Changes…Choices…& Chiavari Chairs!

Dec 31

I’m not going to pretend that this particular post nor the one, three entries ago, entitled the “The Lyin’s Den” have been easy to write. They weren’t. Truth be told, I’ve been a bit of a hot mess for the past couple months! Not only am I still on a mandated, social media “time-out,” with what Instagram alleged would be a 30 day review of my account and has evolved, instead, into a TWELVE+ week “banishment,” but each time I think I’m close to “wrapping up” this post, something happens to interfere. I could almost gauge my progress, or its absence, based on the timeline of the high-profile news stories that have marked my steps along this post’s path. The parallel I’m about to draw, may or may not make sense, but as I have watched the announcement of verdicts in several very public and nationally televised trials as well as the coverage of some very notable funeral services over the past many weeks, I feel myself becoming more and more emotionally shaken by the impact created with the passing of various milestones. The media and political hacks remain quick to push their own agendas and, predictably, biased narratives in every instance, which I suppose is to be expected, but notwithstanding all the superfluous “b.s.” I’m seriously concerned about my seemingly constant obsession with authenticity, the truth and closure, all of which appear lacking in today’s culture…and as chance would have it, my own family, too! I guess I should be really careful and tiptoe around or through the discussing of such matters, as I’ve already been censored online once, am still awaiting IG’s review, as well as a response to my three letters of inquiry, requesting an explanation for my prolonged (to put it mildly) rap on the wrist? I should probably accept that I may never hear a response, which means no closure? Oh well, I guess it’s good I’m not holding my breath in the meantime? The reality is that I’m discovering a whole new freedom, without the temptation to scroll my IG feed and watch the steady stream of stimulation that can be so incredibly addictive. Perhaps, there’s a deeper message that’s creeping into my life and psyche here? Could it be that some little Angel from above is looking over my shoulder, whispering that abstinence from social media all together may be a better path to follow? After all, it isn’t as though I have an online business which relies on social media to sell things. Just maybe, I should view my extended social media “timeout” as an unexpected gift, hidden beneath the guise of a greater perspective, that otherwise might have gone undetected? It is already well past Christmas, but maybe the lack of social media distraction allowed me an opportunity to focus on the true significance of the season? I guess time will tell. Oh what the devil; this post has been going on for so long, and requiring so many rereads and edits, that what started over two months ago now finds me just hours away from the start of a brand new year. Life never ceases to, not just amaze me, but awaken me in ways that I didn’t realize I still needed waking?

We may not always care for, or agree with, the manner in which justice is delivered, but I know one thing for sure; the catharsis I feel while writing DearEasyDiaries, and the opportunity to not just express but to release so much bottled-up emotion (the good and the not-so-good) is hugely therapeutic. The evolution that’s occurred in every aspect of my life over the past decade has revealed an unveiling of layer upon layer of deception that held me captive for so very long. Examining the assorted chapters of my past which provided the framework to so many years which felt utterly out of control is truly healing. Each time I put a period at the end of a sentence, I have a clearer vision of the relationships I struggled to navigate but managed to survive. None of this may be terribly meaningful to anyone else, or resonate as deeply as it does with me, but there has been a significant victory for me with each post I complete, and that peace of mind is real. I’m grateful to any and/or each one of you, who have the patience and tenacity to travel this journey with me. Each piece of DearEasy that I write and post, is representative of a gargantuan weight being lifted from my shoulders. A couple weeks ago, as I was scouring through the innumerable file boxes that I keep and which contain decades of my life’s experiences, to find ONE particular item, which I had seen recently but was thus far unable to recover it when needed most, I found myself spinning, as oftentimes occurs when my frustration starts growing and impatience allows my mind to wander. Once again, I found myself heading down a proverbial rabbit hole, pondering issues which have no bearing on the current topic at all and only serve to distract from my immediate need. With each piece of paper that I picked up and then put back down in disgust, recognizing that “it” was not the “it” I was desperate to locate, I felt more and more defeated. Thank heavens my cell rang right then. I answered to find a trusted voice of reason on the other end of the line. I paused, took a deep breath, started to explain the agitation that was abundantly clear in my voice, and then stopped mid-sentence, out of respect for the person on the other end of the line who was attempting to speak. From that moment on, I was silent as I listened to “the voice” who clearly and firmly was able to lend a much-needed attitude shift to what had become a pretty dismal “wild goose chase!”

“Missy,” said the voice… “this isn’t 2007, it isn’t 2010, it’s not 2014, or even 2019. Put the damn file boxes away and just write. You aren’t in court anymore; you don’t need supporting documentation, or years of “backed-up” texts, and voicemails that confirm each word you write, or every claim you make. You have your story and you know the truth…just write. Otherwise, if you’re going to get hung up on each trivial detail, stop with this whole thing entirely. It is your authenticity that people are drawn to. They don’t care about this case #, that case #, or that you have the supporting paperwork proving your misplaced trust in false friendships, backstabbing siblings and cousins, Al, or his treacherous and lying fox of an accountant, any more than they care about your parent’s divorces, Grandparent’s Wills, or the documented evidence of corrupt misconduct of certain lawyers, now Judge(s) in Glynn County, Georgia! You already know from experience that not even some of your own lawyers or assorted State officials care(d) about the enormity of the variety of crimes that you can ABSOLUTELY prove…so forget it all and just write! The readers of DearEasyDiaries may or may not care about HOW deceitful some of your acquaintances, your ex-husband, siblings, ex-Marine cousin and his father (your Uncle) were or still are? We don’t know if your readers care whether many of those same people habitually lied in order to, not just protect and serve themselves, but to eviscerate your character and actually cause you harm? What we do know is that YOU CARE. You care about the “underdog;” you care about truth and justice; you care about what’s real, and you care about authenticity.” That series of honest, but kind, admonitions really resonated, especially regarding what I’ve set out to accomplish through “DearEasy,” which also just happens to serve as continuing therapy and education! Most importantly perhaps, it snapped me out of a funk and reminded me exactly how much I truly DO care! The voice didn’t stop there though, and continued speaking, saying “my guess is, most likely, the people who keep reading DearEasyDiaries care about your story, your passion, your strength, tenacity and courage. Even if they don’t care about you personally, or maybe even dislike you, they still may want to know what drives you and why you keep fighting. Write about that! Those qualities, the way you are able to share them, and maybe because one or two other people out there might have walked or are currently traveling a similar path, relate to what you say and find inspiration from it…and that IS something very worthy. Write that.” The steady, unwavering voice, and the message relayed, was exactly what I needed, and so back at my laptop I sat. It’s not always a given that when I start writing a post, the ending eventually reached will be what I intended from the start, particularly when a post such as this one is so long in the making? It’s curious, but that parallel seems to hold true in real life as well as my writing. With that in mind, a few weeks ago, I sat up one evening watching some Netflix show, dead-tired, but refusing to click the round, red button at the top of the remote off until I saw the final credits. It was comforting to know that in, at least one situation, I would go to sleep and wake up the next morning knowing that something was absolute…a known quantity! Be it relationships, politics, legal twists and turns, family dynamics or almost anything else, I haven’t been able to make the same claim about much of my past.

All of that said, the journey that was started a few blog posts ago, in “The Lyin’s Den” is back. One part of that blog entry “skirted” around a subject with which I continue to grapple, but am driven to pursue. A big part of that struggle surrounds family history, legacies, facades versus authenticity, and the roles we were “assigned to play” in childhood. Those are all themes that I’ve spent decades digging through and which still fascinate me…even if what I discover or disclose is painful. Real is real, and I’ve spent too much of my life surrounded by fake people and make believe lives; I’m still just learning how to figure out the difference. Better late than never, right? I am committed to getting to the bottom of the complicated relationships I’ve seen, experienced, and are either beyond grateful to be a part of, or don’t care to repeat. The background and depth of connections I’ve known, like the ones between my Mom and me, my Mom and my Grandparents and uncle, my Mom and her husbands, my Dads (yes, plural), my sisters, and other sets of relatives and how those equations have impacted my relationships with almost everyone I’ve ever known, often remain a mystery. I may never understand the totality of each little nuance involved, as many of the very people I’m seeking to better understand are gone… but as best I can, I’ll keep digging and doing the hard work. I am optimistic that the constant upheaval, emotional warfare and “the pitting of one against another” drama that filled most of my upbringing, and littered the majority of my years, may finally be reaching an end?

Where do you start when your mission is to better understand who you are; how you got that way; how the past holds the power to alter the future, and how to halt what has always proven to be a pattern of dysfunction? I’m no rocket scientist nor a psychologist, but I am insatiably curious, and I’d rather do a bit of exploring to uncover patterns from the past, rather than bury or ignore those connections and risk never understanding or evolving? Thus far, the personal examples I’ve witnessed of people who continue on a certain path just because it may meet with less resistance than another path, (myself included) don’t necessarily end up where they intended to go. I’m also struck by how many people ignore or discard the truth, making up a new, “shinier” and more flattering narrative than the REAL story, and I can’t help but wonder if those individuals really buy into, and believe the illusions they work so hard to create? What do you think? Do you ever wonder if people fear being exposed for the potential frauds that they are? Heaven knows that discoveries like those are exploding all around us on the “screens” of some very public figure’s lives and careers, as well as in the lives of some much closer beings.

