Voiceover Update

Before we start, I wanted to let you all know that I have added voiceovers -- in my real actual 100% human voice -- to the first 15 Episodes. All the way through K. Venomous -- It’s All About the Hannibals.

A Myron Here and a Myron There . . .

So, why do I call my brother(?) Myron, “Myron”?

There are two reason. One longer and one shorter.

I will start with the longer one.

This story starts out in the early 1900s with a man named Joseph Boyer. Joseph was born in the mid 1800s on a farm in Pickering, Ontario. He later moved to the US and became and inventor and what they used to call an industrialist. He was bold, smart and wily, acquired the Burroughs Adding Machine Company, and became very wealthy. He was also very frugal. Despite his wealth, he was living in an apartment near his daughters when he died. Joseph died of pneumonia in October 1930 at the age of 82.

His death was reported in both the New York Times and Time Magazine.

The New York Times said

J.A. Boyer Dead; A Noted Inventor; Chairman of the Board [and largest shareholder] of Burroughs Adding Machine Company Succumbs to Pneumonia. He Started as Machinist. To His Financial Ability Was Ascribed Rise of His Firm -- Devised Pneumatic Hammer

Whatever that means. It sounds like a Haiku. Like this:

Boyerism

Started As Machinist

Devised Pneumatic Hammer

Pneumonia Killed Him

However, I do quite like the reference to the pneumatic hammer, because I think of the Handbook as one. You know, relentlessly hammering psychopaths far and wide until they crumble.

My Two Sons

Joseph Boyer had five kids -- two sons and three daughters. His daughters married well and went on to live pretty good lives from what I can tell.

His sons are a different story. His eldest son, Joseph Jr., was a swashbuckling man about town. He died in 1925 while competing at the Indianapolis 500. Autosports back then were life-threating. Some might have called him a hero.

Nobody would call Joseph’s youngest son, Myron, a hero.

Joseph had set up a trust for his children. All would share equally in the assets, except for Myron. He was given what’s known as a spendthrift trust -- basically the bare minimum required to avoid the whole thing being thrown out.

There was one exception to Myron’s spendthrift trust -- if Myron had an offspring. Myron did not have an offspring when he died in 1928. His wife -- Laura -- also Canadian and seeing a big fat chunk of change she would be missing out on -- went over to Windsor, Canada, bought a baby, and insisted it was Myron’s. This led to years of litigation, where Laura claimed she was entitled to Myron’s share of the trust. She sued Joseph Boyer’s estate for $1.2 million. By the way, $1.2 million was a lot of money back then. P robably around $60 - $100 million today.

Here is a picture of Laura Boyer. Not a looker, is all I can say.

She has the darkness there, in her eyes.

The Heir is not My Son

The case went on for more than 10 years through trial courts and appeals courts. The trial court ruled in Laura Boyer’s favor, though the appeals court reversed that. It finally ended in 1939 when the Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal.

Joseph Boyer was lucky in that he had a son-in-law who was a brilliant lawyer. His name was Standish Backus. Standish probably set up the whole trust structure and then argued the entire case.

The appeals court opinion is a hoot. Here are some choice quotes:

· “Myron L. Boyer was a person of bad habits and of but very limited intelligence.”

· “According to the testimony of [Laura Boyer], he had always been addicted to drinking to excess and his habits did not change at any time while she knew him except for a period of six months when, with the exception of one interval, he remained sober.” It turns out, Myron was in Texas for that one interval. More on that later.

· “[Laura Boyer] testified that she went with Myron when he attended the third grade of the night school for a short time after their marriage;”

· [Myron] later began an electrical course, but gave it up very shortly.

· “Myron’s father hired a tutor for him at $125 a month.” By the way, $125 a month back then was a lot of money. I would say around $6,000 today or even more.

· From 1916 to 1928, Myron earned a total of $966.21 in income, which works out to about $80 bucks a year.

· “Moneys for the support of Myron and his wife were paid direct to the wife, or to those who furnished Myron with merchandise, professional services, or maintenance.”

The rest of the opinion is arcane arguments about trusts, secondary trusts, and constructive trusts.

Myron denied the purchased infant was his. According to the opinion, Myron signed a Bill (i.e., an affidavit”) saying:

“ Laura Boyer devised and acted out a pretended pregnancy with the connivance of a physician and nurse, and pretended to give birth to a child . . . . The bill states how Mrs. Boyer tricked Myron by securing a newly-born infant from the Hotel Dieu in Windsor, Ontario, and led Myron to believe that said child had been born in lawful wedlock with the said Laura Boyer.”

Given Myron was a drug addled drunkard, he probably did not actually sign the affidavit himself. Someone else did, I bet.

Here is Myron’s obit.

By the way, the Hotel Dieu still exists. It was originally built in the late 1800s as a hospital for black people who had migrated out of the South to find better lives, and later for indigent people and unwed mothers.

I Would Like to Return this Story

This is not the one I ordered.

OK. I know what you are thinking. What does this long -- yet wildly enticing -- story have to do with my own Myron?

Why indeed?

There are, as it turns out, also two answers to that question.

Will the Real Myron Please Stand-up

Myron -- is a person of bad habits and of but very limited intelligence. The other Myron died in 1928.

My Myron doesn’t do a lick of work, has no detectable intelligence, no discernable skills -- other than working out and taking steroids, but those aren’t skills.

Yet, somehow thinks he is the greatest human that ever existed. He is actually pretty good at getting my dad, Fredo, to pay for everything -- even buying him a house with my money.

Myron seems to believe that ordinary people should be lining up to shovel money and free work at him. Just because being in Myron’s presence is payment enough. Most narcissists think the same way. They don’t just think it. They totally believe it.

El Clon | El Payaso

(The Clone | The Clown)

The two Myrons are one and the same.

Insane Clown Picture

Like in this picture.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

Clowns sit around all day, in their big clown shoes, doing their small clown things, and somehow think they deserve everything.

Like this.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

When Myron was young I ordered a clown for his birthday. The clown showed up. Did his act. And Myron was pissed. I think he thought I was calling him a clown. To this day, if you refer to him as a clown -- even in a joking way -- he gets angry. And then my dad, Fredo, will call me and berate me for calling Myron a clown. It’s not an insult if it’s true. In my totally First Amendment protected opinion, Myron is down on the narcissist side of the psychopath spectrum. Narcissists have extremely thin skins. Anything that threatens to break down their wall of pretend greatness usually results in anger. I reckon that, buried way down deep, they know they are failures.

Oh yeah, according to an ex-girlfriend of his, he has a tattoo of a “ball-sack” (her words) on his stomach or something.

I want to tell some of her stories here, if she is OK with that. They will paint a much fuller picture of what Myron is.

Texas Told ‘Em

Here is the other reason I am using Myron Boyer as a guide. Because of the Texas connection. There usually is one. To everything.

Nowadays, Marfa, TX is an internationally celebrated art and design destination, located in Southwest TX and not far from the Mexican border.

Back in the 1920s, Marfa and surrounding towns were just more dirt, and were more famous for smuggling Mexican contraband, like cattle and liquor.

Joseph Boyer owned a share in a giant ranch down there which snuggled up against the Mexican border. The part-owner and rancher was a man named Owen Curtis Dowe -- known simply as “O. C.” O.C. Dowe was a lawman, a Customs officer, a rancher and . . . not surpisingly . . . an occasional smuggler. For example, he was known to keep confiscated contraband -- especially liquor.

The following is taken from a history of the Circle Dug Ranch, in Candelaria TX. For Texas history buffs, it is a good read. Here is the link. Circle Dug Ranch History

“Spoiled and rebellious, Myron had been kicked out of several private schools by the time he turned eighteen. His father thought it might be a good idea to send the boy to Texas in an attempt to dry him out or at least get him out of the elder Boyer’s hair.

In a 1925 letter Dowe wrote, ‘I have Myron Boyer of Detroit here and have been running around with him. His father is . . . paying me big wages to try
and do something with this boy. He has been drinking very hard for several years and I am trying to get him on his feet. I get $600.00 per month and want to try to get this boy straightened out if I can.’ [$600 big ones was a lot of money back then. Probably $30,000 in today’s small ones.]

“At first Dowe tried to keep Myron on the ranch and teach the young man how to be a cowboy. . . .[Ha Ha] . . . Myron hated the ranch and ran away several times.

Dowe corresponded with Joseph Boyer about Myron’s progress saying at one point in 1926 he thought Myron had not taken a drink in three weeks and seemed to be doing better. [I think this was the one time Laura Boyer was referring to when Myron was ever sober.]

“Then Myron ran off again and demanded his father buy him a new Lincoln automobile.

Dowe wrote [Joseph] about the demand and received the following reply.

‘I note what you say about Myron’s wanting a Lincoln, which is very characteristic of him. He would want a Rolls Royce if he happened to think of it. I have done a great many things to give Myron a start. For instance, I bought him a small farm at Flint one time and he lived there only a short time when he became tired of it because there was no running water. I have frequently bought him cars. The last one, I think, cost $2,500 or more. It seems to me he sold it for about $500 after making use of it for less than a year. I want him to be in Texas for a longer time before there is anything of that kind done.’” “A month later Joseph bought Myron another new car. After he got the car, Myron threatened to run off to Mexico but instead went to Marfa where he got drunk and caroused for several days with some soldiers from the army camp. Venting his frustration Dowe again wrote Joseph Boyer asking the monthly allowance be increased so that Myron could take a hotel room in Marfa.

O. C. got the following reply from Myron’s father in May 1925.

‘I realize that it is not an easy job to handle Myron, but I also know that there has always been more trouble with him whenever I increased or raised his allowance. It seems as though the more money he has, the worse off he is. . . .

I think you had better turn him loose and let him shift for himself. If he comes up here and does the same kind of business that he did before I will have him confined in some institution where he will not have any liberty.’

“Joseph Boyer went on to say that he had already made arrangements with a Detroit judge to have Myron confined, ‘in an institution’ if he returned to Michigan.

Myron Boyer died five years later . . . .”

[End of Story]

My Myron is totally like the original Myron. Always entitled to the best things, paid for by someone else. Sometimes without their knowledge.

There is another quite funny part to this Texas story, though:

“Dowe and eight other Texas lawmen journeyed to Michigan in May 1919. An article in the Detroit News headlined “Lounge Lizzards Pop-Eyed When Cowboys Stroll In”. . . .

[For some unexplained reason], [t]he Texans had been summoned to Detroit to testify about border conditions in Henry Ford’s Libel Suite against the Chicago Tribune.

O. C. Dowe and his fellows packed their pistols to Detroit and
made quite an impression on several city dwellers. The article recounted an observation by a hotel bellboy who saw the Texans.

According to the bellhop ‘them gents are 100% sure enough [cow] punchers. They got guns as big as cannons strewed all over the bed and the dresser and everywhere else. And believe me, they is loaded. The guns I mean.’”

If that ain’t Texan, I don’t know what is.

OK, I know what you are thinking at this point of the narrative. “Is there a Fonzie in this story anywhere?” Why, yes, there is.

Saved by the Fonze

The other reason we call Myron, “Myron” is from this scene in Happy Days where The Fonze is making fun of some kid named Myron. He keeps pronouncing the name with a high pitch and stretching out the first syllable. “Myyy-ron.”

Here’s the clip.

Speaking of The Fonze. I was sitting in Bice in Palm Beach -- maybe 2018 or 2019 -- in the outdoor dining section. And there is The Fonze. Except, he’s wearing a pin-stripped shirt, like from Brooks Brothers, with the arms of a pink sweater tied around his neck, and the body hanging down behind his back as a seat cushion.

Ayyyyyy!

Responding to requests, we are now recording. This week we are beginning to publish audio recordings of each episode, starting from the begining.

Introduction to audio, have a listen.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

The Freddy Dance in Troop Beverly Hills

We all do what we can do . . .

Anything even your below average psychopath and/ or Cluster F-er can do, they will. Big or small. They particularly like sabotage, though not to frequent or not too significant so you would notice. The goal is to make your life a bit more inconvenient -- from seemingly random and unconnected acts -- or to take away just enough joy to ruin all the fun.

The remedy is to focus on the light, ignore the dark, and you will find a door out lurking in the background. Like this:

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

Or you can focus on the beautiful colorful things that make you enjoy the world, and by doing so, reach escape velocity. Like this.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

I can think of several examples where sabotage has been sent my way over the years. Here are a few examples.

Scratched Biscuits

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”

Sure, I thought. The odds of somebody out there not liking me must be pretty high. In this case, however, I could have asked, “Is that someone in the room with us now?”

Anyway, my view is, if everyone likes you, you must be doing something wrong or not doing something right.

It’s Summer 2010. It was definitely summer.

The sleek shiny black Batmobile had arrived all by itself in Amarillo from Manhattan. I had been waiting for this moment for months.

I let Hannibal know I was heading to Market Street to pick up groceries to make Bunny Pasta, which was a favorite of my Nieces. Well, my Nieces hadn’t even been born yet, so it probably wasn’t their favorite. Also, it wasn’t called Bunny Pasta back then. We just called it Pasta. How did it become “Bunny Pasta”, you ask. That will be explained (by me) in a future Episode entitled “Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun”.

There are generally four classes of grocery stores one visits in Amarillo. There’s Walmart and Sam’s Club. That should really be one class I guess, seeing as how they are both owned by the Waltons of Bentonville, Arkansas. Then we have the United Supermarkets and Market Streets. Well, I guess, that should also be one class, seeing as how they are both owned by United Supermarkets, L.L.C, all rights being reserved of course.

So, I guess there are only two classes of supermarkets in Amarillo. But Rudy’s has good brisket! Although that’s a drive through, so technically not a grocery store. Plus, they only serve brisket and other meats. And coleslaw. And potato salad. Macaroni and cheese also. And biscuits.

Although, if you really like biscuits, you go to Butterlove Biscuits, where what counts as a biscuit has a wide interpretation. They are like full meals. We^[1], here at the Handbook, call it Buddy Loves Biscuits in honor of our friend Buddy from Hansford county. Buddy definitely loves him some biscuits, is always good for a good laugh, and an all around good guy.

We also love his Mom-In-Law, O.P., who is probably the sharpest 90+ year old you will meet. We used to stop by to pick up my Grandmother from coffee gang, sit for a while and listen to O.P. tell a story. Usually, the story starts out, gets more detailed and specific and, just when you think it’s a nice little story, she gets to the point. The point is always delivered with a politeness typical in rural TX small towns, so if you were not paying attention, you might just miss it.

She also had a cool old school bread mixer sitting on top of her fridge.

OK, back to Market Street.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Make sure you park way out in the parking lot, where there are no other cars. I don’t want your car getting dinged by someone’s door. Plus, if people can see your car from the street, nobody can steal it.”

I drove along thinking it was nice to drive again. I had traveled for a few years and had not driven much.

So, following Hannibal Anne’s advice, I parked way out in the Market Street parking lot, making sure to pick a spot visible from the street, and went shopping.

I grabbed ingredients that were needed, and got some of that cheese you melt in the oven. I forget what it’s called. Cheese turds or something. I paid, walked out through the swooshing glass doors, where it was approaching 100° F. The shock from a cool 60° F inside to the hot outside curled my hair and made it stand up straight and hiss like Medusa’s. The Sun was hot enough to melt elbows.

At least that’s what it felt like.

As I was approaching the Batmobile, at first I saw what looked like a faint line, almost like a chalk line. As I got closer, I could see a deep long key mark across the hood. Like over half way, that’s how long. I couldn’t figure out how my car was already getting keyed. I did not see anyone that I knew in or around the grocery store. I would have noticed too. Being raised as a scapegoat / commodity kid, I am super vigilant. Hypervigilant, even. One might go so far as to say I was super-hypervigilistic. Expialidocious.

One day -- in a future Episode entitle “A Spoonful of Hannibals“ -- I will tell you about how, when I was young, I had an anti-kidnapper word. It was “Supercalifragilistic-expialidocious” from that movie with the guy with the worst fake Cockney accent. What’s his name? The idea was that, if someone I did not know came to pick me up, I was supposed to ask for the word. By the way, as adorable and wonderful as I was back then (and now -- I mean, I would totally kidnap me), there was no way I needed an anti-kidnapper word. In the history of my small town, I can count on zero fingers the number of kidnappings that took place.

Key Fargo

Keying cars was not a big thing in Amarillo. It is a pretty low buck type of behavior, and cheapo. Might be more common in Canyon, or Palo Duro or Rolling Hills -- especially on Ramada Trail near the end where it meets up with Cherry Ave. But not Amarillo!

I arrived back at #6 Accosted and no one was home. A bit later Hannibal came in the back door with a happier than usual face.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Did you see your car? Someone must REALLY not like you. Like really does not like you.”

ME

“I did. It hasn’t even been a day since I have been in town. I don’t think anyone knows I am here or cares. Plus no one knows what car I drive, I just got it.”

HANNIBAL ANNE

“I bet someone saw you from Georgia Street as you were getting out of your car. They could probably see you because you parked so close to the street. When they saw it was you, they keyed your car when they knew you were inside of grocery store. Just sayin’.” Hannibal says “just sayin’‘ a lot, usually when she is giving you the Hannibal whisper and trying to get you to believe or remember something different from how it, in fact, happened.

ME

“Whatever Hannibal. It doesn’t matter to me. I won’t even notice it,” I said, totally honestly. OK, it did matter to me. I might even notice it every time I walked in front of the car to get to the driver’s seat. However, I always focused on the bright happy things right in front of me.

HANNIBAL ANNE

“That’s going to be expensive to get fixed,” she said, totally lying. The repair is inexpensive. There are touch up kits at most auto parts stores and nowadays the Amazon Machine makes them. Less than $100.

ME

“I’m not fixing it. It doesn’t matter much to me,” I said, totally honestly. I did not get it fixed and it doesn’t bother me.

For the next few days Hannibal was telling everyone that the Batmobile had been keyed. She really went on and on. Like it was too much (fun).

Did Hannibal Anne tell me to park my car so it was visible from the road, do her Secret Squirrel thing, sneak up and key it?

Looking like this.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7. Squirrel by Sergio Bustamante. Table by Gilbert Rohde.

Well, just between me and I, yes.

Secret Squirrel by Marcy Playground

Chitty Chitty Clang Clang

There was a distinct feeling that I was getting. Where was it familiar from or when? Had there been another time when something not so positive had happened and Hannibal Anne would broadcast it? Like her broadcasting had much more energy and enthusiasm -- displaying some (barely) disguised true tell -- than her usually stale mealworm self.

Then I remembered.

Fall 1994.

There was a Varsity football game in Plainview (the name makes sense because the view is pretty plain there). Hannibal Anne was one of the parents to volunteer to drive our squad to cheer in the game. The trip was an al fresco . . . oooops, I mean a fiasco. . . not even an hour in. I was in the middle seat of the suburban and I heard one of the male cheerleaders sitting behind me.

He was a really nice kid. I liked him. The others called him Peckerhead, because he looked like a woodpecker. Kidding. I don’t know why they called him that. I don’t think that was his real name, although I cannot remember what his real one was. I suppose that is the power of a moniker.

PECKERHEAD

“Pull over! Pull over! Something is loose on the tire!”

Hannibal acted like she couldn’t hear him. I finally started slapping her shoulder and told her to pull over. So the entire caravan pulled over.

Peckerhead (really, the nicest guy, no idea how he got this name) and a few other dads figured out the noise. The lug nuts were loose. I recall Hannibal Anne standing near with her fists on her hips, almost smirking, and smirking.

Hannibal Anne

“Oh I’m so glad y’all figured it out. Can you imagine if I wrecked with a bunch of cheerleaders in the car? That would have been a nightmare.”

Well, Hannibal Anne. Maybe someone doesn’t like me. I mean, like REALLY doesn’t like me. Is that someone in the car with us now, I could have asked.

Once we were all loaded back in the car, I thanked Peckerhead multiple times. Then I grilled Hannibal on how this could have happened. She said she had her tires rotated that day -- she never gets her tires rotated in case you are asking -- and the service people must have not tightened the lug nuts correctly. As Dana Carvey would say, “how convenient”. General rule, the last person to touch something is the first suspect.

Has Anybody Seen My Mascot?

We pulled up just as the game was starting. One of the principals asked why we were late. A different male cheerleader forgot his cheer kicks. He had to borrow Peckerhead’s dad’s sneakers. It was normal, to all of us, for him to be in his cheer uniform with cowboy boots. If that’s not male Texas cheerleader spirit, then I don’t know what is.

Then the principal asked where the mascot was. She went missing. Hannibal Anne stayed at the game while the other parents went searching through Plainview for the missing mascot, which was The Rebel Kid, or a cowboy looking person dressed in a red shirt. Good for her, though, because in the 1950s the mascot was a goat.

Halftime arrived and so did Peckerhead’s parents, his dad in socks, with the mascot. She had fled for the Plainview Pizza Hut as we rushed to the field because we were late. Mascot Rebels have a big appetite, as it turns out, so that was understandable.

Over the next few days Hannibal, with the same mischievous enthusiasm, was relating to everyone what had happened.

Hannibal Anne

“Can you believe that. What if I had wrecked with a car full of cheerleaders? Then what if we had lost the d@mn mascot? No good deed goes unpunished. I can tell you that for sure.” Wrecking a car full of cheerleaders was probably a histrionic dream of hers.

Anyway, while I can’t speak to the rest of the world’s customs, in the Texas panhandle, loosening someone’s lug nuts is not considered a good deed.

That was that episode. The same type of energy behind keying the car seemed to be behind loosening lug nuts. Then, in each case, over the ensuing few days repeat with an unusual amount of enthusiasm.

So, do I think Hannibal was behind loosening the lug nuts? Between me and I, yes.

You are probably starting to see how these type momsters operate. Patterns. They each have their own simplistic type of behavioral Morse code - which consists of only dashes.

Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.

Please, may I have another? Yes.

Field of Creams (with Coffee)

Summer 2019.

Hannibal Anne

“Get over here. I’m an estate sale on Teckla. You need to buy this carpet and take a look around. Possibly some good pieces.”

The 18 foot carpet was by Edward Fields. Edward Fields carpets can be found in The White House and The Glass House by Philip Johnson.

Here is a picture of it.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

This was a nice large example. How large? So large, we had to rig up a mount, consisting of a child’s swing, fastened to a ceiling I-beam way up off the ground to photograph it. How high? So high that, to access the mount, we had to place a ladder on a card table, climb said ladder and pull ourselves up into the mount -- like a muscle up on rings in gymnastics, which we are proud to say we could do. Not to worry. We had a back-up. It was a rope, one end tied to the I-beam and the other to our waist, in case someone decided to start calling timber.

But there is good news! I had never seen Fredo speechless -- he always has something to say, like names of High School mascots, rankings of bodies of water or stories he dropped himself into. Not this time. When he walked in and saw us swinging in the mount, taking photos, he looked up. Looked down at his feet. Looked at the table and ladder set up. And walked out. Later he told Myron about it, though. I know this because Myron asked me who shot the carpet pics. Oh man, so glad I ain’t talking to him any more.

Back to the estate sale.

Hannibal Anne

“You can store it here in Amarillo. There is no need to have it shipped out.”

In other words, I paid for the carpet that Hannibal wanted for her future trinket house -- which would probably be on a street named Gem, or Diamond Hills or Julian. They stored it in Fredo’s barn. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola.

Late Summer, 2020 -- during the troubles. You know what I mean.

ME

“Hannibal, the Fields carpet sold. I’ll schedule for pick up”

HANNIBAL ANNE

“Oh no. There is a large spill over it. It looks like oil or something dripped on it. I think it is ruined. It probably happened from your dad’s barn”, where it was stored. In actual fact, it was more Hannibal’s barn because virtually every square inch was packed with her junkola. Repeat, I know.

ME

“I’ll ship several cleaners to you so you can try and clean it up.”

Hannibal Anne

“I have tried everything, nothing is working. I have tried for hours. I just think it is ruined.”

She proceeded to send LITERALLY tonnns of images and was encouraging me to issue a refund.

I decided to take matters into my own hands and scheduled one of those Stanely Steamer guys. Then called Fredo a half an hour before he showed up so Fredo could open up the barn.

Stanley cleaned the carpet in no time. He said it was probably coffee. No trouble at all.

I have edited down the overall conversations. It went back and forth for several weeks with Hannibal taking three or so days to reply throughout. It was her pouting and the intentional means to cause stress that I thought was noteworthy.

Carpet Chameleon

However, as luck would have it, when we went to Amarillo to surprise my parents on their 45th anniversary and buy them free food -- as a courtesy of course -- I stopped by the barn before meeting them for the free dinner. The cleaning supplies were there. They had never even been opened.

If Hannibal Anne is good at anything, she is good at being reliably terrible. And terribly reliable at being bad.

Of course she chose coffee to spill on it because she does not drink coffee, Myron does. At first, I thought Myron did it.

Speaking of Myron.

Circuit Blowers

I used to leave the Batmobile in Amarillo for months on end when I was travelling. I would let my family use it. Including, unfortunately, Myron. In about 2016 or 2017, the remotely operated door locks gummed up and wouldn’t retract or extend. These locks are pneumatically operated from a central unit in the trunk. The unit continually tries to engage the locks if they are do not retract and lock the doors. So, the battery would continually run out if I happened to be out of town more than a few weeks. I eventually removed the fuse to stop that happening.

Next, the air conditioner fuse kept blowing. That is a lager 40 amp fuse located in the engine compartment on the right (passenger) side. Eventually it melted and couldn’t even be removed at all. When I next took the Batmo in for service, the garage said it looked like something had spilled or been poured down both the door locks and the air conditioning fuse.

My guess is that it was Diet Dr. Pepper. Hannibal’s favorite drink. Or my brother(?) Myron, the other female psychopath in my family, and his sports drinks. Speaking of sports drinks. I was able to recover a used plastic bottle, which I think was Myron’s. I understand that one can obtain DNA samples from such things.

One more thing. Every year, cars in Texas needed to be inspected. The shop would then issue a report for each inspection, which lists, among other things, the mileage. I saved those and, just for fun, I compiled the mileage in an excel spreadsheet. They were using it pretty extensively for years. I once even found a used fake fingernail on the driver’s side floor.

Then one year, it just stopped. That is when I think they installed a GPS tracker.

The Epiloguer

Sabotage is right out of the Psychopath’s Playbook. Expect it. Look for it. But don’t react to it. Focus on the light and the beautiful things in front of you.

Then you can arrive in unbounded space — green tinted to reflect their jealousy — and have a glass of champagne to celebrate.

Like this:

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

^[1] Reader Note: Any references herein to “I”, “me”, “we”, “us”, etc., are to the Royal Me.

This is the story of three and one-half cakes which somehow create or come with some grudge frosting.

I have real questions whether Hannibal Anne dust-stormed into my small town and my family by just pure sad accident or (bad) luck. Or if she targeted my family by acting out of one of her many life long grudges.

I do not know for sure. Here is what I do know.

Listen with Cake Short Skirt / Long Jacket

The Great Sherman County Cake-Off of 1962

It’s April 1962. Hannibal Anne is in Stratford participating in a Sherman county 4-H baking contest, along with 56 other girls. The judge is none other than Mrs. Jackson, of Hansford county, my paternal Great Grandmother (i.e., my Grandma’s Mom). The Jackson women and men are legends of cooking, baking, pit BBQs and handling of recipes. The Jacksons are also a feisty group who don’t look to kind on folks who may have missed Church last Sunday, among other misdemeanors and/ or transgressions. The Jacksons had been in the TX panhandle since the mid to late 1800s, when parts of it were still Indian Country and most of it was dirt.

They are a tough breed, indeed! I could totally see one of these old school Jacksons, when encountering an errant non-church going citizen during a stroll down Main St., walking across the street to meet said miscreant, smacking him in the face, patting him on the back, saying “you have a good day now”, while using an Oxford comma, and moving on.

Win or Lose?

Anyway, back to the baking contest. Sadly, Hannibal’s group did not win. She did not even place. Even worse, it got reported in the newspaper so the whole world could see her humiliation -- no doubt upping her sour-puss quotient and expanding her jutting out jutting jaw a few extra inches.

I imagine she was livid. She’s always livid. I can see her hands forming into tight fists, digging fingernail furrows in her palms, her eyes wide staring sharpened daggers, her jutting jaw jutting out. Think Heath Ledger, as the Joker in the Batman movie, but uglier. You know, the scene when he is wearing the nurse outfit.

Here is Hannibal Anne in her 1962 yearbook photo. She was in the fourth grade.

Love those Devil Horns! I am now going to call her Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear.

Here’s me at about the same age. Aren’t I adorable? And I don’t have Devil Horns!

Grudge Cake #1

So, this was the original grudge cake. Her sights became dead set fixed on the Jacksons (my paternal Grandmother’s family). I can hear Hannibal doing her screaming mimi thing, sounding like a rooster on fire, “how dare her! I hope she dies in a car wreck.”

Ooops . . . I mean . . . so, this was the original grudge cake?

