Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 G E N I T A__C L A N


Author: Brother Genita and Sister Genita
Title: The Waltons--The Family Secret (Chapter 1 of 2)
Part: 1/2 (this is one story; part 2 read out of order will make little
sense)
Universe: Genitaland TV, the world of television's "The Waltons" in
Genitaland, and overlapping with the world of Chaseton, America
Summary: In the early 1930s, 17-year-old John Boy learned some shocking
family secrets involving his parents, his grandparents, and his sister.
Keywords: MF, mf, bg, FF (watching and brief touching), best, fsolo,
inc, mast, f1st, m1st, cons, mast, oral (brief), ped, rom, adult, senior,
teen, child, ws (very mild), zoo
Language: English

   --------------------------------

   WARNING

   This fictional story contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity.
If you are underage for your jurisdiction, or not interested in such
stories, please go read something else.

   --------------------------------

   This story is copyrighted under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.  In short, you can share
and adapt this work, even for commercial purposes, as long as you give
appropriate credit, do no imply our endorsement of you or your work, and do
indicate if changes were made.  If you make changes, you must license the
result under the same or an equivalent license.  Donations to www.asstr.org
would be appreciated.  This is erotic fan fiction, and no threat to The
Waltons copyright is intended.

   --------------------------------

   Main Characters (by age): Grandpa Zeb Walton, Grandma Esther Walton,
Daddy John Walton Sr., Mama Olivia Walton, Marcia Woolery, John "John Boy"
Walton Jr., Mary Ellen Walton

   Time: The main period this story covers is spring in the early 1930s,
but it contains scenes of earlier years.  The central part of the story
occurs at essentially the same period as "The Waltons: The Secret Recipe."
As they happen more-or-less simultaneously, the two stories may be read in
either order.  Each will explain a few small mysteries left unexplained in
the other.

   --------------------------------

   The Waltons: The Family Secret

   by Brother Genita and Sister Genita



   "There are some secrets that families would have fought to keep hidden
during America's Great Depression of the 1930s that decades later were
talked about openly.  Two teenagers sharing physical intimacy, a premarital
affair that happened decades earlier, even a child born out of wedlock.

   "But there are some family secrets that, still today, are kept hidden
even from other family members.  My family, The Waltons, had such secrets.

   "In the early 1930s, I lived on Walton's Mountain in the state of
Virginia with my father John, my mother Olivia, my paternal grandparents
Zeb and Esther, and my younger brothers and sisters Jason, Mary Ellen,
Erin, Ben, Jim-Bob, and Elizabeth.  One spring when I was 17 years old, I
learned some long-hidden family secrets that changed my life forever."

   --Narrator, John Walton Jr.  in middle age

   * * * *

   John Walton looked at his wife Olivia as they lay together in bed.  The
light of the full moon shown through the thin curtain and lit her long
strawberry blonde hair.  It was a Friday in spring, and their curtained
bedroom window was open to the night air.

   After being married for nearing 20 years, John still found his wife
beautiful.  Her long hair rested on each of her white shoulders as she
looked up at him with shining blue eyes.  Her bosoms, still round and full
with nipples that had nursed a houseful of children, glistened in the
filtered moonlight.  Her belly was rounded from bearing the products of
their love, but her bush below was just as strawberry blonde as it had ever
been.  Her legs were wet where they met, long and white and spread widely
apart, and the toes on the ends of her feet wiggled in anticipation as her
soft hands and arms reached under his arms and around his strong back.  He
knew she was ready.

   John's feet and muscled legs were between hers, and his strong buttocks
and back were supported by his feet and his hands as he was raised over
her. His deep blue eyes looked into hers with a love that had grown over
the years.  Not counting his graying sideburns, the thick brown hair on his
head matched that around his member which was erect and looking for an
opening.  "Liv," he said, "please lie on your tummy this time."

   She smiled and did, turning.  He saw her firm buttocks and beneath them
a glimpse of strawberry blonde.  He moved his manhood closer, and her hand
took it in.  He moved gently, and the head of his moistened penis was led
into the opening of her wet and ready vagina.  He pushed, just a little,
and the head of his male member entered her female opening, then moved in
further.  Olivia's hand left her husband's penis and she put her legs
together, as close and as tight as she could.  She slid her hand underneath
her and down her belly and between her legs.  She felt her own wetness as
she began stroking herself in the tightness between her legs as he thrust
into her from behind, then pulled back and almost out, then thrust in again
deeper and deeper.  His breath because heavy and she began to pant.  "Oh
John," she began to moan, "oh John, oh . . .  Oh John!" she said as her
orgasm washed over her naked perspiring body.

   He was not far behind.  "Oh Liv, Liv I'm going to fire my load inside
you, it's going to happen now . . .  Liv!" he said as his penis buried deep
inside her shot spurt after spurt of his spunk.  After a moment, Olivia
spread her legs and John pulled his member out.  He laid on top of her, his
front to her back.  Even though she was certain she was past the years of
bearing children, she closed her legs tightly together again, holding his
semen deep inside her.  She remembered when sharing their love could mean
bringing a new life into their home.

   They then moved to lie side by side, John's contented loins against
Olivia's firm bottom.  Olivia smiled.  "The Depression may have made us
poor like everyone else, but you treat me like a queen in the bedroom," she
said.  John squeezed her and kissed his wife's neck.

