Hardly boring, the flag flies on my 65th birthday ! Y e s, it does !

And today, often a cycle’s Winter Solstice, Willard Albert William Maas, too, would have been 93 years old. Adversely affecting far too many of all of these years, there had existed a savage and smug thug, a terrorist about whom Daddy was well acquainted in the reality that had been his favored daughter’s life, a Mr Harold (rhymes with Ger’ ’d) Skimpole – like criminal of arrested development, vainglorious hypocrisy, an attention – seeker of ruthless and relentless unaccountability. http://www.firstthings.com/article/2008/08/004-the-skimpole-syndrome-childhood-unlimited-49 Chapter 18, The Company One’s Mind Keeps, pages 121 – 126, Mother – Fucking: “Mirzah, Jesse, Zane and I hadn’t seen AmTaham and Mehitable in a little while, maybe 2½ months or more. It had not been since I rented the honkin’ big black video camera for Zane to film his Grandpa AmTaham as his Kate Mitchell History Day project which he took to State later in Des Moines and actually there won second place with it! The theme for that last spring’s event, really a rather big deal, in the fifth grades around the State of Iowa had been to develop with documentation a piece of some kind, like a video or a poster board or a picture album or an extensive report, about a very, very important person to you in history. Well, this was right up the Ancestor – in – Training alley of mine although this was Zane’s deal and picking as his very, very important person his Grandpa AmTaham had entirely been all of his own thinking and choice. Others in the class, of course, picked Einstein or Gandhi or a few women, too, ... I should think – although I myself actually had heard of none selected. But Zane had settled quite early on on making his History Day project submission a video in which he interviewed his Grandpa AmTaham who, to Zane and to Jesse, probably couldn’t have been more interesting or more important in their lives if he had outright otherwise tried to be. Zane and Jesse, even youngest Mirzah, although Mirzah simply hadn’t had as much time on the Planet to get to know his Grandpa AmTaham as had Jesse and Zane, completely and with abandon adored their Grandpa AmTaham. With us all finally living in Ames now, he and Mehitable resided only two hours down the interstate from us; and he and Zane and Jesse and I couldn’t have been happier about this fact. Herry, of course, ignored my daddy thinking him a bumbling country bumpkin idiot hayseed because he wasn’t wealthy, not even at least by his elder years, like his own farmer father was. I say that that was Herry’s opinion because, some time later, I actually read just about those exact words in Herry’s own handwriting. I didn’t need to read it somewhere, though; to me about his thinking on Ancestor AmTaham Dr. Herod Edinsmaier made no bones. Usually, doesn’t the husband always joke about himself and his mother – in – law –— with respect to their relationships with one another? Particularly if that relationship is known to be sour or, in the very least of ways, unsatisfactory? Not with Herry. The entire time I knew the man both before and after I was married to him and, later, divorced from him ... all of that time ... the one parent of mine whom Herry at all times wholly loathed in every way possible was my father, AmTaham True. I know now that all of Herod Edinsmaier’s hatred of AmTaham was borne out of Dr. Edinsmaier’s own incredible narcissistic need for attention and his quenchless insecurities. AmTaham simply threatened the beYesus out of Herry. True it was and couldn’t have been truer: AmTaham was not rich in material fortune and booty – loot treasure and was never going to be. From off of the same scripted page as the bumpkin idiot hayseed comment of his, Dr. Edinsmaier deplored what he considered to be a coming ‘fact’ in his future: that he, Herry, because he was married to me, would have to be responsible in some financial way, let alone, in actual physical elder care, for both Mehitable and AmTaham in their old, old age. And that thinking of his, that this actual work of taking care of his in – laws would, in some manner, be his fate even before AmTaham or Mehitable were in any way at all either physically or financially incapacitated, vexed Herry no end. While AmTaham was never going to roll in the dough, he did embody everything else –– and did so with such ease, grace and honor –– that Herry himself was never, ever going to be. Simply for starters, AmTaham was gorgeous even as an older man and, finally, an old man. And, as you can imagine then, too, as a young suitor of my mother and soldier in uniform or garbed in his usual rugged livery of blue jeans, flannel shirt and denim barn coat, AmTaham was a stunner. As a three – year – old and a 13 – year – old and a 33 – year – old, I thought AmTaham True the awesomest composition of adult human maleness ever, ever orchestrated. He was tall, 6’2”. His were the always, always completely uncovered coal shocks of thick, slightly wavy, long black hair, the chiseled and ruddy cheekbones, the magnificent nose and the confident countenance and bravura of a true Ancestor in the making. AmTaham True. Zane in his early 20s recently returned from a several months’ – long, hiking Wanderjahr around Guatemala bringing back with him a certain blackish marble statue of a Mayan which he had found there and produced out of his walkabout carryall to present to me for inspection. By chance, he handed it to me sideways; and, immediately, it was immeasurably unmistakable to us both when I pointed out the phenomenal resemblance. This was the bust of Z’s late Grandpa AmTaham which, until that revelation, Zane himself had not seen but was, no doubt, accountable at least in part for the pull behind his incentive to purchase the image in the first place! Then there was the brain of this man. AmTaham knew everything. Everything important enough to be known before one was deceased and, therefore, truly a Righteous Ancestor, that’s for sure. I mean that most seriously. A steel trap. He spoke German at home before he did English. He read and read and read and never stopped reading until, literally, seconds before he dropped dead. This reading habit he started, too, long before he began walking to school. At age five, six or seven years when his own father, Great – Grandpa Zebulon for the accomplishing of certain chores couldn’t find AmTaham, the eldest of six children, next one in line being a brother, then four littler sisters, why, Great – Grandpa’s first place to look for AmTaham was the hayloft of the 80 – acre True homestead’s great centerpiece, the colossal red barn with the hayfork machinery which was so, so fascinating to watch in operation. AmTaham stockpiled a passel of books up in one corner of it just beneath the wide, wizened flap of a wooden loft door which allowed the great and warm light of the slowly setting sun to shed into the mow from the western sky in the late afternoons following school. The most prized and oft – examined book AmTaham devoured up there day in and day out was certainly not any of the several bible versions or other scriptures of the surrounding christian neighborhood but, instead, Noah Webster’s Dictionary. AmTaham True owned a vocabulary that I, to this day, have never known any other to match. He not only knew the words’ meanings but exercised the expressions, always, always in the manner of the Queen’s own English, into his ordinary daily speech whether hand – milking Camel his forehead gently resting against her right caramel – colored flank or climbing aboard the Oliver 88 to head out west across the fecund expanse hauling behind him the equally green 12 – row planter or saying grace and giving thanks to, for him, a non – existent Allah over his family’s entire supper of white breadcrumbs topped with Karo Syrup and Camel’s milk. This praxis was not in the least meant to impress nor boast nor claim renown nor just to even engage another in conversation. AmTaham didn’t possess the voracious neediness for others’ attention and accolades that Herry Edinsmaier so desperately did. AmTaham only wanted, for himself, to remember the things that he had studied. Therefore, to do that he actually used those bits and pieces of knowledge in his everyday life as often as it took for him to not forget them. The same was true of his love for classical music. Two of his three tractors, both of the Olivers, each had a wooden shelf secured and wired through holes drilled into their green, left, back – wheel fenders on which sat a large, black contraption that daily, as a matter of fact, captured the broadcast waves from the student – run radio station, WSUI, at the nearby university in Iowa City. So. During the decade that was the 1950s as he disked and plowed and harrowed and planted and cultivated, AmTaham True reeeallly ... cultivated. That steel – trap mind of his. Out there on the plains at top decibel in order to be able to hear above the engine din, AmTaham, over half deaf himself anyhow from his participation in the pandemonium that had been World War II, harvested a whole agri – culture of Bach and Mozart and Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and Liszt and Chopin or Brahms. He could name for you in the very first few opening bars and measures what work, what concerto, what symphony and what opus number the next piece playing on his funky audio contrivances was and which composer created it. Much in the same fashion that we four teenagers of his could identify all the pop songs and artists that blared out from the rock stations of the real radios we kept by our beds upstairs! Speaking of teenagers, before we kids passed that infamous operator’s examination and obtained our own independent drivers’ licenses at 16 years of age here in Iowa, AmTaham had to do all of the lawful chauffeuring of us to and from our activities when the schedules of all of them did not jive with the times the school bus could rurally deliver us home. Mehitable, legally blind, since that floor – varnishing incident in my toddlerhood when her retinae one day suddenly and permanently detached bilaterally, could not drive me nor my friends anywhere. This was AmTaham’s sole duty for all four of his children throughout our pre – driving junior high and high school years which, necessarily, put quite a time – constraining burden on to him as a matter of fact. Occasionally, but not at all too often, I would ask AmTaham to drive one, two or all three of my best girlfriends, Diana, Kirsten and Lorelee, home from play practice, our Troy Tip – Toppers 4 – H Club or the Junior Achievement business meeting. When he did, his asking any of them for directions to their streets or the most rare of moments when he contributed to the conversations or offered up an initial comment from his chauffeur’s seat about any topic such as on how the 4 – H or JA projects were progressing, Kirsten, Lorelee and Diana ended up mute in short order. They very nearly hadn’t a clue as to what the man had just asked them or stated to their thin air, the vocabulary used in making these general comments of his completely beyond them. All four of us girls were almost always straight – A students and highly competitive so each was not about to let the others of us in on her own personal secret, that is, that each one of us pretty much had no friggin’ idea what Mr. True with his lexicon was saying up there in the front seat. Therefore, our best course of action to save face and ourselves from mortal embarrassment was to stay shut up! We might actually have learned something more, from him that is, if we did remain quiet anyway! While AmTaham, I am sure, harbored no inkling nor intent to cause any of us girls shame in our ignorance, his lexis and elocution were always such – impeccable, that is – that our safest plan was to ride along together rather proper – like for young ladies in those days, that is of course, voiceless I mean. It could also be said that I, Legion, rather reveled in my silence in this singular scenery inside the car instead of being at all discomfited by it. Lorelee’s mama and daddy were farmers, too; but those other two friends of mine had suited and monied businessmen for fathers; and my pa’s flawless eloquence only served to show them both that some folks whom they and their families may have, as a matter of course and classism, automatically written off as hickish, dullard – like grovelers in the ground ... weren’t. Though I knew better than to ever –– right out loud –– compare Herry to AmTaham and vice versa on any of their mutual or exclusive attributes and was so careful to never do that when I was still in Herry’s life, there was, at the least if not more, one more extraordinarily major difference between these two atheist men: their morals. Herry was, well, basically amoral. Without them at all. Looking back I believe that I must’ve known this from the git – go. I now take full culpability for having – deep, deep down – known this fact up front and for still wanting to have such an evil a man as he comport himself as my loving and genuine husband and my most precious children’s father. Like I have written before, I cannot believe, with my brilliant brain that I was so ignobly idiotic, so reprehensibly impolitic and so stupidly bedazzled. Herry wasn’t the first bad boy that I’d lit out after. And had. Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was just the first one who had had at least two pages of book smarts to him, and that characteristic alone weightily attracted me to Herry in the first place. Very soon on, Herod’s facility to develop and support a mediocre to above – average conversation or somewhat reasoned explanation on interesting stuff and current affairs became the justification that would exculpate him, in my eyes, from all of those other ugly and routine traits of his, lubricious, licentious and woman – hating though they clearly were from the start. Matters sexual and misogynistic weren’t the only spheres of Herry’s dishonor either. This, too, I knew early on. Herry drank lots and lots of beer up until 1977; but, way, way worse than that, he drove numerous times after drinking. Most regularly Herry drove drunk his own cars, an old beater, blue – green van and various motorcycles, also big dump trucks belonging not to him at all but to construction companies for which he, at one time before I knew him, had worked. And joked often and long about his talent and penchant for hiding his incapacitation to operate a 2,000 – pound, and sometimes much weightier, weapon on the road … safely. Especially from the local fuzz. Truly and more than one time, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier actually guffawed about it. This, in an educated man approaching 30 years of age. In one who full – well knew exactly what the crime was which he was perpetrating every single time he chose to commit it. One of Herod Edinsmaier’s favorite stories was of his strapping on a set of chains to the rear tires of that old 60s Chevy van of his in near total darkness and a deluging downpour in order to give that vehicle traction enough to hustle it up and out of a shallow ditch in an area of town that separated the campus from the city’s residential divisions. The site of this incident took place, as a matter of fact, only about a ¼ of a mile from the same picture – window pad Herod had purchased out of which to view that Brookside Forest. Right under the scrutinizing noses of a city policeman and a university cop both of whom had stopped alongside Herry to see what his trouble was, Herry later and often bragged about accomplishing the chain thing, freeing up his van and driving it off into the rainy night, then, without either one of the law enforcement officials ever catching on to the fact that he was completely smashed and had run off the road not because of their wet conditions but because he’d been driving drunk. Driving drunk will eventually get someone crippled or killed. Even George W had to admit to that much about four days before he was (sort of) elected to the highest office in the Land. But we all know, don’t we, that it and its legal penalties against sloshed and criminally endangering fathers driving their own or others’ infants, for example, four – month – old Zane or Abby’s and Devin’s wee daughter, seem to be forgettable or purchasable … depending, of course, just like perjury and lying in a state’s district court are also forgettable or purchasable … , on how the hell pillared in either position or parents’ pedigree you, Mister, happen to be at the time! AmTaham’s knowledge was spread around not just to the works of art and artists, that is, to fine literature and finer music. I would have to say that he knew so much because he read so much. Maybe AmTaham would have watched more television if he had not been so deaf, that is, if he had been better able to hear the TV. As it was, AmTaham was somewhat hard of hearing most of his 30s and very deaf after the age of about 40 years, 60 percent gone in one ear and 40 percent more loss in the other the doctors at the Veteran’s Hospital in Iowa City told him. His sense of hearing, they said, lessened initially because of the war; and then the machinery of his farming vocation fostered no support whatsoever and only served to further the deterioration of the auditory nerves bilaterally. In no way was his related at all genetically or hereditarily to the complete deafness in my left ear which, indeed, was itself actually teratogenic in origin. That is to say, mine had been due to Mehitable’s having been infected with the German measles virus while she was pregnant with me which she, to this day, denies. Pretty much like Herry she is in that Denial Department there. Curiously and expectantly enough, of course, the Veteran’s Administration of the federal government of the country he fought other testosteronal human beings in defense of, though admitting that AmTaham’s diagnosis of deafness was war – induced, had nothing to offer him, ever, in the way of either cure, palliation or ... compensation ... for it. For its loss. So. AmTaham read. He read instead of viewing television or seeking out social conversation and interaction. Another disrelish of Herry’s about AmTaham. Because whereas Herry read a lot himself all right, Herry also depended greatly and often, multiple times a day actually, upon the admiration and regard from others and, most especially, upon their engagement, the attention which he took from them –— so borne out of that neediness and narcissism of his as witnessed by his ten hours a week in Alcoholics Anonymous in addition to all of the procrastinating away from actual and sometimes solitary pathology work which he did during the workday with a host of those subordinate co – workers, very many of them female. Herry was basically Mr. Glib Guy. Loquacious. A popinjay. ‘Course, then, in the evenings, when all of the residents and other docs were home cooking supper or grocery – shopping or bathing their babes or washing the kids’ and the spouse’s laundry or even helping Zane with his first year of keyboard music practice in Hershey and then also Jesse and Mirzah, too, with all three of their Suzuki piano programs in Columbia a year later, Dr. Edinsmaier was either back at the lab at the hospital finishing the things he should’ve completed during his daytimes there or else off somewhere with one or more of those other women either from work or from AA. Rosemarie, our most belovéd child caregiver, years later, had had many, many words to say to me about this – all of which she’d kept to herself until she learned, sometime after the fact, that we were no longer ‘a family’. Herry’s utter absence from the Truemaier Boys those weekday evenings when I was out working the three different part – time veterinary practices in Pennsylvania, she’d always found consternating. Especially since Rosemarie knew that the other children’s parents, who lived right there in the same housing complex as did we and were also in pathology residencies, were themselves all at home nights and did not require caregivers whatsoever for their kids such as Dr. Edinsmaier, however, always seemed to have need of ... every single evening. AmTaham didn’t give a damn if he did or he didn’t talk with someone else; and he certainly never gave one hang what anyone else thought of him so, often, preferred the sole company for days upon days that could stretch into weeks of that particular friend of his who lived right inside his own skin to that of anyone else. AmTaham was by no means antisocial nor did he loathe or shun social interaction. He loved it. So long as … once others knew that he was quite deaf … AmTaham was given by them the respect due him to actively engage him –– because of the way that he heard differently from most of them –– in their conversations. This though was, of course, work that Herod Edinsmaier, all of the time during which he was a part of the True family, just up and completely refused whatsoever to do for either AmTaham or for me in our deafness. Herry loathed our physical challenges and Mehitable’s legal blindness, too, and simply would have none of it nor the remembering of it so, by his own purposeful design, decidedly distanced himself from us. Besides the Trues’ assertiveness, convictions and willingness to do hard work being a threat to Herry, we were also … less than. We were an embarrassment. All of us. A classic classist shame we Trues were. Why should he, the Good and Wonderful Doctor Herod Edinsmaier, have to interact and put up with folks less than himself in stature or status, either one. AmTaham thought his inability to hear well no handicap at all. On the contrary, anyone reasonable could easily understand why another so deaf would, therefore, read all of the time to entertain himself. AmTaham read nearly all of the great authors on the topics of anthropology and culture, ancient history and recorded history, the world’s philosophies and religions, economics, agronomy, animal science, biology and medicine, political science, travel, international relations and foreign policy. And nature. Anything and absolutely everything on Things Natural. Especially on evolution. From hunting and aquaculture in landlocked areas to forestry and water conservation, from weather and precipitation patterns to geological changes and habitat encroachment. Anywhere in the World. He was, bar none, the most progressive farmer in his own county; and on Sundays in my youth when folks took to their weekly afternoon rides around the spring and summer countryside, why, the gravel roads beside AmTaham’s and Mehitable’s fields were almost always the dustiest. AmTaham was the first to plant 30 – inch corn rows and fly in the face of the ages – old system of 40 – inch ones, the width of a workhorse’s ass, of course. That, alone, brought hoards out; but when he insisted on sustainable land practices and the resource management of Ol’ Man’s Creek that ran the entire length of our and many other folks’ farms, why, that really brought them out to have a look – see at what good ol’, quirky AmTaham was up to next. A sort of agronomy barometer he was for the others in the community. AmTaham passionately did not want Mehitable’s and his children attending parochial school either. Every August the local lutheran school principal paid AmTaham and Mehitable a visit to try to convince them to send us four, of course, with tuition that Mr. and Mrs. True would have to come up with, to that specific religious school in the Burg. It wasn’t until just two years before AmTaham passed into Ancestral Status and that certain and so memorable conversation which he and I alone had had while cleaning those paintbrushes, that I realized fully why he was so adamantly against us four children ever submitting ourselves to a private and formal religion – based educational system. Not that I minded one bit! I wholeheartedly did not want to go there. It would have been utterly god – this and god – that, the almighty – this and our good lord and savior – that. Fuck! Anyhow the school itself was also old, staid, had no funky p layground and absolutely, unequivocally, the worst thing of all … no cute boys my age. I knew all of the boys there since I, of course, already attended sunday school and church with all of them; and there were nooooo cute ones, believe me! Besides I was since first grade, the year when all of the country kids finally joined up with the town kids after our having been separated throughout kindergarten into the morning group and the afternoon gang, fervently faithful to Larry; and Larry was, ah, umm, O JYeah, Larry was presbyterian. So. The last thing I wanted to do was go to that religious school and miss out on Larry; and, of course, every year I thought it was a matter of tuition money and the fact that AmTaham and Mehitable believed the public school uptown to be a much better one for obtaining an actual education that AmTaham always kindly turned down the pastoral principal and showed him the door after their politely partaking of something together like mocha cake and coffee. No, the True kids wouldn’t be enrolling next week, nope. I never knew until my early 40s and that wonderful conversation over turpentine, scrub water and leftover paint in the condo basement on Havencourt Avenue why we, all of us four, throughout every single elementary grade and junior high and high school levels, always, always went to public school. * * * * Loyal, compassionate and feminist would have to be the last three adjectives I would use to singly characterize AmTaham True. The man had three daughters. At no time in my recent nor remote memory of him, not even one time, do I know him to have made a vulgar, let alone, sexist comment, done an objectifying deed or initiated or participated in any blatant or subtle acts of female suppression including humor or the many, many forms of pornography. How dare he – and call himself … father? Morally, how dare he?" +++++ +++++ "And so this is ... ...SOLSTICE !" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8Vfp48laS8

