Open Letter: A Memoir

By Kitty Kaye Wilson

About the Book
This memoir is about healing. Dealing with family and their drama and trauma. It’s also about our memories and how we handle them and grow from them. The goal is to turn something negative into something positive. In this memoir, you will encounter bizarre, out-of-this-world, funny, and devastating events in my life. You will read how I learned to handle and grow from my experiences. Along the way, with some help from some supportive people, I helped myself realize these events may or may not define who I am today.
About the Author
Kitty Kalieves there is good in all people. We all go through trials and tribulations which make us who we are today. She is the poster child of the underdog and encourages everyone to fight for what they believe in. She also believes hard work and a desire to achieve will get you anywhere you want to be. Wilson works hard to protect her loved ones and is always outspoken about doing the right thing. She lives with rheumatoid arthritis and some other serious ailments, but this doesn’t stop her from following her dreams. She believes life is marvelous and there is always a bigger picture. Wilson is always looking for new and exciting challenges. This is her first novel, and she hopes everyone will enjoy it and learn that healing comes from within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798888128817

Book preview

Open Letter #1

This letter is for all the family and friends in this memoir. I do not intend this memoir to hurt, harm, or embarrass anyone. These are the events I remember and how I felt at the time these events played out in my memory. Some events are downright unbelievable, sad, horrifying, and funny, but in my mind and memory, this is how I remember them. Please enjoy the good, understand the bad, and sympathize with the ugly in this memoir. This memoir is to help anyone who has faced some events, and I hope this can help you move on and heal from your experiences. I want to thank all the loved ones who helped make this memoir possible. I could not have done any of this without your love and support.

Signed,

Kitty Kaye Wilson, author

Chapter 1

Family

The best thing about memories is you can recall them as you remember years later. One of the first things I remember was jumping up and down in bed. I used to jump so high I could hit the ceiling. I was around the age of three or four. You could not say a thing to me. It did not matter how often my grandmother told me to stop jumping in bed; I would still jump. Jumping was my thing. I needed a place to escape from all the drama, and yes! A child aged three or four years old can have a dramatic life. Jumping was my getaway from all the fighting and screaming in the house. My grandparents would battle like World War Three, the extended version.

Someone always had to grab a weapon. My grandmother’s choice of weapon was a long butcher’s knife, and my grandfather’s boisterous voice or his bare fist, but he knew better than to try that shit with my grandmother. She would lay his ass out in two hits; she hit him, and he hit the floor; that’s all she wrote. They mainly threatened each other with words and pretended they would swing. Grandmother would twist her butcher’s knife and fast. Even if you forgot, she did not. She had a memory like an elephant, never forget.

One day I was jumping on the bed, and my grandmother came into the bedroom telling me, You better stop before you hurt yourself; you will get no sympathy from me.

Of course, I’m going strong and hitting that ceiling with my elbows. I was going crazy, then it happened… I went forehead first onto the wooden framed headboard of the bed and damn near knocked myself out cold. My grandmother came back into the bedroom as I screamed bloody murder. I was holding my forehead with tears streaming down my face, blood dripping from my forehead, and I was hysterical at this point.

She said, I told you to stop jumping on that bed, and walked out.

My grandfather was the only person who could comfort me and give me some sympathy. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with no hair, but got himself a haircut each week, with a little beer belly. That was all that Stag Beer he drank.

I look for him with my blood and tears flowing down my face. I find him, and he looks at me. He cleans me up with his handkerchief. I tell him what happened, and he yells for my grandmother to tend to my wound.

She fusses at me and tells me a hard head makes a soft hide as she cleans me up. She blames me for not obeying her orders—a traditional old-school grandmother.

I eventually stopped jumping on the bed, and I have a scar on my forehead; it’s still there to this day.