This lividity and furious grudge cakery really stands out to me. The diabolical degree of hypocrisy even more. Think about it. Hannibal Anne does not win a 4-H baking contest. So she carves out a lifelong grudge against the entire Jackson family? However, when Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear commits some “hyenous” act against me or anyone, it’s “move on”. It’s “after all I have done for (to) you.” Or “you’re too sensitive. Or “get a grip. Get over it”. Or “I was just joking. You take things too seriously”. Followed by “No, you owe me.” I could continue, but I think you get the point -- even if I for the longest time did not.

Like I said, I don’t have a single “shart” of evidence it happened this way. It just seems like Hannibal Anne “Devil Horns” Puryear to me. She picks up grudges as easy as tadpoles grow legs. And she never forgets them, grudges that is, not legs.

Cake By the Notion -- Grudge Cake #2

Read with Jonas Brothers Cake By the Ocean

For decades Hannibal Anne would bring a chocolate sheet cake to most family birthday parties, especially for my Grandmother’s and often for Fredo’s, and other special occasions or celebrations. This cake is a one level construction -- like a sidewalk but less tasty -- set in a large rectangular cake pan and lathered up with overly sugared chocolate frosting . . . enough, some might say, to mask the flavor of maybe other stuff. Just sayin’.

Hannibal Anne would also bring the chocolate sheet cake to family reunions. Half would have nuts and the other with no nuts. Speaking of nuts. Having Hannibal as my biological mom, I was really concerned I might be a psychopath myself. I asked my therapist, Dr. Nadine, that question. She said, simply asking the question probably means you are not one. I also once asked my Grandmother if I was nuts. She replied, with a smile “yes, you are good nuts.” Which I think she is exactly right. I’m just nutty enough to use Hannibal’s own tricks against her and to offset all her “hyenous” acts.

She would also bring this flat cake to the older ladies imprisoned in the Hansford Manor Old Folks Home -- which we renamed the “Hansford Mansion”. After not too long, everyone started calling it that. That is where my Grandmother died. She should have died in her own home. When she was still alive and living in the Mansion, though, I used to arrange giant birthday parties.

One year, I sent in 200 bean burritos, 20 of which were with extra green sauce (a.k.a. salsa verde) from Taco Villa. When I called my local Taco Villa -- to arrange the order and delivery, the conversation went like this:

ME

“Hi, I would like to arrange for 200 bean burritos to be delivered to the Hansford Mansion for a birthday party. I can pay you with a credit card right now.”

TACO VILLA

[Pause] “Ummm.”

[Longer pause] “Is this a prank call?”

Come to think of it, it does sound like a prank call.

Anyway, my Grandmother’s birthday is July 19^th. So it’s a good time to write about this particular Grudge Cake.

Recently, maybe in 2020 or 2021, I was surprised to learn what the flat chocolate sheet cake really represents. One of my favorite friends sent -- who (whom?) we shall call “Whittney” sent me a recipe. We call him Whittney, because he loves Whitney Houston, but spelled with an extra “T” because he earned it. We often trade recipes and chat about kitchen ways and wares. This particular recipe was exactly for the chocolate sheet cake. The recipe was entitled The Funeral Cake.

I was surprised. Ha. Kidding. I was not surprised.

“Whittney, no! This can’t be”, I said. “Hannibal Anne has been bringing this cake to birthdays forever.”

Whittney laughed and said, “it is a Southern tradition to take this chocolate cake to funerals.”

Whittney totally gets Southern tradition, seeing as how he is from the South. From South Carolina, to be precise. From Hampton county, South Carolina, to be more precise. From the same town and county as Alex Murdaugh, to be even more precise. So, I reckon he knows funeral tradition too.

My eyes got wide and my face pulled back. Like Jim Carrey in The Mask. LITERALLY!

Like what the hell Hannibal? As I thought back, I can remember Hannibal carrying in the large pan covered in foil over and over, spanning many years. Every time she went to remove the foil and cut to serve, there it was. The smirk. She knows and, now, I know she knows.

For most people, cake is our way of telling the universe that we are refusing to let a beautiful moment pass by unnoticed. Or for just eating. Mainly eating. But the beautiful moment thing is true too. Like making chocolate cookie dough that never makes it to the actual certified cookie stage. “Somebody” always eats it. Like my Nieces. And maybe me.

Celebration cake is a physical treat of gratitude, transforming a simple calendar date into a sacred sanctuary of a celebratory moment. You can even have a favorite cake like the St Regis’s cheesecake, Del Frisco’s lemon cake or my Great Aunt Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake. Her cakes really deliver, like a truth teller.

Jo Jo’s Cake of Truth -- Grudge Cake #3

In January 2021, we did cooking classes with my Grandmother. We even made hats for the occasion.

Somehow, we focused more on desserts. Poppy cock, chocolate fudge sauce, Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake and, for our Houndball friend Scotty, cookies (all kinds of cookies).

Funny story. When we delivered the cookies to Scotty, it was almost dark, so we laid them out on his golf cart which he parked in the driveway. Scotty, not recognizing us, comes running out his front door -- “what are you doing?” Then he recognized us, and all was well.

When any of the recipes came out great, we would say it was superior quality. They never came out non-great, unless due to “operator error” of course. Like the time my Aunt Ju Ju kept missing a crucial step in the making of the Poppy-cock. She knows what I’m talking about! But, even then, that turned out great too. I will write about that in our Christmas Special, entitled “Come on Baby Light My Fur Tree“ or maybe something else. Waiting on copy writers.

My Grandmother also gave us tips like “run a paper towel, with olive oil, over your wooden serving pieces to keep them from drying out.” Or “fill a pan with water when making baked potatoes so they won’t dry out”. It’s dry up in Hansford county. Humidity of 20% would be considered sticky.

Back again at Camp Grandmama

When we went to visit my Grandmother the last few times, we would stay for a few weeks. The pattern was always the same. When we arrived, she was using a walker and appeared forgetful and a bit slower than normal. After a few days of eating properly -- like the giant Tomahawk steaks we picked up from the Sam’s in Amarillo, accompanied by the world’s largest baked potatoes -- sourced from Neighbors, the local grocery -- and palling around town, watching Family Feud with Steve Harvey (in between those Pharma ads for drugs with unpronounceable names, all with warnings that say “side effects include retching, psychotic episodes, using Oxford commas, and death”). Then we would have some swell homemade hot fudge sundaes with self-made whipped cream with a slight but detectable dose of bourbon added for flavour. The bourbon was hidden in a low cupboard, way in the back, behind a bunch of pans.

In the morning, we would enjoy a fresh cup of Fluffy Muffy. Fluffy Muffy is made by combining some random combination of oranges, carrots, celery, and whatever vegetables are abundant at Neighbors, the local grocery, in a blender for 3 -5 minutes, after which the concoction develops a nice airy fluff. Hence the name, Fluffy Muffy.

After all that, in just a couple of days my Grandmother was up and at’em. Sharp as a Taser. Not needing a walker. That is when she would tell us stories of my Grandfather and my dad, Fredo, and the other kids. Oh yeah, there was also the story about Kay Hobbs.

Kay lived across Hwy 15 to the South at the time. She was a “larger” lady. She got really excited when her bread maker arrived. Not long after that, her car broke down and it took a few folks -- my Grandfather included -- to lift her into the tow truck. Oh yeah, reportedly -- and I was not there to confirm this, mainly because I hadn’t been born yet -- but reportedly there was also gas involved. Not the kind you put in your gas tank.

I am Ready for My Cake Up, Mr. DeMille

One time I was sitting down with my Grandmother going through a recipe for Jo Jo’s angel cake and came across an ingredient called “Cream Butter”. I think this was April 2021, the second to the last time I saw her. Well, I had never heard of Cream Butter before. So I looked at myself (don’t try that at home) and said. “Hey, what is Cream Butter”?

She slunked a little bit in her chair, as if to say “uhhh, she still doesn’t get it”, turned to look at me with a look a sidewinder might give, and, using an Oxford comma, laughed. “No, not ‘Cream Butter’, it means cream the butter, you know soften it, beat it with a mixer and cream it up”.

“Oh, right, creeeam butter”, I said emphasizing and stretching out the vowel parts, mock pretending like I misunderstood the words. “Oh, I totally knew that!”. I didn’t. We both knew I didn’t. She gave me a gentle elbow, as if to say “Oh you!” I responded in kind. Then we laughed with each other.

Jo Jo was my Grandmother’s sister, so I guess my Great Aunt. Her recipes are all simple, beautifully crafted, use Oxford Commas, and get everything out of the small handful of ingredients involved. Like Hamburger Helper!

Here is the recipe for Jo Jo’s 3-layer cake.

This is a beautiful fluffy towering white layered round cake. Visually, it presents celebratory. I could never get the coconut frosting to work, so I switched it out with a butter-milk formulation, completely homemade.

This one time (at cake camp) we made this cake as a 7 layer cake with only 5 layers, which was a statement that, despite all we accomplish, we are never done. Or maybe we ran out of eggs. You decide.

So, why is this a Grudge Cake. In December 2021, my Aunt Ju Ju was there and we made this cake, along with lots of other, stuff for Christmas. A month or so later, Fredo was describing to my Aunt Ju Ju all about making the cake and how good it was. Like he was there. He wasn’t. It was gone before we left -- “somebody” ate it -- so he would have never sampled it. I took this as a bitter grudge Hannibal and Fredo had developed.

Fredo has a history of taking other people’s stories and somehow plopping himself in the middle of it. Like this. Dolphyn told Fredo one of his “little boy” stories. I was there, and heard the whole thing. It goes like this, when Dolphyn was young -- maybe 3 or 4 years old -- his Dad kept pigeons, including Carrier Pigeons, Tumblers, and these pure white Fantail pigeons. There were two fantails, and they were a mating pair.

Pigeons have a habit of landing on roads and ingesting gravel for their gizzards. One day, the fantails were on the street picking up gravel when a car hit the female and killed it. The male walked up to his mate’s body and refused to leave. He was then killed by another car. To Dolphyn, it felt like the beauty of love.

Anyway, a few months later, Fredo recounted that story to me as if it happened to him. Except he mistook the white fantail pigeons for doves.

I know what you are thinking about this story. I have the same question. Why would anyone let a four year old kid play on the street? That is a great question!

Coffee Coffee Everywhere

Another surprise, while we were in cooking class, was around coffee. I love coffee. I enjoy all kinds of different coffee -- except the kind from the super market -- from all over the world. Ranking coffee and “expresso” (as some people call it) is in my score card when traveling.

The coffee at my Grandmother’s was made with a percolator. It was excellent and this eventually evolved into my go-to coffee recipe. It looks like this.

· Turkish blend coffee from Fonte, the brand that used to be at the Wynn when Steve Wynn was at the Wynn

· Make coffee in old school percolator, which one may buy from Ebay, preferably from the 1960s or before

· Espresso Illy pod in the Illy pod machine

· Homemade whipped cream

Make coffee, add whipped cream, pour espresso on top. Enjoy. By the way, you can add sugar to the whipped cream when you make it if you want it sweeter.

We call it the ‘Spro, because while in Amarillo I stopped by the local Coffee Roasters and asked for a coffee and an espresso. The barista gave me the coffee and then said, “your ‘spro is coming right up”.

Here is a picture of me enjoying my ‘Spro.

Image Courtest of PFFK#7

Fredo has my Bosch Porscha machine at #6 Accosted. It was a gift, to me, for doing an Illy promotional event for Time Warner in NYC. So, naturally it ends up serving my parents. That’s me, the Kind Kommodity Kid.

One Half of a Grudge Cake

The following is based on a fake story. All scenes and dialogue have been made up . . . entirely.

Fredo was in a bind. It was early January 2010, and extra cold in Gruver that day. It was around 9 am. He had a meeting with the bank in Spearman, the next town over, but bank people don’t even take the first sip of their Morning Joe D until 10 am.

To bide the time, he was sitting in truck in his Mother’s driveway, hoping to warm up and stop his teeth from rattling. He had earlier grabbed one of those Pillsbury frozen triangle things from his Mom’s freezer, wrapped it in some tin foil, and placed it gently on top of the engine to heat it up. He put the little pouch of icing on the engine block to warm that up as well.

Back to Fredo and the cold, sitting in his pickup. Sure wouldn’t want to be a brass monkey, he thought to himself, not knowing exactly what that meant. His Dad used to say that whenever they were out working in the fields on the really cold days, so Fredo knew it must have been something funny.

Fredo had never seen a brass monkey and was pretty they didn’t exist. But no denying it got cold in Gruver -- hell freezing over is a regular occurrence.

As he waited there in the frigid driveway, the heat melted the icing packet and icing began dripping down the engine block. The engine began to squeal like a horny pumpjack with no date for Saturday night.

Fredo got scared. He was about to be busted. He backed up, drove out to Hwy 15 and disappeared down the road, never getting to enjoy those Pillsbury’s.

Fredo had driven up from Amarillo that morning to see his “good friend”, Mach Schnell, who was the loan officer at First State Bank – which everyone calls FSB. That in itself is funny because there are probably 50 banks in Texas named First State Bank of Somewhere. Do they all call themselves “FSB”, Fredo wondered, laughing to himself. He could imagine a regional banking convention where everyone’s introduced themselves as “Hi, I’m Mike from FSB”. He laughed a little louder. Fredo always laughed at his own jokes. Not one else did.

Well, it is not as confusing, Fredo thought, about the old bank in Amarillo called Boatmen’s Bank. There aren’t any boats in Amarillo.

Why was Fredo in a bind? I will discuss that story in a future episode entitled “Equity is Equity, How to Steal from Your Own Daughter for Fun and Profit“. And this story is a true one.

It involves an investment, straight up fraud, gaslighting, and an Oxford comma.

Here is a teaser.

Read more

Listen to my Voiceover.

EXT -- EARLY MORNING -- RURAL SMALL TOWN TEXAS

Hwy 15 and Main St. form a T-junction. Main St. runs North to South and Hwy 15 runs East to West.

We are at that T-junction looking down Main St., due South. The street extends like a ribbon in front of us that never seems to end. We see small shops lining Main St. along the way. At distance, we see a water tower off to the right side and, on the left, a figment of a pine tree further down.

It’s around 8am, and already hot. There is a slight breeze. The Sun is watching closely, like a rambunctious kid creating heat waves, then watching them dance love-starved Charlestons as they rise up to meet the day.

A few vehicles -- e.g., mid-1980s pickup trucks, the occasional sedan, a cattle truck or two, and one very bright Cherry Red Cadillac driven by Barb -- are in town, dotted along in the diagonal parking spots on either side of the street or turning on to Broadway St a few blocks away or passing by, hither and/ or thither, front of us.

Looking left, just across the street, we see a gas station with red Allsup’s trim on top and a blue yellow and white overhang covering the gas pumps, which are themselves offset from the brick walls and glass doors of the gas station.

To our right, a few hundred yards away, we can just make out a [white/ tan] pickup truck slowly but deliberately approaching Main St. The Sun is blaring and reflecting off the windshield, obscuring our view. As it passes, we can almost make out a small blonde or gray haired figure behind the wheel, looking like one of the town’s older ladies going about her business -- or trying to figure out someone else’s.

The [white/ tan] pickup crosses in front of us, pulls into the Allsup’s parking lot and stops. The driver’s side door opens. An adorable little girl climbs out, slides off the vinyl upholstery and lands with a delicate tap. Duly armed with a handful of cash, she walks -- some might say saunters -- into Allsup’s.

A few minutes later, she comes back out, her arms and hands full of all kinds of candy bars and assorted snacks. Plus a Twinkie for herself.

She walks back to the [white/ tan] pick-up, opens the driver’s side door, waves to Barb in the Bright Cherry Red Cadillac who just happens to be driving by.

ADORABLE LITTLE GIRL

“Hi Barb!” (screaming, in a humorous fun way, like she used to at the airplanes passing way up above: “hello up there!”)

Barb waves back.

Adorable Little Girl climbs back up, sits behind the wheel and, after a couple of attempts, closes the door.

She fires up the engine and drives back the way she came.

Oh yeah, she ate the Twinkie in the truck, knowing her dad would have swiped it if she hadn’t.

Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, Adorable Little Girl was me (a.k.a. “I”).

Here I am at around that age. Aren’t I adorable -- as the fully accurate moniker above suggests, a moniker that, I should point out, someone has thoughtfully capitalized (you’re welcome)?

I Hope I Drive Before I Get Old

I was driving before I was legally able to drive. I was driving even before I was able to drive.

Now I love to drive. The longer the trip the better.

I remember riding with my Grandfather, watching him maneuver and manipulate his own pickup or tractor or other vehicle, memorizing what he was doing, and thinking “I can totally do that”.

Anyway, here is the opening scene above as I remember it.

It was a typical early morning in late May. Clear blue skies, the sun was coming up and I was sitting in an empty cattle pen. We were branding cattle and discovered one of the cows had some sort of infection. Between her noises and the smell, I became noxious. I felt like I was going to pass out . . . wait, I think I mean I became “nauseous”. I already am noxious. To some people.

Fredo Says, Love My Good N’ Plenty

“Hey, make a hand. Grab my keys and go to Allsup’s. Here is $10. Get everyone candy or snacks.”

Whoa, $10 whole bucks!, I thought.

ME

“OK. What kind?”

FREDO

“Get a mix.”

ME

“What kind of mix?”

FREDO

“I don’t know. Just a mix. You can figure it out. If they have any Twinkies, get me one of those.”

I was game. As mentioned above, after watching my Grandfather, I was fully able to drive.

Plus, I thought the air conditioning would be nice and refreshing, like a cool drink of fresh air. I was, after all, trying to get sick cow smell straight outta my nose.

Plus, I knew not to argue.

Plus, I probably argued a lot.

I had never driven at that point. Well, let me “refreeze” that. I had never “officially” driven, like on an actual paved road, with actual other cars, driven by other actual drivers, going all different actual directions. I did, however, practice on the many dirt, gravel and/ or caliche roads, which are all over everywhere up in the Texas panhandle.

FREDO

“What are you waiting for. Get a move on it!”

I climbed into the driver’s seat and, with appropriate flair, slid the keys into the key-hole, twisted them clockwise, and fired up the truck. I played back watching every person I had been in a vehicle with, to drive or press the brakes. Mostly to drive.

My Grandfather showed me how to turn the wheel and how to brake. Funny, I don’t remember him telling me how to engage the accelerator. Must have been an oversight. I also remember begging him to let me drive. He said, “when your leg is long enough to push down this brake pedal” (pointing at brake pedal), “I will let you drive”.

He died before my leg was long enough.

Never a Phone Book Around When You Need One

I could barely see the road and use the pedals at the same time. At least I was away from the infection smell, though, so there’s that.

I drove to the Allsup’s, turned into the parking lot. Stopped and got out.

Inside Allsup’s, in the candy aisle, I thought back to which candy I had seen everyone who was at the branding eat before. Snickers, Butterfinger, Nerds, Good N’ Plenty, etc. There were a few other customers milling through saying good morning. I checked out and hopped back in the truck. I got a Twinkie -- for myself, that is.

What struck me is that not one person blinked twice at a little, yet adorable, girl driving in and out of the busy Allsup’s corner parking lot. Except, oh look, there’s Barb in her Bright Cherry Red Cadillac. I waived and yelled “Hi Barb” at her. She waived back.

West bound Highway 15 a few miles down and back, I went. Surprisingly, and without any serious or reportable incident (other than eating a Twinkie), I returned to the pens and handed Fredo an armful of assorted candy and snacks.

FREDO

“Stusid, you got chocolate. It’s going to melt.” (Yes, according to Fredo it’s stusid, not stupid.)

Knowing not to argue, I replied:

ME

“You did not say ‘no chocolate’. You told me to get whatever. And chocolate counts as whatever. Besides, most candy contains chocolate, unless it’s like gummy bears. And I don’t see you guys sitting around eating gummy bears.”

“Or you could just eat it now and it won’t melt.”

FREDO

“Get back to the pens.”

In my red ropers, I hopped back up on the pens with the sorting stick[1] and did my duties until we were done branding. As we headed home, reeking of the branding smell. Pungently reeking, to be precise.

FREDO

“Don’t tell your mom that you drove today.”

ME

“No problem.”

I just stared out of the open window thinking of how long the list was, the list of things I was not supposed to tell the other. The list between the two of them was long, and I, of course, was in the middle.

A Note About Branding

Cattle branding is not like you might see in the movies about and/ or involving cattle branding. It is an organized assembly line type operation, involving several folks, starting off one early spring morning and, depending on how many head need branding, can take all day. After which, there is usually a food buffet and beers for all (except me).

Oh yeah, did I mention it’s really pungent. Burnt cow hair and flesh is not what it’s cracked up to be.

Sign, Sign, Neverywhere a Sign

Listen with Signs Five Man Electrical Band

There were next to no signs in or around the town I grew up in. The local bank had a digital sign. You know, with the temperature and individuals’ names that had birthdays. I always enjoyed their sign. It was both factual and celebratory. The temp was often a few degrees off, but close enough. It could have just said “hot” or “hotter than heck” and that would have been close enough.

The lack of signs growing up could be the reason I pay way too much attention to signs now a days. I have a few favorites. Even Hannibal has a favorite sign. It is not rated PG (shocker) so I might just have to put it behind the pay wall, so all the super wise, good looking and smart paying subscribers can see it. We love paying subscribers!

From the Better Rethink that Dept.

Here is a recent favorite sign that had my jaw laughing.

[I had to laugh. It made me think of a pretend news blurb: “in related news, despite a new public safety Billboard campaign, pedestrian accidents in Amarillo have increased sharply in recent months.”

The craziest signs I have ever seen were in Amsterdam. Wow, they hold nothing back there. The one’s in Hong Kong and China might be crazy too, but I can’t read Chinese characters-- either traditional or simplified. I’ll mention here I spent a few years traveling. Traveling was it’s own form of therapy. The first trip to Amsterdam is when I took Hannibal on a two week trip down the Rhine River (yes, I know the Rhine River does not go near Amsterdam -- it was a layover stop).

Her highlight of the cruise was when she threatened the owner of the ship, well somewhat. Hannibal got in the ear of the owner’s top crew member and said “you have my permission to throw him from the train.”

I had to remind her that we were on a river cruise, not a train.]

The Exit Not Taken

Back to the signs. There are some signs I do not follow, like this one. Or the previous one.

The searchers all say, don’t go down this way. I’m sure you can understand why.

Wilder’s

It’s late January, 2021 in the middle of The Troubles -- you know what I am talking about.

We’re in the Batmobile driving 1,300 miles from Amarillo to someplace that was not Amarillo. We left in the late afternoon, drove though the angry and vast highways of Oklahoma and arrived in Missouri at around 9:30 pm. Time to get off the highway and rest for the evening. We see signs for Joplin exits, the next three. Or maybe four. We take the second one. At this point, we are totally and hopelessly lost. This is supposed to be Joplin, MO. It just looks like fields. And did I mention it’s dark?

Oh wait, there’s an airport to the right. I have been to Joplin before; didn’t know of an airport.

We turn left and keep driving. Still no town.

Eventually, after maybe 10 minutes of being lost, we arrive right smack dab middle of Joplin, MO. On what looks like Main St.

We drive a few minutes and see a Neon sign beckoning us from far away. “Wilder’s” the sign says. Like a beacon in the dead night. A lighthouse for the forsaken, perhaps. A savior in an otherwise bleak world? You decide.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

Oh yeah, here it is in triplicate, thus the name three billboards, though technically speaking they may not be billboards. Close enough for me.

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

We pull past the beautiful Neon sign, turn right, and right again into the parking lot. It is 15 whole minutes before 10pm. Are they open? We see someone peek out a window from the restaurant. They are open! OK. Maybe we get to eat tonight.

We approach the door and a super nice lady lets us in.

We are in Wilder’s. We are almost the only people there.

We sit down at a booth table. A fantastic waitress appears. We have steaks and a bottle of Billecart- Salmon for only $60 real American bucks. Chocolate mousse cake for dessert, with just enough whip cream to hint at wild goings on in the back room.

Anyway, Wilder’s is a great steak house, with nice owners.

Dinner is now over. Now what, we ask. Where to stay?

Well, we are in luck. Our lovely waitress tells us that, Just 10 miles down yonder to the South, across the OK borderline personality disorder is the Indian Casino.

So there we go. Turns out, it was open, plenty of rooms, and the bars don’t close until 3am. Drinks just $2 bucks each. No one else there. This was one of those instances where it seemed like time itself stopped, and nothing whatsoever was ever happening. I have experienced a few times like that, and I love them all.

This image is really a rendition of a Neon sign we made from a little model the restaurant people give out or sell in their gift shop.

Hannibal’s Favorite Sign

Before 2020, Hannibal Anne, my sister(?) and I would meet in Dallas a few times a year. For some reason they liked me then. I love me then and now!

Then being from 1999 to 2020. They don’t now, for some reason. We would stay at The Mansion On Turtle Creek, shop at Northpark and Highland Park Village. Dine at Pappasitos, Bread Winners, Zodiac Room and Capital Grille. Easy. Fun.

For another some reason, on these trips, my sister(?) and I would both get food poisoning. It’s worth noting I have only ever gotten food poisoning when around Hannibal. Made it through numerous third world countries and have been just fine. So, when we would get food poisoning, you can no doubt imagine how compassionately and loving Hannibal Anne is. Such kind words include the following:

HANNIBAL ANNE

“D@mn it! You food psychos! Be quiet! I’m trying to sleep!”

We would eventually emerge from food psycho poisoning, my sister(?) looking like hell, me looking great. Sometimes, my mascara would be smeared and my sister(?) would laugh and say I looked like Vince Neal. I probably did.

Here’s another fun fact. When we would check out of The Mansion or any hotel ever, Hannibal Anne would empty the trash in our room. She would put the small trash bag in her tote bag and dispose of the trash when we were in a different parking lot. I have no idea why. Open to ideas here, so please feel free to share.

OK. Hannibal’s favorite sign. In the early 2000s we were Central Express Way in Dallas. Hannibal Anne was in the back seat and she was mumbling something.

Here it comes, her favorite sign.

Hannibal Anne is muttering, almost under her breath, but still audible.

“Connnnnn” . . .

Read more

Here is my totally listen-to-able Voiceover.

Good morning, peoples. It’s Book Report day again.

Here we give our report on books, articles and other publications -- that we totally read -- and that are interesting, really make you think, and are both informative and informational!

A Short Story with a Long Title

Today we will be covering differences between male and female psychopaths by reviewing a dissertation entitled Psychopathy and Gender of Serial Killers: A Comparison Using the PCL-R by Chasity S. Norris, dated August 2011. I will attach it at the end of this Episode. The PCL-R itself is excerpted in the dissertation.

PCL-R for the uninitiated is not an obscure test to get into an obscure grad program or generic Ozempic. It stands for “Psychopathy Check List - Revised”, developed by Dr. Robert Hare in some year. 1991 maybe?

Like the author, I think PCL-R is missing a few things when it comes to female psychopaths, so using this tool might under-report them.

Just Disserts

I know that covering a dissertation might sound like watching cheese grow, but it really is quite good in several parts. I read the entire thing -- except the references at the end -- as I get bored very quickly.

A quick and slightly exaggerated (are there two “g”s in exaggerate?) synopsis: female psychopaths exist. Like really. They are a million times worse than males. And they are better at getting away with it.

I came across this dissertation a few years ago when I was doing some heavy research into psychopaths, narcissists, cluster-F’ers, dark tetris people, borderline persons, and all the rest of them. I also sent it to my therapist and suggested she read it. A few months later she sent it to me and suggested I read it[1].

I think most of the above terms overlap with each other significantly and are just different ways of saying the same thing. And sometimes the terms aren’t too descriptive. For example, the term “narcissist”? It gives them way too much credit and makes it sound like they spend all day looking at themselves in the mirror -- which they just might. Also, what is a Dark Tetrad exactly, or Borderline Personality Disorder? Is there an Over the Border Personality Disorder?

That is why, here at the Handbook, we change the names around a little bit to make them more memorable and, we hope, funnier.

While we are on terminology, we prefer “psychopath” to “sociopath”. They are apparently interchangeable. However, to me, each one is somehow both too narrow and too broad. Plus, “sociopath” doesn’t sound like anything, or maybe it sounds like the path I would take to get to my sociology class in college. Oh man, was that ever a waste of time! OK. I’m not demeaning sociologist. I’m just saying I learned a lot more in geometry than I did in sociology. And I didn’t even take geometry. OK. Not entirely true. I did take geometry.

Half of One and Six Dozen of Another

I get asked a lot what is the difference between a psychopath and a narcissist. I’ve looked around for a clear distinction in the clinical stuff myself, and haven’t really found one that hits me.

My view is they are different flavors of the same thing and are spectrumy. Or that psychopaths are pure concentrated distilled evil, while narcissists are watered down diluted evil or maybe they are just failures at being evil. If you told a narcissist that they were just failures at being evil, I am sure they would take it well and not try to kill you. Don’t try this at home, I should add at this point.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Bad is still bad. Abuse is still abusive. No matter what you call it.

So, what is my (non) answer to this question?

· A psychopath thinks everything that goes wrong is their fault, and are proud of it;

· A narcissist thinks that everything that goes wrong is your fault, and therefore are entitled to punish you for it.

The Blessing!

So, when I came across this dissertation, Psychopathy and Gender, what grabbed me was the acknowledgement section. She thanks her daughter, her father, her grandfather, her best friends, her committee members, et. al. Hmmm. Something is missing here. What could it be? What is totally conspicuous by its total absence?

