The Lyin’s Den
It’s some kind of crazy world when this type of Lion is far less scary than the kind of “lyin” beasts you’re used to!
Good grief…what in the world? Once again, I find myself struggling to finish a post, which seems to be a recurring theme lately? My last “pause,” and the subject matter in question hasn’t been in the “drafts” section of my laptop for the past five to six weeks. No, in reality, it has been a work in progress for, at least, the past three years, and realistically, more like the past 10 to 13 years, if not much longer? Wherever “it’s” been and for however long it’s been there, I think it’s about time, or waaaay past time to “air” it. So much for the expression, “airing our dirty laundry,” that my Mom used to warn (or strictly forbid) my sisters and me from doing? The “dirt” I’m talking about here is particularly intense for me to recount, and as conflicting as it may get to explain, the intricacies are too complicated to assign to just one blog entry, so this will probably be merely a starting point. The song I reference, below, is not only representative of the heavy and emotional nature of the subject, but also takes me far out of my comfort zone, just as the discussing of this subject does; hence the delay in activity on “DearEasyDiaries!”
A small snippet of just some of the oh-so, apropos lyrics from the song, “Guts Over Fear” by artist Eminem, and featured in the movie, “The Equalizer, Pt. 1”
Slight detour…
Two weeks ago today, Monday the 4th, my “proverbial cage” was rattled a bit. As the day went on, another swift kick in the “arss,” arrived, but alas that “kick” was exactly what I needed to get me back in front of my laptop and finish this baby! For several years now, I have enjoyed getting to learn about the nuances and benefits of using social media, and while most of the time, my use of the various platforms (Instagram being my favorite) serves primarily as an outlet and source of inspiration, using images, quotes and stories that capture my fancy. It can also be, from time to time, a place to vent and share my frustration with the world at large and the depressing trends I see sweeping across our country. Apparently, however, my recent outspokenness and several of the political positions that I’ve chosen to comment on, and have shared in my IG stories “have become suspect and likely to incite violence?” (Direct quote) Well, at least that’s how the notification read from the “algorithm-based suits or the cult-like figureheads” that regulate social media? As such I’ve been issued a “rap of the ruler” on my wrist, much like the days of old in both my very Catholic home and short stint in Parochial school. If that analogy is not visual enough to communicate my “punishment,” maybe the fact that I have been put on an IG “timeout” for 30 days, to be followed by a “formal review” to determine my social media future, is a more effective clarification? Who would have ever guessed that I might be deemed “radical” enough to be a victim of censorship? Not me…that’s for sure. However, I’m choosing to pivot, and am using this little hiatus from IG as a very healthy and “much-needed cleanse!” That said, I’m also hoping to complete at least three of the blog entries that have all been started, and some of which go hand-in-hand with this entry, but are still not quite wrapped up into one complete, tidy little package…just yet. Wish me luck and let’s see how far I get?
This expression becomes more self-evident with every passing day.
It may be a little tricky to successfully connect the few sentences before my “social media distraction” to the bottom line of this post’s origin, intention and the point I hope to have communicated by the end? Be that as it may, it’s a challenge I’m willing to accept. Maybe I can liken the situation to Twitter and their new “trigger warnings” regarding intense conversations, and the like? Yes, that sounds about right, and now I can only thank the dear Lord, I don’t “tweet!” Nonetheless, I suppose I’ve been “triggered,” and that’s a theme I believe I can successfully weave throughout the rest of this blog post/story and well beyond. As is the case with my social media platform, I wonder…have I also been silenced on a larger stage, like the stage of my life? Maybe? I suppose we’ll have to wait and see how this all ends up?
Whether it’s IG world, bizarro world, “Brandon’s world,” my world, or any other world, I still have a tough time accepting and can’t help but wonder how it’s possible I spent so many years being raised among, surrounded by, and accustomed to hearing decades upon decades of lies, and trusting the assortment of people who spewed them, so that the practice of living with those lies was not just accepted, but actually became normalized? Albeit a long-a** question, it’s still a fair question…right?
