“Family Trust” Pt.2

THERE’S NO BETTER FACIAL EXPRESSION TO ACCOMPANY THIS PARTICULAR POST… AND SO MANY OTHERS TOO.

What are your thoughts? What comes to mind when you hear conversation about “Family Trusts?” Do you immediately think about the people in your life who are biologically linked to your shared bloodline, who’ve possibly known and loved you from day one, or is it the framework of a legal document which flashes before your mind’s eye? Originally, I’d have gone with the first option without hesitation, but for various reasons through the years, and particularly over the past decade, I’m beyond skeptical, if not downright dismissive of both. I’ve not been able to wrap my mind around the undercurrent of those two words and reconcile how they relate to my life. Those two seemingly innocuous words strung together generally imply that your family will always be a source of solace and strength. Similarly, the alternative meaning representative of a legal instrument bearing the same title and implying a financial construct, points to a more formal delineation of such a bond. Possibly, in some instances those suppositions have proven legit, but the new, hopefully improved, and more pragmatic me is also more than just a “titch” cynical, which prompts my urge to call B.S. on both. Why take such a negative approach? Well, how bout we go deeper and get to the crux of why I feel that way? Maybe the irony of the mixed meaning hits especially hard and close to home because each time I’ve encountered a document which outlines in writing the specific terms of a legally drafted “family trust,” very rarely do the provisions of such instruments have much to do with Merriam Webster’s definition of the word, trust?

My last blog entry “Part 1 of “Family Trust,” explained in very verbose, but typical, fashion how I’ve been struggling for months to get this mess of emotions untangled, figured out, and shared, so I can leave all those dark shadows and the people who create, cast, and pass them on behind. I don’t consider myself a quitter, but it would be disingenuous if I didn’t share with you that I’ve clicked on this “Family Trust” file on my laptop, opened it up and then hit the save icon, at least a hundred times or more…that is until two weeks ago, but why? Is there some latent resentment or other veiled issue nagging at me which prevents this title’s completion? Whatever havoc this topic has created and continues to stir up, I woke up this morning determined to quell the demons and put this matter to rest once and for all. Wish me luck, and please be patient should I stray from time to time; it’s just part of the process.

Perhaps I need to pause, re-examine, and truly dissect just exactly what it is “Family Trust” represents to me now versus 20 years ago, when I felt so wildly different about the subject than I do currently? I’m seriously not trying to appear vapid or moronic here, nor am I ignoring the obvious double entendre, particularly with the trove of legal experience I’ve been compelled over the years to absorb. Even without attending law school or ever having taken the Bar Exam, much less passing it, I’m reasonably confident to relay that “trusts” are typically a way to maneuver the handling of certain issues regarding property, assets, terms of a business relationship, etc. while someone or an entity is still alive, rather than a “Will,” which presumes that the someone has passed on but already delineated in writing exactly how they want their “estate” divided. It’s likely there are plenty of circumstances when it makes sense to create a trust document, in addition to a Will, especially if the emotion associated with the term “trust,” actually does accompany the legal instrument. But, what if a “family trust” is drafted solely as a preemptive measure to allow for the acquiring, non-disclosure, management, and manipulation of property. Hmmm, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up now; I think we’re getting somewhere. Just saying those words out loud and describing the concept which revolves around the premise gets me spinning and feeling awfully darn flush and “bejiggity,” which by the way is an actual word… promise. I’m also reminded of the times when I’ve been named as a party to such a document. Perhaps, all too predictably, my experience with those instances has nothing to do with the Merriam Webster take on “trust.” No, quite the opposite. The instances I can cite and share with you surrounding “Family Trust” are more like watching an enormous dumpster fire burst into an explosive decimation of everything in its wake.

Ok, yikes that’s a bit heavy even for me, but please hang in here with me?

You know how I’m always quick to reference my Catholicism? Well, I’m equally willing to learn about and remain open-minded regarding other faiths and points of view. Just give me a chance, and I promise this isn’t going to be some bible-banging testimonial or an attempt to drag you kicking and screaming on a religious quest. It’s more about timing. See, last week I was listening to someone talk about the Jewish observation of Yom Kippur, a tradition which symbolizes the “rebirth of hope” for all humans and is marked by a 24 hour “fast” followed by a formal breaking of the fast. It got me thinking that because yesterday… Sunday, officially marked the honoring of Yom Kippur, and sundown today broke the fast which commences on Yom Kippur, right now would be a great opportunity to post this blog entry. After all, can’t each of us use a little hope in our lives? I sure could. So maybe a formal acknowledgement and an ode to optimism is in order? With that in mind, let’s see if I can’t attempt to transform a dumpster fire into something more positive?