Her mother. She did not thank, or even mention, her mother. I presume she had one.

So, this made me think she had a bad mom, and then I really wanted to read her observations.

Is There Anybody Out There?

This was back in 2020 and 2021. There seemed to be nothing, not even a non-profit (there are almost 2 million of those registered in the USA alone, no idea what any of them do), to help support adult children going through psychopathic or narcissistic abuse and recovery. I mean, with all the Lifetime movies out there featuring psychopath characters, you’d think there would be something!

We Dissect the Dissert

This dissertation -- let’s give it a name “Psychopathy and Gender” -- is structured in three main parts (the table of contents lists 4 chapters, but chapter 3 and 4 are related). Part 1 - Introduction - lays out test subjects from history, three males and four females, like Ted Bundy and Aileen Wuornos. Part 2 -- Literature -- explore the cases in some detail.

Part 3 then lays out the hypothesis -- that “despite the numerous similarities between the type of crime committed, level of violence displayed during commission of the crime, and evidence of sadistic Paraphilia involvement “ . . . i.e., sick perverted sexual fetish stuff) . . . “the females will receive lower overall scores using the PCL-R. The rest then lays out the evaluations of the male and female test subjects using PCL-R.

Interestingly, of all the serial killers seem to fit the psychopathy profile, “only Ted Bundy scored high enough to be diagnosed as such”. I did not know that.

The author notes that, when evaluating subjects using PCL-R, three items are omitted, most importantly number 11 -- sexual promiscuity. Sexual promiscuity is common among female psychopaths, so excluding it may tend to make female subjects score lower than they otherwise would.

Or female psychos are just better at getting away with it. That’s my view.

The author concludes by suggesting the checklist might need some “improvement” when evaluating females. We concur.

Doesn’t that sound fun?

Well, that isn’t the reason Psychopathy and Gender resonated with us.

A Fist Full of Hollers

When I began reading the dissertation, several passages “literally” screamed out at me. Or, I think that was me screaming at myself in joy that I am not alone.

I couldn’t be the only one, the lone escapegoat in the world. That’s when the afore-mentioned research began.

By this point, the realization that my mom, Hannibal Anne, had waged war on me -- probably my whole life -- had fallen on me, like a bucket of water tossed out a second story bathroom, and had since been fully absorbed. I began to remember all the sadistic, nasty and malicious things she had done. Like making me go to dance class all the way up in Guymon OK and dressing me in things like bear suits. Then attempting to sabatage the bear outfit right before I went on stage for the recital. Thankfully my aunt fixed the yellow straps or the costume would have dropped during the performance.

Here’s me as a little bear. The back of the picture says I was 5 years old. Aren’t I an adorable little bear? Even thought it looks like I am wearing oven gloves.

So, now that I began to remember, what to do?

Anyone Seen my Bookclub?

There was not one book titled something like Bad Moms or Ella Jeffe / Ella Diablo or The Mommy is in the Details or What To Do When Your Parents Are Stealing From You, Abusing You, Don’t Want To Be Found Out, and Therefore Might Try to Kill You, an Illustrated Children’s book.

Then there is also them snooping into people’s wills and trying to understand, yet misinterpreting, what “per stirpes”, “lawful”, and “bloodline” mean. I will get to that in a future Episode entitled “Where There’s A Will There’s a Pay“.

So, as I was working my way through Psychopathy and Gender, I found myself relating to large chunks of her writing. I agreed with many of her observations. In some parts, I could also see Hannibal Anne and / or my own darn self in there.

I definitely share in her view point that female psychopaths are under studied. On this point, she says,

“[t]he majority of documented serial killers throughout history have been men. This has led to the false assumption that there are no female serial killers.”

My view is that -- nature being nature -- there are equal numbers of male vs. female psychopaths out there; it’s just that the females are better at hiding. I also believe they are worse than the males.

Sacks and Violins

Next quote:

Females will more often use a more “hands off” approach to killing, often using poison or suffocation to kill without direct or violent contact (Cleckley, 1976; Hare, 1993; Hickey, 1991). These muted and indirect methods allowed female murderesses to go undetected for a vast period of time. These differences are key to understanding the perpetuation of the myth that female serial killers do not exist.

The poison reference also hit me. I have a bunch of theories on Hannibal Anne and poisons, which I will roll out slowly over time. I don’t have any proof. Not yet, anyway.

Here are a few more examples:

Take a Drink from my Special Cup

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

“Most psychopaths react oppositely to inebriation than do most typical drinkers. Where most people who partake in alcohol find themselves more boisterous, joyful, and excitable . . ., psychopaths often become quiet and sullen. . . . What does often emerge is shocking and unexplainable behaviors in the psychopaths. With just a few drinks, they indulge in vastly antisocial behaviors.”

Hannibal Anne is very careful. She tries not to drink around other people. When she does, that is when her true self comes out. Same thing with anesthetics. When she was recovering from her “fake knees” operation back in 2018, and coming back into consciousness, a deep, gravelly, throaty type voice started to come out through her jutting jawed pie hole. She was talking about girls from high school she wanted revenge on, and stuff like that.

My oldest Niece thought it was funny. I found it creepy, but also real.

Lesson: psychopaths never forget a grudge, not even when they die.

Things Are Really Florida Universitied

It is nearly an accepted standard that the psychopath’s sex life shows some type of peculiarities. . . . They do not seem to be encumbered by the normal complex emotional experiences that encompass most loving adult sexual relations (Cleckley, 1976) . . . . The typical promiscuity that is observed for both male and female psychopaths is most likely due to their immense lack of restraint and not to an abnormally excitable libido. Because they relish in high risk behaviors, they will often seek to have sex with high risk persons and in very squalid surroundings (Cleckley, 1976).

The reference to “Cleckley” is to Mask of Sanity, first published in 1941, by Hervey M. Cleckley. He is considered by many to be the grandfather or godfather, not sure, of the study of psychopathy. I read that book also. He provides flowery case studies of psychopaths he has come across over his many years of practice. Virtually all of them had we he described as some kind of sexual perversion or deviancy.

I will try, in a future Episode, to stoke up the courage to tell you about a dream I had when I was very young -- involving sexual deviancy and Hannibal. I didn’t know those concepts back then, of course. Well, at least I think it was a dream.

How to Beat a Lie Detector Test in One Easy Lesson

In a 1970 study by Hare,

“[i]t was established that in psychopaths, a small skin conductance reaction in anticipation of negative stimuli followed by a hefty increase in heart rate. The opposite was observed in nonpsychopathic patients. The nonpsychopaths had a large galvanic skin response followed by a decrease in heart rate (Hare, 1970).

Heart rate and skin galvanic response are two key parts of a polygraph test. Just sayin’

That’s all the quotes for now.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Flounder

So, like I have my own Devil Mommy, and what to do with her? For now, it’s to stay away.

Since the February 2021 Hannibal voicemail -- wherein Hannibal Anne instructs me in her devil baby voice to not “come to our house in Amarillo . . . [country music pause] . . . Period” -- I have only spoken to Hannibal once. That phone call was in October of 2024.

In August that year, she started texting me asking if I wanted to meet up in Dallas or Santa Fe. Seeing as how I like not actually being killed when I travel, I didn’t reply.

So, anyway, my dad, Fredo called me one day and put Hannibal on the phone. Thanks Fredo!

The call went something like this (after her fumbling for a few minutes to sync with Bluetooth in brand her new evidence-free Hannibal truck)

HANNIBAL

“How are you?”

ME

“I guess I am fine. What’s going on?”

HANNIBAL

“I am ready to move on. Let’s forget everything that has happened.”

ME

“Do you realize how painful the last few years have been?”

HANNIBAL

“See, I knew it. You are still so full of rage. I don’t really remember what all happened, it’s all just a fog. I miss you.”

[Leaving open the question how one can forget everything that happened that they don’t remember -- ed.]

ME

“What do you miss?”

HANNIBAL

“You are beautiful, kind and caring” (true that!) “Why don’t you think about it? We can start talking again. I’ll think about it and you think about it.” (I wasn’t going to think about it. She can just go think herself)

The call ended and my nervous system was reacting. I wasn’t going to sign up again to be abused emotionally and financially. My life was much more peaceful without Hannibal Anne.

However, for good measure, not too long after that I did send them some Limburger cheese. They did not get the joke.

The “rage” thing is also funny. A few years earlier, I think in 2020, she texted me something about me and some rage issues she was projecting me of. So I texted her this video of Rodney Dangerfield in Back to School. I never got a reply.

Lesson: An effective way to deal with psychopaths is to ridicule and laugh at (not with) them -- the more people joining in, the better

A Devil with Some Quicksand

So I wondered how the author, C.S. Norris would score Ted Bundy (you may remember that Hannibal had me reading about him when I was 13 . . . for some reason) compared to Aileen Wuornos (good movie Monster with Charlize Theron).

Ms. Norris writes

“Social predators who charm, manipulate, and ruthlessly plow their way through life, leaving a broad trail of broken hearts, shattered expectations, and empty wallets. Completely lacking in conscience and in feeling for others, they selfishly take what they want and do as they please, violating social norms and expectations without the slightest sense of guilt or regret (Hare, 1993, xi).”

This is Hannibal Anne spot on, dead to rights, a bullseye, a fair cop if ever there was one. I continued reading.

“Primary psychopaths suffer from what McCord and McCord (1982) termed ‘lovelessness and guiltlessness’. These patients are the true predators of society. Primary psychopaths present low anxiety, little stress response, and no fear. . . . (Yep)

Primary psychopaths also appear to be devoid of any genuine emotions, although they are very adept at mimicking them (Cleckley, 1976; Hare, 1993). This group is considered to be the “core” or “true” psychopath. This term is applicable to those whose psychopathy is innate and unchanging throughout the lifespan (Hare, 1993). (Core Yep)

Again, dead on. You know what they say, beauty is skin deep, but ugly goes to the core.

She is emotionally detached in my view. I have only seen Hannibal cry twice. Both times involved one of her gravy trains being messed with and derailed. The only emotion I have seen her display is anger. And that really isn’t an emotion. It’s more of a response.

Nevermind the Furthermore

In last part of her dissertation, Ms. Norris runs through the PCL-R checklist used to evaluate psychopathy, although 3 of the 20 factors are excluding for evaluation.

I won’t go through all the points, as I get bored very easily.

Here are just a few relevant examples.

3. Need for stimulation and Proneness to boredom

Hannibal Anne is constantly running over orange roadworks cones. It’s one of her favorite past-times. She also enjoys charging her evidence-free Hannibal truck into the large orange roadworks barrels. She used to do this and yell out “to Wanda” (from Fried Green Tomatoes, which don’t sound too appetizing if you ask me).

4. Pathological Lying

November 2020 I was at #6 Accosted, I was in the garage and I saw it. A large treat box that I had shipped to #6 Accosted for my Nieces birthdays several months earlier. Hannibal Anne had been texting how much my Nieces had loved everything and their reactions to the different treats. Obviously, a complete lie. The box was sitting there unopened. I walked it into the living room. I said “hey Hannibal, this box hasn’t even been opened.” She just shrugged her shoulders and said “sorry.”

5. Conning and Manipulative

See the Episode entitled Hotlips Hooligans, in which we see a classic con job starring Hannibal Anne.

https://www.theunkillablehandbook.com/publish/posts/detail/185897620?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

6. Lack of remorse or guilt

Recall the first Episode She Threw Me Out of a Moving Car When I Was 5. Now I’m Driving. Give it a read or listen. She had no guilt or remorse for trying to off me.

https://www.theunkillablehandbook.com/publish/posts/detail/185321750?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

8. Callous and lack of empathy

Hannibal was at one of Myron’s basketball games. There was a team playing from Oklahoma City. The OKC bombing had just happened in April of 1995. I looked across the gym and Hannibal was smiling with her eyes locked in on a lady I had never seen before. A few minutes later I see Hannibal seated next to the lady. I couldn’t imagine what Hannibal Anne’s interest was because she looked so excited. Next I see Hannibal put her on hand on the lady’s leg. Hannibal said something and the lady recoiled and turned her face away from Hannibal. I was confused as I watched Hannibal walk away still smiling. It was like she had breathed something in. I made my way to Hannibal and asked her who she had been speaking to. Hannibal went on to explain the lady was from OKC and Hannibal had said to her “I’m so sorry about the bombing in your city.” I bet she said something else.

This was nuts. How had Hannibal sensed the grief from across a busy basketball court gym. It was like she was magnetized to the grief and wanted to breathe it in. I just shook my head thinking why re-victimize someone while they are focused on their kid’s game. Complete lack of empathy and completely sadistic.

Hannibal loves sadism and the breathing in of other people’s misery.

11. Promiscuous sexual behavior
I believe this to have been the case. Just can’t prove it. Not yet, anyway.

14. Impulsivity

For less than a week, in the early 2000s, Hannibal Anne worked at Bank of America. To wrap up her first work week she said to her manager “I am going to lunch and I’m not coming back.” I believe she took this job for some other purpose. Maybe to get access to someone’s financial records.

18. Juvenile delinquency

OG delinquent.

Full dissertation by Ms. Norris, click here

[1] I also began looking into therapists for myself around the same time. The one I settled on is great. She’s suffered through some very famous Martin Scorsese level abuse herself, and so understands what it is like. She is also portrayed in a major motion picture. She’s also a Duchess or something.

Listen to my Voiceover!

We love kittens.

We even love those human sized cat dolls they used to sell at Bergdorfs in NYC.

We love all kinds of animals. We even love some monsters, especially the cute cuddly googly eyed ones like these.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

Not Hannibal Anne, however. In fact, she doesn’t like most animals, e.g., dogs, cats -- especially tygers, gophers, horses, cattle, deer, ferrets or beavers. She did almost buy a hat made from long-haired beaver at an auction one day. So she might like long-haired beavers. She might also like poison dart frogs, since she got my brother(?), Myron, some when we first moved to Amarillo . . . for some reason.

They come in all kinds of colors. Myron’s were red like this one.

Seriously, why? True to their name, said frogs secrete a poisonous substance which can stop your heart, if, for example, you are struck by an indigenously fired blowdart. Or if the frog skin is dried, powdered and laced in someone’s cigarettes. For example. But only if the frogs come from the wild. Apparently there is something in their natural diet that creates the poison.

However, aside from long-haired beavers and poison dart frogs, she doesn’t like any animals. And animals don’t seem to like her much either.

The Bird is the Word

She doesn’t like birds either.

Who does not like birds?

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

The Fighting Swallows of Amarillo

She knocks down swallow nests. Who does that?

It was spring at #6 Accosted. Hannibal Anne noted the swallows were back and had rebuilt a nest from the last year. The nest was in the north west corner of the front porch, and I could see 3 or 4 little heads peeking out.

They were Barn Swallows. The ones with the chestnut colored breasts, forked tail and bluish colored top feathers. When I was a kid, I used to love watching them fly in pairs, swerving, darting, gliding like airborne figure skaters.

Being Hannibal Anne, of course, she knocked down the nest some months later. I’m not sure if the little newborns were still in the nest yet. I was dumbfounded. Hannibal Anne “they make a mess on the porch.” I thought about how many messes Hannibal had caused and so far, no one has knocked her house down or over. If the swallow’s mess is really bothering Hannibal, all she had to do was turn on the nearby hose for all of 6 seconds and clean the 3’ x 3’ concrete door threshold.

Anyway, the swallows rebuilt the nest.

Swallows symbolize good fortune, hope and renewal. They mate for life and also represent loyalty, lasting love and safe return home. Hannibal Anne also knocked down the swallow’s nest in my Grandmother’s north east facing portion of her porch. Given Muff’s strong connection with nature, her swallows built another nest right above the garage door where she sat during warm days. That was too high and too visible for Hannibal to knock down.

Oh yeah, knocking down swallows nests is a violation of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. Not sure what the “statute” of limitations is on that one, though I reckon she’s still doing it.

Builda-Bird

Why do birds suddenly appear,

Everytime your are near?

The following spring, they arrived at #6 Accosted. What we call “the black plague”. In the north west corner tree of #6 Accosted, a heavy, dense and loud swarm of black birds took up residence. They made a constant ghastly sound, like a cheese grater running across the bare skin of an agitated banshee or maybe a flock of highly strung Yokos. Especially at night. One night, after a game of dominoes, I went for a walk. A neighbor passed by on his iPhone and mid-conversation he noted “yeah, those birds. That’s the only tree in the subdivision those black birds stay in.” He had a bewildered look on his face and then went back to his phone call. I could tell it was a conversation that the neighborhood had all had amongst each other.

We tried filling nylons with moth-balls and tossing them in the tree to scare off the birds. They just laughed at us. Besides, moth-balls evaporate in a few days. This issue lasted a few years. I heard my dad, Fredo, cut some of the trees down. Or, I should say, he hired someone to cut the trees down. He’s not really capable of any real hard work requiring engineering. But he is great at trivia!

What are Little Black Birds Made Of?

Black birds symbolize transformation, mystery and spiritual awakening. So says the books. I think they symbolize something more evil and sinister.

Speaking of spiritual, we have yet to verify if Hannibal Anne has ever been baptized. I was baptized in April 1982, at church, on a Sunday, after the main services. I remember it fondly. My Grandparents were there.

Black birds also symbolize intuition, the unseen, voice and expression. So says said books. I think they symbolize something more evil and sinister. Yes, I repeated this on purpose.

Here is a biggie -- they represent trials sent to build faith and durability. As it turns out, at this exact time, I was about to stumble on the most massive amount of character building ever. As one ordained minister said to me “someone is after your soul.” My inside voice said “they aren’t getting it. My soul belongs to the folks upstairs.” They sure tried, led by Hannibal Anne, the ultimate yellow self. You know, yellow is supposed to represent the color of narcissists. Just sayin’.

What is it about Hannibal Anne not liking animals? Take for example birds, they are like flying gems. So beautiful and symbolic. We are humans and here to support nature. Take a look at this goldfinch, who visits our cherry blossom tree every year. What’s not to love?

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

Gopher Madness

One year Hannibal Anne’s backyard became the home to a family of plains pocket gophers. They are so cute! She was livid. She’s always livid. She immediately wanted them killed.

From U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, Photo By/Credit Sam Kieschnick

Pocket gophers symbolize hidden truth, and digging out such hidden truth. Eek! Is it about to be curtains for Hannibal Anne?

The gophers had built their gopher town along a wooden fence line below what was now a bunch of dirt. In previous years, there used to be a huge plant trumpet shaped flowers. The bright white blooms sprawled across the top of the fence line. I think it was a Jimsonweed, otherwise known as Datura stramonium, Devils Trumpet, Thornapple, etc. Jimsonweed is a highly psychoactive plant, i.e., makes you hallucinate and sometimes go into another world that doesn’t exist. It’s properties have been known since ancient times.

Here is a story about that. Summer of 1993, when the tulip flowers were in full bloom, two of my friends were over at #6 Accosted. Hannibal Anne made us some iced tea. Given how hot it was, we drank it up. Later another friend picked us up in his uncovered dark blue jeep. We drove around town for awhile listening to country music, singing along. I know every lyric of all Johnny Cash’s songs. Ring of Fire was a song we all sang along to. My 10 pm curfew was approaching, so we headed back to #6 Accosted. As the jeep slowed one of my friends started speaking in tongues. Then she stood with both hands on the row bar and started banging her head against the bar. Her blonde hair was flying back and forth through the night’s air. I was trying to figure out what to do. Along with me, our friend started yelling her first name over and over. Suddenly she stopped and turned her face to us. She had a blank and at the same time, a wild look in her eye. She jumped out of the jeep and started running toward the nearby golf course.

The jeep driver ran after her. My mind was racing. I was not quite sure what was happening. So I ran into the house, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I grabbed my Bible, it’s the same Bible I carry in my bag today, and is a gift from my Aunts. Our friend driving the jeep had by then returned with her. For some reason we thought cold water would snap her out of it. We started my shower and placed her in the streaming cold water. It wasn’t working. A minute or so later, I hear Hannibal Anne yelling my name from the bottom of the stairs. All of the sudden, our friend snapped back to herself.

The following morning our friend’s mom called. Both my friend and her mom are lovely, smart and bubbly people. I really adore them. The mom was on the phone with Hannibal Anne and wanted to hear about the prior night and why her daughter came home in wet clothes. My friend had no recollection of what happened. I mean, zero. Not even a hint of a flashback. Her mom also explained that it was the anniversary of when my friend’s cousins had passed away in a car accident.

That was it, I don’t think any of us ever brought up that night again, until now. Did the tea have just enough “something” in it?

The trumpet plant is gone these days. Fredo was instructed to “tear it down.” I think there might be some “evidence” buried down there. So the gophers had to goph.

By the way, the most expensive painting by Georgia O’Keeffe is entitled Jimson Weed. Alice Walton bought it for $44.4 million in 2014. That is kind of appropriate. The number “4” in Chinese culture is considered a bad omen, because the word for “4” sounds like the word for “death”. If you are ever in an elevator in Hong Kong or China, check out the floor numbers. Chances are any floor with a “4” (e.g., 14, 24, 34) has probably been removed. The floor is still there, just with a different number. The number “8” is considered lucky since the word for “8” sounds like the word for “wealthy” or “fortune”.

Back to nature, when I was young I could never have a pet.

Don’t worry, I am currently over compensating. I am now delivering baskets full of kittens.

Everybody loves kittens!

In the last Episode I posted a picture of Larry Mahan with my Grandfather and my Great Aunt Willie sitting on a sofa.

Well, Aunt Willie had a son. Folks called him “The Mover From Gruver”, “Mr. Dallas”, or just Billy Bob Harris, his legal birth certificate name. I recall my first lobbying job for the then mayor Gruver, J.C. Harris, who was Billy Bob’s Dad. Billy Bob was an only child, though he was such a handful it must have felt like they had a dozen kids.

I am related to Billy Bob through my Grandfather’s mom -- just known as Gramma -- who was a Harris.

Bill Bob DeVoe

My early childhood was not always about being thrown out of cars, witnessing grown up girl fights, or being generally sabotaged. There were fun times.

Like the time my Aunt Ju Ju took me to the Michael Jackson concert in 1984. Billy Bob got us tickets. That was the same trip we got lost going to visit South Fork. I’ll tell you what, it’s a lot smaller than it looks on TV. That is a story for another day.

The coolest, funnest and most exciting stories from my early childhood usually revolved around my “dear friend” Billy Bob. That was his actual birth certificate name, i.e., not a William Robert but a Billy Bob.

Sometime in the 1990s, I started calling him Bill Bob DeVoe for fun.

Listen with Bell Biv Devoe Poison

Billy Bob died on March 9, 2025. This is my tribute to Billy Bob.

Café Specific

The summer before mommy threw me out of a moving car, landing me on my slender butt cheeks, I was in Dallas, in a richly wood paneled room, with black and white checked marble floors. There were a handful of various sized dining tables and chairs in the middle and booths along wood paneled walls. We were at a booth of course.

I quickly noticed I was the only kid, which was fine. Somehow most of my best friends were adults.

Here I am with Billy Bob, his girlfriend Julie and the mystery man at Café Specific in Dallas’s Highland Park Village. Aren’t I adorable?

Author’s archive

I have no idea who the man with the signet ring is. Up until Billy Bob’s death, we spoke regularly. I asked him who this could be and his reply was Craig Morton’s friend. Craig had been quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, NY Giants and Denver Broncos. I think his last season was 1982, so one year after this photo. Anyway, Craig could not confirm who this Mystery Man was.

I enhanced the picture and color corrected it, though. I am 90% sure Mystery Man is wearing a Harvard ring.

Here is a close up.

Author’s archive

So, that’s a clue.

Craig Morton died May 9, 2026, just last month.

The Gruver Express

Billy Bob would fly me from Gruver to Dallas on a private plane, the kind with two pilots. The runway at the Gruver airport is almost 5000 ft of asphalt, long enough for a 727 to land and takeoff.

I was only 4 at the time, so I thought this was normal. From an early age I flew alone either private or on Southwest. I don’t know who was paying for it.

Back to Café Specific, I was told I could have as many Shirley Temples as I wanted. The adults ordered drinks that also had people’s names assigned to them, e.g., Jack Daniels, Thomas Collins, Jim Beam, Mr. Bean, etc. My entrée was shrimp cocktail and strawberries with cream and brown sugar.

People were constantly dropping by his pool. He seemed to know everybody. If they weren’t visiting with Billy Bob in person, they were talking to him on the phone.

Author’s archive

This summer was great. I spent most afternoons with Billy Bob at his pool. We even had matching swimsuits.

Here I am under the glass from his desk. Aren’t I adorable? The top photo is me with Billy Bob’s girlfriend at the time. I think her name was Julie. She was always nice to me.

Author’s archive via Billy Bob

The photo below me is of Mike and Debra Montgomery. Mike also played for the Cowboys, and Billy Bob set them up, or so he said. I think that meant he “set them up” like on a date, and not the other way.

Every time someone showed up, famous or not (not that I would know, I was just a kid), I was asked, i.e., told to do a back flip off the side of the pool. When Billy Bob started a new phone call, I would say hello to the person on the other end. Those calls were anyone from Kenny Rogers to Joe Namath. Billy Bob put the phone in my hand and would say “say hello Kenny, have a great day.” He treated everyone with the same enthusiasm.

Billy Bob had most walls in his house covered with framed photos. He would often say everything I need is right here on these walls. Sometimes I wonder if he meant something other than “hey, I had a great life”. You know, like was there stuff written on the back of the photos?

Mornings I could sleep in, swim all day and then Café Specific in the evenings. He would let me go through his closet. His clothes were glamorous and his hunting outfits were couture. It was different than being out in the fields for harvest back in Gruverly.

A few summers later he got me tickets to Michael Jackson’s Victory concert in Dallas. Eddie Van Halen made an appearance. I didn’t know who that was. The concert was one of the highest-grossing concerts in music history. Michael did not Moonwalk and I was a little annoyed. I asked Billy Bob if he could call Michael and have him moonwalk next time.

What’s Up Doc

Here is another photo. I don’t remember anything about this. There are large gaps in my memory from this time and this place -- Dallas.

I’m sitting on a table, next to a kid in what looks like a rabbit outfit. I don’t know what I am wearing. I think I am looking back at the person taking the picture -- probably Hannibal Anne but I don’t remember. I look tired and it looks like I am thinking why didn’t you help me.

Author’s archive

Suddenly Next Summer

Listen with The Motels Suddenly Last Summer

A few summers later -- 1985 -- I didn’t go down to Dallas to spend time with my “dear friend” Billy Bob. I recall asking Hannibal and Fredo where Billy Bob was and why I couldn’t call him.

Fredo replied “because he is in Club Fed.” I didn’t know where that was.

Rip It Good

Here is a photo with Billy Bob and Craig Morton with my Aunt Ju Ju and my Aunt Mrs. Gomer as teenagers. They are about 1.5 miles West of Gruver.
For paying subscriberers that is.

Author’s archives (photo of a photo)

Hannibal had swiped it long ago. I found the ripped photo in the attic at #6 Accosted in 2019. I messaged it to my aunt and she said “I have been looking for this photo forever.”

P.S. Café Specific is still there, right across from Miron Crosby, where I (used to) get my boots.

Here is one pair.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

P.P.S In the prior installment, I posted this photo of Larry Mahan, Willie and my Grandfather. Larry Mahan was a “dear friend” of Billy Bob (who had a habit of calling everyone he knew his “dear friend”). That is how this picture came to be. Larry Mahan died in May 2023. Billy Bob gave the eulogy, and he was excellent as always.

Author’s archive

P.P.P.S. Here is Billy Bob’s funeral services. It was beautifully organzied by Vicki Wise. You will probably recognize the incredible vocal artists throughout.

It was only a matter of time . . .

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

The Recapper

Part 1, entitled “Hey, Don’t Beat Yourself Up -- Let Me Do It”, started out like this:

I get asked a lot how I finally figured out that my mom, Hannibal Anne, was a psychopath and my dad, Fredo, was a totally brainwashed weakling . . . . in my opinion, that is[1].

I then described how I arranged a free all expense paid romantic 45th anniversary dinner for my parents, when I was out of town -- or so they thought -- and surprised them by showing up. Their response, it didn’t thrill us. They ate the food and tried to kill us . . . with their eyes anyway.

If you haven’t read Part 1, I recommend it. It’s a hoot. It’s also required reading for our story today, on account of it being Part 1 of a 2 part story.

So, now that we are comfortably nestled in Part 2, I will tell you the rest of the story.

Ultimately, at the end of the night, when all the pieces fell into place, I saw the signs and then added them up. When I did, it opened up my eyes. I saw the signs.

Listen with Ace of Base The Sign

The Boomergang Returns

It is January 13, 2021, and is my third and final unannounced surprise visit to Amarillo.

I had made two prior unannounced visits to Amarillo in October and November, 2020. At this point, I knew things with my family were way off. I was determined to find out how, and more importantly, why. So I made these unannounced visits to see things for my own darn self and figure it out one way or t’other. The best way to study a situation is to not let the situation know it is being studied in the first place. In other words, if your target is unaware you are about to descend upon them, they have no time to prepare and you can observe them in their natural environment. You know, like on those BBC nature shows, with that English guy, what’s his name, David Attaboy? Or like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle -- which I first heard about in High School chemistry or physics, can’t remember. And, no, that is not a reference to Breaking Bad; well, maybe indirectly by proxy.

