So many people have opinions about me, that I feel the Lord would have me tell my own story –– starting with a short account of my bizarre childhood. I was born in the Santa Ana Hospital to Ray Frisbee and Janette Ashley on June 6, 1949.
My father is a full-blooded American Indian — Cherokee and Choctaw. My grandfather lived on an Indian reservation. My father was a country western entertainer who played in honkytonks. He was a womanizer and an alcoholic.
One of my earliest recollections is of Ray Frisbee beating my mother. He used to do things like break all the dishes, and bust all the windows out of the house. A lot of it had to do with uncontrolled rage. He would break eggs on the ceiling. He would literally take raw eggs, and throw them up on the ceiling while laughing hysterically. This was when he was drunk. One of his last girlfriends told me that she had to put a restraining order against my father; that he had consecutively busted out every window of the house ﬁve times with the grand ﬁnale of putting a kitchen chair through the television. He went through ﬁve sets of windows and a TV. He almost killed the woman because he beat her so badly.
So Ray constantly beat my mother, and I would hear my mother screaming under the ﬁst popping blows of my father’s dysfunctional life. As an infant I recall him being very cruel to my mother with a lot of screaming and crying. I could hear her from my crib. I knew it was my baby crib, because it had bars on it. I also remember as a toddler coming into the kitchen, and walking on glass. Besides being an alcoholic, and a womanizer, my father was a gambler. He brutalized all of the people that were in his life. I often describe my biological father, Ray Frisbee –– as a “Cherokee Indian, honky-tonk singer with whisky breath.”
The rest of the story is in his book, Not by Might, Nor by Power.