I Remember the Time...

By Kim Hemphill

(Book Length: +66,500) My first memory was at three years old and I was having 105 sutures to close a massive wound across my face. A train hit the car I was riding in on the side I happened to be sitting. In a matter of a seconds, a collision with a train turned me from a beautiful three-year-old blond boy to a scarred, ugly child. The ridicule and taunting that followed from the other children due to the facial scarring transformed me from a happy person into a lonesome, sad child.

As I got older, this escalated to the point of near destruction. The senseless physical abuse and mental torture I endured from my father was unmerciful. As a child, I was a bed wetter until I was somewhere near 10-years-old. My father's solution was to drape the urine-soaked blankets over my head to shame me into not wetting the bed. This added much stress to the already dysfunctional life I lead. I felt that, here again, I was not normal and a freak or misfit. The beatings and agony from my father went on for several years. My father had a much different approach on my bed-wetting. He figured that I was just too lazy to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. He reasoned that I would much rather lie in the bed and urinate all over myself. So his diagnosis and plan was that he would beat it out of me! This punishment did not work, and if anything escalated the problem. These moments seemed to last an eternity. This continued to feed and fuel the hatred deep down inside me that I had for him.

I describe how I ended up homeless at sixteen; my home a tent pitched in the forest, my kitchen and living room a campfire and a folding chair, my grocery store the wilderness that surrounded me.

The descent into the dark hole of pain continued for many years. At times this descending path was a free fall and then it started to slow down. I managed to grab on to something in this crevice I had created and stopped from going any deeper.

At this point in my life, I needed to overcome many past issues: child abuse, homelessness, lack of any formal education and mental health issues. I started in and by the grace of God I met some angels on earth who, along with myself, changed my life. I starting looking at myself in a new light and hope was born within me. Despite all these limitations and issues I went on to have a professional career in the banking and real estate industry. I flourished and found this transition from a hillbilly homeless kid to a white collar executive very rewarding.

I have invented and patented numerous products that are being sold across the United States and Canada. I created a company based on these inventions for the barbecue industry. Over the past 40 years I have founded and still own three companies that are operating today.

I broke the chain of child abuse. I raised my son without ever raising a hand to him. To this day we are best friends and he is my proudest accomplishment in life.

I have “given back” and honored my past angels on earth. I have mentored 6 people that were in the same situation as myself, total despair, with no future. Through their hopes, willing not to give up, hard work and my help, they too have become professionals. They started out as labors just existing on little earnings. They developed into highly skilled pro’s earning six figure incomes and flourishing.

The determination to not fail, but be a winner in life, was strong within me. I read that Vince Lombardi once wrote, “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” This has inspired me more than any other seven words written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Hemphill
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780998107400

Kim Hemphill

Kim was born in Pacific Northwest in 1951. When he was about 15 years old his family moved out into the mountains north of his hometown.He still resides in the Pacific NW with his wife and son.His hobbies are woodworking, fishing and watching football and baseball.Kim's favorite pastime is spending time with his wife and son.His dogs, two female boxers, bring him much joy and entertainment. He's a big-time animal lover and claims that his dogs taught him how to love.He also has a strong interest in inventing, patenting and marketing his products. He declares that his imagination and out of the box type thinking brings these ideas to him. Kim's not one to sit around on an idea but puts it in action and his products now or marketed throughout the United States and Canada.At this stage of his life he has turned his attention and to authoring and publishing books on his past experiences and interests. He loves and gets high satisfaction on successfully developing one of his inventions or books as they reveal his creative side.

Book preview

Foreword

What was your first memory as a child? I have asked this question of others many times because of my interest in the answer. The responses I received back varied considerably. People thought of and described some event so important that it had become embedded in their minds for decades. Some of these folks were in their eighties, so they were remembering back a very long time. But no matter their age, every one of them had their I remember the time… first memory.

These memories, for the most part, comprised positive times with either family or friends, and some were from as early in life as two-years old. People would go on to describe a birthday party, playing with a friend, riding their first bicycle, Grandma baking a pumpkin pie, and so on.

My first memory at three years old was of having 105 sutures stitched into my face, as I had just been run over by a train. This story that you’re reading will show what a psychological impact this had on a three-year-old boy. In a matter of seconds, I went from being a beautiful blond child to a scarred and ugly one. The ridicule and taunting that followed from the other children due to the facial scarring transformed me from a happy child into a lonesome and sad one.

