CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Pt. 4 [cont. 8]
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother
In this section of Chapter 28, Legion barely makes the deadline for filing, back in Family Court after her Appellate loss, a Petition claiming that Herry has wrongly moved to another state and is keeping the kids completely away from her. Herry had promised the judge in writing that if he were granted custody, he would stay in Iowa until the boys graduated from high school.
Legion muses that no mother would ever get away with taking children across a county line, much less state, if the father objected. And never, ever would a mother be able to keep kids completely away from a father, as is commonly enabled by judges. But Legion keeps hope—“that most awful of addictions”—alive that the justice system will function properly this time and hold Herry accountable for his abuse and for wrongly removing the children from Iowa and their mother.
In the last section of Chapter 28, the funeral for Legion’s father is behind her and the boys are allowed to stay in Iowa for a few days. She had not seen or spoken with them since Herry abducted them to West Virginia a half year earlier. Legion is disgusted by the fact that she needs a patriarchally-aligned chaperone and must carry with her a note from the judge allowing her to be around her boys—when she was always their loving, primary nurturer and he the mostly-absent abuser. But at least she gets to see and hug them.
CHAPTER 28 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act III, Part 4 of “The Opera” from Book 3. The Opera has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 28 covers all of Act III: Part 4: the third Family Court trial and Part 5: the second Appellate trial. This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.
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—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. 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 so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
The petition stated that Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, by way of his own willful and seditious choices, had caused to occur such circumstances in my and the Truemaier Boys’ relationships with each other as for those conditions to be material, destabilizing changes. Daddee’s choosing to subvert the Boys’ and my ties and bonds were, indeed, changes away from what his promises had been to Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor.
No woman, no mother I have ever, ever come across in all of my literal trials’ and similar tribulations’ travels since … can take the products of one’s exalted sperm––even across the fuckin’ county’s line like, say, because she took up another union or had secured for herself the coolest job ever––the way that this man banished my children not only from out of my sight and away from my arms but also all of me, their very own mother, from completely out of their brains and spirits as well. Invisible. Deadened. = Daddee’s defining purpose.
BOOK 3: Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Part 4 [cont. 8]
And he did. Zane did fly, too. That very day.
No schedule of Herry‑Daddee’s or Mehitable’s making was about to be by me upset or disrupted. Uh‑uh.
Up Mehitable got him; and since Zane really hadn’t thrown up yet but could barely navigate against the spinning sensation, it mattered not at all how he or I felt and only that she not be perceived in Herry’s eyes as anyone weakened or possibly influenced by the moaning cries and pleadings of the child’s mother. With Pearl indeed driving and as vociferous to Mehitable as a disapproving, incredulous and outright angry sister‑in‑law could have been, the car ride to the Eastern Iowa Airport did nothing to assuage Mehitable’s immoral resolve nor, of course, calm Zane’s stomach, heartbeats and heartbreak either; and after the most horrendous and wrenching of goodbyes again that likes of which we all had only just experienced the previous October, why … Patriarchal Pappy’s will and Mehitable’s fears of that will of Herry’s prevailed. And essentially, that afternoon, tossed Zane and his two younger brothers onto the first of three airplanes!
They, the airplanes, all three of them, pitched and heaved––as did Zane … “all the way home, Ma” through three flights and two transfers and … two very frightened, littler brothers and one very, very sick, weakened, scared, scarred and selfishly bartered son of mine. Abused, violently violated and royally fucked Zane was a thing traded between a father and a grandmother … and about which inane act perped by this child’s supposed loved ones, done by these two ‘adults,’ his own mama as powerless as ever before … could do absolutely nothing. Again.
