Wilma’s kidnapping
This is the story of my mother’s (Wilma Elane Redmond) kidnapping as told by her sister (Roberta) [See original newspaper clipping here]
WILMA’S ESCAPE–about 1940
Roberta La Grand
Late in summer our parents went to an all-day farm auction. An older brother was away from home working, leaving me at age 14 in charge of four younger siblings: Wilma, 13 years old, Margaret 12, Eddie and Merle, both younger, probably about 5 or 6. This wasn’t unusual for farm kids, we were very responsible about our chores and good about obeying our parents wishes.
They left us a job, “clean the chicken house.” We knew if we worked hard, and cooperated instead of fussing, we could get done in time for evening chores. After really working, we were done except for putting down clean straw on the floor. By this time we were really anxious to have all chores done by the time our parents got home. We knew they would be surprised and proud of us.
Wilma proposed a deal: she would take the kids and go get the cows from the pasture if I would put down clean straw and then put the feed in place for each milk cow in the milking barn. The cows and kids had to walk the distance of about one city block along the busy road (plenty of room to the side, we did it all the time without incident). Considering the fact our parents weren’t home, however, I should have gone with them, a fact I have regretted not doing all my life, although my parents never seemed to blame me.
I’m getting ahead of the story…
A few minutes after the kids left I heard screaming. Thinking one of them had been hit by a car, I ran to the road. They were screaming and crying because a man kidnapped Wilma!!! in broad daylight!! on a very busy road!! Two farm families lived across the road; they heard the commotion and came out. One man got in his car to give chase, the other went into his house to call the sheriff.
This is as far as I can ever get without breaking down in a verbal rendition, and even now I have to take a break as I am overcome with the memory of the emotion I was experiencing…. A cold fear invaded my body, guilt washed over me. Why had I stayed home? I turned aside and prayed, “Please, God, if you will bring her back to us alive, I will never fight with her again.” A promise I think I have never forgotten. We often disagreed over the years but we could talk it out without resorting to the foolish fighting as we had sometimes done in the past.
Things began to happen fast. Sheriff patrol cars arrived, the neighbor who had given chase came back. He had followed the car and gotten close enough to get a description and tag number, but because his gas gauge registered nearly empty he turned back to call in the information. About the same time two farmers drove a pickup truck into our drive. They stopped and got out, reaching in to help someone out. IT WAS WILMA! I could scarcely take the picture into my brain. Her dress was torn in tatters–her beautiful long blonde hair was full of debris–her face was streaked with dirt, sweat and tears–a haunted look in her eyes spoke volumes. She was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen! I opened my arms, she walked into them, we clung to each other silently, ignoring the bedlam that had erupted around us. “Are you okay?” I whispered into her ear. She knew what I meant. “Yes, I got away before he had a chance to do anything. I tore my clothes jumping from his car and going through a barbed wire fence.”
The authorities were trying to question her as they wanted to capture the man. About this time my parents drove in, wondering what was happening.
Wilma calmed down enough to tell us all her story. “I resisted the man at first then realized he was going to take someone and the others were too young to plan a getaway. Besides they would sound the alarm and someone would rescue me so I quit fighting as he put me in the car. A little way down the road he looked in his mirror and saw the neighbor’s car had caught up to him and then turned around. Knowing he probably would give details to police he decided to turn off this busy road. When he turned off to a dirt road I jumped out of the car. I was thrown across the ditch, rolled under a barbed wire fence into a cornfield. The corn was so thickly planted and tall that even though he stopped the car and entered the field he couldn’t find me. ‘Come back, I won’t hurt you–I will take you home,’ he kept calling. The field was planted on a steep hill and I ran up that hill knowing a farm house was at the top. We knew this family and I was sure they would help me.”
Little did Wilma know that more trauma was ahead for her: the farmers she had run to that day were fumigating their chicken house, thus wearing protection masks over their faces. They came out with the masks on, not realizing the effect it would have on her. She turned and ran again, but there were several men there and they managed to catch her, jerk their masks off and calm her enough to tell her story. Of course, they brought her home.
I heard my mother say to the sheriff’s men that IF this had to happen, Wilma was the one who would keep her head, think of getting the other children safely away, plan and execute her own escape later. How right she was.
Later that night I overheard my parents talking. Mother asked Daddy what he would have done had they been home. My dad, who was always so calm, kind and slow to anger said, “I would have grabbed the shotgun and given chase.”
“Would you have shot him?”
“Absolutely.”
“But you might have hit Wilma too, with a shotgun.”
“Better that than what would happen to her if she wasn’t rescued.”
I have always been grateful it worked out like it did, because my dad could have possibly become a murderer.
Police tracked the man through his car tag number and picked him up. He admitted taking Wilma, admitted his intention was to molest her, admitted being high on “dope.” Yes, even then there were drug problems, but not to the extent it is now.
A few days later, the police came to the one-room school house that was close to our home. They took Wilma and Margaret to the jail to identify the man. (I was in high school by then but they didn’t need me, I had not seen him). My parents drove there to be with the girls. Margaret told me it was very scary, they were so afraid he might escape. There was a trial and he was sentenced to several years in prison. Had Wilma been a few months younger, he would have gotten a stiffer sentence. We were glad to see that he was at least convicted.
Wilma was serving a sentence also. She, who had always been such a “dare devil”–ready to try any scary thing–became so fearful. If a car came in our driveway that she didn’t recognize, we would have to hunt for her–under a bed or in the back of a a closet, in the hay in the barn–we would have to find her as no amount of calling would bring her out. I feel that in the same circumstance today counseling would be given at least for her. Our whole family needed it, to learn how to best help her.
A few months later the man’s parents asked if they could come to our house “to talk.” My parents said yes. They came and stayed maybe an hour. They said their son had been offered a good job if he could be paroled. The prison board said only my parents’ OK could make that happen. The man thought that since he “hadn’t hurt the girl” he should be let out. My dad very gently told them what Wilma was going through, saying he couldn’t possibly agree to their wishes because of her mental state and how much worse she would be if she knew he was free. The mother was crying as they left. We felt sad for them, they seemed like very nice people, but were relieved to hear Daddy say no. If my parents ever knew when the man was released, they never told us.
My sister Margaret remembers more details than I knew about, such as them being taken to the jail. I am 73 years old, my memory is faulty at times, but this is how I remember the story. Wilma’s strength and later her faith in God helped her to overcome this terrible event in her life. She learned how to be joyous again.