You will learn that this escalated to the point of near destruction as I got older. In this story, I share with you the senseless physical abuse and mental torture I endured from my father. I reveal to you the beatings and agony from him that went on for several years. I describe how I ended up homeless at sixteen; my home a tent pitched in the forest, my kitchen and living room a campfire and a folding chair, my grocery store the wilderness that surrounded me.

But despite all these hardships, I learned how to be victorious over my circumstances.

It is my goal to show you how a person can be handed a bowlful of pits early in life and still overcome impossible odds. And how such a person can break the chain of negative incidents that has bound him and turn his life into a successful and rewarding one.

Without any formal education, I overcame child abuse, homelessness, and alcoholism that afflicted me during my sixty-five years on earth.

Despite all these limitations and challenges, I went on to have a professional career in the banking and real estate industry. I invented and patented numerous products that are still being sold across the United States. I broke the chain of child abuse and raised my son without ever raising a hand against him. To this day we are best friends, and he is my proudest accomplishment in life.

You’ll see how I was determined to not fail but be a winner in life. I read that Vince Lombardi once wrote, Winners never quit and quitters never win. This has inspired me more than any other seven words written.

I have shared my stories with hundreds of people over the years and have received the same response, Wow! What a great story. You should write a book. It is my ambition and hope that those who read this book become inspired. If you are struggling with some of the things I faced, I hope my story helps give you the strength and determination to beat the odds and become a winner. If I could do it, you can too.

Chapter 1: First Memory

I remember the time...

I wonder how many times this statement has been made. Think back on how many times you may have said, I remember when visiting with your family and friends. Especially as we get older, memories become more important. We tend to idolize the happy memories. But what about the painful ones? Perhaps they lose some of their sting. Perhaps as we get older, we eventually accept them or deal with them better than we could initially. Or perhaps not. Maybe the painful memories seem even more so.

Happy or sad, we all have our first memories. Of the hundreds of people who described their first memory to me, the majority spoke of a positive experience. I imagine that most people’s first memories are likely pleasant thoughts, such as a Christmas by the tree, a birthday party, or riding the carousel at the fair. I imagine that some people’s first memory is the smile on their father’s face as they played ball in the backyard, or perhaps laughing around the dinner table with the whole family. Why are so many of them positive? I know mine wasn’t.

I recall my first memory. It was a typical day, and my grandfather, Carl, my mother’s father, was taking my mother, brother, and me to visit our great-aunt. It was 1954, and I was three-years old. There was nothing special about the visit, as it was right in our hometown of Spokane, Washington, and only about five miles from our house. It was a pleasant day, and the sun was shining. I was excited because it was nice out, and my brother and I planned to play with Auntie’s dog, a very cute cocker, in the fenced backyard of her home.

My grandfather was a proud, fair man. He always wore his cap tipped to one side. He was on the thin side, and being tall made him look thinner. When he was in his thirties, he had contracted tuberculosis and lost a lung. I’m sure this added to his thin build, but it seemed to have had little effect on his stamina and personality, as he could stand his own against any other man. He was a serious man, somber, some might say, but that’s not to say he didn’t have a sense of humor. He was fiercely loyal, and loved his daughter, my mother, very much.

My hometown was a small- to medium-sized city at that time and not as built up as it is today. We made the first four and a half miles of our journey just fine, but the last half mile didn’t go so well.

My grandfather approached the railroad tracks near Whitter Park. At that time, there were no lights or crossbar barriers to protect traffic or warn them of on-coming trains. Perhaps he didn’t slow enough, perhaps he didn’t look carefully enough to be sure no trains were coming. I don’t know why it happened. All I know is the oncoming train hit the side of the car my mother and I were sitting on as my grandfather attempted to drive across the tracks. The impact totally destroyed the car and caved in the entire side where I happened to be sitting.

My mother, who was up front, was eight months pregnant at the time and was thrown out of the car. Since there were no seatbelts or seatbelt laws at that time, she was not restrained, none of us were. She skidded down the road on her hip and head. Miraculously, she did not sustain any major injuries except for bruising and small cuts from the flying glass. My grandfather and brother didn’t even suffer a scratch. Evidently, they were sitting on the right side of the car, and my mother and I were on the wrong side. I got the worst of the injuries. I received a severe cut just above my left eye that went across my forehead and extended over the top of my scalp to my right ear. There were several other smaller cuts all over my face and arms but nothing as bad as the gash across my face and top of my scalp.