   After several minutes, John and Olivia heard what sounded like a wolf
howling through the house.  "The night of a full moon," John said to
Olivia.

   "Daddy," shouted Ben from the boys' bedroom.  "It's the full moon wolf
again.  Did you hear it?  It sounds really close."

   "I heard it," said Daddy.

   "Ben," said Jason, in the same bedroom as Ben.  "You'll wake up
Jim-Bob."

   "Ben," Erin shouted from the girls' bedroom.  "Daddy told us a million
times the sound echoes through the house but it's really coming from
outside far away."

   From my bedroom I said, "Quiet all of you or you'll wake up everybody.
Go back to sleep." The house settled into quietness once again.

   Olivia turned to face her husband, both of them still lying together
naked.  She was about to clean away what he had ejaculated into her. 
"John," she said, "do you still think about Lunette?"

   * * * *

   My name is John Walton, Jr., but everybody calls me "John Boy." It was
the day after my mother asked my father about Lunette.  On that Saturday
afternoon, my 13-year-old sister Mary Ellen was pestering me.  She was a
virgin, of course, and would continue being one that spring.  Mary Ellen
wanted to know about relationships between boys and girls, men and women.
But really she wanted to know about me and my girlfriend Marcia Woolery. 
Marcia and I were both 17-years-old and both thought we were in love,
although we wouldn't tell each other that.

   "Marcia Woolery said when you kiss her and nobody's looking you use your
tongue," said Mary Ellen, the sunlight highlighting her blondish-brown hair
outside near our home.  She wore her long straight hair down over a long
sleeve shirt with a light blue and white wavy pattern.  Her shirt waved
into her light blue bib overalls that in the past year had grown a
pronounced swell in the chest and a larger wave in the hips.  Even though
she was a tomboy and my sister, I thought she was pretty in her way.  She
had full lips over a strong chin, and her eyes were curious and brown.  "Do
you really put you tongue in her mouth?  That sounds gross."

   "She told you that?  Why are you talking to her about things like that
if you don't like her?" I asked.  I wore a long sleeve light colored shirt
with thin diagonal stripes and blue jeans held up with tan suspenders.  My
short hair parted at the side was light brown but looked almost blonde in
bright sunlight.

   "Oh I like her fine," said Mary Ellen, "I just like teasing you. 
Besides, I don't have an older sister to talk to."

   "And I don't have an older brother," I said.

   "No, but you have Grandpa.  I can't talk to Mama about things like that,
and it would be impossible to talk to Grandma.  But I want to know what
it's like for a boy."

   "What what's like?" I asked.

   "You know, making love."

   "Making love?" I said.  "What that means is changing, Mary Ellen.  Do
you mean kissing and hugging, or something else?  Besides, I don't think I
should be talking to my 13-year-old sister about things like that anyway."

   "Marcia said you put your hand in her brassiere and felt her breast."

   "She told you that too?" I said.  "Is there anything she didn't tell
you?"

   "Well," said Mary Ellen, "she didn't tell me if you put your hand in her
panties like you used to do with me."

   "Oh, Mary Ellen, you remember that?  I thought you were too young to
remember.  I am so sorry."

   "Sorry about what, John Boy?  I always liked it when you did that."

   "You did?"

   "Of course, John Boy.  I liked touching you too.  It was just a little
kid thing."

   * * * *

   I remembered that my desire to touch my sister down there started when I
was 4-years-old and Mary Ellen was 0.  I guess you'd call it zero, for she
was younger than a year old.  I had stepped into the family room right as
Mama was changing my baby sister.

   Mary Ellen's white cloth diaper was undone and partially under her
bottom.  It had a large yellow spot which I knew must be pee.  But what
fascinated me was not the diaper but the part of my sister below her navel.
Instead of having what I then called a pee pee and sacks, she had a mound
with a slit in it.  While most of my younger siblings grew up washing in
the same bathtub, boys and girls together, it had not yet happened for me.
I thought the slit was a cut, and that my mother or the doctor must have
cut away her pee pee and sacks for some reason.  I got very worried mine
might get cut off, so I snuck back out of the room without Mama knowing
what I had seen and thought.

   I was going to ask Daddy about it, but then I thought with our family
sawmill he was the one who did most of the cutting in the family, and maybe
he had cut Mary Ellen's off.  So instead I went outside and asked Grandpa.
Grandpa worked in our sawmill too, of course, but I had seen my father's
hairy pee pee many times, so I figured that Grandpa would not remove mine.

   "Don't tell your Mama and Daddy or Grandma I told you this, John Boy,
but that slit of Mary Ellen's is called a 'trickle,'" said Grandpa.

   "A trickle?" I said.

   "There's other words for it too," he said, "but that will do for now. 
It's one of the most wonderful things in the world."

   "But why did they cut off Mary Ellen's pee pee?" I asked.

   "Oh, nobody cut it off, and nobody will cut yours off either, if that's
what you're thinking.  Girls are born that way.  Boys are born with a pee
pee and sacks, and girls are born with a trickle."

   "But why?" I asked.

   "Oh, you're too young to learn that now," he said.  "When your sacks
start growing hair like your Daddy's and mine, that will be the time to
ask. Hopefully your father will tell you about that, but if not, you can
ask me.  In private, of course.  It will be our secret."

   From then on, whenever I had a question about boys and girls and how
they related to each other, I usually asked Grandpa.

