The small south Texas town where I grew up has Spanish
moss drooping from the trees, winding narrow streets, and
stifling humidity that in time I became accustomed to.  The
lazy days of summer brought us a good game of baseball,
fishing at the lake, or swimming in the Gulf of Mexico.
Children filled the placid streets with bikes, skates and
homemade go-carts. It was a simpler time; and our town—
population 5,000—was a simpler place.

The closeness we shared as friends and family gave us a
sense of security. Most everyone knew each other so there
was little need to lock our doors at night or to fear walking
the streets alone. Yet, in the summer of 1956, at the age of
six, I encountered a different kind of uncertainty—sexual
abuse.

One dark summer night I was in bed about to fall asleep,
when...

Continued...
http://goo.gl/1elrDJ

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