Twenty years, maybe even ten years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated very long before answering that very long question with an, “I have NO idea.” Today, I may struggle a bit to express the answer, but I’m 99% sure, my assessment of the correct answer is spot on. “RUTHLESSNESS”..…yes, that’s it. That word and its definition (“merciless, cruel, having no pity”) is by far the most appropriate adjective I can offer to define the actions of so many family members and others that peppered my upbringing, marriage, and the many years since. Like the heat that a “Ghost” chili leaves in its wake, the burn I experienced for the first 45+ years of my life, and the actions of the many characters who held such pivotal parts throughout all those years can be summed up in that one word…ruthless! So just how did I go about getting from there to here? I was once, and for a very long time unbelievably naïve and never considered that an in-depth examination of the “reality” around me was seriously warranted. Several years ago, that changed. Before I go on, there are a couple footnotes or insights I should share. For much of my upbringing and the past in general, I held the unenviable position of being “low man on the totem pole” in my familial circle, and was on the receiving end of a long, but steady stream of manipulations, abuse, and a litany of sad stories being repeated over and over again with some of it, quite literally shoved down my throat. Someday, maybe, I’ll share with you the details of the time I was tied to a chair, tipped backwards and had a full glass of milk poured down my throat? Ummm…no, probably not! Examples like that one aren’t proud moments, nor do they appear on any list of cute little anecdotes that make for good cocktail party conversation, something at which I did, eventually, become fairly skillful. For now, it will suffice to say that while instances like those were unbelievably messy, and nowhere close to entertaining, they were, regrettably, a part of my reality. It wasn’t just one or two isolated experiences either…there were several. One such occasion occurred in my early 20’s and found one of my younger siblings and I driving to Northern California, from our then home in Los Angeles, for a long, holiday weekend. I was heading to visit “R,” the “on again, off again love of my life” (check blog entry, “My Brand Is 10 Minutes Late” from 3/7/21 for details) and my sister, just two years younger, was going to spend the weekend at a reunion of high school buddies at a wealthy friend’s family compound on Stinson Beach. We were going to take my new car which also happened to be my Mother’s “hand-me down” Mercedes that she had given to me, knowing it needed some work as the result of a couple deferred maintenance issues, but which I was only too happy to take on, and purchased new tires, authorized a complete service overhaul, as well as obtaining a car insurance policy, which listed my name for the very first time as an official automobile owner. The weekend was wonderful, but when noon on Monday arrived and it was time to return home, the phone call I received to give me the location where my sister would meet me, since she had taken my car after dropping me with “R” was from my Mom, not my younger sister Dorothy? It was definitely not a happy phone call. Bottom line…. “my new/old car had met with a little trouble? Someone had (allegedly) taken the keys from my sister when she was asleep and apparently drove all over a huge swath of the Stinson Beach oceanfront, plowing across tree stumps, as well as what had to be miles of rough sand dunes, large pieces of driftwood and God only knows what else.” My Mom continued “explaining the situation,” saying my sister was staying in Stinson Beach, and would meet a tow truck in a few hours to have my car removed from the beach, but we were certainly not going to be able to drive home as originally planned. I remember being distraught and upset on the car ride to the San Francisco Airport where “R” parked, and walked me to the airline gate from which my flight to Los Angeles would leave. I had to be at work by 8:00 am the following morning, and I wasn’t about to let another one of my sister’s screw-ups jeopardize a job I not only liked but really needed. I was, however, both furious and bewildered at the way the bizarre circumstances were being disclosed and addressed. Dorothy was compiling quite the list of “f***-ups,” and while I really shouldn’t have been surprised by the incident itself, I WAS truly blindsided when my Mom, in her unique, and distinctly steely, tone-of-voice reserved for serious occasions like these, began accusing me of being petty, selfish, and harsh. “How could I be so self-absorbed and seemingly more concerned for my car than my younger sister,” she asked indignantly? Meanwhile, I was silently asking myself, “wait…how did this mess become my fault?” Pretty sure that whatever my answer at the time was, it was different than the one I’d like to be able to relay now, but truth be told, I don’t remember exactly what I said when I finally responded to my Mom? It’s probably safe to assume that whatever words escaped my mouth weren’t very kind, and I know for a fact they were not met with understanding, as my Mother proceeded to read me an extensive list of my own shortcomings and faults. The conversation ended with a clear and pointed message imparted from my Mother telling me, “this ‘accident’ and the damages done to my car were NOT Dorothy’s fault, and I wasn’t to utter one more word which might even remotely resemble an accusation….it was done, period.” I was told to find a way home, and that Dorothy would wait for my car to be repaired. Lastly, I was directed to “reexamine my priorities.” That little episode concluded with a $2000+ price tag to repair the very real and actual damage that had been done to the undercarriage of my car, which, thankfully, was covered by my brand new insurance policy, but only once I coughed up the $500 deductible, in addition to incurring a hefty premium increase, and living with the few exterior dents and abrasions that remained as “a little souvenir” from the experience. There was no mention of the several automobile accidents, the numerous traffic citations, or the school suspension and expulsion which had shadowed Dorothy over the past years, and which would precede an “intervention,” along with a number of other instances that had yet to play out. Rather, life simply went on, as had always been the case during our upbringing, with absolutely no interest given to the truth, nor any consideration other than the “option” that was being given at the time. Any discussion I might have wanted to broach regarding an ACTUAL determination, or resolution to the question of the precise details which had transpired along the Stinson Beach coastline and Dorothy’s weekend was swiftly dismissed.
