Little Beth: A Girl's Path to Love

By Bethany Marie Franklin

Everything –– the good and bad, best and worst of it all –– started with a picket fence. At only 3 years old, Bethany Marie Franklin’s mother set her down behind the picket fence of her grandparents’ house and walked away without a glance back. With tears streaming hotly down her face, Little Beth watched as her mother calmly walked out of her life, an act that would thrust the child headlong into a ceaseless struggle for love. Along the way, she faced abuse, neglect, and anguish; she was berated by her grandmother, abused by her uncle, and passed from family to family as if she were only a temporary amusement. Life beat the innocent Beth to her knees, but it was at this lonely rock bottom that she first heard the words of Jesus. She found strength, courage, and love in God, and with her newfound faith, Little Beth gained the confidence she needed to carry on. With heart-wrenching poignancy, Bethany Marie Franklin recounts her life’s pursuit through dark times to the joy of acceptance. “Little Beth: A Girl’s Path to Love” is a touching, personal account that shows resiliency in the face of adversity and our ability to forge our own path through life with God’s help and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781620236239

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Little Beth: A Girl’s Path to Love

Copyright © 2019 Bethany Marie Franklin

1405 SW 6th Avenue • Ocala, Florida 34471 • Phone [phone] • Fax [phone]

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the Publisher. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be sent to Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc., 1405 SW 6th Avenue, Ocala, Florida 34471.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Franklin, Bethany Marie, author.

Title: Little Beth / by Bethany Marie Franklin.

Description: Ocala, Fla. : Atlantic Publishing Group, Inc., [2019]

Identifiers: LCCN 2018058912 (print) | LCCN 2019022059 (ebook) | ISBN 9781620236239 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781620236222 (pbk.)

Subjects: LCSH: Franklin, Bethany Marie. | Children of alcoholics—United States—Biography. | Victims—United States—Biography. | Abused children—United States—Biography. | Autonomy (Psychology)

Classification: LCC HV881 (ebook) | LCC HV881 .F69 2019 (print) | DDC 362.76092 [B] —dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018058912

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Printed in the United States

PROJECT MANAGER: Katie Cline

INTERIOR LAYOUT AND JACKET DESIGN: Nicole Sturk

Table of Contents

PART ONE

Mildred

Life with Pop and Mom

Uncle Earl

The Washtub

Chicken Feed Clothing

Fresh Vegetables From the Garden

Water, Water Everywhere

The Evil Rooster

New Shoes

Skating Through

Staring at Stars

A New Home

Abused

A Bittersweet First Day

Mother Returns For Me

Another New Home

Exploring the Big City

The Silver Screen Replaces the Rose-Colored Glasses

Landladies and Gentlemen

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe

Phil

The Waitress, the Policeman, and the Farmhouse

Back to Mom and Pop

A New Home at The Children’s Place

Bologna Bullies

The Cottage Mom and Me

A New Cottage

Just Keep Swimming

Trushay

The Church Bells

Church Camp

A Rose Blooms

Pranking, Skating, Breaking

Paige

Melanie’s Recital

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Scared Sick

All is Calm, All is Bright

Measles, Oh My!

Spin the Bottle

Susie and the Trailer Park

Richard

Returned

Mrs. Snead and Miss Sour Puss

Marjorie

Nothing Left

The Big Girls’ Cottage

Along Came Molly

Skipping School, Involuntary Lock-Ins, and Cockroach Races

The Roses Return

Terry Trouble

God in the Big Girls’ Cottage

Hitchhiking Horror

Dancing the Troubles Away

Stepping Out

Synchronized

Mice and Men

Fudged

Success Prompts Envy

Return to a Different Past

A Torn Heel and a Chipped Shoulder

Sally and Bob

English Class

Confronted with Conversion

Drs. Tietelbaum and Bloom

Working Hard

Dennis

The Three Musketeers

Tim and Bob in Journalism

A Brief Political Stint

The Little Red Convertible

A Decent Girl

Hired Hand

Christmas with the Blooms

Christmas with Bob’s Family

Discord and Baby Blues

Prom

Birthday with Bob and the Blooms

Deadline to Destitution

How May I Direct Your Call?

It’s Fun to Stay at the YWCA

Giving In

PART TWO

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. . .

Grandma

Derrick, King and Ruler

Mom and Momma

The Accident

Special People

Cold Calls and Close Calls

God’s Grace

Author’s Note: Grateful

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The beginning of my life was unassuming. I guess I came into the world screaming, but no one paid much attention to me after that. If you were to look at my birth certificate, you wouldn’t find much there. I was born an only child, and the spot on the form that said Father was always left blank.

When you’re constantly swept from home to home, ducking in and out of other peoples’ lives like an unnamed character in a TV show who appears for only one episode, it’s hard to feel important. As I moved from place to place, being repeatedly taken in, neglected, then handed off like a stray mongrel, it became harder and harder for me to view my life and its events as important.

