening. They grabbed her purse sitting on the table and dumped it out. They found a t in it. She was booked for possession of marijuana. We found out later, she should have been scared to death, because she was probably the unidentified informant. She would get drunk and call the sheriff whenever she and Gregg would have an argument. Since she was bi-polar, it was hard to tell what she might do next. She knew how to twist a story around better than anyone I have ever met. Speaking about twisting, she could twist men around her little finger, too. That day she tried to stay out of the way.

“Now, we don’t gotta book all them guns into evidence,” said the sheriff in a low raspy voice as he glanced over to one of the ATF agents and winked. I like this here particular gun with that there fancy stock and night vision scope. Gregg, you can up and sell it to me.” “No,” said Gregg. “Tell ya what,” said the sheriff “I’ll give you fifty dollars for it,” “It’s not for sale,” said Gregg, angrily. “You brung them guns over the state line illegally,” bellowed the sheriff, as he lit another cigarette off the one he just finished, and threw the butt on the kitchen floor. The sheriff pulled out his handcuffs, and booked Gregg on the charges of buying a gun under false pretenses and possession of marijuana and meth. He and Carla were hauled off to the Mammoth County jail. There he stayed for three days. Carla only spent one night and was released. She took Gregg’s credit card and got cash to bail him out. Gregg kept all of this quiet from us. He didn’t want to upset his Dad since he was in poor health. Red didn’t like his girlfriend to boot. Speaking of boot, actually, that’s what his Dad wanted to do—give Carla the boot. But it wasn’t up to Red. She wasn’t all bad. She was a kindred spirit to me in some ways, reminding me of my hippy days. She loved costume jewelry, boots and dragonflies. Gregg had a lot of expenses trying to straighten out this mess. He paid a $2500 retainer fee to an attorney and now was broke. A court date was set, so he was playing the waiting game while out on bail. A few weeks later, an elderly couple invited Gregg and his girlfriend for dinner. Carla made a crockpot of beans. They rode down the holler on the all-terrain vehicle. (ATV) Carla was her usual self-drunk. Gregg drank a beer. After a pleasing meal, Gregg got on the four-wheeler and headed to the front door to get Carla. She stepped around the side of the double wide trailer carrying the crockpot. Gregg immediately swerved to miss her, flipping the four-wheeler on top of him. He was airlifted to Morehead Hospital with a possible broken back. Fortunately, it was only a few cracked vertebrae. After several days he was

released and headed home to mend. Then came another bombshell. The county dropped the charges after Gregg was assessed a hefty fine. Then the Feds moved in. ATF returned and rearrested him for giving a false statement on the gun registration form, transporting weapons across state lines, and being an unlawful of drugs while in possession of firearms. These felony charges were punishable by ten years in prison, $250,000 fine, and three years of supervised release. Another stipulation was forfeiture of all his weapons with a special mandatory assessment of $100 for each. There were thirteen guns in all. Gregg was transported to Lexington. Of course, we didn’t find out what had transpired for five more days. Gregg was still sitting in jail without an attorney to represent him, no phone calls, and mad as hell. I first knew about the arrest when a special agent for the ATF called me saying that Gregg had pleaded with him to notify his parents. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. In my state of shock, I forgot to ask the name of the federal facility. Without knowing the exact name, or the county it was in, I was getting nowhere. I finally got the information, and called the intake officer in the jail, begging him to take Gregg out of general population, and put him on suicide watch. He had tried to hang himself two years prior, when he was distraught over his divorce. That had been a horrifying realization when I heard about it. No mother ever wants to hear such disturbing news. This incident could send him over the edge. Besides, I didn’t want him to be gang raped by some of the prison population. My husband and I being former cops had seen firsthand some of the horror and abuse that occurs behind bars. I knew exactly what Gregg was thinking; “How in the hell did this happen?” Once he realized he was stuck in prison for a while, his mind darted to other worries. His house wasn’t secured, his dogs weren’t being fed, his first house payment was due, as well as utilities, and he is sitting in prison unable to take care of anything. Besides he didn’t know any neighbors, except the elderly couple who invited him to dinner. After this incident they wouldn’t want to know him. Well I was wrong about that. In reality this was a feather in his cap to the locals. They thought that he had made a name for himself. He was new to the area and

