Some things I only heard about in 2007 from older siblings, beatings for little or no reason. Gordon Dad went after with a 2×4 board, Joyce he hunted down with a shotgun because she was dating an Italian, Theora beat unconscious over accidentally breaking something, and Wanda for the mistake of stepping onto the neighbors property and one other time, set up by Joan and Denis she was brutally beaten for a swear word. Then there was Carl, literally kicked around the garden because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and blamed for wrecking the carrot patch in the garden, as told by his own lips as he heaved great sobs in a conversation with Wanda and I also in 2007.

I ran away from home twice when I was 11 and 12, Once I got only as far as downtown Brocton, NY and when my friend Shirley, who was suppose to join me, did not show up I got scared and returned home, crawling back in through the downstairs bedroom window that I had crawled out of. But the next time I planned better. It was just me and I packed a small case and walked to town. I hid in the Methodist Church till it was time for the bus, and then thinking I would be conspicuous in our nosy little small town carrying a suitcase I left my case in the church bathroom, bought a ticket and went to my sister Ardys house in Lake City, Pa. The suitcase is only significant because it contained my close-up of Peter Noonan of Herman’s Hermits fame that had hung on my bedroom wall. I never saw the suitcase again. But in 2007 at Letchworth State Park Valerie gave me an old record album with Peter in that same sweater. She asked, “Isn’t this the same sweater?” She had remembered.

Perhaps she had remembered so well because she was terrorized by the fear that I would get a beating like Sharon got after she was brought back from running away. I’d thought she was just mad at me for going. In 2006 she told me she was afraid for me. It is sad that we could not have shared that as children, perhaps we would have had allies to grow up with. But we lived in our own separate little worlds right there in the same house.

Sharon got a lot farther when she ran away, all the way to Buffalo and when she was brought back the town policeman lectured her on what a lucky girl she was to have the fine parents she had. Sharon was Ma’s whipping post, certainly for all the years I could remember. Once she chased me away from comforting her telling me I better stay away from her or I would get what she got. That was after a brutal scene on Mother’s Day when Ma threw Sharon’s handmade gift on the floor and scolded her for her wasted time.

I did not get beaten, whether because Ma and Dad were too old and tired or because they finally realized savage beatings did not help. They made all the other children watch the beatings, when they could control themselves long enough to set the stage. Apparently these horrid scenes were not just out of control emotions on their part.

One day it was Sharon’s turn. She had stolen something from a store, a pair of shoes I think, and got caught. I was not required to stay and watch. Who knows why, but when Joyce asked if I as the littlest could be excused dad said ok and I was allowed to go to my room. My room was directly above the living room in that old farmhouse and I was not spared the screams or the begging. In 2006 Charlene told me the gory details. Sharon had curlers in her hair and Ma gripped them while Dad beat her with the belt. Some of the hair came out. I won’t go on. I can still hear the screams, feel the terror.

One day the older boys played a trick on Reed and Reed ended up clinging to a tree limb afraid to jump down. He was frightened and screaming for help and Dad came charging out of the house already unfastening his belt and beat him right there hanging from the tree until Reed let go. “I’ll give you something to cry about!” was one of Dad’s favorite tunes.

Another time I heard the rush of footfalls on the wooden stairs and both Keith and Reed were begging Dad not to beat them. I was in my room and heard it all. I was terrified for them and for me.

One day Sharon came running up the stairs screaming and I heard Ma coming up after. I was in my room, it was all the girls room, and I hid behind a dresser. Sharon was begging Ma to not hit her again. Ma stood with her plum red face, a fork in her clenched fist, her body shaking. I do not remember if she hit Sharon again. She had already beaten her before chasing her up the stairs. I was so afraid to be found I sunk further and further into my little dark corner. I do not recall how it ended.

When all was quiet, I do not know how long I hid, I heard the call to supper. I went downstairs and Keith whispered in my ear to not mention Sharon’s name. Sharon was gone and would not be coming back. My first thought was that Ma had killed her but I did not ask and nothing more was said.

My own violent spanking at age 3 1/2 was the only spanking I ever got from my parents. But I did have a flicker of the fear of Dad’s belt one day when we went to Grandma Witherils. I was terrified of Uncle Hector and steered clear of him. One day when I was about five he chased me out the front door. Uncle Hector was in his fifties and always had a sort of leer to his look and I screamed as I fled his grasp. I scrambled into the back of the truck and just as Hector was about to climb in Dad came rushing to Hector’s rescue. “I’ll give you something to scream about!” he yelled as Hector backed away and Dad put his foot on the tailgate to climb up. I do not know why he stopped. I fully expected the kind of beating I had heard and seen. Uncle Hector did not come near me again. In fact for years I spent every visit avoiding Hector instead of having fun at Grandma’s and he seemed to not care.

That was my second rough encounter with Hector. The first time he grabbed me I choked on a piece of butterscotch candy and Sharon had to turn me upside down and slap my back to dislodge it.

My mother was one of four sisters who were violent towards their children far beyond what any reasonable person would call a spanking. I think she had Borderline Personality Disorder. It is hereditary. Perhaps they all had it. I have it. But the stigma of mental disorders, see, I have a hard time calling it mental illness, kept me stuck for decades. BPD alone would not, I think, explain Ma’s behavior, but it is about emotion dis-regulation so it could have contributed.

Why does it matter now? Because the children and grandchildren need to know the truth. The great DeGolier family was a huge mess that I wish never had happened. So many babies born to abuse, then growing up without true healing and having more babies and on down the generations and where does it end?

I cannot bear the thought of dying with all this still inside of me and no record for the DeGolier descendants to look to for answers. And what are the questions? It will be different for each individual.

Some people will think me cruel to “tell all” but I think it is far worse to tell nothing and cover it up and play the “I had a great childhood” tape as my mother did and leave me still wondering what happened to make her the way she was.