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.”

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?

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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.

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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 me 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 tigers, so 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.

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

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

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.

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).

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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.

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.

TV Mini Series, based on a true story, starring Renee Zellweger. Pam and Hannibal have many twinning moments. Pam is from Missouri. Gas-lighting, insurance scams, big gulps with straws (a Hannibal staple) plus the puffer jacket in black and the exact snow-boots Pam is wearing in the series. Pam and Hannibal share the same chicken fat blonde hair color. It’s all about the money, money, money . . .

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt13984270/?ref_=fn_t_1

Dateline With Keith Morrison: The Real Thing About Pam 2019
https://www.nbcnews.com/dateline/watch-dateline-episode-real-thing-about-pam-now-n1294561

The Bad Seed 1956

This may not be a true story but it feels like you are watching Hannibal’s childhood. “Rhoda dear”. One of the original stories about bad people who are born not made. This story started as a book, then was a play, then was a movie. So, the movie version feels like a filmed play.

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0048977/?ref_=fn_t_1

The Bad Seed 2018

A reboot of the original 1956 version, but with Rob Lowe! Lifetime Feature. Rob Lowe and his daughter — who unfortunately for him is a full on psychopath — demonstrating full suite entitlement, no emotion, and vindictiveness, all in the tiny form of an otherwise lovable looking child. This feature is also a good representation that you can not change or improve the behavior of a psychopath. They lie with ease.

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4823992/?ref_=fn_t_2

The Bad Seed Returns

A&E + Lifetime demonstrates the next phase of The Bad Seed. So it is a sequel. Also, with Rob Lowe, but a few years advanced. The first Bad Seeds show a pre-K Hannibal. This time the Hannibal person — i.e., Rob Lowe’s daughter — is older and in elementary school. So, therefore, bigger and more dangerous. The Hannibal in this sequel shows not only how psychopaths continue to manipulate on through early teenage years, but how they get better at it with more practice. Speaking of which, the practicing in front of the mirror is classic. Psychopaths mimic traits they admire in others to pass off that they are normal.

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt16030222/?ref_=fn_t_1

The Silence of the Lambs 1991

Starring Anthony Hopkins as the original Hannibal. OK, not a female psychopath, but since this is were I got the Hannibal moniker for my mom, I had to include it.

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102926/?ref_=fn_t_1

Single White Female 1992

Remember Andrea from Stratford? The one Hannibal stalked. Well, Jennifer Jason Leigh could’ve learned a few lessons. Is all I’m sayin’!

Watch trailer
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105414/?ref_=fn_i_1

Like Mother Like Son: The Strange Story of Sante and Kenny Kimes 2001

Based on a true story. One of the best, if not the best, examples of a psychopath mom and her son. Sante is originally from Arkansas. One of our favorite friends knows Kenny from his university years. This is classic Mommy’s Little Man Syndrome.

Dateline with Lester Holt: The Devil Wore White 2025
https://www.nbcnews.com/dateline/video/preview-the-devil-wore-white-keith-morrison-reports-the-story-of-sante-kimes-friday-dateline-230394437548

Sex and Lies In Sin City: The Ted Binion Scandal 2008 (based on a true story)

Mena Suvari plays an excellent Sandy. Sandy reminds me of Hannibal in her early 20s. It’s all about the money, money, money . . . and then more money while they’re at it.

Dateline with Keith Morrison: What Happened In Vegas 2022
https://www.peacocktv.com/watch-online/tv/dateline/9060582955933764112/seasons/30/episodes/what-happened-in-vegas-episode-12/1df53d2c-b542-3d67-8bc6-72889e99d866

If you need a Hannibal-lite introduction to female psychopathy, start with any Lifetime shows starring Josie Davis. Especially the ones written and/ or directed by Doug Campbell. He really gets evil mommies, and other females.

Mommy Meanest 2024

Based on a true story, Lifetime has Lisa Rinna starring as Mommy Meanest. Bad moms are simply cruel. Watching this show reminded me of when Hannibal would insist that I park far out in certain parking lots so my car would not get dinged. Instead my car would get keyed. Hannibal would then say “wow, someone really does not like you.” It turns out Hannibal was the person keying my car.

Bad Monkey 2024

A dark comedy drama starring Vince Vaughn. The female character Eve, she is a Hannibal. Conniving. Lethal. Everything that is yours is hers. There are 10 episodes. Each is entertaining and shows that one bad female, with a husband that goes along with her greed, can harm several generations of islanders.

