UNITED STATES
The Garden of Roses: Stories of Abuse and Healing
Virginia Jones
I have four memories before I was sexually abused at age four during the summer of 1963.
My very first memory took place when I was about 17 months old. I remember standing by my Dad’s plant building where my family first lived when we came to Colusa County, California, in 1960. I remember the white painted siding of the building and the outfit I was wearing, probably a hand-me-down from my brother — greyish baggy pants and greyish baby t-shirt. There is nothing more to the memory. I have no idea why I remember such a dull and minor incident, but I do.
My next memory was much more upsetting. It took place the following October. My heavily pregnant mother was walking from the house to the garage by the plant building near our rural home. It was raining and the the dirt road that led from the house to the garage was pockmarked with rained filled potholes. I had trouble walking around these holes and felt abandoned. I wanted and needed help that never came. I started to cry. Looking back I guess my mother had carried me up from house to car up until then and then stopped because it was too challenging to carry a toddler while 8 months pregnant.
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