The timing of that event couldn’t have been more troublesome for me; George (my stepfather) was already gone from our life, and if I had ever had an ally in the past, it was originally Easy, my Dad, my Grandparents, Ma & Pa, then George, but none of them were available right then, and I was on my own to navigate the politics of our family dynamic the best I could. As was the usual pattern for how my Mother and family of origin dealt with “unpleasant topics,” the matter was simply erased from the canvas of our lives and “swept away under some rug” never to reappear. Poof…just like magic, the unpleasantness of a bad situation was gone, as though it had never occurred in the first place; the same type of treatment was also given to people! Similarly, as had happened with my Father, many extended family members of my childhood, as well as my stepfather George, and even my Grandmother, Ma… they discovered that when they were no longer “pleasant subjects,” they could just “disappear.” But where did they go?
I can take it; but I’m not sure about some others?
The parallel between those years and real time today (if there is one, and there absolutely is), is that then as now, there are very few people who I truly and implicitly trust. History and experience holds the power to inform our decisions, but wouldn’t it be so great, if we/I could pull an “I Dream of Jeannie” (google it, if you’re likely younger than me) moment with a quick folding of the arms, a blink and a nod, and magically bypass the years of tough lessons to arrive neatly where we are today without all the pain? No, I take that back; if that were the case, I wouldn’t have my two kids, I wouldn’t have learned to question and examine what comes out of people’s mouths as “irrefutable gospel” before knowing the actual veracity of their statements, and I certainly wouldn’t have learned a few of my most treasured lessons…..stand up for yourself, stand up for the principles you believe in, and prioritize those who prioritize you.
I spent countless years placing my faith in “the adults” and the narratives that they chose to portray as “the end all and be all in life.” Oddly enough, I’ve found, and still occasionally find, myself watching a version of that morass repeat itself all over again. This time it is viewed from a very different perspective; I’m viewing it all from the perspective of someone who escaped, NOT disappeared. There’s an enormous difference. It may be an unconventional comparison, but I think an appropriate one? If you’ll hang in here with me and indulge my somewhat unusual thought process, let’s see if I can’t make some sense of the connection I’m trying to make? The song, “Guts Over Fear” and a tiny section of the lyrics which appeared at the beginning of this blog entry, are from part of the ending and subsequent credits in the movie, “The Equalizer,” (Pt. 1). It’s a perplexing part of who I am (or rather who I have become) but as my own life has proven, in frequently cruel ways, how often my perceptions and hopes were false, I find it bizarrely comforting watching movies which portray a certain darkness and redemption that I find myself empathizing with? Maybe it’s an escape, or some type of defense mechanism; I’m still not sure? Regardless of the reason, the habit exists and brings with it an ironic sense of clarity and peace. It’s probably no coincidence that being able to also openly express that type of raw, odd emotion is a foreign, but another new trait that I find myself embracing.
“COINCIDENCE IS GOD’S WAY OF REMAINING ANONYMOUS.” ALBERT EINSTEIN (I’m not 100% sure this quote fits RIGHT here, but it fits in my life far more often, the older I get.)
It’s curious to think of a Denzel Washington character being my muse, but as his persona from both of the “Equalizer” movies watches the injustice that takes place around him, and then follows up to right the wrongs which plague both stories, a somewhat recent “aha moment” I experienced and the resulting discoveries it provided hit really close to home. Those discoveries are compelling enough that I feel a sense of responsibility to reveal a lengthy family history of drama, deception, and treachery that needs to be, at the very least, recognized even if I don’t hold the power to reverse or fix any of the wrongs that have happened for so many successive generations. My own life is far from perfect (and I don’t try to pretend that it is), but I do believe that none of us can positively change our present, nor the future without taking inventory of our past. If I don’t challenge the myths that guided my life for so long, or the certain people from my past who continue to perpetuate that misery, then I’m as guilty as the actual wrongdoers, and I can’t live with that low, often cruel, and misguided standard. Even if I do nothing more than identify the truth rather than perpetuating the lies of the past, so that I don’t end up repeating or passing on what is such a grossly, toxic cycle, I will be satisfied. Yes, there IS still much from my past which seems to repeat itself, BUT thankfully, most of the time, not in my little bubble…not anymore! The repetition that does exist, happens in circles I no longer frequent, nor in ones where I am welcome any longer, by God’s grace. That said, I do watch (from a safe distance) as siblings, cousins, an uncle, my ex, and others, continue a pattern of behavior which is not just self-serving, but destructive, harmful, often illegal, and 97% of the time, morally bankrupt too.
Powerful truth!
2016 was an indescribably difficult and painful year; I lost my Mom, Stepfather and older Sister (my first friend in life)…all within the first eight months. It’s hard to explain what those losses represented? The abyss that was left in their absence, was even harder to process than trying to understand the complexities of the interactions that occurred throughout the decades of years in between my childhood, teens, early 20’s, the Stinson Beach experience, then through all the years of my marriage, beyond, and into those first many months of 2016. The intricacies, nuances and the relationships resulting from all of those years and their lessons, are what have made me…me though, and that person is one I still try to understand and attempt to make better every day, and so onward I go.
