CHAPTER 21: The Beginnings of the Bureau of Loss
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother
“The Beginnings of the Bureau of Loss” is Chapter 21 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother. [This chapter is too long for a newsletter so the second part will be posted next week.]
In this chapter, Herry files for divorce behind Legion’s back and she is the last to know, which disgusts and angers her immensely. Looking back she sees the ending of her marriage was just “the beginnings of the bureau of loss”—the wreckage that would be her entire life—just as Herry had vengefully plotted. One major loss she realizes is that taking years off to be a full-time mother to her boys has destroyed her career prospects.
In the last chapter, Legion is busy with the boys’ activities in their new school year while Herry is secretly plotting with Family Court attorneys to get sole custody of her boys and be able to blame her for the divorce. She stumbles across his AA notes in which he admits to molesting his sisters and engaging in bestiality. She is sickened and learns his father and brother also molested the girls and begins to worry about her boys being alone with him.
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point [on the web page]. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
Loss I was to become very well acquainted with; but about the amount of which, the sheer volume of loss to come, just the mere concept of it in life and family aspects, I was, even by 40 years of age, still so, so naïve. I was staring at not only a lost house because of an already lost husband and lost marriage; but, though it wasn’t crystal clear to me at all yet, I was also about to give up my entire career as a veterinarian and as a professor of veterinary microbiology.
You can always work it, work it, work at it later, Woman! Be the ma now that you’ve always wanted to be—and just go out and get another position later on when the Boys are near grown and the fun of their being around home with you is gone…I was dwelling, instead, soooo in the bliss of willful ignorance, I was.
CHAPTER 21
The Beginnings of the Bureau of Loss
“We still discover the church, the state, the world, all … regarding the exercise of her own judgment even upon the questions most closely related to herself as … woman’s greatest sin.”
—Matilda Joslyn (Gage) on page 310 in Chapter Six, “Wives”, of her 1893 work Woman, Church and State [http://www.sacred-texts.com/wmn/wcs]
Forty years old I had turned on my last birthday, the 1987 Winter Solstice. AmTaham’s birthday too, he was, therefore, now exactly 68 and still working full‑time as the farmland and small town real estate broker he had been for probably 15 to 18 years or so. I had been off to New York City—Woodstock and other points east—when he had first taken up this endeavor at around his age of 50 or a bit after so I’m not at all sure when he actually began in that line of work in Williamsburg which related fairly well, as a matter of fact, to the graduate studies he had completed at Iowa State University in the early 1960s in agricultural economics.
AmTaham himself conducted all of his own clerical duties associated with the profession’s transactions inside quite a cozy little, dark wood‑paneled and self‑built office immediately off of his and Mehitable’s kitchen to its east. His walls there were decorated in many, many things most AmTaham‑like. While the early 1970s were the beginnings of the heyday of the home office, there was no computer and no fax machine yet. Not even a decent copier, let alone, a cumbersome, inky mimeograph machine.
Just a black, one‑line, residential‑style telephone with a number different than his and Mehitable’s personal telephone number and two typewriters. One for show—that was the black antique one with gold lettering on it which dated from somewhere around the turn into the 20th Century. And another, a small old bluish manual Smith‑Corona upon which AmTaham hunted and pecked and plinked his nine digits, the left pinkie having been whacked off at the age of 17 when he, alone and at its summit, unfroze with buckets of steaming hot water the apparently scalpel‑sharp blades of the steel windmill east of that red, bedrock barn on his mama’s and daddy’s homestead, said barn with the hayloft in which, day after day after school, AmTaham had grown up to be so brilliant.
While AmTaham may have wished for in his wife the skills of a secretary or a stenographic and bookkeeping assistant, Mehitable was legally blind, had never typed and more than likely would have, unlike any secret‑keeping secretary worth her or his paycheck shekels, meddled. Pried and butted in to the point that AmTaham probably would’ve had to fire her, an event that would have gone over much like a completed terrorists’ plot so, to prevent this future outcome, AmTaham, when he started in the business, just took it upon himself to do it all, every aspect of it. Same as the micromanaging approach that was his as a farmer, as a steward and custodian of the animals and lands: better to do it himself—and to be certain—than to place trust in someone else to get it right the first time and on deadline using the utmost of up‑to‑date information to be had at the time of the endeavor. This was AmTaham’s style.