With that grandmother beginning to secure for herself more and more her most wanted role of The Hostile Takeover-Mother in The Opera, my Aunt Pearl motored her and me, completely mute and burning for keeps into my memory this specific Sunday, 05 April 1992 airport scenario just played out, back to the Burg at where after thanking Ms. Pearl Natures for all of her kindnesses shown to us four, I immediately, then, packed up everything I most wanted forever and ever to save––which I knew right then would be all, would be the entire extent of anything that I from my daddy via this particular male‑identified woman could ever possibly inherit––and myself departed, for the very last time, this house that was no home. It had been no home ever, even with AmTaham alive and within it––because of Mehitable; and I determined on the roadtrip back to the refuge that was my workstation the next morning at the Forestry Department that I would never darken its doorstep again. Which I have not.
In addition to Daddy’s dying and to Mehitable’s dwelling now that had never been for me any true haven at all, I began to finally be able to willfully and to wholly let go of two others in my life because of the pain which they brought to me instead of the pleasure from them there in it that I should have been experiencing. At earlier times in my dealings with her as my sibling, I felt that perhaps my eldest sister was, with others in her life east of me and awash in her fanatic, frenetic religiosity, … rather harmless. I thought that if I could just ignore it, … it––what crazy‑making Ardys’s involvement in all matters magical and superstitious and mythological and blinding truly meant and what she really was, an extremist, to the extent that it ruled her every word and act––was of no real damage to me or destruction to anyone else.
Now, however? Now … I believed entirely differently.
Sister Ardys’s was the pernicious goading from just beneath skin surfaces where her needling spur chiseled around and prodded and incited inflammation with subsequent fulminating infection and infestation all around under there. And all of this destruction, of course, under the hypocritical pretense of her actions being those of goodness and light and mercy and grace and a host of other of those spiritually divine, I’m‑such‑a‑big‑person nouns which, in Truth and in Nature, actually promote generalized dissension and internal dehiscence and thus, which is of course her niggling intent and desired outcome in the first place! … thus most especially, … inside a family!
While Ardys prized her servility ability, another attribute of some secretariats which this woman most surely did not possess nor had at all the aspiration to own either, a very good one actually, is the art of keeping secrets when they soooo need keeping. Which, in my book, is all of them––that, indeed, being the essential ingredient in whether or not some piece of information is defined as a ‘secret’! Inside our family? Noooo, no secretary she––if that meant, in any capacity, being a true confidant and secret‑arying. As a matter of fact, all Mehitable or Sterling needed to do in order to know something was to sic soooo male‑identified Ardys on its trail. And if it were information that she could obtain, why then it was information which they too, in short order, would also possess.
I couldn’t have any of that. Not in my life now and, most certainly, not any longer. Not with The Opera and The ‘Courts’ and The Exalted Herry‑Daddee already ruling me with his various filliping, follying folies as he did. With AmTaham’s apologizing in the Havencourt condominium basement over our soaking those couple of paintbrushes and his and my long‐, long‑due conversation there utterly releasing me from anything lutheran or christian and his granting his kiddo … me … entire freedom from religion in general altogether, I had been suddenly made not only more enlightened in a roundabout sort of way on the immense and daily dangers of Ardys, of people like her, but also completely liberated from ever, ever having to react any longer to her as if her extremism was okay and good and a thing that I myself should strive to embrace when it definitely so was––not! Even though Ardys, all of the times I was ever in her presence, either ostensibly or subtly from behind the scenes’ curtains, forced or foisted her religiosity onto me … that aggravating jabbing with its egging‑on, under‑the‑skin kind of invading plague.
My brother’s arrogant demeanor, Sterling’s deportment of entitlement in and total control over every aspect of his hauntings so similar to the upscale haughtiness of Herry’s and Mehitable’s, that is, wherever Sterling roamed, I wanted no more of that either. He and I had been so, so tight as little eight‐ and ten‑year‑olds but that? That we were not … now.
Now, I believed I had no sister–brother relationship; and while ours had begun to deteriorate my freshman year in college when I in 1966 and 1967, took to pacific bra‑burning and he took to including all‑out militarism into his daily comings and goings that eventually led him to drop bombs, napalm and agent orange on nameless, faceless people because of “just following orders,” Sterling hadn’t started out to be that which he now came before me as. Nor had AmTaham at all endorsed the type of individual man Sterling presented himself as––altogether too recognizable to me as just another aggressive narcissist, just another Herod Edinsmaier. Just another “because he can” kind of guy. And as well, in absolutely no way at all … brotherly.
