Family Violence in the Nineteen Fifties

Family Violence in the Nineteen Fifties

When I was a child, we didn’t have a TV and violence in books never seemed as horrible as something you witnessed. Isolated in the middle of a farm, we didn’t see and hear much of the neighbors' exchanges between husband and wife.

For a time, a family of eight lived in the house up across the railroad. There were two girls about my age and their little brother who tagged along. I was happy to have someone to play with. They often visited at our house and on occasion Mama might let me go there, a little over a quarter mile away. Their house was in sight, just barely, from our house.

One Saturday, they came to ask I could come to play. We hurried down the lane and up across the railroad. When we went into the house, one of the girls said, “Mama don’t feel good.” Their mother was lying on the couch and when I looked at her, I knew there was something terribly wrong. Her face was discolored and swollen. I’d never seen anybody who looked that way and wondered what could be wrong. I don’t remember any further conversation and we went outside to play.

A couple of years passed and they moved to the village. One day when we were in sixth grade, the children were called out of school. A terrible tragedy had taken place. Their mother was dead. Neighbors related hearing a noisy argument, so much screaming that the sheriff was called. When the sheriff arrived, the man was sitting on the front steps. He took his pocket knife out of his pocket and handed it to the sheriff. His wife lay dead inside, her throat cut.

It was years before I associated in my mind the two events.