On National Listening Days re Mothers xtwo as only their Sons' ... ... "visitors;" then FORCED to leave Them

i)                http://www.npr.org/2012/11/24/165806777/recalling-the-takeover-a-marine-captive-in-tehran ; aired 24 November 2012

HERMENING: They came into my room one day and said we have a surprise for you. I was actually fearful of what the surprise might be. They put me in a room with dozens of TV cameras, and suddenly in the door walked my mom. And I was as shocked as you could imagine I might be. I asked her what she was doing there and she said she had to see me. And I had just come out of 43 days of solitary confinement and there she was in this room with me. And we spent about 18 to 20 minutes together talking basically about things from home - nothing about politics, nothing about negotiations that might be taking place. I immediately began to fear for her life, and I just couldn't imagine what she was doing there and how she got in. And, you know, it's something that, unless you're a parent - and I wasn't at the time; I am now - it's very difficult to understand what would compel somebody to do that, and yet she had to do what her heart told her to do. And I'm proud of her for the sacrifice that she paid in public opinion and in emotional toil and then having to get on the plane and come back to the States knowing that I was there.

SIMON: Kevin Hermening, who now runs a financial planning services company in Central Wisconsin.  A generation ago, he was one of the 66 U.S. hostages held in Tehran.  And if you'd like to record a conversation with a loved one, you can go to NationalDayofListening.org  -  all one word  -  and download your story for others too. Thanks so much, Kevin.

HERMENING: Thank you, Scott. 

ii)  from Chapter 28, pp 433 – 436 / http://bluemaas.public.iastate.edu/chapter_twenty-eight :  Up Interstate 79 and just outside Fairvale sat a small and surprisingly scoured and bright – appearing combination gas station and greasy spoon with a game room space, television, washing machines and four showers on its second, loft – like level.  From my friends’ prior planning and with the further aid of the most current Rand McNally Road Atlas, why, I found it lickety – split, no trouble at all.  Sashayed on in with a tapestried bag containing bath soap, shampoo, wide – toothed hair pick and blow dryer, whipped out the old, (well, … the really, really new!) gold MasterCard and, at a rather tiny, glassed – in countertop harboring on its inside casing just a couple of big, heavy, dusty silver belt buckles with raised emblems of encrusted Peterbilts and as many round snuff cans of Red Man and Top Mill alongside a few rectangular tins of Altoids peppermints, I asked to purchase a hot shower.      Not even a batted eyelash nor five minutes’ time later Dr. Legion True was climbing the staircase to this establishment’s loft, Jury, with the truckstop’s provided and freshly laundered and loaned Barry – cloth towel and washcloth included in its rental price … to Shower Closet Three or Four or whichever numbered one, each enclosure very well – lit and not only with electrical outlets but also secure locks from the inside, … to whichever one of these four happened to be vacant!  All for only four bucks and two bits a splish – splash!  As I glanced down through the clear glass while retrieving back my credit card receipts, I was glaringly reminded every single one of the three times when I showered there of Mehitable True’s newspaper clipping which she had mailed me earlier –– specifically warning of the dangers of West Virginia’s male children chewing tobacco, that under the age of ten years, the article blurb had announced, six out of every ten of this state’s boys … for a total of at least 60 percent of these kiddos (not to mention, its ‘adult’ … good ol’ ‘boys’) … chewed or sniffed or sucked or plugged smokeless tobacco.

Of all of the activities I did there, alone, in and around Grubtrop, Montclank and Fairvale, … and excepting the taking of my noontime leave of West Virginia altogether upon the very midday of my furtive visit’s second Saturday there, the 17^th day of April, … the most heartrending were Sam’s two sittings through Steven Spielberg’s latest blockbuster of the time –– up at their largest mall’s theater complex … Schindler's List!  The scene with all of the little children scurrying up into the backend of the Nazis’ stock truck I have already written of:  the one where the mothers hear their laughing, singing kids and see their antics but then, way, way too late, suddenly come to realize their babies’ fates!  The tot in the little red waistcoat:  the littlest, yellow – haired girl in all of that black and white.  The small child who ran and hid, also like Jesse, by jumping –– only the hideout spew into which the little Hebrew boy quietly sunk himself was human excrement and waste –– and not at all clear Tygart – Lake liquid.  I cried and cried and cried.  Tissue after tissue after tissue.  Felt sickened.  Literally.  “How do we do this?  How do we mothers do this?  How dare we, Jury, … ever, ever … be made to have to do this?” 

And –– then –– it was, indeed, Legion True’s time to leave this place.  This temporary place of my three Children’s footings.  Barring another Ol’ Black breakdown and in order for me to be back at my Forestry post early on the Monday morning of the 19^th, I felt I needed to leave the central West Virginia areas not too much later than high noon of the first day of that weekend.  And I did.    

But all throughout southern Ohio I was still weeping … after exiting the western border of the state off to which my Boys’ sperm donor had literally, even though allegedly “legally” by the various judges’ pen strokes, … kidnapped them.   The backend of Ol’ Black was rather completely disheveled by now after so many days and nights of hostelling use –– with blankets, sheets, pillows, papers, books, bags and other items of the Truemaier Boys’ play scattered all about behind the front seat bench.  In addition to this back – of – the – wagon scene of the heartbreaking memories which I’d just made, into my rearview mirror flickered flashing cop – car, trooper lights.  “O – O – O shit!!!  This is just what I fucking need right now!  What the hell could be wrong?!  What was I doing?!” my thinking jostled –– as I, of course, found the first, safe shoulder off onto which to pull, gather my license and roll down the driver’s side window.

I couldn’t even see above his khaki – uniformed chest wall … he was so tall.  “Ma’am, I need to see your license, please,” he boomed.  I mean that I literally, out my car window at the levels which both of our visual fields scanned and without either of us straining this way and thataway, … I could not see his face!  What I had remembered seeing with that last look of mine into the center mirror before noticing those flashers of his aimed at me … was my face:  brown – black mascara had made inroads, forays and encroachments all over and down my cheeks and chin.  I looked like shit!  The sclerae of both of my eyeballs were as red – streaked as my facial skin sooty – streaked and inked.  And I felt like hell, too.  “Okay, okay, here ya’ go, Sir.  I have it right here, Officer,” I sobbed.  And tried, simultaneously, to smear the streaming nasal mucus away with a very, very used and spent Kleenex as delicately and daintily as I could manage.  

Tallest – Ever Ohio Trooper Man took it from my left hand and, with the obvious sounds floating up to his eardrums from Ol’ Black’s driver’s seat as the license was passed to him, his waist did bend to his right side and he did then sort of come down out of the clouds to see who, indeed, had been cry – driving.  Or, more accurately according to him, weep – speeding.  “Ummm, from Iowa you are?” Tallest Trooper Man half – ass asked, full – well knowing this fact … from his having just read both the vehicle plates’ and my license’s information. 

“O yes … yes, Sir.  Yes, I am,” Boo – hoo, sniffle, sniff, sniffle, boo – hoo – hoo.

“Ma’am … Ma’am, did you know you were speeding?  Have you clocked, Ma’am, I do, at, ah, ah … … at 75 miles per hour, Ma’am.” 

Wail, whimper, sob, sob, “O no!  No, I wasn’t!  That can’t be!” jettisoned those very words right out of my mouth and now shot straight on over onto a bent – over cop peering at me sort of sideways through the rolled – down window space, a face with no expression whatsoever on it but one with a voice emitting out from under that boulder – size of a trooper hat that definitely matched any timbre and tone of that which belonged to the lovely, although now – late, Barry White! 

O, Tallest had a voice on him!  “Ex – cuuuu - ze me, Ma’am?!  Are you saying that I, um, I, I …?”

“O my, my … my, my, myyyy NO!  No, Sir.  Not at all.  I am not saying that you’re not telling me the Truth, Officer.  O my, No!  That idn’t what I’m saying at all?  I mean …, ah, what I mean, Officer, is that, um, Ol’ Black here, he can’t go that fast!  He can’t even get up anywhere near like that fast, Sir!  That’s what I’m saying!  He’s just too much an ol’ beater, and he can’t get it up that far a’tall.  I jus’ don’’ think he can go that fast, Sir!” 

“Aaaah – aaah, I see.”  And Tallest, whose back must’ve been mightily stressing him by then, straightened himself all the way up once more so that I, again, could not view anything more than his torso’s khaki shirt buttons, the solid, chocolate brown tie and the two most massive of human hands of the very same hue.  “What is all that in the back of your station wagon there?  And what’s the matter anyhow?  Why’re you crying so much?  You were crying before I stopped you, weren’t you?  What’s the matter?  What’s the real matter, Ma’am?”  Words that wafted down from his humanistic heights that I couldn’t anymore see all the way up to … yet were now said with a resonance and pitch that seemed ever more gentle and tender than some of the phrases he had stated before.  In full view to the outside of the car and, therefore to Tallest too of course, had been one of the items from the wagon’s messy backend, a neon orange – colored, three – ring binder with the black letters on its cover identifying it as a manual for Safe Iowa Hunter Education with the silhouetted logo of a young man cradling a long gun with a similarly shadowed, four – legged retriever walking along beside him.  And, again, Tallest – Ever asked, “What’s with all that stuff in the back there?”

