The Tornado's Daughter: The Inspiring True Story of Charlotte Gwalt

By Ted L. Turner

Discover a remarkable journey of triumph in The Tornado's Daughter, a gripping nonfiction memoir. This poignant tale unravels the tumultuous family history of Charlotte Gwalt, interwoven with political assassinations, violence, betrayal, and the harrowing horrors of human trafficking. Against all odds, Charlotte rises above these adversities, defying the darkness that threatens to consume her. At its heart, this book is a testament to the unyielding resilience of the human spirit--a true story that showcases how even amid the darkest moments, one can forge a path to happiness and inner peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891123915

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Author's Note

Introduction

Chapter 1: Roses

Chapter 2: Tornadoes

Chapter 3: Lift the Bike

Chapter 4: Lamb, Pumpernickel, and Buses to Nowhere

Chapter 5: Satellites

Chapter 6: Revolvers and Hunting Rifles

Chapter 7: An Evil Cabal of Men…and Women

Chapter 8: Hope, Joy, and Angels in Human Clothing

Chapter 9: Happily Ever After…Not!

Chapter 10: On the Road Again and Again and Again

Chapter 11: Forgiveness

Chapter 12: Restoration

Chapter 13: I Know about Your Voodoo Lady

Chapter 14: Odds and Ends, Wins and Losses, Lessons Learned, and Stuff Like That

About the Author

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The Tornado's Daughter

The Inspiring True Story of Charlotte Gwalt

Ted L. Turner

ISBN 979-8-89112-390-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89112-392-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-89112-391-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2024 Ted L. Turner

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Acknowledgments

Above all, I must thank Charlotte for trusting me with her story. She has shared with me in ways she has not shared with anyone. Before the publication of The Tornado's Daughter , she was the only one who knew the extent of her experience. Sharing was difficult and, at times, painful.

She has shed many tears when reliving the horrors of her life and many more in seeing those experiences on paper. She has given me complete freedom in deciding how to tell her story, setting the tone, and choosing the words. She has often told me, It is my story, but it is your book. I have tried to maintain her voice throughout and have been deeply humbled and relieved when she said, It's like you were there.

Like many victims of abuse, she was worried that I would not believe her or that learning more about her would end our friendship, and that my wife and I would somehow find her unlovable. She revealed to me (and now to you) experiences that she has revealed to no one, not even Jacob. She was worried about his reaction. Would he or their children think less of her?

She patiently corrected me when I had gotten the facts wrong or did not understand clearly the emotions involved or the lessons learned.

Thank you, Christine, my beautiful wife of thirty-eight years, for believing I could write a book and for always being encouraging. The day she agreed to marry me was the best day of my life, and each day since has been better than the one before.

Christine has always believed in me even when it was not a popular thing to do. Now that the book is finished, I realize what a blessing she has been, specifically in the writing of this book. It came at a busy time for us. We were starting three businesses, building a house, and opening that house to some relatives who were displaced due to COVID-19. And yet, not once did she complain about the time I was spending writing or the many long and emotional conversations I was having with someone else's wife.

I also realized that I should thank Jacob. Charlotte shared with me many things that she had not shared with him. He only became aware of her full story through reviewing drafts of the manuscript. Charlotte once said to me in front of Jacob, You now know me better than anyone. I'm not sure how most men would react to their wives saying that to another man, but Jacob was empathetic and encouraging throughout.

To my family, thank you for your encouragement and for listening to me read endless drafts and rewrites. Thank you, Christopher, Maddie, Dennis, and Leah. Big thanks to my two-year-old granddaughter for always coming into my office at the right time and climbing up into my lap. Writing this story was emotionally draining at times. She was always a pleasant distraction.

Thank you, Abby Crimm, for your keen editorial eye and honest critique. Abby was the first to see the finished manuscript. Her frankness, competence, and encouragement are appreciated.

Author's Note

What you are about to read is a true story. All the characters are real people. I have personally known the tornado's daughter, aka Charlotte Gwalt, and her family for approximately fifteen years and can attest to the validity of the events in that time frame. I have interviewed many sources that can and do attest to the accuracy of the earlier events in Charlotte's life. To the extent practical, all events and time frames have been vetted against historical records.