Ok, let’s take a quick trip (ha, ha… who am I kidding, my “trips” are never quick) and revisit a slice of my past to see where it leads, and to discover what else there is to learn along the way, on my road to a different future. Altering and directing my path starts with me, and in order to better understand the part I’ve played in reaching this point so far, mustn’t I understand where, and with whom, I originally started? That makes sense, right? I think so too; so, here we go…

I don’t know, nor have I any reason to believe that my Mom’s relationship to her parents, had any influence in the unravelling of my parent’s life together, nor the unhappy ends of other family members, including both my Grandmother, (always addressed as Ma by my sisters and me), and my Mom. I do believe that what became of my parent’s marriage and the unhappy way it ended was an enormous emotional burden on both of them, and ultimately created a HUGE fissure within and between each member of our family and would also lead to a long pattern and trail of conflict. My parents were the product of an “arranged marriage!” Yes, for real…that happened. They were purposefully selected, introduced, romantically linked, and followed the trail of golden breadcrumbs laid out before them all the way to, and past the “alter,” until at some point along the path, they hit an obstacle which proved insurmountable. I don’t know what the exact “bump in the road” was, but as my memory serves and if I were to use the vast collection of photographs I possess as a pictorial map, I began to notice a shift in the expressions on people’s faces start to emerge, shortly before, or right after my youngest sibling, Lilith was born? I know for a fact that’s about the time my Mom took up painting as a type of therapy and doubled down on our family’s participation in the horseshow world, which was an outlet designed to keep our family together. It was also about the same time I recall my Dad drinking more and more, resulting in late night fighting, days of prolonged family absence, and signs of a terrible temper which could, and frequently did, erupt at any time. Regardless of the exact cause(s) of their discontent, I saw the power it held to unravel a carefully planned union and sever multiple limbs from what was once an enormous family tree. My Dad lost, or numbed, himself in alcohol and other women, and my Mom became consumed with the need to attain, or at least reflect (for public consumption) the picture of perfection. I suppose she was desperate to ignore or hide from the reality of what had become a very troubled marriage. Wow…ouch! The little personal sting I felt from that last statement is something I probably need to continue dissecting more carefully? There must be parts from my own marriage that feel eerily similar, but that’s behind me, and gratefully so. While my marriage didn’t share all of the parallels to that of my parents, like the component of alcoholism, there were certainly a couple of common threads. A couple examples are surely mirrored in my “Ex’s” insatiable pursuit of adrenaline and his appetite for the covert adoration of females outside our marriage, just as surely as was my desire to create and portray an image of happiness and perfection for all the world to see. Good grief…that’s a pretty “dead-on balls accurate” portrayal, and parallel.

ALL THOSE FACES ON ADELAIDE DRIVE IN SANTA MONICA APPEARED PRETTY DAMN PERFECT AND PRESENTED AN AWFULLY HAPPY IMAGE…AT LEAST FOR A WHILE.

Most of my earliest recollections hold images of figures from both sides of my family of origin, and the “characters” all seemed to appear so carefree, with any of the complexities of day-to-day living just sort of figuring themselves out…and quite nicely too. But, what did I really know? Trying to answer that question can be dizzingly difficult, but I’ve got to start somewhere, so why not start with both sets of Grandparents, and specifically my Grandmothers. Both were formidable women that I remember with tremendous love and respect. In their individual ways and fashion, they portrayed strength and a commitment to family that was undeniable. My Paternal Grandmother was a real firecracker and exemplified the very essence of the term “matriarch.” She possessed an energy that was palpable and was a gift which she, effusively, showered upon everyone in her circle. “Grandmother” loved the color purple and my Grandfather, Fifie; those are two of the absolutes I think of when I remember her. She was an amazing cook, and in addition to baking the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve EVER tasted, she was widely revered for an impressive array of other culinary skills, as well. I’ll never forget a trip our family, including both sets of Grandparents, took to Mauna Kea, Hawaii one year. During one of our many meals at the resort, Grandmother requested that the resort’s chef please visit our table that evening? Very few people refused Grandmother’s wishes and as such, the chef obliged. Shortly thereafter, when the tall, imposing-looking figure strode over to our table clad in the traditional “toque blanche,” she stood up, threw her arms in the air and began applauding him. Grandmother then complimented the chef on each element of our meal and asked if he would please confirm whether her guess regarding the ingredients included in the meal’s soup course was correct. She rattled off a long list of items, and I watched in amazement as the chef proceeded to address Grandmother’s obvious prowess by applauding in return, commenting that she was spot on, followed by an invitation to tour the resort’s extensive kitchen facility when our meal was finished. What great fun she was; a true force with which to reckon, all neatly wrapped up within the small package of one heck of a dynamo…my Grandmother, Emma.

Mom, Dad, Grandmother and Ma on the occasion of my parent’s wedding day.

“Ma,” my Maternal Grandmother had a completely different energy. She entered every room with the faint scent of Chanel Number Five wafting in her wake and prided herself on her “trim figure.” Ma had little to zero use for frivolities such as makeup or nail polish, but adored other luxuries, like Mink coats, the signature ropes of pearls encircling her neck, a vast collection of monogrammed and embroidered handkerchiefs, a round gold pin, constantly worn and set with pearls and sapphires, and was rarely seen without the adornment of some item of cashmere in either a shade of ivory or black, with a thin ribbon of velvet often tied as a headband and gathered to form a small bow atop her silver hair. She joined in each and every family gathering, provided they occurred after noon. She could also sit in front of any piano and play a long list of song requests, by ear. Musical talent ran in her family; her brother, Willard, was an accomplished saxophonist, who had toured with two big-band era groups. Ma loved watching my Grandfather, Pa, dance with my sisters and me at the country club during our frequent weekly dinners out and unabashedly professed that “being a good dancer was an essential skillset for any civilized human.” Ma loved her Bourbon, and in the Ryan household that particular “spirit” was synonymous with Old Fitzgerald, which she drank “neat” and allowed herself to indulge in one cocktail each evening. Otherwise, with the exception of smoking, (thankfully a habit I did NOT inherit) Ma was incredibly self-disciplined, and I never remember an instance when she wasn’t perfectly composed, demure even, yet totally confident in her identity. She could concoct the “meanest” mug of Eggnog that anyone ever did drink and was also known for her utter disdain for driving. Regardless of that small detail, Pa always saw to it that Ma had the newest, most glamorous Cadillac on the market, whether it spent months on end in the garage of whichever home they occupied mattered not. Her keys were hung up for good, however, when I was maybe seven or eight, after she received a ticket in the village of La Jolla for driving too slowly. That piece of paper marked the demise of Ma’s driving and her last vehicle… a mint-green Cadillac with enormous fins, affectionately nicknamed “the Green Dragon.” Ma wasn’t the exuberant “pied piper of littles” that Grandmother was, and as time progressed her patience, or lack thereof, for “energetic and sticky little children” (aka, my younger sisters) was significantly magnified. In those later years, Ma, without exception, was known to keep some smallish, wooden “junior chair” near the front door of each and every one of Ma and Pa’s homes. It was a non-negotiable accessory and a place where either of my younger siblings, most often Lilith, was directed to sit, so that any worry of a beverage spilling was alleviated, thus “allowing the rest of us to visit without annoying disruptions.” (Direct quote!) My two younger sisters, Dorothy and Lilith didn’t pair well with Ma’s quieter demeanor and as a result, their visits became increasingly scarce, granting me the distinct privilege of being a far more prevalent fixture in Ma and Pa’s life and home. I was a voracious reader and was very content to either read quietly in the lovely living room of their penthouse apartment at The Seville; sit patiently while we played cards and/or shot “Craps” after dinner at the club, and I eagerly accepted any invitation and opportunity to sleepover, which occurred frequently. Staying up late into the night spinning a rotation of favorite “records” on their prized “Garrard” turntable, while listening to the stories and escapades of their intriguing pasts was a great treat for me. Some of my favorite songs today are still the classics I happily spun for them back in the day. Ma’s all-time favorite was, “Satin Doll,” by Duke Ellington, but she loved anything sung by Nat King Cole or Andy Williams…especially the classic, “Hey Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Ma would close her eyes as the song began, tapping her fingers in perfect rhythm to whatever tune was playing, and just barely audibly would sing along with the song’s lyrics. Pa’s playlist was longer and more robust than Ma’s, but his two favorites were “My Way” by Chairman of the Board, master crooner… the one and only Frank Sinatra, and “Mack The Knife,” by Bobby Darin. Either way, the mention of any one of those titles holds the power to take me right back to those “moments in time,” which also just happens to be a song and a favorite of my Mom’s. “This Moment In Time”…also an abstract philosophical concept that I try to employ as a principle to keep me grounded.

