A Blessing in Disguise

Thanksgiving is all about giving thanks for all the good things you have and enjoying time with family and friends.  It is usually a warm and fuzzy time, a calm before the storm of Christmas shopping season.  When Thanksgiving comes around every year, my mind always returns to 1975.  The DVR in my brain can't help but replay the events of that weekend.  Its sort of like watching a show that comes on TV only once every year during the holidays. 1975 Thanksgiving weekend was my family's worst Thanksgiving ever, but it deserves a yearly review, because it changed the course of my life.

I have to start the story by explaining the status of my family at that time.

1. Dad died suddenly in 1971 when I was 10 and my siblings were 5.

2. Older brother, career criminal Skippy, while in prison, introduced Mom to a fellow inmate named Paris Burton Young in 1973. He was convicted of armed robbery and serving an indeterminate sentence. Of course he convinced Mom he was innocent.  She did not know anything about his past.

A news clip I recently found. From Lawton Constitution, Lawton Oklahoma, Aug 29, 1962

3. Paris Young became Mom's personal obsession.  There were daily letters,  5 minute phone calls once a week, endless care packages, and long grueling drives up north to visit him in Soledad Prison on family visit days for 2 years.

Christmas Day Soledad Prison Visit 1974

4. After much badgering from Mom, the parole board granted Paris his release on July 11, 1975 and they got married that same day at the Wedding Bell Chapel in Hillcrest.

5. She added his name to her bank account, bought him a new work truck and welding equipment, and opened up a welding shop for him on Wabash Street in North Park.

6.  Within 6 weeks, he was drinking heavily, wandering away from the shop to sit in the pubs all day, and molesting me in the morning and at night.

7.  Mom was in denial about her bad choice, and did not really care what was happening to me.

8.  Paris told me that he was going to "have" me when I turned 15 on December 17th.

9.  Mom started telling her friends that she and Paris wanted a baby, and that she might even be already pregnant and was going to name it Parissa if it was a girl (she had a hysterectomy in 1959, so pregnancy wasn't possible.)

Life on Eagle Street had become a life of constant terror for me in the fall of 1975.  The only peace I had was when I was at school, and that wasn't good either because I was flunking nearly everything and my teachers were losing patience with me.  Paris insisted on driving me to school and canceled my carpool.  Then he would feel me up during the drive to school. I would try to squirm away, but he grabbed me really hard and yanked me back to him.  I was lucky that my school was only about three miles away. He threatened to dump my beloved Poodles on the side of the road while I was at school if I didn't comply. I knew he was evil enough to do it, so I stopped fighting him.

To avoid him in the morning, I started getting up at 4 AM and sneaking out of the house in the pitch black darkness. I would walk 6 blocks up to Hillcrest to wait for the first bus of the day. My breakfast was a package of uncooked crunchy Top Ramen noodles that I would pack in my bookbag the night before. I used my lunch money to buy my bus ticket, so I did not have anything to eat for lunch, but it was worth it. Every night, after the usual drunken rampage with Mom, Paris would come to my room and assault me.  I knew it was just a matter of time before I reached 15 and he would finish his mission, which was to rape and impregnate me, so that Mom could have a new baby.

As my birthday edged ever closer, I thought about several options.  One option was to run away from home.   I was trying to decide what I would take with me. But I was torn, because I didn't want to abandon my Poodles. The feeling of dread was a constant weight on me.  The clock was ticking. My stomach hurt all the time. Knowing what was coming and knowing that Mom didn't care and was even in on it was my burden and my secret.

Paris was an Oklahoma country boy and was a skilled outdoorsman.  He and Mom attempted to reboot their relationship in October by going camping for the weekend somewhere along the Colorado River.  They returned from the trip with the Coleman cooler filled with huge catfish, but their destructive relationship had not changed. After another month of nightly brawls, screaming, and smashing plates and glassware against the walls, they decided to try the camping trip again, and this time they took us kids. Instead of doing the whole turkey thing on Thanksgiving, it was decided that we would go on a Thanksgiving weekend camping trip.

This old cooler was witness to my story

The plan was to leave on Friday, November 28th.  Mom allowed me to bring a friend, and I invited my best buddy Charlie.  He had no idea what was in store, because he didn't know my family secret.

We set out on the road the day after Thanksgiving, in our huge new blue Chevy 4-door pick up truck with magnetic A-1 Young's Welding signs on each side.  The truck bed was filled with fishing poles, two tents, sleeping bags, coolers filled with soda and hamburger patties,and a big metal grill that Paris welded himself.  Charlie, the kids and I sat in the back, and Paris drove while Mom passed him cans of Budweiser, and we all sang along when "Rhinestone Cowboy" started playing on the radio.

We drove past mountains and then on a straight flat highway for hours, past cotton fields, into the desert, and then suddenly we were on a dirt road, with no sign of civilization in sight.  No cars, no houses, no people. It was just us in the middle of nowhere. Only sand, scrub bushes, and a slow river.  Paris parked the truck and we all got out and ran around in the sand, stretching our legs.  He pitched two tents, one for himself and Mom, and one for us four kids to share.  He set up the grill with charcoal and got it fired up so Mom could make dinner.  Then we followed him when he gathered a bunch of fishing stuff and headed to the Colorado River backwater, a calm narrow channel of water that wasn't too deep but was loaded with catfish.  He set up a trot line, which is a lazy way to catch fish and probably not legal, and we all went back to camp.