So, it is January 13, 2021. Oh wait, let’s step back a bit. I had previously arrived in Dallas on January 7, 2021, and stayed at the Mansion on Turtle Creek. Love that place. It’s a Rosewood property now, though it was bought out by a Dallas based property fund a few years ago. Anyway, this was when the hotel let me drive their brand new promotional super flashy comfy yet powerful Lexus vehicle that the Lexus Company lent them. It was also the same trip when the Sex Toy Company sales people were at dinner one evening. What a conversation that was. All as more fully and accurately described in the Episode entitled [?] I forgot. Oh, here it is.

Mr. and Mrs. Bojangles

Back to January 13th. I arrived in Amarillo. Dropped by #6 Accosted to surprise my parents. Only my dad, Fredo, was there. Scared the literal bojangles out of him. By coincidence, I came face to face with him in the narrow doorway entrance which goes from the garage, through the laundry room for some reason, and into the breakfast room for some reason. He was walking in as I was walking out. He had no idea I was there. He saw me. I could see his mind saying “wait, who is this?”. When he finally registered it was me (I), the front of his face “literally” tried to retreat into the back of his head, his nose went flat, and he made a little squeak. At least that’s how I remember it. He was scared. Again, why? That was a sign.

Really, though, why? I am not a fearsome person -- not then anyway. Now I wouldn’t want to mess with me.

Huggy Bear Arrives

After that I drove over to my sister’s(?) neighborhood. She and her husband, Dr. Belkie, live in one of those subdivisions built around a golf course. Their house backed onto a long green with the golf-cart path. There are two ways to get to her house, the direct way and the back way. I took the back way which curves around past several greens, goes over a pond with a bridge (where I went fishing with my Nieces one day and then fished out golf balls for Dr. Belkie, for which I dutifully got in trouble for. . . for some reason), and eventually turns into her street. As I was approaching the final curve, I saw my sister(?) walking on the golf cart path and carrying her dog -- Winnie. She looked depressed. I stopped the car, got out and approached her. I got to listen to her tell my all the ways I am at fault for everything. That’s OK. I’m used to that. Then she concluding with, “You are trouble.” My response, “OK. Maybe. Give me three specific examples of how I am trouble, and I will work on them.” No examples were forthcoming. More vague answers. Another sign.

Seriously, I reckon her dog -- Winnie -- likes me more than they do. It’s mutual.

Then, I said “can I have a hug?”. We hugged. That should have been the end of it. I asked if I could see her newly built house. She declined. Later in the day, back at #6 Accosted, Fredo already knew about the hug and said, accusingly, “who asked for the hug?” I said I did. Somehow, for some reason, asking for a hug is now a bad thing. Personally, I think sisters should be allowed to hug just because they want to. Anyway, that was another sign.

Oh yeah, I found out later that Myron’s wife -- I guess that would be my sinister-in-law -- had been camped out at my sister’s(?) house for months. Prolly why she was depressed. Anyway, that’s why she wouldn’t let me inside her newly built house. I am really not that scary, though everyone seemed to be hiding from me.

I decided it was time to get the cluck out of Amarillo.

Here I am at Camp Grandmama

So, I loaded up the Batmobile and moved to Gruverly.

Listen with Camp Grenada

I spent two weeks in January 2021 in Gruver with my Grandmother. It is the longest time I had ever stayed with her and it was a blast. One afternoon we were driving around. She was in the backseat, with a tiara, waiving like the Queen. People waved back. I told you that story before. I just like repeating it.

We really had a ball!

One afternoon, though, I had to come out with it. We were in her kitchen and I was sitting on the floor in Larry Mahan boots -- the only kind of boots if you are a Texan, though Miron Crosby in Dallas makes some nice boots (I stopped buying them, though, once I saw their promotion with the Kard-asses). There is a scene in No Country for Old Men, where the injured Llewelyn Moss (played superbly by Josh Brolin) walks into a clothing store, I think in El Paso, and asks for clothes and a pair of boots, Larry Mahans size 11. Great movie.

Here is Larry Mahan with two of my heroes, Willie and my Grandfather.

Image Courtesy of Author’s Archive

Anyway, my Mahans have a sterling silver “J” hammered into each heal. My Grandfather’s cattle brand was the Lazy J, so these boots are sentimental to me. I started crying and told her a bit of what had been happening. The blocking, the alienating, the name calling, the lying, the viciousness. I told her she didn’t have to respond; it wasn’t about choosing a side.

The biggest problems in my life -- no matter how big -- a trip to my Grandmother’s would help me straighten things out. Most of those problems I didn’t verbalize. I didn’t have to. She would know. Or just being there soothed my soul enough so I could at least see the light at the end of the rainbow. Solutions would come to me just by being with her and in their home. My Grandparent’s love and guidance is bigger than any problem I have ever had. Her eyes did not leave me once while I relayed what was playing out. She held silent for a moment and then slowly clasped her hands together. I then looked up at her eyes, they were narrowed. She said “well it definitely sounds like your mom is doing something under the table. I know you will get it worked out. I have faith in you.” My Grandmother never really talked about peoples foibleations, and I wasn’t sure if she knew what kind of monster my Hannibal Anne really was. After this conversation, I knew that she did.

I stayed in the North facing suite -- where the cattle in the neighboring field start squealing reliably at sun-up. This bedroom is also attached to the bathroom Myron had defecated and smeared all over the walls when he was 2 or 3. Talk about a red sign. Hannibal Anne had to clean it up. She was livid.

She’s always livid. She will try to make you live her crazy livid life. Like that Ricky Martin song “Livid La Vida Loca“.

Listen with Ricky Martin Livid La Vida Loca

The Great and Powerful Wise Ladies of Gruver

Meanwhile throughout my time in Gruver, we would drop my Grandmother at the morning coffee gang -- 10am sharp every weekday, except Wednesday, when the Open Door, (the Methodist Church thrift store) was open. On a return trip in April, I found out my Uncle Ricky told the coffee gang that my Grandmother could no longer go. Why? Was he afraid of what the gang might say? Don’t know. I do know this, however -- that is one more thing I will never forgive him for.

I love each of the women in the coffee gang. They are all wonderful! In most small rural towns in Texas, you will find the wise older ladies of the coffee gang are the real seat of power.

The ladies were all asking “what is going on with your mom?” or “how is your mom’s health?” Most of my replies were “I don’t know. I have offered to take my parents to Mayo at least a dozen times and they refuse.” The most universal reply was either “your mom doesn’t look well” or “that’s something else.” What else, I was beginning to discover. Anyway, pretending to be ill is a classic psychopath technique. Hannibal Anne has claimed to be sick so many times -- when nothing then happened -- I stopped paying attention.

On Sundays, we would go to church and wear hats from my grandmother’s collection. It was like adult dress up.

Girls With Hats

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

We would always see the town fixture Scotty. Scotty (and his now deceased twin brother Guy Paul) were born with developmental issues. In many places, they might have been sent away to an institution. Not in Gruver. People look after each other there, especially the less fortunate. The people of Gruver -- especially the ladies -- took them in, looked after them and made them a part of everyday life.

So, it was great seeing Scotty. We delivered cookies to his golf cart a few times. It still cracks me up that Scotty usually greets me with my first and last name.

On that trip, we also had chef hats for her cooking classes and ended each evening with Family Feud. That show can get a little racy. It’s where I learned the term “hamflower.” I think that’s in the Urban Dictionary. You can, but probably don’t have to, look it up.

The Wayback to Amarillo

The end of January I headed to Amarillo to have my car serviced. It’s a shiny black Mercedes with the sports package, in case you’re wondering. You know, back in the days when your car wasn’t tracking you, ratting you out and calling you stupid. One of the nicest highway driving cars ever, by the way. This is the same exact car described in the Episode entitled “The Road Not Taken“ in which we learn about the rear passenger side wheel having been sabotaged by “someone”, sending us into the soft hands of a giant snow bank on Christmas Eve 2022.

Once in Amarillo, I dropped off my car at the service shop, hopped into an Uber and went to #6 Accosted. Had a nice chat with the Uber driver -- ex military. I said I was going to see my mom, and said for no reason “that one will claw ya”. Then I called her “Cranky Bear.”

No one was home when I arrived. I sat at the kitchen bar, like I have over and over since 1991.

Cranky Bear Returns

Then she appeared; Hannibal came through the back door. Since my car was not in the drive way, she must have thought the coast was clear, I was not there, and she would have safe passage. Not today, sadly.

She let out a loud UGH and there it was again, the jutting out jutting jaw. Aggressively she said, “what are YOU doing here?” as her head tilted to the side. I just replied “Uhhh, I live here, plus I’m waiting for the Batmo to get serviced.” I was looking at her as she flung her discount dry cleaning bag onto the table. She was wearing snowboots (there wasn’t snow outside). They did, however, look like they could easily be hosed off. You know, in the event any evidence needed to be removed -- not that I am saying that happened mind you. She also had a puffer top on with a fake fur like collar. She looked like Pam Hupp’s twin, from that Dateline series about the women who kills her “friend” for insurance money and fingers her friend’s husband.

Then Hannibal said “you better stop going over to your sisters, she will get a “restaining” order on you.” I would have laughed but her appearance was so confusing. So I asked “for what?” You need a reason, and driving onto someone’s driveway one time won’t cut it. My sister had me blocked, for some reason, for over six months, at this point. She and Hannibal like doing the silent treatment thing, thinking it’s effective. Maybe it used to be. Not now. Another sign.

Check out My Check List While My DJ Revolves It

This is when Hannibal threw her arms out and started making circular motions, with her eyes bulging out. I thought to myself, be careful there, don’t want to pop an “Enyaism”. As the arms and hands were making fast circles she said “because of ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL of THIS!” She was waving her arms like a hepped up DJ or a gaggle of birds jostling each other at the feeder. Like this:

Image Courtesy of PFFK#7

I thought there isn’t much on the counter here and asked “all of what?” She said “just you being here”.

So I decided to engage. “OK, specifically what would you like me to do?”

“Stop going by Myron’s”. “OK, check, stop going to Myron’s. What else” I said.

“Stop going by your sister’s.” “Check,” I responded, “Don’t go to my sister’s(?). Got it. What else?”

Stop coming by here.” “Check, stop coming here.”

Hannibal Anne, in her Pam Hupp Halloween outfit, had stopped waiving her arms by this point. She still had the jutting jaw jutting out and said “I am really sick of dealing with all of this.”

My reply “Well, you should just go thank yourself.” She didn’t get it. “What should I thank myself for?” she asked -- like genuinely.

“For everything you do” I responded.

With that, she turned around and huffed out of the back door. It was a bit embarrassing.

You might remember the voicemail which I received a few weeks later. Here it is for a repeat:

Another sign.

Bah, I Deride Your Chicken Getting Abilities

Later that same day, I am walking down the steps and I hear “You don’t get no chicken” being argued back and forth with the Alexa listening device machine. Even with varying accents. Hilarious! Hannibal Anne had relayed a story a year or so earlier that ended with the line “you don’t get no chicken”. So the chicken thing was making fun of Hannibal Anne. It was also some kinda spiritually guided geniuosity in my non-humble opinion.

But wait, there’s more! Here’s the best part, a few hours later Fredo began repeating the origin of the phrase “you don’t get no chicken”. Reader’s Note: This Episode originally had the rest of that story, but the Studio told us we were running long and had to cut it out. Not to worry. It will be in The Director’s Cut -- Bonus Features. Look out for it. You will not be disappointed.

So this was another sign. A big one. This one confirmed my suspicion they had been listening to me live through the Alexa listening device machine. Sounds like an invasion of privacy, where one has the expectation of said privacy. Is all I’m sayin’.

Coda Chameleon

That night I watched a movie with Fredo. The Accountant maybe. Hannibal Anne was in her bedroom, with the door locked, I heard the click. It was like the bullcr@p had combusted and turned into green slime. The slime had a fog around it and was oozing out of the bottom of the door. I think the chicken performance hit home and really got to her.

So, Hannibal Anne was livid, again. She’s always livid. Fredo watched a movie with me and she did not like it? I blame the chicken this time, because (a) she knew she was busted and (b) we were making some serious fun of her. I knew all about the Alexa listening device machine before this.

There is the lesson in this tree. Psychopaths, despite being devoid of all emotion, have surprisingly thin skins. The only thing they fear is getting busted. Plus, laughing at them (not with them) is an effective weapon. It’s also fun.

Early February 2021, I had to speak with Fredo. He said he was driving through Fritch and may stop to look at an apartment. “Fredo, what for?” I asked, “An apartment in Fritch? You could stay with Muff.” He said, “I need to be closer to Amarillo. Your mom has threatened to throw me out. She is talking divorce.” [He should have accepted -- ed.] This was surprising to me. Curious, I asked “for what?” Fredo explained that Hannibal Anne was mad at him and guess whose fault it was? We all know the answer. That’s right, the escapegoat child, Texas edition, i.e., me. I was getting blamed again. That’s OK. I’m used to it. I would tell you where Fritch is, but you don’t want to go there. They do have an Allsup’s there. I recommend the torpedo burrito and dried socks. It is also by a giant lake reservoir called Lake Meredith, known by some as The Fritz Thompson Memorial Graveyard.

Now this trip is over. I packed up my bags and got the cluck out of there!

One more time for the road. Hannibal Anne, you have my permission to go THANK yourself.

Listen with Boz Scaggs Lido Shuffle

Let’s Wrap This Up Folks -- We don’t got all day!

How did I figure it out?

Let’s wrap this up into a nice little bow.

Image courtesy of PFFK#7

On the first set of unannounced trips in Oct and Nov 2020, I saw things were off. I also concluded my family hated me. Why?

On the last unannounced visit, a few things happened. First, I spent time with my Grandmother where the answers always came. Then I started seeing and adding up all the signs. And last, I saw a totally freaked out Hannibal Anne.

That is when the full body mask fell off. Off of all of them. Their shapeshifting spells no longer worked on me.

I saw they did in fact despise adorable little me. They did not want me around. What did they not want me to see?

I don’t need an answer to that question precisely. The question itself is what’s relevant. I have a few theories, though, every one involving bad and likely criminal behaviour. It was clear to me now. These are bad folks. I do not want to be associated with them. When they go down, I will not be there to take the fall with or for them.

[1] I could have added a few more “thats” to the above mentioned question, e.g.,

How did I figure out --

· That my brother(?), Myron -- the other female psychopath in my family -- is a straight up grifter, thinks “prolly” is an actual word and is a second class ass (nothing he ever does is first class), or

· That Myron’s wife, The Marm, is itself a straight up bolt hole surfing taker, “a little slow” (wink emoji), and exceedingly unlikable -- everybody says so.

· In my totally First Amendment protected opinion at least

But I already knew those things, so I didn’t need to figure them out.

Listen with my voice over.

This is Part 1 is entitled Hey, Don’t Beat Yourself Up, and takes place mostly in late 2020 where I explain the set up. Part 2 is entitled “Go Thank Yourself and takes place in January 2021 and finishes out the story. That’s where I totally slam dunk the ball for the win. Take that, chipmunk faced mommy-pig!

The Question that I Am Frequently Axed

I get asked a lot how I finally figured out that my mom, Hannibal Anne, was a psychopath and my dad, Fredo, was a totally brainwashed weakling -- in my totally First Amendment protected opinion that is.

This is a short story. After Myron had to flee Houston and started hiding out in Amarillo in March 2020, and after my family started becoming increasingly more aggressive, belligerant and nasty in May and June of 2020, and after my sister(?) and Hannibal Anne blocked me from my Nieces (whom I love and miss dearly) in August 2020, I started looking into things for my own darn self, going back through everything I thought I knew, forgetting those things, and starting over.

I then asked myself the basic questions. What changed? Who benefits? Who is behind this? Why is this happening? The answers to those question made me believe I was way wrong about my family. So, I decided to do a little looking into things for said own darn self.

A Missile to Remember Me By

So I launched a series of surprise attacks totally unannounced visits to Amarillo to see the situation in person: two in October and November of 2020 and the third in January 2021. What happened on those three visits flicked on the lights. All the lights. Thus allowing me to see all the shifty plans and manipulating going on at that time. I also could see everything that came before as well. And, boy, was I ever wrong about everything I ever thought about my family! I could see clearly now, and how.

Listen to Johnny Nash I can See Clearly Now

So that is the short story.

Tuns out, as you might imagine, that this is also a long and complex story. So grab a seat, sit down and listen up, peoples!

Once upon a story . . . .

You may recall the fundamental Rules of Handbook which help guide us along.

Rule #1 -- The One Person Rule, that in any given situation anything bad happening can usually be traced back to one person;

Rule #2 -- Everything You Need, is right in front of you;

Rule #3 -- Who benefits? That’s actually from my friend Cicero -- oh, man, never invite him to dinner! He will orate for hours on everything from the cheese plate to the decorative potpourri arrangements;

Rule # 4 -- Rule of Thermodynamics, that in any given situation the amount of energy coming out of must equal the amount going in -- if not, you are missing something.

There is a 5th rule.

Rule #5 -- Believing is Seeing

You know the saying “I’ll believe it when I see it”? The exact opposite is also true: “I’ll see it when I believe it”. In other words, if you don’t believe something can be true, you will never see it to be true.

That is what happened to me.

For most of my life, I thought I had the greatest family, and I loved them as much as possible -- despite all the cruelty, selfishness, fakery, takery, etc. I never believed anything was wrong. I never believed Hannibal Anne could be the chipmunk faced monster she is or that my family was aligned against me and using me the whole time. I didn’t see it. Because I didn’t believe it.

Well, that sure changed.

The events that took place in late 2020 and early 2021 -- which I am about to relate in two parts -- led me to believe my family was messed up. They had always been. And when I believed that was true, only then I could see it.

Happy Halloversary -- Here Come Old Flat-top

It is November 14, 2020. I am on a flight from Dallas to Amarillo for another surprise attack unannounced visit. Before going to Amarillo, though, I stayed at the Mansion on Turtle Creek for a few days and went to places like Mi Cocina in Highland Park or Cafe Izmir on Greenville Ave, just off the M streets (love those places).

The first attack took place from October 22 - 23, during which Hannibal Anne got into bed next to me on the last night . . . for some reason . . . and I experienced the overnight of evilness as more fully and accurately described in the Episode entitled
“Is this the way to Amarillo“?

So, my radar was up. I knew something was terribly wrong. I had been blocked from seeing my nieces (who I love and miss dearly) for almost four months by my sister(?). As Hannibal Anne says about me “you just can’t let things go.” She should have probably listened to herself on that one, because I will not let things go. I will, in fact, blow up before I will give up, and I will melt down before I will break down. And, by the way, if I blow up and/or melt down, I’m taking some folks with me.

So, when Hannibal Anne says things like “you can’t let things go”, it’s usually a pre-cursor to being asslighted . . . oops, I mean gaslighted. Actually, I think I mean the first one. You know, because you’re being lit up by total arses?

There is a Lesson in this Tree: If you have a psycho mom (or maybe an average level bad one) and she does not break you, chances are you will become stronger. You may even become the boomerang that brings the whole house down, as I hope to do. I know several daughters of bad moms or sometimes dads. Many of them came out of it stronger, driven and determined. Several have thrived. Two examples: a good friend of mine is a really successful real estate broker in NYC. Before that, she was a graphic designer and made a bunch of greeting cards. She is also one of the most astute art and design collectors I know. Another friend became an interior designer and does big projects and great work.

Anyway, back to the surprise attack unannounced visits.

Happy Halloversary -- The Set Up

It is November 14, 2020, which is my parents wedding anniversary -- their 45th. That date is funny in itself, seeing as how their wedding announcement set the wedding date as November 21st. I think that was an effort to head-fake-out Nelda Tackett, Hannibal Anne’s fake adoptive mother. See the Episode entitled “Never Have I Ever . . . Been Adopted“ for the backstory.

So, back to November 14, 2020, as a “gift” for my parent’s 45th wedding, I made them a reservation at the Amarillo Country Club for a romantic dinner. All expenses paid! Note: I don’t love country clubs as a general rule. However, there really aren’t many restaurants in Amarillo that serve edible food, so one’s choices are limited. For example, there is a steak restaurant called OHMS. I call it “Old Homeless Man Steak”. Though, I must say, they serve a great chocolate cake. Public House is also pretty good. Rudy’s does have pretty great brisket, though that is a drive through take out place and so, technically, not a restaurant.

Before running through the story, let’s go back a week, well four days to be precise. Hannibal Anne had texted me pictures of her mugly. She said she had a lot of dental work done and so her face and mouth were all swollen up and red. Really quite ghastly. If I didn’t know better -- which I don’t -- I would say she was beat up. I mean, I would have offered to beat her up for free! Just sayin’

“What in the fresh hell happened?”, I texted back, “Your face looks like someone landed a few well placed punches.” Her face was distorted and swollen with bruising throughout. Hannibal Anne just brushed it off as a rough appointment at the dentist. Hannibal Anne is a habitual dentist go-er . . . for no actual known reason known to mankind. I don’t think she has any of her original pearly whites (greys?). I imagine that is pretty convenient. After all, wouldn’t want any dental record matching up with bite marks on the numerous unsolved cold cases in the greater Texas panhandle/ Oklahoma/ Missouri/ Arkansas metro area. Also, I had been present for her more severe dental appointments and had never seen a hint of what these mugly photos looked like.

The pictures are behind the paywall below -- kidding, everyone needs to see this. Check ‘em out! Looks like Hannibal Lou Who to me. Or maybe the Grinch.

Also, she looks like a fat chipmunk.

Happy Halloversary -- The Spike

November 14, 2020 | Fredo & Hannibal’s 45^th wedding anniversary. I am “gifting” them a free (their favorite kind!) dinner at the club.

I am sitting on a Southwest plane at Love Field in Dallas, waiting to take-off. It’s 4:20 pm. I text Hannibal “you have an ACC reservation tonight at 6:30, for your anniversary. They made something special for all y’alls so you have to go. Happy Anniversary!” She replies with “Yes we will go. Thank you. Do we need a #” -- meaning membership number. That in itself is also funny. They knew my membership number. My brother(?), Myron, and his wife, The Marm, had been using it without my approval -- which I would not have granted.

What no one, except me, knew was that one hour later I would be in town, in Amarillo. I was looking forward to surprising them. I dropped by Party City to pick up 45 large gold candles for the cake. Normally, when I am at Party City, I would get a piñata for my nieces.

Here I am with a piñata.

In a Gadda Piñata

Not this time, though, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to see them. That made me sad and I had a tear or two well up.

After Party City, I headed over to the ACC, arriving around 6:15pm, met with the chef, went over a few details and handed over the candles. My parents arrived just after 6:30pm and sat down for dinner — totally unawares. Given the troubles going on at the time in 2020 -- you totally know what I mean -- the restaurant was otherwise empty.

At 6:45pm I walked into the dining room sashayed behind them and yelled “SURPRISE!”. Hannibal, with her large iced tea, was glaring, smoldering, and slowly recoiling from the table. Then it came, the jutting out, juttling jaw. Fredo’s back went straight up and he looked off to the side. I could hear the pit in his stomach forming and filling up with butterflies. This look is often observed in the wild, as documented in National Geographic, when Fredo is about to be busted or wants to weasel out of something.

Hannibal hissed -- like a petulant mountain lion when barista boy misspells its name on the double “expresso” cup he just ordered. “I can’t believe you are here.” Really. Open up your eyes. Or are you blinded by the rage in your own heart? I should have said.

Here’s another funny part. The reservation was for four people. If Hannibal and Fredo weren’t the Incurious Bastards they actually are, they might have figured out someone else was showing up. I know I would have noticed that. So would most people, I reckon.

So, we sit down to dinner. Ribeyes, Ribeyes, NY Strip, Chicken Fried Steak. Sides.

Fredo is texting on his phone. I could see the reflection of his phone coming from the glass window behind us. I can read backwards pretty easily. What an idiot . . .ooops . . . I mean . . . what an idiot? He was texting Myron “she’s here again”. “She”? Usually I get a name, usually not my actual one, but a name. “Again”? I might have been confused by that. For more than 20 years, all I would hear was the constant how soon am I coming - or - when can we meet up - or - want to go to Vegas, Santa Fe, Denver Zoo, on a cruise to Nova Scotia in the middle of heavy storm, with giant waves (that was fun), etc., which I would organize.

We sat through dinner. The cake was delivered with the 45 candles. We took a picture. Do they look happy?

Help indeed.

Also, did you notice Hannibal Anne’s face was completely healed up? In one week, well four days to be precise?

Really, I mean REALLY how did Hannibal’s face heal up so quickly? In less than one week, how did the bruising and swelling completely disappear?

Or, maybe that picture was taken at some other time. Our tech overlords now strip all the metadata, so I got nothing.

However, one must ask, in what universe is it OK to accept a free (their favorite kind) anniversary dinner -- all expenses paid! -- but then pretend I no longer exist (sorry, I do)?

And, not to mention, they take my money . . . . when they in need.

Listen to Kanye West Golddigger

At this point, by my calculations, they have stolen somewhere in the low to mid seven figures . . . and I am not talking mythical figures like Zeus or Bigfoot or maybe Shopkins. I am talking actual dollar figures, e.g., in the form of designer goods, jewelry, other valuable items, agricultural land, oil and gas royalties, farming proceeds, and so on and so forth.

The Aftermash

After the free dinner, we went back to #6 Accosted. Fredo watched TV. Hannibal slithered back to her room and sulked.

The following day at #6 Accosted, I was in the garage and I saw it. A large treat box that I had shipped to #6 Accosted for my nieces birthdays several months earlier. Hannibal Anne had been texting how much my Nieces had loved everything and their reactions to the different treats. Obviously, a complete fabrication. A lie. A porky. The box was sitting there unopened. I walked it into the living room. I said “hey Hannibal, this box hasn’t even been opened.” She just shrugged her shoulders and said “sorry.”

Within minutes, as if it had been planned, my sister(?) walked in the front door. She seemed like she was a clam shell and her smile was off. I handed her the box as she was talking about volleyball or some other such nonsense. Volleyball? Seriously, is volleyball a thing? Anyway, she could not get out of there fast enough. Faster than a mumbling cannonball.

As I went to close the garage, a neighbor flagged me down. Friendly guy but this time his face was flashing concern and bewilderment. He skipped the usual greeting and the how are yous --- which in Texas usually has numerous “y’alls” thrown in if addressing a single person. When addressing more than one person, it would be “all y’alls”. Anyway, he went straight to “what is going on with your parents?” I said “I have no idea, really I don’t. What do you think?” He went on, while grimacing, “Something is going on. I barely see them anymore and your dad (aka Fredo) told us that he bought Myron a house.” He did -- with money that rightfully belonged to me. I just shook my head, while I could sense he was truly baffled. Then he said “and you, when you are here everything seems to go just fine.” I assured him that somehow everything would come to light. He was a mile marker for me. The neighbor was the contrast showing what my family was not. He demonstrated empathy and care while my family was lying and deceptive.

I flew out of Amarillo a week later.

When I landed, there was a text from Hannibal Anne. “Always know I will always love you, no matter what.” Implying, of course, this might not be currently the case? Or that some “what” was about to transpire. This is when I sensed there was a plan and she felt their plan was going well. The conspiracy seemed to be on track for Hannibal and her crime syndicate family. I mean the text was laughable. Almost like Hannibal thought she would someday be sitting across the room from Keith Morrison for an episode of Dateline saying “you see, there’s the text right there, I love my daughter.” Nope, Hannibal this text was a laugh out loud moment, given all of the tumult she had been orchestrating and dishing out.

Oh yeah, Keith Morrison has to totally narrate my story. It would start out something like this: “It was a cold crisp fall morning, with fresh cottonwood leaves scattering like tumbleweeds across the driveways and byways of Northern Texas. Everything was right with the world . . . Or was it?”

Oh yeah, did I mention that Hannibal’s face was completely healed up?

Questions that I am Just Asking Myself

Back to the key questions.

What changed, Myron and the Marm had moved to Amarillo. That shouldn’t have anything to do with me. They go to sports bars and everyone is fine with her dad,
Dr. Creeper, having over 75 Patriot Act charges against him, not to mention having been booted from TECADA[1], and subsequently convicted for manufacturing and distributing meth in Dothan, Alabama -- that is, according to “open source intelligence” sources a.k.a., the internet (even though the TECADA files have been pretty much scrubbed but thank God for the Internet Archive and Wayback Machine).

By the way, here is another funny story. Fredo told me, I think it was August 2021, that he had sent flowers to The Marm because her father had died. Nope. For a dead guy, he sure gets around. Last time I checked he mysteriously got out of prison -- wonder why -- and is roaming around between California, Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida, amongst other places.

Anyway, I don’t fit in with this pack of thick as thieves, grifters and miscreants.

[End of Part 1]

Get ready for Part 2 -- in which I laugh at them, not with them.

Here’s a preview of Part 2.

