No Family Album: Chronicles of a Foster Care Survivor

by Edward S. Blotner

Overview

When a child is removed from a home and forced to live a life with strangers, it can be a traumatic experience accompanied by pain and shame that never goes away. This is the story of Ron Huber and his unforgettable journey through a childhood hell that eventually leads him out of the darkness into a successful adult life.

Born in 1949 during the post-war era of national elation, Ron Huber’s life is not joyful. When his alcoholic parents abandon him at age three, Ron is sent to two foreboding foster care ghettos where he is raised, over a span of fifteen years, by two female Victorian despots disguised as foster care mothers. After surviving beatings, scorn, emotional abuse, and back-breaking farm work, Ron finally manages to break free of the system and strikes out on his own in a cannibalistic world that nearly devours him. It is only through a miracle of emancipation and salvation that Ron emerges in adulthood as a Green Beret, book author, lecturer, government executive, and family man.

In sharing his compelling personal journey, Ron Huber provides a heartbreaking glimpse into the perils that American children still encounter through abuse and a problematic foster care system.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781450212533
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	03/04/2010
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	204
File size:	999 KB

About the Author

Edward S. Blotner was educated at Emerson College and Boston University, and has enjoyed a distinguished, award-winning lengthy career in journalism. He is co-author of Facing the World without Love, a book about foster care. He currently lives in Maryland where he is a writer and editor at the Voice of America.

Read an Excerpt

NO FAMILY ALBUM

CHRONICLES OF A FOSTER CARE SURVIVOR

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By Edward S. Blotner

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Edward S. Blotner
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-1252-6

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Chapter One

The Memory Train

4:42 AM Pretty creepy out there. No one around yet. The frigid, still air penetrated his aging bones as his eyes remained transfixed on the black void at the mouth of the tunnel.

Another icy arctic morning.

The powerful swirling winter wind lashed at the sallow face of the solitary figure, slightly stooped and well dressed on the empty platform at the Shady Grove Metro subway station in Gaithersburg, Maryland. He shuddered, shifted his feet, and listened impatiently for the maddening screech from around the bend of the tracks, signifying the arrival of the train that would take him to his federal government job in the capital of Western Civilization. He looked up and read the electric sign: "Red Line, Glenmont, leaving in fifteen minutes."

He glanced feverishly at his watch again as his eyes began to tear and his body started to shiver more violently from the bitter cold. His bundled-up black overcoat and blue scarf that shielded his chunky frame and the red woolen hat that covered his frozen ears and balding head were no match for these savage elements.

On this morning, he suddenly remembered his turbulent youth: how the ferocious winds whipped against the wooden-clapped facade of his second foster home with alarming fury-a run-down, unpainted, severe looking "slave farm" in isolated northern Illinois. It seemed to belong to an earlier age, with dank and crumbling hallways and shadowy rooms, where the temperatures plunged as low as twenty degrees below indoors.

Ron remembered how he and brother, Vic, ran frantically to the outhouse in the middle of night, even in the dead of winter, whenever they had an urgent appointment with nature. Then, in their ill-fitting, permanently stained hand-me-down pajamas, they scrambled like two thoroughbred horses as fast their feet could take them back to the gloomy, tiny bedroom they shared and dove underneath the soiled sheets in constant terror of disturbing "Mama Borg," as they had to call her.

Still breathless, the warmth felt so good. The pillow felt so soft, belying his sense of sheer loneliness for his real mother, wondering where she was getting stinko. But on these nights at least he did not wet his bed, a colossal victory. He also remembered with perfect clarity the scorn "Mama Borg" rained on him and Vic. He thought about the humiliation and physical and emotional abuse they suffered through. He can still feel the outright rejection, the undeserved ear-bending screams, the constant, merciless whippins at her meaty, manly hands and fists. He can never forgive the gross indifference of the dismissive social caseworkers, who were either apathetic or failed to grasp what was happening to them. They did not care to know about Ron and Vic, who dangled on the very edge of our society, prone to falling off at any time. He still shuddered at the memory of one of his foster mothers sticking Vic's head into the filthy toilet bowl because he wet his bed.