It’s curious that both women married men who possessed personalities which seemed exactly the opposite to their own; on the other hand, maybe that’s precisely what made those marriages work? Regardless, both sets of women, and Grandparents, were constants in our lives until my parent’s divorce. Before the occurrence of that monumental milestone, had you asked me, I would have said my Mom got along well with both her own Mother, as well as her Mother-in-Law. It turns out that my romanticized childhood recollections are miles away from any ballpark representing “reality!” Filing for divorce from my Dad, followed by petitioning the Catholic Church for an annulment of my parent’s marriage, was not just an effective means by which my Mother stirred the ire of my Father’s entire family but almost seemed the equivalent of exacting a devastating act of murderous malice to Grandmother. Truthfully, though…who stays married for 20 years, gives birth to four children, and then in less than a year’s time, divorces, seeks an annulment and remarries? I feel a bit of “whiplash” just recounting the events of that year. It’s more than a little confusing? Doesn’t the very meaning of “annulment,” kind of negate my siblings and my existence, as well as erase the entirety of 20 years in some way? That request of Mom’s always struck me as perfectly bizarre! Whatever my Mother’s intentions were, I never completely knew or understood, but there was little question of the painful and personal attack that was felt by both sets of Grandparents, especially “Grandmother,” who went out of her way to block the annulment from being granted within the the Catholic Church. Grandmother may not have been able to prevent the divorce, but she was determined to “throw a monkey wrench” into my Mom’s vision of the future. Whether Grandmother understood, or not, what impact her interference and input on Mom’s new romance and plans would have, I don’t know either? As you can tell, I didn’t know a whole hell of a lot…at all? My bet, and a pretty safe one from what I’ve learned in recent years, is that Grandmother absolutely did NOT intend to sever any and all relationship, or ties, she had with my siblings and me. Regardless, that is precisely what occurred. My Mother’s tenacity was apparently every bit as marked as Grandmother’s and when Mom wasn’t permitted to remarry in the church, she found an alternative way to “punish” Grandmother. Gone…was all or any access Grandmother had previously enjoyed to the four granddaughters, that were her eldest son’s progeny! Six months after my parent’s divorce and my Mom’s remarriage to George, Fifie, my Grandfather and Dad’s Father, passed away. His funeral proved to be the last time I ever saw Grandmother, or many other members of my Dad’s very large family, both close and extended. At 13, it appears I was pretty damn clueless about most things that I previously believed were real and valued in life…or at least my life! Ma and Pa weren’t exactly ecstatic about Mom’s choices at the time either, but they were not willing to, potentially, risk losing her, nor relinquish their four Granddaughter’s presence in their lives. They must have swallowed hard and been forced to bite their tongues a good bit, in order to keep their position securely fixed in our future, and I thank heaven that that was the case. Mom seemed willing to discard anything or anyone that might present an obstacle to her new man and new world. Selfishly, I’m not sure how many more people, at that point, I could have afforded to lose? So too, it seems completely incomprehensible, when looking back, how Mom’s resolve to keep George in her life at any and all cost initially, resulted subsequently in their marriage waning so drastically despite ALL the fierce efforts she made to protect her cowboy and “fairytale” romance. After a relatively short span of just seven years, yet another divorce occurred? I’m pretty sure by the end of this post, however, we might both have a better understanding of that puzzling equation.

Originally…at the time of my parent’s divorce, the “transactional details” or business aspect of the dissolution was a blur. I remember being told about the Judge, the courtroom drama, and hearing all the damning information about Dad, and the annulment garbage, but I also remember Mom’s admission that she didn’t pursue the financial claim against my Father that she could have, because her own Father, “Pa” had assured her, he would always be there for her, and would make certain that she, as well as my sisters and I were taken care of, always! She had been groomed to be a wife, mother, elegant hostess and that was that. Nothing left to contemplate I guess, and certainly my Mom never challenged that system? She was a beautiful enigma for sure, but also one that was to be taken care of…end of story? Well, actually…no, that never ultimately came to pass. Oh my…it sometimes feels like that period in my life could have been centuries ago. I guess it might as well have been too, for all the tumultuous events that have happened in the interim.

Pa was not subtle in the favor he showed my Mom, and he was always equally candid about the fondness he felt for my Dad. That must be fairly obvious though…since Dad was the “hand-picked” candidate for, and winning recipient of Mom’s hand in what was her first marriage? It was no secret that Pa adored Mom, but with equal candor, Pa was abundantly clear that he didn’t have much use for his one, and only, son. He was always having to “bail” Junior out of whatever failed business project DRJ got himself involved in, and Pa made no efforts to hide his disdain for DRJ’s repetitive and seemingly financial incompetence. Meanwhile, with the same fervor that he discredited DRJ, Pa devoted equal energy towards maintaining a strong rapport with my Dad. It was a bond of genuine fondness and respect. Pa was an avid supporter of my Dad right up until the end of the marriage; (shhhh) maybe even beyond? Prior to that, Pa was quick to laud my Dad’s intellect, wit (albeit dry) and success.

Dad and Pa teaching me to swim in Ma and Pa’s Rancho Santa Fe home!

After Mom’s remarriage, and with Grandmother as well as the balance of Dad’s family stripped from our lives, the remaining measure of power and favor within our shrinking family became confusing. It wasn’t until right about that same time when it became abundantly clear to me how very little my Mom actually cared for her own Mother. With the same intensity that Pa favored Mom, Ma meted out affection for their son, my uncle, DRJ. The “yin and the yang” of our family equation has just suddenly erupted in my brain in a way I’ve never contemplated before?

Oh wow, this kind of insight, and the accompanying mental light bulb, which just flipped on, is both curious and concerning. Who knows why it wasn’t more apparent before? Regardless, it just struck me how freakishly close the parallel between my sibling’s and my own upbringing was to that of my Mom and Uncle’s raising? These “aha” moments are getting tougher and tougher to keep up with, but from the very beginning…history and experience illustrated that each child was “pitted” against the other and the fire of competition stoked to gain, or keep, favor with one parent or the other. Meanwhile, and simultaneously, our families portrayed the image of one, big, happy and united front. It sounds a bit nuts, but I see it so clearly now. Does that make sense to anyone but me? It must get infinitely trickier from one generation to the next, and with the addition of more siblings within the family unit, presenting a “united front” and perfect facade all the time can’t be an easily maintained charade? Surely, masks are not an easy “accessory” to wear at all times. The past two years, in real time, are proof positive of that, and while the picture I’m verbally painting, is nowhere comparable to our current world circumstance, I feel like the resistance to mandated behavior and tyrannical governing feels somewhat similar, right?

Neither set of my Grandparents ever divorced, nor was there any other incident of divorce among my Dad’s siblings. Yet…BOTH my Mom and her only sibling, my uncle DRJ, ended their marriages in divorce. Is there some deeper significance to decipher from that reality or is it just a curious coincidence? Is it another sign of how “f****d up” our family was, or is it merely one more reminder that there is no such thing as normal? One thing remains absolute…time and experience reveals there was no “modeling” of what a “healthy relationship” looked like in my childhood, upbringing or maybe ever? I can’t help but wonder if all that shrouded/masked family background has contributed to my utter disdain for mask wearing today, literally or figuratively? How if at all, did that tapestry of tangled family dynamics impact my own marriage, or those of my siblings? Much to consider, but maybe those intricacies are best left for another time? I’ll stick with my family of origin for now.

There was nothing that Mom couldn’t do with apparent ease, and everything glistened with a brand of magic all her own. She could, and did, host any type of gathering effortlessly, be it a luncheon for 6 or formal Christmas Eve dinner for 24. There was no challenge in turning out four daughters, in matching outfits, with bows in our hairs and impeccable manners for either Sunday Mass or, equally elaborately adorned for a weekend horseshow. Similarly, creating the artwork for every “Junior League” newsletter, hosting events for a number of local charities and fundraisers, all the while posing as the stunning face of each cause was “de rigueur!” That level of perfection, however, surely didn’t come easily and must have carried a hefty price tag. While I recall a good portion of that price was paid at a number of local boutiques, salons, and for certain items of luxury, like our string of Show Horses, custom-made Saddles, personally designed and hand-crafted Equitation suits, with matching chaps, as well as multiple horse trainers and many other accompanying elements, I’d still guess the bulk of the expense Mom paid was exacted inward. It must have been excruciatingly painful to carry the weight of keeping appearances picture perfect, while hiding a scarred and fragile heart for several years? That type of pressure probably doesn’t make showing love and affection for others, including four daughters terribly easy, particularly when you don’t feel it for yourself, and aren’t obtaining any comfort or intimacy from your significant (or insignificant) other? I do, vaguely, remember moments of affection from, and an emotional connection to Mom, but until George arrived in our lives affection always seemed to take a back seat to perfection. George’s presence, kind spirit, dimpled smile and obvious passion for Mom, could be likened to a tsunami that washed over and released a part of Mom that must have been dormant and buried below the surface for an awful long time. Almost overnight, Mom was radiant…beaming with a new kind of glow, I didn’t recognize. She was suddenly no longer consumed with the need to reflect perfection. Mom had it all…if even for only a brief time. From the five to six years of Mom and George’s bliss, followed by the two tumultuous years of their demise, and the many years that followed, ours was a family and a series of relationships in flux.

After five years of Mom and George’s marriage, Pa, my Grandfather, passed, and the times and relationships grew strained…once again. Then, with a second divorce and George’s departure, the reality that appeared in the wake of that event was very dark. It was no picnic to either witness nor participate in the world which was quickly replacing the one of the past several years. I suppose I’ll never understand the chasm that Pa’s passing brought, and how that might have prompted Mom and George’s split. The stories relayed about Pa having “cut” Mom from his will due to George’s presence were as false then, as they remain today. I know that now, just as I knew and disclosed the same fact in my past blog post entitled “The Lyin’s Den” on October 18th. That particular post cracked open the door to air an insidious deception that was exacted within our increasingly shrinking family. The lies that were generated to cover up what really transpired after Pa’s death, including the lies and story that was invented about Mom’s exclusion from Pa’s will and trust, the “rerouting” of estate monies to my uncle, DRJ’s control, the elimination and/or “revising” of Pa’s Will, which originally bequeathed a sizeable portion of his estate to my siblings and me, but which never occurred, together with the insidious “hijacking” of Mom and George’s marriage…sadly, were all effectively executed. Those same actions would create a ripple effect that still exists and is causing more divisiveness today. Good God, such a truly tragic truth to wrap my mind around. It’s also one of the main reasons why I continue writing DearEasyDiaries. This “gift” is a process; one which helps to digest much-needed understanding and with any luck, acquire a measure of closure! Unfortunately, the same stench of evil and trail of lies that occurred decades ago, still exist today. Some of the “players” have been swapped in and out, but the underbelly of calculated manipulation and deception is still very much alive…as is my uncle, DRJ, and I credit him, along with some more recent accomplices, with being the “architect” of vast familial destruction.