P.S. Oh yeah, did I mention that Hannibal’s face was completely healed up?

[1] Texas Commission on Alcohol and Drug Addiction, now defunct; The Marm’s dad, Dr. Creeper had been appointed to a position there by George “W.”

Listen with my voice over.

“I found something interesting.” I was speaking with the county clerk in Stratford, Sherman county[1] (Texas), where we first encountered Hannibal. “Your mom, she was not adopted. What is your address?”

A week later, I received a package. What was in the package? Something I was not expecting, I can say that.

Before I get to that, I want to call out our county Clerks, especially in small rural towns where a lot of their records aren’t even online. Many of these Clerks have been in office for years and know how to find things. They are usually very helpful -- except, of course, Potter county, where Amarillo is situated. All you get there is non-answers and the run around.

Read with Runaround Sue

A central theme in my mom, Hannibal’s, backstory is that she had a bad childhood (she was the bad childhood), that she was abandoned by her parents (on opposite day), and that she was adopted (nope). I used to believe all of that; I used to believe everything (most things) my parents told me. Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t any child? Then I decided to check it out for myself. Turns out none of this is true, and why am I not surprised?

So, Hannibal, my entire life said she was adopted. Some of my favorite friends are adopted and I would relay that my mom was also adopted. Then I would ring up Hannibal and tell her about the friends that were also adopted. She would say “oh really”, non committal-like, as if I was reporting on my latest visit to the Cheesecake Factory or Bob’s Bolo Museum. Well, come to think of it, I never visited any of those places, and besides I think the last one is made up, but you get the idea.

I asked her about her “bad childhood” a lot when I was young. I was curious and genuinely sad for her, and I was also proud that she was able to overcome it. My queries were usually met with some variation of “I don’t want to talk about it” . . . (what about what I want), or “You don’t know how good you have it” (guess not), or “It’s none of your business” (am making it mine), or “if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous”.

The Unboxing

So what was in the package from the Sherman county clerk?

An eleven page Guardianship of the Persons document, from Sherman County, file #1338, dated August 8, 1966. Granted August 22, 1966. Only two weeks later! Are I kidding me?

Key provisions:

That application said Hannibal “Anne” Puryear “is a girl (the only thing about her past I can verify) and was born on the 6^th (her favorite number) day of October, A.D., 1951, being now 14 years of age, resides in Sherman County, Texas, and is without a guardian of her person;” Same for her brother Larry Dean, who was 16 at the time.

That the applicant desires to have N.L. Tackett (later changed to Nelda Marie Tackett, who later goes on to be a kidnapper -- true story) with whom said Larry Dean Puryear and Hannibal Anne Puryear now live, appointed guardian of the persons of both of minors.

The applicant was a local lawyer, E. E. Coons who was appointed by the court to file the application on behalf of the county. Or so it says. Most likely, the Tacketts arranged for that to happen.

Back in the old days in Texas, especially rural areas like the panhandle, it was not uncommon for minor children to be living with friends or relatives. Sometimes, minors did become homeless.

Recognizing that, Texas probate code at the time made it relatively easy to get a guardian appointed. All you needed to show was:

(a) the proposed “ward” was “either a minor, a person of unsound mind, [or] an habitual drunkard . . .” I note it is possible to be all three of those things at once;

(b) the court has jurisdiction;

(c) the proposed guardian is not disqualified; and

(d) the rights of the ward will be protected.

The application itself needs to set out a few basic details, such as the name and relationship of the proposed guardian, the names, sex and ages, etc., of the proposed wards, who their parents were; where there parents were, if still alive; and the general facts supporting the guardianship.

Proposed wards over the age of 14 were able to nominate who they wanted to be appointed as guardian by a notarized document. Larry Dean was 16 and Hannibal “Anne” was 14, so they qualified.

All fine. Looking at the document, it appears to comply with the relevant provisions of the Texas Probate Code in effect at the time. It has the details. It states the reason for the guardianship and the relationship. It even has Larry Dean and Hannibal “Anne” nominating the guardian and waiving notice.

OK, I’m starting to bore myself, so I will move to the denouement (I always want to pronounce that like its spelled -- the de-noo-ment -- or in an exaggerated French accent while raising my hand inward and snapping two forefingers and a thumb together) of the guardianship section.

Just One More Thing, Mrs. Tackett

A closer read reveals a few zingers.

Most importantly, those signatures of Larry Dean and Hannibal “Anne” are clearly forged -- twice. They look like they are from the same hand -- probably Nelda’s. And that is clearly not my mom, Hannibal’s signature. Hers is upright. This one slants forward, like Nelda’s.

I also think the notary’s signature is probably fake too -- Nelda has a history of shenanigans with court houses, county clerks and notaries. Or, he was bribed.

Here’s the best part. Hannibal knows how her own name and, even back then, knows how to spell it. Her actual middle name is “Ann” not “Anne” as in the filing.

So, not only did she misspell her name, she did it twice. I mean, that is what they would have us believe.

See for yourself”

There are a few other zingers in here.

The application claimed Larry Dean and Hannibal Anne’s parents had abandoned them. As I will describe below, that did not happen. It was actually partly the other way around and was more sinister than that.

“N . L.” stand for Norman Lynn. I think he had a criminal record by then and was probably not qualified to serve as a guardian.

Not to worry. Larry Dean and Hannibal “Anne” changed their nomination to Nelda, noting the following rationale: Nelda was working for the U.S. Gov’t, had Blue Cross Blue Shield for hospitalization insurance, and “would be privileged to include” said Larry Dean and Hannibal “Anne” as dependents. Awwww, how sweet.

How could a lawyer and a judge and a notary look at these documents and not see something wrong?

What I Know Happened

The application states that the parents of the above named minors are Carbomb and Winnie, neither of whom were deceased, but both of whom had deserted the said minors. Now, before we judge these parents too harshly, if your child was a Hannibal -- some mothers do ‘ave them, after all -- you could probably see yourself to doing the same.

However, in this case, that did not happen.

My newly discovered Aunt Eldna (Hannibal’s sister) later told me what did, in fact, happen.

Hannibal’s parents were moving the family from Stratford to Vega, TX. When it came time to leave, Hannibal refused to go. She stomped up and down, made ear-splitting screeching noises like a homesick bat, locked herself in the bathroom and yelled out “I hope you all die in a car wreck.”

Winnie called her “friend” Nelda Tackett and arranged for Hannibal to stay with them, temporarily she hoped. Larry Dean, being the good older brother from all accounts he was, volunteered to stay back at look after Hannibal. So, that is how they ended up living with the Tacketts. From the timeline, I think this was in 1965, a year before the guardianship papers were filed.

Funny story. Aunt Eldna’s daughter connected with me a few years ago -- on Faceboob messenger, I think. She said that Hannibal used to “hit on” Larry Dean all the time. She did not say “hit”, she said “hit on”. It’s in writing. I did not ask for clarification, because I do not want to know.

My newly discover Aunt Eldna also told me that Winnie would never sign away her children. As bad as Hannibal was, even at a young age, Winnie still loved them all.

So, while Winnie thought her “friend” Nelda was watching over Larry and Hannibal, Nelda was instead plotting to claim guardianship over them.

When Winnie did return to Stratford to retrieve Larry and Hannibal -- probably in 1966 or 1967 -- Nelda threatened to call the police. Larry did escape from Nelda and went on to live in Vega, TX, where the rest of the family now lived.

How I Think it Went Down

Nelda Tackett plotted to take control over Larry and Hannibal “Anne” . . . for some reason. Nelda had a probably corrupt lawyer draft the forms, signed them in front of a probably corrupt, non-existent, or bribed notary, and submitted them to a probably corrupt judge who approved them.

The only notice requirement for the application was to post it on the literal court house door in Sherman county. Winnie and Carbomb were either in Floyd or Oldham counties, at the time, so would have never seen it.

My newly discovered Aunt Eldna told me she had no idea this guardianship happened. She only knew that Nelda threatened to call the police on Winnie.

The signatures of Larry Dean and Hannibal signatures were clearly forged --- twice! -- so they themselves probably never saw it and may have had no idea.

Nelda basically stole those minor kids. Why?

Larry and Hannibal were already living with the Tacketts. A guardianship served no purpose. Also, Nelda was required to put up a $1,000 bond -- which in today’s tiny shrunken dollars would be around $10,000.

Why would she put up that money? There had to be a monetary reward.

Why I Think it Went Down

In the words of Marcus Aurelius, it’s not what happened that is important, it is why it happened. Seriously, Marcus says this to me, like I mean, all the time.

It is the right question though.

This one is puzzling. Several answers come to mind. Here is my current operating theory.

The clue is sitting right there in documents. It’s in the notarized forged document where Larry and Hannibal nominate Nelda as their guardian, on account of the Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance (says no kid ever), which Nelda was kind enough to offer up. Awww, how sweet.

So, this was an insurance fraud operation . . . ooops, I mean . . . this was an insurance fraud operation? You know, I find you can say anything you want -- no matter how outlandish -- and if you end it with a Question Mark, it sounds reasonable?

There is another theory involving Hannibal and Eddie Lynn Tackett. That is for a future Episode of The Tackford Files.

Black Hole Mom

Weird Al is a national treasure, I say.

This is where we find a black hole in the timeline of Hannibal “Anne”. I see her in the Stratford High School yearbooks from 1960 - 1964 under the name Hannibal Puryear. She goes missing from yearbooks in 1965 and 1966, and turns back up in 1967, under the same name and looking 10 years older. In 1968, she turns up under in Tascosa High School in Amarillo under the name Hannibal Tackett.

Hannibal was not adopted. There was no legal name change. I’m sure back in 1968, large city High Schools just took your word for it. “Oh sure, Hannibal Tackett”, says no giant High School enrollment team ever, “come on in. We do not require any records.” In reality, district high schools were way more strict and by the book in those days.

When Hannibal moved to Amarillo, so did Norman and Nelda. However, Hannibal did not live with them, instead she camped out with someone named Blankenship, for no actual reason cited.

For all of my life, until recently, I thought Hannibal’s maiden name was “Tackett”. I even used that as a security question. Needless to say, I changed all of those when I found out the truth. When I get asked what my mother’s maiden name is, I want to say “NFC” (no freaking clue). Instead, I blank out and respond lightly “I have no idea.”

Questions that I am Just Askin’

Seriously, how did they change her name and enroll her at THS?

Why live at the Blankenships? I had never even heard of these people. Someone else told me that.

Here’s another question. Did, Hannibal get pregnant (twice) by Eddie Lynn Tackett, or even N. L. Tackett, and secretly get married to Eddie in OK where the records totally suck-gass?

Did Hannibal have two kids who were “stillborn” and were then buried in the Clinton, OK, cemetery -- which is on I-40 about an hour over the Texas border? Back then, the Oklahoma Baptist church was suspected of providing back-door abortions and arranging death certificates listing “stillborn” or “premature” or “died in childbirth” as the cause of death. The Tacketts were Baptists.

Why does Hannibal list three slightly different maiden names on the birth certificates for me and my two siblings(?).

Why does her marriage certificate list her name as “Hannibal Ann Puryear Tackett”? Sounds like a lyric to a Broadway musical -- you know, “I am the very model of a modern Major-Psychopath, etc., etc..

My birth certificate says Hannibal Ann Puryear, and is the only factually accurate one.

So, why again does she has four different maiden names on official documents?

Last question that I am just asking: What am I missing?

The Eplioguer

So Hannibal was not adopted. She was subject to a shady guardianship. Those are not even close to the same thing. There is no name change in a guardianship.

So, what to make of her claims she was adopted?

When psychopaths lie, they usually take bits that are true or close to true and stitch them up with lies, half-truths and omissions to create a totally false perception. Ideally, they sprinkle in a few facts and get the victim to come to the wrong -- and uncorrected -- opinion.

If they ever get called out, they will point to the one fact that might be accurate and ignore the rest. This is usually followed by something along the lines of “well, that’s what I remember”, or “you misunderstood me. I never said that”, or “are you calling me a liar?” Great question! Yes, I am. That “are you calling me a liar” thing is one of their favorite shticks, by the way. They say it as though it (a) makes you look bad and (b) gets them off the hook. My response: “What, you’re offended by that? Well, shtick around, I’m just getting started.”

A Tiskett a Taskett

Another central theme in Hannibal’s existence is the presence of the Tacketts: Norman Lynn, Nelda Marie, their daughter, Sandra, and their son, Eddie Lynn Tackett. (What is it with this “Lynn” thing?)

As far as I can tell, the Tacketts first come in contact with Hannibal and her Sisters in in Stratford in 1959.

Hannibal would later tell us that Nelda was her step-mom or her adopted mom. This does not make sense either.

She also referred to Eddie Lynn as her step brother, her adopted brother, or sometimes just her brother.

Anyway, Hannibal said her step-mom and stepsister were jealous of Hannibal and made her clean all of the time. Good news, though! I am reliably informed that a charming prince showed up once upon a night to gift her some glass slippers and whisk her away to a fairy tale life. Happily ever after for all. Hannibal likes stealing stories from movies. She once described having to scurry up a drain to a second story apartment to steal some food, glorious food, and -- while I am making this part up, though it seems accurate -- all they found up there was gruel watery gruel.

Hannibal did say her “stepsister” -- that would be Sandra -- had a dumpy butt. I have seen pictures of Sandra, and I tend to concur. Hannibal went to Sandra “Dumpy Butt” Tackett’s wedding. The first of four, anyway. That was in 1969. Pvc. Eddie Lynn Tackett was also present. Was he forced to go into the army to avoid a criminal charge?

Another question that I am just asking.

So who are these Tackett People?

I know who they are, unfortunately. They’ve been popping their heads in and out of Hannibal’s life (and mine) since 1959 all the way through to 2011, when Nelda kicked it, and beyond.

Their son, Eddie Lynn Tackett was a criminal, who was not shot to death on April 4, 1982 in Corsicana, TX, despite what the forged death certificate says. We will cover him shortly. Some of his stunts are so rated R, so I won’t be able to write about them. Kidding. I will totally dish on everything. Know all, tell all.

Nelda’s own mother did not die in Amarillo of natural causes when Nelda was down in Corsican faking the death certificate.

Eddie’s own son, Eddie Lynn Tackett, Jr. (again, what is it with this “Lynn” thing?) committed atrocious and vicious acts of sexual violence at a Motel 6 in San Angelo, TX, in 2017. He is currently in prison, hopefully forever. I had to stop reading the court transcripts; they were so bad, I couldn’t even finish.

We will cover this and more in our ongoing series -- The Tackford Files.

Total doozies all.

Until then, here is a picture of Eddie Lynn Jr. in a profile shot (left), along side someone else (right).

These people are totally related . . . ooops, I mean . . . these people are totally related?

Read more

Listen with my voice over.

“SNAP” -- that is what I heard first. It was muffled, but I heard it. The car began to swerve to the left, gently at first, and then suddenly into a series of tight spins.

This story takes place way up North on Christmas Eve, 2022. I can tell you there was definitely something in the air that night, in addition to the snow of course.

Read with Abba, Fernando

It’s around 9pm, on a Saturday. We[1] set out earlier that morning to deliver a few Christmas care boxes and are now on the return trip. We are driving down a long stretch of rural highway in a snow storm. It’s 5° F outside, pitch black, with blustery winds shaking the car.

There’s snow, lots of it, some newly falling but mostly from another more intense blizzard the previous day. With each gust, through the headlights, we see snow scurrying and flittering across the road -- forming “Lazy S” patterns -- almost like some unseen hand is sweeping the road ahead of us as we pass over it. They do that as a courtesy, of course.

The Unseen Hand

Image Courtesy of PFFK #7

This was the second blizzard in two days. This was a blizzard that was not forecast by the weather experts. This was a blizzard I did not expect to run into in the cold hard night.

When we started out that morning, it was a regular winter day and the forecast seemed fine. Cold, some precipitation, but nothing like what we ran head into on this return trip.

I have driven in blizzards before -- some worse than this one, most unexpected -- and not really worried. Besides, the heavy snow floating through the headlights, beneath the street lights above us, and across the red and white lights of cars on the road in front of us is really quite beautiful and peaceful.

It really was exceptionally beautiful and perfectly picturesque. Fine white snowflakes, glowing against the blackish skies, themselves amplified by what stray light there was reflecting off the snow cover.

This entire trip should have taken 4 hours; however, at this point we had been on the road for more than 2 hours and were not even half way.

All in all, though, it was shaping up to be a pleasant drive.

Oh yeah, did I mention it was Christmas Eve?

Stick a Fork in It

As Yogi Berra said, when you come to the fork in the road, take it.

There are two main roads to make the return trip. Both roads start out in the same place, diverge and eventually meet up 100 miles or so later.

Road 1. The road most travelled by, the scenic route. It mirrors the shoreline of a giant lake to the East and runs through many small towns -- most with traffic lights! It is almost always busy and, since it follows the shoreline of the giant lake, has lots of curves in every direction.

Road 2. The road less travelled by. It runs through farmland and wooded areas, with not many towns and few traffic lights. Mainly farmers and other folks use this road. Strangely enough, the overhead highway / navigation lights are better.

Most folks take Road 1 -- the most travelled road. It can be fun. However, for no particular reason, and without even thinking about it, we chose Road 2 -- the road less travelled by.

Just like in the Robert Frost poem -- The Road Not Taken (1915)

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --

I took the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference.

And that is exactly what happened! And I am here to tell you why. I mean, like, literally. If we had not taken the road less travelled by, I fully believe I would not be here to tell you anything. I wouldn’t be here at all. It would have been curtains for me. Not joking.

There are several things that saved us that night -- involving that road, at that time, in that snow storm.

Sell Me This Road

Like most rural highways, this one is mostly a 2 lane road, with four-lane passing sections set out periodically every few to a dozen miles, and punctuated by small towns -- most without traffic lights! -- every 20 - 30 miles.

On either side of the road, we see farm land and alternating wooded sections from time to time. The farm land is typically lined with barbed wire fences. Next to those barbed wire fences, snow drifts are piling up and covering the deep ditches on either side of the dirt and gravel shoulders of the highway.

Overhead, we see street lights hanging in upside down “L” shapes every few hundred yards lighting the way.

Or, more accurately, we didn’t really “see” all those things, given it was 9 pm, in the middle of a blizzard, on a road with few lights.

All we really saw were red tail lights of the cars ahead of us -- or the headlights of the cars coming our way -- framed by the falling snow. For long stretches, though, there were no cars and all we could see was snow flitting across the windshield and through the high beams.

The road conditions were fine. We passed by several snow plows clearing the roads along the way. Traffic was light. No brass monkeys as far as the eye can see, which is not far.

Because of the blizzard, we were only driving around 40mph -- and were maybe two hours away from an Interstate where we could make better time.

I am glad we did not get to the Interstate that night.

Oh yeah, did I mention it was Christmas Eve?

Hale’s Bales

We had just passed through a town called Hale. I saw a bunch of hay bales at the country store with Christmas decorations on them. My Grandparents used to bring in hay bales for Christmas and set them up for all the kids to play on. So, I smiled.

On any other Saturday, at 9 pm, in a blizzard when it was 5° F outside, this particular stretch of road would most likely have been empty. Because it was Christmas Eve, though, folks were coming back from the traditional Christmas Eve Mass before Christmas Day, and there were a few more cars on the road. In fact, a half hour later or earlier would have been different.

We could see the red glow of a set of tail lights about 50 feet ahead, using them as a pathfinder of sorts.

We were a few more miles out of town, entering a four-lane passing section.

Everything seemed fine. Then . . .

The Spinned and Snap

SNAP. I heard it. Muffled but distinct. In less than a second, the rear of my car began to drift slowly to the left, into the opposing lanes, then snapped into a ferocious wide spin, and then into ever tighter faster turns, like a ballet dancer doing pirouette training. Or like a vinyl record -- one of those old 78 rpm types -- spinning on its turntable.

I turned into the spin, as you are supposed to do, but had no control authority, like at all. The car continued to drift to the left with the momentum pulling the car further along the road.

We had now drifted fully into the opposite passing lanes, as the backward motion almost stopped and I could feel we were about to move forward.

Fortunately, there were no cars coming towards us.

At that point, the car went air-borne. It was another slow motion feeling, flying through the air, what seemed like for minutes. I did not know if land or water was on that other left side of the highway.

Out of nowhere, though, it felt like that unseen hand had picked up the car and gently placed it in the giant snow drift which had formed up against the barbed wire fence.

Slow motion bled into regular time, as my body rebounded against the door, releasing some airbags I didn’t even know existed. Thankfully. Otherwise my head may have gone through the glass window. I would not have liked that.

Take out Your Papers and Your Bags

As I attempted to get my bearings, I could not open my door. I went through the steps in my head.

Grab your bag.

Grab your vehicle information.

A calm but clear voice: “Get out of the car. The car is smoking”.

The engine was still running, though, so it was not actual smoke. Once we turned the ignition off, we were fine and got back in.

I was wearing a red and black letter jacket from Gruver High School, which I bought for $3 at the thrift store run by the Senior Ladies of the Methodist Church. It is not only the most comfortable jacket I have ever worn; it is the warmest. So I was not cold. Here’s the interesting part, though. This was probably the first time I wore this jacket. I grabbed it as an afterthought when we set out that morning.

I have a mostly regulated nervous system, not this time. My hands were shaking. How could this happen? I had new tires that were less than four months old and everything had checked out fine.

Thankfully there was cell service, and I rang AmEx for “roadside service” amenity they offer cardmembers. Or, at least I should say, they “offered” -- past tense. I know somewhere, someone is reading this and laughing -- someone other than me, that is. After a few minutes an automated voice informed me that AmEx no longer offers any type of “roadside service”. Thanks for the head’s up, there, AmEx! I said a few choice curse words -- in my inner voice. Like what am I going to do? It’s 9 pm on Christmas Eve, on a rural highway and the snow is accumulating. Am I stuck here?

I was not.

Ride Sharing is Caring

“You need a ride?” There was a man in a double cab truck, with his window rolled down and I wasn’t getting Ted Bundy vibes. I was not even getting Al Bundy vibes.

“Hop in and I will take you into town.” I looked back and scanned everything in my car. I saw the book I was reading, which oddly enough, was about McDonald County in Missouri. You know, where Pineville, a town of 3 people, is located? Where the great Cattle Heist took place in 1979, all as more fully and accurately described in the Episode entitled “Return to Cinder“?

Could this book about McDonald County be the cause of a streak of bad luck? I have never had a car accident like this on Christmas Eve . . . or ever. Is there a Pineville curse that is reoccurring? Like it started in 1979 and is still attached to my bloodline?

The answer is no.

Accident on Purpose

It turns out the cause of the “accident” was much more sinister. Remember I told you about the One Person Rule -- i.e., that in any given situation, anything bad that’s happening can usually be traced back to one person.

I will tell you who that one alleged person is below. For paying subscribers, that is.

Down Yonder Way

Hopping in the truck, I was still shaking. Mr. Bright, as I will call him, said he was just coming home from Christmas Eve services at his church. I expressed my gratitude. He then suggested when I get settled to “call the state police to report the accident. Otherwise, they might think it is an emergency situation”. That turned out to be good advice.

As I was writing down his instructions, he then said “tell them your car is at the corner of Dolphyn Road.” I thought I mis-heard him. “Could you repeat that?” I asked. “The corner of Dolphyn road,” he repeated.

My shoulders dropped. I relaxed. My breathing slowed, and I became super calm. At Dolphyn Road! The save was from Dolphyn’s people -- on both sides -- who lived in this area, some for generations and had probably dug out that exact road.

Right then, at that moment, I knew everything was going to be OK. He went on to say he was retired from John Deere. I knew this was my cue to say “nothing runs like a Deere”. He laughed. I grew up in Deeres during summer harvests. I even drove them way before I ever had a driver’s license. John Deere’s headquarters in Illinois was designed by Eero Saarinen -- a shinning light of design and architecture. If you’ve ever flown out of JFK airport, you may have walked through the old TWA Flight Center he designed.

Before I move on, I would like to call out Mr. Bright for stopping to help. I would also like to call out the 3 or 4 other folks -- including the driver of the massive municipal snow plow we had passed about 30 minutes earlier. Most of the folks who saw us stopped to help out. We declined at first, until Mr. Bright showed up.

Snow Time for Sergeants

Mr. Bright pulled up to a local Beach Resort -- on the shoreline of that giant Lake to the East -- where their sign said “Vacancy”. I was surprised it was even open. It was. I thanked him again and wished him a Merry Christmas.

Once checked in, I rang the state police -- spoke to a Sergeant -- and answered their questions. Once their patrol found the vehicle, he said, he would call a tow truck and have the car towed.

About an hour later, he called back. Found the car. “Did you know the rear passenger side wheel had separated from the vehicle and was hanging on by its suspension?” I did not know that. That side of the car had bellied up against the fence, so I couldn’t see it. Plus it was dark, and snowing, and really cold. “The conditions out here have gotten a lot worse”, he continued. “We will get your car towed tomorrow” -- Christmas Day -- “and get you a police report for insurance in you need one.”

I asked if the car had broken any of the barb wire fence, in hopes that no livestock had escaped. The answer was no, and there were no livestock.

Christmas Morning -- Cool Cool Summer

Read with Bananarama, Cruel Summer

The local Beach Resort was quite a place. Their indoor pool had a swim up window to the bar. There were a few other folks there having Christmas breakfast. It was one of the best breakfasts I have ever had. The eggs were like satin sliders, and the toast was a perfect blend of buttery crispness -- though I wasn’t able to finish either of them.

My phone rang. “Go outside, look for the blue SUV with the red bubble on top.” It was the State Police. They were here to escort us to the nearest place to rent a car -- about 65 miles away -- through three counties. The first officer would hand us off to the next officer in the next county who would get us the car rental spot. Strangely enough, it was open.

Oh, by the way, that Sunday morning drive, on Christmas, was one of the most beautiful blue sky days I have ever seen. The State police are really good people too.

Coca Coda

A few weeks later, we delivered gratitude boxes to each branch that had provided an escort. I made boxes, with a red “gumball” on top, packed with lots of goodies.

Later that year, I finally found Mr. Bright’s address and had an Ina Garten cake shipped to him and his family. Great cakes, by the way.

Snow Country for Old Fence

The barbed wire fences in these parts were probably put in over hundred years ago, when the area became mainly farmland, after the ancient White Pine forests had been cleared out leaving behind a field of stumps. It makes me sad to think about that.

Sometimes, when you inspect these old log fence posts, you will find cast iron railroad spikes from when the railroads came through there in the late 1800s -- so the robber barons could send their stolen White Pine timber downstate, after wiping out the great White Pine forests that had been there for thousands of years, after the glaciers melted, of course.

Anatomy of a Snow Drift

When it gets cold -- below 10° F or so -- snow practically takes flight. Even light winds will create some pretty hefty snow drifts, especially on the leeward -- i.e., downwind -- shoulder of a road, driveway, highway, person.

When the snow is that cold, it is luxuriously flight and fluffy. Think of the powder at Aspen, Vail, Telluride, Breckenridge, Park City, Jackson Hole, etc., -- and other ski resorts I can name-drop without ever having been to. Well, not true, I have been to most of those. The deep powder snow is also very insulating and a natural shock absorber.

So, in our story, the wind was coming from the right and snow drifts were building up on the East, i.e., the left, the opposite shoulder, the one we drifted into.

The ditches on side of the are deep -- maybe 4 - 5 feet and about 10 feet wide. Fortunately, the snow drift had completely covered the ditches and snow level was almost to road level.

Never Mind the Furthermore

So what happened?

To anyone that knows me, they will know that if I am ever to be in a car, it will most likely land on 3 days. Christmas Day, Christmas Eve and my birthday. The year before, I had driven 1,300 miles to Gruver TX to do a tree lighting in the giant 75 ft tall Blue Spruce outside my Grandmother’s house -- which seemed as wide as it was tall. The tree lighting was to honor not only my Grandparents, but everyone who came before us and built a thriving community out of dirt. Half the town showed up -- some from as far away as Dallas. My family did not. What jerks are they?

That was the last time I saw my Grandmother. For our Christmas Episode this year, we will feature that tree lighting. It was magical.

Back to our story.

So let’s work backwards. Kathy who has coordinated new tires for me for almost a decade. I asked her “was there anything out of line when all four(!) tires were changed in August?” She replied “no not all. Daum’‘ . . . yes, that is a real name . . . “and I both did a double check. God was looking down on you.” I agreed and thought it was more than just God. I reckon there were more than a few spirits involved, and it was a complex operation. If any part went wrong, it could have been curtains for me.

I also thought like someone was taking up God’s time when they should not have been -- for which they need to feel some divine comeuppance, which is in God’s unseen hands and not mine.

Who did it? Here is how, in my totally First Amendment protected opinion, I think it happened, who did it, and why . . . for paying subscribers, that is.

Read more

Listen with my voice over.

Tyger Tyger Burning Bright

In the forests of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake, 1794

Change a few words -- well, all of them except “Tyger” -- and that is pretty much how our story today unfolds.

I am 3 or 4 . . . and adorable as always. I am at the Denver Zoo with my mom, Hannibal, and my dad, Fredo. It is spring or early summer.

Here I am at the age of 3.