   * * * *

   "Do I still think about Lunette?" my father John said rhetorically to my
mother Olivia after she asked him that question.  It was Friday, the day
before my 13-year-old sister Mary Ellen pestered me about Marcia Woolery,
and a brief moment after Mama and Daddy had made love in the modern sense.
"You know I do," said John.

   "Every time I see a girl I don't know who's about 19, I wonder; is it
her?" said Olivia.

   "They said she got a good, loving home," said John.

   "I know," said Olivia.  "But I wish it could have been ours."

   "What kind of home would it have been?  You know what she would have
been called?  A 'bastard.'"

   "John Walton!  Don't use that kind of talk."

   "Well, that's the word for it."

   "If only they hadn't made us wait to get married until I was 16," said
Olivia.  "Or if only I . . .  why didn't I wait to do . . .  that?"

   "It wasn't your fault, Liv.  We were young, me 19 and you barely 15, we
were in love, and it was your mother stopped us getting married shortly
after that happened, not you.  Otherwise we would have been married months
before Lunette was born.  I missed you so much those months you were away
at your Aunt Kate Grover Daly's.  And it was my fault.  There's just
something about the full moon.  It puts a, I don't know, a drive of some
kind in me."

   "I know that, John Walton, I feel it too.  I felt it tonight.  I guess
that's why they call it 'lunacy.'"

   * * * *

   By the time I was 8-years-old, when I was alone outside or in bed, I
spent a lot of time touching myself, my genitals, what I called my pee pee
and my sacks.  I don't remember how I discovered how good it could feel,
but I did.  I liked rubbing my little pink hairless penis and was amazed
when it started sticking out.  I never experienced orgasm or ejaculation at
that age, but it still felt good.

   I became increasingly curious what a girl's trickle felt like, but
hadn't had both the opportunity and enough initiative to find out.

   But one day, then 4-year-old Mary Ellen found me when I was alone in the
woods.  I had been skinny dipping in a stream, and when drying myself off
focused mostly on drying my little boy pee pee.  It was sticking out pretty
good.

   "What you doing, John Boy?" asked Mary Ellen.

   I jumped.  I had thought I was completely alone.  "Mary Ellen," I said,
my hands hiding my tiny erection, "what are you doing here?"

   "Looking for Reckless," my sister said.  "She's lost.  Where's your
clothes?"

   "I was swimming.  Our dog never gets lost.  Go back home," I said.

   "I go swimming too," she said, and sat down on a log.  She pulled up her
white with blue spotted dress that Mama had made for her from one of
Daddy's old shirts.  She looked at her brown leather shoes, and with her
legs spread wide I could clearly see her short-legged white cotton panties.
Panties had short legs in those days.  I thought about telling her to go
away, but didn't.  I was too interested in watching her undress.  Having
removed her shoes, she stood up.  My little sister pulled her dress over
her head and tossed it down.  I could barely see the top of her navel
sticking out the top of her white cotton panties.  I could clearly see her
two little pink nipples.  Then she sat back down on the log and reached for
the top of her underwear, and pulled them down, lifting one leg at a time.
There was that trickle.  It seemed a little different than it had when she
was a baby, and fascinated me.

   She didn't seem to notice me staring, and she jumped into and splashed
in the stream.  She looked at me.  "What you hiding, John Boy?" she asked,
seeing my hands were still over my crotch.

   "Nothing," I said.  My 8-year-old pee pee was sticking out even farther
than it was, but I didn't know why.

   "You have to pee?" she asked.

   "No," I said.

   "You can pee on the ground," said my 4-year-old sister.  "I show you,"
she said.

   "No, don't do that," I said.  "I know how to pee on the ground."

   But she ignored me.  "This how Reckless does it," she said.  Over the
years we had a series of dogs we called Reckless, but this one was a girl.

   Mary Ellen got out of the water and on her hands and knees facing me. 
Then my naked 4-year-old sister moved her bottom down a little closer to
the ground.  I watched, fascinated.  Then I heard something that sounded
like it did when I peed outdoors.  But I couldn't see it, so I quickly ran
around so I could see from behind.  There was her little pink bottom with
its two fleshy spheres, and under that her little slit.  And there was the
yellow stream of little girl pee flowing down and splashing and wetting the
dirt and the grass.  The stream stopped, then started again, just like it
did when I peed but yet different.  Then it was over.  "That's what
Reckless does," she said.

   My 4-year-old sister stood up and looked at me like she was waiting for
something.  "Aren't you going to wipe me?" she asked.

   "Wipe you?" I said.

   "Wipe my trickle," she said as if it should have been obvious.

   "I guess so," I said.  I had long been curious about touching her
between her legs, but not after she had just peed.  I didn't want my hand
touching that.  So I looked for something to wipe her with.

   I saw her white cotton panties, and picked them up.  I walked toward
her. She put her hands over her crotch.  "Don't use my panties," she said,
"you'll make them dirty."

   "Well what can I wipe you with?" I asked.  I didn't want to get my
underwear dirty either.

   Then I thought of my white cotton handkerchief.  I got it out of a
pocket of my brown overalls, and walked towards her with it, looking and
thinking about touching her trickle for the first time.

   "Why your finger sticking out?" she asked.  At first I didn't know what
she was talking about.  But she was pointing at my 8-year-old pee pee which
had grown partially erect again.  I covered it quickly with my
handkerchief.

   "It's not," I said.