“O, aaahh, O, I, uh, I just left … um, I just left my Boys.”

“What?”

“I just left my Boys.  Back there in West Virginia.”

“What?  What do you mean … ‘ya’ left ‘em’?”  Tallest – Ever Ohio Trooper Man was bending over again and gazing at the left side of my down – facing profile.  I was staring into my lap … remembering, of course.

“O,” I turned toward him once more, “I was … I was visiting my three Sons in West Virginia.”  I didn’t see any true threat now nor need to lie anymore about the purpose of my trip or on my being found here on Tallest – Ever’s particular piece of pristine and sunny roadway and, thank goddess, I wasn’t wearing the Sam stuff because Tallest – Ever Ohio Trooper Man would have, I am sure, seen right through that disguise … first thing!  What … with my tears and bleary, bloodshot eyes and all.  Plus all of it, the Sam costume, was stashed away in bags which the cop could not see from his stance at Ol’ Black’s door anyhow.  “And, an’, aaahh, now I have to go back home to Iowa without them.  And, ah, an’ I, uh, I don’t know when I’ll ever see them again.  Or how long it’ll be.  Ya’ know?  That’s … uh well, that’s what it’s about, Sir.”

“O.  Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Um.  Well, Ma’am.  Ah.  Um.  Why, you … you got a heckuva haul ahead of ya’.  You thinkin’ of getting there yet today, are ya’?  Ya’ know, all the way back to … to where is it now?”  And he glanced back to the driver’s license, “to, ah, … ah, Ames, Iowa, there?  Yet today still?”

“O, O yeah.  I gotta.  I don’t have the money for … ah, well, yeah.  Yeah, I am.  I’m gonna get back to Ames yet today.  That’s the plan, all right!  Ya’ know?”

“Okay then.  Well.  Well, you better get a – goin’ there then.  Not a rush, I mean.  Don’t be speedin’ now.  Not that ya’ could, I mean, with your old beater wagon here ‘n all.  But you jus’ best be gettin’ on your way there then.”

“Soooo  ...  So?” I looked around to him again just as he was straightening himself all the up again –– for the last time.  In an asking mode, questioning without so many such, exact words about what was to be done with me –– now that an Ohio state trooper of the tallest, mountain – like manner had just stopped and pulled me over for an alleged speeding violation on the interstate.

“So, so … ah, so that’s it then, Ma’am.  So, so … you just be safe out there then.”  And he turned back around and strode to his unit.  I watched him from the rearview mirror crawl, nearly literally back into it, take its gear out of park and into drive, pull out around me and Ol’ Black and without facing me again then, his eyes glued on the straightaway in front of him, his right arm and hand waved to me as the trooper’s vehicle tripped off westerly out in front of me –– me … still pitched there on the side of the highway.

No ticket.  Not even a warning.  I could not believe it.  Tallest – Ever Ohio Trooper Man, that is, this dude’s involvement in my life and in my life’s story, … as far as I know … , had forever vanished from it now.  Yet, within just a very few more miles on up this stretch once Ol’ Black and I maneuvered our way back onto the westbound thoroughfare, there appeared off to the right side a rather large and, therefore easily readable, white, rectangular road sign.  It was placed there by the State of Ohio’s Transportation Department and in big black letters delineated on it with succinct wording and numbering the gradations of amounts that a speeding motorist could be fined.  Totals that that state levied in tickets which could be issued for specific, set increments of miles per hour over the posted limit.  In just the time that it took for me to notice the sign and drive 65 miles per hour on passed it, I could see that Tallest – Ever Ohio Trooper Man had just saved me, those few miles back there on the interstate, at least $85.00.  The sign stated that Ohio’s very first ticket amount, for just ten or fewer miles per hour over the speed limit, started at a fine of $85.00 –– and increased upwards from there into the hundreds of dollars for possible violations incurred, depending upon at what rate a speeder was clocked.  And that, likely, did not even account for the extra court costs and all of those other specious fees tacked onto a person’s assessment at time of payment besides!  I knew Iowa’s fines weren’t that high, and I had not really recognized if penalties in any other of the states through which I had traversed during those past ten days were so huge either!

*    *     *     *

Hauling Ol’ Black back into Ames finally and returning without any further breakdown or other untoward incident whatsoever, I was, indeed, back to work Monday, the 19th of April bearing not only my gifts but, of course, also such great, great news to all of my co – workers.  Yet not before remembering and marking well Zane’s last West Virginia words to me, “Ma, uh, Ma, if you try this again, can you please let me know you’re gonna?”

“Ya’ mean, somehow get in touch with you that I’m coming to see all of you again?  Disguised or otherwise?” I asked.

“Yeah.  Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Zane had appealed to me.  I knew that in one way, notably the secrecy and the clandestine nature of the past surreptitious week, my coming had been difficult for all of the Boys –– but especially for him.  Zane the Eldest.  He had always shouldered –– all on his own and never because of any request of mine –– that silent yet so heavily burdensome task of the role of My Siblings’ Protector.  By him, … the Eldest.  That most solemn of jobs of where the older brother is supposed to look out for his little ones.   Zane has always taken that all on not only willingly but very, very seriously.  And he was letting me know that for that specific, self – assigned labor of his, he just needed some heads – up’ time in order to prep himself and his two younger brothers –– in the case that, well, that “Sam” may one day again appear to him alongside a darkened Grubtrop street in the very midst, actually, of some future nighttime.   

I assured Zane that I so would get that done –– because their mother soooo would be coming back out to see him and Jesse and Mirzah!  1993 was, of course, before email and even really before faxing had become widely available to individuals.  While the Truemaier Boys didn’t have, even between the three of them yet, one personal computer I so hoped that because of their own proclivities and because of Dr. Edinsmaier’s money, my particular three Children out of all of the World’s kiddos soon would.  At the moment I vowed to Zane that I would get him warned of my intentions to come see them all again, I did not know how I would accomplish that –– but I?  I had friends so, well, … so that would just get done.  I knew that it would –– and, therefore, I meant every word of it when I made Zane my promise.  

And then?  Then … the Truemaier Boys’ mother was gone.