A true friend to me Mehitable was never going to become; and in these two others of her gene pool, Ardys and Sterling, I obviously also could not realize supporters either. Sterling because of his resemblance to all things Herry and Mehitable, and the treatment which Ardys dished out under her never‑so‑holy and quite‑galling guise of invoking divinity and love often reminds me of an experience I’d once had as a newly beginning veterinary student. The three months’ worth of summertime before I commenced the very first academic year of veterinary class work and with my possessing humans’ medical and nursing knowledge, skill and its actual registration thereof, why, I had been taken onto the payroll of the College’s Small Animal Clinic as its only combination central sterile supply employee and operating‑theater nurse. In the midst of a most humid August afternoon, Emergency Receiving took in on a stretcher an entirely prostrate and moribund Old English sheepdog … barely breathing, about 80 pounds’ worth.
This dog was not unconscious but so critically dehydrated and in extreme pain that it just no longer could stand, let alone, walk itself into our care. The pooch ultimately became the property of the Small Animal Clinic and a successful ‘experiment’ of that year’s collection of rotating senior clinical veterinary students since the canine was not discharged until the following March! Cured. Its owners had not been able to withstand the medical bills which nearly immediately piled up, not to mention, those that were sustained chronically … although the Clinic eventually did release the animal back to them anyhow.
On scorching, sticky Iowa days after a cat’s or dog’s scratch wound merely the size of a pinprick, it takes no time at all for barnfly eggs laid by those insects attracted to itty‑bitty serum droplets wetting the fur strands by only a miniscule amount … to hatch. And the subsequent maggots therefrom … to begin their infesting burrowing and tunneling demolition––––obliterating under the dermis, epidermis and all of this hound’s foot‑long hair the entire fascial and fibrinous infrastructure of a nearly five‑foot‑long animal’s chest, thoracic and abdominal walls … bilaterally.
Once its fur was completely shaved off, anyone would have had a very difficult time gazing upon this heap were it to have been a corpse or even a mutilated, rotting, stinking carcass out in an August’s pasture or field somewhere, but it was made all the more grievous to look upon this critter knowing that it was––alive. Hours and hours and hours and hours the seniors and I labored over this individual dog for at least the first month that it was with us, and the ensuing ones that it took for the entire sides of this animal to literally … regrow. The canine had to regenerate a new, complete covering of skin in from its most outer edges and from its shoulders to its haunches in toto … bilaterally. And as critically at the very same time along this long, long way … try to keep from its becoming infected, Pseudomonas aeruginosa the most egregious and damning of microbes. The condition visited one summer in Iowa’s farm country upon this downed creature paralleled the fifth‑degree burns into muscle and bone of persons––anywhere for any reason––splashed with … napalm.
I believed then, and do so today, that the workings and the behaviors of my sister, Ardys, in her interactions with virtually all others of my acquaintance and most especially with me and my woundings whether minute or wide, to be not so different at all from those of jet fighter pilots in Viet Nam who similarly visited such fuckful conditions upon living things and to mirror the machinations of those maggots with, intentionally if not also effectively in at least some of us other recipients of Ardys’s plotting attentions, … matching consequences.
One classic example of such an undermining—and—sabotage working of Sister Ardys involved a neatly typewritten letter which I received from her, single‑spaced, one 8½ x 11 piece of white paper on both sides and dated the Fourth of July 1992, a weekend that year, a freeing Saturday no less! Not only some folks’ idea of marking a day of “independence”––even in three women their whole lives so very well‑trained by their male‑identified mother, Mehitable, to simply be soft, deferent and subservient, that is servile to men––but also this holiday was only a smidgen over Daddy’s lying in the ground for a mere three months’ time by then.