   "Yes it is.  Jason has boy finger too," she said, "with two pink prunes.
Ben too.  Why boys have a finger there, John Boy?"

   "It's not a finger, Mary Ellen.  It's called a 'pee pee.'" I took my
hand away.  She had already seen everything, so I figured there was no
point trying to hide it.  "And those aren't pink prunes, they're my sacks,"
I said.  In my embarrassment, my penis had gone back to hanging down limp,
but as I walked closer to her it started to move up a little again.

   "It's moving," she said, giggling.  "Why is your pee pee moving, John
Boy?" she asked.

   "I don't know," I said.  I moved the handkerchief to her 4-year-old
trickle, and started wiping off the tiny bit of moist yellow pee that
remained.  I wiped for a while, longer than I needed to.

   She started at my lap.  "Can I touch it?" she asked.

   "No," I said.

   "But you're touching my trickle," said my sister.

   She was right.  I didn't think she'd notice, but after I had wiped all
the pee away with my white handkerchief, I kept wiping as if I needed to. I
was letting my finger touch her as well.  She felt very soft and nice.  "No
I'm not," I lied.

   "Yes you are," she said.  Without asking again, she reached out her
little 4-year-old hand and grabbed my 8-year-old penis.  I didn't know what
to do.  I didn't remember anybody but me touching it before.  Her hand was
soft and it felt good where she touched it.  She touched my penis gently,
and I liked it.  Then she started squeezing it a little, and I liked that
too.  "Yours is bigger than Jason's," she said.

   She touched my sack which was fine, but then started squeezing it, which
wasn't.  "Don't squeeze that!" I said.  "That hurts!"

   "Sorry, John Boy," she said, going back to playing with my penis.  It
was sticking out further than I'd ever seen it do.

   I started touching her trickle in earnest.  It was so smooth and soft,
and felt like two tiny, really ripe peaches pushed together only without
the fuzz.

   After that we would go out to that spot in the woods.  After I made her
promise not to tell Mama and Daddy, or Grandma and Grandpa, that is.  We
didn't always swim.  Something I would simply slide my hand into the front
of her panties and feel her between her legs, and she would slide her
little hand inside the front of my underwear and feel me.

   But I stopped doing it by the time I was 10 and she was 6.  I knew by
then that I could get in real trouble, and that a boy shouldn't be doing
things like that with his sister.

   * * * *

   Then on that Saturday seven years later my 13-year-old sister was
telling me she had liked me touching her.  And had liked touching me.

   "So why did you stop?" Mary Ellen asked as we casually walked outside
our home.  The question burned in my 17-year-old ears.  I would do nothing
more intimate with her that spring than talk, but the talking alone seemed
more than I could handle.

   "Mary Ellen," I said, "I shouldn't have to explain that to you.  A boy
should not be touching his sister that way."

   "Why not?" she asked.

   "Because," I said, "because . . .  Mary Ellen, do you know where babies
come from?"

   "Of course, John Boy," she said.  "From inside their mother's tummy."

   "Well, it's not exactly their tummy . . .  "

   "I know, it's their womb," she said.  "Mary carried Jesus in her womb."

   "But do you know how babies get there?"

   "Not exactly," she said.

   "Well, I'm not going to tell you that," I said.  Then, sarcastically,
"You'll have to ask Marcia Woolery.  She tells you everything else." I
started walking away.  I wasn't feeling as upset with my sister as I was
with my girlfriend.  Marcia had no business telling my little sister what
she and I did in private.

   "John Boy Walton," said my sister.  "Don't get me started then just walk
away.  John Boy!" I kept going.

   * * * *

   At the same time I was walking away from Mary Ellen, Grandma and Mama
were peeling potatoes with knives in the kitchen.  They were both wearing
house dresses and aprons, my mother standing tall with her strawberry blond
hair in a bun and my grandmother much shorter with her short gray hair
hanging down on both side of her glasses.  It was a quiet moment where the
two of them were alone.

   "Ouch!" Grandma said.

   "Are you all right, Grandma?" asked Olivia.

   "I'm fine," said my grandmother Esther.  "Just a tiny nick.  I pulled
away in time.  My hand's not even bleeding."

   "You seem distracted lately," said my mother.

   "Oh, Olivia, I am.  I wasn't going to talk about this, but, well, we're
alone so I will.  I found a book, Olivia, a book Zeb has.  He had it
hidden."

   "Hidden?  Why would he hide a . . .  oh.  You don't mean something by
Chaucer or Rabelais?"

   "No, Olivia," said my Grandma Esther.  "Even worse.  A writer named D.
H. Lawrence."

   "Never heard of him," said my mother.

   "I wish I hadn't.  It's a book, oh Olivia, it's so filthy I . . .  it
has explicit descriptions, and I mean explicit, of a man and woman, you
know, knowing each other."

   "Oh my," said my mother.

   "And the words, God forgive me if I ever even think about those words."

   "That book is in this house?" said my mother.

   "No," said Grandma.  "He keeps it hidden in the shed.  I know it's Zeb's
because, well, one night a couple of days ago I heard him whisper "Lady
Chatterley" in his sleep.  She's a character in the book.  I wasn't looking
for it, but . . .  Olivia, what am I going to do?"

   * * * *

   After a while, I figured Mary Ellen had finally given up trying to
follow me.

