Lovely Outlaws - Half Ton

What makes a person want to run with pirates?

Acceptance
Understanding
Escape
And so much more..

Half Ton was a man of few words. I looked forward to hearing what he had to say. There was just something about him. He also did not let very many get too close to him. Though he was prospecting for the VNVMC/Legacy Vets and always surrounded by his brothers, he really was more of a loner type. Getting to know Half Ton (formerly known as Jeffrey) was not easy. He guarded his heart with an invisible breastplate; a true warrior, in need of the healing love of Jesus.

Jeffrey had a beautiful wife and daughter. He also had a fulfilling career as a first responder after serving his country.

Life was good.

He was the Life-flight pilot on duty that night. As he and his crew came upon the scene, Jeffrey listened to the description of the vehicle over the radio.

"That sounds like my wife's car.."

When he arrived at the scene, he saw it was his beloved wife and precious daughter. Jeffrey used the 'Jaws of Life' to cut his way through to them. Their injuries were fatal. He did all he could to save them but they were already gone.

Not only did he lose all that mattered to him in his life but Jeffrey lost himself in the process. And he continued to lose everything else he loved in life; all he had worked for simply fell away. He was broken and destitute.

See, Jeffrey's childhood was a tragic one also. His beautiful life with his two precious girls seemed like the second chance at love he never had as a young boy.

Fast forward a few years.....This is when I actually met Jeffrey, but he was known as Half Ton, a prospect for a local chapter of the Vietnam Vets M/C. Many weekends I watched how Half Ton had to prove his loyalty and dedication to the brotherhood which required him to fulfill many unlawful acts. He watched the backs of his brothers when they were in trouble and they watched his. True blue. No judgment. No questions. Just love. Family...finally.

The Too Much Fun Club hosted a gathering on some property of theirs on the Northern California coast. Half Ton always seemed to go to these things riding solo. I was happy to get an invite and rode up with him and a couple brothers. Half Ton had my back on winding Highway 1. It was my first ride on that road on my bike.

Before heading out for a ride, the Chaplain gathered us for the blessing of the bikes. As he swept the burning sage over each club brother (and guest), the Chaplain prayed a blessing one by one with our bikes. When he came to Half Ton, I witnessed something very powerful. I was in no way following Jesus at the time, but God was with me. And he was with Half Ton. The Chaplain felt it and I felt it. Our brother was so hungry for healing in his heart that he wept as the Chaplain prayed over him. I heard the Chaplain later tell the club president, "This is one special brother you have here".

So true.

Military, brotherhood, camaraderie..Half Ton knew the support and loyalty of his brothers in the marines. When he lost everything he had, he looked for the same; a group who 'knew' him and whom he 'knew'. A familiar home he felt safe with.

What had life offered him? It took all he loved. He threw in the towel, so to speak. No more trying to make life happen according to life. Life did him wrong.

But God was pursuing Half Ton. He wanted to do heart surgery on him. It was right after this that I built up enough boldness to ask Half Ton about his life. I wanted to get a glimpse into his tender heart. I saw he did not fit in with this outlaw life. I was blessed that Jeff would open up to me and share that pivotal moment that sent him over the edge. Oh how beautiful it would have been if God's word were spoken into Jeff's heart that day. This Chaplain did not speak God's word.

I pray Jesus came and ministered to Jeff in that moment.

Grandma's Treasure Chest

No matter how many times I sort through my grandmother's miniature chest of old photos and newspaper clippings, I am always surprised with new momentos she held onto throughout her life.

Today, I saw that little chest sitting on top of my boxes of photo albums stored in my brother's garage. When I opened it, I saw a hand written postcard I had not seen before.

First, let me explain..

My grandmother and her sisters were from a Sicilian family who made a living in bootlegging for many years. They kept rather colorful company and only dated men of wealth and power. My grandma Mary divorced from my grandfather when my mom was only five years old. That was in 1950. She was a pretty wild woman. She drank daily and always packed a .38 - NOT a real good combination.

The sisters spent much time at the race track. They were the track trophy girls, dressed in diamonds and fur. There are many pictures of them taken with the derby winners, race track owners, and riding in the parade in a brand new Cadillac with some millionaire. You get my drift..