We lived in a two-bedroom brick house with one bathroom and a living room where we spent most of our time. We also had a dining room where my grandmother kept all her fine China and silverware. The kitchen was huge and spacious. The kitchen table seated four, and there was a large pantry. Off the kitchen was a closed-in porch where my grandfather kept another fridge for his beer and extra food. We always had two fridges and an up-right deep freezer for as long as I remember. The creepy basement door was on the other side of the up-right deep freezer. We had plenty of cabinet space for my grandmother’s cookware and utensils, and the walls were light yellow. The living room consisted of the floor model TV, a couch and loveseat, my grandmother’s chair, my grandfather’s desk and chair, a bookcase in front of the living room windows, and a built-in bookcase in the wall.

Since jumping in bed was out of the question, I found another way out of my madness. My grandfather bought me a rocking horse. That rocking horse was a godsend. It was dark brown and had big brown eyes, a mane, and a long tail. We were ready to go to the end of the world. I was the jockey, and we won all the races, championships, and world cups. It creaked as I jumped from top to bottom, side to side, and back and forth. You could not get me off that rocking horse; I would act like it was my last day on earth.

I close my eyes, fantasize about a new life with different parents, since my real parents ditched me and dream of being somebody else. Everyone around me was thoughtful and affectionate, and I was perfect in my fantasy world. I lived in my utopia with no screaming, no fighting, and no lives being threatened. Nobody could hurt me; I felt secure in my paradise world. Then reality hits when I hear my grandmother yelling for me to get off that damn rocking horse and eat my supper. I composed my fantasy world of the following; doting parents and a different name because I hated the name I had, plus I was beautiful like my grandmother. She was hot stuff in her hay-day.

We lived in other places and went on fun and exciting adventures, and my life was full of joy and happiness. My new family, and my new name, made me feel safe and unique. I had a fantastic wardrobe and hairstyles to match. I pictured myself the same as my grandmother, but I had jet-black, long curly hair. Back in the day, you would call her a dish, or hot stuff, maybe fine as wine. I was her mini-me, but my hair had braids, ribbons, and bows. From my point of view, I was like a princess. I was perfect, beautiful, and had an ideal life; my fantasy world was a lifeline for me because my life was dramatic, traumatic, and downright bat shit crazy. I was always nervous about what was going to happen.

To explain my dramatic, traumatic, completely insane life, let me introduce you to the family, —my grandmother, Ma to her son and daughter, Woman to her husband, and Mama to Twin, Baby, and me. The person who did not play that shit was a disciplinarian; she was through and through. She kicks ass and gets names later; she was like that. Mama was four foot eleven, light red-skinned, with pretty brown eyes, a killer smile, wide-ass hips, salt and pepper hair that she would comb up and a karate kick for your ass. We could not call her grandmother because she told us she was our Mama, who took care of us and do not let anyone tell us otherwise. Mama would swing and hit you with everything that was within her reach. Up to a spoon, a frying pan, and a newspaper, she would ignite the newspaper on fire and chase you with it. She wasn’t ashamed; she was going to beat your ass somehow. She would have had multiple cases and jail time for sure. These days, they would call it child abuse, endangering and mistreated of minors.

I had two younger brothers, my one brother was fourteen months younger, so we were like twins. Twin had little bowlegs, dark hair, and was the color of a light tan crayon. My youngest brother was five years younger than me; he was the baby, which got Twin and me in trouble daily. Baby was the same color as Mama, had curly dark hair, and was short for his age. All Baby had to do was cry, point his finger, and Twin and I were grass. One time he told Mama, Twin and I hit and slapped him around. As we sat in front of the TV, minding our business, the Hulk, known as Mama, landed on us like a giant on a rampage with a switch in hand. If she got a good switch, she would keep it; we all had our own switch at one point. We had to pick them out ourselves. She told us to go in the backyard and get an excellent switch to whip us with. If we brought back a weak switch, that’s two-ass whippings. You already start crying because you have already picked your punishment. Baby was Mama’s favorite; he could do nothing wrong. Twin and I were another story. She would call me Girl and call Twin Boy; of course, the baby was Baby.