The earlier Parts will come later. I just wanted to start with this one first, even though chronologically it comes at the end of the timeline.

Chapter 1 -- Gotta Fix-em All

For most of my life, I believed my family was everything, that I had the best family ever, and that they always had my back. So many times, I put my family first, ahead of my own interests. I have always been like that, ever since I was born. My Grandparents reinforced my view. I really only want people to have fun and enjoy everything and more.

Here is a picture of me at age zero something with my Grandmother.

As adorable as I am -- you know it’s true! -- I have always thought life can be as big as you want it. And to be big, you gotta think big. Don’t pay the naysayers no never-mind. No one is going to dissuade me from this, not ever.

Mind you, they tried.

Over the several years, after I became my own adult self, I spent a lot of time visiting my family, arranging and organizing things for them, solving problems, running errands as well as interference, where needed. I was like some super personalized concierge service/ travel agent/ fixer, all pro bono, of course. It was more like pro bono plus (minus?) because I paid for a lot of stuff out of my own pocket. Just to make them happy.

Why? My inner self was trying to Fix’em.

Subconsciously I knew that very little about my family was right or even good and that things were broken. My immediate family, anyway. My Grandparents are my heroes. I miss them everyday.

As for my mom, Hannibal, used me in so many ways, for so many reasons.

For example:

In my small town of 900 people in Hansford county, when I was a kid, she used me to establish the word-about-town that she was a great mom, coming from a “bad childhood” and all, making it so “heart-warming”, “redeeming” and showing how a loving community can bring one into God’s good graces. All rubbish, as it turns out. I mean, I believe that little girls with bad childhoods can and often do turn out to be good moms, because they know how hard a bad childhood can be. I also believe in the grace of God, only it never falls on counterfeit humans like my mom, Hannibal.

Later on, in Amarillo, Hannibal used me for some combination of bragging rights, vicarious pleasure (e.g., since she failed cheerleader tryouts and was thoroughly unlikable -- still is), for outright sadism and constant criticism, and a target for sabotage. However, as many times as my mom, Hannibal, tried to kibosh or sabotage me, it usually backfired and I came out on top, no doubt enraging her to no end. I can see the literal fjords of steam blowing out her ears. That makes me laugh.

Hannibal also copied me. For example, I used to paint designs on furniture as a business between High School and College. The designs were really nice. After my 1st year, Hannibal absconded with my paints, brushes and assorted accoutrements. I found out recently from my uncles ex-wife that Hannibal had set up a small warehouse in downtown Amarillo and was trying to copy my works! I’d like to say I am surprised.

More recently, I think she tired of the psychological games and -- along with my dad Fredo, and my brother, Myron -- just stole from me. Quite a lot, as it turns out. Well, truth be told, they didn’t steal from me. I gave it to them, willingly. In most cases, I then forgot about it or didn’t keep track.

Why? Because I was always trying to fix, to heal, and to help them. Those days are over.

So, to recap, as a mom, and as a person, Hannibal worse than sucked. She is nasty and vicious and sadistic, and I believe she orchestrated the rest of my family turning against me. That would, in fact, be a common family dynamic where one parent -- especially the female -- is a psychopath. In that case, you will usually find one kid being the “scapegoat kid” (or as one of our team members calls it the “escape goat kid”), the rest being some combination of henchmen, collaborators and tools. Or, possibly, there might be a second psychopaths. In my family, I believe there are two female psychopaths: Hannibal and my brother(?) Myron. Just kidding. But not really. One of the reference books I use posits a theory that the psychopath genes are passed down through mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA). That would mean the psychopath genes pass from mother to son to daughter, and so on. That totally fits with my observations.

In case you missed it, I am the “scapegoat kid” in this story. I don’t really like the phrase “scapegoat kid”. I think as it undersells the savagery and crime-against-nature nature of what is really going on.

Oh yeah, she was probably perverted too, possibly criminally so.

I mentioned once before that there are large gaps in my memory from when I was a kid, although my memory is generally quite good and specific. My therapist (yes, I admit I needed one, and she is great. She works with victims of narcissists, psychopaths, Cluster-F’s, etc., and has a great back-story; I will introduce her later).