I know, this looks like a promotional still for an early 80’s reboot of Petticoat Junction. Or maybe for a Punky Brewster pilot, where I play the younger much more adorable little sister -- “Spunky” Brewster!

My mom, Hannibal, had me sit for a bunch of pictures like this at photo studios all over the place. I don’t know why, and I don’t know where most of them even are. I totally forgot about this photo until My Aunt -- Mrs. Gomer -- sent it to me about a month ago. I haven’t seen it since I was a little.

Hannibal wanted me to be famous -- she said that numerous times, to me and to other people who knew me.

She would have been a great Stage Mom -- and, no, I don’t mean that as a complement. Being famous never interested me, thankfully.

Just the other day, I watched S2.E2 of Hollywood Demons, with Dr. Drew Pinsky (streaming on HBO -- or whatever they call it now -- Max?). The episode is entitled Child Stars Gone Wild and is a pretty good discussion of how fame can seriously mess kids up.

So, back to the story . . .

Third Eye of the Tiger

Listen to Third Eye Blind, Semi-Charmed Life

I was 3 or 4 when Fredo and Hannibal packed me up for a trip to Colorado Springs. That’s in Colorado, about an hour or so South of Denver.

It was before my sister(?) was born, and I would have rather stayed back with my Grandparents.

Colorado Springs is only about 300 miles from Hansford county, in the Texas Panhandle, and a lot easier to get to than going to Dallas. So, like many Texas Panhandle kids, I spent time there, especially at the four main Colorado tourist havens:

· North Pole -- not actually at the North Pole

· The Broadmoor -- a really nice and really giant resort with lots for kids to do, originally built in 1918

· The Penny Arcade -- where you can play all kinds of coin operated games, founded in the 1930s, and

· The Denver Zoo -- a zoo

Each is fun for most kids, including me!

There’s another place in Colorado called La Junta that’s not a tourist place, though, at least not for kids. It’s located on the Arkansas river, so that pretty much explains a lot. The original 1952 version of Narrow Margin was set on a train that passed through La Junta, where the mob assassin boards. The 1990 remake with Gene Hackman was set in Canadato. In case your askin’.

I might tell you all I know about La Junta in an Episode entitled Here I am at Camp La Junta.

The Broadmoor Experience -- A Day in the Life of Hannibal

We arrive at the Broadmoor in the late afternoon.

The Broadmoor is a beautiful property. However, I have yet to return since my childhood. I had learned to swim early and quickly, so I immediately wanted to go to the pool. The pool there is semi-oval shaped and looks over a lake.

Hannibal, however, made me wait a few hours until the other guests were going to dinner -- “making the pool exclusive to us”, she said.

Hannibal would then stand in the pool away from the edge and say “swim to me”. I would swim, and she would continue to move farther back. This annoyed me. I generally don’t like when an agreement is made and someone else changes the terms as the deal is in play. Talk about moving the literal fat f-ing goalposts!

After Hannibal had moved past the center of the pool, I came up for air. Just as I was inhaling, Hannibal dunked my head under water. I could hear her laughing. Being mid-inhale, water filled in -- and who would want that? It felt like I was breathing in water. I began to choke and couldn’t even cough.

When I popped back up, I reflexively spewed out a mouthful of water -- directly into Hannibal’s face. I did not do this intentionally.

She was livid.

This One Time at Tiger Camp

The following day Fredo, Hannibal and I went to the Denver Zoo. All I can say is I do not want something else. This day was great!

We were dressed nicely because Hannibal wanted to take pictures. It was crowded. We started down a longer pathway. Hannibal was a few steps ahead, and Fredo was walking in between Hannibal and me.

At the end of the pathway there was a wide fork. The fork bent into two pathways around an acre plus reserve for the tigers. The tiger compound was set behind a really tall giant steel fence in the front and rocks, trees and other formations in the back. There was a pond. I could see maybe 3 or 4 of them tigers, some walking some laying down. One was right up to the fence.

As we were approaching, I had an odd feeling. I felt like we needed to turn around. The tigers were massive, so I thought maybe I had fear.

One tiger -- the one at the fence -- did not look or feel happy. I remember looking at it and then looking up at Fredo. Given Fredo’s background in agriculture, he can sometimes read an animal, mainly cattle and horses -- or at least he thinks he can. His expression was the same as it ever was, so I figured nothing was amiss.

I looked back at the tiger and I could see the tiger had locked eyes with Hannibal. What unfolded played out to me in slow motion.

Fredo stopped walking forward. Hannibal took another step forward. She was staring back at the tiger, right up close to the fence. There was tension. The tiger stood straight up on his hind legs. Not bracing on the fence, mind you, but standing straight up, like a person. He was huge! Easily over six feet tall.

For some reason, Fredo and I stepped off to the side. What happened next, I’ve only ever seen -- or heard about -- this one time . . . at tiger camp.

The tiger made a light, low pitched growl noise, like when cats get territorial with other cats. It was almost under its breath like someone muttering to him or her self.

Then the tiger sprayed Hannibal with urine. It went from her shoulders down to her knees and then back up again. My mouth went wide open in surprise, but also amusement. The 30 other people watching also had wide open mouths. Some were gasping. Some laughed.

She was livid.

Fredo looked at Hannibal, and her eyes were as angry-wide as I had ever seen at that point in my life. She had her arms out with the urine dripping off her leather jacket sleeves. Her jutting jaw jutting way out. Way out. If jaws could kill.

She then turned to Fredo and said “My jacket. It’s ruined.” Fredo let out a small chuckle, which was brave for him. All I could think about was the upcoming car ride back to The Broadmoor, while I felt 100s of eyes on us.

The Epiloguer

Nature.

This is a story about a tiger, but it’s really a story about Nature. The animals can usually tell the bad people before the fellow humans can. Watch them.

Nature has been guiding me from very early on. The nature within the confines of the Denver Zoo turns out to have likely delivered the best, clearest, and swiftest lesson of how nature feels about Hannibal, or more precisely what a crime against Nature Hannibal is.

I love seeing all the different wild animals, though I have to tell you, I don’t love zoos and cages.

Tyger Tyger Burning Bright

On the Jacket to the right

Down and up and down he goes

& why he does, nobody knows.

Listen with my voice over.

This is Episode 1 of the “Is This the Way to Amarillo?” series. Part 3 came earlier, and Part 2 I haven’t thought up just yet.

Gawker’s Paradise

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

If you go to any small town in the Texas panhandle with only one gas station, it will almost certainly be an Allsup’s. Today’s story takes place at one of those.

Here is what it might have looked like from the outside:

Scene 1

EXT -- EARLY EVENING -- RURAL SMALL TOWN TEXAS

We are looking dead on down Main St. from the North. From a distance, we see small shops lining Main St.

It’s evening before dusk. To the right, we see shimmering translucent crimson skies interrupted by silhouettes of large grain elevators lurking in the distance.

To the front left of center, close up, we see a gas station with red Allsup’s trim on top and a blue yellow and white overhang covering the gas pumps offset from the brick and glass doors of the gas station. The word Allsup’s is lit up.

Behind the gas pumps adjacent to the gas station, we see parking spots for 6 - 8 cars. One of the spots is taken up by an old white pickup truck. A bronze, sedan type car is parked a few spots away. A man is leaning against the driver’s side door, speaking to the woman inside.

We see two boys approach their bicycles, with ice-cream cones in their hands, laughing. One of the boys has a portable Kodak camera he just bought.

The evening is otherwise quiet, with a gentle wind blowing.

Looking down Main St., we see a red Suburban with a gray stripe approaching, picking up speed. We hear engine noise getting louder and higher pitched. The Red Suburban abruptly swerves into the Allsup’s parking lot.

A mad crazy woman is driving. In the passenger’s seat, we see an adorable young blonde-haired blue-eyed little girl.

The Red Suburban brakes sharply and rocks back and forth from the stopped momentum.

An animated gangly woman jump out and lurch towards the bronze sedan, ambling like a drunken Pelican on speed. In an eye blink she is attacking the bronze sedan. The man at the door turns and tries to stop the woman. Before he can, the gangly Pelican woman reaches in the open driver’s side window and begins tearing at the driver’s hair, slapping her, and screaming obscenities. The gangly woman, tears open the door, and tries to pull the driver out.

We hear screaming from both women as the man tries to intercede by pinning the gangly woman’s limbs to her side. She swings back her head in at attempt to reverse head butt the man.

From the far left, a cattle truck pulls off Hwy 15, clanks, and eases into the parking lot. We hear “sooooshi — tck —” as the driver engages the air-brakes.

The two little boys are watching, mouths wide open. The boy with the Kodak takes a few snaps before before the fighting ends.

The other boy says “How bizarre?”

Want to know the rest?

Hey, subscribe the rights.

Listen here to OMC How Bizarre

Oh, well. This is too fun. I’ll give you a bit more before throwing up the Wall of Payment.

In the Beginning, I misunderstood

I was 11. Coming up on the tail end of 7^th grade. The weather was warming up, and I was looking forward to summer vacation. Although summers weren’t usually much of a vacation for me, seeing as how I would end up what is politely known as “family farm labor”. Fine by me! I learned some stuff. Plus, even though I didn’t think this way back then, harvest season, tending sprouts out in a corn field, or “helping” my Grandad pack 40 lb bags of feed in the store, or “supervising” the cattle branding, at least got me out of my house and into relatively peaceful and vibrant surroundings.

The alternative of being home with my parents was not so happy. Always noise or contention or criticism (wholly unwarranted I might add) or something. Back then, I thought it was my fault.

I misunderstood.

Anyway, on this particular occasion, coming up on the tail end of 7th grade, when I was 11, more than just the weather was heating up. Indeed, some things had been cooking, were overflowing their baking tins, and were about to explode, big time -- right there in the parking lot of the Allsup’s gas station, which sits on the corner of Main St. and Hwy 15, where pretty much every single person in my small town passed by at least once every day.

The fallout of this explosion would shortly lead us to Amarillo.

So, that what our story today is all about. I witnessed (or was roped into, unwillingly) most of it, and this is how I remember things to the best of my recollection.

How We Got Here

Before telling you the natural progression and the outcome of today’s story, allow me to provide background to how we even got this far.

It was track season. My dad, Fredo, had recently started working out and running at the track down at the school. That made sense to me. I thought he was really into track season. Which, come to think of it, I should have recognized as odd since he had never shown any interest in track, especially mine. He wasn’t particularly athletic. In fact, he was one of the few folks in town who didn’t play some kind of sport in Junior High or High School, or at least try out. And, he would have made a lousy cheerleader.

As I saw Fredo running one afternoon, though, I thought there should be an adult track meet.

He and Hannibal had played on adult tennis and volleyball teams -- or at least so they told me. I don’t remember seeing any tennis rackets. Maybe the odd golf club -- one of which he used to hit me, quite hard, in the leg on Father’s Day, when I was 10. It was just a few months after my Grandad died. I had made a giant Happy Father’s Day sign using letters I individually cut out from poster board. I was so excited. I knew Fredo would love it. I remember sitting on the newly poured concrete patio in the backyard -- Hannibal had that installed a month after my Grandad died -- waiting for Fredo to get home.

His response, it didn’t thrill us . . .

Hannibal somehow hypnotically suggested to Fredo that the sign would make my Grandmother sad and that he should tell me to take it down. I refused, out of principle, so he smashed me with a Golf wedge.

What total jerks?

I went inside and sat down on the plywood cover -- which they recently installed over the indoor pool and, as far as I know, is still there -- and cried.

I ended up with a big welty bruise on my leg, which eventually healed -- at least the physical part.

I wonder why Hannibal had new concrete poured and why she installed a cover over a fully functioning indoor pool? My guess is she was hiding something, definitely in the back yard under the concrete. That’s what psychopaths do, after all. Everybody says so -- even them.

Only Trackers.Com -- For Discreet Track Meet Ups

So for my Track Meets for Grown Ups idea, I was thinking of a role reversal — where the parents are the kids and the kids are the parents. Like Ralph Phillips in “Boyhood Daze”

Boyhood Daze, Warner Bros. (1957)

Us kids could scream at the adults trying to run the quarter mile under 70 seconds. “Hurry up, you slackers. You call that running? Get the lard out!”

I mean many of the adults continue, to this day, to speak of the fastest little runt ever known in Hansford county -- Billy Bob Harris, a/k/a,“the mover from Gruver”. Billy Bob was a famous Dallas man-about-town. He knew everyone, had done favors for most, and had all kinds of pictures on his walls, including some of me. Billy Bob died a few years ago. We’re related. I’ve got some stories and some pictures too. We’ll get there . . . eventually . . . maybe.

Billy Bob ran the 440-yard dash in less than 50 seconds. My parents -- mainly Fredo, but egged on by Hannibal -- would often find the most impressive metric from any person we mutually knew. They would then tell me the metric and expect me to meet it. In everything, from your Great Uncle (who isn’t even 6 ft) can dunk a basketball, to Billy Bob’s stats, to how my paternal side could sing and play instruments, with one having had his own Cowboy music television show.

Needless to say, I would try my hardest and would never come close to any of their stated metrics. When they would come down on me, I would think “which of these metrics have you met or did you set any records of your own? Can you even spell ‘metric’?”

So, you want to talk metrics. How’s this one?

It’s at the very intersection of Main St. and Hwy 15. About 250 meters from our house at the time. The Allsups gas station. Where you can get what is non-affectionately known as a “torpedo burrito”. And, no, I will not explain that one. Also, back then, the general manager would dry his socks alongside the hotdog wieners in the warming oven. Yummy!

And Now for the Rest of the Story

OK, the rest of the story is totally gripping and probably the best most exciting story ever told -- or which will ever be told -- in the whole history of the Universe.

Here it is . . . for paid subscribers, that is . . .

Read more

Listen with my voice over.

Tetris song

Gather up, kids. Take you seats. Put away your Trapper Keepers. Class is now in session.

Today we will deliver up some fine toothed learnin’ all about how your in home psychopath provider will use any available opportunity to take your time, your money, all your emotional strength, and anything you enjoy.

Lesson #1 -- You are not your family’s charity. You are a commodity kid.

Anyone who tells you “charity begins at the home” might just be lying, especially if he/ she/ it is suggesting you fork over some hard earned cash or give up some free time, of which you are in constant short supply.

Instead, if you have at least one psychopath parent (or sibling), they probably see you as, what we refer to here at the Handbook, as a “Commodity Kid”. A Commodity Kid is the child who performs 90% of the emotional or physical labor[1].

Commodity Kids manage the parent’s moods and fix their faux meltdowns. Commodity Kids keep the peace, to end the wars they start. They are “useful” but never valued. They do most of the sorting out. Commodity Kids fix most problems that arise out of nowhere. They will arrange and organize things for everyone else. All at their own expense.

I know this because I am one. Or, at least, I was until I saw the light. Now I am going to tell the world all about it.

Source: PPFFK#7

What’s worse, though, is they make you think that helping them out is your own idea. Your family has you convinced they love you, and that this is how you think you want to repay that love.

Key Takeaway: If you find yourself solving all or even most of your family’s problems -- when they only create problems for you -- and especially if you hand over cash when they ask, forget everything you think you know and start over.

Lesson #2 -- The Art of Noise

Peter Gunn: The Art of Noise

The Hannibals intentionally make noise, to keep you disoriented. So much noise that you can’t hear your way out.

To maintain her image as the good mom, she needs a place to dump her problems, shame and failures. So the child becomes the repository for everything that goes wrong. In a Commodity Kid family, the child’s excellence is co-opted as the parent’s success, while the child’s struggles are treated as betrayals or weakness.

Most people in the outside world think I have great parents because of appearances and some successes here and there. They don’t see the noise. Many family members, folks from Hansford county or from Amarillo, or even people I met later, when asked, will say I have a great mom and a great family. They don’t see my parents accusing me of things that I never actually did, or that they were actually doing themselves.

There is another lesson. Projection is one of the key tactics of psychopaths, narcissists, cluster-F personalities, borderline humans, etc.. Whatever they would shame me for doing, is what they were actually doing.

Key Takeaway: If you want to know what a psychopath, etc. is up to, it is usually what they are accusing you of doing.

So, I ask Myself

Source: PFFK#7

Am I the problem? Am I a bad person? I have asked myself these two questions countless times. I’ve made mistakes, and will continue to[2], but now I know Hannibal was my biggest problem, and it is up to me to make certain I put a stop to her harvesting my emotions and my successes. No one else will stop her. That’s because, in families headed by psychopath moms, you will typically have the one Commodity Kid, while everyone else will have become weaponized and aligned against said Kid. So, in my case, it is at least 5-to-1 against me. Probably more when you add in spouses, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, chickens, etc.

They will try to hit you with the “respect and honor your mother” mantra.

So, do I respect my fat mommy-pig mother? Or, does it make me a bad person if I do not?

I have tremendous respect for most moms because they are good moms. However, this mantra is a tool that keeps Commodity Kids, some say Scapegoats (I say Escapegoats), in their assigned role, which often gets said goats labelled as ungrateful or problematic. If that doesn’t work, the goats might get labeled as irrational, or angry, or full of rage, or losing it -- all usually followed by some plea to get their head right and get on the right team.

Within the family, however, this is a status protection maneuver. They seek to make disrespect or dishonor the ultimate sin. It even says so in the Bible.

The Counterfeit Parent, the parasitic mom in particular, is ensured that his or her own behavior is never questioned or talked about. Ironically, the Commodity Kid is often the truth-teller but is shouted down with “respect your mother” mantra.

If you have been told to respect your parent who is actively harvesting your identity for their brand, you are being told to participate in your own liquidation.

Becoming Unkillable, which is the goal of this Handbook, means accepting the role of becoming your own driver, in their counterfeit story.

Stepping away from the counterfeit family, some say no contact, is it’s own souped-up supercharged engine. I was in a rigged game not in a role as a daughter.

Speaking of engines and cars, while I was so-called “respecting” my mom, she and my brother(?), Myron, were tracking me via OnStar and shut the vehicle down one day while the keys were inside, thereby locking me out. That event backfired on them, though. I called the OnStar people, who sent out a service truck and opened the doors with these cool little flat inflatable packets that you inflate, opening the door just enough to slide in a hook to pull the door handle.

I got some for myself, from Amazon

So, to the question, am I bad for not “respecting” my mom?

I say the question is wrong. Respect goes both ways and is earned. The real question is: Should I respect someone who has no respect for anything -- certainly not me -- except those things she can put her fat hands on and steal?

Also, I should point out that there is no commandment saying honor your kids, and they do not anyway. Not at all.

In addition, psychopath moms are a crime against nature and not really human. So, I don’t consider them “moms” at all; therefore, technically the question never arises and, as the lawyers say, is “moot”. Hmmm. I think I am going to call them Moot Moms.

Lesson #3 -- The Manufactured Crisis Loop

Let’s all create fake emergencies or angstomanias!

These can take several forms.

Pity the poor me. They may gaslight or suggest you made a promise to pay this or that or that you would take care of them in their older years. You are not obligated. They could have worked and prepared. Instead they would bleed you dry.

Exaggerated medical events or bills. This happens a lot. The number of times of heard stories of Hannibal needing an ambulance, fainting, passing out, falling down and breaking ribs (i.e., getting beat up, probably deservedly), coding in the ambulance, which then pulled over (yeah, right) to resuscitate her (maybe should have unsuscitated her). Or the numerous tooth surgeries. Or car accidents. Or a bad case of colitis (again, is there a good case?). Or falling through the ceiling.

That’s a true story, I think. Her friend, Floyd from Floydada told me. She was apparently up in the attic, stepped in between the ceiling joists and fell through the cheapo drywall.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I can imagine her legs protruding out of the ceiling dangling, furiously swinging, drywall dusk smoking through the air. It reminded me of that Lionel Ritchie song, “Dancing on the Ceiling“. I just change the words in my head to “Oh, what a feeling, When we’re falling through the Ceiling”.

Lionel Richie: Dancing On the Ceiling

Property disasters. Oh man, these are legendary and probably caused by Hannibal.

Examples include: needing new roofs, sewer back ups, new fences after a hail storm, new hot water heaters. A new microwave. Seriously, do microwaves ever break down? Occasionally, they would refer to that as mine, for some reason. Like I just own a microwave at #6 Accosted. That might be, though, seeing as how Hannibal has probably stolen everything that is actually mine -- including my cheerleading bloomers.

Then there are the carpets. Hannibal tried to destroy one of my Edward Fields collector carpets, and let me blame Myron. I reckon she spilled coffee on the carpet. Turns out, it was easy to clean.

She did once nail a carpet to the floor. It currently sits on the second floor of #6 Accosted, next to Fredo’s “office” space, i.e., wooden desk. Whenever I passed by said nailed down carpet, I would wonder what was underneath that needed to be hidden. I’m thinking blood stains.

Plumbing Problems A-plenty. Not to mention plumbing problems, usually backed up toilets but sometimes drains. That would happen pretty much every place Hannibal smoldered through, e.g., her own toilets, her sink drain, my Grandmother’s toilet, my sister’s(?) toilet. A few months after she visited me at home, back in like 2016 or something, the upstairs drains backed up, and this ungodly black mold came out. I tried to kill it with a combination of lye, bleach, Draino (which is lye and bleach), then vinegar, then baking soda and vinegar. Then I tried copper chloride, which I made from mixing copper sulfate and hydrochloric acid -- with a little boric acid thrown in for good measure. That worked for a few years. Then I had the plumbers change out the drains pipes in 2019. That worked.

Anyway, remember back to Devil With a Kickstand, where I told you about how Hannibal burned her mom’s vinyl record collection. Psychopaths like to destroy or break things, especially if they can act all Munchauseny about it and get some juicy victim points.

Key Takeaway: These typically happen when they feel their adult children are pulling away or gaining independence.

The crisis is created and is not a string of bad luck. They are a calculated strategic leash designed to drain their son or daughter’s resources so there is never surplus energy or capital to permanently escape fat mommy-pig’s orbit.

Lesson # 4 -- Hinged or Unhinged

They will try to poke you, over and over, to provoke a reaction so they can say you are crazy or unfit, allowing them in extreme cases to then assume control.

Then they will wait until you isolate yourself or work your self into exhaustion to say that you can not handle it.

Here is a real example of how this might happen. This was in maybe August 2021 -- though I may have the date wrong. I had started looking into Hannibal in late 2020 or earlier. As I mentioned in the Episode entitled “Is this the Way to Amarillo“, in 2020, I experienced a short sharp change in my family’s behavior, when it seemed everyone had turned on me, and when they isolated me from my Nieces -- whom I love. That is when the light went on, when I realized Hannibal is not who she says she is, and that something else far more sinister was going on.

So, I threw out everything I thought I knew, especially anything beginning with the phrase “Hannibal said . . .”, or “Fredo said . . .”.

By 2021, I was deep in research mode and even got a DNA test. I am telling you, as much as I didn’t want to get an Ancestry account and do that DNA test, there is a wealth of information there. Probably too much, as you end up going down some pretty deep rabbit-holes and not resurfacing for weeks.

Anyway, I was looking into all of them. They knew that. Fredo even said I was “snooping and spying on them”. I said that looking at public records — or my own DNA results — is not snooping.

Anyway, one day in or around August 2021, Fredo called me up asking my net worth, how many Birkin bags, etc., I had. I was like what that the hell? I said “What, are you watching Sex and the City now?” That shut him up . . . momentarily.

It was like he was going down a list or form -- e.g, (and I am only lightly exaggerating here) “so, what would you say is the value of your real property minus debt or other obligations?” Or, “what would you say your total net worth is?” Then he asked my about specific Hermes handbags and other items. And, if I were to list out the 10 most valuable items I owned, what would they be. The line of questioning really felt like he was reading from a form: the kind of form you need to fill out in order to file for a conservatorship.

So, I looked up the procedures for filing for a conservatorship. Sure enough, there is just such a form. What is scary, though, is how easy it is to do something like this. There are law firms specializing in estate law that advertise on their websites how easy it is to do.

My uncle did something to my Grandmother in 2022, without telling anyone, of course. This happened one month before they put her in a home. He then sold her house, along with 14 acres of land located on top of a nice aquifer, less than two weeks before she died.

There are two ways, generally, to get control of someone’s life and assets. One is “voluntary” using a Durable Power of Attorney. The other is “involuntary” by getting a conservatorship or guardianship through a judge. In my Grandmother’s case, it was voluntary, though I have to say her signature did not look very voluntary to me. Anyway, these documents have to be filed deed office to be effective, so I eventually found it. I am right on the dates. I would not, in case you’re asking, sign one of those things — unless it were to pre-empt someone else trying to go the involuntary route and therefore get there ahead of them.

As for conservatorship, they are pretty sinister. The laws vary by state, so depending on where you live it could be easy or less easy.

This is after they had put me in a family fog of engineered chaos. Often times, I was the Beast of the Burden. After being Hannibal’s emotional and financial pack mule, they were going to have a right over my entire life and keep me enslaved.

Sudden legal threats like guardianships or conservatorships are their goto fall-back plans, in case of emergency break-glass type of plans.

The Entitlement of the Parasite

The dark tetrad mom, like Hannibal does not view their son or daughter’s wealth as their wealth, instead that wealth belongs to the mom. Because Hannibal brought me into the world, she views my time and assets as her permanent property. Hannibal feels absolutely zero remorse or guilt for attempting to bleed me dry because, to a counterfeit human an adult child is simply an asset to be liquidated. They view everything the commodity kid has from relationships to finances, wardrobes (cheerleading bloomers) accolades, all of it belongs to the mom types like Hannibal. If you ask yourself “will there ever be enough?” The answer is no, not ever. Nope! You need to stop the drain, grieve the living and you may feel at times you are living in your own private Gitmo but is the only way to save yourself.

My therapist was correct, when I was worried about them and swirling in the family fog, when she said “First you have to put on your mask. And remove theirs” I had to learn, heal and remain far away from Camp Hannibal. You will only be OK when you first take care of yourself. You can’t go back, you can only go forward.

The Smear Campaign Weapon

Hannibal weaponized the rest of my immediate family, supplemented with the occasional aerial attacks by her flying monkey friends, to enforce the battle damage. If I tried to set a financial — or any other kind of — boundary, Hannibal would flip the script and play the victim. Oh how they love playing the victim. I had to release myself from the manufactured guilt.

As my therapist says “these people will do anything to have their own power, pleasure and privilege needs met”. These attempts aren’t a family emergency, they are a hostage situation.

If you are in this dynamic, stop providing your time, your income and resources to the bottomless pits of parents. I stopped all contact with my mom and it was the best yes I have given to myself in years. My nervous system healed, my TMJ went away and I became more healthy and productive. Do not communicate with them or give them any information at all. Any info you provide them, no matter how small, they will find a way to use against you. I was never a daughter to Hannibal, I was a storyline, support and income generating asset. It’s like she believed I owed her everything because she gave me life. Or because she’s a psychopath — in my completely First Amendment protected opinion, that is.

The parasitic deficit thereby created . . . Hannibal would leverage my guilt and treat any boundaries as a hurdle to be bypassed. I paid a debt I never owed and it was time to close the account forever.

[1] Mathematically, Commodity Kids provide way more than 100% of the labor, because the rest of Mr. or Ms. Kid’s family provides negative percents, so the math works that way.

[2] Seriously, though, I kid. I have never ever made a single mistake ever! That’s totally true. Usually I make multiple mistakes all at the same time.

It’s all about the Hannibals

Listen with my voice over.

Otherwise known as: How to ruin friendships and cause all kinds of havoc for fun and profit . . .

. . . that is, if you are my mom, Hannibal, and believe me this story is quintessentially all about the Hannibals.

The Big and the Small

In the smaller way, this is a story about friendships, specifically about my best friend -- K. Venomous -- when I was just a little (and adorable!) girl.

In the bigger way, though, this is a story of the damage psychopaths will do to everything you enjoy and love. It is about how they will divide you from your friends and supporters.

Today’s story starts out in 1985, when I was just a little (and adorable!) kid, involves the Statue of Liberty and a July 4th parade down Main St. of our little town of 900 people located in Hansford county.

Image: Paavo Tynell Torchiere
Source: PFFK#7 for The Exchange Int

We pick up a few years later as we are about to move to Amarillo, and bookends with Rush at my Sorority -- which I ran, very successfully, the best Rush ever, everybody says so.

I wasn’t even allowed a pet[i]

The Story of a Girl

We were the same in many ways -- K. Venomous and I. Our families had similar agricultural and mineral interests. We were the same age and went to the same school.

We spent so much time together, at her house, at my house, at school. Several sleepovers, like girls do with their besties. We used to joke and laugh out loud at just about everything. K. Venomous would repeat things she heard from the radio DJs. Her favorite was “Shut up about chicken on a stick”. I didn’t even know what that meant and, by itself, it is not really funny.

However, when K. Venomous said it, she would try to imitate the DJs voices, so it became riotously funny. Sometimes, even to this day, I repeat that phrase and laugh quietly to myself. For no reason.

We were also different in a few ways. Her family lived further out of town, down a dirt (i.e., caliche) road closer to the Oklahoma border. I was blonde haired and blue-eyed, like pretty much everyone in my family as well as many of the town folks.
K. Venomous and her family had dark hair and brown eyes. As far as I was concerned, though, we were the same.