Maybe I read one “Nancy Drew” mystery too many when I was a kid, watched one too many episodes of “Law & Order,” or simply lived through enough of my own personal torment at the hands of a cunning and sociopathic narcissist, to recognize that there was some serious foul play at work all those years ago? I’m going to hazard a guess that if I drew back the bowstring of a Hoyt carbon bow, and randomly aimed in the direction of a crowd of humans capable of exacting that kind of evil, there are probably a handful of candidates in whose direction the arrow might fly, but there’s also a very good chance, in this specific instance, the arrow would fly directly for my uncle, DRJ? Not that he, or his family spent much time with us before, or ever, but certainly after Mom and Dad’s divorce, and when George entered Mom’s life, DRJ was relegated to a seat at the back of the bus, left in the dust and rubble of our family dynamics. I’ve explained before but will continue to elaborate on the fact that Pa never had much use for my uncle. While DRJ may have been able to craft and sprinkle his own brand of “devil dust” that changed Pa’s Will, it was Mom to whom Pa left his Knights of Malta cufflinks, as well as his gold, “DER” monogrammed St. Christopher, along with the gold Miraculous Medal and chain, that he wore every day of his life and which I continue to do now. I think it was a symbol of our deep and shared faith, that Mom gifted me those three items following my own two children’s birth, but before her passing. It was true…Pa, my Mom and I always held our Catholic faith close to our hearts, in every sense of the meaning.

Ma tried to compensate for Pa’s lack of affection for their son, paying great attention to DRJ, and always anticipating, albeit with considerable doubt, the proposed visits DRJ dangled like a carrot to evoke the adoration he so craved. Nonetheless for whatever reason DRJ’s presence, and that of his family was always significantly scarce. Before the divorce, I only remember one occasion when my family visited DRJ and his family, and it was well before Lilith was even born; maybe I was four or five? Fast forward eight years, and following Mom and Dad’s Divorce, Mom was far too taken with her cowboy to give DRJ much, if any thought at all. Additionally, it was certain, that if DRJ brought along the dreaded girlfriend whenever he did, actually, visit, their stay promised to be blessedly brief. I’ve never known a person who could annoy more people upon entering a room, and that was before she ever spoke a word. Once she opened her mouth and the syrupy “goo” of words, accompanied by an undeniably pretentious attitude, dripping with condescension and spoken with a slight “Locust Valley-esque lockjaw” accent would escape, that insufferable woman could end an occasion before it ever had a decent chance to start. There wasn’t a person in our family who understood whatever allure it was that DRJ saw in her; certainly not anyone under the age of sixteen, to whom she was sure to address with the patent phrase, “children are to be seen and not heard,” upon each and every occasion of their, thankfully, rare visits. Enough about her though; she’s unworthy of even that brief description! Back to the ugly business that occurred after Pa’s death and the instance of Mom’s second divorce, which marked George’s exit as well as the end of Mom’s joyful spirit. Making any sense of Mom and George’s split has long since been an enormous mystery, but this new revelation I stumbled over while discovering facts I didn’t know at the time, and which were first referenced in Pt. 1 ~ “The Lyin’s Den,” is just far too likely to not take seriously? It’s an ugly reality to contemplate, but it’s also the only explanation that makes any sense. Finally, after all these years, I’ve arrived at the one plausible, albeit heinously devious motive that tracks with the circumstances as they occured? With Pa gone and if DRJ could somehow engineer a way for George to permanently exit our lives, DRJ would finally get his wish…an opportunity to shine and become the almighty male figure he fancied himself? “Patriarchy” would be his, and he would no longer have to compete with, nor live under the shadow of his very dynamic Father, or the two other men who had far outshone him before…first my Dad, and subsequently George.

Having failed miserably in his own marriage and as the father of six children, maybe DRJ allowed himself to think it was possible, at long last, to attain the hero worship he so desired, with Pa, Dad AND George gone? Plus, if you add to the mix, the beyond creepy factor that DRJ seemed to possess an erotic, bizarre, and almost sinister fascination with my Mom…his sister, it all becomes so much worse. Appallingly gross to consider, yes, but with no competition in his way, control or whatever other motive he sought might finally become his. Disturbing, twisted, even sick… again yes! All those adjectives come to mind when contemplating the hypothetical motivation behind DRJ’s desire to banish George, Mom’s beloved cowboy, from our family and lives? What’s worse is that I’m convinced my theory’s veracity is sound? One last resounding “yuck” is all I can add at this point.

Mom’s cousin Gen, Dad, Mom, uncle DRJ and his new bride…at one of my parent’s nuptial celebrations. P.S. I don’t know any brothers who ogle their sisters that way, and with God’s grace I never will…ewwww!

The rollercoaster ride that began when Mom and George divorced and continued for almost a decade, if not forever, DID indeed result in my uncle’s rise to patriarchy and subsequent reign as “The Almighty” figure I detailed before. It wasn’t enough that Mom was left emotionally shaken, fragile, unhappily single once again, gained an enormous amount of weight, but then under the guise of “offering help,” DRJ instructed my Mother that he would “deal with all her financial decisions, because that’s man’s work and she was never good with numbers, anyways.” Whether his assessment and statement was true or not, DRJ stripped my Mom of her dignity and autonomy that very moment. He deftly manipulated his way into every facet of her life, and she became completely dependent on him…her brother and my uncle. One of the saddest of considerations is that it wasn’t until a year or two ago when I uncovered and learned most of this history regarding DRJ and his treachery; far too late to have helped or changed anything. Mom passed in 2016, four years before I unearthed this information, and the damage was long since committed! But…now that I’m aware of the master manipulator that DRJ was/is, and considering all the drama which surrounded each of my Grandparent’s deaths and the foul play that followed involving their wills, a pattern begins to emerge and proves history surely repeated itself. The liaison made in 2013 between my younger siblings, DRJ, and his son, the vile marine, occurred just in time to alter and revise Mom’s Will and Trust, which was followed another two and a half years later with Mom’s passing, and another incident of legal and ethical violations materialized.

The fog that engulfed the subject for so long is finally clearing. It makes me sick to think back and recall that I, too, thought of DRJ as a bit of hero for a time and wouldn’t have thought to question his actions when they were being exacted? That time, however, is long since over. All that I feel towards DRJ now is disgust, and a strange recollection of remembrances that thankfully are fading. The mind is a unique machine, though. All of a sudden, a memory from my Mom’s wedding to George is vividly lodged in my head. The ceremony and reception took place on the back patio and expansive lawn of our Lago Lindo home. DRJ was in attendance, by himself, and when my, then 7 year old, sister Lilith wanted to dance with uncle “Donald Duck” (her nickname for him) he acquiesced and played the role briefly. Later, Mom gathered Lilith, Dorothy and me together to tell us DRJ had requested she speak to us? What…why? Apparently, DRJ didn’t care for the nickname Lilith had bestowed upon him, but there was more. Unlike Pa who adored his Granddaughters, and had originally taught each of us how to dance by standing on his feet while he moved effortlessly across any dance floor, DRJ didn’t care to continue that tradition and had requested that my Mom communicate that same information to us. Apparently, he also didn’t care for Lilith’s tiny frame standing on his newly polished shoes. What a truly petty individual. It is that very same “ass-hat” who allowed (or more likely lied and deceived) my Mother, his sister, in to believing she was broke and beholden to him unto her death! That she had an interest in at least one somewhat significant real estate asset, called “Sunny Hills” and that the sale of her interest would have resulted in excess of half a million dollars, providing Mom a bit of much-needed peace of mind would have been something she definitely would have benefitted from knowing? Instead, Mom was encouraged to accept the small quarterly dividends that the property brought and which DRJ portioned out, leaving the investment intact while preserving the status quo and guaranteeing Mom’s continued fragile reliance on her brother, while he continued controlling the remainder of what Pa had left behind.

AGAIN…YUCK! SURELY, THAT’S NOT THE LOOK OF A NORMAL BROTHER, DANCING WITH HIS SISTER AT HER WEDDING?

Why was the knowledge of that one real estate asset and its actionable value kept from Mom? Was it so DRJ, the marine and my siblings could exercise the control over Mom they so desperately clung to, or to maintain whatever pittance of money she might have left after DRJ’s years of control? At what juncture did my younger siblings learn of all this? At some point they absolutely had to have discovered the disingenuous narcissists that both the marine and DRJ are? It was that same group which were the sole beneficiaries of the majority of Mom’s belongings and estate, and were also the very same frauds whose lives, and houses, were made full as the recipients of Mom’s belongings. Meanwhile, my guess is that if Mom had known she could have sold that one real estate interest to secure some independence, she might have made different decisions about who she permitted access to her life and with whom she chose to spend the remainder of her time? I only know this, now, because, when the marine settled Mom’s Trust, which took over a year following Mom’s passing, and I received notification of the only asset left to me…a “25% interest” in a real estate project known as “Sunny Hills,” I contacted the management company immediately to learn more about the property’s status. As the matter evolved, I was told by the president of the management company, that the original ownership entity had been keenly interested for several years in reacquiring ALL of the investment in its entirety and would gladly pay me for my share (at a premium) as they would have offered to do the same for my Mother prior to her passing! What if Mom had known that? She could have sold her 100% ownership share (rather than just my 25%, and my siblings 75%) and would have finally been able to claim some modicum of security and dignity back, rather than relying on “the generosity” and counsel of my uncle, the marine and my sisters? If you have read my past entry, “The Lyin’s Den” you might remember the introduction of my cousin, “the ex-Marine.” That DRJ managed to groom at least one of his sons, the ex-Marine, to follow, lock step, in his shadow and become a manipulative narcissistic monster himself, speaks to the level of deceit that pulses through that bloodline (cringe…I know a part of which belongs to me) and is further illustrative of just how manipulated my Mom was throughout the years, beginning with her divorce from George, all the way until her passing. My experience with my cousin was extremely limited in, both, childhood as well as adulthood…that is until he weaseled his way back into my Mom’s life, a few years following my divorce in 2008. As history, together with my marriage and this blog proves, I too was a complete “sucker” for malignant narcissists, and therefore am (somewhat) unwilling to critique or condemn the actions of the girl who chose to be the marine’s wife, but I do remember the trip when my son and I escorted Mom to the marine’s oldest son’s wedding in 2012.