Ummmm, lost track here. Oh yes, my therapist suggested these memory gaps may indicate disassociation at key moments, meaning some bad stuff happened . . . to me.

I do, however, have a few different short memory flashes.

Memory Flash 1 I was maybe 3 or 4 and Hannibal had me take a bath with my cousin who was a few months younger. Nothing wrong with that. Then, suddenly, a flash bulb goes off. She had taken a polaroid picture. Hannibal then yelled at us, probably as a distraction, and ordered us out of the tub. I have no idea what happened to that picture. I looked for it recently. It is probably in her trinket box, if she still has it.

Memory Flash 2 Hannibal had ordered my dad, Fredo, to spank me for some reason. Fredo -- being the coward he is, always followed orders. He took me into their bedroom -- I remember clearly standing in front of his dresser which had a big mirror on top. Hannibal said “pull her pants down and spank her”. Fredo pulled my pants down, began to swing his belt and, as he did, I saw a flash bulb go off reflected in the mirror.

Memory Flash 3 when I was maybe 5 years old, Hannibal had a couple of black T-shirts screen printed. One was a Madonna theme, maybe “Like a Virgin”. The other said “I’m Sexy”. She also took pictures of me with these shirts on. Who does this? What do you think she did with those pictures?

Memory Flash 4 Last, totally least, fortunately not involving me and with a funny ending. My brother, Myron, was maybe 2 or 3 and, while taking a bath, had somehow wrapped a rubber band tightly around his you-know-what. According to Hannibal, anyway.

So I called him rubber-band man, after the song which came out in the late 1970s and was still popular up in the Texas panhandle. In school a few days later, we were tasked with writing a story and drawing a picture about something memorable that happened in our homes. The story and picture would then be posted on the note board for Parent-Teacher day, so everyone would see it. My story was entitled “Rubber Band Man”, and I depicted Myron in the tub with his you-know-what wrapped up in a rubber band. I got in trouble for that. Time out or something. Like I would tell my nieces (before I got blocked): “Time out? Seriously? Is that the best they got . . . I mean, I get to have time all by myself? As Kevin McCallister would say --- Yesssss!”

Now, Hannibal said Myron had tied his own thing up himself. I, of course, believed that. Why wouldn’t I? My therapist wondered if Hannibal did that herself to Myron, and noted such behavior would not be uncommon for a female psychopath. She called it “mommy’s little man syndrome”. Strangely enough, the concept makes sense to me based on other things that happened. More on that in a later episode.

The Wedding That I Do Not Remember -- Or Do I?

As to memories, here is a story I don’t remember combined with a hazy memory.

I went to a wedding in Bakersfield, California on September 27, 1980. Until recently, I did not know that. The Aunt I never knew about was there and sent me this picture recently. There I am, age 3 ^1/2 years old. There is Hannibal.

I asked my dad, Fredo, about this wedding after I got the picture. He swears he was there. He wasn’t. Unless he was invisible . . . like his character.

Anyway, I have zero recollection of being at this wedding, and I remember a bunch of stuff from before I was 3 ^1/2 years old.

As for the hazy memory? I see a long winding drive-way, lined on both sides with hedges and beautiful flowers -- some white, some colorful, Gardenias or Peonies maybe -- bright sunshine above so probably mid-afternoon; then I am escorted into and through a giant hall -- the biggest I had ever seen -- and I pass by a banquet room, was busy with ornately festooned butlers and setter-uppers scurrying and fluttering about like rabid squirrels on speed, or perhaps jostling back and forth like pool balls after the breaking of said pool balls.

As luck would have it, there was a campaign event for Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush being held that same weekend of September 27, 1980 in Beverly Hills. Back then, Beverly Hills was probably less than 2 hours away from Bakersfield. Now, probably a lot longer.

Lessons from Chapter 1

Many things I remember as factual are based on what my parents told me happened, rather than me witnessing them. Even some things I did witness (or do), were retold to me in a different form, likely so I would mis-code things into my memory.

If a particular memory starts out with “Hannibal told me . . .”, chances are it didn’t happen as described or was partially or completely fabricated. My practice now is to throw out everything I think I know. Then re-evaluate each thing and, if possible, find corroborating, a second source, or independent evidence. If I can’t, it goes into the “probably-didn’t-happen” file. Oh yeah, public record searches can be useful, and you can find some pretty fun stuff about people!