Much of what transpired throughout that horrible year of 2016 had not only immediate, but ongoing ramifications, as well as revelations that continue to appear today. There’s no way I could have imagined what would follow as a consequence of that year and the losses it brought. After all the years and events that filled the time leading up to that juncture, I still had so many more lessons and tough realities to process and emerge from…hopefully differently than I had done before.
I have no recollection of where this photo was taken, but I’m so grateful to have it. There’s a saying, “life imitates art.” Whether that’s true or not, I’m struck by the oddities and the order that exist in this one image. 1.) My Mom had to feel VERY much at ease to take her shoes off anywhere other than her home, or one of ours. 2.) George had on “loafers,” rather than Cowboy boots? Always the way (in boots) I’ll lovingly remember him. 3.) Viv is sitting comfortably with both of them, and allowing George the role of “comforter in chief?” Absolutely not the norm for very long at all. 4.) The order in which they are sitting is the same order in which the world, and I, lost them! I suppose that saying is true after all.
There have been instances in past blog entries when I’ve shared isolated parts of this next experience, but I need to briefly revisit the start of 2016 to help unravel the layers which have enshrouded decades of secrets and a treacherous past. On January 6, 2016, my older Sister (Viv) and I were notified in a very brief and icy (much like its sender) text from our youngest sibling, Lilith, of our Mother’s presence in the I.C.U. of a Los Angeles hospital where she had spent the past week. The next morning, as I was in my car on the way to the same Los Angeles hospital to see my Mom, my cell received another text. My son was with me and he read aloud the short sequence of words contained within. The second text was as bereft as the first, from the same sender, and advised me of our Mother’s passing. There was an additional statement revealing that neither Viv, myself, nor our families’ presence or involvement was either needed or welcome…period. The next few days revealed a blur of details that came too late and were no longer relevant but which confirmed a reality that had yet to fully sink in and was also demanding of further scrutiny.
As the email chain above between Lilith and myself portrays, we were given no option, so Viv and I held our own Memorial Service for our Mother. Our two collective families shared an opportunity to be together with a small group of ours and Mom’s collective friends as we honored our Mother, Grandmother and friend, bid our farewells and shared fond memories. We had a traditional Catholic Mass at Old Mission Santa Ines, and I was pleasantly surprised, at the last minute when one of Mom’s favorite Priests arrived to celebrate Mom’s Mass, and to be with us as we gathered to mourn and share our loss. Old Mission Santa Ines had been one of our family’s time-favored churches, filled with memories from occasions past. From Viv’s Wedding in 1976, to my first Nephew’s Christening in 1980, then my Grandfather, Pa’s funeral service in 1981, my own son’s Christening in 1996, followed by my sister, Lilith’s Wedding that same year, and on to my daughter’s First Holy Communion, subsequent Confirmation, and concluding with Mom’s Memorial Mass in January of 2016, there were many events which confirmed how special that Mission was, and the site of so many family milestones. Father “D’s” recurring presence to celebrate many of those rituals, but especially the last occasion, was both a blessing and a comfort.
Just as Viv, myself and our families were excluded from Mom’s passing, (in addition to the final two and a half years of her life), so too were we cut out of all the other details that usually follow a loved one’s death. My two younger sisters, a cousin, and uncle (my Mom’s only sibling) took over! They stripped her residence of everything they wanted, packed the remaining items, and five months following her death, Viv and I were sent an email providing us with a small window of time to collect the items they chose to leave us.
Viv lived four hours away from our Mom’s last residence, and with her busy professional schedule, the various deals and escrows she was working on and other responsibilities, she wasn’t able to get away in the very abbreviated time frame we had been issued, and so authorized me to pick up the items that had been assigned to her, while I collected what had been designated for me. That said, I chose one of the few days that had been offered and arrived at the (2946 Verde Vista Dr.) address to find a shell of a house, with two separate stacks of boxes laid out in the main front room and a large piece of paper taped accordingly, identifying the two piles as either Viv’s or mine. The two sections of boxes along with a very worn upholstered chair, matching ottoman, a small wooden chair/step stool, a slightly bent iron, towel rack and a couple small children’s tables were the extent of items “awarded” to Viv and myself. There were a few miscellaneous items left in the garage which were either broken or obviously left behind as trash piles…but that was it. My cousin who had been a late night, hand-written substitution and “amended Executor” of our Mother’s trust had assured us, verbally, as well as in writing during a subsequent and lengthy chain of email communications, that he was going to perform a thorough inventory to account for all of Mom’s personal items, (furniture, jewelry, silver, pewter, antiques, paintings etc…) and would make sure that Mom’s request that her estate be divided equally, and that the 25% to be shared with each of her four daughters, would be strictly observed, respected and upheld. That never happened. Five months following my Mother’s death, Pablo my cousin, and the “Executor of Mom’s Estate” was still paying rent on my Mom’s home, as well as making payments to the private school Lilith’s children attended? Our Mother had been gone for an entire five months, but her “estate” was still writing, issuing and “losing” checks like crazy? I’m sure it goes without saying, that the “inventory” my cousin promised was never provided to Viv and me, if one ever existed at all?