He recalled what it was like never to have felt any measure of love as a child. Never a mother's lap, never a mother's love, never a father's tutelage, never a warm, full body hug at bed time. Never a kiss to drive away pain. Never a helping hand, never to be accepted by someone, anyone. Never any of these things to wipe away the deep stains of despair.

His thoughts were interrupted as the rest of the heavily-wrapped, red-faced commuters, made up of mostly federal government workers, began to crowd the platform while its floodlights started to flicker orange, signaling that the subway train was about to snake around the bend of the winding tracks and rumble into the station-chicka, chicka, chicka, chicka, chicka-then screech to a stop, open its doors, and let the passengers in.

Ron Huber rapidly stepped into the warmth of the compartment and took the same rear seat near the window that he always took, not talking to anyone especially, not looking at anyone, especially as his pangs of withdrawal were taking over again. But he did notice the small cluster of friendly, talkative men who preferred to stand by the door-made up of Tom Terrific (former football player from Dartmouth), Ray (infantryman of the Gulf war), Noble (the gentle, graceful giant), and Charlie from Damascus.

The conductor's voice blared over the loud speaker.

"Welcome aboard. Stand clear! Stand clear! Doors closing. Red line to Glenmont. First stop, Rockville Station."

Ding, ding.

The subway rolled out of the station and chugged south.

Ron settled in, placed his briefcase by his side along the comfortable brown vinyl seat. He glanced at the front page of one of the local newspapers, which was reporting this morning on the expulsion of two students from a local school for harassing a classmate. He stared out the window into the passing flashes of dizzying white and black images speeding before him in the frigid darkness and rolled back the tears, the fears, and the years of his turbulent childhood.

School, he thought. My first day of school. How could I ever forget that day?

Chapter Two

The First Day of Many

I was living in my second foster home, and it was my first day of school. I was so excited I couldn't sleep the night before. Up before dawn, I fed the chickens and the cows. Mr. Borg then drove me to the red schoolhouse along a dirt country road. As I opened the truck door, I glanced back at Mr. Borg, looking for some assurance and encouragement. But Mr. Borg looked away, saying nothing. I frowned and walked into the schoolhouse. Then my excitement turned to horror as the teacher asked me a question that felt like a sharp knife slicing through the flesh of my belly.

I stood there utterly humiliated in the middle of the classroom as the echo of children's laughter rang through my ears. My face felt flush, and my tongue would not work. The teacher, after what seemed like forever, allowed me to sit down. But the damage had already been done. Being branded as "stupid" by my peers for not knowing my own mother's name burned an indelible scar on my soul. They would never know that my ignorance was not the result of faulty memory or mental retardation. I didn't know my mother's name because I never got a chance to ask.

I felt the urine dripping down my pant legs.

Her name was Helen Mae Somerville, but to Vic, Ralph Jr., and me she was a ghost, a shadow, a wanderlust woman who had three marriages and five children that we knew about. The local bar saw more of her than we did. It was very clear that this strange woman did not want us.

A letter written by the caseworker of the Peoria Red Cross dated November 10, 1948, read as follows:

Mrs. Ralph Somerville had come to the Peoria Red Cross office for advice and help in solving her problems regarding family finances and care for her three children, ages 4 years, 3 years, and 10 months, all boys. Mr. Somerville worked on a boat earning $75 every two weeks. They had been living in a seven room house in Bureau, Illinois, paying $75 a month rent and $30 a month for electricity. The house did not heat properly, and the landlord refused to make the necessary improvements. The family had many debts, and Mrs. Somerville was embarrassed to go into stores in Bureau. Mr. Somerville was a veteran, and it was thought by the Peoria Red Cross worker that the family would be eligible for planning on the ISSCS, Illinois Soldiers and Sailors Children's Home, program. The mother was said to be quite upset by the whole situation and became emotional during the interview in Peoria. The mother seemed to want to place her children temporarily until the family could get along financially. No relative could or was willing to help the family. In a letter written by a caseworker of the Peoria Red Cross, dated November 18, 1948, the caseworker expressed "concern over the family's emergency situation." She included in her report:

The children were sleeping on the floor in a house that had no heat, and it is necessary that they get out of the house. All of the children are sick with colds, and Mrs. Somerville was so sick the Red Cross sent her to the doctor. The doctor reported afterward that Mrs. Somerville needed rest-that she was not strong enough at this time to work, although the mother said she "has a job in Joliet." As for Ron, the records show his mother describes him as "having no illnesses." The only difference she has noticed about Ronald from the other children is the fact that "he drags one of his legs from running." As yet his mother has never taken him to the doctor to find out what was wrong with it, and she casts Ronald as "a very nervous child."

My grandfather was our primary caretaker. Unfortunately, he was an alcoholic as well and only looked in on us occasionally. On a good day, when he was sober, he would bring us something to eat. If he was feeling especially kind, he would take the extra time to clean our bodies of the horrible stench from sitting in our own excrement for several days. I imagine, though, that it was more for his personal comfort than any sympathy he had for us.

Our pained whimpers were ignored as he raked soap and water over our little bodies, irritating the sores that had developed on our tender backsides. Then he dressed us in clothes that he'd bought from the Salvation Army. They weren't quite as dirty as the ones we'd taken off, so it was a bit of an improvement. After a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of water, the "nurturing" would be over, and it would often be several days before we saw him or ate again. The rats in the building lived better than we did.

My father, Ralph Wesley Somerville, worked for Federal Barge Lines on a boat named the Montgomery over in Chicago. He was often gone for weeks at a time, sending his paychecks home without any thought as to how they were spent. I'm sure he knew that my mother and grandfather were drinking them up. Perhaps he didn't care, but I am more inclined to believe it was because he forgot we were there. He was gone so long that he barely noticed us when he was at home.

Because of our parents' absence, we spent most of our days amusing ourselves on the cold and dirty linoleum kitchen floor. Vic and I, ages four and three, didn't talk much, but rather developed our own method of communication. The two of us did our best to keep our younger brother, Ralph Jr., content. We knew he was just as hungry as we were, but he was usually too weak to cry even if he was upset.

Red Cross entry, dated November 30, 1948:

Mrs. Booth described the mother of the children as an irresponsible person completely uninterested in her children and thoroughly inadequate as a mother. The housekeeping standards were poor and she said the children were as dirty and poorly clothed as one could imagine. Apparently, there was very little for the children to eat and three of them were like little animals over their food after placements were made.

We lived a dismal existence in those days, but life changed on one blisteringly cold November day in 1948. It was nearly noon, but the sky was dark and menacing. The wind outside was biting and swirled threateningly against the window of our front room, making a loud whirring sound. A battered heater stood in the corner of the room sputtering and creaking but failed to emit any significant warmth. We could see our breath float across the room like puffs of clouds.

From the records of the Peoria Red Cross December 8, 1948:

Mrs. Somerville stated that she and her husband wanted very badly to be able to provide a good home for their children. But, she added, because of a change in plans in the Bureau they were not able to do this. She feels that putting them on the ISSCS program had been in the children's best interest until she and her husband can get established and get a home for the children. At that time she will want to have them back. Mrs. Somerville was rather emotional about the fact that the Red Cross throughout their contact with her implied neglect of her children and said that was because of this the state would come and take her children away. She emphasized the fact that this was only a temporary arrangement until she and her husband were ready to move into their new home and one of them could be home. Mrs. Somerville put no length of time to this proposition. She expressed deep concern on her part and on her husband's part of how their children were getting along at the present time, although she stated that she had not visited or written and did not yet feel equal to this task, although it was explained to her that the children would appreciate her visiting here once in a while. She said she had plans to send fifty dollars to Mrs. Booth for clothing for Christmas presents for her children, although she is very sorry that because she is not paid before Christmas that this will have to be after Christmas. It was one of those rare days that my mother was at home. Each of us vied for her attention, but she batted us away like flies. When we begged for something to eat, she turned a deaf ear and looked right through us as if we weren't there. Her stare was glassy. It was the look of someone desperately trying to remain sober but close to losing that battle. Sometime around mid-afternoon, a large black sedan slowed to a stop in front of our house. Curious, we perched on the worn sofa and stared out the living room window. We watched as two husky women emerged, struggling against the wind toward our front door. We rushed to tell my mother but found that she was also watching from behind the curtain in the other room. When the ladies reached the walkway, she rushed to the door and let them in. The room seemed to disappear when they stepped inside. Their faces were fixed in a scowl, and they didn't say a word. They looked in our direction and then followed my mother into the kitchen.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