The region’s utility company’s headquarters, Washington Water Power, was located across the street from the intersection where we had the collision with the train. It still is not clear to me why the first responders took me into the lobby to perform urgent care treatment on me. Perhaps due to the horrific size of the laceration on my head, they needed to get the bleeding under control.

My first memory isn’t of the drive or the train hitting us. I don’t remember seeing my mom fly from the car. I don’t remember being thrown around inside the car. I don’t remember what I hit. What I do remember is the look on my brother’s face as he sat across from me in Washington Water Power. I was sitting in a chair, and there was a doctor standing behind me suturing cuts on my face and the top of my head. Craig, who was four-years old at the time, was staring at me, an expression on his face of pure fright. His eyes were huge as he stared at me. We were extremely close, and I knew something bad had happened. I had no idea where my mother or grandfather had gone. I was very scared and wanted my mom. I was worried that they were hurt or something worse.

It took a total of 105 stiches to close the wound across my head. My mother later told me that I looked like a porcupine, with all the ends of the black sutures sticking out. After what seemed like a long time, they took us all to the hospital and checked us out. My mother and unborn sister were okay, and aside from the lacerations I received, I’d suffered no other injuries. Today they would probably have kept both my mother and me overnight for observation, but, in 1954, they sent us home with instructions to follow-up with the doctor over the next few weeks.

My poor grandfather was totally beside himself. He was not a guy to make mistakes, and he had nearly killed his entire family. He was hardest on himself, and I could see the agony and guilt in which he wallowed. He visited me every day for several weeks. This is when he taught me how to play checkers. I also got addicted to the orange soda pop he brought me. He would play games with me, talk with me, and tell me stories. His visits at that time have become a treasured memory.

The scarring was horrific. I looked like a monster. I remember looking in the mirror and telling myself, That’s not me. Then it slowly started to sink in that this was permanent, and yes, in fact, this was the new me.

That was my first memory as a three-year-old. This one moment, experienced at such an early age in my life, continued to have a negative impact on me for many years. It was not the incident or the ordeal on the day of the accident that traumatized me; it was the way I felt when I looked in the mirror. I was continually reminded by the ugly scars that I was no longer a cute little boy. I was instead a broken, ugly, accident victim.

My self-esteem gravitated to a low level and stayed that way for many years to come. This created a little boy with a poor attitude about himself and the rest of the people in his world. I didn’t get the proper psychological counseling that I desperately needed. Once I began thinking of myself as ugly and repulsive, my negative view continued to bring more pain and trouble for me. My mother and brother became very attentive to me. My big brother was always by my side. He was my best friend, bodyguard, and mentor from then on throughout my early childhood.

My grandfather wanted my parents to sue him and set up a trust fund for me to go to college. He was a good man and had a brighter vision for my future than my parents. My mother was naïve and felt that it wouldn’t be right to sue her father. He had insurance, and it was that company that would’ve paid for his negligent driving. I think my father just didn’t care either way. If the money wasn’t going into his pocket, he wasn’t concerned. He never did acknowledge or attempt to console me in regards to what had happened. I have none of the memories others would have in this situation. I imagine that other children in such a situation would have a father’s love to rely on. They’d get at least a hug. He would have shown that he was afraid that his child could have died. They would see the concern and care in his eyes.

I didn’t get the love and support I so badly needed after such a horrible ordeal, at least, not from him. This led me to believe that the train broke me, ruined me—and now my father did not want me. He kept his distance from me and showed no feelings toward me. At times, he would play catch with Craig, and when I asked if I could have a turn, he always made an excuse.

When I started first grade, my misery increased. This was my first real exposure to any large group of people without my brother or mother being by my side. I experienced no enjoyment at school, which for me, was more akin to a prison. The teasing and torment from the other students about the deep red scars on my face escalated, and such teasing was their favorite amusement at recess. Their comments and jokes were cruel and had a huge impact on my self-esteem. Up to this point, my brother and mother had served as a buffer to the mean and insensitive comments, but now I was vulnerable. I had to face the torment and ridicule of my peers alone.