As with all memoirs, this story is told through the filter of the subject's experience and her interpretation of events. However, the reader can be assured that the story is true and accurate.

There are no made-up or composite characters in this book. There are no made-up, embellished, or composite incidents. If it's in the book, then it happened to the people in the way depicted.

All character names have, however, been changed to protect the guilty. Despite the way Charlotte's parents and other family members treated her, she loves them and wishes them no ill. Revealing their names could cause them to lose friends and reputation, a fate Charlotte does not wish to befall them.

Aside from character names, some minor place names have been changed but not in any way that would detract from the accuracy of the events. For example, if an incident happened in Korea in the book, then it happened in Korea in real life. If it is depicted in Texas, then it happened in Texas, etc. Fewer than five city names have been changed. The time frame depicted in the book is accurate.

Charlotte has lived an amazing life. I hope you enjoy reading about it. If not, read it anyway. You can blame me for any shortcomings in wordsmithing, but her story and insight can still be inspirational in your life or the lives of those you love.

Introduction

As a child, I enjoyed the Sunday morning comic strips that appeared in the local newspaper. Charles Schulz's Peanuts was one of my favorites. From time to time, Charlie Brown's dog, Snoopy, would sit on top of his doghouse with a typewriter, working on the great American novel. Snoopy's writing always started the same way: It was a dark and stormy night.

I've often thought about that sentence, It was a dark and stormy night. Much of my life can be described that way. Even on the darkest and stormiest days (stormiest, is that a word? If not, it is now), I never lost sight of the sun, or for that matter, the Son. That is not to say that I did not have times of despair or feelings of helplessness. Many times, I have cried out in my heart, asking God why he has turned his back on me and wondering why those who should have loved and protected me instead abused and abandoned me.

As I moved through the darkness and the storm into the dawn and the light, I tried to be cognizant of how this progress occurred and how others could experience a similar change of direction in their lives.

Those who know only of my earlier years would never have dreamed I would end up with anything positive in my life. The climb from where I started to where I am would have appeared too steep and arduous for anyone to have deemed it possible. Instead, they weep for me, pity me, or push their knowledge of those years out of their minds because it is too painful for them to think upon. Too painful for them to think upon…really? I lived it. Or should I say I lived through it? That's the point of this memoir. I lived through it! I not only survived, but I thrived.

Those who know only of my more recent life see a life of abundance, of options, comforts, and privilege. I often refer to myself as a kept woman, in the best sense of the term. I am kept safe by a man who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of the betterment of mine, a man who would weep on his deathbed because he would not get to show me one more time how much he treasures me.

You may think such a man does not exist. You would be wrong. Although I will admit he did not start out that way, and our journey to a happy and fulfilling marriage was fraught with struggle, disappointment, and heartache. We remain imperfect people, and our marriage reflects that. I know I may be biased, but we have an amazing marriage, and if two people as flawed and damaged as us can build that, then you can too.

My life has been an unending pursuit of answers and understanding, the attainment of which is one of life's greatest joys. I have loving friends who support me in my worthwhile pursuits and love me enough to challenge the answers I come to, which drives me to look deeper and thus attain more joy. I have found that the price we pay for understanding or contentment often looks like service—the giving of ourselves for the benefit of others.

When I picture where my life began, I see it as one of those 1950s-type buses from a black-and-white film noir. It's night; the rain falls heavy. The station is small, rundown, and sad. This is a starting point, a place of departure. No one would choose this as their destination.

The driver does not greet the passengers. He is not their friend, just their driver. One by one, eleven strangers board the bus. They do not sit near one another. Each is alone, perhaps only for this journey, perhaps completely. Why eleven? I don't know. I think it should be a prime number, so maybe seven works as well. I do not think three works, or two, and definitely not one.