It wasn’t as if AmTaham had always or only functioned in this fashion. Like many, many landowner fathers, he assigned several chores and duties to typically be done by my brother, Sterling, and by me growing up, even some that, with more than a modicum of care on our parts, could still result in great harm to limb or life should there be something go amiss.
And awry things did go. Often. It seemed my bro was forever tearing out the fences when at the ends of rows he turned around the tractor dragging machinery behind it; and for that, he took a heckuva lot of ribbing from AmTaham. And from me.
Good fence‑making in the 1940s, 50s and 60s was a religious sacrament with Iowa land stewards. One does not see too many fences of any kind anywhere in Iowa nowadays, probably because of more cropping than the raising of pasture animals or the shepherding of cattle to clean up the cornstalks but back then, AmTaham was peerless. That man could string the straightest, sturdiest, finest fence around. And did. His was a farm surrounded and contained by premium creosote and green steel posts strung with the tautest of barbed, #9 brace and plain, even‑squared fencing wire. Perfectly leveled. Always perfectly plumbed and leveled fences AmTaham’s were.
So. Sterling’s regularly ripping out AmTaham’s sculptures was somewhat of a test of Daddy’s temper, as you can imagine. AmTaham had made a lifetime career out of perfectly leveled structures be they studied opinions on the day’s stock options he could never afford to own or his unstudied but deeply experienced feel for humanity’s and civilizations’ interactions, his essays on various aspects of agricultural economics and policy or those field fences encompassing his and Mehitable’s 240 acres which a few seconds of slacker indifference by a teenager hauling heavy‑duty farm equipment who didn’t seem to take enough care to understand AmTaham’s culture could annihilate.
It was to that pristine little office and business phone line of AmTaham’s then that I placed a call early one morning near the end of this first week in October. The Truemaier Boys were all off to school; it was probably Friday of that ‘being‑served’ week … and I was so wanting not to get my mother’s voice in my receiver. This timing worked; and since I was already on his business connection, Daddy would not be interrupted. To AmTaham’s standard method of answering the telephone, “Yes? AmTaham True here,” I greeted him back with, “Hello, Daddy, it’s Legion. How’s your humor today?” That’s code for, “I really don’t need to know your temper, Daddy; it’s mine I’m calling you about”—of which, of course, he was well aware.
“O O O, if I weren’t ‘bout wore out, then I guess my temper’d be right on track. You, Kitty? How’s yours?” A woman couldn’t ask, I have often thought, for a kinder or sweeter sobriquet from her father than … Kitty. Daddy had called me that since I was old enough to understand the meanings of any words; and for a rural farm kid who, at any point in time, could count from 13 to 40 felines gathered around her feet as she supplemented their raw, wild diets with the table scraps slopped into the several cast‑iron skillets and battered metal pans behind the back porch which Mehitable no longer wanted, Kitty was a label on me that I took from my father to be as one of the highest esteem and regard. As big and as tough as a farmer has to be, my daddy revered the cunning and independent yet soft and purring but ever vigilant cat. Unlike some farmers. Some who decidedly drowned the littlest ones in the cow tank or aiming from off the tractor fender shot them for target practice, same as they did the rodent and crop‑destroying ground squirrels, as the felines hunted in the tall prairie grasses or, simply from time to time without even a pang or one twinge themselves, wrung their wee necks and tossed their still‑wriggling corpses up on the scrub wood pile to burn. He didn’t call me Kitty in order to shun me or as a way out of using my given name Legion—such as Herry deliberately always has or because dozens of daddies all the time everywhere seem to almost purposefully degrade their little girls by using diminutive names such as Missy or Sister or Mary or Littl’ that aren’t really their names at all. AmTaham True simply respected cats and respected me so it was so by that extension.