The full front side of this sheet was sisterly letter chitter‑chatter: gardens, visits, her volunteer activities, some on her adult sons off on summer‑job jaunts and away from their respective undergraduate programs, the Michigan weather, even up to something about how Ardys is “glad Sterling has been able to spend a few weekends with her. Many other townpeople [her word] and friends have seen to it that she has transportation and companionship. I feel rather helpless at times, but try to call and checkup [Ardys’s word] on her every few days. I think it makes us both feel better and we get to share things, ideas and newsy stuff Mother enjoys.”
Then, over on this missive’s backside Elder‑Sister Ardys launches the napalm‑containing missiles above the bow and her similarly outfitted torpedoes under it!
“Now that I have caught you up on such things that have occurred in the past month, Mother tells me you have not called, written, visited…….NOTHING SINCE DAD DIED. How unthoughtful, selfish, self-centered, cold, uncaring, unChristian, [her capitalization], uncivil can YOU BE???????????????????”
[I had to stop here and count them all by hand to be accurate––that is, the 19 of Ardys’s questioning marks.]
“Shame on you for being so small and so selfish. Mother really wants you to be her daughter, her friend. You have called her a ‘witch’ to me. I almost responded that night that I thought the broomstick belonged in your hand. But, Sterling intervened, and I didn’t get to say it. Consider it said. Only it isn’t a witch you are like, it is something much worse. You are causing unhappiness and distress to Mother. She does NOT DESERVE SUCH BEHAVIOR FROM YOU! There is a God-given law which reads, (incase [Ardys’s word] you have forgotten it) “Respect your father and your mother, so that you may live a long time…” [Notice how Ardys takes care to type the man, even though this particular one is dead, before the living woman about whom she is writing to me––just as is smack in line with the patriarchal androcentrism of the biblical encyclic with which marty luther has so well inculcated her.] Be very careful, Legion. That is the ONLY commandment that carries both a promise and a veiled threat from a holy, just, mighty, care-full God. You have some choices and considerations to make about your behavior toward Mother. I hope you will make the right ones that will be of benefit to both Mother and to yourself. I will be asking Mother how things are going from time to time. If I know you are not changing and trying to become all that you could be with regard to being a daughter and friend, you will be hearing from me again. (Perhaps you would like to know, God’s commandments are recorded in Exodus 20:1-17.)
When you send that next repayment check … ”
[Here Ardys refers to that which is absolutely none of her mother‑fucking business. Soooo, apparently, Mehitable must have told her, and likely Brother Sterling as well, of my financial dealings with her and Daddy because I certainly had not––––and about which these two parents had never one time said to me a thing regarding Ardys’s or Sterling’s borrowing from them biiiig, big loans from time to time! Mehitable obviously blabbed to Ardys that I, indeed, had in April 1991, borrowed $2,323.00 at 8 percent interest and complete with notarized promissory note all quite proper and legal‑like from her and Daddy to pay off, then, my subsequent income taxation penalties which I’d incurred against me for my cashing in too early all of my IRAs the year before––in order to live! And I was in its repayment stages––always, these, in full and current––when Daddy dropped, all installment monies “of not less than $72.79 per month due on or before the 15th” now … routinely and regularly … being mailed by me to The Widow Mehitable … alone! Obviously then? Mehitable hadn’t been so truthful to my sister in regard to that part in Ardys’s letter which recounts that, “Mother tells me you have not called, written, visited…….NOTHING SINCE DAD DIED.”]