If you’ve been following DearEasyDiaries, even for just a little while, you’ve probably picked up on the variety of trials which have “two-stepped” their way through my life, and after my most recent post, there’s no way to forget my year-long adventure living just outside of Fort Worth, in Weatherford Texas…followed by a course reversal and return to California? There’s an outstanding chance that at the time I got a little out over my skis, which contributed to making such a decision, but how do you decide the best course of action when you’re drowning in both emotional and physical loss? The move to Texas was intended to distract from the drama and darkness that the past year and three family deaths dumped in my lap. The action was effective in that it absolutely brought change, huge drastic change, which redirected some of the pain and loss I was seeking to soothe.

But what does any of that background have to do with trust? Hmmm, not entirely sure? Still, I know where I’m trying to go, and I’m grateful that you’re giving me the opportunity to explore the process and perhaps release its hold on me. This introspection can sure feel repetitive at times but being able to vent and let go of past trials, which still pop up from time to time is a huge gift.

THIS POEM BY MARY OLIVER HAS PROVIDED ME WITH INSIGHT, STRENGTH, AND COMFORT, MORE TIMES THAN I CAN COUNT, AND MY PLAN IS TO CONTINUE RELYING UPON ITS INSPIRATION, BECAUSE THOSE DARK BOXES HAVE A WAY OF REAPPEARING.

Perhaps even more hindsight will provide a better understanding of why I so struggle with trust and why I seek out change? Let’s go there. Growing up in my family, there were always many complicated dynamics at work, but regardless of any troubles, “we didn’t do therapy.” As I was told often and early… “what nonsense; tell some random person the inner workings of our lives? I think not.” God knows we could have used the help, but it was not in the cards. Our family’s philosophy (best that I could tell) was, “pull yourself up by the bootstraps every morning and take on the day.”  We certainly didn’t trust outsiders with our personal business.” Way more than once, I remember thinking, hmm our family ship is sinking and maybe a little extra or outside help might prove useful. Still, no help was sought. So, what was “presented” as an idyllic lifestyle and the portrayal of a perfect family was merely an illusion; just one ginormous hot mess. Juggling storybook backgrounds, elevated educations, luxurious lives, and arranged marriages against the reality of rampant alcoholism, cheating spouses, rage, mental illness, control obsessions, huge financial scores, as well as a failure or two was challenging enough, but then toss in the multiple divorces both my parents experienced and, wow… the result was not something the collective bloodlines wore, or weathered, well. Not to mention that any scintilla of trust left in the wake of those messes was shred to bits.

When my biological parents divorced, it was quite the scandal. To begin with, the very act itself still represented a bit of a stigma in society or at least “our circles,” and it was also quite the “no, no” among the elder generations within my family. Secondly, my Mother requested an official Catholic annulment from my Dad, which sent my Father’s parents (at least my Grandmother) to the “cheap seats.” I don’t remember all the sordid details, but at age 12, I picked up enough to understand there was some big time drama being bandied about in hushed tones. Those were details that we kids weren’t supposed to have heard or known about. Albeit repetitive, it was far from secret that my Dad was an alcoholic, but somewhere between or after the birth of my younger siblings, or maybe just the baby, he added “womanizer” to his list of appropriate descriptors. Was it just coincidence that the strife started to occur sometime shortly after the birth of my younger siblings? I don’t know the answer for certain, but it sure felt increasingly apparent that after the last addition to our family, life was all but circling the bottom of the toilet. In retrospect and from volumes of photographic evidence as well as family stories, the milestone of Lilith’s arrival (the youngest) or “Treat,” a nickname we sometimes called her, she certainly appeared to be the proverbial straw which broke the camel’s back. Viv and I used to joke with each other, asking why Mom and Dad couldn’t have just watched T.V. that night, or the two nights… I mean really? That was also roughly the time Mom took up painting. Completely self-taught, she delved into the hobby with total abandon and turned-out dozens of canvases portraying beautiful scenes inspired by the work of artists she revered, like Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot and John Constable.  She relayed to me later on in life, that painting became her therapy. She would gather her supplies, take off for the beach and paint for hours on end, or until the pain and stress which occupied her mind subsided. I thought she was very talented, and her paintings graced walls and walls of our homes, but back in the day I didn’t know the precise details of how her hobby was originally inspired. In retrospect, the sudden painting obsession helps explain why I felt like she was absent for much of our day-to-day events, leaving our care to my dear “Easy” or the numerous caretakers and housekeepers we employed. Names like Miss Cameron, Teodala, Frances, Graciela, Hildy, Max, and Ignacio are well-remembered, but never with the loving sentiment that Easy inspired.