My memories of the occasion are a stark reminder of the feelings and sentiment that DRJ, always so disingenuously, evoked. The wedding and entire weekend were void of any semblance of the warmth, style and gracious hospitality that Mom infused into every occasion she ever hosted. The utter contrast between my Mom’s very being and the essence of grace she portrayed, was directly juxtaposed to an odd grouping of characters, who presented only stiff, awkward and belabored interactions. The entire event was a tedious exchange of false pleasantries. I never did, or will, understand why attending that bizarre affair was so important to my Mom; maybe it was a show of loyalty to DRJ, her brother, or the marine, her nephew? They were both people Mom seemed desperate to remain connected to, but that too, I will never understand. The images and memories I took away from the long drive, the odd weekend, lackluster wedding and icily cold environment (July or not) only seemed to reinforce the place where I’ve arrived today. I look back and can only say… “God help her;” and all the other multitude of ‘hers’ out there, suffering and being so deceitfully manipulated. If I was feeling generous, maybe 3% of that sentiment could be extended to the marine’s wife, and a slightly larger piece of the pie offered to the other women (ex-wives, daughters, nieces, etc…) that were the targets of DRJ’s self-serving agenda and passive/aggressive narcissism…but the bulk and balance of my sympathy is reserved for my Mom. I wonder if she ever discovered, or was made aware of the gross misrepresentations of those she allowed to flex such extreme influence over her life? Never knowing any of DRJ’s children, his ex-wife, or the other women in his world terribly well, and being even less familiar with the ex-marine’s wife or their children, I don’t know the intimate details of all the troubled interactions that must have governed those two self-aggrandizing men’s lives. Neither do I know the level of exploitation that they orchestrated or stooped to exact, but which must have been immense? I suppose they have one another with whom to commiserate and console, just as they still have Lilith and Dorothy to “compare notes” about the many betrayals they didn’t just allow to transpire, but were complicit in exacting? One thing remains true…Mom did not deserve the ending that my younger sisters, the marine and my uncle gave her, and to that same end, (oops, the ADD is back) there is no explanation that can justify the manner in which my Grandmother, Ma endured her last couple years, months or days.

A small measure of the step by step chronicling of events outlined in the “journey” above, found its foundation sometime around my parent’s divorce, then travelled a fairly direct path to my Grandfather, Pa’s passing and continued from there on what became a most circuitous route to arrive almost exactly ten years following Pa’s Will and revised “trust” agreement (ironic choice of adjective, but very purposely chosen) to 1993 when my Grandmother, Ma, passed? I know my stories tend to wander (mild understatement) or practically “leap” back and forth, often making following along a difficult task, and so again, I say thank you.

I’ve tried before to depict the quiet, steady character of my Grandmother, Ma, and while she was always hugely kind and generous to me, I feel obliged to mention, again, that not everyone in our family shared the depth of closeness with her that I did. It’s a reality that DRJ only visited her maybe two-three times per year, as “pity duty,” and on those occasions it usually meant that my Mom would prepare dinner at whichever house she was currently calling home, and the meal was a group gathering with whichever of my siblings were within close enough proximity providing for attendance, but neither my Mom, DRJ or my siblings were ever interested in spending the time with Ma that I enjoyed. To that end, I visited her frequently; she taught me to needlepoint, and encouraged me to attend Katharine Gibbs School in Boston at a particularly painful juncture in time, thus allowing me to escape the ugly reality that was overcoming my Mom and sibling’s capricious behavior following the divorce and George’s departure. We went to lunch together frequently, I drove her on errands, and later with the passage of time, I brought lunch and dinner favorites to her at home, when she chose to no longer go out. Ma was a very private person but had a small treasury of friends and relatives that were dear to her, and she kept up with them through letter writing and phone calls, as often as possible. Gen and her sister, Ev (who became Ma’s sister-in-law following marriage to Ma’s brother, Willard) and their families, as well as Ma’s step-sister, Lou, and a number of other dear friends from Ma and Pa’s past, like Anne and Eddy, Verna and Warren, Judy and Jim, Dorothy and Lou, and Jim and Eileen were all close friends that Ma spoke of often and held dear. Ma’s display of quiet affection was a gift, but also a rarity and for whatever reason (one that I’m sure I’ll never learn now) neither of her own, only two, children ever chose to spend a great deal of time with her, which wasn’t in some way obligatory. I don’t know what kind of Mother, Ma was when DRJ and Mom were young, but I did know she was entirely comfortable in her own skin, and lived her days, ALMOST until the end, exactly as she pleased. During many of our innumerable visits together, there was one particular topic, which stirred a ferocity in Ma, which I rarely saw. She voiced as one of the final requests of her life that she never wanted to be placed in a nursing home. Apparently, her Father (or stepfather?) had ended his days in such a facility, and the memory left a painful and indelible scar on Ma. “That was NEVER to become her fate,” she stated often, and because she had more than ample financial resources to provide for amenable circumstances, I always just assumed that her wish would occur precisely as she desired. However, the years between 1990 when Ma still lived independently, and 1993 when she passed, played out very differently than whatever I might have previously fathomed possible.

A subtle transition occurred in our family when Lilith my youngest sister went off to college. Viv had been married for well over a decade with sons of her own and a successful career; Dorothy was long gone, having been “on her own” for years, and Mom and I shared her, newest, home on Sun Valley Road. It was a turning point, so to speak, from Mother and daughter to something that resembled more of friends and roommates. I paid rent as well as all my own expenses, had a career I really liked, and no longer regarded myself as a “dependent.” Life was changing. I never cared much for the idea of living alone, and I also wasn’t terribly trusting of females my age, so getting involved in some type of apartment arrangement with random roommates didn’t sound terribly appealing; plus I had never lived without canine company and had yet to encounter an apartment, or potential roommate which would allow for that practice to continue. Mom had a modest home at the time, with a small amount of land surrounding it, and our relationship and scenario evolved into a mutually beneficial and shared environment. Mom, too, wasn’t terribly keen on the idea of living alone, so ours became a situation that constantly evolved and was a successful work in progress. We both enjoyed gardening, growing roses, watching old movies as well as going out to see new movies, cooking, baking, entertaining friends, and each of us loved having the space and opportunity to keep our dogs. While I don’t know the nitty gritty details of the precise financial arrangement at the time, Mom was effusive in her praise of DRJ, and always credited him with “taking care of her.” Simultaneously, she also expressed an interest in becoming self-reliant, and was making a sincere effort to start her own catering business. As an illustration of that endeavor, Mom had self-designed a logo and name for her prospective brand, and even went so far as to have her new red and black Isuzu Trooper SUV, customized with her logo on the exterior of both the driver’s and passenger side doors. Mom also accepted the “olive branch” offered by my Dad and Stepmother, when they commissioned Mom to set a proposed menu, as well as hiring her to cater the grand opening for the restaurant of a bowling alley they had purchased and were operating as a “hobby project” within their beloved community of Temecula, back then more commonly known as Rancho California. Mom’s desire to establish autonomy, while doing something she adored and trying to become financially independent seemed to be on the right track, from all that I could gather.

EVEN HER LOGO AND BUSINESS MODEL EXUDED A CERTAIN, “JE NE SAIS QUOI.” (THAT’S ABOUT ALL THAT TAKING SIX YEARS OF FRENCH IN SCHOOL GOT ME…LOL)

There was no-one who knew my Mom or was ever a guest in our home who didn’t recognize the gift and flair she possessed for entertaining. Her style and painstaking attention to detail was unparalleled. The repertoire, presentation and bounty of creativity which Mom devoted to every project was truly unique, thoughtfully executed and always resulted in an end product that stood apart from any other. Those memories will endure for generations to come! Be it her signature breadsticks, still lovingly prepared and “doctored” by my daughter, as Mom taught us, and her legacy dictates. Those original breadsticks are NOT the baked from scratch, but bland as cardboard ones, which are beautifully packaged and offered in a business initiated by Dorothy and Lilith; perhaps another example of a facade that just doesn’t ring true? Regardless, Mom’s breadsticks, her Frozen Lemon Cream, Pots De Crème, Curried Chicken Salad, one-of-a-kind Stroganoff, elaborate Table Settings, exquisitely hand-painted Christmas cards and Baby Bottles, individually designed Birthday Invitations or any number of the hundreds of other highly-stylized presentations she effortlessly created were all symbolic of the precise attention to detail and style that was Mom’s unique and undeniable hallmark.

MY OWN DAUGHTER’S LOVING TRIBUTE TO “THE REAL DEAL.”