“Not one hour and not one dollar,” once I asked the Righteous Ancestor AmTaham when he was still One‑In‑The‑Making what, for a death, he would consider okay. At least just an okay one, if not a mighty fine death. It was not until a couple of years out from his burial or even longer––after a degree of time had passed me by so that the suddenness and the shock of it all had somewhat lessened in its intensity that I was able to look back at the chronology of this entire affair, of AmTaham True’s falling down stone‑cold dead on an early Monday morning after enjoying his usual self‑entertainment of some reading and while preparing to go to full‑time work at a task he didn’t too much mind doing while, at the very same time, undergoing no effects from slowly deteriorating ill health, no severe or chronic physical pain nor enduring any diagnoses of bodily conditions to later worsen or prove catastrophic, all in the accompaniment and proximity of someone also fairly healthy whom he loved––although not with him the presence of his adored Truemaier grandsons, as … exactly the way I would like to someday die. Just not as young as Daddy was when last he breathed. And not without my children, all quite living and healthy themselves of course, beside me, too.
AmTaham True had only one fear about which I as his kiddo knew. That is to say, he surely had more than one. Hell, he was a soldier in World War II for chris’sake, his own spouse nearly died on him a number of times, Child Sterling was pitched unconscious off of a pony once and not found for more than an hour’s time and his own daddy, the Truemaier Boys’ Great‑Grandpa Zebulon, did die a lingering death from a thrown embolic thrombus to the heart after a colossal beam in a lumberyard fell upon him pinning his legs which so compromised the man’s lower‑extremity vascularity that it and he never truly recovered from the accident. So AmTaham, like all of us, had plenty of reasons to fear some things.
It’s just that I only ever knew of this one: AmTaham did not want to spend any time at all, not even one hour, as a resident of a nursing home or old folks’ facility. And he did not. He got his wish on that one. O, how he absolutely loathed the thought of––and truly outright feared––having to spend any time as a “patient” or resident in such an establishment … anywhere. I’m sure that there are such places which are good ones; Daddy wasn’t so sure. Ever. And AmTaham True never wanted to set foot in one as a person having to actually stay and live there. Well, … he didn’t. “Not one hour.”
Except for the one aspirin and the one tablet of cardiac medicine which AmTaham True took daily that, of the latter pill itself alone, actually was probably as costly as a dollar or more … given the outrageous expense of prescription medications even then … Daddy, ever the economist and frugal to his core, abhorred the cost of healthcare and especially that which could be classified as catastrophic and lavishly spent on elderly people. From his research and reading AmTaham told me on more than one occasion that, in the United States, the most money spent to provide a person medical attention is, indeed, lain out in the average adult American’s last five days of life. Not including children then, the common woman or man in need of medical care is never more in need of it apparently, according to demographics and economics studies, than that which is administered to the person during the five, consecutive days just prior to her or his death. On average. As in workers trying to dramatically bring the person back. After stroke or heart attack or cancerous metastases or end‑stage kidney failure or massive visceral organ shutdown or disseminated intravascular coagulation or brain function cessation due to whatever cause. Trying to bring the patient back … from the precipice of purgatorial entry!
And except for the cost of those two pills taken once a day for the five days leading up to Monday, 30 March 1992 then, “not one dollar” of billing for physicians’ services nor hospitalization nor any other manner of fanatic‑extremist medical care was put out for nor onto AmTaham True’s family and estate … towards trying to save this particular mahatma from said cataclysmic illness. It was that which AmTaham loathed––what he believed was the squandering of resources out of that which should go to the rest of the family members and out of that which should be his legacy and their estate which he so did not wish frittered away upon himself. And that, too, did not happen to AmTaham. For which, if Daddy had known, I believe he would have been so thankful.
* * * *
Only exactly one month after Daddy’s dying, the date of 30 April 1992, rings out as the next remarkable one. At ten minutes before 4 in the p.m., I found myself bounding through the Brookside Forest to its entry lot wherein I could park Ol’ Black all day for free and walk the 20 minutes up one of its asphalt and cinder paths into my campus building. Except that on this trip back to the car I was sprinting at the highest speed that my skirt and flats would allow me. If the trek had taken me the usual 1/3 of an hour to get back to my vehicle, well, indeed, I would have been too late. And it would have all been over. ‘My case’ entirely and utterly closed. No going forward whatsoever. No further legal action allowed me. ‘The Court’s’ “rules” …
At 3:50 p.m. the incoming telephone call to my Forestry workstation had been for me a personal message and not one departmentally related, “Dr. True, this is Mrs. Ray. I’m responding to a question you put in to the clerk’s office yesterday. You’re aware, aren’t you, that you need to have file-stamped over here at the courthouse in the clerk’s office by 4:30 this afternoon the initial petition document? I can’t really advise you on anything more than that since none of us here are attorneys. We’re not really permitted to do that anyhow, ya’ know.”