the locals said he was just being tested by Kentucky justice which either makes you or breaks you. Go figure? What kind of mentality is this, I thought? I wouldn’t live in that neck of the woods if you gave me a thousand acres. I called all five attorneys in the neighboring town to see who Gregg had on retainer. I found the one he had hired. Naturally, it was the last call I made. The local attorney was not familiar with federal law, and said that I would need to hire a federal attorney. For once in my life I wished I was computer literate so I could get on the internet and find a list of federal attorneys in the area. I called directory assistance in Lexington. I asked for the name and number of the court house. I called and explained to the first person who answered, that I was out of state and needed to know the names of a few judges. I then called their secretaries trying to quickly build a rapport and plead for their assistance. I asked, “Which attorney would you recommend? Are there any public defenders that are fair and hard working?” After spending all day making phone calls, I was exhausted and literally shaking from the inside out. Nevertheless, I knew it was nothing compared to the emotional roller-coaster Gregg was on. If we had only known at the time this first occurred we could have turned the motorhome around and headed back to Kentucky. But who knows what might have happened when you are dealing with a redneck sheriff. We might have been booked for interference or obstruction of justice. I thought, Why wasn’t he arraigned in seventy-two hours according to the law? He had been in lock-up in Lexington for five days. I had so many questions and so little time. I was able to convince one attorney to take the case, pro-bono. Many phone conversations ensued after that. I called Gregg’s half-brother, Jerry, who lived two hours away and asked him to please drive to Lexington and bail him out. I was trying to send money by Western Union. I had never done that before, so I needed to learn about the process. As a matter of fact, all day had been a series of first-time events for me to handle—ones I don’t want to experience ever again in my lifetime. There was nothing to do now but wait. Gregg was put on house arrest, and

assigned a probation officer who would stop by at any given time to check on him. His court date was now set. Months ed before the attorney called with good news. ATF was ready to drop all the gun charges, if Gregg would plead guilty to possession of a controlled substance, marijuana—a misdemeanor. They didn’t charge him with meth because they must have run an analysis and found the white half of a pill was Imitrex for which Gregg had a prescription. ATF needed to distance themselves from the drummed up charges. But even the marijuana was a humbug charge, because it was in Carla’s purse. Technically, it was an unlawful search and seizure, since it wasn’t in plain sight for the sheriff or ATF to see when they entered the residence. Had it been me, I would have gone through the jury trial but the attorney said “No, Definitely not! You don’t want this case to go to trial. Trails are too iffy. Gregg should take the deal.” My husband agreed with the federal attorney. Red said to me, “Maybe some of the jurors wouldn’t understand the jury process, or maybe they are crooked like the sheriff and waiting for a pay-off. Don’t forget they could also be relatives.” “Son, I suggest you go for the plea bargain,” said Red. I objected, “Gregg is innocent!” I said. I kept forgetting that we were dealing with some shady characters. Gregg said, that at the time of his first arrest, the redneck sheriff argued with one of the ATF agents over which one was going to get the rifle with the night vision scope. How crooked is that? Meanwhile, I went to an attorney in Las Vegas and got affidavits stating that Gregg had no warrants for his arrest. Judge Aaron also wrote an affidavit stating that Gregg only had a “disturbing the peace” charge and no further court cases. But here’s the zinger. The incompetent court clerk put a status check date on the judge’s calendar unbeknownst to the judge or attorney. When Gregg did not show up in court, a warrant was issued for his arrest. It was all a big mistake by the court clerk, but oh, what dire consequences occurred! I sent the affidavits by over-night mail to the federal attorney. We flew to Lexington, anxious to get this over with. Much to my dismay, nothing happened. That was quite disturbing. The probation officer hadn’t finished his report in time, so only the plea bargain was entered. Sentencing was put off for another

four months. Yuk. I’m not one to sit in limbo wondering what the outcome might be and neither is Gregg. The attorney said that Gregg could get one year in jail and/or a one thousand dollar fine, or probation and a fine. I prayed for probation. Three months had past and I decided to write a letter to the judge, so he would receive it a week before the sentencing. I didn’t want him to forget Gregg’s name or the case. It had to be fresh in the judge’s mind.