Fast forward a years later, after a misguided sequence of poor personal decisions on my part, accompanying a period of time that would change my life forever, it was upon learning that I was going to become a mother myself when a HUGELY significant shift occurred in my relationship with my Mom. We developed what would become an even deeper bond than the one already enjoyed. If you’ve read any of my past blog entries, (especially “My Brand Is 10 Minutes Late” from last March as well as many of the prior ones) you’ve surely noted that my relationship and eventual marriage to my children’s Father encompassed many things, including a “rocky” climb, to say the least. While Mom and I had forged a closer type of relationship beforehand, the news of my pregnancy brought a whole new level of trust and closeness. We shared a tie that felt indestructible at the time. My Mother and I were uniquely different, and yet we shared very deeply a few of each other’s strongest principles…like our Catholic faith, conservative views and commitment to our children and raising a family. It wasn’t very long before my Mom started following in my Grandparent’s footsteps, and chose to live in close proximity to us, her then four grown daughters and ever-increasing list of Grandkids. While the locations and “favored child status” might have varied slightly from time to time, we developed a closeness over those years that was irrefutable. She was the only person I felt comfortable leaving my children with overnight, or for extended trips when my marriage required travel, and because Al traveled soooooo extensively, Mom also became a frequent and welcome fixture in each of our homes. I believe she understood, all too well, the type of marriage I had entered into and related to its structure with a bit more empathy than she might have felt for my sibling’s unions. Mine was a very “old-school/traditional” type of marriage. Al made the money and major decisions, while I supported his efforts, raised the children and made the everyday aspects of our home life fall neatly into place. I’m pretty positive that my marriage was one Mom could more easily identify with, and which might have even generated a bit of sympathy…as she was a witness to our marriage and knew my “leash” was awfully short. Due to the large amount of time she spent with us, she saw and understood the internal battles I fought, as well as the visible challenges which often contributed to a stressful home, but also one that I worked diligently to compensate and cover for. As time and the years went on, Al recovered from the embezzlement suit that knocked him down three months after our wedding, and he was able to slowly build back a secure financial base. That occurrence signaled the addition of a string of homes to our personal portfolio, symbolizing Al’s meteoric success at Sea Island and within the Southeastern Resort facility and company, which he worked to plan, design and develop for well over a decade. There was no mistaking that any and all financial or business decisions were Al’s. I knew only the parts he allowed me to know…details like my allowance, or the various favors and gifts shown to those who catered to Al’s whims and which were usually individuals intrinsically connected to some piece of the financial pie. The majority of those people, came and went as often as I made trips to the grocery store, and they weren’t people that our history together dictated an effort be made to cultivate any type of lasting friendship? I tend to get attached to people, and that was always a conundrum for Al. The only constants in his life were the accountant, Uncle Ed,( the son of Al’s longtime mentor/boss/ business partner and successor, as well as being our daughter Emily’s wonderfully devoted Godfather) and, of course, Al’s older two daughters. Oddly enough something else just struck me; I’m not certain why I assumed his older two daughters were automatic “givens” in his life? Al also had two sisters, as well as many nieces and nephews, which Al would never permit either me or our two children to meet, even though for a number of years they lived a mere 30 miles away, and frequently requested introductions? For all those reasons, among others, my Mom became much more pivotal to my life than I might have ever originally guessed. My two best friends for years were my toddler Daughter and my Mother.

Admittedly, from the time Al and I became entangled, I always felt fairly self-conscious and vulnerable. When I learned about the adventure to come, called motherhood, my sense of self became even more fragile, and my worries and fear of my child’s and my future totally overshadowed any thought and consideration I should have been devoting to many different and other areas of my life, including my Grandmother, Ma. As such, I hadn’t seen the gradual decline that Ma was experiencing over the course of that particular year, or more. We spoke on the phone frequently, and while she always sounded like her perfectly lucid self, I hadn’t been to visit for an extended period of time, and so failed to pick up on her physical frailty. Right around the occasion of Emily’s birth, or shortly thereafter, Ma, while living in the Villa Fontana apartments in Montecito, took a spill and the fall resulted in a variety of injuries, the most severe left Ma wearing a cast on one arm and more physical unsteadiness than what she would have wanted to admit. At her age, living alone was starting to present quite a few challenges. It was decided (I suppose by DRJ and Mom) that Ma would need to live somewhere where care was available. If you’re still tracking with me and are continuing to read this “tome,” you might remember the request that Ma previously and frequently communicated regarding her wishes for the future? If you’re also thinking that I screwed up, and “dropped the ball,” regarding concern for my Grandmother, you are correct. I remember questioning the interim decision regarding Ma’s care, but not with the intensity Ma deserved. I screwed up, big time. To that end, it was someone else who came up with the “brilliant” (NOT) plan that moved Ma to the second story garage apartment that was located behind, but still part of Dorothy’s Santa Monica duplex home. There was nothing about that “solution” which made an ounce of sense at all. Certainly, there was no consideration given to the fact that Ma was UNABLE to safely nor solely, navigate the staircase to her new “home.” Meals would need to be delivered, and all care was relegated to Dorothy who, admittedly, had little use for our Grandmother. As I was directed at the time, however, “stay out of it Missy; this is the plan which will be implemented…period!” Apparently, regardless of the disinterest Dorothy might have felt for Ma, as a person, she did find use for the monies Ma paid to live in the little second story space, which might have been the equivalent of a jail cell, for all the good it was to Ma? I recall hearing that the sum Ma paid to Dorothy monthly, was around $2000(+/-); truly an astounding figure when you consider all the factors involved. I know what you’re thinking…believe me, I should be ashamed of myself for having permitted even a fraction of that, what I now would consider “elder abuse/extortion” to occur, and I kicked myself around mentally for a long time, as a result. I loathe the fact that it all happened the way that it did, and that I didn’t pitch a bigger, if any, fit at all? Right about now if you’re also thinking the whole thing couldn’t get worse, you’d be wrong… it did. A number of months later, Ma fell. She was upstairs, by herself, and the fall went undetected for long enough that she was essentially left unconscious and almost comatose. Ma was unable to speak or move on her own, thereafter. It was then that DRJ and Mom put Ma into a full-time, residential nursing facility with 24/7 care. Regardless if that may have been what Ma required, it was nonetheless her ultimate nightmare. DRJ, not so coincidentally but in conjunction with the accident and Ma’s final move, also bought a new home for my Mom to live in? The nursing home and Mom’s new residence weren’t even a mile away from each other, and when I made the mistake of inquiring why a slightly larger home couldn’t have been purchased for Mom, so that Ma could live with family and among her own furniture and things, my question was dismissed immediately and Mom confessed that she just couldn’t deal with that reality. As such, my suggestion of full-time nursing care for Ma in Mom’s home was also rejected. Mom simply could not live in the same home as Ma, and at that point, I was in no position to offer an alternative solution, nor did DRJ propose another scenario. Certainly, no consideration was given to any suggestion which might have put Ma closer to DRJ in Palo Alto. The Palmera residential, nursing home was just 3/4 of a mile down the road from where Mom’s new home was located, and that dreaded nursing home would become Ma’s final home.

On a slightly different note but in keeping with a recurring theme, there’s an expression that goes something like…“possession is 9/10’s of the law?” I learned then, and have been reminded many times since, that that is precisely the case when elderly people are both taken advantage of, and their estates mishandled. Dorothy kept the majority of Ma’s belongings and furnishings that were left in the upstairs garage apartment on 7th St. I don’t recall Mom taking much if anything, and I don’t remember DRJ showing up at all after the fall, so Ma’s furnishings and belongings just magically became all Dorothy’s. The transaction occurred in the same manner as I’ve discovered the majority of our family “dealings” transpired. Only the conniving, favored few, responsible for the rewriting of history and the applicable documents that aligned with those individual agendas were ever “allowed in the circle!” With that in mind, maybe if I didn’t spend much time at Dorothy’s home either before or after Ma’s passing, I’d never have known the extent of the liberties, or treasures, that were added to Dorothy’s collection of home adornments. I did, however, spend a good bit of time with Dorothy then, and as such recognized the plethora of Ma’s belongings…furniture, lamps, several items of Family Silver, candelabras, china, and many other treasured antiques. Nonetheless, my role was not to question, and so it went, end of story.

Oops, this is absolutely another one of those A.D.D. moments, but I just realized that of the vast branches from my family of origin’s tree, there have only been two instances when I’ve been included in “Estate” provisions which were honored. I never knew any of the financial details following my paternal Grandparents deaths, nor those of my Dad’s passing, and I was surely (he would have told you himself, if he were still here) the one of his children who was closest to him? One of my Aunts, and Dad’s sister, left provisions in her Will that included her nieces, (among others I’m sure) and Cora’s intent was kindly and timely honored. My Mom’s Will providing for ALL of her belongings to be divided equally (25% per each daughter) was minimally observed, as the Sunny Hill’s real estate investment was contractually protected and administered by a third party; otherwise, there was nothing adhered to according to the provisions that Mom’s Will outlined. The marine, the uncle and younger siblings interpreted the “25% per, provision” the way they saw fit. Pa’s Will, which was the launching point of this entire theme was not just obliterated but, “conveniently” two years later was replaced with a new document which redistributed Pa’s wishes in a very different way than what was provided in the original document. My uncle DRJ’s “handiwork,” was written all over that, and the derivation of power, and obvious financial motivation was then and still today remains dramatically evident. The irreparable history of bad blood, divorces, family feuds, and devastating divisiveness within a single bloodline is stunningly brutal, and can certainly be traced and attributed, in large part, to my uncle, DRJ.

This little detour aside, the upside to this whole pathetic mess, (at least the part involving Ma and me) if there is one, and as dismal as this post has become, I really do, usually search for silver linings, was that Ma’s nursing home and the new house DRJ, simultaneously, purchased for Mom were both only about five miles from the Rancho Santa Fe home that Al, Emily and I shared at the time. I made a point to visit Ma often…at least once a week, and whether she knew I was there or not, sometimes with Emily and sometimes not, I don’t know? If Ma tried to speak, it was unintelligible, and making the humiliation of it all so much worse, the staff would paint Ma’s nails and lips constantly, no matter how much I requested, or even “tipped” them not to! She had to have died a thousand deaths with the passing of each day, as everything she dreaded had come to fruition. It was almost a welcome relief when Ma finally passed and left this earthly world in January of 1993. The irreverence of it all was finally over. Ma occupies one of the very few urns interred in the Columbarium of a beautiful, local Catholic Church, where once again, I can visit and reminisce in silence, or maybe even play a little “Satin Doll” for her on my cell from time to time.