I did know that last part––hers about the not counseling me in the fashion of a lawyer regarding legal matters since she and other workers in their county governmental office were actually barred by law from stating to me outright just about anything more than Ms. Ray had just done. I had not known, however, about the first part––about the one of that 4:30 p.m. file‑stamping deadline in order to keep hope, that most awful of addictions, alive. Hence, the very reason I was running. I had had the document prepared and appropriately notarized; I just hadn’t known for certain the time frame on filing the petition which was why my inquiry into the clerk’s office the day before. Nor the answer to its cut‑off date with which Ms. Ray had just now supplied to me.
Exiting said Forest I turned Ol’ Black toward 13th––and through the intersection connecting to the disgusting Othello Drive at the very limits of, or more than, in‑town speeds and out onto the interstate a short piece till at its juncture I joined up with #30, a thoroughfare known as the Lincoln Highway which, labeled as Federal Highway #30 throughout all lengths of it, eventually traverses … the entire United States of America. On this particular nine‑mile stretch of its two lanes into the courthouse town, however, it is well‑posted as 55 mph through farming countryside and crossed by all manner of such slow‑moving machinery, road‑working equipment and truck types. Not to mention motorcycles and even bicycles. Not to mention that this portion of Highway #30 is quite a favorite and routine passageway into the furthest reaches of the rural region by every single one of the Storm County sheriff’s deputies.
Timely this Thursday then that for me Ol’ Black had always been such a barnburner of an automobile. More than one time in this brief nine miles that Chevy wagon and I were propelling easterly, pell‑mell, at upwards of 90 miles per hour passed several wee cars and two 18‑wheeler semis. And, most fortuitously for me, zero deputy dogs. Hope, indeed, is an affliction that could have killed me––and others––that day.
At three minutes before 4:30, at 4:27 p.m., Thursday, 30 April 1992, and with grateful appreciation to the kindest of Storm County folks present within its University’s Forestry Department, particularly Ms. Rosalind Franklin and Dr. Joplin, and those special others in law enforcement not present at that precise half an hour upon its portion of the Lincoln Highway, I owned in my right fist an officially file‑stamped document. The petition stated that Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, by way of his own willful and seditious choices, had caused to occur such circumstances in my and the Truemaier Boys’ relationships with each other as for those conditions to be material, destabilizing changes. Daddee’s choosing to subvert the Boys’ and my ties and bonds were, indeed, changes away from what his promises had been to Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor. Which promises too then of course, upon my appealing the September 1990 trial court decision to the three, all‑male panel of Iowa Court of Appeals judges, Perjuring Herry had––for his easy convincement of all of these men––merely manufactured.
While the Boys and I had not known of Daddee‑Herry’s written statement, of his sworn affidavit, submitted to daJudge in January 1989, about the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s word back then that Zane, Jesse and Mirzah would … all three … graduate from Ames High School! and obviously of his assurance, even his guarantee, that they would stay in Ames, let alone in Iowa, some 3¼ years previously, none of that had really mattered at all to ‘the Court’––which did know. By this time Herod Edinsmaier’s ‘promise’ just about that one thing, not to mention about soooo many others concerning the maintenance, promotion and enhancement of relationships between my Boys and me to at least four different judges through two separate trials and one appeal had in no way at all obstructed nor impeded Dr. Edinsmaier from removing all of the Truemaier Boys not only from Ames but also from Iowa. “Nor stopped Herry in any way from extracting all three of them entirely, Mehitable, that exact evil from which you should’ve soooo taught me to protect myself, from out of my life and away from me, completely away from and out of my life! Me, their mother! You should’ve coached me on how to protect myself and my children from this incredible wickedness, Mother Mehitable!”