Well, one of her sweeties had a rude awakening. Apparently, he did not understand what he was getting himself into...

My Dear Untamed,

Of all the pretty little canary birds that turned out to be a chicken hawk, you win the leather medal. You hard boiled man hater, you can't talk like that to me! I am not married to you!

Oh! What an eye opener you've been to me. Next time I date a girl, I'll carry a gat for protection. I should sue you for damages for pulling out my hair and scratching my face..you cat!

They should have named you "Cyclone"...you blow up faster than anything I ever saw.

Once is enough, old dear. No more cave woman stuff for me! I'm through!

Where's the Petcock: A Lesson in Riding

There was always a good reason to pay Marty a visit. I loved sitting in his shop, watching him create beautiful body art. He'd recently began sketching an idea I had for some ink and I decided to head up to Auburn to pay him a visit.

At this time, I was learning how to ride. In California, the restrictions of riding with only a permit include riding only between dawn and dusk, staying off the freeways, and no passengers allowed. I'd only had my permit for a short while. My bike was my only mode of transportation. I had a big ride coming up to the Redwood Run with my friends from the Devil's Horsemen so I was determined to master it as quickly as possible.

Well, I've never been very compliant. However, I learned a very valuable lesson this evening...

I took my usual route up through the foothills from Folsom into Auburn, California. This road was absolutely perfect. Not only was the scenery just breathtaking, but the road had enough curves and gently sloped hills to get a good practice ride in. It seemed like I was always building up my riding skills along the way.

The ride up to Rebel Ink was gorgeous and watching Marty work his artistry was always amazing. What a gift!

Leaving his shop I realized it was just about dusk. This was not good because I was not supposed to be riding after dark. I figured I could just jump on the freeway, rather than taking my same route back home. That would get me home faster, right? This was my first mistake.

Well, the next mistake I made was thinking I had enough gas in my tank to make it all the way home. I did not even think to take the gas cap off to check the fuel level. Not very smart, huh? I just hopped on the freeway and hurried on my way home.

Riding close to 80 mph in the fast lane, the bike started making a funny noise. Sort of a sputtering sound. What the heck? Then the bike started to slow down...

I moved over to the middle lane and tried to accelerate but the bike was slowing even more. I had no idea what was going on. My speed was slowing to a dangerous point and it was now completely dark. When it dawned on me that I was running out of gas, I reached for the petcock (gas reserve switch). My problem was I couldn't find it!

Finally realizing I needed to get the hell off the freeway, I made my away across the slow lane. The moment I did this, I cut right in front of a big rig! He layed on his horn and scared the life out of me. My heart just about jumped out of my chest as he flew past my rear tire!

An angel was flying with me and I was certainly reminded to never ride faster than your angel can fly!

It took me a few minutes of sitting alongside the freeway to gather my bearings. Once I reached a state of calm, I flipped the petcock. Fortunately, there was a gas station at the next exit and I made it safely all the way home. All the way, I was feeling pretty stupid.

Once I parked the bike in my garage, I sat there on my bike in the complete darkness, reaching for the petcock over and over again. I'm pretty sure I practiced for a good half hour. I sure never forgot where the petcock was again!

Running Away From the Insanity

After seventeen years of living in my own hell, I seized the opportunity and fled. It was important for me to complete high school. There was no way I would follow in those generational footsteps of a high school dropout. The whole world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll became a whirlwind of violence, rape, death, addiction, and fear. More and more friends were dying due to drug overdoses, stabbings, shootings, and suicide. If my friends weren't dying, they were getting pregnant and dropping out of school. It was hitting too close to home, all too often.

By this point, the outlaw clubs were in the background. A few club brothers would come around for drug deals, but our house was no longer filled with club colors and bikes. The people in our house were businessmen to the clubs and 'affiliated'. They always remained as my protectors and always had my respect.

