Our family became even more patriarchal than it had previously been with the advent of our more extreme and isolating belief system. We had always had to take Dennis' boots and socks off at the end of the day (he was too fat to reach his feet easily) and rub his smelly feet. We were all well trained in massaging his back, neck, shoulders, legs, head, arms, hands and even his butt. Lisa was the one to call if he wanted to be walked on or pounded vigorously. Mike was usually enlisted for the feet and butt duty. Gia was rarely called at all. I was the one he called when he wanted something gentle, soothing, and steady. He used to say that my hands felt different, that I had "healing hands". I think he was probably just trying to motivate me by catering to my ego, but I did put some effort into trying to do a good job. The consequences of irritating him were usually fairly unpleasant, while making him happy sometimes spared you more odious tasks.

We were expected to wait on him at the table, to pour his coffee, to notice when it was nearing empty and refill it without his having to ask. He only used certain plates, cups, glasses, and silverware. If for some reason you gave him the 'wrong' dish or fork, he would loudly demand the right one. He made much ado of his (supposed) royal ancestry and insisted that we treat him as a king. His so-called superiority extended to food as well. Often, everyone in the family would eat lentil soup or a very simple macaroni dish or venison stew while he devoured a steak. The rest of us considered it fantastic if we got a hamburger once in a while. He ate only real butter, the margarine was for us, etc etc. We weren't allowed to just eat whatever we wanted to from the fridge or cupboard. It might be his. Besides, there still wasn't much food. We were subsisting mainly on food boxes from the food bank. But if there was something nice, it was his. The biggest and the best of anything was his, since he imagined himself to be a king.

Mealtimes were fraught with anxiety. If there was a dessert, you had better eat it first and quickly. Savoring each bite slowly or saving it until after the main dish was a certain route to losing it entirely. Noone wanted to sit next to Dennis for this reason. He would reach right over onto your plate and take whatever was the best. If there was an olive, he would nab it. Dessert, gone! Complaining or making a fuss only gave him more time to take more food from your plate. One's only defense was to bolt down the most favored foods as fast as you could. Conversely, if you did not like a food, it was best to choke it down and not let on that you found it disgusting. If he detected a food aversion, he would heap a large serving of it for you and insist that you eat each and every bite, even if it meant sitting at the table for over an hour while he glared at you belligerently.

What bothered me the most though, was his habit of suddenly asking me what I was thinking. I have always felt that my mind is the most private, inviolable part of me, that my thoughts are nobody else's business. If I answered him honestly, my thoughts were usually about something he considered frivolous and a waste of time. He would criticize me for it and tear me apart in front of the family. He would suggest all sorts of other things I should be thinking of instead. How to please him, how to prepare myself to be a good wife, how to act more like my sister Lisa (his favorite), of spiritual matters, and so on. The tirade could drag on for over half an hour or more if I disagreed with him even slightly, even silently by not wholeheartedly endorsing everything he said. Being stubborn, I hardly ever agreed with him heartily, so I was frequently singled out for this sort of thing. It could be something as insignificant as the way I shook the salt and pepper shakers, the way I walked, or the fact that I didn't at all mind going on my daily walk in the pouring rain. After a while, since I was opposed to lying, when he asked me what I was thinking, I would quickly think of something I knew he'd approve of, and then answer him truthfully: "Oh, I was just thinking of how Yahweh created so many different types of trees." or "I was praying for my Dad's family to come to the full truth of Yahshua and for their souls to be delivered from the evil one." etc. This tactic got me off the hook without fail, though he would eye me distrustfully at times.

If at any time anyone in the family (including my mom) opposed him in any way, a row would ensue. There would be much shouting about how he was the head of the household, how he was the king of the family, how he was the provider (ironic, since he hadn't had a single job since moving to Idaho). During one such scene, he demanded that we all acknowledge that he was our King. One by one, the other children said that he was their king. My turn came. I wouldn't do it. "Yahweh is King", I said quietly. This infuriated him. He was practically frothing at the mouth. He turned to my mother for support, but she agreed with me. The Bible made it quite clear that Yahweh was the King of kings. He fumed. Finally he sputtered, "I am the king of this family!" Needless to say, this incident didn't endear me to him at all.

The man was constantly humiliating us and calling us names. He frequently called me a nigger, because I wasn't fastitidious as Lisa was. I will admit that at that age my hygiene left a lot to be desired for a teenaged girl. Also, I ran around in the woods all day long, so my jeans got torn out at the knees and stained from grass, tree sap, and plain old dirt. I came home wet up to my waist from wading in the lake or in creeks. Because I wore glasses, he would often call me a myopic pig. He relished telling dinner guests of how Mike and Gia had been wild and out of control when he met them, how they had physically attacked him in an attempt to drive him away (one can't say they didn't try...) but he had whupped them into shape. Or of how ugly Gia had been at birth, shriveled up like a little raisin. Or of the fact that Mike had wet his pants a few times as a small child. Every humilating thing that we had ever done or that had happened to us was thrown into our faces time and again. The only one he hardly picked on was Lisa.