Grandpa Roman

Darlin’, won’t you come over here And sit on my lap?
I need some cheering up .
Let your skirt slip up,
Your mamma will never know . Don’t tell anyone .

(Don’t Tell Anyone, from Fearless Moral Inventory,
by Juliet A. Wright, copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

I dread the dream, You know it’s you . On the kitchen counter, What you shouldn’t do . Your curiosity
Got the best of me .
I know it wasn’t right Your little fantasy .

(Dread the Dream, from Fearless Moral Inventory,
by Juliet A. Wright, copyright 2010, all rights reserved.)

I was doing some inner-child work and uncovered a memory I had buried from long ago. This memory involved my maternal grandfather, Grandpa Roman. While visiting our farm one summer, he was down in the kitchen cooking.

I had, in my typical fashion, gotten up before anyone else so I could sneak downstairs and eat brown sugar right out of the box. When I arrived downstairs, Grandpa was already down there cooking. I remember being with him for a few minutes and then feeling really sad. He asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t express to him what was wrong, I just cried. I don’t remember what else happened then except that I felt unsafe around him.

Many years later, I spoke with a woman who acted as a governess to my sister and me in the summer and on the weekends. She said that Grandpa Roman was inappropriate with her. He would make suggestive comments and hold her in ways that made her feel uncomfortable. She never said aword about it to anyone. I didn’t either. Don’t tell anyone.