Dear Judge Woods,

We are the parents of Gregory Beal who came before you on January 7, 2008. He was represented by attorney Kent Parsons. We flew to Lexington for his trial. He accepted a plea bargain agreement with ATF to drop the gun charges, and to plea to possession of a controlled substance-a misdemeanor. Sentencing didn’t take place on this date, because the probation officer’s report was not turned in yet. We will not be able to return to Lexington again to attend Gregory’s sentence hearing on April 7, 2008. We wanted to give you some insight on who Gregory is. He is honest and truthful as you will see in the arrest reports. He did not try to lie, deceive, or resist arrest, because both my husband and I are former police officers. Gregory was taught to respect the uniform no matter how unprofessional the conduct of the officers might be. When he was asked if he had any other weapons, he showed ATF his other guns (some of which were gifts from his grandparents and us). He is an avid hunter and fisherman, hence he loves the Kentucky wilderness. He lived in Fairfield for only three weeks until all hell broke loose. He had bought a Savage hunting rifle at the pawn shop, and originally had it on layaway before making the last payment, and taking it home. ATF said that he lied on the registration form, re: the Brady Bill, but he didn’t have any outstanding warrants from Nevada, nor was he a known drug ab as indicated in the charges. (See the affidavits in his file from Judge Aaron and Attorney Bradley Clemmons.) The ramifications have been great. Mammoth County News ran a front page

article with pictures sensationalizing the arrest, making him look like a terrorist. As a result, the property insurance on his house was immediately cancelled and his reputation tarnished. He had local and federal attorneys to retain, mortgage payments and utilities past due, bail money to reimburse, animals to feed, and all the while he was sitting in prison in Lexington. After he made bail, Gregory was later put on house arrest, unable to work or even leave the county. Gregg moved to Kentucky after a devastating divorce. He lost everything: his wife after eighteen years of marriage, daughter, home, car, his job of seventeen years as a fireman/EMT, health insurance, and even his dog. He went through some tough times. He took drugs for a while and became despondent. He knew that he needed help so he sought counseling and drug rehab. He moved in with us during this transition and put his life back together. He was off drugs for a year and a half until his girlfriend moved in with him in Fairfield in June. She is no longer in the picture and neither are drugs. Gregg is a kind, gregarious fellow, who, just two weeks prior to his arrest, pulled a man and his two young children from a wrecked car, and got them to safety. He often stops to help a stranded motorist. He was on call by the blood bank in Las Vegas when their plasma supply was low. It was not uncommon to see Gregg take food to the homeless or give them a helping hand. Before leaving Las Vegas, he gave his camping trailer to a homeless man, so he would have a place to live. Also, he would lovingly take care of his ninety year old grandmother while we went on vacations. We are asking for leniency in his sentencing. Please consider his character, for he is not a hardened criminal. If he remains in Kentucky, he can be an asset to the community.

Sincerely, Jorjan and DC Beal

P.S. We were unable to get the guns returned to us in January as promised. Our

background check should not be an issue. We have called several times but we were told by special agent Stan Tanner that it could take anywhere from one day to three months. It’s been four months. We will keep inquiring.

Three and a half months after Gregg hurt his back from the ATV wreck, the sheriff came to the house and pounded on the door. It was nine at night. Of course he was home because he was on house arrest. Gregg talked to him through the door without opening it. The sheriff kept saying “Let me in.” Gregg kept asking, “Why?” The ignoramus proceeded to kick in his door and write him a ticket for DUI (driving under the influence), when he had the ATV accident on private property three and a half months ago. There was neither a blood alcohol test run nor a breathalyzer given, because he was airlifted by Flight for Life to the hospital right away. If that hospital ran blood work, it’s not likely the sheriff would know how to get the results. By the way, that was a $15,000 fee for the helicopter to go one hundred miles. He couldn’t afford another retainer for a lawyer on the DUI charge. When Gregg went to court on that charge he was found guilty, and his driver’s license was revoked for one year, and he was fined $650. He had to go to counseling twice a week for six months with a fee of thirty dollars each class. Keep in the mind he lives in the middle of nowhere. He needed to drive to the grocery store and to counseling since he lived miles from any town, but that was not going to happen. After walking the distance a few times, he decided to pay neighbors to take him to the places he needed to be, if they were willing. Just another added expense. “What kind of kangaroo court system do they have?” I ranted. “Will this harassment ever end?” I found out that if you were riding a horse or driving a lawn mower while intoxicated, even in your own back yard, you could be arrested for DUI. Worse yet, a long time resident of Fairfield told me that you had to be real careful on holidays, because if you had been drinking, the sheriff might take the opportunity to come to your driveway, blow his horn, and expect you to step out