It wasn’t until later on in life that I realized that, while my solitary life might not have left much impact on those whom I came across, my stories and experiences might help others who have gone through the same things. I didn’t free a nation from tyranny or find a cure for cancer. I didn’t save anyone from a burning building or end world hunger. But if my stories can help even one person feel a little less alone or give someone the strength to push through their own awful experiences, I can sleep easier knowing that it was all meaningful and leading to a greater purpose.

The good and bad, best and worst all started with the picket fence.

PART ONE

Mildred

My mother, Mildred, was not a woman you would describe to others as a great beauty. In fact, she was rather homely. Momma was an alcoholic and had been hospitalized for it in years past. After a while, she couldn’t take care of me because of her addiction, and left me to be raised by my grandparents.

Momma set me down on the other side of the picket fence and walked away. She didn’t say good-bye; she didn’t hug or kiss me. She just walked away, closing the gate behind her. Through the tears, I cried out to her, screaming for her to come back. She never once turned around but just kept walking. I shrieked for her long after she’d faded from view.

Why didn’t she turn around? Why did she leave me here? I don’t want to be left here without her. I was only three, and I was so confused and terrified. My heart was pounding heavily in my tiny chest, my tears streaking hotly down my dusty cheeks. I realized later that the pain in my chest at that moment was a broken heart. They never tell you, but it really does feel like your heart is tearing apart.

Life with Pop and Mom

As far back as I can remember, I lived with my grandparents, Ray and Della Cohen. I called them Pop and Mom. Together, they had two sons; one, whose name I never knew, went off to the service, and the other, Ray Junior, and one daughter, Big Beth. We all lived together in the picket fence house.

Pop had had two children from his first marriage: a boy named Earl and my mother. So really, Mom was my step-grandmother. I think that’s why she didn’t love me and showed it.

Pop was a short, bald man with rough hands from working as a carpenter. He had a round, jolly face and a nose too large for his face. When he smiled, his big round face turned bright red, and he reminded me of a shaved Santa. Pop was really strong; sometimes when he hugged me, he’d squeeze too hard, but I never told him. I loved his big, warm hugs. Pop was as strong and gentle as an elephant. I knew he could defend himself it he really had to, but I never saw or heard him argue with Mom when she’d lash out. He’d just draw in on himself and absorb the blows.

I think Pop knew Mom didn’t love me. I never knew if she told him outright, or if he just watched how she treated me, but Pop always went above and beyond to make me feel loved and secure. I waited anxiously every day for him to come home. I’d do my chores at the end of the day, listening hard to hear his truck pulling in the driveway. When he came through the front door, I’d leap into his arms and melt into one of his hugs.

Pop wore one-piece coveralls to work, and sometimes he’d be so tired after working that his tools would still be hanging from them as he sunk into his favorite chair. After supper, Pop liked his pipe and his paper. He’d saunter into the living room, flop down in his chair, light his pipe, and open the paper. Everyone in the house knew not to talk until Pop put down his paper. This was his time to relax and unwind from a hard day’s work, and we all respected his wishes.

Pop tried his best to provide for the family. But back then, money was tight and ‘providing’ sometimes meant more than just heading down to the Piggly-Wiggly. Sometimes Pop would kill rabbits and get them ready for Mom to cook. He planted gardens full of fresh vegetables so we’d always have food year-round. He even dug holes and repositioned the outhouse when it needed to be moved. I never saw that man take a day off in his life. Even if he wasn’t at work, he was always working on something to better the family’s lifestyle.

Pop always liked a big breakfast on Sunday morning. Every weekend, I’d come upstairs to homemade gravy and biscuits, greasy fried chicken, and runny-yolk eggs. But no matter what we had to eat, Pop’s coffee was the top priority in the morning. Sometimes, when Mom wasn’t looking, he’d share a sip of his coffee with me. The bitter bite of the drink filled my mouth and nose and sat warmly in my belly. I still remember how the aroma of the brewing coffee was our alarm clocks and whetted our appetites as we ran to breakfast.

Pop was pretty much a saint (even though he could curse like a sailor). He was kind-hearted, loving, and hard-working, and I loved that man like the father I never had. Mom was a different story.

She was a bit taller than Pop and was in her late 40s. She always wore dresses that were either handmade or second-hand. I don’t think I ever saw the front of any of her dresses, as she always wore an apron she’d crafted out of empty chicken-feed sacks. Mom’s hair was styled in tight curls that framed her face, and I never saw her without her glasses. She had a mole on her chin with a long black hair dangling from it. As I looked at it I told myself that when I got old, I would never leave something like that on my face for others to have to stare at. Mom had cold, beady eyes, so when I had to talk to her, I’d stare at the mole or her false teeth. These she took good care of, placing them nightly in a glass of water with something that bubbled, making them shine like new pearls.