None of that has anything to do with my story, except that the riders all experience the same ride, but they do not all have the same experience. I am but one passenger on this bus. Although our band of eleven will travel the same route, traverse the same potholes, experience the same weather, and make the same late-night rest stops, if we were to be interviewed about our ride, we would give eleven distinct and varied descriptions. This is my version of the journey thus far. I am confident that what follows is an accurate and fair dissertation of the facts. Other perspectives do not detract from the validity of mine.

If others want their accounts known, let them write as they may. This is my story. I write it for my own purposes and for my children; let them avoid the mistakes of past generations and take courage from the story of triumph.

I write for the benefit of others who may find themselves on an old 1950s bus at night, in the rain, in a world without sunlight, with fellow passengers who don't give a tinker's damn (I'm not swearing. It's a real thing; look it up) about them. To those on such a bus now, I say, someone else may have put you in that seat, but you can trade seats with the driver. You and only you determine the bus's final stop. Take the wheel and drive.

Chapter 1

Roses

The fateful day approached its close,

My soul had grown weary in search of the rose.

I'd heard the tales of a flower so fair,

Whose scent floated softly in the still summer air.

In forgotten years, my steps were sure,

My eyes bright and intentions pure.

To laud, praise and honor was all that I sought,

No base distractions garnished my thoughts.

To see her, sincerely to honor her beauty,

Now an obsession, a life-consuming duty.

As days became weeks that gave way to years,

My desires turned dark; the rose had reason to fear.

A lifetime spent in despair and toil,

When I find the rose, I'll pluck her from the soil.

She'll be mine to own, I've earned that right,

by diligent quest that wasted me day and night.

At last, I found her, more striking than thought,

She was lovely; and trapped, this prize that I sought.

She stood entangled with briar and weed,

But her beauty shone through and re-fired my need.

I reached out too roughly, to take what was mine,

Blood dripped from my finger, the pain sublime.

My body ached, my soul pained and forlorn,

Alas the Rose gave me only her thorn.

A rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. Well, could Shakespeare have added, and would have thorns just as sharp.

Roses are delicate plants, prized for their beauty and fragrance, and lauded in literature and art. They are associated with love, beauty, purity, holding status in various religions and heraldry.

Roses are, in the eyes of some, otherworldly, mystical, and born of deity. In Greek mythology, the rose was created when Aphrodite's tears mixed with the blood of her dying lover, Adonis. In Christianity, the rose has been associated with the Virgin Mary.

Whatever the reason, man has long admired and sought the rose.

Man has cultivated roses since approximately 500 BC. Starting in China and Persia, man has somehow decided that the rose needed our help, or perhaps he just can't leave a thing of beauty alone and needs to bend it to his will. Over the centuries, men and women have taken the rose's 150 species and created no less than thirty-five thousand hybrids.

Roses are delicate plants, prone to diseases, the ravages of insects, weather, and inhospitable soils. Thousands of words have been written, countless television shows have been produced, and more recently, podcasts have been developed, all touting the supposedly best or simplest means of husbanding roses. Businesses and academia spend millions of dollars every year on research and experimentation. The simple rose has grown into a $100 billion-a-year industry.

And yet the rose has grown just fine without man's help for more than thirty-five million years. It kind of makes one wonder, Just how delicate are roses, really? To be sure, the flower is delicate. That is a big part of its beauty and desirability, but as Matshona Dhliwayo points out, A rose in a desert can only survive on its strength, not its beauty.

The rose may be delicate, but it is not helpless or without defense. If one attempts to touch or possess a rose, one must not become distracted by its charm or move carelessly, lest, by so doing, one encounters the thorn.

Roses are delicate plants that are easy to underestimate, possessing sharp daggers that they don't hesitate to use when handled roughly or dismissively. Roses are much like my mother.

Young love, true love—is there anything sweeter? It is the rush that fills a young girl's heart when she sees her hero and the rapid befuddlement and decline in IQ a young man experiences when he sees his princess.

The young man looked dashing in his military uniform. He was an archetypical figure of masculinity. He was charming and funny. He knew how to get what he wanted.

The young lady was movie-star beautiful. Only seventeen, but she had a natural grace about her, and heads turned when she entered a room.