ART IS TRULY IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER. WITH THAT SENTIMENT IN MIND, I ALWAYS THOUGHT MOM’S WORK, WHILE STIRRING AND PAINSTAKINGLY DETAILED, EXPRESSED A SADNESS WHICH SPOKE FROM THE BROODY COLORING OF SKIES AND BACKGROUNDS THAT PREVAILED AMONGST A MAJORITY OF HER CANVASES. STILL, I SUPPOSE THERE COULD BE COMFORT FOUND KNOWING MOM EXPLORED THERAPY THROUGH ARTISTIC EXPRESSION RATHER THAN INFIDELITY?

Dad’s idea of “therapy,” translated to philandering (or just plain f***ing around) and by the time my youngest sibling was around three years of age, it was impossible to deny what was being flaunted in our faces. Mom turned the other cheek, so to speak, on more occasions than I could count. If I’ve already shared this next instance… sorry; it’s one of those memories that’s hard to ditch. On a particularly warm Summer Saturday in Poway, one of Dad’s many “lady” (wildly loose interpretation of the word) friends (also his secretary) appeared at a horse show where we, the whole fam-damily, were competing. Diane, complete with a young daughter in tow, strode purposefully towards our set-up amongst a field full of trucks and trailers. She proceeded to stand there beside our “horse show rig” as though she belonged, while Mom scurried about getting my sisters and me ready to show? Even at the age of 10½, I could feel how bizarre and wrong the scene felt. The situation took an oddly weird, but kind of wonderful turn of kismet when Diane’s daughter turned to Viv and said, “wouldn’t it be fun if we were sisters?” With that, Viv (then 16) who just happened to be horseback, looked down on the girl and without uttering a single word, spat on the tousled head of brown hair staring up at her before turning away and galloping off in another direction. Bless her heart, that big sister of mine; when Viv was on your side, there was no fiercer ally. She always possessed a special knack for knowing exactly when and how to drive home a dagger. Nevertheless, Viv’s open act of defiance provided for one hell of a long ride home at the show’s conclusion. The six of us (Mom, Dad, my sisters, and me) all crammed into our big red Suburban, pulling a trailer loaded with horses and the plethora of accessories that accompany a horse show lifestyle, were left simmering in painful silence. Regardless of how many classes we might have won, or how many blue ribbons and silver trophies we had earned, the ride back to Rancho Santa Fe and our Lago Lindo ranch was brutal at best.

Without question… a large measure of trust was eroded following that particular instance, but there was more... Dad didn’t just continue to drink excessively; he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stop the dalliances. There were hairdressers, “bartendresses,” shopkeepers, and who knows what or how many others? I get it; he was horribly unhappy, as Mom surely felt too, but why did they continue such a charade, all the while tearing each other apart, rather than ending an obviously untenable situation with a modicum of dignity? I’ll never know because I was never brave enough to ask.

THIS PHOTO MAY BE A REPEAT, OR EVEN A THREE-PEAT, BUT IT’S WORTH SHOWING AGAIN BECAUSE IT SO ACCURATELY PORTRAYS THE FAÇADE MY FAMILY LIVED AND HID BEHIND. THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN AFTER THE HORRIBLE “DIANE/HORSESHOW” INCIDENT AND APPROXIMATELY ONE YEAR PRIOR TO MY PARENT’S SPLIT. THAT’S SOME MESSED UP CRAP. YOU’D THINK I MIGHT HAVE LEARNED FROM IT ALL?

One day as I walked from the kitchen through the living room to the bedroom wing of our sprawling Lago Lindo, Adobe Ranch home, the phone rang. I answered to hear an unfamiliar woman’s voice asking to speak to Andy, but that’s as far as I got. My Mom, who had been two steps behind me took the phone from my hand and ended up speaking to the caller herself. I don’t know what words were exchanged as Mom motioned for me to leave the room, but that call marked the end of a 20-year marriage. I often wondered what was different about THAT call or the woman on the other end of the line? We all knew there were many, many other women who had come and gone before, and there would probably be many more to follow. Regardless of the specific impetus, it was done. Dad was gone, divorce was imminent, and that was that.

