The Winter of 1923 in The Family Curse and My Fight to Break It

    In the heart of a small town, among snow-covered fields and whispers of superstition, a story began that would echo through generations. It was the winter of 1923, a time when medicine was scarce, and magic was often mistaken for miracles.

    My great grandmother Rose, a heavier woman with no idea that she was pregnant, is the center of this story. One cold night, after feeling unwell, she went to the bathroom, and to her surprise, gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl, each weighing less than a pound.

    In those days, such tiny, premature babies were unlikely to survive.  Rose’s mother, Edith, known locally for her unconventional ways and believed by some to be a witch, placed the fragile newborns in the warm, gentle heat of an oven—her makeshift incubator. She performed what many called “witchy magic,” whispered spells as the warmth surrounded the babies. Against all odds, they survived.

    The twins grew into adults, but their lives were far from the miraculous survival story.  The girl turned to alcohol and lived a troubled life. The boy became a dark shadow in the family’s history. He preyed on the innocence, including my sister and I.  He robbed us of our innocence, which began when we were only five and continued on for a few years until we were no longer meeting his perverse needs. These years of betrayal, confusion, and pain left scars that run deep. 

    I’ve often wondered if those actions that took place back then,were the seeds of what I believe was the beginning of our family curse. It feels like an unbroken thread of sorrow and dysfunction stretching back to that winter of 1923. A shadow that has loomed over us for 102 years, shaping lives, choices, and fates.

    I refuse to let that shadow consume me or my children. Breaking a curse, real or imagined, is no easy feat. It means confronting the past, facing the pain, and doing everything in your power to rewrite the narrative. 

    Though I’ve worked to shield my children from the weight of our family’s history, I can still feel its lingering presence. Breaking cycles takes time, strength, and resilience. Some days, I think I’ve succeeded; on others, I’m not so sure.

    I hold onto hope. Hope that with each generation, the grip of the past weakens a little more. Hope that the courage to confront our history and my past will bring healing. Hope that my children, and my grandchildren, will finally be free from the burden of what began so long ago in that small town, on that snowy winter night.

    This is my story, my family’s story. It’s painful and complicated, but it’s also a testament to survival, resilience, and the unyielding determination to create a better future.

©2025,DJohnson. All Rights Reserved