My mother, Rose, was a seamstress. She lived near an army base, and often she and her younger sister provided tailoring services to the soldiers assigned there, mostly sewing patches or hemming pants. It brought in extra spending money and alleviated the boredom imposed by living far from the modern, bustling cities of the world. Many of the soldiers had traveled extensively or had come from major cities. The sisters were enthralled with stories of adventure, bright lights, big cities, and centers of industry and finance.

In reality, most of the soldiers were young and didn't know any more about culture, finance, or the arts than my mother did, but soldiers far from home will say anything when they see a pretty girl. Their heads would turn in her direction without any discernable reason for them to look that way. She had a magnetism, and like moths to a flame, young men would flock around her. As they got closer, their hearts would flutter with anticipation. She heard all the lines and experienced all the pickup attempts. No doubt some were sincere, but most just had prurient interests and took a shot. Others callously thought a woman in her circumstances should just lie down and let a man do what he wanted.

One of those soldiers, my father, was a bit different. For whatever reason, he stood out. His professions of love seemed more sincere, his smile gentler, his speech more charming, and his demeanor more genteel. It didn't take long for this Romeo and Juliet to express their devotion and commitment to each other in a wedding ceremony.

My parents' story is a charming one, as old as time itself. Boy meets girl; boy and girl fall madly in love, get married, have children, and live happily ever after. It's amazing how a few omitted facts or careful word choices can make the ugly appear beautiful, or vice versa. We often take a superficial look at things, see what we want to see, and then quickly move our gaze to something else so the truth we fear doesn't have a chance to confront us.

Perhaps, through embarrassment, self-deception, or necessity, we retreat in our thoughts to a fantasy that pleases or at least placates us for a time. The fantasy is less painful than the reality. Perhaps the fantasy falls so smoothly from our lips that it sounds truer to the teller with each recitation until we can almost fool ourselves. I get it. Who doesn't want Romeo and Juliet to awaken from their slumber and run off to a faraway land where they run a successful bed-and-breakfast, eventually selling out to a huge hotel chain and retiring to a life of luxury? Who among us doesn't fantasize that Rose moved to the edge of the makeshift raft and let Jack survive instead of just watching him slowly succumb to the icy waters of the North Atlantic?

The problem with fantasy is that it can't sustain life. There is no nutrition in fantasy. It's like that decadent dessert that gets better with every bite. It's so good—except that it isn't. It has way too much sugar, fat, calories, and sodium. It won't sustain life long-term. Fantasy, like dessert, is safe to indulge in occasionally, but the staple that sustains and nurtures life is the truth. Like broccoli, the truth may give you gas. Like brussels sprout, the truth may begin to stink as you apply steam (please don't steam brussels sprouts; that's just gross). Proper nutrition is vital for a healthy physical body. Regular servings of truth, properly prepared and patiently digested, are vital for emotional development.

I may drift into fantasy from time to time as do we all, but mostly I focus on the truth as it is gradually revealed to me.

In the movie Titanic, Rose lives a privileged life. All her physical needs are lavishly satisfied. My Rose, my mother, grew up in a life of want, fear, and deprivation.

My mother was born in South Korea in 1955, two years after the armistice was signed, effectively ending the Korean War. For centuries, Korea had been controlled and plundered by foreign governments: Russian, French, Chinese, and others. In 1875, after a short, lopsided battle at Ganghwa Island, the Japanese started to flex their muscles and made inroads into the country, culminating in the Japanese annexation of Korea in 1910. Over time, the Japanese built up the Korean industrial sector and infrastructure, but the average Korean enjoyed none of the fruits of this modernization. These endeavors were undertaken solely for the benefit of the Japanese people and government. Systematically, the country's wealth and resources were stripped away.

From 1910 until 1945, the Japanese presence in Korea steadily increased, as did the abuse and oppression. To control the territory and its people, the Japanese moved deliberately and relentlessly to destroy the Korean culture, language, and history. Even nature had to be bent to the will of the occupiers. Millions of trees were uprooted to make way for non-native plants that were more beneficial to Japan. More than seven hundred thousand Koreans were forcibly sent