My First Memory……

As this journey progresses, we will visit items and places both fond and frightening to us.  You will experience not only the feelings of the “front”,  but the balance of our pieces as well.  This can be a daunting task for those who think in two or even three dimensions.  Take yourself outside your body, your world, everything you THOUGHT you knew to be true and real.  Now, are all of your life that was based on those things you grew up learning, based your life on even if unconsciously, and learn that it was ll a lie!  Take that times a dozen, and put all fo it in the mixer at the same time.  Thats what we hear, feel and see all the time.  Enter the conflict at its purest.

Eugene Douglas Painter, was at best an evil….creature.  He stood 6’1″ tall and was a beefy 250#.  He was the product of many things we will delve into later.  He was bad.  Lets leave it at that for now.

We were about 5 years old, maybe less.  We lived on Vitoria Mountain, Cross Lanes, Charleston, West Virginia.  We had a small house on the side of the mountain that was literally, sliding down slowly each year.  Mom was selling Avon, or whatever crazy idea she had that month.  Sometimes she read Tarot Cards, others she well…  She was mom.  Dad was working for the State, and worked a lot.  I think the favorite thing about my childhood was the fact I learned to ride and love everything horse.  This in part to my Aunt and Cousins who made sure I was afflicted at an early age.  Thank you.

We were to clean our room as was the custom.  We spent a lot of time in our room when he was home.  We were the sort of boy that seemed to always get into trouble for various things.  Nothing terribly bad we thought, but nonetheless trouble.  Gene, being the authoritarian, made sure that we knew when we did not follow directions, or otherwise deviated from the things we were meant to do.  His punishments were swift in coming, long in duration and involved multiple stages of shame and pain.

We remember stand-in int he doorway of our room, being scolded for it not being cleaned as he wanted.  He had been working in our bathroom, we only had the one, and having a time of it.  When we were done with the beating for our room not being cleaned we were told to go out to the barn.  Gene came out to the barn, and wanted to make sure we did not for get the beating he just put on us, so he came with the shotgun.

As we got to the barn, he told me to watch as he constantly berated me; ” You dumb ass kid!, your nothing more than another whores bastard!, your mother and I wouldn’t have any issues if it weren’t for you!”.  These were not the last times we heard these words, hardly.   As we stood there crying, watching him spit on us as. he yelled and pointed the gun at my pony.  My little black and white Shetland pony.   I refused to look as he went to pull the trigger, the reminder of my room not being clean fast enough.  He threatened my life if I did not look!  So we tried to watch as he killed my pony.  The gun going off not 15 feet from me as my pony lay twitching on the ground.  I looked away at the last second, feeling my pony dying, slowly.  I thought he may have seen me as he grabbed my head and forced it within inches of the writhing pony as she suffered into peace.  I thought he saw us look away, I was sure he would kill us!  We cried, and he hit us more for that.  We then went to finish cleaning our room.

We have speculated for years as to why he would hate us so.  It wasn’t until the body’s 46th year that some light was shined into this, travesty of all time.  We always knew that Gene was an abusive bastard!  One for the ages!  It wasn’t till at this late juncture we found the nut did not fall far from the preverbal tree.  The root cause of it all……..

 

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