K. Venomous had an Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary was a grown up and had a learning disability or something. I’m not sure. It might have been autism. I liked Aunt Mary, though. She had a way of tossing out truth grenades every so often, out of nowhere. She would typically begin with “Oh K.” -- then say something like “you got that darkness in the eyes”. I didn’t know if Aunt Mary was referring to K. Venomous and her brown eyes, or whether it was something more sinister.

Like in this song:

Marcy Playground, St. Joe on the School Bus

Anyway, we should have been life long friends -- K. Venomous and I.

The Rest of the Story of a Girl

K. Venomous and I should have been friends forever. But Hannibal saw to it that we were not, as I found out later.

Instead, K. Venomous turned into an adversary years later. Strangely enough, though, that adversarialization prompted me to exceed. That then led to a job in Dallas I really wanted fresh out of college, which then led to two other bigger jobs in NYC. So, I suppose I should thank K. Venomous. Or really I should thank Hannibal, because, Hannibal caused my friend to become my enemy. Thanks Hannibal!

Psychopaths excel at isolating and dividing you from your friends, your siblings or other family members, anyone who might take your side, or buck you up when you need it, or anyone who might come from real actual normal family and can show you the light at the end of the rainbow.

Why do they isolate? Part is to gain control, and they cannot control you if you have a bigger better influence in the outside.

Another reason is because they enjoy it. They get to breathe in your pain. It’s a sport to them. They are good at it, and it is one of their greatest talents.

The Story of a Lady

Lady Liberty, that is.

It is 1985.

I’m watching television at my Grandparent’s house. A commercial appears and totally captivates me. It’s the voice of the Statue of Liberty and how she is in need of funds to undergo restoration and replace her deteriorating cool green copper skin and restore her torch with a 24-karat gold-plated flame. Any contribution, big or small, would be welcome. Every little bit helps!

Just mail it in to the following address . . . P.O. Box 1986, New York, NY 10018 . . . that address again is . . . P.O. Box 1986, New York, NY 10018!

While I previously did not know that Mrs. Liberty could talk, this made complete sense to me. Who wouldn’t need a 24-karat gold-plated flame, I thought. Wait. Gold-plated? OK, well, I would have wanted a solid gold 24-karat flame, that actually lights up, but who am I to dictate terms.

I knew exactly how much money I had saved up. When I next returned to my Grandparent’s house, I brought every cent I had. I asked my Grandmother if she could mail in my donation (to P.O. Box 1986, New York, NY 10018). She replied that she would write a check for an amount and mail the check. She had me write out the address, put the check in the envelope and then had me seal it. What fun!

At this point, you are probably wondering why I did not ask either of my alleged parents to help me with this particular project. Truth is, it never crossed my mind. In fact, it never crossed my mind that it didn’t ever cross my mind.

In fact, I never even told them about it.

Plus, they would have probably (i.e., certainly) kiboshed it, and would have done so by lobbing out a few doubts or criticisms in my general direction -- thereby making me think it was my own actual idea.

Oh yeah, Lee Iaccoca was running the fundraising campaign. I remembered him from all those Chrysler commercials: “if you can find a better automobile, buy it.” Turns out, pretty much every other automobile was better.

For the longest time, though, I thought Lee Iacocca was an American hero. Recently, someone who has become a good friend, and who knew Mr. Iacocca from the 1960s when he was at Ford, disabused me of that notion. There goes my hero.

1986

My Granddad passed away suddenly, shockingly at the age of 60 on March 20, 1986, just after lunch, on parcel 211, tending his cattle.

I recall exactly what Hannibal was wearing when I found out, a Coca-Cola rugby shirt in red and white . . . for some reason. I was standing in the Gopher’s parking lot. I saw my dad, Fredo, looking down. I saw Hannibal approach Fredo and give him a hug. She looked happy.

I was wearing a red and white t-shirt that my Grandparents brought me from Dallas. When I found out what happened, I broke down. I don’t remember how I got home or what happened when I did.

Then my memory flashes to the packed funeral, in the church he had helped rebuild from the fire in January 1979. It was so packed, I remember they had set up a remote room with a TV so everyone could be there.

My Grandfather, one of my enduring heroes, died on a Thursday afternoon, and the services were on Saturday morning, less that 48 hours later. There was not even an autopsy. I will tell you why in a future Episode, for which I do not yet have a title. All these 40 years later, I don’t like to think about it. I will say, and have said, I do not believe it was an accident or heart failure as they claimed. I will also tell you how Hannibal intentionally inserted mistakes in the public announcement, which got printed in the newspaper, e.g., my Grandfather’s birth date, among others. Who does that? Well, I guess we know.]

At the services, everyone was crying, many of the grown men even had tears. Hannibal was not crying. It seemed she felt happy. I was so distraught but her emotions registered with me. I can see her face as I write this, clearly. I remember my Grandmother walking out of the church and then my memory goes blank.

[Later that day, close family and friends gathered at my Grandparent’s house after the services. I went back to their bedroom and cried for hours. My Aunt JuJu, one of my teachers, and some of the older ladies, came to comfort me one-by-one and ask me to come out. I couldn’t move and didn’t want to. I was unconsolable. I still am. And that is part of the reason for writing these stories.]

The Killer of All Buzz

No Doubt, I’m Just a Girl

Shortly after the funeral, my parents received a phone call from the school principal.

I received a letter from the aforementioned Lee Iacocca thanking me for my donation. Well, at the time I actually thought it was from Lee Iacocca personally.

Hannibal seemed extra miffed when she hung up with the principal. It was not unusual for Hannibal to be miffed about something, at any given time, especially after phone calls from my school or anyone else. In this case, however, I knew that I had done anything wrong. I was a good kid.

Hannibal turned to my dad, Fredo, and said “well guess what our little darling has done now”. I couldn’t come up with anything, but was sure dying to find out.

Fredo looked at her with wide eyes. I looked at her with lightly squinted eyes, arms crossed, ready for a stare-down.

Hannibal pointed to adorable 9 year old me and said “I guess she donated to the Statue of Liberty restoration and now her name is on a plaque on Ellis Island. The school wants to recognize her for her philanthropic efforts.”

Cool!

I was happy. Then confused. Hannibal declined the recognition stating that it was too soon after my Granddad’s passing. I simply did not need recognition for my first philanthropic naming gift, she said. I did not get a vote. I was also confused how my name and hometown was on a plaque in NY. After all, my donation of all my savings wasn’t that much.

I came to the conclusion that my Grandparents chipped in a bunch extra without telling me. The letter from the aforementioned Lee Iacocca of course, “went missing”.

It’s probably in a trinket box -- along with my cheerleading bloomers and a myriad of other items.

I first went to NYC in 2002, headed for Ellis Island and, yes, the plaque is there. I sent a picture to Hannibal and there was no response.

We Love a Parade

It was July 3, 1986. We are at my home.

I had been working for some time on our costumes for the July 4^th parade. The kids would drive their bikes or pedal tractors down Main St. at the end. It was fun and the town folks loved it.

I was thrilled to be dressing up as the Statue of Liberty. I made a torch, crown and draped robe. On July 3^rd, Hannibal decided my best friend -- K. Venemous -- needed to come over for a sleepover. Awww, how nice!

This was an override of Hannibal’s rule of no summer sleepovers, for whatever reason, so I was happy about that at least. Then I realized that I had not been planning for
K. Venomous’ costume. As I walked through the entry atrium on the morning of July 4^th, I see Hannibal dressing K. Venomous in my Statue of Liberty costume. My heart dropped. Hannibal placed a red, white and blue top hat on my head. She then explained that I would be driving the John Deere with my brother(?), Myron, on my lap. The many times I had to carry Myron, figuratively at least (you’ll see, there’s a lot of stuff to tell).

This particular July 4^th parade was the most photographed by Hannibal. I can hear her yelling my name and instructing me to smile. Yes, the smile that she took along with my costume, and instead had me focused on driving the John Deere while holding Myron; he wasn’t even two years old. Hannibal seemed happy.
So did K. Venomous.

K. Venomous and I were best friends throughout middle school. We cheered, played basketball and ran track together. We would often do sleep overs at her place in the country. Great place with an old carved out boulder that they said was the seat of an Indian Chief. You could feel the energy when you sat in it. K. Venomous’s own Granddad and my Granddad were close friends and aligned in the belief that cattle should be pasture fed, not feed lot fed. Her other favorite saying along with chicken on a stick was “smoke ‘em if you got ‘em”. I didn’t know what that meant either.

End of Summer 1990

It was the closing day of the local pool. The very pool where I was tasked with my first lobbying effort to rally the town in funding the build out and the opening of the pool. I got to be in a TV commercial. Wearing a little bathing suit. But no where to go swimming. Please help! It was also my 1^st television appearance.

With it being the closing day, end of Summer 1990, there were a lot of kids in the pool. Suddenly I look up and K. Venomous is at the end of the pool with her hands on her hips, akimbo. I swam over and asked where her swim suit was. She was mad.
K. Venomous asked “why did you not invite me to your going away party?” I replied “this is closing day and it’s not my going away party. I would have invited you. You know that, don’t you?”

She explained one of other friends called her and asked if she was coming to the going away party. I tracked that friend down in the pool. She confirmed that Hannibal had, in fact, called her earlier that morning and invited her to my going away party. She looked at me like “are you an idiot?” I looked back, astounded and sad. I felt like I had crushed my best friend’s soul.

I tracked Hannibal down; she was also the manager of the pool. I asked her if she had arranged a going away party, and she said yes. I found K. Venomous and told her that I did not know about this going away party. She remained mad and stated that I had purposely left her out. This was not the case. As much as Hannibal was thinking I would be upset by K. Venomous being upset, I now had a duty to thank every kid for coming. K. Venomous left and the party ended right around the time I finished thanking everyone.

Why did Hannibal take on the job as pool manager? Here’s what I know. I found out recently that Hannibal’s SSN is listed as having been issued in the 1980s, even though she was born in 1951, and even though I would have been impossible even in the TX panhandle to do anything in the 1970s and earlier without a SSN. So, either she never had a SSN before -- unlikley -- or got a new number. Why would that be, I wonder? Anyway, I reckon she took on the pool manager job -- which is the only job in all of Hansford county that probably required no actual work -- in order to build up a history under the newly issued SSN.

After the pool non-party, my immediate family moved to Amarillo, after the Allsups Sushi incident, all to be described in a future Episode entitled “Allsups Sushi To Go“.
I went from a 1A school to a 5A school. While K. Venomous remained in the 1A school, I would continue to hear that she was having a hard time from the local bully and, as usual, it was my fault. Since I moved, and was out of range, the bully took aim at K. Venomous. Why K. Venomous did not blame the bully, I mean . . .

The Bookenders

Somehow K. Venomous and I both ended up at Texas Tech, in the same year, and were in the same sorority. It was a large chapter. I was over-joyed to see her. I started to get the feeling, however, that K. Venomous was avoiding me and had others avoiding me. Surely, she was not sore over not being invited to a going away party that never happened, in 1990, at the age of 13?

I had volunteered for several committees and my efforts were rewarded by the committee members letting me know K. Venomous had orchestrated a smear campaign. Why? The resounding reply is that she just did not like me and did not want anyone else to either. Thankfully an Alumna from the same chapter knew me from Amarillo. She called some of the local advisors and encouraged them to put me in a larger leadership roll. I’m tremendously thankful for her.

That is how I ended up chairing Rush decorations and this is one area I thrive.
I also thrive by not being around psychopaths.

Bookend #1

As the spring semester was winding down I spotted K. Venomous in a campus parking lot as I was driving in with my little black colored Toyota. This silent treatment and besmirching campaign had been going for more than a year now. Time to fess up and find out.

I drove my car right in front of her’s. She flew out of the car and was shouting at me, waiving her arms vigorously like she was waving off the fighter jet about to make a misaligned carrier landing. “Move your car,” she yelled, “you blocked me in!” I got out of my car and walked straight for her and said “I know I did. I did that on purpose. I’m not moving until you tell me what your problem is with me. Own it.”

She continued on repeat and her yelling got louder and louder. So did the crowd of students watching. I held my ground. If there is one thing I know, it is the cadence of an argument. I am the child of Hannibal after all, and I learned some lessons. So with the crowd, at what felt like a mass population locked into our stand off -- random F words flying about -- the situation was escalating.

I then reminded K. Venomous of a prior scrap -- also put up by Hannibal -- when I was in High School, which I won handily and got a few days of detention. Actually, some of the coolest kids were in detention with me. I made a few friends even. Thanks Hannibal.

Back to K. Venomous, as I politely informed her “there is zero way you are walking away with a win. Absolutely zero.” It was then I sensed a weakness. She was going to come out with it and in front of a lot of people.

At the top of her lungs and with a furious hissing she said “because your mom came into a store and told the owners that my dad cheated on my mom.”

“Ummmm, what?”, I thought.

To which I asked “what does that have to do with me?”

She paused and I could feel the many eyes and ears on the situation. She then said in a lower voice “because, for once in my life, I’m happy and I didn’t want you around to mess things up.” Yet again, and for the third time in this story, I had no idea what this meant.

I thought about this and I let the moment hang for a second. I said “K. Venomous you don’t want me around to mess things up? You are blaming me for something I had nothing to do with? For something I had no idea about? I’d say it looks like you have messed up your own life. Or maybe Hannibal did.”

With that I turned and as I was hitting stride a professor strode up hurriedly and fastidiously, made it to “the ring”, and asked if everything was OK. “It is now,” I said, then got in my car and drove off. I think K. Venomous was crying, like mad crying. She had been played by Hannibal AGAIN. So she should have been crying.

By the way, in this whole imbroglio, I was inspired by a story my Grandfather told me when I was around 3 or 4. He had just gotten back to Texas after serving in the Marines in Okinawa. I’m a little hazy on the details, as I was around 3 or 4 when he told this to me.

I remember it as follows: He was at a cattle or feed auction, and someone he did not know was cussing at him and calling him names. Seemed angry. Now, my Grandfather did not know this person, or what his actual beef was. So, he walked up the agitator, calmly. As they were face face, my Grandfather laid his left hand, on his opponent’s right shoulder and said “Friend, I don’t know you, but you seem to know me. I got no beef with you, and I reckon we can be friends.” That was it. Then my Grandad said “do you know why I put my left hand on his right shoulder?” I did not, I answered. “Well, in case I needed to clock him, his right arm would have been occupied.” Pure genius, I thought.

Bookend #2

I would next see K. Venomous as I was coordinating each rush party’s decorations. And, if you know anything about sorority rushes, they are even bigger and more intricate than you can imagine. Take everything you know about Rush, especially in Texas, and multiply that by 10. There are numerous events over several days, hundreds of girls will come through, and every room of every event needs decorations. Bigger is always better!

It was a high budget, and I had rehearsed as much as I could ahead of time. There was a volunteer sheet for other members to sign up for helping assemble decorations, drinks, balloons, chairs, tables, drinks (oh, I said that already), everything that goes into an event with hundreds coming and going every day. There is very little time, none of which can be wasted. And, even though, it is meant to be put together by the entire Sorority, if anything went wrong, only I would be blamed. That’s fine. That’s how leadership works.

K. Venomous and her crew did not show up for the time slots they had committed to. It was an attempt to sabotage my efforts. She was willing to hurt our Sorority over her issues with me. That probably isn’t going to get K. Venomous far in life, I thought at the time.

Me on the other hand, I’m trained in being sabotaged. Happened all my life. Other members, advisors, friends and alums filled in where K. Venomous and her crew skipped out. A part of me felt sorry her. A big part. She had been Hanniballed and didn’t know it. Most people know that if you team with me, we are all going to be better off.

Better off is exactly what happened. Not just because of me and the themed decorations, but because of the entire chapter, we swept that year. After the last event was set up and pref (i.e., where the girls put down their preferences in order, for those not in the know) night was soon to be under way. The chapter president called everyone to attention. She said “can I get a round of applause for the decorations chair?” Everyone stood up and applauded, a standing ovation. I glanced at K. Venomous who stayed seated as long as possible. As she stood, she rolled her eyes. I couldn’t help but smile. I also teared up. You know, I often cry at movies, especially the sad ones. It was the best rush ever, everybody said so.

Anyway, if it weren’t for K. Venomous, and the nascent sabatoogee (as Bugs Bunny would call it), I would have never been so determined to make sure our chapter absolutely shined. To make it worse for K. Venomous, after she had so horribly bad mouthed me, I went on to work for our sorority’s Executive Office. It was a great job. I still thank K. Venomous for getting me a dream job. Or really, I should be thanking Hannibal for weaponizing K. Venomous. Thanks Hannibal!

The Epiloguer

It really did not have to be this way, so acrimonious. We could have been best friends. We should have been best friends. Our years at Texas Tech should have been warm and appropriately rambunctious.

In 2023, K. Venomous’ Dad passed away. He was a great guy. I had flowers delivered for the Catholic services. Later I received a nice thank you from K. Venomous’ mom.

Must watch ~

P.S. No, K. Venomous is not her real name. It is kind of an amalgamation of her first name and the venom that spreads out form Hannibal like it does from any psychopath.

P.P.S. It’s All About the Hannibals.

[i] My brother, Mryon, though, was allowed to have dogs -- which he abandoned -- and also some poison arrow frogs from Ecuador. I will write about that in a later Episode entitled The Frogs of War.

Listen with my voice over.

In which we go back to nature and talk about flowers and other growing things, the designs inspired by them, and all the wonderful things right in front of us everyday.

Midnight In a Gadda Da-Vida, Baby

Todays Episode is Midnight Ina Gadda David, Baby, for some reason, mainly because I wanted to use the following photo.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

This is an old fountain statuette that had fallen down in the back garden. I see a tribute to a great and momentous past, and a message to rebuild that past so it is even bigger.

Our story today begins in May 2020

I was outside looking at the grounds. Something green and white was popping up, and it smelled incredible. Like fragrance of the Gods — do Gods use perfume? There were tiny belle shaped blooms, intricately shaped, delicate but somehow sturdy.

Here are some that I placed in glass tube planters by Georg Jensen (I always want to call them the George Jetsons).

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

I sent my mom, Hannibal, a picture. She replied, “that is Lily of the Valley. Rip them out. They take over.” She then repeated the story about the “person who sold us our wedding rings gave us a bunch of them. I planted them and they took over.”

That didn’t sit right with me. How could something so beautiful be a bad thing?

The next call was with my friend Aki. He is from Finland, which means, among other things, he does not shop at T.J. Maxx. I sent him the same picture. His response was similar, but opposite. “Those are Lily of the Valley. They are the national flower of Finland.” We agreed they have a fantastic fragrance and that I should not rip them out. In fact, I think he said something like “if you rip them out, I am going to personally fly over there and rip you out", or words to that effect.

He noted they appeared to be an older variety (they are), what might be called “heirloom” flowers (they are that too).

It turns out they are very reflective. Here they are reflecting a blue light.

Source: PFFK #7

Still not sure what to do, I remembered the Handbook’s Rule of Everything — to wit: “Everything you need is right in front of you.” Of course, I take this rule quite literally. I began to notice all kinds of sproutings coming out that were, thankfully, not grass. Grass doesn’t feed pollinators, in fact, I am not sure what it does. So what else is coming up? I wasn’t sure, but was determined to find out.

I had a lot of free time in May of 2020 — you know what I’m talking about — so I began searching in the house for old books or documents that might provide a clue. The previous owners had left a basement full of old books and papers. One great find was a virtually complete set of National Geographics from 1918 through the early 1930s. They are cool. They also pioneered using color photography — for example, one of those is a nice segment on Hummingbirds and their many miracle ways.

We are waiting for our hummingbirds to return. Until then, here is a picture taken early in the morning just before they left last year.

Courtesy of PFFK #7

I also discovered a bag of blueprints. Most of them dated from 1914 when the house was built, though I also found a torn remnant of a blueprint dated 1916 by a landscape architect named Thomas W. Sears. The top third was torn off, and probably lost to history. The bottom two-thirds, while badly stained and crinkled up, was legible. I did what I could to moisturize it — using methods set out in National Parks Department bulletins — and set it on acid free paper. I was able to save it. Anyway, it showed the planting plans along side a legend with latin names. The first 13 names were gone, but the rest were all legible. Sure enough, Lily of the Valley is on the list, as are many other features. I plan to show a picture of that blueprint here at some point, but it is very fragile and I’m afraid to handle it too much.

In addition, in keeping with the old saying “idle hands brings much internet research”, I discovered that there is a large Thomas W. Sears archive at the Smithsonian, with thousand of pictures, plans and drawings. One of those is a drawing facing the back of the house. It was misidentified as being in a different location, so at first I skipped over it. I came back to it, though, because it looked familiar. So there I was, staring at it for several minutes thinking, wow, I know that place. Then I looked out the window . . . and saw my own back yard. It looked to me like the drawing was taken from a camera obscura (or as my friend calls them a camera oblongata).

Read more

Listen with my voice over.

In this Episode, I relate the story of my all expense paid (by me) excursion to the Baptist Saint Tony’s (“BSA”) hospital1 in Amarillo, how I got there, and what happened next.

At the End of the Day — Part 1

Our story today starts on Tuesday, July 23, 2019, and then moves around a lot.

It was just after 10pm, on said Tuesday, July 23, 2019. I’m counting down from 10. Loaded up with Fentanyl, and other assorted painkillers, none of which worked, and about to go under for an emergency surgery. I’m on a surgical bed . . . I see a blue hospital apron, my stomach uncovered . . . a green / clear plastic anesthesiology mask gently cupped over my mouth, in a deep foggy haze. The Ob-Gyn (“Dr. G”) was there, along with two surgical assistants and an anesthesiologist. A bright overhead light was blaring at me . . . and burning right through my clear blue eyeballs.

As the countdown started, 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . ., I ran through the events of the last few days in my head. In case I made it, I thought, the sequence of events might explain how I got here. If I didn’t, well, I guess I could come back and haunt the people responsible.

In those last few seconds, before I went unconscious, here is what flashed through my head:

Ninety Years Young

Saturday, July 20, 2019 — My Grandmother’s 90th birthday party

102 degrees that morning, which is hot even for the Texas Panhandle. Yeah, but it’s a dry heat. Exclamation point!

We were hosting my Grandmother’s 90th birthday party later that day at the Methodist church up in Hansford county. The same church covered in our Episode “Return to Cinder” and the Episode before that — I forgot the name already. You know, the one about the church burning down, at midnight, in February, during a blizzard. I suppose if it were a Friends episode, it might be called “The one with the burning church”. But, since I never really liked Friends, it won’t be called that. I mean, I think the Friends writing staff never met an actual person. Just saying.

Anyway, we first discussed the church in this Episode:

The party was set for 2pm. However, for some reason (which will become clear below), my mom, Hannibal, insisted we all have pizza before the party at the Pizza Hut in Spearman . . . the only one in Hansford county, now that I think about it. “It’s Muff’s favorite”, Hannibal exclaimed. Explanation point! I’m pretty sure that’s not true, by the way. “Plus”, she exclaimed further, we can meet up with [my Aunties] JuJu and Mrs. Gomer”.

We had to be at the Pizza Hut by noon, which meant we had to leave #6 Accosted in Amarillo by 9am. Oh boy, Carbs in the heat, oh what fun it is . . .

. . . to Grandmother’s house we go . . . etc.

Anyway, my Grandmother wasn’t even meant to be there. Instead, we would bring back a couple takeout Meat-Lovers pizzas. I mean, in the 102F heat, what could go wrong with that?

We arrived at my Grandmother’s house about an hour before birthday party. She was in her bedroom, along with my Aunties, and was getting ready. When she saw us, she bolted out of her room, as if escaping, with a Tiara in hand (one that I had given her). “They”, she said, pointing to Mrs. Gomer, accusingly, “don’t want me to wear this Tiara. What do you think?”

My response: “Are you kidding me? How can you have a birthday party without a Tiara? And, it looks great on you .” That was the end of that discussion.

This narrative would not be complete if I failed to point out that my Grandmother is the reason I won in pageants. I would be asked “who do you most admire and why?” You can imagine my answer, it was genuine, and still true today. Also, I can wear a Tiara for maybe half an hour. At the birthday party, my Grandmother wore this particular Tiara for hours, as if it was not even there. It did not even shift. I call that impressive.

Funny story: a few years later, for fun, my Grandmother wore that Tiara in the back of our Batmobile, while waiving to people like she was the Queen. Many folks waived back! My Grandmother had the greatest sense of humor. We will talk about the Batmobile in a future Episode entitled “Wheels on the Benz Go Round and Off”.

The Party for the Ages

There must have been 200 folks who attended my Grandmother’s 90th birthday party that day to pay tribute.

It’s worth mentioning, every single person from our massive family was there, except for my brother(?), Myron, and his wife The Marm. Turns out, Myron was a lot closer than we knew at the time (see below).

My mom, Hannibal, and my sister(?) spent the whole party in the kitchen serving up food plates and never came out, not once, not a single time. Why, if they wanted to poison someone, that sure would be the place to do it. More on that later. In other words, in case you are missing the hint, that is what I think happened. To me. Though, I think it may have happened a few days later — thereby explaining my trip the hospital.

The party was going great. There was a video highlight reel playing on a large screen behind the stage, with background music, and a microphone stand. I told my dad, Fredo, to step up to the microphone and give a salute, since no one else seemed up to it. Fredo loves attention, so he veritably sprinted to the stage, knocking over tables in his haste. Well, that’s the way I envision it happened.

At the public conclusion of the party, we did a balloon release, while the carillons were playing in my Grandmother’s honor. But not before we were able to keyster a bunch of balloons and take my Nieces outside to release them, while those carillons were playing.

Here is that exact same scene:

Source: From author’s archive

The party was officially over.

It was now approaching 107F degrees of totally dry heat outside. Hot enough to melt asphalt. I discovered that when my stilettos sunk into it. “Don’t worry”, said Niece #2, “acetone will take that out.” How did she even know that? She was like 6 years old at the time.

An Evening at the El Vaquero

A quick wardrobe change and we were headed to the El Vaquero for a family-only dinner at El Vacquero. All 50+ of us.

This was the same El Vaquero where Dayton and his brothers played the grand opening ceremony in 1974. El Vaquero is Spanish for “The Cowboy”.

Here is the advertisement from the local paper. Love them donuts!

Source: From author’s archive

So, back to the family dinner at the El Vaquero. We had enchiladas pre-ordered. My sister(?) switched her plate with my uncle, because his plate only had two enchiladas, instead of the standard three. Anyway, she got a bad case of food poisoning (is there a good case?) the next day. Since the grand opening in 1974, this is the single only ever time anyone has had food poisoning from El Vaquero.

Hansford county is one of the few remaining dry counties in Texas. So, restaurants cannot serve hootch of any kind. We planned for that. In front of the saloon like backdrop — as seen above — we opened up a fully-chilled Rosé bar from the Batmobile trunk, poured out or drank our allotted soft-drinks, and replaced the contents with fully-chilled Rosé.

After dinner, we drove back to Amarillo, my two Nieces in the back seat. They were so excited to be riding with us that they talked (more like yelled) the whole 2 hour drive back home. Along the way, they played some punch-Bug. You know, where the first person to see a VW Bug punches the other player in the arm? My rules, you will not be surprised to hear, are different. When I see any car, or truck, or motorcycle, I give a punch . . . then pretend not to know the rules.

We ended the Saturday evening back in Amarillo, at #6 Accosted, with Hannibal and Fredo, where we played dominoes for a couple of hours.

All in all, at the end of this Night, it was a great day. My Grandmother loved every moment; we all did.

At the Beginning of the Day

Tuesday morning, July 23, 2019, around 9am.

The previous night, which I think was a Monday, Niece #2 stayed for a sleepover, which was common.

My sister(?) had developed that bad case of food-poising and was still holed up, ralphing. Niece #1 was at her friend’s house for a birthday party sleepover.

So that left Niece #2. At our own sleepover, we got pizza from the Pizza Planet, watched Gooseberries, Masha and the Bear and other stuff, like that hilarious Devil Baby Video. It’s a riot.

Then we told scary stories (“once upon a story”. . . ), with the required upturned flashlights. Before bedtime, we had a group prayer to thank God for the things [for which — ed.] we were thankful for. [Shut-up ed. — not ed.]

My Niece was happy for her feet. Yes, she is a stinker. In a good way.

The next morning I woke up to a crazy kind of pain. My Niece had already packed up her things and was brushing her teeth.

Remember, she is connected, so I think she knew there was something wrong before I did. She went downstairs to find Dolphyn and said “I think there’s something wrong with Bunny”. Bunny is, for some reason, what Hannibal and the rest they started calling me after my first Niece was born. I will come back to that in a future Episode entitled “Meet My Uncle Bun and My Other Uncle Bun”.

I called my sister (?) who is — or at least was — a nurse. She thought I might have appendicitis and sent me off to a health clinic way across town. I did that and went in, unable to walk unassisted.

I did not have appendicitis. I wish I did, as that can be treated laparoscopically. (I can neither pronounce nor spell “laparoscopically”, in case your asking.) The pain was getting worse. I remember the Doctor and the two nurses on duty looking at me; I could see the fear in their own eyes. Oh man, that can’t be good, I thought. They told me to get to the BSA emergency room, the closest hospital, and don’t linger. I really wanted them to add a “stat” after that, but I was in no position to argue.