The years that followed Ma’s passing, were once again filled with moves, drama and more family dysfunction…my own marriage towards the top of the list! It would be several more years of very high highs, and equally low lows, before discovering what fate the future held for my marriage and family. I spent a lot of my time and days holding my breath, walking on eggshells, with crossed fingers, and an odd notion lodged in my brain that I could, somehow simply “WILL” everything to work out positively. In the meantime, Al and I brought a second child into the world and our home became a gathering place for every holiday, celebration, fundraiser or other occasion I could possibly offer to host while trying to be family peacemaker, good wife, involved mother, and provider of kinship for the masses…many of which were part of the “revolving door” which was Al’s, and by extension my children’s and my life too. The examples of that “door” are plentiful. It wasn’t until six to nine months after our son’s Baptism, that I learned the Godfather decision, which had been chosen by Al, was a gesture made to compensate for Al’s firing of his former friend, tennis pro, and new Godfather, “T. Fare” from his position as the manager of Al’s Long Island Tennis Club. Our son’s Baptism weekend was the last time that I ever saw T. Fare and his family. Everyone was interchangeable in Al’s world, and that was a scary reality in my life and marriage.

What I’m about to share isn’t really a super recent or hugely significant revelation; but that I’m about to admit it out loud…is personal and, often, therefore painful. However, it’s a sign of growth, it’s mine to own, and it’s a tenet I try to observe these days! For a great many years, a large part of keeping my children’s and my life functioning and being able to maintain even a tiny semblance of sanity meant staying busy…always! It also meant understanding the need to, and then trying to achieve a reasonable balance between serving my marriage, and dealing with Al’s “on again/off again” interest in our marriage and me, serving my role in my family of origin, serving Al’s revolving door of people who peppered our lives, and ABOVE all else caring for my two children. Prioritizing their feelings, while trying to instill in them a sense of security in a world that was anything but stable wasn’t easy, but it provided me an excuse and rationalization to ignore my own internal troubles. It was a daunting and never-ending endeavor, but the alternative options weren’t terribly appealing, and because I had my family of origin as a “guideline” for how to function amidst constant turmoil, I actually believed I could juggle it all. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mind, or actually encouraged our revolving door of people, houses, responsibilities, activities, etc? The more I had to juggle and the busier I kept myself…the less I had to wonder, question or feel what was really taking place. I seriously overestimated myself. It took a really, really, long, long, time to understand that what I felt and tried to sustain was neither healthy nor achievable. It NEVER was! Once I accepted that, tried to work on healing myself, made a conscious effort to let go of trying to micromanage everything around me…the world began to slow down. While it often feels like that was forever ago, the truth is it could have just as easily been yesterday. The lessons keep on coming, and obviously, there’s far more for me to learn.

Even with the memories of all that crap swirling through my mind, drama isn’t really my thing…ANYMORE; all evidence from this blog indicating otherwise. Heaven knows, however, I’m clearly no stranger to it, which is probably why after the cycle of turmoil I witnessed recurring year after year, I eventually made the decision to STOP! Stop interacting with and inviting trouble into my life. As a result, my circle now is much, much smaller and my life is much more peaceful. Nonetheless, decisions like that don’t come easily, and at least for me and my somewhat (major understatement) hard-headed manner, those same, life-saving decisions were only implemented after enough pain, made the decision to edit certain people from my life the only, positive, action left for me to take.

Editing is, definitely, something I need to practice with much more diligence and frequency…in a variety of ways! Is that need a result of how my upbringing facilitated my choosing the man, the husband, and the life that we created and survived…albeit not together. Was the façade our family fostered, and the competition referenced in this and past posts between various family units and siblings…primarily my own, what allowed me to consider our life “normal?” Although, it still feels a bit disloyal to make such claims or statements, my experience is also proof-positive about my position on the subject. There were certain unspoken rules and a structure of hierarchy that required adherence, but as long as we all “stayed in our individual lanes” and played the roles we had long since been assigned, life “could” hum along fairly smoothly. Should one maneuver into a “lane” other than what was specifically designated to you, however, you could take it to the bank that trouble was sure to follow. Unwittingly, by marrying a significantly older man, one who had already attained a certain level of success by the time he entered our family, it was like I had successfully drawn an invisible kind of wall around myself? I may have become somewhat “off-limits” as a target for my siblings, but what I didn’t realize at the time was that I was just substituted from one form of subterfuge into another. Nonetheless, the boundary Al provided me was quite formidable… to put it mildly! I wouldn’t learn until much later just how formidable Al’s brand of subterfuge was! The new role I assumed in my family of origin was definitely an upgrade and between the safety net of my often volatile and unpredictable husband’s temperament, combined with the new set of circumstances and the “resort-like playground” that “the Capones” offered, my personal “stock value” soared within my family of origin. It’s astounding how much I didn’t know and still surprises me how incredibly naïve I continued to be? I didn’t recognize that I was in the process of perpetuating an incredibly similar pattern that would play out in my future, as well as that of my children’s? Why couldn’t I see that? Did I just see an avenue of escape and a way to ease the familial burden that often felt so overwhelming? My new husband represented and provided me an odd wall, or layer of protection. That is as long as it wasn’t late on Christmas Eve, after far too much alcohol had been consumed, and in “some cases” too much pot smoked covertly in the front motor court. Under those conditions, hunting season was back on, and once again I became fair game. It mattered not that even with all the alcohol and pot to empower their attacks, my/our home was still being used as a pseudo resort for my younger siblings and their families at any given time, for any given holiday, and for often five to six days at a time? They just moved in and had no hesitation about using or treating our home exactly as if it were their own. Granted, it was a large home and the guest cottage with its three bedrooms, three baths and living space was comfortable, maybe too comfortable, as towels and dirty laundry were strewn about, food and drink consumed at will, and even instances of instructing our gardener when to come and go, all occurred…but I permitted it. In addition to any number and assortment of other issues, my two younger sisters just couldn’t seem to contain their annoyance that I still maintained relationships, with both our Dad and Stepfather, George? Regardless of Dorothy and Lilith’s assertion that they made those specific attacks, allegedly, on behalf of our Mother, I don’t believe Mom shared my sister’s disdain. Not only had Mom and Dad seemed to have, each, waved “white flags” years earlier in regard to their daughters, and as such Dad attended every occasion, child’s Birthday or any other event which was made known to him, and he and Mom were always cordial with one another. Regarding George, if truth be told, I believed Mom was still in love with him. She actually sought me out to hear of any news, potential conversations, or to see the annual Christmas card George may have sent? By that time, her facial expressions and mannerisms were awfully transparent, and I’m pretty sure I’d have known if she harbored resentment towards me about George? My older sister, Viv, had been clear for years that she had a very full plate with no time for the petty concerns that Dorothy and Lilith seemed to thrive on examining and perpetuating. My younger sisters just couldn’t let go of the whole Christmas Eve, late night drama. Would I ever live down my “crimes” and the brutal judgement being brandished by Dorothy and Lilith? Indeed not. The last Christmas Eve we spent together was in Lake Tahoe, shortly after my divorce and even though the circumstances of the holiday were very different, and the grand homes that were once the playground for such occasions were a thing of the past, the “roasting” still took place. Maybe that time, for once…the predictable “attack/game” was a blessing? That holiday and the nine to ten months that followed it were replete with confrontation, “new rules,” boundary violations, as well as the usual and predictable judgement of my choices and behavior. An insight I had never experienced before began to emerge, and it set the stage for a hugely different path that was to lay ahead. That, however, is a story for another time.

From that last holiday to a time which preceded it by over a decade…back I go. Originally, when my “new” little family of three made the decision to move from Rancho Santa Fe to the Santa Barbara area, we must have looked at every property that was on the market, as well as some that weren’t, and gone through at least three+ real estate agents from Montecito all the way through and to Santa Ynez, California. Our final decision found us living on a beautiful hilltop property overlooking the entire Santa Ynez Valley. It became the hub of our family’s every gathering. Just a couple months later, my Mom relocated and bought a home only five to ten miles away from our Roblar compound. The bond Mom and I had built through our time as “roommates,” and then strengthened after my daughter’s birth and the ongoing, challenging relationship with Emily’s father, was only reinforced with the addition of time, and we remained tight friends spending a great deal of our days together. Mom was a ready and willing participant and great help in all the school activities, volunteer projects and fundraising efforts which I thrived on hosting, as well as always being up for road trips to attend dog shows and many other adventures as well. Al continued to travel a great deal, and lived life on his terms…he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and he didn’t care about making “new friends” with people my age (20+ years his junior) so as a fairly “youngish” Mom, it goes without saying that I was more than a little appreciative of my own Mother and the gift of her friendship. The first few years in Santa Ynez were complex, but the two things I could count on were my daughter and my mother. Just a couple years later, our son was born, and five months following that, Roblar became the reception site for Lilith’s wedding to her “ranch romance,” childhood crush and fiancé. My, at the time, four-year marriage continued to hold more than its fair share of challenges, and while I was able to gain Al’s approval to host Lilith’s reception at our lovely hilltop home, he was not enthusiastic about, nor willing to share in any financial contribution to the numerous details of a wedding reception that Lilith insisted must be executed in a certain way; her very lavish, certain way. I confess to having had a “short fuse” regarding much of the planning and Lilith’s incessant obsession about what I felt were completely extravagant details and frivolous items…extras that our Mother could 100%, definitely, NOT afford to provide. I found myself constantly wondering if the actual union and marriage held the same significance to Lilith that the elaborate “event” she was planning, represented?