   Without looking for him, I caught a glimpse of Grandpa between some tall
green oak and evergreen trees in a dip in Walton's Mountain.  He was
sitting on a log with his head with its white-yellow hair over his ears
slightly bent as if he were looking at something on his lap.  He wore a
pale yellow buttoned shirt under blue suspenders holding up his blue pants.
I didn't want to disturb him suddenly, so I approached my grandfather
quietly.  I was glad I had found him, because I wanted to talk to him
about, well, I didn't know what exactly.  I just wanted to talk.  About my
girlfriend Marcia Woolery telling our secrets to my sister, I suppose.

   I then saw Grandpa had a book in his left hand, and figured he was
reading.  But as I got closer, I was utterly astonished to see what he was
doing with his right hand.  He had it in his lap, his blue pants undone,
and he was stroking his male member!  "Grandpa does that?" I said to
myself. I was torn between confronting him and turning away, but before I
could choose a course of action, he saw me.  He quickly returned his member
to his pants and closed and hid the book.

   "Hi John Boy," he said.  "What are you doing here?"

   "I was about to ask you the same thing," I said, walking up to him.

   "Oh, just sitting and thinking," he said, rubbing his gray mustache. 
"It's such a lovely view here on Walton's Mountain in spring."

   "What's that book you're reading?"

   "Book?" he said.  "Oh, that book.  Nothing important."

   "Well it seemed to be something you were quite interested in," I said.

   He scowled at me.  "What did you see, John Boy?" he said.

   "Enough," "I said.  "Grandpa, you're a married man.  Do you really need
to do . . .  that?"

   "That's none of your business," said Grandpa.  "Don't tell me you don't
do it."

   "Well, I . . .  Grandpa, I'm not married.  I don't really believe it's a
sin, but . . ."

   "How old are you, John Boy?"

   "I'm 17."

   "Seventeen," he said.  "Has your father taught you about men and women?"

   "I know where babies come from, Grandpa."

   "I don't mean that," he said.  "John Boy, I'm going to tell you
something that maybe will explain.  Sit down, John Boy, here on the log
beside me," which I did, sitting on his right.

   Grandpa continued.  "It's none of your business, but I'll tell you
anyway.  I love your grandmother very dearly.  Esther is the best thing
that ever happened to me.  But her head is so full of church sometimes she
doesn't know how to live outside it."

   "I don't understand," I said.

   "Then let me put it to you plainly," he said.  "When I was not much
older than you are now, Esther and I were close, knew each other in the
Biblical sense, once a week.  After we both bathed, separately, we joined
once a week on Saturday at 9 p.m.  in our bedroom in our bed with her lying
on her back and me facing her from above."

   "Grandpa," I said, embarrassed, "you don't need to tell me this."

   "Exactly the same every time," said Grandpa.  "It became a ritual, and
like all rituals it became routine and left the mind to wandering.  The
only exception was on the night of the full moon, provided it wasn't on a
Sunday.  There was no joining on a Sunday.  There's a reason your parents
had eight children together and we only had two."

   "There's seven of us," I said, "not eight."

   "Oh yes.  Well, when you get to be my age it's hard to remember."

   "John Boy," he continued, "do you believe in werewolves?"

   "Of course not," I said.

   "Well, I don't either.  But there's something, something in the Walton
blood, that stirs at the full moon.  Not in the very young, but when the
beginning signs of maturity come.  Do you know what I mean?"

   I was very surprised, because I did know what he meant.  "Yes, I feel
something then too.  It is like a stirring, a feeling that gets stronger
and stronger until it feels like my blood's about to boil.  And then . . .
"

   "And then you feel very strong urges for the opposite sex.  Very
strong."

   "How did you know?" I asked.

   "Because I'm a Walton," said Grandpa.  "Esther doesn't feel it because
she's a Walton by marriage not by blood.  She humors me because . . . 
well, that's the only time now, John Boy.  Those 9 p.m.  Saturday
dalliances are no more, unless the moon happens to be full.  Now it's once
a full moon.  That's why, in between, I sit out here alone on Saturday
afternoons and abuse myself."

   "'Masturbation,'" I said.  "It's from Latin . . .  "

   * * * *

   By now Grandma was in the bedroom she shared with Grandpa, and was
sharing a long hidden secret with my mother.

   "About 17 years ago, around the time you gave birth to John Boy, I made
this," said Grandma.  She held up a dress that was black with short puffy
sleeves and a slightly V-shaped neck.  It was cinched at the waist by a
white apron with lace on the bottom, and the skirt of the dress was short,
much shorter than anything Grandma would wear, also with white lace at the
bottom.

   "A French maid's costume?" said Olivia.

   "It's horrible, I know."

   "It's beautiful.  You shouldn't be ashamed of it.  He is your husband.
The Bible says the marital bed is undefiled."

   "I've thought so many times about wearing it for Zeb.  But I could never
bring myself to do it."

   "Why not now?"

   "What?  I'm an old woman and he's an old man."

   "But you still have your figure; I bet it still fits."

   "Oh, I haven't tried it on in 10 years.  It probably smells of
mothballs."

   "That's easy to take care of.  And you're not too old to make him howl
during the full moon."

   "What?  You know about that?"

   "Oh yes.  John figured it out years ago.  He just said he believed the
wolf howl was an echo from far away outside so it wouldn't scare the
children."

   "My son knows too?  I have to sit down."

   * * * *

   What's that book you're reading?" I asked Grandpa.