to see what he wants. The neighbor warned, “Don’t dare leave your house because you’ll be booked for being Drunk Under the Influence (DUI) in public, even if you are on your front porch,” On the day of Gregg’s federal sentencing, I waited anxiously by the phone to hear the results from his brother. Jerry called and said, “I have someone who wants to speak to you.” My heart sunk until I heard Gregg’s voice. “Hi Mom. I got a year’s probation and must be monitored during that time, and I got a fine of $1,000.” Even though the Feds required that he be at home from eight o’clock at night to eight o’clock in the morning, he had been able to drive as long as he didn’t leave the county. But it was different now that he had been charged with DUI. He was stuck right where he lived. He was relieved when the year was up on his probation by the Feds. During this time he was not allowed to leave the county or the state or have any weapons. Even though he had lost his driving privileges, he could now leave the state if someone else was driving, and he didn’t have to get permission from his parole officer. He felt free. He could also go hunting again with a rifle rather than a cross-bow. Eight months later, the local sheriff was fired for having sex in the police car with an under aged girl. Gregg smiled when he heard the news that the sheriff was canned. A year later, out of the blue, a man knocked on Gregg’s door to ask for his vote in the election for sheriff. Who do you think it was? Yes, the nasty, ousted sheriff. I wondered how anyone could vote for him knowing full well what type of person he was. But through fear, intimidation, and all his relatives in the county, he could easily be re-elected. Gregg told the former sheriff he wouldn’t be getting his vote, and pointed to the big boot print on the front door. “I’m still waiting for you to clean my door. I had to have it repaired after you kicked it in. That boot print is a reminder of what sort of person you are.” The Sheriff just laughed and said “Do you still have that Savage Rifle? “Yes,” said Gregg.

“Well, when I win this here election, I’ll be a needin’ that there gun with the night vision scope.” “It’s not for sale!” Gregg said, emphatically. “I guess you didn’t hear me,” snarled the sheriff. I said I’ll be a needin’ that there gun. I’ll be back for it in November.” When I heard this I prayed, “Oh Lord, may he lose the election.” I kept thinking I ought to fly to Kentucky and campaign strongly against him. No county needs a crooked, immoral, illiterate sheriff like him. On Election Day, I called Gregg to hear the outcome of the sheriff’s race. He lost. Halleluiah! That was sure a relief. A few months ago Gregg came home after visiting his brother, Jerry, for the week-end. It was cold in the house, so he went to the basement to build a fire in the stove. After cleaning out the ashes, he headed outside to dump the bucket over the hill. He spotted a light in the woods and called out. “Do you need some help?” He figured that someone got lost on the old trail and ended up on his property. It had happened before. Hikers often got turned around in the Daniel Boone National Forrest but never at night. “Are you lost?” Gregg shouted. There was still no answer. It can be unnerving to be lost in the woods at night and not know which way to go. “Can I help you?” he hollered again. Then without warning or provocation, shots rang out. Gregg hit the ground and crawled to the back door to grab his gun. Now he’s mad as hell. He opened fire in the area where he earlier saw the light. Then he realized that whoever was down there was not lost but making their way up to his home, the back way, by the old mill road to burglarize him. He figured they were probably surprised to find out that he had returned home. Someone must have seen him packing his truck and leaving the house on Friday. There appears to be a big problem in the mountains with people addicted to prescription drugs. It seems like everyone is on them, and no one is employed. Stealing is the main source of income for the addicts. “Did you call the sheriff?” I asked, when Gregg called to tell me what happened. “No, he wouldn’t respond if I did,” Gregg said. “I’m not even sure that it wasn’t

the sheriff himself and a deputy. The new sheriff isn’t going to respond to any shots fired or family disputes until the next day, because he doesn’t want to get in the middle of anything. No matter what the call may be, there is no quick response. It just isn’t going to happen. Besides I need to keep in mind that there are some things I can take care of myself. Kentucky law states I can shoot anyone who breaks into my house. Not that I would want to.” The last time I talked to the sheriff was when I was in town and wanted to report someone poisoning the dogs and deer in the area. As I stepped inside the office, the sheriff yelled, “Back up! Get outside the office door, then throw your scabbard inside on the floor, before you walk in, boy. That’s how we do things around here!” “Never mind,” I said to him, disgustedly, as I turned to leave. I said, “To hell with you,” under my breath. “Mom, I always wear my knife in a scabbard on my hip since I moved to this area. I won’t try to report anything else to him. I’ll just handle it myself. He’s scared of his own shadow.” The next call I received from Gregg was a welcomed relief. “Mom, I’ve decided to move out of the state. I’ve had my fill of this place.” And I responded, “Amen.”