RANCH GATE

RANCH GATE ———


JIM PECHA, B.ARCH. CHRISTIAN ARTIST
MINISTER OF CREATIVITY, copywrite 2015 ————


Rachel hadn’t been to her old home on the plains of eastern New Mexico in many years. Her dreams lately stirred up her interest In the snow covered flat land, only the ranch gate and the house broke the horizontal line. It was as if everyone who lived out there knew each other’s thoughts and feelings because of the flat open area. When Rachel started to paint she felt the lack of interest of the landscape, fences, horses, cows and houses popping up here and there. She took me to the old abandoned home once in the winter and I felt the gut wrenching emptiness. We walked through the house, which she said hadn’t changed, a few old dusty framed prints on the walls, minimal furniture and a canning table. She pushed down her jeans and showed me the old marks on her buttocks, after all these years. She said she thought her father took out his frustration on her because there was so little to see or think about. I wandered around the few rooms with the occasional hole into the attic letting in a cool breeze. When I returned to Rachel in the back room, with the backdoor, she was stretched out on the canning table with her pants and panties down and she said, “I need a whipping, please help me.” It had been a long time since I had experienced this type of abuse re-enactment and looked down at the floor hoping she would not ask again, but I knew how this pathology worked and asked her if this is really what she wanted to do. She pointed to the wall with the canes and the cross hanging in the midst. This would not pass until I gave her a few whacks. She spread her legs apart as far as possible and said, “now, do it now,” I had met so many artists with abuse in their childhoods that it wasn’t surprising any more. I picked out one of the canes thinking a few strokes would probably satisfy her sadistic need, but after the first hit she cried in ectasy and said, “more and harder.” The first swat left a red line across both buttocks, reminding me of the dark curving shadows from the gate on the snow outdoors. The image of the cross on the wall came to mind and I figured it stood for the Fathers justification for what he was doing to Rachel. I guess my Mother showing me all the religious pictures in the Bible was her justification for abusing me. How these parents twisted their motivations in the minds and hearts was beyond me. Rachel screamed, but the next ranch was miles away. It was like what the Conquistators did to the native people when they conquered New Mexico, there was no one to hear the screams because of the empty extensive distances.

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