   "Oh John Boy, this is a book that will stir your loins like a pretty
swaying French chorus girl wearing black silk stockings and peacock
feathers and little else.  Are you familiar with D.  H.  Lawrence?"

   "Yes, he's the author who died a few years ago.  I just read an article
about him, although the reviewer was highly critical of his work.  He wrote
"Sons and Lovers," "The Virgin and the Gypsy," "The Escaped Cock," and a
book I forget the name of that had to be heavily censored . . .  "

   "'Lady Chatterley's Lover,'" said Grandpa.  "I have the uncensored
version."

   "You do?" I said.

   "Join me, John Boy.  Why don't you read out loud.  Then we can both
alleviate our urges."

   "You mean read it . . .  while we both . . .  "

   "Yes."

   "Grandpa!" I said.  I felt shocked at first, but then wondered why. 
"I'm curious enough to read it, but I don't know about the rest." After
reading the first couple of pages with our members still in our pants, I
got to this.

   "'Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the
time they were eighteen.  The young men with whom they talked so
passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom
wanted, of course, the love connexion."

   'The love connexion;'" I said.  "Does that mean what I think it means?"

   "What do you think it means, John Boy?"

   "Joining?"

   "Use a stronger word," said Grandpa.

   "Mating" I said.

   "Stronger."

   "Se--sexual intercourse!"

   "Yes, John Boy, yes!  Keep reading."

   "The girls were doubtful," I read, "but then the thing was so much
talked about . . ."

   "That sounds like Marcia Woolery," I said.

   "Marcia Woolery, eh?"

   "Yes," I said.  "She was talking to . . .  somebody about it." I wasn't
quite ready to tell Grandpa she'd been talking about our shared intimacy to
my younger sister Mary Ellen.

   "So what have you done with Marcia, John Boy?"

   "Well, I kissed her.  With my tongue."

   "Good.  What else."

   "What else?" I said.

   "What else?  What kind of a Walton man are you?" said Grandpa.  "At 17.
When I was 15, I was worried that I'd gotten my 14-year-old neighbor Emma
with child."

   "Grandpa!"

   * * * *

   "One time, Olivia," said my Grandma Esther in her bedroom, "many years
ago when Ben, my son Ben, not yours, and John were still young boys, at . .
.  the moment when Zeb and I were together and he was the most excited, if
you know what I mean . . .  "

   "I do," said Olivia.  "I had eight children."

   "Seven, Olivia," said my grandmother.

   "Of course seven," said my mother.  "When you've had as many as I've
had, sometimes you lose track.  What did Zeb say?"

   "When we were . . .  joined, and he was most excited, with his eyes
closed, he cried out 'Fifi.'"

   "Fifi," said my mother Olivia.  "Who's Fifi?"

   "I don't know," said Esther.  "Some French girl he met during the
Spanish-American War, I think.  I . . .  withheld from him for a long time,
Olivia.  I knew it was my wifely duty, but what he did was a sin,
committing adultery in his heart.  The Bible says so.  I didn't want to
encourage him."

   "Then years later you wanted to be Fifi?"

   "I know it sounds silly, but then, then it would be me he was thinking
about.  Only I could never be 'Fifi.'"

   "Why not?" said my mother.  "It's a month til the next full moon.  Why
not dress up as a pretty French maid, and then . . .  "

   "Oh, no, I couldn't, Olivia.  Because of his heart.  That's why I keep
our, intimacy, to once a month on the night of the full moon, and keep it
always the same so it doesn't excite him too much.  I do it then only
because he can't resist his .  . .  urges."

   "The doctor told John it's good for a man's heart.  It's exercise."

   "It is?  No, it can't be," said my grandmother.

   "He said it's not as much of a strain as hauling wood, and Grandpa does
that all the time."

   "Oh my, I didn't know that," said my grandmother.  "I mean about it not
being as much of a strain.  And I've deprived him all these years so that
now he's reduced to reading filthy books.  I've failed him, Olivia."

   "Oh, I don't think so," said my mother.  "And you still have your French
maid costume waiting to be worn."

   "All this time I could have . . .  Olivia.  I'll do it.  The next full
moon, I'll be Fifi."

   * * * *

   "All right, Grandpa," I said.  "I didn't just kiss Marcia, I also felt
her right breast."

   "That's better," said Grandpa, absentmindedly stroking his white-yellow
mustache.  "You've got at least half a beginning.  Was it firm?"

   "Grandpa!"

   "Well, was it?  Was it firm and full like a ripe tomato?"

   "Well, Ok, yes it was," I said.

   "Good," said Grandpa.  "Keep reading."

   ". . .  it was supposed to be so important," I read.  "And the men were
so humble and craving.  Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift
of herself?  So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth
with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments."

   "This is very erotic, Grandpa.  And that's sounds like Marcia and me
too," I said.  "'Subtle and intimate arguments.' But she hasn't given me
the gift of herself.  Not yet."

   "Not yet?" said Grandpa.

   "It might be soon, though."

   "That's my boy," said Grandpa.

   "But only if we plan to get married," I said.

   The book got more and more heated as I read.  And I couldn't believe the
words.  It had words I could hardly bring myself to read out loud. 
Unprintable words like "cunt" and "fuck!"

   But Grandpa said, "the last thing in the world a writer should be afraid
of, John Boy, is words."