Once inside the kitchen, they spoke in hushed tones. Occasionally someone's voice would rise slightly and cause us to watch the door anxiously. Vic and I were too young to consider eavesdropping and probably would not have comprehended the deal that was being made behind the door anyway. They all returned to the front room a few minutes later. The room remained quiet, and I shifted uncomfortably. I was so nervous that suddenly I felt warm wetness trickling down my leg. Embarrassed, I tried to cover the wet spot. Everyone turned in my direction. My mother stared through me and made no move to clean me up. Both women frowned at me and then shot my mother an irritated glare.

Then, to my surprise, the smaller of the two women marched over to the crib where little Ralph was sleeping. She stared down at him for a moment and then turned and nodded at my mother. Grabbing a blanket that hung across the railing, she wrapped him tightly. She placed a tattered hat on his head, picked him up, and headed toward the front door without saying a word. Vic and I whirled around in my mother's direction expecting her to protest, but she remained mute. Her gaze was fixated on the floor. Confused, I ran to the window and watched as the woman continued to walk down the sidewalk to the car, carrying my brother in her arms.

I'd been so preoccupied with Ralph's fate that I thought not of what was about to happen to Vic and me. A commotion stirred up behind me and regained my attention. I'd completely forgotten about the other woman in the room. To my dismay, I turned to find her tugging insistently at Vic's arm. He cried and squirmed desperately. I looked from the scene before me to my mother, who still had not moved. It seemed as though her feet were glued to the floorboard. What was going on? I spun back around in my brother's direction in just enough time to see this hulking woman crouch down to eye level and glare menacingly into his face.

"If you don't shut up right this second, I'll smack the daylights out of you!"

The sharpness of her tone stopped Vic in mid-wail. The woman straightened up, yanked his arm, and motioned for me to follow them. My eyes were as wide as saucers, but I didn't say anything. Any ideas I might have had about disobeying faded quickly after hearing her threaten my brother. My eyes welled up with tears, which fell silently down my cheeks. I hung my head and began to walk slowly behind them down the sidewalk to the car.

The huge car door loomed before me. With one final gust of hope, I glanced back toward the front door. My mother stood there gazing through me, cold and indifferent.

Reluctantly, I climbed inside.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from NO FAMILY ALBUM by Edward S. Blotner Copyright © 2010 by Edward S. Blotner. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Acknowledgments....................1
Introduction....................3
Preamble....................15
Chapter One: The Memory Train....................17
Chapter Two: The First Day of Many....................21
Chapter Three: My First Christmas....................33
Chapter Four: A Surprise Visit....................38
Chapter Five: The Siedemans....................44
Chapter Six: Bad Boys....................50
Chapter Seven: Going Downhill....................56
Chapter Eight: There's No Place like Home....................69
Chapter Nine: Holiday Hell....................78
Chapter Ten: A Confusion of Manners....................84
Chapter Eleven: Punishment....................90
Chapter Twelve: Swinging from the Rafters....................111
Chapter Thirteen: Running Away....................121
Chapter Fourteen: The Accident....................129
Chapter Fifteen: The Final Straw....................134
Chapter Sixteen: The Hubers....................142
Chapter Seventeen: Finding God....................151
Chapter Eighteen: Ron Joins the Army....................155
Chapter Nineteen: Army Life....................161
Chapter Twenty: New Beginnings....................166
Chapter Twenty-One: Vietnam....................170
Chapter Twenty-Two: Family Lost and Found....................175
Chapter Twenty-Three: Resolving the Past....................179
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Recovery....................183
Epilogue....................187
About the Author....................191
From the Author:....................193