“O Daddy, it could be better I am thinking,” I said. “Of course I have a reason for calling you, don’t I? An imminent one, I would have to say,” I went on, expecting no answer. “One, ah, … I’ve … I’ve never really had to discuss with you before.”
“O?” AmTaham, as we know, rivals Grace as the greatest of the Great Listeners. Superb enough at it AmTaham is to teach at her Listening College; that’s for sure. Even as deaf as he now was. Nearly always a man of few words but with massive amounts of patience, too, almost beyond reason when it came to his kids. That tiniest of questions was my cue to continue; I had his full and complete attention.
“Yeah, Daddy, I’m gonna need a lawyer here. And, as a matter of fact, ah, … right quick.”
“O – O. We e e e ll.”
“Yeah. Anda’ I was wonderin’, umm, how does a person go about deciding on which one to pick? Ya’ know, besides the money? Ah, … ah, besides needing to worry about the money, how much they’re gonna charge and all, how do ya’ know who’s a good one to get or not?”
“Oooo, Kitty, that one’s a doozy, all right. Well, I guess before I can advise you, I’d have to know what your reason for needing one is. You know as well as I do, they’re not at all like veterinarians but, instead, a whole lot more like physicians; attorneys specialize in different aspects of the law. If you don’t mind my asking, about what aspect would your need be?” Since I’d gone off to study veterinary medicine and had become a veterinarian, Daddy was most careful in his speech about who was or who was not acclaimed a doctor. At least around me or when I was in the company of folks with whom he was conversing, AmTaham took to calling doctors of human medicine physicians since I, in his and my minds, was every inch and neuronal cell as much a doctor as Herry extolled himself off as being. And at least AmTaham hadn’t used the mistitle that it so, so is of ‘counselor’ in order to identify lawyers!
“Ah, I s’pose it’d be family law then, Daddy. Whoever handles divorces the best. Umm, this one,” I had continued right on without missing a beat so as to sound sort of nonchalant and unalarmed about it all, “aaaah, … this one won’t be like the divorce from John where it took, ya’ know, all of 30 minutes of a general lawyer’s time, Daddy. This one’s gonna have to do a lot more, I am thinking. Anda’ … and, ah, ah, know a lot more, too.”
“O sure. I’m sure you’re right about that, Legion. So. I’d start with asking people you might know from the Boys’ school as to whom they themselves use locally for attorneys. Or maybe these same people know of other folks’ divorces and who the lawyers were and how they went, the outcomes, ya’ know.”
“Okay, okay. That sounds good. Umm. Then. About the money to get one with, ya’ know, the retainer fee? What should I expect to have to pay for that, do you think? And, ah, the hourly fee, what do lawyers charge by the hour for this sort of thing, any idea?” This one really stymied me. I knew enough to be scared just to even hear any answer to this query of mine. And I had no idea how I was going to pay for one except to try to borrow from the bank or from him and Mehitable.
Of course, those most grateful words did come next, “If there’s anything else you know of that your mother or I can help you out with, Kitty, then you’ll just let us know, now won’t you?” The last thing I needed right then was to hear Mehitable’s take on the subject matter of this discourse of his and mine so I didn’t bother to ask AmTaham what he thought she’d say about any of it. I didn’t even ask if she was there and could be overhearing his side of the conversation. As blind from her late 20s as Mehitable has claimed for years and years to be, she has for hearing the alleged auditory nerves of an elephant; and if she is anywhere nearby to the vicinity of your conversation, then you can bank on it: she has heard the bulk of it. And, subsequently, is always, always right ready to comment on any or all portions of it, too, as well as to pass on her judgements regarding the matters and issues thereof. Verbally. As with some other folks such as Herod Edinsmaier and the next DEhuman inside his stash, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, Mehitable’s insatiability and neediness for attention extends from not only commenting on your particular situation or plight when it is absolutely none of her business and, certainly, hurtful and damaging things come out of her mouth … but also right on in to judging you. At the least, this genre of persons must figure, they then have you focusing upon them your full and complete attention!
