Well sir, that's legend, lore.Like this,.....?
What songs are made of
I have a little story of my reality, early on;
Tom Gurls
1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don’t recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so often I’d just get dropped off for the day…..at someone’s place.
Didn’t matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my 7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.
The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay, yards of farm animals….and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.
Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen table.
‘Oh he’ll be fine, there’s plenty to do here.’
‘OK, bye bye.’
And she was gone.
The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.
I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk, accompanied with the complimentary clumps.
‘You don’t like milk?’
‘Full.’ (ready to hork up my own breakfast)
‘Well, why don’t you go outside, the girls will be out in a minute.’
(Gurls??!!)
They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I’d say.
‘Mamma, can we play with the boy?’
I felt like Lennie Small’s imaginary rabbit.
They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.
‘Wanna play in the barn?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they’d made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like ‘he’s over there, get him’.
I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.
Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands eagerly explored my entire self….things even I had yet to explore.
So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately employed my most potent offense, which consisted of violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.
I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally molested, farm girl style.
Eventually (I’d say sometime late morning) they lost interest.
Lunch.
‘Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?’
(!!!!!!!!!)
I don’t recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming shut.
I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until I heard our Chevy pull up.
Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they wanted it (now).
I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16. Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.