The past few years consisted of a few attempts to run. It seemed wherever I ran to, there was more abuse. I could not find safe haven anywhere. When I left my mother's house after the eighth grade, I wanted to try living with my dad. The brutal kidnapping and murder of my grandfather was followed by absolute craziness for the next year. My family's darkest secrets surfaced. These were deals with the Sicilian Mafia gone bad. Mom was shot at, and I even had to run from attempted abduction while walking to school. The only positive in my life was the fact that my mother finally divorced Van. I swear he had something to do with my grandfather's murder. My Grandpa was the one who chased him away; he was the only one who had ever truly protected me from this monster, and now he was dead. I was living in complete fear and paranoia. I had to get out of there!

Though my dad seemed to have it together a bit more than my mom by now, I chose to move to his place in the San Francisco Bay Area. We lived in the small town of Antioch. Dad was still affiliated with the Hells Angels, but kept his business pretty separate from the house. He was very strict and still hooked on cocaine. It was nice to be there with my sister, Jami. I had missed her so badly over the past few years. I also learned to drive in my step-mom's '56 Cadillac. I loved that car. My dad's best friend ended up climbing all over me in the car one night. It was made very clear to him that he would not want me to tell my father. If my dad would have known, he would have shot him dead. I would hope, anyway. I think I still carry denial in that area, actually.

Running to live with my uncle at age fifteen, he tried to get down my pants. Should have known; he raped his own sister. I have not even mentioned the dark spiritual influence present at my mom's and my uncle's homes. They were into psychics, tarot cards, seances, quija boards, and all that evil. It played a major part in my life and I finally came to recognize it when I left for good.

After bouncing around a bit, I ended up back at my mother's, diving into work and remaining focused on my grades so I could graduate. My Accounting teacher told me I could leave high school and get a real good job with my math skills. She never once encouraged me to go to college. Neither did my family. It was all about survival. I did have aspirations, however, to become a lawyer. I wanted to keep my family members out of jail. It was crucial to keep it together enough to hold down a part-time job, school, parties, guys, and babysitting my poor little brother, Bobby.

Rob and Dwayne were best buds and were so much fun to hang around with. Rob was the real popular athlete in school, while Dwayne was the one crying out for attention. Rob had his license and was able to drive his mom's Chevy Step-side. I loved that truck. He was pretty responsible and stable. He had a great home life, from what I recall. His mom loved me because I would come over and tutor Rob in math. Whenever we would go out together, all the parents were cool with Rob driving. They knew he was safe.

Dwayne had been dating my sister, Jami, and I was dating Rob. So, that was fun, and wierd at the same time. Dwayne kept getting into trouble with his parents, so they sent him away to live with his grandparents for awhile. He came home to visit for his seventeenth birthday. Dwayne was doing much better, so his step-dad let him take the car out for his birthday. The guys had been drinking. Dwayne shared all kinds of things with Rob about his step-dad that night. I am not sure what it all was, but I do know he was afraid of him, and did not want to disappoint and hurt his mom and step-dad anymore.

Dwayne dropped Rob off at home and headed back to his parents' house. On the way, he lost control of the car and wrecked it. Dwayne's mom went out to the garage the next morning to find Dwayne hanging from the garage rafters. It was beyond horrible.

These traumatic things kept happening everywhere. It was not as if it was once in awhile, either.

Monica and I were supposed to go to a party with Alfred and James. Monica was my new-found best friend. She and her dad lived in the same condos my mom moved us into. Monica was from Uruguay and was brought into my life by God. That will become more clear further into this book. Alfred and James were only sixteen and seventeen years old, and had dropped out of school. Alfred was my boyfriend. My mom loved him, and so did I. No, really I did. We waited for the guys across from Winchell's on Blossom Hill Road in San Jose. That was our regular meeting spot. It was real strange when they never showed up. Monica and I ended up going home. Early the next morning, Monica called me to break the news.

James and Alfred were across the intersection at the liquor store, trying to get something to bring to the party. Another teenager, some jock from a rival school, approached Alfred and asked him to buy him some beer. He thought Alfred was of age, I guess. He handed Alfred his $5.00. Well, Alfred was not successful. When he returned outside and told the guy they wouldn't sell him the beer, the guy asked for his money back. Alfred decided to tell him he was keeping it, for trying. When the fight started, they took it behind the store.