We ate our hamburgers as dusk settled down on us.  The desert landscape was still and cold.  The night sky was loaded with stars.  Paris and Mom shooed us into our tent and we played with flash lights and took turns telling stupid jokes and spooky ghost stories to the little kids. Then we heard it. Over in the next tent, Mom and a drunken Paris were getting all worked up and ready to fight again.  The arguing started quietly.  Charlie asked what was going on, and not thinking they were going to go full blown crazy on our fun camping trip, I downplayed it.  But we three kids knew it was probably just starting.  And then they got louder and louder.  Suddenly, Paris was shouting just outside our tent.  Mom was yelling too.  Charlie and I peeked out the tent flap just in time to see Paris grab the heavy grill, still full of hot coals from dinner, and throw it in the back of the truck.  The hot coals flew through the black night like red fireworks.  Then he pulled a pole out of his tent, collapsing it. Our camping trip was officially over.

Mom screamed at us to get out and pack up for the trip home.  One kid started whining that we hadn't finished camping yet.  The other sibling started crying, and Charlie shook with fear, and asked me what was happening. I tried to be stoic and told him that they fight every day and it's no big deal.  Then Mom yelled at us again to get out of the tent, and we scrambled out as Paris grabbed it and pulled it down.  As Paris crazily threw everything in the bed of the truck,  Mom shouted for us to get in the truck, and we all did.  Then, when Paris turned to retrieve the fishing poles, Mom jumped in the truck and fired it up.  She turned it around and headed out, and Paris ran over and jumped onto the hood, trying to stop her.  She kept driving, swerving back and forth until he fell off.  We sped off and left him there in the middle of nowhere on the night after Thanksgiving. The kids and Charlie were terrified. I was happy.  Mom cried as she drove the 3 or 4 hours home.

We got back into San Diego around 3 AM.  My freaked out friend went home when dawn broke that morning. Paris was 200 miles away in the desert, and for the first time since August, I would be able to sleep in peace.  Mom stayed in her room crying for the whole day, and we kids just fed ourselves and didn't bother her.  Then Sunday came.  When I woke up from a peaceful night and went into the kitchen, Mom glared at me and I knew something was up.  Then she told me that she just got off the phone with Paris.  He told her he had walked to the highway, hitched a ride to Blythe.   She said he begged her for another chance and that she was going to give him that chance. She grabbed her purse and said she was going to the bus station to pick him up.  I couldn't believe it.  The monster was coming back.  Then she told me that I was not going to be able to stay with them, and that she would be finding me a new home for a while.  I was pretty glad about that part, but couldn't believe she could be so stupid.  She then left to go downtown to get him at the Greyhound bus station, and I went to pack my little suitcase.  I would be leaving home after all.

When she came back home with Paris in tow, she told me they were going to renew their vows at Presidio Park and start over, and since I was the problem, I had to go.  As Paris stood behind her,  rubbing her shoulders and smirking at me, she said I needed to pack my bag and take it to school on Monday. She said that someone else would pick me up after school.  I had no idea where I was going to go, but I didn't care, as long as I was far away from Eagle Street.

The arbor at Presidio Park, where people have had weddings for decades

Paris hung on her all day, kissing up, faking affection, and ignoring me completely. They talked about the beautiful arbor in the park where they planned to have a wedding. I prayed to just get through one more night in the house and then I would be somewhere else forever after that.  There were no drunken brawls and no breaking glass that night. He showed her much attention, and did not leave their bedroom during the entire night.  I know because I sat up all night waiting, just in case he decided to creep down the hall to my room again.

I took my little suitcase to school on Monday, December 1st.  I couldn't concentrate on classes.  I couldn't talk to my friends, who were all excitedly talking about what they did over Thanksgiving weekend. I certainly didn't want to share my weekend experience with them.  I spent my day wondering who was coming to get me.   When the last bell rang, I went out to wait on the curb for whoever.  And within 10 minutes, Mom drove up and told me to get in the car.

I refused.  She told me something was wrong and ordered me to get in the car.  I got in and asked her what happened.  She nervously said she couldn't find Paris.  I sarcastically asked if she had checked all the bars on University Avenue.  After she slapped my face, she said that she had and that he wasn't anywhere.  Then she drove to the bank.  I waited in the car while she went inside.  She soon came out hyperventilating and very upset. We sped home and Mom ran into her bedroom.  I followed her.  She pulled all the drawers out of Paris's dresser.  Every drawer was empty, his clothing gone.  On the dresser was a bank withdrawal slip, where he had written "thank you," drawn a smiley face and placed his wedding ring. During the day, he had left her to run the shop, then he emptied the bank account, packed his bags, hopped in the truck, and vanished. Mom started crying hysterically, and I just stared at her.  She tried to hug me and I brushed her off.  She asked me how I could be so unfeeling when she was hurting so bad.  I just turned around and walked away.

Three days later, we got a postcard in the mail from Paris Young, telling her where he had abandoned the pick up truck in Brawley. Since I wasn't yet old enough to drive, Mom called Skippy, the one who got us into this mess, and we all drove out to retrieve the pick-up truck.  We never heard from Paris Young again. Mom told her friends that Paris tragically died in a welding accident and that the shock caused her to miscarry their baby. The whole nightmare was never to be spoken about again in our house.

December 1st, 1975, less than 3 weeks away from my 15th birthday, was the day I got my life back.  And every Thanksgiving weekend since then, I take some time to remember the shame, the terror and the humiliation of those 4 months.  I remember the painful realization that Mom was willing to sacrifice her child in order to have what she wanted.  I remember the feeling of uncertainty, and fearing that I was going to end up pregnant, or a runaway, or in foster care.  And then I remember that in the 11th hour of my nightmare, fate stepped in and took care of everything.  The horrible Thanksgiving camping trip was truly a blessing, for it set up the end of Paris Young's control over my life on Eagle Street.  Now that's a memory worth remembering every year!