I could hardly believe the cruelty and insensitivity coming from the other children. I hated the bullies and tormentors. Isolation set in, and I was on my way to learn what it was like to be lonely. This newly formed hate that developed in me lasted for many years, and I unleashed it onto the bullies as punishment for their cowardly actions and desire to hurt me emotionally or physically.

Several days after the train accident, I had fallen off the porch and busted open the stitches on my forehead. This certainly didn’t help with the nasty scars already forming across my face and forehead. The movie Frankenstein had just come out, and the kids called me a baby Frankenstein. Some of my anguish stemmed from the cruelty I experienced, but some came from me—due to the way people would look at me and the way I would look at myself. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was the damage from the train. I felt ugly inside and out. And I had eleven more years of this torture and humiliation to look forward to before I would be free of this prison.

When my sister, Danielle, was born, it took all my mother’s energy to take care of her. I was no longer the baby of the family; I was now the middle child. It seemed like all I heard was, You are too old for this or too young for that. Now 99 percent of my support system came from one person: my brother.

What I needed the most was support from my parents. The understanding between my parents was that their marriage was a unilateral relationship. My father set the rules, and my mother was to follow them. She had virtually no say in any issues or decisions in regard to our family. In the 1950s, the man of the house, particularly in our home, was the dominant force. Due to her health being very poor, she didn’t have the physical or mental strength to stand up to her husband. I don’t know if she would have anyway.

My mother’s mom had given her up when she was a young child, and she was thus raised by her father, Grandpa Carl. It was not until my mother was in her twenties that she reconciled with her mother. It was a long-distance relationship because my grandmother lived in Canada. Their communication consisted mainly of letters, as we could not afford a phone. So she lived the way she was raised: what the man of the house said was followed, and no questions or any contribution on her part was allowed or wanted.

I always believed my mother loved me dearly and felt guilty that she could not do more. The condition she suffered made her bones deteriorate, and her joints were bone rubbing against bone. This eventually led to both of her legs being amputated—involving multiple surgeries that cut more and more of her leg off each time. Each amputation caused new shock and trauma to her body. Her recovery times seemed to take longer. The pain eventually spread to her spine, inflicting continual, intense agony.

Because of the frequent stays in the hospital, my mother, at best, was a part-time parent. When she wasn’t in the hospital, she was bedridden at home. We were left at the mercy of our father during her hospital stays. Our father only thought of himself. He expressed no understanding, empathy, or concern for anyone else. No one was more important than he.

So, with little support from my mother and virtually no support from my father, I did not receive any of the professional help that I desperately needed.

I look back now and ask myself what could have been done to help this troubled young child. I ask myself, what should my parents have done differently? It seems as if they acted as though nothing had happened. Did they think that if they ignored my facial scars, I would feel it was no big deal? Now, as a parent, my first thought is that I would have asked very simple questions of my son, How do you feel? What are your thoughts? Are you happy? What would you do if you could change one thing? How can I help? Is there anything you would like to do—sports, hobbies, or learn how play a musical instrument? Today, as an adult, I think about what would have helped me. Certainly, psychiatric counseling and dealing with my belief that I was ugly and damaged goods. How could anybody love somebody that looked like I did? I believe professional help could have given me a better understanding that it was not my fault and that I was a worthy child.

Our family had been poor and surely could have qualified for federal programs that would’ve stepped in and assisted with the cost of plastic surgery to remove, enhance, or minimize the scars on my face. But this was never explored because the head of the house felt it would be embarrassing to ask for welfare or aid of any kind. I hated this man for not caring enough about me, and my resentment toward him kept building over the years. How others might have viewed him was more important to him than his child’s welfare and self-esteem.

So this was the hostile environment in which I existed, and it only got worse and escalated as I got older.

Chapter 2: The Stick Pony

In 1958, I was about seven- or eight-years-old. I recall a weekend in which we were driving out to visit my grandmother, Ella, my father’s mother. She lived on a farm about thirty miles out in the country, at the end of a remote dirt road. It was a place of total freedom and joy. During visits to her farm, I would go into the forest and feel free of any negative thoughts.

She owned 40 acres up near Elk, Washington, and it was beautiful. If you’ve never been up north of Spokane, you’re missing some of God’s most beautiful country. There are fields and fields of natural meadows where deer and coyotes play. The trees are mostly pine, but near creeks and ponds and rivers, the trees