I came to these conclusions based on a few events and over a short period of time -- starting in March 2020 and becoming fully formed in January 2021.

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Chapter 2 - This is how I remind me . . .

I can see now, that the campaign against me took place gradually over many years, at first in ways too small individually to see but when viewed over time and from a distance forming a pattern -- like the pixels on the computer or phone screen upon which you are reading these words. Then, in 2020 an 2021, the campaign accelerated, reached critical mass and detonated. In the gloriously ensuing mushroom cloud, I could see I had been fooled the entire time. Even worse, I had been brainwashed. I believed everything wrong with my family was either my fault and/ or that I could fix it. Psychopaths excel at a few things, one of which is making their victims think they are at fault. It is one of their strengths, and Hannibal is a highly skilled practitioner. My dad, Fredo’s strengths would be (1) trivia, esp. involving bodies of water and high school mascots, (2) ???, (3) cowardice. In case your askin’.

. . . Of Who I really Am

I had two childhoods. The first was in Hansford county from 0 years to age 13.

The second was in Amarillo, where I started high school. I went from a tiny 1A school of maybe 200 kids, with K- 12 all in the same place, to giant 5A high school with maybe 2,000 students. I was terrified, at first anyway. I eventually adapted and did pretty well. There is a lesson in that: abrupt change, harnessed properly, can make you stronger. It did for me.

There is a funny dynamic about Texas schools.

Some of the best schools are in the smallest towns. This includes sports teams and academic programs. For example, my small school in Hansford county routinely wins State championships, be it basketball, football, track, curling, etc. Maybe even baseball, but no one pays attention to baseball in Texas . . . just kidding . . . nobody plays baseball in Texas.

Part of this is phenomena reflects the support from local communities in rural agricultural areas. The equipment, buildings, staffing, etc., are usually first rate. In our town, the community paid to build the school buildings themselves.

Small rural towns tend produce some tough, scrappy, determined and improvising smart kids. That’s what we call “country smart”. You have to be that way growing up on dry land with not much else around. Of course, people are people, so small towns, like the big ones, also produce bad folks. Small towns, however, are pretty good at weeding them out quicker.

Why did we leave Hansford County and move to Amarillo when I was 13? For reasons that I am going to dish on, likely (hopefully) embarrassing some people . . . who are not me . . . in an earlier Part of this series.

For now, I will say it involved cologne, furtive goings-on, and culminates in a round of screaming hair-pulling at the local Allsup’s parking lot. We shall call that episode “Allsup’s Soooshi -- To Go”. Believe me, it’s a doozy!

The backdrop to this story begins in January 2021, when I went to Amarillo to the House of Hannibal, i.e., my parents’ house. It’s my house too. We moved to this house in 1991 after leaving Hansford County. Let’s say the address is “6 Accosted Drive” I made up the name, but the number is accurate. For some reason, number “6” is Hannibal’s favorite number. I think she shares that with some other bub.

In 1991, I was just starting High School, so it was my house too. In fact, I still have a lot of clothes, shoes, pictures, financial and other records there, many of which have mysteriously gone missing last time I checked. I wonder what happened to them? Kidding. I know.

Lessons from Chapter 2

Know yourself, be yourself.

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Chapter 3 -- Postcard from My Trapper Keeper

The campaign against me took hold, smoldered and detonated in 2020. In summary form, it played out as follows:

March 2020 -- My brother, Myron, flees Houston and moves back to Amarillo. In reality, though, he didn’t spend much time in Amarillo. When he was 17, he was smuggled off to Jenks, OK, for his senior year in high school to . . . as Hannibal told me . . . play football. He sucked at football. He was really sent away after being in an accident, probably a drunken one, in February 2001. Then after that, he went to three colleges -- Oklahoma Baptist, one in Midland, TX and Cal Lutheran, in Thousand Oaks, CA. He must have been very good, because he didn’t graduate from any of them, and that takes some doing in the U.S. these days. I will tell you in a later episode called Motor City Cash Machinations and Other Related Misdeeds why I think he left Houston.

April - May 2020 -- Hostile texts and phone calls begin.