PHOTO OF PAGES FROM MOM AND DAD’S DIVORCE AGREEMENT… IN ADDITION TO THE “CLARIFICATION” OF THE CERTAIN DETAILS MOM CHOSE TO RELAY TO US KIDS REGARDING CUSTODIAL ISSUES, THE DOCUMENT OUTLINED THE ASSETS DAD TOOK AWAY FROM MY PARENT’S MARRIAGE. THAT’S MOST LIKELY “FODDER” FOR A LATER TIME

As has been the case so often during my past many years, the actual legal documents which accompanied specific events had very little, if any, correlation to the way in which real time experiences were either communicated or played out. Maybe that’s in part why my thought process became so triggered in response to Aunt Dora’s assemblage of odd cards, notes and “post-its” attacking both my Mother and myself, which I depicted in my last blog entry?  Neither of my parents were perfect; neither am I, but it was hardly necessary nor terribly mature for my Aunt complete with her extensive education, numerous degrees, including a doctorate as well as a semi-truck load of AA rhetoric and Alanon hyperbole, to issue the judgement that was packed in amongst the notes she sent. Dora was a Catholic Nun for the majority of my upbringing, so she was rarely around and had less than zero knowledge of the intricate workings of my childhood family. Some 40+ odd years later is certainly not an optimum time to rehash the dirty laundry of past years. Oops, but here I find myself doing exactly that… weird, right? There, that last sentence might just be the perfect way to close the door on at least that one past link to the present?

Who knew that just over one year from when Mom and Dad’s divorce was final, my Mother would be saying, “I do” to someone else? Probably goes without saying but Dad had remarried as well, and to the voice on the phone from that fateful day at Lago Lindo no less. Change was everywhere. It was a strange transition and one doozy of an awkward Summer that followed my Mom’s backyard (albeit lovely) remarriage to George Texeira, the self-proclaimed “portogee Cowboy” who swept my Mom off her feet. Theirs was a whirlwind romance and extraordinary love, unlike anything I had ever seen. It was refreshingly honest and made me feel secure and safe, emotions I hadn’t felt for a very long time. No, it wasn’t all roses and sunshine; there were obstacles, like my maternal Grandparents, who had been an ever-present fixture in our lives forever but couldn’t quite picture their only daughter and my Grandfather’s favorite child marrying a horse trainer. It just wouldn’t do. But marry him she did, and rather than lose Mom, or their four granddaughters, Ma and Pa held their tongues, and not only attended the wedding, but followed us when Mom and George decided Rancho Santa Fe was not for them and moved us all to Santa Ynez.     

There is a quote often attributed to Abraham Lincoln which reads, “the best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother.” John Mayer’s moving song, “Daughters” has always reinforced that sentiment in my mind, and I wish it was prerequisite listening for any person raising not just a daughter but any child. For a multitude of reasons and certainly after watching Mom and George during their years together, I understand how that’s true and am grateful to have known its effect, but I also know the consequences when it’s not the case. So too, do my now-adult children. I sometimes ponder how those details affect “family trust” long term? But I digress; let’s put a pin on that for the time being.

Back to Mom and George… despite Ma and Pa’s suspicions and doubt about my Stepfather, my Grandparents eventually came around, and we returned to being the all-inclusive, if a tad bit eccentric family unit I had experienced as a child. Birthdays, holidays, at least two or three dinners a week and many other times were shared in Santa Ynez at our Refugio ranch and home for the next six odd years.

Early on, during my first semester of Freshman year at University of San Diego after transferring mid-year from St. Mary’s College, I received a call. Surprisingly, and oddly enough it was from my Dad. I was heading out for my first morning class, when Dad called to ask if he could stop by to see me. I didn’t know what to think but agreed to his request and an hour or so later, he arrived on campus, met me in front of my dorm where he then steered me to a quiet corner of my dorm’s common room and gently broke the news that my Grandfather, Pa, had passed the night before. I will forever remember him handing me his hankie, which I have to this day, as he put his arms around me in a display of comfort. While that experience opened the door to a whole other host of issues, his appearance raised a litany of questions regarding the relationship he had maintained with my Grandparents and specifically Pa. Why was it that my Father, who had been all but banned from his daughter’s lives for the past several years, was suddenly tasked with relaying such a sad piece of news? Something didn’t add up. Why weren’t  my Mother or older sister, Viv, the ones to share such a poignant event?