I need to note here, in essence, that because the three appellate judges represented the interpretation of the laws of the land of Iowa and thus its public, that is, its people, both the humans and the DEhumans of the State, then what the appellate judges, all of them men of course, were saying too is that if they did not give a good goddamn about the Good Doctor’s word, then why the hell shouldn’t all of those Iowans who are the very people of these laws also fuck a mother, too?
These four men––as all Iowans’ judicial representatives––merely stated to us, the public, that it was quite okay for us too to collude with the pillared doc in whatever it was that Herry wanted to get away with doing and … fuckingly gut the bitch. Besides, these five men––the four plus Daddee––argued, rationalized and justified to themselves that the good people of Iowa would never even know of Edinsmaier’s “word”––in the wholly unlikely event that any one of them would have bothered to rise up and say something about his actually keeping his many promises! Smack in line the reasoning of these four patriarchs is with, as well, their musingly and correctly figuring that … this pissant woman Legion’s “passions and struggles are nowhere near as stupendously important to anyone else as they, O‑so head‑bangingly, are … to her!”
And these four guys didn’t even care, because they didn’t want to and they didn’t have to, about all of the other subversions of Herry’s––his exhibitionism and voyeurism and frotteuristic incest and bestiality … “cows, dogs, pigs and chickens” the Rolodex card states in that order! which is scripted in Herry’s own hand, the woman‑loathing jokes, his crimes of providing and encouraging the sex toys of gem‑studded condoms and hormone‑raging greeting cards and other pornographic magazines and materials in front of, with and to the Boys, not to mention the King and his Nottingham Sheriff’s folie à deux at preventing the Boys and me from having the least little bit of contact with each other or permitting them to have even $1’s worth of the $5,000.00 that were the gifts, the letters, the cards, postage stamps, medicine, the books, the favored foods, toys, sports equipment, movie tickets, the post office box use, the telephone calling cards, etc, etc, et cetera that, with Jesse, Mirzah and Zane now five whole states’ distance away, I had sent to them all! As Rachel had declared last Winter Solstice, “And there’s no judge, Legion, who himself doesn’t surf porn.”
What is truly classic and thoroughly choice, though, is its mother‑fucking, sexist flipping reversal: No woman, no mother could have moved out of state in the same wink of an overnight, heartbreaking beat that Thieving Edinsmaier had done with my Truemaier Boys Tuesday, 29 October 1991. No woman, no mother I have ever, ever come across in all of my literal trials’ and similar tribulations’ travels since … can take the products of one’s exalted sperm––even across the fuckin’ county’s line like, say, because she took up another union or had secured for herself the coolest job ever––the way that this man banished my children not only from out of my sight and away from my arms but also all of me, their very own mother, from completely out of their brains and spirits as well. Invisible. Deadened. = Daddee’s defining purpose.
Thus with the legitimate and formalized 4:27 p.m. petition began Act Three, Part Four––to include in its specific scenes of The Opera then King Herod’s newest tyrannical and undermining tactics to subvert the Boys’ and my relationships with each other and to bring to the attention of justice‑seekers in charge of placing minor children safely away from domestic and sexual abusers the startlingly frightening Eight Pages of Herry’s personally handwritten admission to bestiality with “cows, dogs, pigs and chickens” and the incestuous, frotteuristic behavior with his three littlest sisters, Kay, Celeste and Murielle. Further evidence and outright admittance of Herry’s sexual addiction were these Eight Pages––in addition to all of its previous substantiation which had come forth in Act Two before. Which, there in Two, had simply been ignored or vehemently denied by both Dr. Herod Edinsmaier and all four judges, that is, by all of the men. Subsequently ignored and denied as well then, too––through interpretation of legislative and judicial representation––by all of the people of the State of Iowa! Even ignored and denied because of their being represented in the laws’ interpretations by male appellate judges in this manner by Iowan mothers about to also have themselves and their own children entirely mother‑fucked in upcoming lawsuits over custody of their very own abused … (but, of course, utterly “crazy” and “whoring”––and, thus, also quite “committable”) … selves! and kiddos.