That is what I was in no need of this particular morning … with just 2½ weeks left in which to file a legal response to Herry’s heinous papers which sat under their periwinkle cover‑up up on his so‑prized, pull‑down escritoire in his most favorite of rooms, the den, in that bachelor pad. That “home” on Othello Drive Herry’d coveted upside the Brookside Forest which, with Herry fixing to divorce me, would now so surely have to be sold.
* * * *
Loss I was to become very well acquainted with; but about the amount of which, the sheer volume of loss to come, just the mere concept of it in life and family aspects, I was, even by 40 years of age, still so, so naïve. I was staring at not only a lost house because of an already lost husband and lost marriage; but, though it wasn’t crystal clear to me at all yet, I was also about to give up my entire career as a veterinarian and as a professor of veterinary microbiology.
It had been nearly a year and a half since leaving my professorship in Kansas which, in then’s as well as in today’s parlance of careening through the early stages of one’s career, is also around halfway through to … not ever working in one’s field again. Three years out from using one’s professional area is its absolute outer limit. If you have not exercised your PhD degree in a PhD degree‑requiring position in three years’ time, then you are most definitely out of the loop and can … and will … most easily be kept out of it thereafter. Fresher and far more sprightly minded, up‑to‑speed PhDers are being churned out and, by the end of their grad stints, poorer than field mice during a drought. Turned out of doctoral and postdoctoral programs one right after the other from academy to university to institute. And each one of the very, very many of them within this glut in any field of expertise as a matter of fact, needing to get started right away on earning bucks to pay back all of their educational loans, is eager and most willing to swoop up any open academic or far greater salary‑generating industrial spots than those same jobs’ human resource personnel and principal investigators are willing to bother themselves with by their wading through the obsolescent and quaint résumé of one rusted, housewife‑type … Dr. Legion True.
Still. I had had no idea into what dangerously stormy and shark‑infested waters my not working as a veterinary professor nor even as just a non‑owning, employed veterinarian in some nascent, no‑account practice was sailing me. This journey of staying home instead and of being a mama—and, now with its added sidecar spin of coping with getting started a divorce wherein three little children were involved—was literally, just as … hope … also is, a professional woman‑killer for me.
Yet. No one, not one individual among all of those years along my pre‑professional way during formal higher education had ever counseled me regarding two facts: i) the actual number of positions ‘out there’ for which I was obtaining my PhD, i.e. that there were only 13 of them nationwide!!! nor ii) that if one doesn’t—especially a woman and a parent‑like woman at that—if she doesn’t work for three or more years or thereabouts, maybe even a shorter sabbatical off than that in many geographical areas, why, she’s outtathere! I had gone on for the PhD degree because I’d wanted to be home nights, as university professors can be and to be off night and weekend emergency call which field practitioners are routinely saddled with, when my sons were entering their teen years, true that is. But I had also pursued the PhD doctoral degree, the at‑one‑time prestigious doctorate, because it was needed over and above the doctor of veterinary medicine doctoral degree, the DVM, in order to be at all qualified for consideration in being hired on to practice the love of my loves professionally. And that was?
That was to work as the clinical bacteriologist at a veterinary diagnostic laboratory which was located within the same town or city as a college of veterinary medicine whereat I could then have the added duty––in addition to the clinical diagnostics’ practice––of teaching senior veterinary medical students clinical veterinary bacteriology! Doesn’t that just sound like the most major of the cat’s meows … job‑wise!? Well, it certainly did to me!
Another graduate student in my University of Missouri‑Columbia Veterinary Microbiology Department, one without a DVM but working on a master’s degree, put his hands on a certain book late into my program there. I had never heard of nor been told of this book before. In fact, he handed it to me, a little pale aquamarine‑covered paperback, to take a look at just as I was enduring 4½ months of my second to last semester cramming day and night—including studying on Friday and Saturday nights finally for my first times ever—for the written comprehensives.