PICTURED HERE ARE MY FATHER, MY MATERNAL GRANDFATHER, AND MY PATERNAL GRANDFATHER ALL GATHERING TO CELEBRATE AND HONOR THE ANNUAL KNIGHTS OF MALTA INDUCTION CEREMONY HELD IN MANHATTAN, NEW YORK.

Dad knew, understood, and held deep respect for my grandfather, Pa. They were both Knights of Malta, had spent a great deal of time together and each held a very keen interest in real estate and property development. But did those details outweigh or erase the animosity which existed between my parents for years and years? Enough, Missy stop. Not only did I never get an answer to that anomaly, but my A.D.D. is kicking in big-time, and if I don’t get back on track now, I may ramble on for another 15 pages before circling back to the topic at hand…

GRAPHIC OF PA’S WILL & TRUST, DELINEATING THE DISBURSEMENTS… “PA’S” WILL AND TRUST IS THE FIRST TIME I WAS EVER LISTED AS A BENEFICIARY IN AN OFFICIAL TRUST DOCUMENT.

 The original Will & Trust detailing my Grandfather’s last wishes did NOT cut my Mom out as one of his beneficiaries, as I was always told. Rather, it divided the estate in parts. The original Will outlined that one half was to go exclusively to my Grandmother Ma, and the remaining half was to be divided as follows: 50% to my uncle, DER, Jr. with the remaining 50% to be divided among my Mom (with ½) and my siblings and me to share equally the remaining half, when we reached the age of 25, incrementally. Viv was already 25+ years of age upon Pa’s passing, and I recall her asking for her share then. I was the oldest of the other three at 18, so there was nothing for us to receive at the time. Pa’s original Will & Trust is not what is pictured above. Two years between Pa’s passing and this, “reinvented” document was surely the work of my freaking narcissistic, albeit charming uncle? The dynamic within my Mom’s family of origin consisting of herself, her Mom (Ma) and my uncle, DER, Jr. was drastically altered following my Grandfather’s death. It became clear, very quickly, that Pa was the glue binding the family together. While my Grandmother always adored my uncle, Pa never had much use for his Son. I frequently overheard conversations about how often Pa had had to “bail” my uncle out of whatever financial mess he had most recently made. Funny thing, (funny odd, not funny haha) but my parent’s divorce agreement mentioned a substantial loan my parents had collectively made to my uncle prior to their divorce. Apparently, Pa wasn’t the only one called upon to “bail out” my uncle, DER. Jr.!

Because I was away at college for the next two years, I was absent for much of what transpired during those years. Summer vacations had become tense, even unpleasant. George was drinking more than his couple Heinekens per day and tension filled the tiny little red Refugio ranch house when everyone was home, which curiously happened less and less frequently. Mom had taken Dorothy and Lilith (“Treat”) to a new horse trainer, bought them new show horses to go with the change in trainers, and between the extensive show schedule, which Mom, Viv, my baby Nephew, and sisters frequented, they weren’t around much. He never said anything to me about it, but I imagine George had to feel pretty crummy about the sudden changes in loyalty. After all, he WAS a horse trainer himself and had been ours for the past four to five years. Surely the new regime must have symbolized a mighty big slap in the face for my Stepfather? A year later when I arrived home from the twelve months spent attending Katherine Gibbs School in Boston, I was the one feeling the sting of a severe slap in the face. Our home life, as I knew it was non-existent. No more George, no more horses, and Mom had up and moved to Hancock Park in Los Angeles, where my Grandparents lived during Mom’s college years. Any substantive physical signs that the past six to seven years ever existed had completely vanished. In typical family fashion, there was no mention made nor discussion of George’s absence allowed. I was simply told that my prized show horse as well as “dear friend/therapist,” Toppy’s Sis was out to pasture at some horse retirement ranch and all my tack, Silver Headstalls, Ortega reins, custom Saddle, as well as every other tangible remembrance of my past life, including a couple dogs and a cat, was gone. It had all been either sold or given away. The one remaining memento awaiting me was the original portrait of Toppy, which my parents had personally commissioned and gifted me prior to their split. I struggled to comprehend the abrupt and heartless manner in which the past seven years was completely dismantled, without so much as a word to me while the action was being executed? The confusion was mine alone to navigate; my Sisters and Mom had seemingly moved on, both physically and emotionally.

THIS PORTRAIT AND OTHER HORSESHOW DAY PHOTOS STILL HANG IN MY HOME TODAY. YOU KNOW THE EXPRESSION, “A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS,” WELL THAT PART OF MY JOURNEY SURE PROVES THAT THE ADAGE IS SPOT ON. WORDS AND “TRUST” WERE NOT HIGH ON THE PRIORITY LIST IN MY FAMILY OF ORIGIN.