Alfred did not even realize he'd been stabbed in the stomach. James said the guy used a small butter knife and there were three entry points! The surgical team operated on Alfred for eight hours, but could not save him. Alfred's death really was senseless; all over five bucks. Crazy. Alfred was my love. Another death blow.



Just barely recovering from the deaths of Dwayne and Alfred, the violence continued to grow more intense all around me. I had become an expert at putting myself in dangerous situations. Maybe I wanted to die. I know I was crying out for help.

The parties were now adult parties. At the age of sixteen, I was a very young party girl who would not hesitate to leave on the back of a bike with a total stranger. My mother started searching the streets for me in the middle of the night. Rapes became more frequent, if you can call them rapes. I was pretty willing, and when I wasn't, I had to pretend I was in order not to get hurt. Disappearing all night long accompanied blackouts from the heavy doses of alcohol mixed with acid. I was hooked on acid. I honestly do not recall how I made it home on many occasions. God delivered me there, I believe.

The pivotal moment for me was surrounded by my seventeenth birthday party. Going back to my journal, I see I was in love with any guy who would show me a glimpse of love. My soul was so hungry for it. What I did not understand was I had become a sex addict; from the age of twelve. My current love dealt me the last devastating blow. I was in such a state of need for any form of attention and belonging; even rescue.

Along with yet another episode of being used and abused, the craziness at home was unreal. It never ended, really. Not only was the evil step-father, Van, back on the scene, but my mom nearly shot me one night when I came in late after work. She'd been drinking and was fighting with Fernando's ex. Fernando and my mom were seeing each other and he was still living with another woman. Theresa was only fighting for her man. I heard Fernando handcuffed her to the coffee table and left her that way when he came over to spend the weekend with my mother. Theresa managed to drag the table, by her ankle, to the phone and called a friend for help. When she was unlocked from the cuffs, she gathered all of Fernando's guns and buried them in the backyard; all but one, that is. Then she proceeded to come to our house to finish her business. Mom and Teresa fought, but she was really looking for Fernando. She wanted him dead.

When I walked in after work that night, my mother was standing at the top of the stairs with the gun aimed right at me. She yelled at me, "Stop right there, bitch!"

"Mom, it's me!"

Things were at a peak. I remember my thoughts of just knowing I had to leave home, and soon.

Today, as I reflect on these events, I trust that God was putting on my heart to leave and working out the details of my departure from behind the scenes.

Two of our friends were out camping and were wasted on acid and Jack Daniels. The story is they were messing around with a gun, when Robert accidentally shot Ganzer. Ganzer died on the spot and Robert freaked out. He managed to get Ganzer into his sleeping bag, then headed straight for our house. The gun he borrowed for their trip happened to be registered to Fernando, my mom's old man. Naturally, the gun was tracked back to our house. The FBI began making frequent visits. It just seemed like a perfect time to leave this place. Years later, I found out Robert could not live with the guilt and ended up taking his own life while serving time in prison.

Wounded, and scared, I stood on the second level of the Oakland Coliseum Stadium, as REO Speedwagon appropriately serenaded me with "I know it hurts to say goodbye, but it's time for me to fly". As the breeze from the bay blew through my hair, I closed my eyes and knew it was time to run.



Of course, running away was the easy part. On that same day, I met Ed. He was backstage with a buddy of his, when we made eye contact. Here was my opportunity; my knight in shinging armor; my rescuer. I was presented with another glimpse of "goodness" and attached myself to it like a life preserver. It was almost like God brought me to Ed, or even the other way around. We lived two hours apart and we spent the next two months alternating weekends, making the trip between San Jose and Sacramento, California. I loved the fact that he rode a motorcycle. It was a Yamaha, but it was a bike, regardless. It was in his blood and I admired and needed that. This actually conveyed that he would understand me, but only to the point I would allow him.