It’s a tragic state of affairs when within 10 days, such evil manipulation can occur. 4/3/13 ~ Original trust documents signed; 4/9/13 ~ Visiting Nurse appointment and my email to siblings advising of status; 4/12/13 ~ My two younger sisters arrived at 5:00 at Rancho Valiente to take our Mother to dinner, which was later revealed would include a surprise visit from cousin Pablo and at 10:00 pm, Mom’s world is changed…forever!
At the time the legal “ambush” (shown in the images above) took place in 2013, I probably should have consulted with an attorney regarding the legality of the altered document’s enforceability and the potential threat of “elder abuse” and coercion that was used to prompt my Mom to exact those covert, late-night changes in the Trust Documents. I didn’t though and for a number of reasons. The first being that my Mom had been living in the valley and spending the majority of her time with my kids and I at our ranch since the spring of 2011; she spent at least four to five nights a week having dinner with us, was a constant fixture at the array of social events we hosted, as well as being a ready and enthusiastic fan at all of my son’s equestrian activities, whether that meant joining us to watch the numerous weekly roping practices as well as participating in the large dinner gatherings that followed (anywhere between 12-16 people for dinner was our norm) or attending Rodeos and the Cutting shows that monopolized our weekends. So too Mom joined us, as often as possible, to attend weekly Sunday Mass, the brunch that always followed, and she frequently travelled with us as well. We made weekend trips to Carmel or Rancho Santa Fe, a number of road-trips were made to Vegas for concerts, shows and a wedding; one winter holiday in Lake Tahoe, and a particularly lengthy road-trip to attend the wedding of my “suspect cousin” Pablo’s eldest son. Mom REALLY wanted to attend that wedding ceremony, and none of my other siblings were willing to make the 9 hour drive/trek to the Mt. Shasta region of Northern California where the weekend event was to be held, so I offered to take Mom, and off we went. My son came along too and the three of us made a trip (I wasn’t looking forward to) much more pleasant with overnight stops in Carmel (each way) so we could cut the long drive time, making the trip and car ride easier for Mom who was uncomfortable when being constricted to the car for extended periods of time.
The bottom line of recounting these events was that Mom was an integral part of our lives! I didn’t feel that a legal agreement spelling out a succession of hierarchy was necessary to document the closeness that my Mom, my kids and I all shared. Additionally, the trust/will and other documents which were drawn up, occurred at my Mom’s insistence, but only recently completed. She asked repeatedly if I would arrange an appointment with a lawyer to draft some legal documents that would simplify future questions and issues should she experience further health scares. Mom had already undergone some serious health problems and as she so frequently stated, “she never wanted to be a burden to her girls.” I acquiesced and because I (unfortunately) had a large array of attorneys on retainer ready to diffuse any crazy-making from my ex, Al (which plenty of history had repeatedly proven was likely) provided an easy solution. I never wanted to be named as the Executor, but Mom requested that all the documents be drafted that way and, “Don B.” the attorney who performed the original legal work, said it didn’t really matter one way or another who was listed first or otherwise, as our Mother’s wishes clearly outlined that all four daughters were to share an equal, 25% interest of anything Mom might leave behind, including her personal property and possessions.
There will probably be more to follow in further posts about the way in which this scenario was handled and how it eventually all “played out,” as well as more that will detail the bumpy road that was travelled between 2008 through 2013, and beyond into 2016, but that’s not for today.
I wouldn’t learn until much later that my cousin, “Pablo,” the same one who had conveniently insinuated himself into Mom’s trust and the executorship of the same, late one Friday evening with my two younger sisters, had already been a potential suspect in other instances of “elder abuse?”
Thank heavens Mom wasn’t around to watch this blatant disrespect for her, her life and what she left behind; definitely not something that was easy to see, but I’m still grateful to the person who drove by and sent these photos to me!