Why on earth did I just take that little stroll down memory lane? If you’ve been patient and tenacious enough to stick with me this long… thank you, and I promise the answer to that question is coming, albeit in a roundabout sort of manner.

Remember when I said in the last blog entry that my return to California from Texas reconnected me with a few long-lost family relatives? It did, and Aunt Dora was but one of those. The others were additional cousins but in this instance they hailed from my Mom’s side, rather than my Dads. They proved another reminder that “Family Trust” is an elusive concept. The exact individuals shall remain nameless but played a pivotal role in my revisiting the topic of a “legally” documented “Family Trust.”  I hadn’t heard of, from, or seen them in well over 30+ years, but quite suddenly, they were reaching out in the hopes I may have been able to provide some answers and details regarding one of their siblings; probably not too surprisingly the same cousin who had overseen the deceptive change and fraudulent administration of my Mother’s estate following her passing. It came as no big shocker that the same cousin was being called out by his siblings for deviously manipulating my uncle, the one and (thank God) only DER, Jr. This time, the alleged claims and discussion centered around the specific sibling committing elder abuse, a heinous accusation and one which apparently wasn’t an isolated incident. “Pablo” had taken to befriending elderly people who either lived in or near apartment complexes my uncle had developed, and which my cousin managed. I never quite grasped the extraneous examples of the elder abuse they referenced, but I absolutely agreed with their assessment and assertions that Pablo had screwed over not only his siblings, but his own father as well. The negligence and fraud he committed while acting as executor of Mom’s estate illustrated exactly how far he would go to satisfy his own agenda. Honesty, fair play, transparency, and fiduciary responsibility meant ZERO to Pablo.

The few of us cousins who reunited, so to speak, have talked on the phone occasionally over the past few years, and admittedly I had no qualms being forthright and abundantly open with my responses when they made inquiries regarding the way their brother handled Mom’s Will & Trust details. At first, I didn’t think much beyond their particular situation and how I might be helpful to them. Since then, over the past four plus years with some careful backtracking, documentation, and financial forensics, along with the unanswered questions about Pa’s estate, George’s disappearance and whatever happened to my share of my Grandfather’s  Will and “Family Trust,” has finally been revealed.

THESE TWO… BROTHER AND SISTER, EACH ENDED UP IN DEATH HAVING BEEN COMPLETELY DECEIVED BY THEIR CHOSEN FAVORED “CHILDREN.” TURNS OUT, PA’S DEATH ALL THOSE YEARS AGO SET INTO MOTION A MESS AND MAZE OF LIES, GREED, AND HATEFULNESS SO TWISTED, IT’S ALMOST UNFATHOMABLE.

NOT QUITE TWO YEARS AGO, I WROTE A POST ENTITLED “CHANGES, CHOICES & CHIAVARI CHAIRS;” TURNS OUT THE “ICKY” SIBLING DYNAMIC I REFERENCED MIGHT HAVE BEEN RECIPROCAL, BASED ON THIS PHOTO AND THE UNLIMITED AUTHORITY/POWER MY MOM SO CAVALIERLY GAVE MY UNCLE ONCE MY GRANDFATHER WAS GONE?

 My recent reaction and addled response to Aunt Dora’s package of wretched notes and purging, was not an isolated event. Another blow followed shortly thereafter. The latest “knife” didn’t arrive via the mail. No, it came in the form of a text, but combined with the spite I felt from Dora, the contents of that text held the power to temporarily paralyze me. No more. While I can’t undo or reinevent the past, understanding bygone events and the “players” involved, far surpasses the value of whatever dirty money and possessions those three favored children (referred to above) and others received.

BUDDHA IS QUOTED AS HAVING SAID, “THREE THINGS CANNOT BE LONG HIDDEN: THE SUN, THE MOON AND THE TRUTH…”

To that sentiment I respond, spot on!

So too I’m afraid, that this Part 2 of my “Family Trust” journey still doesn’t tell the whole story. There’s more, but I can hardly ask of you the patience to continue now, so how about we turn this into a trilogy? Surely you know how I love tying a song to my post entries? Well, I think this next title makes an ideal transition from Part 2 to upcoming Part 3. Just ask your dear Siri to play “Dirty Laundry” by Don Henley. The song always makes me feel like I ought to stock up on some Tide, and just to leave this post on a truly positive note… hooray for this past weekend’s SEC wins; Roll Tide Roll.