I got out of Dodge and moved away from the hell hole. I would later come to understand that as we try to run away from our demons, they only follow us wherever we go. Moving away certainly removed me from the drowning feeling my soul felt as I endured blow after blow of trauma. Removing myself from the environment felt so freeing. I recall getting on the Greyhound bus, headed for my new life; a fresh start; a second chance. "You can have it. I'm never coming back." Suddenly, I was deciding how I was going to break it to my mom that I would not be coming back. My new love did not even know this. This last bus trip to Sacramento felt as if I was leaving the country. That was how often I managed to leave the confines of the dark evil cloud hovering around San Jose. I am serious; that is exactly what it was like to me. To move outside of that dark presence removed a heaviness from my soul. "Look! Only eleven more miles until I get to the Sacramento city limits!"

Now that I was gone, I could leave it all behind me. God opened the door and I escaped! Nobody ever had to know the life I'd been living, including the number of men I'd been with and my inclinations to whiskey, tequila, and LSD. Nobody would have to know of the screwed up life I came from. Even though I left, I would later discover I carried dibilitating shame with me. My new life was starting out with a guy who lived a wholesome life; a good man with a good family. He could never know me completely. Nobody could for that matter. What would he think of me? What would others think of a girl like me? This is when I put on my mask. It was a mask of protection. My old identity would disappear and a new Cherie would emerge; one who was hardworking, responsible, and loyal. Now I had a safe man who was crazy about me. Danger was gone. I was safe, and ever so grateful to Ed for rescuing me. He would never really grasp what exactly he rescued me from.

Warlords, Angels, and Jokers

The 'house on the hill' is where I grew up. It actually sounds like there was a house built on top of a hill out in the middle of nowhere. That was not the case. Our house was build in a suburban neighborhood of track homes. The area was at the base of the foothills in the south area of San Jose, California. The streets were sloped perfectly for bicycles and skateboards.

Our lot had a steep slope on one side. This was perfect for the club brothers to wash one of the Prospects down the hill with the garden hose in an attempt to wake him up, after nearly overdosing on pills. Silly men.

Jami and I spent a great deal of our time making mud pies in the backyard. When mom called us into the house, we usually had to walk through the garage to disgard our muddy shoes and jeans. It did not mater what was going on in the garage, and there was always a group of bikers hanging out.

Jami and I made our way through the garage, holding hands. "Hurry!", mom said, as she guided us by our shoulders through the warriors, preparing for battle. The garage was filled with men, in different areas of the garage. They all had weapons in their hands. Some were sharpening knives; others were wrapping up chains; some were cleaning guns, and even cutting off gun barrels. The Warlords and Hell's Angels were tight and would engage in war against other clubs. Mom was 'property' of Little Joe, President of the Warlords M/C. Because of this, we were treated like royalty, from what I remember of Little Joe.

Spaghetti Joe always seemed to be assigned to watch over us during these outings. This time Jami and I went with them. I do not remember much of anything, other than this scene and the one I've already described of Spaghetti Joe reading to us in the car at Kings Drive-In.


"Believe me, we'd have more than a few scrapes and wars between chapters, particularly Frisco. But mostly, we'd fuck with other clubs. One in particular, the Gypsy Jokers. During the sixties, the Jokers were originally based in San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose. - After one blowout in Oakland when someone's old lady got manhandled, we cut up a mob of Gypsy Jokers real bad." - Sonny Barger, 'Hell's Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and The Hell's Angels' (pg. 34)

Happy Butt Is Born

Most of my riding years were spent on the back of a motorcycle. Frankly, I didn't have a problem with that. There was nothing that I enjoyed more than taking off on a ride through the mountains, kicking back against the back rest of my ex-husband's bike (if you could call that six-inch pad a back rest). When the warm sunshine and the breeze smothered me, I could literally doze off. I know that sounds crazy, but that is how comfortable I was riding with Ed. The vibration and sound of the machine was soothing as well. It is truly a beautiful feeling. As long as I was able to go for a ride, I was a happy camper.

Toward the end of our marriage, Ed stopped taking me for rides. I would literally beg him to fix whatever was wrong with the bike so he could take me to the coast. There are a couple things wrong with this scenario. First, why is the bike not running? In my opinion, the bike should always be ready to go. It is sort of like getting dressed in the morning. If a button comes off your shirt, you sew it back on. So, if the clutch cable breaks on the bike, you fix it and get back in the wind.