During a break from my crushing labors and just a day before I was to begin writing said examinations, a mere and simple 15 minutes of studying the mathematics in that book, a directory of all of the veterinary diagnostic laboratories in the United States, turned up one stunning and glaring, very, very plain statistical Truth: Of the mere 27 colleges of veterinary medicine that exist within the United States at all, only 20 veterinary diagnostic laboratories are located inside the same town as a college of veterinary medicine. Of those 20 such laboratories, only 13 of them have within them a position for a veterinary clinical bacteriologist. And the key here? Of those 13 labs, there is only one such position funded. Period. One. Only one. Not two. Not ever two even. Only one. Well, that was certainly an eye‑opener. What an idiot I had been to think that I was ever going to be able to retain a precious one of those! Of those 13! And, of course as it so turns out, I was quite right!
But. I was correct on that point because of, and only because of, that second fact about which I had known nothing, the fact that if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it. You rest, you rust. Et cetera, et cetera. I had landed one of those 13. In Kansas. Probably because I was a female, now that I look back on it. I was smart, fully qualified, deserved in every respect to get the position, all of that. But. Realistically, knowing now what I know of academic departments and their desperately wanting a statistic on the faculty‑hire data sheet, I was engaged and secured as the professor of veterinary clinical bacteriology solely because I was to become that specific laboratory faculty’s … token‑for‑a‑little‑time … woman.
But then. Herry was transferred. Oops. Guess I have to leave this—my dream job—after all. And with my concluding as its newest professor within the department only one certainly non‑tenuring year’s worth of service.
Not that Manhattan, Kansas, was the finest and grandest of wide‑minded locales to live geographically and to raise up and encourage babies—within their ‘sense of place’ in the World—in the ways of sustainability, fairness and justice. That it certainly was not.
Remind me to tell you about the story of our department’s Dr. Harold, the only serologist in it and an expert in viruses and their goings‑on in … the blood … of all places––who in 1987, was himself diagnosed with full‑blown AIDS and was, back then of course, rapidly succumbing to the HIV virus within his own bloodstream and most everywhere else inside of him. Remind me … to struggle … to tell you what the Kansas State University Department of Veterinary Diagnostics’ newest chief and another not‑so‑old but long‑time faculty member, Dr. Aires, both of these men alleged experts themselves in, of all things, microbiology, did to this so, so sick man, Dr. Harold. It was crazed and quite literally evil. And I shall never forget it. Dr. Harold, the Ancestor that he now is, I am certain does not forget Zane and me. That we both drove out into the countryside to his tiny acreage home one weekend afternoon, my firstborn only a decade old at the time and into whom I wanted to instill even more compassion if that were possible, to bring to Dr. Harold where he lay on his daybed dying a little something to munch on and, I am thinking, perhaps at least two last rays of … sunshine … upon which to gaze.
No, my not professoring at Kansas State University was no great loss in terms of having peace of mind in one’s professional life because that, that is, kindness and peace and compassion of mind and of heart, the adult and allegedly highly educated people within that particular Veterinary Medicine College’s department there certainly did not profess nor promote. So, with Herry’s transfer, to Ames we had moved; and I’d determined to be that full‑time mama of whom I had been loving every minute so far. That is, of course … up until …
Now. Now I was not thinking of my veterinary or university career as being trashed because I was only thinking of my marriage as being so disposed! As so much rubbish. I should have been concerned, however. But. I didn’t even know to be. Big, big mistake of mine. Here I was asking AmTaham for advice in retaining a legal beagle instead of, for the very‑near future, on retaining my potential as a veterinarian! Although AmTaham, too, wouldn’t’ve known to be scared for me either—scared about saving my professional skin.
I distinctly recall talking with myself about getting another teaching or practitioner position—and then only one time or twice at the most, “Legion True, you are smart. You are really, really smart. You can aaaalways work. Right now, this gig—this being‑a‑mama thing? You love it! You finally get to do this mothering deal, away from—way away from—over two decades’ worth of studying and studying and carrying out so many others’ assignments for and to you—their directives—instead of your getting to finally be the splendid ma that you are and that you love being! But now? Now, you do get to! So go with it, Girl! You can always work it, work it, work at it later, Woman! Be the ma now that you’ve always wanted to be—and just go out and get another position later on when the Boys are near grown and the fun of their being around home with you is gone. Cuz they’re gone! Just do it! You’ll be so, so glad ya’ did!” I remember this little conversation within my so steadied and studied Legion True brain of … reason. My sense of … place. My nation, my ‘hood … Mother–Hood.