on yet one more 28 October ... ... that of 1991, common era

from Chapter 28, pp 313 - 324: All of this Adam gladly did agree to do. So typical, too: Aprovechar Herry doing all of the talk, talk, talking –– and others doing all of the work, work, working! It wasn’t Herry doing the driving so that the Truemaier Boys could participate; it was Adam, fortunately himself quite the morning person any day anyhow, who did all of that early roundtripping and not, of course, the Daddee – Herry Edinsmaier at all! I didn’t join in the walk portion that year thinking, naturally, that the Boys weren’t going to be there to enjoy the sylvan assemblage with any of us either. Poor, poor Adam. As dear as he is, Adam always seemed to operate as if Daddee – Herry Edinsmaier had already told me about all of these arrangements about which, of course, Herry had conspired to make damned certain to never tell me! Dr. Legion True hadn’t one clue that her Truemaier Boys might be there in Ames at this vernal hoo – hah. Not one clue! So, accordingly, I determined to just meet up with the rest of the Friends who, after the amble, would be gathering over at the Meetinghouse around 9 or 9:30 a.m. for the breakfast victuals. When I beheld the Boys coming up the driveway of the Meetinghouse, why, I ran outside, arms outstretched, to greet them I was soooo excited. And Mirzah, the first to get out of Adam’s car, likewise ran over to hug me, too! Except that ... … Except that Professor P.M. Flunk, Quaker elder, got up in both our faces. And right now! I mean the man appeared outta nowhere. Not even had he been in my peripheral vision; and even if Flunk had been there, I wouldn’t’ve, at that stage, thought him capable of what it was he then proceeded to do. The doctor of mathematics’ philosophy dashed in between the two of us and faced me, his back to Mirzah, now forced dead in his little – boy tracks. Slowing, I turned to go around Flunk, my eyeballs still affixed on Mirzah, only to feel this incredible force about my neck and upper chest; it was shoving me hard backwards. P.M. Flunk actually had his outstretched arm and balled mitt solidly lodged on my breastbone. I was halted. “No! No! That is not allowed!” “O o o o!” I think to myself now, “what a woman – loathing shitload of fuckful patriarchal phraseology.” “What?!” is only, instead, then and a bit breathless and rather high – pitched, what came out of my mouth. “Hi, Mom!” Mirzah came around to my side but did not touch me either. P.M. Flunk removed his hand from its placement but not his wedged and blocking body from its. “Heeey, Baby, this is toooo cooool! I didn’t know you were coming! O, I’m so happy to see you and Zane and Jesse,” who were both by now also standing right next to us three. “This is so great! How long can you stay? How was your walk?! I can take you back to 69th Street then! There’s a bunch of great food. When do we have to be leaving?” “No! No! That is not allowed!” In front of his god (anyhow), Mirzah, Zane and Jesse and all of the other Quakers gathering, not to mention … in front of me … this Quaker elder, aaaah, androcentric asshole, by the name of P.M. Flunk and now flanked by spouse Agnes Flunk, PhD, Independent Scholar, claimed as his own King Herod’s patriarchal power of authority and control over me in the matter … of me … and … of my very own children. This, too, any freedom – loving independent (– scholar or not! –) can imagine, I have never forgotten! As much as I’d considered Mi Sprision O’Revinnoco, M.D.’s inaction parentally and medically unconscionable, the Doctors Flunks’ action was, likewise, not only hardly at all Quakerly or anything, like say, spirit – led, … it was as well in no way conscionable. I have never forgotten it, and I have never returned to a man’s easter sunday anywhere, certainly not there either. Pre – arrangements had included Adam and P.M. and Agnes Flunk –– and, specifically, not me … It had been the likewise folie – à – deuxing Flunk Intellectuals who chauffeured my Truemaier Boys back their afternoon’s 130 minutes’ haul to Herry’s at 1 p.m. and then themselves returning here to Ames, and none of these preparatory negotiations had included me in any way, except to especially keep me fully and ‘quite clearly’ … in the dark. The Flunks’ role was merely that of lackey – gofers in Herry’s inflictive fuck of bait and switch so as to the Boys to keep Dr. Legion True in hers: that of Invisible Mother. Herry played them. Herry Edinsmaier played P.M. and Agnes Flunk like the bobbleheaded marionettes they were, so dodderingly gaga were these two idiots over Herry’s impressive doctor title, his status in the community as a pillar and his elitist education as a physician. And …. likewise thusly, so oppositely repulsed by my judicial state as a nonmother … and apparently by everything else about me as well. And they, the Flunks? They let him. They knew the opprobrious Truth about Herry, but they also knew how much … more … they themselves, as did rurally Midwest Mehitable, enjoyed and reveled in their own religion –– the one based upon their credo of aristocratic appearances and image management. So the cultured Flunks simply let the Good and Erudite Dr. Edinsmaier play them. Full – well functioning that –– and, as regards me, many a –– First Day in the astringently punishing scholarship that: while knowledge is power, the withholding of knowledge is … even more power! Just four weeks earlier Margaret Sagely died on the 02nd day of March 1991, while on a personal mission of medical mercy to China for her belovéd people there. No proselytizing. None ever when Nurse Margaret went to China. Just gracious and helpful and scientific however she could be. Massive stroke. Seventy – two years young. Dead. Immediately. Cremated. Ashes back to the States. Another “other mother” of mine –– gone. Ashes like Frieda Chicken Guthrie. Ashes and gone. A memorial service was scheduled at a larger sanctuary in downtown Ames than the Meetinghouse’s front room so that her many, many friends who wanted to say goodbye to her could, three of whom … my Truemaier Boys. Herry had then, too, enticed Agnes and P.M., apparently contacting one or both of them to let them know that he, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and the Boys would all join the Flunks in one of that particular church’s pews –– which they so did do. Again, I had had no prior heads – up until I glanced over my right shoulder and there, subtly nodding and smiling back at me but not too widely the service being a sobering memorial for Margaret who now was basically a carton of carbon inside her simple, mahogany wooden urn up at the altar and all, … were Jesse, Mirzah and Zane. On his way out the narthex’s massive doorway afterward, Mirzah managed to maneuver himself so as to brush beside me and high – fived my right hand that I held close in and low down by my thigh whilst, poker – faced, he stared straight ahead of himself and exited to the street. No words exchanged. And then, yet again, my three Boys … were gone. I closed the wobbly, wooden door of the booth in order to be able to hear something. My machine was temporarily shut down while I spoke on the telephone, but the rest of them were quite up, running and clamoring; it was as always very, very noisy. The phone booth was rickety, musty – smelling and darkened, there by itself in the far southwest corner of this warehouse – sized room which was the junk mail factory’s primary production floor. “Legion, this is Agnes Flunk speaking to you.” “Agnes?” The clock registered yet another hour and a half of afternoon shift left before I was to punch out. “Yes, Agnes Flunk. I have had a telephone call just now from Des Moines.” “What?! Who from?” “Well, it’s about the Truemaier boys.” “What is?! They’re okay?! What’s the matter with my Boys?!” “Well, ah, um …” “I said, Agnes, what . is . the . matter . with . my Boys?!?!” This woman was still another of those male – identified ditherers of whom in my World there are far, far too many and for whom I have no patience. None. Much worse yet is the fact that besides thinking herself a Quaker elder and terming herself an “independent scholar” who now and then when she feels like it from her bedroom computer writes books about odd, peculiarly narrow groups of workers or tribes, this woman calls herself a feminist, too. Now when certain of these types of DEhumans do this, then I truly am completely all out of any tolerance for them as well since their genre makes it sooo much harder for the rest of us DEhumans and true feminists, either female or male. “Your boys’ll be at our house tonight if you want to see them one last time. Herry said he’d bring them all by our house and that you are permitted to come there tonight at 6:30 p.m. for 15 minutes,” came the official announcement back to me of exactly that premonition over which Jesse had soooo been agonizing just the Friday night before. Anxious and sad? Now I knew at least a little something about why his sense. The weekend over, and lo and behold on Monday afternoon, 28 October 1991, less than 72 hours after hugging Jesse inside our dark, cold Ol’ Black parked on an Urbandale sidestreet and wanting to weep over the dread voiced in Jesse’s fears and sorrow at leaving me and Iowa and never returning to us as a kid again, Dr. True was indeed right now being dictated to by a person whom I do not trust and by the type of woman whom I so loathe that I, my Boys’ own mama, would be “permitted” one last chance to see them all before they left for where? “See them all before they left for where, Agnes?!” “Well, now that isn’t information I have. And if I did have it, I wouldn’t be permitted to give it out, now would I? You already know that though, Legion, don’t you?” There are four – and five – letter names for women like Agnes Flunk, names not at all like “scholar,” but she isn’t worth expending any more effort nor expounding upon with any more time or descriptive words, let alone, worrying about folks like her. Nor is P.M. either –– except for the itty bitty bit part in which P.M. was yet to be seen acting later on that evening. Ms. Phillipa Chance I hardly knew and then only as an overseer of my factory labor. I needed to leave work; but I, right then, just couldn’t think of how to explain in a short, short byte … why. My jobs changed soon after this 1991’s October –– both because the orders were decreasing and its temporary positions at the factory were being eliminated and because I needed more hours than those which had been available there anyhow so I have never gotten an opportunity to know this person. Recently I read in a wee local newsy rag where this woman was working alone one night at the county’s favorite BBQ take – out outfit and that Ms. Phillipa Chance had managed to salvage some of its equipment and to save herself before the tiny joint, like torched Twyla’s Salon and Barbering had in Urbandale, burned completely down. Still I don’t know her personally and, then as now, if the woman’s ever had a child or kids of her own or not. I truly only knew of her from that mid afternoon of my beseeching her for allowance to leave work. As I remember acts of atrocity, I also remember actions of the opposite kind, and Ms. Phillipa Chance has always remained in my memory for the fact that her nature with me so fit her name, Chance. I exited the phone booth apparently as white as this sheet. My supervisor, Ms. Phillipa Chance, heard above all of that din, “My babies. He’s taking my babies away,” as I walked up to her small workspace countertop in the midst of the warehouse, not dazed as much as seething. And, as noticeably DEhuman, ... powerless. No asking me “What?!” No asking me “Why are you talking to yourself and not back at your machine working?!” No questions at all as a matter of fact, and I never repeated myself. She looked at me squarely, no hedge, and replied, “Get outta here, Woman. Go! You are gone. We’ll just see ya’ tomorrow, okay?!” After the rare times as I run into such people, almost exclusively DEhumans too they are, I wonder how it is that they know, how they already know what was coursing through my heart and my soul after news like I’d just received. Had she lost a child herself? Had a besieged sister of hers needed to wage war and lost babies? Ms. Chance wasn’t old enough I didn’t think to be a grandmother, as was Grand Mehitable, who may have been mom to a tormented daughter and grandchildren embattled in ‘the court’ system –– with all of its functionaries there with whom the family, including Ms. Chance perhaps, may have had to deal, to engage, to clash, to fight, to come to legal blows –– from its judges to the attorneys