I suppose she didn’t believe in giving us real names, let alone calling us by our first names. Mama believed in rigorous discipline, and the harder the better because she was trying to get rid of those evil spirits. Let her tell it, we were full of evil. As I was saying, the newspaper would be on fire, pans, utensils, plates, her shoe, and a butcher’s knife. No matter what, she found it was fair to her to kick and beat your ass. We learned to run to save our lives when we were very young because it depended upon it. Life, death, you could get hurt badly. They brought Mama up on a reservation in Paris, Texas; she was part Native American, unsure which tribe.

Mama knew a few spells to heal you and to curse you. She would close her eyes, her eyeballs moved quickly, and she babbled. She had remedies she would use if we were ill or had cuts and bruises. Mama was a force to be reckoned with and do not cross her. Don’t play with Ms. Eloise, as known as Miss Ellie, better known as Mama. She’s not a child. She was an old-school type. Mama would beat you with a switch and had you running around in circles while holding you by your wrist. You better move your hand because she would hit you anywhere the switch would land. One time, Mama chased me down a flight of stairs and grabbed me by the neck of my shirt. She flew down those steps and got me at the bottom. Put Superwoman as one of her aliases.

One day Twin, aka Boy to Mama, thought he could go after her because he had a growth spurt and challenged Mama to a fight. It was like watching an actual boxing match on TV. Mama got her dukes up; she was going around in a circle with a little two steps and moving her fist. Twin puts his dukes up and does the same thing.

Baby said, Ding Ding.

The fight was on; Twin did not have a chance against Mama. It was just two hits. Mama hit Twin, and Twin hit the floor, knocking him the hell out. My bet was on Mama; she was ready and expecting that fight. Twin stretched out on the floor for a while. She sprayed him with some water, gave him an aspirin, and told him to lie down.

Mama was an excellent cook; she would put her foot in every meal she made. My grandfather would complement her by eating all his supper and asking for seconds. He would have her running back and forth to wait on him.

Woman, he said, bring me the salt, pepper, and a glass of ice.

She was waiting on him hand and foot. Mama would stand by the kitchen table and serve us our supper, like a waitress at a restaurant and I say supper because we ate at two o’clock. Dinner is later in the evening. Mama didn’t eat with us because she needed to serve my grandfather his supper, so she ate earlier.

That gave her time to eat, relax, drink her sherry and enjoy her meal because, in about an hour, she was running back-and-forth catering to The Man, as she called her husband. Nobody in this household had proper names, but everyone knew who was who, I knew my grandfather as The Man to Mama, Dal to his son and daughter, and Granddaddy to Twin, Baby, and me.

Granddaddy was a man’s man, direct with you, without emotions. He had no filter; he spoiled us; he liked to argue with Mama, loved other women and alcohol. Granddaddy was a rolling stone; where he laid his hat was his home. He was friendly with the ladies; he sometimes took us to his lady friends’ homes.

Twin, Baby, and I would mostly chill in the car; then, we went to the bar. Granddaddy owned a bar that was within walking distance of our home. We go to our regular booth and ask for the usual, orange juice in a shot glass. We take a couple; the seniors would cut us off just for shits and grins. The seniors in the bar, tavern, whatever you want to call it, but the seniors said tavern. It was always dark there. You never know if it was day or night outside. They laughed, and we laughed with them. One time we were gone too long, Mama walked up to the tavern with the dogs in tow. She came to the tavern and asked Granddaddy to release her children, Twin, Baby, and me. He told us to go home so she would not cause a scene and ruin his drunken state. Coming out of the tavern was like coming out of the darkness into the marvelous light. It was still daylight outside, and Mama said our supper was getting cold. Granddaddy didn’t drive home drunk; he would walk home drunk. He would take a seat in one of his chairs on the porch and fall asleep. I mean calling hogs, drawing the curtains, type of sleep, and his mouth would be open. He would always have a cash roll in his shirt pocket, so Twin and I would wait until he called hogs, and then we tested him. We would open his eyes, hold his nose, smack him in the face, and put our finger in his ear; the whole time, he would swat