Little Sister, Big Sister....

Donna Leanne Dickinson, was my little sister.  As annoying as a little sister could be, I loved and protected her.  We had moved from the "shack" and into a small house in town, across from the Baptist Church. Still in Kindergarten, even though the house was a little better, we still were so poor.  I realize now, we must have been on some kind of food stamp program, why we never had much food, I'm not sure about.  
One school morning, getting up, the house had ran out of gas/heat, we all cuddled in my parents room to keep warm that night.  We had no breakfast, but I remember my mother telling me "don't worry, when you get home from school there will be some food here".  Off to school I went, my sister wasn't in school yet.  Kindergarten, we had snack, carton of milk and some kind of cookies.   I remembered my sister was home with no food, so I ask the teacher, Mrs.  Neirgarth, could I bring some cookies and milk home for my sister, we don't have any food at our house.  Looking back, she probably thought how pitiful, but times were different then, people didn't stick their nose in other family business, although, many MANY times, I wish they would have.  She graciously gave me all the left over cookies and a couple cartons of milk for me and my sister.  Off to home I went, so excited to bring the treats home.  Oh boy was I in for trouble!  Walking into the house, presenting what I thought was a GREAT thing, my mother and father, asking where I had obtained them, when I told them, I was yelled at.  Scolded, my mother repeating "I TOLD YOU we would have food in the house".  Looking back, I'm sure she was more embarrassed then angry at me.  However, either my me and my asking for the snacks or by way of food stamps, we went to bed, cold, but with full bellies.  :)

The abuse continues......

When morning would come, another night over, they were always the worst.  I do not remember days being bad, never wonderful, but not like nights.    I used to pray for company, any, because he would be a little more guarded when we had people over.   My dad was strange, as abusive as he was to my mother, our animals, other men, us girls was protected as far as anyone ever coming near us, protected from swearing, anything bad, yet, he was our worse abuser by abusing our mother, animals etc. go figure.
By the time I was in Kindergarten, he worked very little, usually because of his drunk driving tickets, in and out of jail.  I remember me, my mother and sister getting up so early in the morning to go to the jail to pick him up from jail so he could go to work at the local sawmill.  I was laying on the floor of he car with a blanket and throwing up from being a combination of car sick and hungry.  Even though he worked, a little, his money all went to booze.  I remember many mornings going to school with no breakfast.  If we had any, it would be toast (no butter) with some of my moms coffee poured on it, or if we did happen to have butter, we would have bread, butter with sugar poured on it. Our toys were a couple Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans that I would pretend was my hooves for my horses and would run around the yard pretending to be a horse.  I really do not ever remember having a regular toy of any kind.  

The "shack" was probably the worst house we lived in, size, condition and we seemed to be the poorest during that time.  I also came down with pneumonia and rheumatic fever during the time we lived in that house.  I remember laying on the couch, I had been sick for about 4 days, when my dad told me I should get up and get a little exersize, when I tried, I fell to the floor.  I was taken to the hospital by a Aunt.  I spend about a month in the hospital, with rarely seeing either parent.  We had no car and with dad being gone and drunk most of the time, my mom had no way of coming to see me.  Horrible feeling, day after day, night after night, never seeing a parent or relative as a sick little girl.  I remember thinking, I hope Donna was okay without me there to sleep with her and keep her safe from the screams of the night.

Beginning of the end.

March 28th, I was born. Lower class I would say.  I was the oldest of two, my sister Donna was my younger sister.  We lived in Michigan, but moved to Colorado when I was still a toddler to be near my fathers parents.  My dad, a caring, protective father during most days, a alcoholic some days most nights.  My mother, loving, hard working woman married to a abusive alcoholic.  She only knew this kind of life, her father was the same way.  My father worked in the oil fields since he was 13 so a bunch of roughneck, mostly drinking men, pretty much raised him.    This set a stage for a very troubled, hard life for two young girls.  Not only was my father abusive to my mother when he was drinking, he spared our animals no remorse.  
My earliest memories was when I was 5 and started kindergarten.  We moved from home to home, at this point we lived in what I later referred to as the "shack".  It was, a very small, one bedroom, which me and my sister shared, my parents slept on a couch that turned into a bed, no real bathroom, a little closet with a bucket.  I recall laying in our little room, we had just got a kitten, probably a stray,  it was late, and I hear him come home, yelling at my mom, I knew what was coming.  I would lay and play a mind game, that I was convinced it worked, I could "will" my dad not to hit my mother, to be so drunk, just tonight, that he would just pass out by saying over and over under my breath "he is going to be good tonight, he is going to be good tonight".  Some times it worked, sometimes it didn't.  This particular night, it didn't work.  The kitten had made a horrible mistake, one that would cost him his life, he had gotten up on the table in front of my dad.  Out the door he went, the cries, from the little kitten, the banging as it hit the outside wall over and over and over until the cries were gone, his and mine.  This was the first of many very long nights to come.