Hindsight is a gift and often an invaluable lesson, but one which obviously, arrives too late! Although I didn’t care for the 11th hour, sneaky way Pablo had teamed up with my younger sisters and manipulated my Mother late that Friday evening into changing all her legal affairs, (in addition to weaseling his way into obtaining a key to a property I owned and a house where Mom lived when she wasn’t at Rancho Valiente), I didn’t yet know and probably still would NEVER have imagined, nor credited Pablo with the deviousness he was capable of? I also didn’t yet know about the items that he had helped himself to from my Mom’s home? There seemed (note the PAST tense) to be no end to my naivete or efforts “to get along” (surely a “leftover” from earlier years) as I even found an email I wrote to Pablo, saying I thought Mom’s move to make him executor was a good one, and I “believed” (AGAIN PAST TENSE) that he would be fair, impartial, and his presence would help to eliminate any unnecessary drama between my sisters and me. The past several years had created and left a division with the younger two that could never be resolved.
Back again…2016 and the aftermath of Mom’s passing…
Thankfully, my daughter and son-in-law accompanied me on that fateful day of May 19, 2016 to my Mother’s last residence (2946 Verde Vista) and the three of us “loaded” my truck, returned to Rancho Valiente and deposited the boxes and few random articles of furniture into the “man cave” of my little ranch. It was weeks before I was emotionally ready to tackle the job of going through and unpacking the various boxes. Viv was still unable to make the trip north to pick up “her allotment” of the items and was now dealing with the added burden of some serious and painful health problems, in addition to her career responsibilities. Whether I offered or she asked and I agreed, I don’t remember, but I’ll never forget the array of “crap” that filled the majority of those boxes, left to Viv and me from our Mother’s belongings. There were literally trash bags filled with old receipts, prescription pharmacy bags, decades-old catalogs, and Kleenex tissue boxes, identifying them as either Viv’s or mine with “handwritten notes” indicating a “25%” notation on each? The “Pierre Deux,” red-patterned notebook folio was one of Mom’s mainstays, as she always had some list or another going at all times, and the list left within that specific item was a listing of furnishings and where they would be placed inside the home I bought for Mom to live in (546 Rancho Alisal ~ the same home my Grandparents, Ma & Pa owned in the late 70’s - 80’s) as long as she was physically able.
The contents of the boxes housing Viv’s and my “inheritance!”
The selection of items left to Viv and me added another layer of mystery to the already ugly situation that my younger sisters and cousin had created. The array of choices seemed all at once completely random, as well as pointedly disturbing, but maybe a tad enlightening too? It was funny (funny odd, not funny “haha”) that my sisters and/or Pablo knew precisely which items I had gifted Mom over the years, as I received many of them back during those days of unpacking “my allotted share” of Mom’s estate. In one box, there was a collection of cups and saucers I had given Mom; china was her favorite way to enjoy her morning coffee, and the selection of Haviland, Ginori, and Bernardaud cup and saucer sets were carelessly wrapped, along with other china that was included, but broken, and random glassware I didn’t recognize. There was a box containing several religious items and one which just held photos, either frameless, or in broken frames, which portrayed either Viv, her family, me, my family and some combinations containing both, as well as a small plastic bin containing photos from our families of origin; both sets of Grandparents, many Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and childhood pictures of the same combinations of characters most portraying Viv and I amongst the crowd of other extended family members. I was shocked, but for the first time throughout the whole ordeal… pleasantly so, to see that they had included my Mom and Dad’s wedding album.
Whatever the reasoning, this was a treasure to receive.
I didn’t then, still don’t, and mostly likely never will understand the bizarre and “Machiavellian” type of pleasure that Dorothy, Lilith and Pablo must have derived from choosing the collection of possessions they chose to “share” with Viv and me, but I chalk it up to a bitterness they must harbor within themselves? Surely the curious assortment and condition of the items they bestowed upon us was anything but random, and even more certainly couldn’t have represented anything close to 2% of our Mother’s possessions, to say nothing about 25% per?
Over the days, weeks, months and years that have followed that unpacking, and witnessing the evil, greed, and pious display unveiled by Lilith, Dorothy and Pablo as well as their blatant disrespect for our Mother’s memory and wishes, I have grown to count myself fortunate that what few significant things I do have from my Mom, are items she gifted me while she was still very much alive and each was shared with an accompanying sentiment that lives on in my heart.
The Knights Of Malta designation was an honor that both my Grandfathers, my Dad, and Aunt were all awarded. This one remembrance happens to be from my Grandfather, Pa.
“Things” are not the stuff of which our souls are made, and “things” are also NOT what we take with us when we leave this world. I can only assume that my siblings, cousin, and the uncle who engineered my Mother’s demise and the aftermath, find comfort in the “things” they pirated and use them as substitutes to fill the void within their empty souls, together with, I pray a small measure of God’s mercy and forgiveness.