   When Grandpa undid his blue pants and pulled out his male member, I
looked.  It was about 6 inches long, a little shorter than mine, and the
curly hair was a mix of dark and gray.  I saw no sign of the slight blond
color that still remained in the white hair on his head.  His sack--his
balls--were a little darker than mine.

   So I pulled out mine.  I was seven inches, and my member--my penis,
which was the word the book used--was already erect in its nest of brown
curly hair.  My sack--my balls--were pulled in tight like they did when I
was seriously kissing Marcia.  My tan suspenders over my long sleeve shirt
with thin diagonal stripes were still holding up my undone blue jeans.  "I
can't do this and keep reading," I said.  "I'm afraid I'll miss my aim and
ruin the book."

   "Then think," said Grandpa.  His right hand from his long sleeve pale
yellow buttoned shirt with blue suspenders over was feeling his male
member. "Think of Lady Chatterley, or of a girl you know, even a cousin, or
anyone, really."

   "I should think of Marcia," I said.

   "It doesn't work thinking of the woman you're actually with," said
Grandpa.  "No, you haven't actually done it with her, so it might.  Think
about whoever or whatever makes it happen for you, John Boy."

   "Grandpa," I said.  "I'm afraid of something else.  Sometimes, when it
happens, I get a little loud."

   "Oh, don't worry about that, John Boy.  We're in a dip in Walton's
Mountain.  The higher areas around us and the oak and evergreen trees block
the sound from the ground.  Any noise you make goes up into the trees and
the sky.  I tested it many years ago.  Even if you're screaming and hootin'
and hollerin' to beat the band, someone on the ground even a couple hundred
yards away can't hear a thing."

   * * * *

   I didn't know it then, but Mary Ellen had not stopped following me.  She
had seen me meet Grandpa, but couldn't see much else through the trees.

   So Mary Ellen had climbed an oak tree to get a better look.  She got it.
"Oh my goodness" she said to herself.

   My 13-year-old sister saw Grandpa and me, John Boy, with our blue pants
undone.  She saw our hands were in our laps, and saw that we were stroking
our male members.  "They're touching their pee pees!" she said to herself.
"No, that's a little girl word.  Penises," said Mary Ellen to herself. 
"They're called 'penises.' Grandpa and John Boy are touching their penises.
While I watch them do it.  Oh my goodness!"

   There was one advantage to wearing overalls, and that was that it gave a
girl easy access to her hidden parts.  While sitting on a thick branch and
holding onto another with one hand, Mary Ellen thrust her other hand under
the light blue bib of her overalls and felt the front of her wavy-patterned
light blue and white long-sleeved shirt.  Girls of her age and poverty
didn't wear brassieres, and she had already removed her sleeveless
emancipation bodice which no one could tell because of her covering
overalls and long, straight, blondish-brown.  Her breasts were small and
pert, and she could feel her own nipples through the soft natural fabric.

   She unbuttoned her shirt, giving her hand free access to her 13-year-old
breasts.  "I wish I had a white brassiere like Marcia Woolery," she said to
herself.  She thought of how it must have felt to the girl to have John Boy
sliding his hand into her supportive undergarment and feeling her breast.
Mary Ellen felt her own breast, and noticed her nipple was as erect as if
it were a cold winter morning instead of a warm spring afternoon.

   She wished she could see John Boy and her Grandfather's penises from
closer up, but she knew she had already seen more than Marcia Woolery had.
She remembered touching her brother's pee pee--penis--when he was 10 and
she was 6, and wondered what it felt like now, much larger and with hair
growing all around.

   Then she slid her hand out from the top and down into the side deep into
her overalls, down inside her white cotton panties and to where her own
light patch of brown hair had started growing.  She remembered Grandma
telling her when she was six years old not to touch herself there unless
she was wiping or washing, so she had started wiping her trickle a lot. 
But there was no one to tell her no now.

   She felt down, and her finger started moving deeper into her lightly
furred flesh until she found the deep spot of dampness.  My sister rubbed
her finger there while Grandpa and I, John Boy, stroked our male members,
our penises sticking straight up in the spring air.  She rubbed her slit
and said quietly to herself, "It's not a trickle; that's a little girl word
for a little girl part."

   Mary Ellen remembered sneaking a peek at a book at the Baldwin Sister's
home that Grandma and Mama would have forbidden her even to touch.  The
partially-remembered words were very enticing.  "It's my lady parts, it's
my vulva, it folds around my vagina like a fleshy curtain hiding my damp
cave of flesh that's made for a man's penis to enter and explore.  A man I
love and want to marry and make babies with." When she had told me, her
older brother, she didn't know exactly how babies grew, she meant not
exactly.  But she knew how it started.  Mary Ellen would remain a virgin
that spring, but she had learned more about mating than anyone but Marcia
Woolery thought.

   She pretended her finger was her lover's penis, and slid it right into
her increasing wet hole.  Her juice was already starting to drip down her
strong limbs.  A tomboy, her hymen had long ago been opened by running or
riding horses or tumbling or climbing trees.  Her insides were wet and
slithery and felt wonderful.

   Then she heard sounds from Grandpa whose strong right hand was thrusting
his member faster and faster.  She was too far away to pick out the words,
but of course I could.  "John Boy, it's about to happen for me."

   "Me too, Grandpa," I said while doing the same to mine.