Next question.. Why on earth was I having to beg to go for a ride at all? Why didn't I just learn to ride solo? Actually, he laughed at the idea and told me I would not be learning on his bike. Ed told me he would start me off on a mini-bike, which never happened. I felt beaten down and did not pursue it. It used to make me ill when I would think of this beautiful Harley Davidson Softail Custom just sitting in our garage, neglected. Furthermore, I was neglected. Riding was and still is a huge passion of mine.

Lastly, every time I asked if we could ride to the coast, I would get the same response, "It's too cold on the coast." He just didn't get it, and he did not care to understand. How Ed did not understand my need to ride is beyond me. He's been riding since he was a small boy. His whole family had dirt bikes and used to take them all out when they went camping. Furthermore, he was named after his great uncle, Ed "Iron Man" Kretz, Sr., who was a motorcycle racing legend, and a Motorcycle Hall of Fame Inductee.

Ed took the bike with him when we divorced. I should have fought for it! Oh well...

It did not take me long to hunt down a biker to go riding with. This was the real deal. "Word" was a Prospect for a local chapter of the Viet Nam Vets M/C. We met in an online chat room, and before I knew it, he was wining and dining me (so to speak), introducing me to the club brothers, referring to me as his 'good girl', and inviting me on rides. Riding in a pack of bikes just does something to me. Being among the clubs felt like returning home. It was so comfortable and so real. The hardest thing for me was adhering to the role of a submissive little lady. That's because I would rather hang out with the boys. I was that way even as a young girl. I never did like the 'bros before hoes' mentality, and that usually did create a bit of a problem for me.



One Saturday morning, I was expecting Word to pick me up. He'd invited me to go on a Valentine's Day Sweetheart Run. When we spoke that morning, he told me to be ready to go at 10:00. Now mind you, he was a Prospect. For those of you who do not understand exactly what that means, Prospects have not yet earned the privilege to wear the club colors. Prospects are at the mercy of all the club brothers who are "Patch Holders"

I am only bringing this up because as I waited and waited for Word to come riding up to my front door, I realized he was not going to show up at all. I was pissed.

"What the hell am I doing waiting for a ride anyway? I'm tired of waiting all the time for these assholes! That's it, I'm getting my own damn bike!"

Let's see - That was in mid-February. I had my new Sportster by March 1st! The bummer was my girlfriend, Leslie, had to ride it home from the dealership for me. You know what I absolutely loved about sitting there in the Harley dealership as I signed papers? The most appropriate song played in the store - "No Time" by the Guess Who - I just smiled.

No time left for you
On my way to better things
No time left for you
I found myself some wings
No time left for you
Distant roads are calling me
No time left for you.

No time for a summer friend
No time for the love you send
Seasons change and so did I
You need not wonder why
You need not wonder why
There’s no time left for you
No time left for you.

A couple brothers helped me out over the next couple of weeks, coaching me how to ride my new bike. After an episode in the Light Rail parking lot, I had no choice but to lower the bike. Suddenly, I was learning how to change shocks and install a lowering kit. To make it fit even better, we switched out the stock bars and pipes with drag bars and pipes. Oh yeah, I got rid of the stock two-passenger seat and put on a solo seat.

All the while, I would take her out after work every single day. After gaining confidence from my mid-intersection stalls (and very close calls), I began riding into the foothills for my daily rider training. I was feelin it! Freedom! Freedom from EVER having to ask another guy to take me for a ride. Now, I could just Go! My bike became my sole source of transportation, so I was no fair-weather-rider. If it was pouring rain, I was riding.

When I showed up at the VNVMC's Memorial Day run at the local VFW, I was given the roadname, "Happy Butt", because my butt was always so happy when I was riding. Riding on the back will never be the same....but like I said, as long as I'm riding, I am a happy camper!