Eight days…that’s how long it took me to wade through the odd collection of items which were carelessly wrapped and stuffed into the random and flimsy brown packing boxes that had been divvied up and assigned to Viv and me. As “pointed” as some of the items included in the whole damn mess seemed to be, like the ceramic “black sheep,” carefully set inside and atop a box, otherwise filled with wads of empty packing paper, there were other parts revealed from the undoing of those boxes that just contributed to more confusion from the past? In addition to random items like a Valentine’s Day card that my Mom had saved from her parents from the year I was born, there was a set of six white Spode “Pot de Crème” covered dishes that I adored, and a worn red leather box with an engraved white insignia of a Maltese Cross on the outside with the signature gold, Knights Of Malta cufflinks tucked inside, resting within a slightly-stained silk interior, that had been my Grandfather, Pa’s. As if those few treasures weren’t enough to (almost) distract from the treachery of my siblings, there was more. A substantial cache of “love letters” from Valdez, Mom’s cowboy and great love, was supplemented with an album of photos from their honeymoon trip to the White House, Camp David and the Kentucky Horse farms they toured, where George/”Valdez” was able to visit with the legendary racehorse, Secretariat. Shortly thereafter and towards the completion of unpacking, I found a small bundle of manila file jackets. There was nothing of value within the compilation of documents contained inside…unless family secrets and new (to me) revelations could be considered valuable, or of interest?
Those files were the starting point of a trip I have yet to complete but they were also the beginning of an understanding and reckoning that belied a huge part of my upbringing. The information and the “beings” (I can’t quite bring myself to put the word “HUMAN” in front of the “beings” part, but they know who they are…Lilith, Dorothy, Pablo and D.R.J) that put that information, knowingly or not, on my radar cannot be regarded as anything other than severely depraved and twisted. They represent harsh arbiters of cruelty, possessing grossly inflated egos that might have HAD the power, or opportunity to change lives for good, but instead repeatedly chose to kill any semblance of positivity, as they trampled over the wreckage, human or otherwise, to which they didn’t assign value. The documents stacked neatly inside those file jackets included my parent’s divorce agreement, as well as both my maternal Grandparent’s wills, trust documents, and health directives, etc… Those documents are akin to ancient history in today’s world, but you can’t really grasp or understand the extent of subterfuge that has lived in my family of origin until you know the ‘ABSOLUTES’ that I was raised to believe as “Gospel,” and utterly unquestionable. That collection of fables has been the backstory of generations of my family. It’s no wonder that I fell so neatly into the path, and arms, of a lying sociopathic narcissist such as Al? Deception, lies, control, envy and greed were all popular “dishes” on the menu of my upbringing and family of origin.
One of the myths from my family of origin was born during my parent’s divorce, and relayed the details of an excruciating courtroom scene where the presiding Judge in Mom and Dad’s divorce case directed his attention to my three sisters, and myself, seated alongside our Mother and issued the following edict: “None of these four girls will ever be made to see their Father, unless it is their choice; he has lost that right and privilege!” I was 12 when that scene was supposed to have occurred, but the recurring recounting and memory of the “story” stuck, and affected my future in immediate as well as long-term waves of turmoil. The story provided my Mother a means by which to rationalize moving away from and severing all ties that my siblings and I had to our Father and the enormous family tree of relatives which had once been a constant in our lives. The document also planted the seeds of doubt regarding the “long-observed sanctity,” almost adoration, which my Mother held for her sole sibling, and the tales of his alleged financial success? It was all right there in black and white outlining the debt, obligation and loan(s) that “D.R.J.” owed to my parents and was part of the marital assets that would be divided in their split.
I continued to rifle through the stack of paperwork and found myself riveted by another document resting at my fingertips. I flipped through the pages of my Grandfather, Pa’s Will several times before really honing-in on one very glaring provision and point of contention. Ever since my Grandfather’s passing in 1981, I had been told that Pa’s Will and its contents had been the cause of my Mom and George’s divorce and the end of their relationship. I vaguely remember the occasion of my Grandfather’s Memorial Service and the wake that followed at Mom, George’s and our collective home on Refugio Road in Santa Ynez. My uncle (D.R.J.) and several, if not all, of his six children were present, as were the few relatives that remained from my Grandmother, Ma’s family, as well as several of Ma and Pa’s friends, who were still living and able to make the trip from the East Coast, and of course all the members of my immediate family.
“Wake me good!” One of Pa’s repeated requests, and on this day, we did… This snapshot of Ma, her nephew Ed, me and my first nephew, is a scene from the sidelines of an impromptu “touch football game” played in the front yard of our little red ranch house and Refugio home. There was lots of “Old Fitzgerald” that followed.