   "Oh, it feels so . . .  so . . .  " said Grandpa.  Then, "Oh, here it
comes, here it comes.  Fifi!" exhaled Grandpa as his white spunk spurted
out of his penis.  He wasn't too loud, but I heard the name.  I would have
asked right then who 'Fifi' was, but I had someone else on my mind.

   I was trying to imagine Marcia Woolery's body, a body I hadn't actually
seen.  I knew every rounding and dip of her pretty face.  I had touched her
pink cheeks and looked deep into her pretty brown eyes and played with her
long light brown hair with a widow's peak.  I had kissed her and moved my
tongue inside her mouth, even felt her tongue move a little.  And I had
slid my hand inside her white brassiere and felt her right breast, even her
hard nipple.

   But I had never actually seen her body, not even her breasts, or any
woman completely naked.  I'd seen pictures of breasts and bottoms, with
black and white photos of Paulette Goddard and Olive Borden and I think
Jean Harlow.  And I had briefly seen the bosoms of Clara Bow in a black and
white silent film made before the Hays Code changed all that.

   But the closet I'd come to seeing the place on a woman's lower abdomen
where the hair grew was when Mary Ellen was 12 and I saw her skinny dipping
from a distance.  At the top of my sister's young thighs was just the
slightest hint of a wisp of dark hair.

   So I tried imaging Paulette Goddard's breasts and Mary Ellen's lady
parts only with a little more hair on a body with Marcia Woolery's face. 
But as I came close to a climax, my thoughts increasing focused on the
furry slit.

   "Me too, oh . . .  " And then I shouted the name of the girl whose
crotch was on my mind at my moment of climax.  I didn't mean to, but I did.
"Mary Ellen!" I cried loudly as my penis shot thick gobs of white high into
the air and on my hand and the ground.

   The sound carried up to the trees as Grandpa had said it would.  "Mary
Ellen?" said Mary Ellen to herself.  "Oh good grief, John Boy's seen me!"
Of course I hadn't.  But she quickly slid her hand up and out of her
crotch, and got down the tree very quickly to run away.

   "Mary Ellen?" said Grandpa to me.  "Is that who you were thinking of?"

   "What's that?" I said, hearing something moving in the woods.  But
before I could get my penis back in my pants and look to see what it had
been, Mary Ellen was gone.  It wasn't until much later I learned it had
been my sister watching me masturbate to her name.

   "Who's 'Fifi?'" I said to Grandpa after I stopped looking, trying to
cover my embarrassing exclamation of my sister's name.

   "That's exactly what Esther, your grandmother, asked me when she heard
me say that name many years ago during a moment of passion.  Just like you
cried 'Mary Ellen.'"

   "Oh, Grandpa, I . . .  "

   "It's perfectly natural," said Grandpa.  "Don't worry about it."

   "But who is she?"

   "Oh, I knew a French chorus girl I met in Cuba when we were both very
young.  That was about a year or two before I rode up San Juan Hill with
Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders.  But that girl was really a rough
rider.  And she danced wearing black silk stockings and peacock feathers
and little else.  At the climax of her dance, nothing else.  You could see
it all, John Boy.  Her back, her pert breasts with nice erect nipples, legs
up to her round buttocks in back and a dark patch of hair in front.  But
there was more.  She had a part dog part wolf she used in a private show
that . . .  well, ask me about that after you've been married for 20
years."

   "So while in the American army you met a French girl in Cuba?"

   "People moved around a lot back then," he said, "back before the
Depression."

   "So then Esther," Grandpa continued, "your grandmother, decided I was
still lusting after Fifi and thus committing adultery in my heart.  So it
stopped."

   "What stopped?" I asked.

   "Saturday night at 9 p.m.  was now sleeping time.  This was after your
Uncle Ben and Daddy were born.  I could almost stand it, with a little
self-abuse.  For a week or two at least.  But at the full moon, I headed to
Charlottesville.  I went to a bar, the Torch Song Bar; what an appropriate
name.  I saw a woman I knew from before I married Esther, pretty eyes, long
hair tied back, rounded bosom . . .  "

   "Grandpa!"

   "Well, she did.  She had a similar problem to mine, only the opposite.
Her husband was gone a lot on business and she was very lonely.  Having
affairs is what he was doing.  We drank together, got drunk together, then
slipped into the backseat of my car . . .  then I went home in the
morning."

   "Grandpa, you mean you did it with her?  When you were married to
Grandma?"

   "Nine months later, she . . .  "

   "Oh no, Grandpa, this is too much.  She had a baby?  Your baby?  When
you were married to Grandma?"

   "She had a girl, John Boy."

   "This is too much, Grandpa.  I . . .  I have to think about this."

   * * * *

   Mary Ellen didn't tell me that spring that she'd seen Grandpa and I
abusing ourselves, or that she thought I'd seen her watching us from a
tree. And I of course didn't tell Mary Ellen or any of my brothers and
sisters what I had learned from Grandpa, that somewhere out there we
apparently had an aunt none of us knew about.  I wondered if Daddy knew he
had a half-sister.

   But I put Mary Ellen and Grandpa and my unknown aunt out of my head to
think about Marcia.  I did not want to continue thinking about the bodies
of Paulette Goddard and Olive Borden when I was taking care of myself, and
certainly not of Mary Ellen.  I wanted to picture Marcia in my mind, and to
do that I had to see her nude.

   And because I was a Walton, I planned to do it on a full moon.


   Continued in Part Two . . .