Hisssssss! I was dwelling, instead, soooo in the bliss of willful ignorance, I was. O, fuck it!
And now I was conversing with AmTaham, his speaking to me from that sweet, sweet wee office of his, on a very, very related matter. I told him, “I have until the 24th to get something filed; that’s a Monday. Over in the courthouse in Nevada, I am thinking, not?”
“I know that.”
“You do? How do you know that?”
“Well, I mean, I kind of know that. Herry told us last weekend when he and the Boys were here. You’ve been thinking about this for some time, not?”
“Aaaahh, no, Daddy, no. I didn’t know. Um, … aaaah, I didn’t know till last Tuesday. When the papers came.”
“Last Tuesday? You don’t mean the 04th? You must mean in August or early September sometime, not?” The two of us were querying each other in English, of course, but kind of a low German‑style English. The ‘not’ at the ends of statements AmTaham and I had both inherited from Ava Saffron True, his mama. She concluded nearly every question that required approval or affirmation with ‘not?’, an addendum meaning and short for, “Is this not so? Is that not true?” And AmTaham and I both seemed to sprout up where she, our Ancestor, had brought with her and planted this linguistic pattern of querying into our True roots. In conversation I ask like that to this day. Mehitable loathes it, of course, probably because it reminds her of Ava Saffron, and points out to me and others as often as she realizes I’ve uttered it that my use of this language is really Dr. True’s having said something stupid.
“Aaaahh, no, Daddy. I mean last Tuesday,––last Tuesday which would’ve been the 04th all right. Ya’ know, like I said—when the papers came. Being served the papers. ‘Being served’ I’m told it’s termed, Daddy. They were brought here to Othello Drive. That’s the first I myself knew of it.”
“O m’gosh, Legion! You didn’t know until then?! Until after Herry’d already told Mehitable and me, Legion?!
“Yeah, Daddy, that’d be right all right. Herry told me Sunday evening when he dropped off the Boys just after they had come home from visiting you. But the papers? The papers didn’t come till just last Tuesday morning; some really, really mean‑acting private investigator guy brought them from Herry’s Des Moines lawyer to the house here. So, ah, … ah, that’s the date that I have 20 days from to get something filed by, see? O, and Daddy? Daddy? Herry told the Boys in the car on the way back from your house. On their way back from the Burg. The Boys not only knew before me, Daddy, but I wasn’t even there with any of ‘em to tell them this news myself.”
There was phone line blankness then. Deadness for several seconds’ worth, “O O O JYeah, I see all right! What a plan Herry had! I cannot believe that he told your mother and me before telling you, Legion, and for chris’sake, he should never have told Jesse, Mirzah and Zane before first getting it all straight with you! Ya’ know, straight with you on how you’d both together tell the Boys! Not just him alone! With you nowhere around. Both of you should’ve sat down together to tell the Boys. This is crazy, Legion! Just plain evil! What a coward! What a fucking coward!” More evil and more crazy‑making right here in Ames, Iowa, and not just back in Manhattan. Committed by another allegedly highly educated man, I am left thinking. AmTaham was fully stunned, usually an incredibly difficult thing to accomplish with AmTaham. And angry. Daddy was mad. He’d flat lost it. AmTaham True never, never, never used in speech outright any derivative of the word ‘fuck’. Never. I clearly remember having never heard AmTaham use any form of the word around me or his other children. Until … now.
That energized me; I needed AmTaham’s anger. Up until this telephone conversation with him I had been too hurt and too glazed to’ve had any nerve myself but, O, could I use some now! And Daddy’s being peremptorily pissed was just what I needed to get going on finding a lawyer. Thank goddess, I hadn’t had to speak to Mehitable. Thank goodness; thank good goddess for that much!
[continued next week…]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Legion’s Friends: Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s Family Court lawyer who sold her out
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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