A Not So Thankful Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, particularly because I absolutely love to cook. Mom's family is filled with incredible cooks, and that gene was passed on to me. The holiday was always my sister's favorite, now that I think about it. She loved the mashed potatoes and gravy. We seemed to celebrate Thanksgiving at our grandparent's house most every year when I was a kid. I recall making several stops to make sure we saw relatives from both sides of the family. I imagine it was exhausting for my mother, as she could never really relax at any of our visits along the way. Most everyone knows what this is like. You stay for awhile at one place and do not eat too much or stay too long so you can then move on to the next place to eat again. Usually, that time is cut short in order to get the kids home and put to bed.

Thanksgiving was always hectic for my mother. If it was not due to the hopping from place to place, it was due to the alcoholic flare ups from my Grandma Mary. A day meant to give thanks for God''s provision and for our loved ones always seemed to end in turmoil or violence.

One year, Mom decided to change things up and prepare a Thanksgiving feast for us at home. I completely understand. After years of running around, bringing a prepared dish to contribute to dinner, it is very special to prepare the entire meal for others to come and enjoy. Not only that, but we could relax and be comfortable after we filled our tummies. Jami and I were excited to have our own Thanksgiving, seated at our very own kitchen table! My step dad, Van, seemed to be his regular self, but happy. This Thanksgiving was one every one of us was looking forward to. My little sister and I were six and eight years old this particular year.

Mom began cooking the day before and was in the kitchen most of Thanksgiving Day. Jami and I always loved to help crack and peel the hard boiled eggs. Today, we were so eager to taste all the goodies Mom cooked up, that we kept running to her to sample her creations. This Thanksgiving dinner was very traditional. There was a huge stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, yams candied with melted marshmallows, potato salad, green beans, and cranberry sauce. Our mother told us, "No more picking! You'll ruin your dinner!" Munching on raw potatoes was also always a treat, for some reason.

Van kept away from the kitchen, from what I remember. He really did not do much around the house at all, except hang out with the dogs in the backyard. That was only when he was not beating on or teasing us girls. Mom usually kept us clear of him when she could. Today he was calm and also in the Thanksgiving spirit.

We could not sit down to the dinner table fast enough. Mom had the table decorated with a table cloth and covered it with bowls and platters of everything she had worked so hard to prepare for us. Our table was small and oval, with enough seating for six. When we all sat down to eat, our parents would be seated at each end of the table, while my sister and I sat across from each other. Today, Van chose to sit next to me instead of at the end of the table.

When you cook a meal like this, the biggest joy comes from watching your family enjoy every bit of it. I also get that from my mother. I tend to wait to dig into my own plate so I can see how the family likes everything. Of course, we always started out our dinner by saying grace. "God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen."

As my mother began serving up our plates, I felt my step dad poke at the side of my right leg with his finger. He liked to tease us as much as possible in order to get a rise out of us. I remember trying to ignore him while holding my plate up while Mom served my dinner helping. As I set my plate down, he poked my bare leg with his fork. The instant reaction I had was to push his hand away. I also remembered whincing, "Stop it."

It was in that split second of pushing his hand away and telling him to stop when he grabbed me by my throat, lifting me out of my chair, then slamming me against the kitchen wall. He was squeezing my neck and shaking me as he held me up there, nearly three feet off the ground. My sister started screaming. Mom came at him, pounding on his back as she screamed for him to let go. My sister and mother were both frightened for my life and crying hysterically.

I fell to the floor as he let go, while my mom tried to comfort me and check my neck. While I was crying and gasping to breathe, Mom kept yelling at Van, "Why?" I remember him saying something about my table manners.

The attack certainly did not end with me. All of us were so shaken that we could not think of eating. My recollection is that my mother nearly threw all the food out the front door. Van continued his rage, directing it at Mom, while we hid in our bedroom. It was not until later that evening that Mom ended up bringing our dinner to us, and tried to smoothe over the wounds.

Needless to say, Van was successful in stealing our very first Thanksgiving in our own home; the only one I actually remember.

And here we are, approaching Thanksgiving again, more than thirty-five years later. Reflecting on this day has not been easy. When you write something like this, you relive it. Memories and visions surface that were once buried in time. However, it does remind me of so many things I am thankful for, including the fact this monster is no longer in any of our lives. What is most important is that God is always good.