In addition, those same Eight Pages revealed words carried to his writing digits from Herry’s brain which spelled out phrases such as i) “a chance to be young and carefree again” and that stated that Ms. McLive offered up to him, Dr. Edinsmaier, as far as his role of father to three sons plus, through his act of marrying the grotesque, dowdy and heartless harpy also taking on the alleged accountability for a fourth minor child Mary Jane, one about Zane’s and Jesse’s ages, was concerned, … ii) “a refuge from parental responsibility.”
“Huh, Herry!? Since frickin’ when ! ! ! ! and in just what fucking parallel universe ! ! ! ! is the 24/7 personal accountability for four children under the age of 18 ‘a chance to be carefree again’ and since when is a total, mother‑fucking stranger to the Truemaier Boys a better mother for them, let alone, an excuse for you, Herry The Daddee, to run away from your responsibility for them yourself!? Wha’? Still the Joy Toy aprovechar Boy, are ya’? Still––at middle age, Herry?! Although the blonde bitch‑witch truly, truly pissed ya’ off when that friggin’ Ex‑Cunt Legion True called ya’ to account to everyone including ‘the Court’ for your sexual addiction … which you’re soooo busy trying to instead obfuscate from others by way of your pretense of some beer‑swilling and all of those outright wasted resources from your trying to cover up and deceive us all with alcoholics anonymous‑fuck?! Are you still wanting only to be in your arrested development! in the idiotic role of that 17‑year‑old, dry‑drunk, fun‑loving’, let’s‑varoom‑on‑out‑into‑the‑woodsy‑older brother to Jesse, to Mirzah and to Zane? The one who really doesn’t have to do any work at any time at all––let alone, the really hard, hard work, Herry, of being a true parent, not to mention, of being the primary parent?! ! ! ! What is this Next One in Your Stash, Herry, but a Detanimod Edinsmaier‑to‑you‑surrogate?! A mothering, cooking, babysitting, housekeeping, cleaning, laundering, cock‑sucking, semen‑reservoiring, male‑identified spittoon for you?! Fuck, at the same 46‑year‑old age as you that Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive is right now, Herry, she actually even resembles … physically … your soooo‑dominated, 74‑year‑old mama, Detanimod … when the woman had finally given up and given in to that cancer back in 1985!”
Whether or not this factual tidbit is from Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s having weighed in at 310 pounds for some gargantuan length of time prior to the gastric bypass/stapling operation or to the development of a subsequent abdominal panniculus and other skin‑sagging or to the ensuing malnutrition with its consequential balding hair loss, facial brown‑spots’ mottling discoloration and massive wrinkling because of collagen and elastin destruction which could––as well––have been precipitated by her nicotine ingestion from smoking cigarettes I, in the same snide parlance of King Herod’s own Nottingham Sheriff’s most favorite of all phrases on the telephone wire back to me before she slams down “her household’s” receiver, “I … have noooo idea.”
Nor do I give one shit. Although 18 months or so older than I am, about Ms. McLive several friends of mine have been known around me and within very close proximity to the vicinity of my one hearing ear to hum several bars from Jimmy Soul’s nasty classic. One even had the brassy audacity to email me its “Never make a pretty woman your wife. So from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you” – lyrics!
[to be continued…]
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]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder), Frieda
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel
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 first Family Court lawyer
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney
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”]
Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female
Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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My story is not the same but as complicated and complex as this. I find most lose track of the forests afire and are blinded by the blaze. Thank you for sharing. For finding an outlet for the insanity inflicted. They are not like us.