to the family and child psychologists to those custody evaluators and guardians ad litem to the state’s family services’ division personnel to the cops and the drug rehabilitators and the alcohol abuse counselors to the battered women’s shelter workers to who knows who next. How had Ms. Phillipa Chance, with instantaneousness and urgency not to mention with nearly proven clairvoyance, known where I stood after that telephone call and how had she known with precision clarity, knife – like, what the cut of “He’s taking my babies away” meant? For all their PhDnesses and all of their assumed scholarship and theoretical Quakerliness, the elder Dr. Agnes Flunk along with her spicily mucked – up spouse, Dr. P.M. Flunk, parents themselves of two grown – and – gone sons, could certainly have both stood several lessons and to pass prelim examinations on Substance and Depth in Understanding and Compassion at Grace’s Listening College –– both of them tutored there then by one mighty brainy and … kind … Ms. Phillipa Chance, junk mail factory boss – lady. I knocked promptly at 6:30 p.m. on the front door of the bungalow. Dr. P.M. Flunk opened it to an empty living room in which stood Agnes, gawping in judgment at me without so much as a weak smile. I knew there’d been a reason why I hadn’t sought to be present any earlier; she and that countenance of hers was it. No Truemaier Boys anywhere in sight. And no conversation occurring either –– which was just fine with me. Deaf as I am, I am never discomfited as are other persons by silence in such threesomes; and because of the particular and peculiar other two in our specific axiso’three, I was most contented to remain shut up … waiting. Waiting for the Truemaier Boys in the silence of the front room of the Flunk household. I had a helluva lot to think on anyhow so, doing that, I just stared at its floor, “What in the hell was Herry up to? Taking the Boys where? For how long? No wonder Jesse’d said what he’d said last Friday night! Yeah, something’d been goin’ down, all right, but what? What?!” Around 6:50 finally a knock and in strode Community Pillar Herod Edinsmaier demanding to see Legion True, “Where’s Jesse?! Where’ve ya’ hidden Jesse?!” He was enraged behind such a carefully controlled to – the – Flunks’ mask. After all, Herry couldn’t very well call me Cunt or Bitch or Twat in front of them or Mirzah and Zane … now the two of them old enough to quite remember such Edinsmaier endearments for their mother. With only my youngest and my eldest coming inside and over to me on the loveseat, I instantly knew then that Jesse had run, that he had jumped ship, that Dr. Herod Edinsmaier hadn’t the foggiest fuck of an idea as to where my middle child for whom he, alone, was custodially liable was, and that Hideous Herry totally intended to pin onto me the full whammy of all that this meant –– right down to, “ … if Jesse is hurt, You Cunt, why I’ll … ” in so many sidewise glares and smirkfaced squints. The brassy fact that we were all in someone else’s home, a situation for which then I ordinarily would take under great advisement to be courteous and rather respectful, I gave not two hoots for here at the Flunks. I couldn’t have given a flying, fuckable shit that Herry Edinsmaier, two Truemaiers and one True frenetically seeking any news of the whereabouts of her third baby had completely taken over a space which none of us owned, let alone, found familiar or, for that matter, particularly Friendly! “We’re leaving Iowa, Mom. Tomorrow. We’re leaving tomorrow,” Zane exhaled softly. Mirzah, at his side and now mine, too, was just nodding. “I want her house searched! I’m heading over there right now! Come’n, Zane, Mirzah! Now!” Herry headed for the door and without so much as addressing me with any full first name or a surname even as, of course, is Herry’s usual shaming shunning of me anyhow, ex – Husband Herod hadn’t yet directly looked at the obviously indiscernible and, therefore, ... invisible … thing in that Flunk room which was … me. “They’re welcome to stay here, Herry,” it was Agnes Flunk, PhD, Independent Scholar, of course. “Sure. Okay. Good. Thanks,” and Herry turned to go. “No! No! He isn’t there! Jesse isn’t there! Where is he?! Where could he have gone to?!” I was frantic and becoming so, too, were also both Zane and Mirzah now –– who, I rather suspected, knew all along that Jesse, was indeed, gone most missing and they just didn’t know what to do. Herry, for chris’sake, had done nothing to allay any of these two brothers’ fears and, now arriving in Ames and seeing me, Mirzah and Zane were altogether certain that Jesse was nowhere at all close by to us. “I’m calling the police and László.” “That is not necessary. He’s at your house,” Herry finally glowered straight at me, that Stupid – Ass Heifer in the Flunks’ living room, although he still would not speak my name. “No! I told you, he isn’t! I’m calling the police, and they’ll search my house to convince you. Then maybe we can get the true search for Jesse started. Don’t tell me. Do not tell me that you haven’t even called the Urbandale police yet, Herry?!” my voice was shaking I was so livid. Herry had not. Herry Edinsmaier had driven out of two major metropolitan areas, Urbandale and Des Moines; 65 precious minutes he had traveled out of town and onto major thoroughfares and interstates and over 45 to 50 miles northerly and into another metropolitan area, Ames, in the cold and now also the darkness –– without even calling their local police first. Not only that, the Good and Wonderful Dr. Edinsmaier had driven out of the probable vicinity of Jesse’s disappearance two more of my children displacing them even further away than they already had been from their missing brother –– and all of this evil just to be able … to come after me. I turned to go to the telephone which appeared in a nook past the grand piano, black of course, itself alone constituting most of what were the living room furnishings besides our carcasses. Seeing this direction of mine, again P.M. Flunk darted over to the corner as well and stuck his fakey, little power façade – like veneer between the telephone and me, lifting up its receiver himself. He swung it and the coil wide away from the cradle, frowned and pursed his lips at me because, assuming he was going to, I asked, “O, are you calling the police then, P.M.? I know the number,” which, of course, I did –– “239.5133.” Any mother does; we memorize the doctor’s, the emergency room’s, the cops’, the fire department’s. What can I say? I knew it stone – cold so I dictated it to him. He turned around, his dialing finger halted at pressing the digits; he soooo did not want to, I could tell. “If you don’t, P.M., then I shall. Call them and tell them to send someone over to 6143 Havencourt and to do it right now.” P.M.’s nonverbal demeanor even Mirzah and Zane couldn’t miss. I thought, “Fuck him.” Before heading to Havencourt, I motioned Zane aside and whispered to him, “Do you know where he’s taking all of you?” “Ah, no, we don’t know. We just found out today when he came to the school. I think Jesse’s bolted, Mom. I haven’t seen him since this morning. Herry came to the school at noon. Jesse must’ve seen him coming down the hall or something.” Dr. Edinsmaier insisted, from the immediate moments of all of their birthings, that all three Boys only ever call him Herry –– never Daddy, Dad, Pa, Poppy, Pops or even the formal Father. Never. He taught them well; all three of the Boys only ever did call him Herry, too. Herry, their arrested 17 – year – old, older Joy Toy Boy ‘brother’ who, through his violence of passive – aggression and abusive collusion with ‘the courts,’ lied and bullied just whenever the frickin’ hell he felt like it and was, now with the help of these same two Quaker “elders,” gutting the goddamn bitch –– again. Mirzah finished, “Only thing we know, Mom, is that it’s tomorrow morning. We leave tomorrow morning.” “O, m’god! And you don’t even know where you’re going?! And we don’t know where Jesse is?! O, m’god! O, m’god!” “Uh – uh,” it was Mirzah, only a month past 12 years of age, just searching my face with his. “Okay. Okay. I’m thinking here. I’m thinking. I’m going over to Havencourt and do that thing, the obligatory search thing over there. With the Ames cops. Obliged to. Got to. László’ll meet me there. I’ll tell ya’ all why later. Then, … then I’m telephoning the Urbandale police myself if Herry won’t. I know their number, too. I’ll call them from there, from Havencourt. I won’t be back. O, m’god! This is it then. I won’t see you two again. O, m’god! Do you think Washington State or not? West or east? South to where was it you thought he once went off to down there? Ya’ know, one time to go work somewhere down there, Biloxi? No, not Biloxi. Where the heck was that?! O, m’god.” We were hugging and hugging and hugging. I completely ignored the two others, the Flunks. Herry was already gone anyhow. “I’ll find you. I will find you. I. Will. Find. You. I love you, Mirzah.. I love you, Zane. O, m’god. And I’ll find Jesse, too. Tell him I love him.” Kiss. Kiss. Arms undone. I was gone. Herry’s manner in and management of his public rage appeared similar to Dr. Lionel Portia’s everyday face, the one Grace’s spouse used for all of Lionel’s feelings, anger or joy, … pretty much deadpan. As much as Herry loathed true work, he truly worked very carefully at concealing from the general populace and, in particular, its upper crust … the Edinsmaier rage. Often, even most often, he buried it, appearing placid and unruffled for months that sometimes lasted a year or longer; but when the rage was just beneath the surface as it was this evening, Herry took extra charge and effort to put on the outward countenance of calm and correctness and the presentation of “the one who is not only in the know but since he is, since he does know, then he is the one, therefore, next doing the correct and right thing.” This fairly much describes passive aggression in a folie à deux, this immediate folie then –– Highfalutin Herry with the high – flown Flunks. The phrase also fits what Herod Edinsmaier provokes in rational people. His actions as a passive aggressor are provocation, and he so manipulated them, as did Mehitable, to whatever resultant outcome he desired. But a reasonable response from ordinary folks to the consequential upshots of passive aggression is one of frustration or disgust often to the point of us others expressing, in no calm way whatsoever, our aversion, our disgust, our anger and our disappointment. Hell, Herry’s aggression costs us others time, money, work, lots and lots and lots of extra, initially unneeded work that now becomes necessary, pain, huge disappointments, huge, often separation and incredible isolation as was to be the end result of the news this evening that all of my Boys, not just Jesse, would so very soon go completely missing from me. It is no wonder at all that the rest of us, dealt this shit and forced this fuck, act after its display and implementation from persons such as Dr. Edinsmaier the way that we do. Only one gargantuan problem there is with us recipients and our reactions: we others are the ones who outwardly look to the cops, to the SpaChezResort Hotel Six Floor health care providers, to the judges, to the sheriffs, to the attorneys, to the child psychologists, to the custody evaluators, to the social workers, to the children’s services’ counselors, we others look like the aggressor because we do get angry. And we show it! Herry’s calculated violence in his application of passive aggression was, however, of historic proportions. And when coupled with the vacuous, wooden demeanor on his face to the outside onlooker, nearly impossible to read if an untrained observer. I, on the other hand? I had lived this. With Herry I had lived this mother – fucking every single day for the 12½ years of legalized mawwiage to the thug and, ever more escalatingly, all of the days since the divorce decree became official midweek on 24 May 1989! Herry was so predictable to me by now. I didn’t need to read his face; I just knew what he would probably, most likely try to get away with next. Hence, why the very real need for me to not only be present at the search of my very own home, one done without any officially obtained search warrant! but I also had to have present at this specific search an Ames police official conducting a totally thorough search of it –– because Herry, in some future court action, would lie –– another imminent perjury. I needed to be able to defuse and to counteract the falsehood that the prevaricated scenario would morph into –– by overseeing at my