ON HER ACTUAL DAY, LILITH WAS AS PERFECT AS THE BRIDAL SHOT AND OTHERS SHE MODELED IN A SELECTED FEW COFFEE TABLE BOOKS CREATED BY LEGENDARY EVENT COORDINATOR, COLIN COWIE.

Lilith was a stunning beauty, much like our Mom, and she had always had quite the string of “beau’s,” including a fairly recent one at the time, who she confessed to “not being quite over.” I remember asking her if that fact was a good precedent or springboard to jump right into marriage? I suppose it’s only fair at this juncture to cite that Lilith’s own marriage is still intact (I believe) and mine quite obviously is not, so I’m really in no position to be casting stones or dispersions, am I? No, indeed I am probably not. One of my dear friends says quite frequently, “if you’re going to be tough, be fair and tough;” so Lana, that one’s for you! With those considerations in mind, it pained me beyond explanation that Lilith continued making grand, and expensive, demands of our Mom for items which simply had to accompany the wedding and reception of Lilith’s dreams. There was nothing “simple” however, about the extent of Lilith’s demands! My annoyance was intensified when Mom asked me to drive her to a local jeweler, who had offered to purchase a few articles of Mom’s jewelry collection in order to generate the necessary funds to pay for Lilith’s vision. I swallowed hard, and obliged Mom’s request, but also suggested that the individual chairs which would seat each guest at the dinner tables under the enormous tent on Roblar’s expansive back lawn, and which already boasted grand chandeliers, custom linens, elaborate centerpieces, Silver Flatware in both Francis the 1st and Versailles patterns with Goblets alike, did not necessarily have to be Gold “Chiavari,” which rented for a minimum of $8 per chair, and neither was the most expensive caterer in Santa Barbara? Mom, however, interjected and said she was going to make sure Lilith had everything she desired. I stood corrected, and I sound bitter and jealous, right? There may be times when I felt those emotions, but then I remember the rest of it; the lies, the advantages taken, the manipulation and years of judgement followed by multiple ultimatums, and all that I’m left feeling for Lilith and Dorothy is a mixture of pity and disdain. Regardless of my feelings then, or the place of peace I find myself now, it was clear at the time that what Lilith wanted, Lilith got! Mom went on to say, she had no intention of selling her most special treasures, especially the four particular pieces that she had “designated for each of her four girls;” one of which was a ring bearing a large, oval-shaped, Opal, with a gold, “diamond-encrusted” Crown resting at its top. That one, Mom relayed was to be mine, as Opal, October’s birthstone was shared by both Mom (10/26) and myself (10/9).

PERHAPS MY LINGERING ILL-FEELINGS ON THIS TOPIC ARE DUE, IN PART, BECAUSE DOROTHY AND LILITH (WITH HELP FROM THE MARINE) CONFISCATED ALL OF MOM’S POSSESSIONS, INCLUDING ALL OF HER SPECIAL PAINTINGS AND JEWELRY UPON HER PASSING? OR…MAYBE I’M JUST BEING A BITCH? P.S. BEFORE YOU ANSWER, CONSIDER THIS…WHO DO YOU SUPPOSE WEARS THAT OPAL AND CROWN RING TODAY? IF YOU GUESSED LILITH, YOU’D BE CORRECT. I GUESS I JUST ANSWERED MY OWN QUESTION?

Patterns are patterns though, and some years prior to her nuptials, that same sister, Lilith, was dating a handsome young Veterinarian for a brief bit, despite confessing to not feeling much for him, nor seeing the relationship going very far. Timing just so happened that the scenario occurred shortly before Christmas, and the Vet had already “dangled a carrot” regarding the gift he had purchased for Lilith. She hung tough, and the romance survived through the Christmas holiday. A few days afterward, it was then that Lilith cut the vet loose with nothing more than a phone message. The occasion didn’t result in a ring, but nonetheless, Lilith held on to the car audio system that was gifted. There was also an incident when one of Lilith’s college beaus accompanied her to our Rancho Santa Fe home for a long weekend, and after using one of Al’s convertibles for the afternoon, they returned sheepishly with news of a “minor” altercation involving the red Miata. The damage done to the car became not just my burden to repair, but also to explain the incident to Al, when he returned from whatever trip had taken him out of town. By then Lilith and Max had already left for their return to college after the brief break. There were many similar themes and patterns that would repeat themselves with regard to my two younger siblings…does Stinson Beach still ring a bell?

Potentially it was events and memories like those as well as others detailed in prior posts, that poisoned the well of today, and helped fuel the division within my family? Maybe, there comes a point in time, and more specifically my life, when you can no longer stay in the roles assigned in childhood? Maybe I could no longer serve in my position as “whatever” it was that I was supposed to be? Maybe the circumstances following my divorce didn’t occur as Dorothy, Lilith and her husband, Dick, thought they would? Perhaps the ultimatums I was issued, which included “disowning” one of my children if I wanted to continue having any place in Lilith or Dorothy’s families’ lives, weren’t addressed by me, in the way they hoped? The truth is I may never know each and every reason why my/our family of origin, was split apart and irreparably broken. I’m good to own whatever part I played in the many, many, messes, but I’ve also evolved, and as such am NOT good to keep returning for another “whack at the piñata,” so to speak. Forgive, yes…but forget, not so fast. My experience indicates it’s best not to. Self-preservation is a skill I learned late, but once learned, it stuck.

That said, I remember with 100% certainty the exact moment when the conversation occurred between my Mom and me, when she stated she was unable to accept my offer as well as the home that went with it, on my little Rancho Valiente. Mom’s exact words, as she relayed them to me went like this, “if she chose to live on my ranch, even with an individual driveway and separate entrance designated just for her use, my two younger sisters were refusing to visit her…ever!” Mom gave me that news three days after we walked through the modest mechanical barn that already existed on the ranch, but which I converted to a 1500 sq. ft. home for her, with her input and suggestions along the way, as well as being complete with handicap/wheelchair access and an extra bedroom, should the day arrive when more extensive care might become a necessity. That conversation is as vivid in my memory, as if it had occurred yesterday. I remember her telling me tearfully, that she knew I would understand and would still visit her if she lived elsewhere, but Dorothy and Lilith would not reconsider their ultimatum if she remained on the ranch. The same conversation also happened to take place just three days following Mom’s dinner with “the girls and the marine” and resulted in the handwritten changes that were made to her Will and Trust at 10:00 p.m., Friday, April 12, 2013.

Mom didn’t end her days in the same way that Ma, my Grandmother, did, but regardless of the variations, Mom did end up living alone, and dying alone in an ICU bed at UCLA from failure to take appropriate care of her medical conditions, “per my phone conversation with the attending ICU physician on the morning of her passing. I can’t say with certainty how much longer my Mom might have lived, had she stayed on at Rancho Valiente with my crew of 6+ (at the time) to include her in our lives, watch over, provide and care for her health, but I can say, unequivocally, “a failure of care” WOULD NOT have been cited as the cause for Mom’s passing!

I can also attest, with 100% certainty, that the child I was required to disown, or sacrifice in some way, to prove my worth to my younger siblings and ensure a secure place in their lives, remains my best friend in life! She and my son-in-law are my people. They are my ride or die, trust with your life, call at 1:00 a.m., with no money running down a street in Florida, need help, kind of people. They are the ones who I can bicker, or even fight, with, but then take a three day road trip and have the best time of my life. Through big and high times, to low and lean times, we have somehow managed to stay together and lean on one another when one is needing either solace, or a titch of humbling. We have each other and are sure to administer whichever “medicine” we need, when needed.

Have I mentioned how long this post has taken to finish? Of course, I have, I must have. It’s just that this darn post is so damn long, I can’t remember anymore. Weeks, no! This one has been months in the making, and I’m still desperately searching for an end to place the final punctuation mark. There’s this “code of conduct” I heard spoken of once regarding the observation and practice of “The 5 C’s.” Those five C’s represent the qualities of character, courage, charity, courtesy and conscience. I realize that this particular blog post has not only been uncomfortably lengthy but has also given (good, bad, and ugly) illustrations of those five “C’s.” Whether you find that I abused the very essence, or a mere portion, of that particular code, or if you can see examples of when I abided by the code is something I’ll have to live with. Either way, it’s seems only fair to explain that that very code is one of the inspirations for how I chose the title for this blog entry, “Changes, Choices and Chiavari Chairs.” Only 3 “C’s” used here, and two of the three are key and vital parts of life. “Two out of three ain’t all that bad,” and I’ll gleefully take the two as they mark the impending close to this post, and as we approach the end to another year…as well as a brand new start!

Life, (and the people we share it with) is NOT a game to be played. I’ve had the privilege and curse of learning that lesson in, unfortunately and at great length, a multitude of ways. Still, I’m grateful for it all, and I appreciate the opportunity to grow from the lessons. Not everyone gets those opportunities, and there isn’t one day when I take that knowledge for granted. For any of you who have struggled along with me here, or in your own lives, to make sense of some of the demons which haunt us, and which may need releasing in order to put painful parts of our past to rest…thank you. Exposing your heart, hurt, failures, joys and successes for anyone, or everyone, to see and read is tough stuff. It’s been in excess of 5 decades of life (notice my “slight cushioning” of the age reference) and over a year and a half following the start of this blog, to get to the point where I am today. Can I finally release this particular post and writing as the sequel and close to my post “The Lyin’s Den,” on 10/18/21? Yes…here I am. It is what it is. I can accept that…now!

Mary Capone

Changes…Choices…& Chiavari Chairs!

Conflicted…

Triggers & The Truth