Hannibal’s Jumping Beans

I called Hannibal on the way and arrived at the BSA parking lot 10 - 15 minutes later. The time was around 11am.

There are very few times that I have ever reflected that Hannibal was happy or excited. Most of the time, her only emotion is some kind of anger bordering on rage. Except anger is not really an emotion; it’s a reaction.

Today, at 11am, as we approached the emergency room at the BSA, what I saw was a really strange sight. Hannibal was literally jumping for joy. She was the most happy and excited I had ever seen her, a really strange sight.

Now, I don’t get thrown off by much. I have been thrown out of the car by Hannibal, after all. Confused by her, not often.

Today, at 11am, as we approached the ER, was different. I saw Hannibal, in a Chico’s black outfit, wildly jumping up and down, on her bad fake knees which she had installed just a year earlier. Waving her arms, like she was about to take flight, or block a field goal. Grinning ear to ear.

As much pain as I was in, this scene seemed to play out in slow motion.

ER I Am

We sat in the waiting room, or triage, for 8 hours. The pain was so extreme I thought I was going to pass out. It was dehabilitating (totally is a word).

I was finally admitted back to a private room, where the staff finally administered painkillers, and I answered a series of questions I don’t even remember answering. I was lying in one of those beds with wheels on the bottom. Then Hannibal’s head, creepy and jaw-juttingly, appeared over mine. Here eyes were more alive than ever, dancing. Usually her eyes are dead, like my brother (?), Myron’s. I imagine it probably similar to what a serial killer’s eyes look like, as their victim breathes their last breathe.

I don’t remember much from that day, except the pain. But I clearly remember this: Before being wheeled into surgery, my mom, Hannibal, said to me “oh you will probably need a hysterectomy”. . . (I didn’t , though I lost one ovary). . . “so, you know, you won’t be able to have kids” . . . (yeah, I know what a hysterectomy is). But, hey, thanks for the pep talk, there, Hannibal.

Even though I was in a haze with no sense of time even passing, I can still see the joy on her face, the right edge of her lip trembling as if about to crack a smile, and her cold blue eyeballs twinkling, in her garden of earthly delights. Yes, that is a reference to Hieronymus Bosch.

Source: Wikipedia

Hannibal is actually in this painting, one of the demons. You can see it if you look real close.

There she was, smiling, ear to ear. I was thinking that I had no idea what could be going on. I was in good shape. For years I would run a few miles a day. I traveled with ease, even through some third and fourth world countries and had never had an issue. I had annual medical exams and hadn’t missed one for over a decade.

The medical staff was helpful but concerned at the same time. Hannibal was the only person that was not. I thought how odd it was that the professionals that don’t know me, they looked like they had urgent concern. I am her daughter and there was not an ounce of compassion, just a happy look or like a mission accomplished look. I really think she wanted to laugh at me, but was able to restrain herself.

At The End of the Day — Part 2

I was counting down from 10, at the BSA hospital, rehashing in my head the last few days, hoping to conjure up how I got here.

Then I lost consciousness. When I woke up my stomach had been cut open, stitched back up, and a record breaking cyst had been removed.

They called it an Ovarian torsion, and it had just appeared that morning. The incision looked like a question mark. I found that appropriate, though, and somehow comforting. The days and weeks before, I was absolutely fine. No issues.

The doctor who did the actual surgery (Dr. G) showed me a picture of the cyst she had taken with her iPhone. It was like 12 - 13 inches in diameter, and she said weighed around 5 pounds. In my stupor, I thought it looked like Carrot-Top without the wig.

I had to laugh, though, because I was envisioning the surgical team aping it up while posing for selfies. Or, flinging both arms straight up in the air and yelling “score!”. You get the picture.

Well, I hope that happened. I mean, that’s what I would have done.

Ovarian torsions, as it turns out, are cysts that flip over, trapping blood flow. The longer they are left unattended, the bigger and worse they get. They can also rupture, in which case it’s curtains.

So, I have to ask myself, is that what they wanted? Curtains?

By the way, here’s another clue for you all — my sister’s(?) husband — Dr. Belkie — is a doctor with admitting privileges at that hospital, and his best friend is a gynecologist. My sister, the nurse, knew I was going to this exact hospital at the exact time. Not one of these so-called friends tried to call to move the system along and get me the emergency surgery I needed to save my life.

Before I finish this part of the story, I want to give credit to Dr. G and the surgical team. They were excellent. Dr. G happened to be on duty at the hospital that day, and was scheduled to fly out of town the next day. I thank my lucky stars she was there. It is not a stretch to say she probably saved my life.

At the Beginning of the Next Day

The next morning, I woke up on yet another hospital bed.

My sister(?) — the nurse — dropped off donuts for the nurses on the floor. She also seemed absolutely distressed. Rightfully so, their adorable and beloved puppy, named Pixie, had gone into the hospital the same day I did. Her kidneys were failing. Pixie was from a reputable breeder so this was really from out of no where. She was a very well taken care of puppy, and she was a delight.

This was on Wednesday and our oldest niece’s birthday was approaching on Saturday. I felt terrible for them.

My dad, Fredo, visited and I asked him not to tell anyone. I think we all know that didn’t happen. Not long after, I was getting calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years. Fredo seemed chipper, for some reason. He is always happy to call around with the latest tea.

I was in the hospital recovering for two days and got released on Thurdsay.

Thankfully, Dolphyn did not leave. Not once. Except to go to the commissary, where it turns out the pizza is not too bad. On one of those trips, however, he saw Hannibal sleeping in the waiting area near my room. She was asleep and did not see Dolphyn. Why was she there? Possibly for an opportunity. I have no idea, but I can guess pretty good.

Where’s Myron

I told you that Myron, while not at my Grandmother’s birthay, was closer than everyone knew.

A year or so later, I was going through IP data on a business website we [to which - ed.] both had access to. [Shut-up ed. - ed.] Oh yeah, word to the wise, don’t go into business with psychopaths or other assorted narcissists. I reckon Myron stole from me, and others, 7 figures (all of which to the left of the decimal point).

So, where was Myron, at 9am, on July 20, 2019, when we all packed up to head to the Pizza Hut? Myron was sitting in the parking lot of the funeral home, a few miles from #6 Accosted, and right next to the local prison.

The Epiloger

So, to recapitulate, the timeline in chronological order is as follows:

July, 20 — My Grandmother’s 90th birthday party; Myron parked at the prison funeral home

July 21 — My sister(?) get’s food poisoning — ha ha

July 22 — Night of, sleepover with Niece #2

July 23 — Hospital for me; and for my sister’s dog Pixie

July 24 — More hospital, Hannibal oddly and furtively lurking outside my hospital room

July 25 — Released; Hannibal says “Fredo thinks I killed Pixie”; no one was askin’

July 26 — Pixie, my sister’s dog dies; Niece #1’s birthday; we see a hummingbird at my sister’s(?) house. The first one I had ever seen in Amarillo. Dr. Belkie, needless to say, didn’t believe me and asked if it was a big wasp instead. Yeah, I think I know a hummingbird when I see one.

July 28 — I leave Amarillo, still bandaged up. I had a gut feeling to make myself scarce.

I understand cysts can happen, and that emergency surgeries happen too. However, when I look at the time line of events set out in summary form, I see a different picture. If it had only been the surgery, I would conclude otherwise. However, the combination of me waking up in abject pain, Pixie getting sick on the same day, and then dying, my sister(?) getting food poisoning, Myron actually being in Amarillo (likely to pilfer through files and computers), I believe they were trying to get rid of me.

I was in Amarillo for 7 days during this trip, for two of which I was in the hospital.

The rest is how I spent Five Nights at Fredos.

Listen with my voice over.

In Memoriam — To Those Who Came Before Us

My Grandmother passed away one year ago Friday at the age of 95 and three-quarters. I miss her every day, though I know she is with me, watching over, whispering to me in the quiet before sunrise (“wake up little one, time to meet the brand new day, you got this!”), helping with outfit selection (“no, no, not the purple one — you are not a tulip!”). Same with my Grandfather — I mean still with me — helping guide me. He died suddenly, “unexpectedly”, while on a horse, tending to his cattle — in 1986. I will write about that in a future episode.

Here is what also comforts me in a big bright way. Have you ever read those stories about folks who technically died but were brought back to life? Wherein, they describe a person they knew from the past, emerging out of the bright light, taking them gently by the hand, and guiding them to the next world? I know my Grandfather held my Grandmother’s hand as they walked together into Heaven. I can hear them talking and laughing as they fade into the light. I tear up and get all goose-bumpily thinking about it. Then I smile.

The picture below is from Easter 2021, the second to the last time I would see her. The final time was at a tree lighting later that year. I will write about that during the holidays.

Photo Courtesy of PFFK#7

The Knife, The Rat & The Trombone

Today’s episode is about some key events in the five or so years leading up to her passing.

The Knife
Christmas Day 2019 we were at my house, you know #6 Accosted, Amarillo, TX. Typically I would spend days throughout the year with my Grandmother, just the two of us. Not this time.

Even back then — before the troubles — it was rare to spend Christmas with my family. Partly because getting to ‘Marillo usually required two or three flights, the last being one of those commuter flights which are usually delayed 110% of the time. Or you can take one flight to Dallas and then drive a million years through scenic North Texas. Seriously, I can understand how the early settlers felt. Amarillo, by the way, means “yellow” in Spanish. And, if you’ve been anywhere near Amarillo, you’ll understand why.

But mainly because — subconsciously — I didn’t really like them much. Consciously, of course, I thought I loved them and they back.

This Christmas morning we were with my 2nd niece. She’s the kind hearted rebel — smart, observant, and knows just what question to ask to get an adult to give up in fear or shame.

Like the time she asked me why one of my teeth was longer than the others. Her technique doesn’t work on me, though. I said they all used to be the same length, but some gophers chiseled the other ones down when I was sleeping one night. You know, I said, I was about her age when it happened, so she better keep an eye out for them gophers!

As graceful as she is, she knocked over Hannibal’s paper towel holder. It was a Mckenzie Childs, if I remember that right. This set off a series of fortunate events and happenings which is still playing out today.

Dolphyn (not a real dolphin) said “I think I can fix it, do you have a small screw and a pocket knife? I’ll place the top back on.” We were in the kitchen. Where to start in the #6 Accosted kitchen . . . There is a catch all drawer, that had been catching-all since 1991. Looking for a small screw, I found something else.

At the back of the drawer, there was my Grandfather’s gold pocket knife, like it was the first thing ever put in that drawer. My jaw dropped as I looked over his engraved initials on the front and the back was engraved with “From [Me] 1977” — the year I was born.

I started shaking and teared up. I proclaimed that this was the best Christmas gift ever.

Then Dolphyn whispered “your Granddad is trying to tell you something”.

“Like what is he trying to tell me?”, I asked.

“I don’t know”, said Dolphyn quietly, slowly massaging the knife as if talking to it, “but it’s big.”

“How big?”, I asked.

“I don’t know”, was the response, “but it’s big. Oh yeah, and one more thing, he came to you through your niece, who is also connected”.

When I showed the knife to my Grandmother later that same Christmas day, she told me my Grandfather carried that knife in his pocket everyday when he was working. I teared up again.

The knife has been with me ever since while the thought of “how big” has continued to play out.

Here is that exact same knife.

How did that knife got in that drawer, you ask? I have a few suggestions. I reckon it was a trinket, which my mom, Hannibal, “palmed” when my Grandfather died. She kept it with her until we moved to ‘Marillo, where she tossed in that drawer, as a constant yet hidden reminder of what she had done, how proud of herself she was for doing it, and how nobody else knew. Until I found it. In a Future Episode . . . to be discussed.

Oh, by the way, we fixed that paper towel holder. Still works.

Here Come Ole Rodent

So, back to Christmas Day, 2019, which fell on the 25th that year.

My Aunt — Mrs. Gomer — arranged a Christmas dinner at the Amarillo Church of Christ Fellowship Hall for the broader family — my Aunts, Uncles, their kids and grandkids where there. I think it was four generations total. I have a large family, large in so many ways and there is also quite a bit of “small” in there too, if you know what I mean, probably like most families.

Immediately we latched onto my Grandmother, and sat at her table. We were, in fact, the only ones to sit at her table. I think her own kids and their offspring were afraid of her. Not me! We always had the best times. Anyway, the other grandkids call her Muff or Muffy. So, she is “The Muffection” of this story. How she got that nickname goes back to a story told to me as follows: when my Uncle was just a toddler, learning to talk, instead of saying “puppy” it came out as “muffy”, as in “the muffy knocked me over, wah wah wah”.

Somehow my Grandmother managed to get the many tins of her homemade candy to the Church of Christ. One day, I will share her “poppycock” recipe — which is caramel coated popcorn — in an Episode entitled “GramGrams Opening Cans of What For”. She has macular, and was still able to fill enough tins to almost fill the wall of the large room. Meanwhile, Fredo, my dad, was largely filling everyone’s plate with beef tenderloin . . . and only beef tenderloin . . . because he cooked it. Here is where I say that, in addition to trivia involving high school mascots and bodies of water, Fredo is pretty good with a smoker.

After the meal, we had the Colorful Elephant gift exchange — which some call a White Elephant exchange. You know, there is a mix of real gifts and joke gifts, usually in a 1/10 ratio. Everyone draws a number out of a literal hat (in this case, a cowboy hat). When your number is called, you go pick something from the gift-pile. You can trade, swap, cajole, or exchange gifts for other gifts or uncalled numbers.

In this case, Muff’s drew a rubber rat, much to her chagrin. Immediately she exclaimed “I do not want a rat.” Who does? In an act of supreme selflessness, and thinking a rubber rat sure could come in handy one day, Dolphyn swooped in for the rescue and “bartered” the rat from Muff in exchange for our own pick. I remember thinking, gross and who brings a rat? Then I thought, wait, R.A.T. are the initials for Hannibal’s second name fake name she “adopted” sometime after August 1966, when a fake guardianship was filed. The last name she took on in 1966? It sounds like “Ta-tacketa. Ta-tacketa. Ta-tacketa” from our Episode entitled “Devil With a Kickstand”.

The Trombone
While the exchanges were back and forthing, I was locked in. There sat, an item in play, my Grandfather’s trombone, in it’s case. His initials were carved into the handle. His initials, twice in one day. What does this mean and what are the odds?

I wanted the trombone and decided I would do just about anything to get it, even if it ended up in someone else’s hands. Where my Granddad comes from a musical clan — even copyrighted a few songs back in the 1950s, while his brother had a local Cowboy TV show then too — I can’t sing or play an instrument. I love musical people and have a deep appreciation for their gift. I didn’t get the musical gene, I got something else, from my Grandmother’s side, scrap. The kind of scrap where my ancestors, to send a message, might have walked across the street, walloped someone in the mouth, laughed, patted him on the back, and then wished him a good day. Scrap, I was willing to use.

Fortunately . . . for everyone . . . the trombone naturally landed with me. My hands trembled and I was in disbelief. Muff smiled, her eyes twinkled, and Dolphyn made a facial expression after opening the case. When we returned to #6 Accosted, we were rattled by jangling sleigh bells that Fredo, my dad, was jingling loudly and then proclaiming his tenderloin was the best thing of the entire Christmas evening. Seriously, that happened.

Through the decibels, Dolphyn appeared, “look at this, it’s the original check used to purchase the trombone, dated Oct 11, 1941”, when my Grandfather was 16, “see the memo ‘For Trombone’ and in the amount of $4.59. This was less than two months before Dec 7, 1941, right before the world changed, right before your Granddad would go off to war.”

The next day, Fredo retreated into a back bedroom — adjacent to the bathroom — to make some phone calls. He called every person he knew. Fredo was not aware, I’m guessing, that from said bathroom you can hear conversations taking place in said bedroom. On call after call, Fredo was repeating “right before my Dad was going to go to war. Can you believe that?” As if he figured that out on his own. He did not. He’s incurious, like a few other people in my family. I call them the “Incurious Bastards”. I was shocked my Dad was not crediting Dolphyn with the realization of the date “right before your Granddad was about to go off to war.” Well, OK, I was not shocked.

So, that was Christmas, 2019, which fell on the 25th that year, and the launch of my Grandad telling me “prepare for war”.

The Knife, The Rat & The Trombone

Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Had

As we entered into 2020, what a year, when the “troubles” hit. Around the same, my brother, Myron, his wife, The Marm, and his family escaped Houston and squatted themselves down in Amarillo.

That is when conversations with my family became hostile . . . for some reason. Hannibal would take days to answer questions or she would not answer them at all. Questions like around my maternal medical history. So it was obvious something was off. While they were using their Alexa machine, and Alexa-ing Together, I began to question myself “is there something wrong with me?” I was willing to try most anything to figure it out as long as I stayed above board. There is a lesson in that. As they say, when fighting monsters, don’t become one.

Natal Chart
I learned of a formula where you can take your date of birth, month, day, and date, add in your time and location of birth and there you have where all the planets, nodes, etc. were placed when you were born. Real hardcore Astrology stuff. I found a person — a gypsy living in Germany, true story — who was practiced in pulling natal charts, a practice she had learned from her Grandmother. I was sold. What came back was 35 pages describing basically me and with a few areas of concern and pride. It was spooky how dead on this was.

Here is a sampling:

• You (i.e., Me) had a strong tie to your family that was not healthy or emotionally supported (true that)

• You have strong patriotic roots (yep)

• There may be conflicts in your family over legacies (finding out now, big time)

• Problems or disappointments coming from the mother or family, fights with parents or siblings (as seen on Substack)

• Trauma, abuse and neglect at the hands of your mother

• Your mother may have used you as a crutch (and how) as she was not stable

• You felt not loved or wanted by parents

• You were born knowing about your mom, you were royally angry, at birth, by her deception, and you will be the boomerang (I love boomerangs!)

• Above all, you are what the stars call a “reflector” — you both read and reflect energy that hits you, both positive and negative

Take the Long Way Home

As the “troubles” of 2020 continued on and the narcissist debutant ball seemed to begin, I asked “is this what my Grandad was trying to tell me?” Answer: No, it is bigger than that. “Well, is there something about agriculture that comes into to play?” Answer: No, it is bigger.”

DNA for One and All
After I helped my dad, Fredo, apply for and receive $130K in Gov’t CFAP payments, and after he thanked me by calling me a F&%$-ing liar, I genuinely thought I might not be their kid.

So, I did an Ancestry.com DNA kit and a few others to triple make sure of the results. Then, I enlisted the largest 501(c)3 of genealogists to pull together six generations of my maternal and paternal lines. At this point, my sister had me blocked on all her devices, or as Hannibal would later tell me, Hannibal had instructed my sister to block me. I really thought even more I might not be of the Fredo and Hannibal bloodline. Turns out, I am.

Are my siblings(?)? Don’t know. Neither one of them look, talk, act like me. They sure have questionable ethics — if any. However, based on my research, here is a comprehensive list of everyone I know for certain is Fredo’s biological child:

1. Me

   [End of List]

Thanks to the 501(c)(3) group, they got me in touch with maternal relatives. One aunt in particular — my unkown Aunt from previous episodes — I have very much enjoyed getting to know. It’s interesting that despite her childhood with Hannibal, she still loves Hannibal. There isn’t an ounce of anger or bad blood there. In fact, she cries thinking about their childhood together, which I find remarkable, given some of the stories. You can go back and read Parts 1 & 2 of Devil With A Kickstand and Once Upon a Time at the Dairy Mart from Pumped Up Trikes.

Trauma Deformed Therapy
After seeing the trauma comments in my natal chart and being blocked by my family, I knew it was time to go next level. I began looking into therapists and it came down to two. The decision maker was that one had handled a high profile amount of trauma, adversity and what would later be turned into a movie. Great backstory!

From what I could see, is that throughout the entire saga, she remained a good person and a good Mom. She had ground game. And wanted to right some wrongs. A good Mom, the very thing that Hannibal was not being. This was the one.

Throughout all of the new information, absolute hellish amounts of pain and worry, there was one constant, Muff. She was the anchor we all swung around in our games of Tether Ball.

It’s been one year since she passed away. Here is what I wrote one year ago.

A PERFECT 10. An Expression of Goodwill. Amazing Grace in Human Form.

Muff passed away April 10, 2025 at 1:30am. As my cousin said, 10 days before Easter, just like my Dayton [my Grandfather] passed - 10 days before Easter. Muff was married for 39 years and a widow for 39 years. There are many symmetries with Muff and Dayton. If you have been to the Tiara of Texas, Hansford County, and spent time in Gruver population approx 1,200, elevation 3,176, you’ve likely met Guy Paul & Scottie, experienced the windblown look and heard the carillons playing from Gruver Methodist Church. Muff dedicated the carillons in honor of Dayton and as an expression of appreciation and ongoing goodwill to the cherished community of Gruver. You can see her playlist in this photo, which is a good explanation of Muff.

During the “troubles”, I would ring the GMC Pastor to check in on the carillons and he said “they are playing beautifully, we’re getting requests for louder volume and I’m hesitant because we don’t want to harm the stain-glass windows”. I would report back to Muff and she would give a “OK, good”.

The tulips, pictured in her yard, were the kick off to Easter prep. She loved celebrating Easter and Christmas. Each Easter we had an Easter Egg Hunt with 1 prized Golden Egg. My oldest cousin, of course, would find the golden egg, and another the most eggs. I would stand, distraught, not being able to run with a hat or get dirty dressed in all white. They would reassure me, “don’t worry. We’ll put all the eggs on the table and share.” We did, the kindest of chip in cousins any could ask for.

Photo Courtesy of PFFK#7

After Dayton died, Easter and Christmas were not as cheery for a long time. Then a later Christmas, my cousins brought the VHS tape of Christmas Vacation, the smiles were back. Through each holiday, we enjoyed the absolute best food. Muff prepared the most incredible meals. Her fried pies were so good that she would make them for my birthday. I rarely got the opportunity to enjoy them, however, as Fredo would pick them up and eat them before he arrived back in Amarillo.

Muff and Dayton both said “you can figure out anything by praying and asking Jesus, you must follow in his ways.” And also, “God can show you the path, but you have to walk it yourself.”

Of course, I had many questions and there was a revision “or you can ask one of us.”

Each Sunday Muff would sit on the main Preacher side of the pews, along with my Uncle’s family. We would sit on the side of the assistant Preacher. Dayton would alternate between sitting with each family. I always had so many questions and Dayton limited them during church. Finally he said “you need to listen to every word that is said from the pulpit. Observe what the other members do with the same words this week and report back to me.” Occasionally nodding his head toward someone that needed observing, as if to say “you know, like that guy over yonder”.

Well, how about this question. What is The Crystal Pistol?

The Legend of the Crystal Pistol
Dayton and I were riding along in his truck — driving to the Amarillo — when he did a quick, abrupt and unexpected turn. It slid me across the seat, and he was out the driver side so fast and approaching Uncle Beaz. Uncle Beaz was coming out of the Crystal Pistol, slowly slumping, as I heard Dayton saying to said Uncle Beaz: “It’s daylight, time for working; no good reason to be spending hard earned money, no denying, Crystal Pistol, better not, not ever, see you here again, coming out of the Crystal Pistol.” For further effect, he added, “now I mean it”.

Dayton hopped back in and we headed toward their house. Perplexed and after trying to gauge him, I asked “what is the Crystal Pistol?”

Dayton “not a good place, it’s an adult place”. Me “have you been there?” Dayton “no”. Me “has Muff?”. Dayton “no!” Me “how about Willie (a great Aunt or something)? Dayton, “no!”

Me, “what about my Great Uncle?” Dayton “no”.

Me “has Billy Bob (lots more on him later) been to the Crystal Pistol?” Dayton made a look, gave a glance, like a not sure.

This went on for a few minutes until I ran through pretty much every adult in town, at least the ones I knew.

“So”, I observed, quietly while speaking mostly to myself, “this is an adult place that no adults go to???”

As we pulled into their driveway, I was making my way out to run in ahead of Dayton. Muff was in the kitchen as I barreled in and asked Muff “what is the Crystal Pistol, do you know anyone who has been there?” Muff “Good lands, no! Can you go on back to JuJu’s room, read until I come get you.”

I don’t think Dayton had a chance to tell Muff that someone had spotted Uncle Beaz’s car in the Crystal Pistol parking lot as they were driving through Amarillo. I felt bad and learned a lesson in asking questions, when and how to interpret the answers. Hey. I was just a kid.

Dayton along with his friends, brothers and brother-in-law served in WWll. He and Muff met when he returned home. Muff and her friends were at Dayton’s sister, Estelle’s comforting her. Estelle’s husband, CP, served under General Patton and died while at war. Dayton walked into Estelle’s, saw Muff and said “that is who I am going to marry.” Muff said “I regretted Dayton seeing me for the 1st time . . . when I only had half of my lipstick on.”

Dayton went on to only ride horseback with CP’s saddle. A tribute to CP & Estelle and the day he met Muff. After Dayton died, Muff began working in travel, Wheetheart Travel. Have no idea how many honeymoons and trips she booked. The travel catalogs would come in and they were fascinating — I loved the bathtubs in the shape of champagne glasses in the Poconos — Statue of Liberty, etc. I asked Muff “is it hard to travel?” and she replied “Good Heavens no. You just get in a car or book a flight.” This is about the time she would explain independence, volunteering, couples, friendship, teamwork, family, missing Dayton, being thankful for her siblings, Gruver, Spearman and Dallas which was Dayton and Muff’s last trip together.

Both often and appropriately would say “God Bless the USA”,

“God Bless Texas”, “God Bless You.”

“God please bless our area with rain.”

They both made sure we knew The Texas State Song and Pledge of Allegiance and I tear up every time I hear the National Anthem and the Pledge. Muff assured me this was just fine, even if I am on the hill, in High School, at the Stadium, on Friday Night, as a Cheerleader.

Along with their wonderful friends, they sponsored, hosted or co-hosted, co-chaired many church, community and school events, baby and bridal showers. They are a great team. The number of meals prepared, bushels of wheat, head of cattle, love & support they gave and received, like most of Hansford families. I have truly have no idea, but can sure imagine. They had their best list, each person in the county was the best for this or that. Wonderful place, Hansford County. So of course, I had questions. “How did this dynamic duo come to be after meeting at Estelle’s house?”

The Legend of the Jackson Boys & Wiley Sheets
Here is a story Muff told me only recently — before her kids put her in a home.

Dayton was picking Muff up for their first date. Others were also preparing for their 1st date. While Dayton was en route to pick up Muff, her brothers “the Jackson boys” and Wiley Sheets set a boobie trap at the entrance gate of Claude & Bessie’s. The trap consisted of a bucket of water and a rope, designed to get triggered when the gate opened. Dayton arrived, observed the trap, and “with his long legs, just stepped over the fence, not falling for their set up of opening the fence and having water dumped on his head. Dayton is observant. The Jacksons laughed, Dayton admired their effort and they all enjoyed one another from there on.

Muff was my 1st best friend and Dayton my 2nd. Both Muff and Dayton have 8 siblings, are from Hansford agriculture producing families and survived the Dust Bowl. Dayton and his brothers had a most beautiful gift with writing, playing and singing music. You’ll notice the *bonus on Muff’s playlist which is where I would do a plug in a tune just to get Muff’s reaction. Sir Mix Alot was a “well, no on that one”. Anything by Elvis was a full listen. Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, yes. Michael Jackson, Whitney or Tina, was a “maybe” but only to humor me. Dayton taught me to appreciate musically gifted people. Muff taught me to prepare and study, always be learning. Thanks to Muff’s tutelage drills in Art Memory and Music Memory, I was on the competition team. Later throughout many travels I learned music, art and cheese are a universal language.

Gardening
In 2020, I basically lost what I thought was a mom and gained a Hannibal . . . and some silence. For some reason, Hannibal thought the “silent treatment” was going to work. It didn’t. It was actually a relief. A vacation. A respite.

So Muff became even more of a constant to me. Having lived in NYC and then traveled for years, I didn’t know a lot about gardening, so I called Muff. She started with “go outside walk along and tell me what you see. Ok, it’s a radial plan.” Me “what’s radial? Here are Lily of the Valley. My mom said to rip them out.” Muff “oh dear, let’s not rip anything just yet. Radial, like the sun and moon. Have you got a hummingbird feeder up?” Thanks to her, there are now so many birds & blooms I live amongst. Here is the 1st peony haul from her tutelage. Oh yeah, and the Lily of the Valley are over 100 years old, with the big broad leaves. We have lots of Peonies too. Like these.

Photo Courtesy of PFFK#7

The day Muff passed away, I was gazing out of our landing window thinking about her, I always do. The plumpest robins we’ve ever had, were jumping all around. Hummingbirds and robins are Muff’s favorite. Robins symbolize passion, keeping joy and happiness in your life. Then a car, identical to Muff’s last car and going at the same pace Muff would drive passed by. Her voice, with a chipper uptick, came to me “I’m good, on the move. We’re good. I can see everything and we’re doing everything we want”.

Throughout darkness of Hannibal, something stronger remains. In life and death, I am permanently tethered to something stronger, my Grandparents.