It’s hard to recall each individual detail, but I’ll never shake the image of George, usually the epitome of striking, indomitable strength, with a permanent twinkle in his eyes, and dimples punctuating the ever-present smile that he wore. Instead of THAT George, the man I had known and loved for the past six years was on that particular day a very different person. He sat hunched over and defeated on the black and rose-covered, upholstered couch that graced the comfortable family room of that little red ranch house. It was an unsettling picture and made the story that followed a couple years later with the eventuality of Mom and George’s divorce and then George’s disappearance from our life, all the more believable. How was it that people continued to vanish from our lives, with little, if any, thought given to helping young hearts and minds try to process and heal from such sad and disturbing loss. Had Pa, REALLY, provided in his Will that “as long as my Mom was married to George, she would not see a penny from his estate? Moreover, why was that so devastating, and why was that issue the harbinger of the unhappy ending that resulted?” George had always paid his way, and oftentimes far more. He was anything but the “free-loading type,” and while a cowboy might not have been Pa’s first choice as husband-material for my Mother, Pa was making an effort; he had even recently started taking riding lessons from George, which in itself was some kind of amazing sight to see and a sign of Pa’s growing amenability. Something just felt very “off” and wrong, but I had no way of knowing anything other than what I was told. There was no one who wanted to discuss the situation, much less help me understand how it had all come to pass. Once again, I was left confused by the dynamics of our family’s structure, the system that kept it running and the people issuing the mandates that were NOT to be questioned or challenged in any way! As confused as I felt, I also felt afraid; afraid of what the future might bring and afraid of what was going to happen to Mom, with both Pa and George gone? I’m pretty sure I must have felt afraid for myself, too?
Some 35 years later, as I sat there on the large brown sectional in the mancave of Rancho Valiente rereading those pages that had been tucked inside the file jacket mixed among the contents of boxes given to me from my Mom’s belongings, fear wasn’t the emotion I felt. I was just plain MAD. Mad and so deeply disturbed by the duplicity that had ruled generations of my family. There in front of me were the pages of my Grandfather’s will, and not only was there ZERO mention of George (good or bad), but there was a paragraph very clearly spelling out that my Mom WAS INCLUDED AS A BENEFICIARY of Pa’s estate; she wasn’t “cut off or cut out” of anything? So much for the story I’d been led to believe for 35 years, and so much for the “alleged” reason for George’s disappearance, and their divorce….it was all just another lie! Pa’s Will and the “Resulting Agreement” that wasn’t made official until 1983, two years following his passing, outlined the EXACT distribution of assets: My Grandmother, Ma, was the sole beneficiary of “Trust A.” “Trust B” (the remainder of Pa’s holdings) was to be divided as follows: 50% to my uncle (D.R.J.), 25% to my Mom, and 25% to my three siblings and I, equally, when we reached the age of 21. In 1983, when the “final document” was revealed, my younger sisters were not yet 21, but I HAD reached 21 years of age, and my older sister, Viv, was 27. I don’t know if Viv knew of the details of Pa’s Will back then, but I can assure you, I was NEVER told the truth about the Will, nor any of the details it contained, and as such… NEVER expected nor received a dime! Still one has to wonder who did know, and who misappropriated those assets, and whose accounts found extra “cushioning” as a result? TODAY, I’m pretty (99.9%) sure I know EXACTLY who benefitted…what do you think?
On that day, for the first time, since I had become devastatingly familiar with, and scorched by, the damage that sociopathic narcissists such as Al, my ex, exact, I was staring at and processing my re-introduction to another such person (or persons) and was trying to comprehend the cruelty and manipulation such monsters are capable of inflicting. This might be where the song, “Guts Over Fear” and the lyrics therein that I reference in the beginning of this post, hit so close to home? It is difficult to finally acknowledge and disclose the depth of deception that one has survived, often from multiple sources. It’s even more painful to know that in revealing this now, I’m reopening a wound that was meant to have been long since put to rest. There are sure to be persons who won’t understand my dredging up all this past history, and there’s a chance that I’ll take some “flack” for doing it, but then that particular type of knife-twisting, in and behind my back wouldn’t be anything new. This disclosure won’t change anything that happened so long ago, but it helps confirm, for certain, that there was indeed calculated malfeasance and fraud which occurred all those years ago, as well as more recently following my Mother’s passing…and most likely still, today.
The “discovery” also brings me both an odd sense of peace and comfort knowing that my “gut instincts” were proven correct, and I will forever choose… “Guts Over Fear!”
I know this has been a REALLY lengthy, circuitous and confusing detour through some of the lost chapters of my life, and the ENTIRE truth of the matter hasn’t even been fully revealed? Some “trips” are longer than others and this particular one isn’t quite finished, but it will be, soon. If nothing else, revisiting those files and reexamining the facts they hold, has helped direct me back to where I began recounting the divide and irreparable harm that was created, and has been continued, within “The Lyin’s Den”…..NOTE, it very purposefully does not say lions!
Muse or not…this is some great stuff!
Stay tuned for Pt. 2…
Next up: There’s More… “If it ain’t the spaghetti, it’s the sauce!”
“Cowboys, Outlaws, and Chiavari Chairs”
“Undisclosed Assets”
“He Said, She Said”
PS: 14 Days since I’ve been in “IG Jail/Rehab,” and I can report I am doing fine!