Those tiny, shrewd eyes held nothing but disdain for me. Mom loved her own children and doted on them but lashed out at me throughout my childhood. I was abused and neglected by Mom. In her eyes, I was the black sheep of the family and was entirely unwelcome. Mom had no qualms about telling me this, either. Mom would take any opportunity to tell me directly that I didn’t deserve anything beyond food, a roof over my head, and the clothes on my back. I guess it was hard raising a grandchild sired from your husband’s first marriage, but I was never anything but polite and obedient to Mom and still received cruelty in return.

Mom adored her son, Ray Junior. My uncle was a teenaged boy with a teenaged mentality. He’d seize on anything and anyone for a laugh. Junior looked just like a young version of Pop with a round face and wide nose. But that’s about where the similarities ended. Junior had an aggressive side to him that Pop never saw. He would say nasty, hurtful words and hit me until I cried, then laugh about it.

When he’d tired of abusing me for his amusement, Junior would turn elsewhere. Junior was always getting into some kind of trouble. Once, Pop brought home some open-end crate boxes, and we all helped Junior stack them together so we could play in them. It seemed like such fun, assembling the boxes like a house with a roof, a door, and four sides. Big Beth, Junior, and I put boards together to make seats inside our house. We sat innocently in our little cardboard house, until Junior got restless. He decided he wanted to steal and smoke one of Pop’s cigars. Bringing the lit cigar into our miniature house was a mistake. Smoke poured out of the playhouse, sending Mom running to see what was happening. When Pop came home and Mom told him what’d happened, he made Junior chew the rest of the cigar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get that sick! Junior and his pals’ misdeeds were always discovered, and he was always punished, but that never stopped Junior — he had a wild and mean streak in him that wouldn’t be tamed.

Big Beth was 10 years older than me, was very active in school, had friends, and it seemed like I never saw her much. She smiled and laughed a lot. She combed her long, red hair quite often and always seemed to be on the phone. She had freckles that danced from one cheek across her nose and over to the other cheek. I don’t remember much about Big Beth — mostly what I remember is always being in her shadow.

Uncle Earl

Uncle Earl was something special. Unlike Junior, he was handsome, loving, and kind. He stood about a foot above Pop and always seem to get his way with Mom. He made me feel special every time he came into town. Just his presence, his voice, and his laughter caught your attention and held it. He was always clean-shaven, his shirts pressed and his khaki pants creased. His hair was combed to the side and never hung below his ears.

Uncle Earl had a way with people that put them instantly at ease. Everyone liked Earl, but especially me. He’d show up to our house, surprising us all, and would bend down with his arms outstretched for me to leap into them.

Uncle Earl loved the shiny convertible he bought as his first car. It was his pride and joy, and he loved to show it off to everyone he could. His chest would puff out with pride as he explained every detail from the engine block to the trunk storage; he wouldn’t miss an inch. He’d go into so much detail sometimes that I started to hate when people would ask about the car, because his lengthy explanations ate into our time together, and I never knew when I’d get to see him again.

Earl was so happy-go-lucky and easy-going; he always made me laugh and I loved spending time with him. We’d always stop to see his friends, then head somewhere to eat before seeing a movie at a drive-in. Without fail, I’d fall asleep during the movie and wake up as Earl was driving home. I can still feel the cool night air caressing me and tossing my hair around my face as I stared at the stars from the big back seat.

The last time I saw Earl, it wasn’t the same. Instead of us going to his friends’ homes, we went to pick up some girl so she could spend the day with us. I didn’t want her with us; I didn’t want to share Earl. He spent the day laughing and joking with her, and I felt unwelcome. Earl took me home to Mom’s house after the movie, and he left with the girl. I stood at the door watching Earl drive off with the usurper in his big convertible. A little later on, I was told that he had married a girl and moved to Texas without coming to say goodbye. I didn’t see Earl again for a very long time.

The Washtub

Growing up, we used an aluminum washtub for everything. I remember Mom using it for washing clothes. She’d set the washboard in it, firmly grasp hold of the clothes, then scrub and rinse them before hanging them out on the clothesline to dry.

Water was scarce and needed to be conserved, so we didn’t take baths on a regular basis. We’d collect rainwater in a 55-gallon drum and use it for as much as we could. Mom put the rainwater into the big black washtub and lit some wood underneath to warm the water. Then she’d vigorously scrub Big Beth, Junior, and me, in turn, leaving our skin bristling and raw, but clean.

Chicken Feed Clothing

Since Mom used the chicken feed sacks for cloth, she’d always choose a variety of designs, flowers or checkered, for the feed sacks. Mom made dresses, aprons, pillowcases, and pretty much anything else she needed out of those feed sacks, sewing them on an old rocker sewing machine. The pedal would go so fast your eyes couldn’t keep up with the movement of her feet. I never knew what she was making while it