own residence, right now Monday night, 28 October 1991, a totally thorough search. I had to preempt a strike against me in some upcoming court appearance of which I did not even know yet –– by, right now, leaving no shower curtain drawn and no corner closet exhaustively uninspected! Too, the scrutiny absolutely had to be performed by a methodical force which could perhaps act as a neutralizing one in daMan’s court! An unbiased third party I needed, a witness or testifier that would be … the cop! Right now in my throes of becoming geographically separated for gaaawd knows how long from all three of my Boys, I had to first be concerned about a future attack and cross by Herry’s Mr. Shindy Scheisser which would run something like, “But you really didn’t even go in the Havencourt condo, did you, Officer Pam?” “Actually, that is not correct, Mr. Scheisser, I did.” “But you really didn’t even go upstairs and check into anything or behind anywhere, did you, Officer Pam?” “Actually, that is not correct, Mr. Scheisser, I did. Even though I had no warrant to check anything or behind anywhere! ! ! I still did. As a matter of fact, Mr. Scheisser, I checked everywhere and behind everything, a complete and thorough search, and there was not a goddamn sign there of anybody resembling a Jesse. There were, however, Jesse’s and his two brothers’ belovéd pets, Mr. Scheisser, all three of them. No! More than three. Her boys’ mama bird’d had babies. That’s how mother – fuckingly thorough my search was; I even searched the finch’s nest, too! Not just the DEhuman mother’s nest! Hypothetically speaking here, Mr. Scheisser, why wouldn’t a supposedly loving father, swiping custody of her kiddos, not also wanna take custody of her children’s pets?!” “I will ask the questions here, Officer Pam! And you will do the answering, Officer Pam, and only the answering. Not the judging. I have no further questions, Your Honor, for this witness.” This was the sort of future “anticipatory guidance” pediatricians tell parents about their growing children’s activities, actions and what to expect? No, this was the sort of anticipatory guidance, a medical term used daily in these doctors’ dictations after the well – child checkup visits of little kids nationwide, which I had to also employ in order to try to guide myself around and past the crimes of the older – brother Joy Toy Boy bully, Daddee Edinsmaier himself. In order to attempt to –– later –– save my own ass within ‘the court’ that Pillar Herry could so easily manipulate to his advantage. I arrived on Havencourt. László had broken peripheral speed records, I thought, in order to get there. He and Judd lived five miles out of town in the diagonally opposite direction of The Teacup, and he from the northwest then was there already when I drove up. So was Officer Pam except that she was a he, Officer Chris. Up to the door the four of us went, and I even invited in Herry; and had he entered, this would have been his first step inside the Havencourt condominium ever. He did not; he declined of course, and László decided to wait outside with him. I still have never figured out for certain when all of my tools came up missing from my two garage cabinets’ worth, but I don’t think it happened this specific Monday. I believe Herry stole them all, but I now believe the burglary occurred at a later date, still yet another thuggish thievery of Herry’s to be realized –– just not on this particular 28 October. Because László, Ancestor in Training in Cinqué – style as well, was right there beside him –– standing in silence. The search ended; Herry and Officer Chris both drove away from Havencourt Drive. László came inside then and sat down at our brown kitchen table as I proceeded to dial, from memory of course, the Urbandale police station. Waiting on the line for the correct person to take my transferred call, I told László that I had kissed Zane and Mirzah for the last time for a long, long, long time, that the Boys were to be spirited out of town the very next morning and that to where the four of us, in the words of Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s infamous and favored ‘scriptural verse,’ … “had no idea!” Where my 15 – year – old, 13 – year – old and 12 – year – old children were next to call ‘home’ was a secret –– even to them. Assuming, that is, that middle brother would be caught. Jesse was. And I was never told that he was. And ‘caught’ is the correct verb, not ‘found’. I hung up the telephone for the last time around 1 in the a.m. of Tuesday, 29 October 1991, not knowing. By 4:30 pm that afternoon and off shift, I zoomed down to the 69th Street bungalow and pulled Ol’ Black plain as day right up into the driveway. There was nothing there. Nothing of evidence around the outside of the house and the property’s detached garage that my family of three Truemaier Boys had ever existed there. I hauled ass off of 69th and out onto Douglas Avenue and careened westerly toward the Urbandale Police Station. The speeding was out of anger, yes, and certainly not out of any misperceived capability to catch up with someone, anyone. After 5 p.m., I could not enter its front door without having to first press the security intercom and summon someone to come unlock it and let me in. I blitzed by the doorman enroute to the dispatch window and was given there, by a very nice woman who of course knew nothing, the name of someone to call “in the morning.” So began a blizzard of queries to the cops, whether there in Urbandale or five states away or half a nation away or a full continent away –– it didn’t matter. Always, always courteous to me I proceeded to get out of any law enforcement authority anywhere not one shred of information on or about my very own babies whom I alone grew. Not one fragment of knowledge. I am reminded of the time Zane ran away from home in Columbia –– and Jesse and I in that beige Shitbox Dodge had quietly followed behind him and his tracks. The cop then in the blazing heat of that July never truly ‘saw’ my little boy in his winter coat packing a long, skinny bundle that could’ve contained a rifle. Didn’t –– but could have. Zane had determinedly claimed that his fishing pole would permit him to survive ‘out there’ … alone. Although the policeman, Jesse and I so well saw, had looked squarely at Zane, the lawman never even stopped to inquire if there might be something rather at bit amiss with this scenario here. “You have papers that say we can tell you if we know, do you?” the named individual on the post – it scrap asked me the next morning. “Ah, no, I don’t have those papers.” “Well, then, I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t know if you’re really the mother plus, anyhow, if you don’t have official papers, then I certainly am not going to say anything. Is that understood?” “Can’t you even tell me … if … Jesse’s found and safe?” “No. I’m hanging up now.” Click. The night before until the wee dark hours of the early morning it had been the same with the police. And with Ms. McLive. Herry wouldn’t even come to the telephone to talk to me nor had Mirzah or Zane been allowed to answer the phone or take my calls. Ever before –– when they all were still sequestered in west Ames or existing inside that Urbandale bungalow. Mothers worldwide know this routine on a regular basis –– from the doctor to the teachers to the parole officer to the male – identified, maternal grandmother to the child’s commanding, milifucking officer. Not to mention, when there’s the colossal crisis of one of hers in trouble, hurt or missing, we still cannot get information. No way. No how. And if one is a noncustodial mother, why then it is a given that the backlash fuck – off will nowhere approximate a polite kiss – off. Understand the standard measure that is ownership of information. Information is male; it is patriarchy and belongs only within all things androcentric. Smack in line with martin luther’s “… woman was no more than a machine to make babies for him with neither the need nor the right to …” … to know anygoddamnthing else! Knowledge is power and the withholding of knowledge is even more power. And from fat, old buddha, “ … a woman’s body is filthy and not a vessel for … the law.” The law? She soooo cannot! for chris’sake, have the least bit o’ knowledge, lest the fucking woman dare to think, dare to believe that she is entitled to actually possess some … power! Just ask Mehitable, the most male – identified of all – knowing, maternal grandmothers whom the Truemaier Boys have ever encountered. Only weeks later did I actually know that Jesse had been captured and that not only was he all right but that he had fought the abductor and his continuing thralldom the only way he could think of at this last minute. A portion of the overture to Act Three had played out exactly as Zane had intuited. Zane and Jesse both possess to this day, sometimes even Mirzah too, the uncanniest powers of near extrasensory perception. I in no way believe in ESP nor in supernature and so doubt that, atheist that I am, I ever shall; but if I ever do, I’ll wager my believing will have to do with some event or situation spawned because of Jesse’s or Zane’s minds knowing ahead of time what was going to happen or their abilities, given just a very, very few items of information or clues, to piece together what the hell went down at a place and time far, far removed from them. Zane was correct. Jesse had, from inside his seventh – grade classroom and out its window accidentally or uncannily looked up and watched Herry in the Humvee hurl past his building and haul into the high school’s front horseshoe drive just a block east, headed he accurately presumed, at midday on a Monday morning when Herry was usually long gone outta town since the early, early hours of the first workday to his “job” wherever the locum tenens per diem contract was for that particular week, … headed instead this noontime to Zane’s Principal Druid’s office. Excusing himself from the classroom and I’ve never yet asked him how, Jesse beelined to his locker, cleared it out as much as he’d wanted and managed to signal a friend whose name I don’t know. Indeed, it was around 12:30 or 12:45 when Jesse, out a side door unguarded on that Monday afternoon, exited off the grounds of the Metro suburb’s middle school. And disappeared. Just as Zane in the Flunks’ front room had imagined to me Jesse must’ve done. I don’t know how he made it past adults, but Jesse’s darling and quite the athlete so perhaps he either just smiled and kept on walking, sack of locker shit and all, or he may have explained about needing to return something to or retrieve something from off of the soccer – football field out back. Like his independence or something. With backpack and some belongings then Jesse, at any rate, was gone quite missing by the time Herry next returned with already snatched Mirzah and Zane to the Urbandale Middle School to pluck Jesse out as well. And instead of quizzing the school authorities or the local fuzz if Legion True had been spotted anywhere in the Boy’s immediate vicinity or not, Herry decided, one way or the other, that even if I had not been seen around, indeed that even if I had actually not been around, … he would still exploit the situation against me. Herry knew Jesse had jumped; and if his escape hadn’t been with me, then it was accomplished with someone else or carried out by himself. He knew. Herod Edinsmaier simply determined, with less than only a full day’s time left to Daddee’s getting done “for his family” all of the moving – away kinds of chores and last – moment minutia, to still choose to take out some of those remaining few hours several miles away and harass the mother – fuck out of Legion, the ex – Cunt and Present Bitch. While all that while –– permitting Jesse to stay missing and purposefully to not jostle and scramble together all manner of proactive functions and efforts to find him! To let Jesse stay missing to him, to me and to his brothers! That level of gruesome cruelty only one who has recognized and violently lived, day to day, with this passive aggression can predict and expect. László stayed with me as I was on the telephone calling and calling and calling all night long and getting back only clicks and hang – ups from both the Urbandale police and Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. The madam was so transparent that if László and I weren’t genuinely most worried about Jesse, it would’ve been hilarious! With every phone call, and there must’ve been a dozen at the least which I placed, all long distance, … with every one, the Next Cunt answered soooo ridiculously syrupy sweet and cheery –– herself modeling and very well mimicking Horrid Herod’s aggressive passivity, “The Edinsmaier and McLive residence, Fannie speaking. How may I service you?” Er, no. Correction. “How may I serve you?” After about the second or third consecutive call of mine to the 69th Street number, it became crystal clear that Herry’s newest Next Cunt was taking her mother – fuckingest revenge in this manner but way, way worse than that: with her and Herry’s folie à deux operating at top speed in its so slickly slamming operatic duet again, there was the very real fact that she, too, was also … not … searching for … nor … finding my child! Apparently around 10:30 p.m. that signaled friend of Jesse’s had attempted to flee his own residence with extra warm boots, a wool shirt, a poncho, a flashlight, some books and not only the canned goods, the pork and beans, tuna and corn, but he’d also remembered to pack the can opener next to the canteen and a couple of store – bought bottles of water. Perhaps it was the bulk of the sleeping bag and two blankets that gave him away to his mother, but Friend was discovered all right before he’d managed to exit their back door around about his bedtime on a school night. Kiddo ‘fessed. Jesse was holed up in a fort he had fashioned for himself somewhere in an urban forest not too far away. Late October outside in the city’s woods in the dark. Not exactly this particular ex – Cunt’s accommodations after all, but Jesse had bivouacked his own ‘home’ if Herry was –– again –– about to fuck with mine. And, of course, neither Jesse nor I nor Mirzah or Zane knew at all then of Herry’s affidavit – “pledge” to daMan, to daJudge, to Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, to “never” take him away from Ames until he was 18, had graduated Ames High School and could choose for himself to where to be off exploring next! Back into Ames and The Teacup and at or under the posted speed limit, I hunkered down at the brown kitchen table next to the telephone and tried to think of what to do. It was the evening of another day when another moving truck had yet again pulled up to my children’s lives and in the course of another couple of hundred minutes or so into it had been swallowed up all of the available stuffs of their childhoods. And in a vehicle following the van out onto interstates had been swept up and spirited several states away, as well, my three Truemaier Boys –– jettisoning them all over – again – somewhere between Ames, that Invisible She – Devil there … and the Deep Blue Sea. Only weeks later did I know that Mirzah, too, had been captured. Mirzah, my little man of so, so many talents. From soccer to French to percussion to baking, actually making skilled use of, even at just five years of age, the nesting set of Pyrex mixing bowls, to entrepreneurial endeavors, especially ones involving the ‘investing’ of his money, to piano to volleyball to political leanings and leadings to keyboarding and computers just appearing on a very, very few kiddos’ horizons. Except in the form of Nintendo or the few Pacman or Pokémon games before those. And, most especially, and of a truly magnificent treasure to both him and to me, to his mighty fine art for making friends and establishing and maintaining friendships. All of the Truemaier Boys possessed this wizardly craft. If ever I’d wanted to know who someone was, all that I had to do was query out loud to the thin air, “Who’s that?” Himself suddenly interested also, Zane at three, four, five years of age, would swiftly shift focus from whatever activity he was engaged in, slip – slide on over to the person in question, look longingly up at her or him and with pinpoint clarity and precise pronunciation the first time he would simply ask, “Who are you?” And then I, too, would know because Zane was so irresistible and, thus, always commanded by his wee, sweet presence the correct answer back! I so worried about this trait in the Truemaier Boys though; it could be endangering to them all to be so open and unafraid to approach total strangers. It could save their lives, too; but it still concerned me so all throughout their little, little boyhoods. The Boys’ belovéd nanny, Rosemarie, loved to repeat the story of lunchtime one noon in the Hershey household when she’d served up food to the three of them. Rosemarie invented lovely themes, ideas and topics with every meal to foster in them amongst themselves not only camaraderie but also the finesse of fine conversation. During the discussion at this particular repast, she had asked each Boy to individually tell them all collectively assembled around the dinner table what he wanted to be when he grew up. First Zane expounded; then came Jesse’s discourse. When Rosemarie came ‘round to Mirzah poised in his high chair at the grand ol’ figure of a mere 2½ years in age, he paused and paused, eyelids scrunched shut with his right arm and fist doubled up under his little chin, elbow on the high chair tray –– just silent like Frenchman Rodin’s so – famous Le Penseur statue of 1902, thinking and thinking and thinking. Then when she and two brothers by their cocked heads and raised brows in Mirzah’s direction appeared to query him again … he finally opened his eyes, his little arm shot skyward from out its place under his mandible and, with set jawline and princely ceremony, Mirzah exaltedly proclaimed to all gathered therein, “Prezdunt o’da Knighted Tates!” In the sixth grade now and eleven years old that Fall of 1991, things hadn’t much changed in this regard. Although they may not have been able to actually come over to visit Mirzah at the daddee’s residence patrolled there as it was by Nottingham Sheriff McLive, Mirzah still made friends as easily as drinking pure water; and, of the collections of people he found himself within, one such group was the Extended Learning Program’s early morning class of ultimate conversationalists, the children there who participated in the Mock Trials project. By 7:15 a.m. since late August and early September, Mirzah had had to be at the Karen Farmer Elementary School two to three times a week and ready to rehearse the courtroom scenes for his group’s involvement in local and regional competitions. The kids at Karen Farmer’s had beat out several other elementary ELP mockers; they advanced to win the locals’ championship! So much so had the ELP sixth – graders won already that autumn that Mirzah, in two different mock situations, was slated with the other actors of his class to perform their two trials at the regional finals’ competition. On Monday, 28 October 1991, I can only imagine that as Mirzah left the bungalow around 7 in the early morning in the chauffeuring accompaniment of another competitor – colleague’s parent in order to get to the rehearsals on time, he was totally pumped for both of his roles, one as the criminal’s defense attorney; and in the second trial, Mirzah actually played the part of the defendant himself charged –– with murder! The regional’s contest was not very far away at all. No one from Karen Farmer Elementary School had to travel any further than Des Moines’s own Drake University. Yes, further than the trip to school but not by much more than 15 to 20 minutes or so at the most; and there was obviously no need to carpool out of town or for any such planning as that necessary at all, one of the fine things about living in a bigger sphere with great opportunities. Out of Urbandale proper and into Des Moines officially a child’s parents would have to drive, but the Olmstead Center there at Drake was so close to Herod Edinsmaier’s suburban rental that Mirzah certainly did not think that he needed even to arrange a ride with other teammates to get there. Mirzah would just appear and meet up with everyone else –– right there at the Olmstead Center. Perhaps from his Grandpa AmTaham and I’d like to think also from me did Mirzah learn and hold strongly and utterly to the precept that a person did not disappoint her or his friends. No way. No how. If one is a true friend, then one comes through for the rest of the posse’s others no matter what it takes; and until the morning of Wednesday, 30 October 1991, when Mirzah Truemaier awoke to find himself five states away and consequently failing to show up at the Olmstead Center of Drake University to uphold his end of the Mock Trial team’s bargain, he had not one time messed up on this … this how – to – be – a – true – friend deal, the most important of matters to him ever. Dr. Herod Edinsmaier had succeeded in capturing Mirzah and by Herry’s subsequent imprisonment of him on the interstate and ultimately at their final roadtripping destination, had literally stolen from Mirzah the loyalty to his friends that he so prized inside of himself. The prize of the Mock Trial Project championship? O well, everyone knows what happens at such times as these. Whether at the mock trials’ competitions or at the city club’s softball game without enough players or with the default on the loan for the family’s next home or “the consequences of all of the other messes he visits upon her when he leaves her home” as John Stoltenberg quotes, the word is –– forfeit. Mirzah’s school friends left the Drake University’s Center and returned to their classroom activities at Karen Farmer Elementary without accomplishing one performance because, without its key and starring actor, there was no performance. And according to the Project’s rules, because of this dazzling absence then, the forfeiture of any ranking of the team’s standing in the competitions –– was required! What I have never been able to justify, coming at this specific October scenario with Mirzah in The Opera from Herry’s possible perspective, is how he could have done this to Mirzah. I mean why?! Why not just wait one fucking day –– more –– before leaving town?! The realization of just the friggin’ timeframe alone of this heinous action consternates me! Blows me clean frickin’ away it does. Even if Dr. Edinsmaier had had to be at work elsewhere, which I soooo do not believe was the case at all, why the fucking hell did Herry – Daddee dump the way that he did … this horrific mess on Mirzah’s spirit?! One day longer is all! Then, Herry could have hired a freakin’ truckdriver for the Truemaier Boys or the household’s moving van –– or for both! –– if Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive wasn’t up to any of it herself! And fuck –– Herry for himself? Shit! –– Herry could’ve taken a goddamn airplane out of Des Moines to said destination of new job five states away, could he not have?! I know. I know. This planning was work –– the work of parenting. And Herry loathed it. Herry had always hated all manner of the preparing and of the arranging that it took to help make everyone else’s lives –– ordered! Only his own life was of importance enough to warrant any such of his own labors and time. And in that own life of his, he so wanted, too, to make damned, friggin’ certain that I was fucked. If Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, Pillar, personally saw all of my Boys out of town, then he personally saw to it, also, that I, at my end, was indeed mother – fucked in possibly –– at all –– trying to stop him from doing so. Despite the irony that there is in all of the weeks and weeks and weeks of preparing and of arranging that it must’ve taken Herry Edinsmaier to keep so secret his impending plans for his own life, still so great was Herry’s neediness to know the Pussy, Legion True, was completely fucked that this is the only explanation which I can come up with as to why Herry Edinsmaier committed this slash – and – burn on Mirzah Truemaier’s so – prized loyalty to his friends. It never should have happened. * * * * My life was and wasn’t fucked. Herry would have, I am thinking, been disappointed to know. To know that he had not quite finished the task of that. I did commence rocking again; that I did do. And it was, once more, so cold, … November now; and as in previous years, I did not start the furnace’s pilot light to even begin to be able to turn on the heat source. That alone would save me $15 a month, just its pilot light unlit. It was back to 2 percent milk, baked potatoes with butter for main and only course and bananas with sprinkled sugar crystals on top for dessert. Sometimes a certain molar acted up in the upper right. Sometimes to the point, in fact, of forming an eruption which I could not only palpate in my cheek from the outside but could also visualize it enough orally in order to be able to actually drain its pus on the buccal aspect of the mucosa and reduce it completely. Till –– of course –– the next time the abscess ballooned out.