Also, in April, the Gov’t had just announced what they called CFAP -- Coronavirus Food Assistance Program, run out of the USDA. I read the release -- which was by far the clearest piece of Gov’t paper I had ever read -- and discovered that Fredo qualified as a cattle “producer” and should therefore apply for assistance. I called him to tell him that. Needless to say, he yelled at me an called me a F-ing liar (I know you are, but who am I). Undeterred, I sent him the release, with all the good parts yellow marked, and with the instructions to send it around to everyone else in the broader family who had similar operations. Heard nothing. Fortunately, the list of CFAP recipients was released. Fredo pocketed $130,000. You’re welcome.

No one else in my family applied. One of Fredo’s cousins -- who had much larger cattle and ag operations -- later told me Fredo never mentioned CFAP and never applied. That displeased me. By the way, Fredo would later use that $130K against me in a scheme to violate certain fiduciary duties he owed me regarding a nice 620 acre piece of agricultural and oil producing land in Ochiltree county, which is one county over from Hansford.

May - July 2020 -- Calls and text messages . . . calls and text messages . . . from parents and siblings(?) were getting increasingly belligerent and hostile (yes, I do know those are the same thing).

July 7, 2020 -- My youngest niece, who is at heart a rebel, but a kind and exceedingly smart one, figured out how to use facetime on the iPad and called me at like 7am. She said things had gotten really weird and the Myron and his wife, The Marm, had been in Amarillo parked at my sister’s(?) house for a month. I told her I missed her and would always be thinking of them, no matter what anyone tells her to the contrary.

July 19, 2020 -- Fredo’s birthday. Early morning. I call him and wish him a happy birthday. Fredo tells me he has gotten “tons” of phone calls so far wishing him a happy birthday. Call ends. He accidentally didn’t hang up. I listened in to Fredo saying “Well, I couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. Truth is, I haven’t received any calls yet. Hey, how about these shoes. You want two pair?”

Turns out he was in a shoe store, with Myron, buying shoes for Myron. I had to laugh. In most of the world, when it its your birthday, it is customary for people to buy you presents. In Fredo World, apparently, on your birthday, you buy other people presents. It’s like one of those In the Old Country jokes, e.g., “In the US you watch TV. In the Old Country, TV watches you”. Well, nowadays, TV watches you in the US too.

I also got the last laugh when I called Fredo back and asked him why he said those things about me and why he was buying shoes for Myron. . . on his own actual birthday.

Late July 2020 -- My sister(?) called and “let” me wish my oldest niece a happy birthday. Awww, how nice. Then screamed at me and abruptly hung up the phone. For some reason.

September 2020 -- Fredo buys my brother, Myron, a house -- out of my money as it turns out . . . or, more accurately, out of money borrowed and secured on land belonging to me. Though Myron’s name is not on the title. Really, I think Hannibal made Fredo think he was buying the house for Myron, but she intends to seize control of it, for example, were she to kill . . . ooooops, I mean . . . were Fredo to have a car wreck (Hannibal’s favorite curse) or inadvertently ingest poison, like in a large 72 oz cup of Texas Tea with enough Sweet ‘N Low to mask the flavor. Or something like that.

With Fredo buying all these things for Myron, and his wife, The Marm, parking herself at my sister’s(?) house, I began to think there was a blackmail operation underway. I still believe that, by the way, and I have a pretty good idea what the blackmail material is -- it’s more than one item, though.

Key Lessons from Chapter 3

On your birthday, don’t buy presents for other people, even if they are blackmailing you.

You can, if so inclined, buy them a large 72 oz cup of Texas Tea, with just enough Sweet’N Low . . . .

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Chapter 4 -- Opening up a Can of What-the-Heck-For

At this point, it had become over abundantly clear that I had become, as one of our team members calls it, a Persona Au Gratin. He’s funny, and is jonesing to write an episode. He is demanding complete creative control, though, along with a “pay-or-play” deal and gross points. Should I let him?

The energy directed in my general direction was pretty intense. And, according to The Handbook’s First Law of Thermodynamics, in any given situation, the amount of energy coming out of something must equal the amount of energy going into it. I could see the energy coming out -- I mean, it was literally falling on my head like a Grand Piano, daily.

I just couldn’t see the energy going into it. Since the Law is absolute, a big chunk of the formula must be missing entirely. Eventually, the corollary rule -- i.e., the “What Changed” rule -- would provide the answer. In this case, it goes back to why Myron left Houston. As mentioned, I will discuss that in an upcoming episode entitled Motor City Cash Machinations and Other Related Misdeeds.

At this point, I knew I had to figure for myself what was going on. I did some of the usual research, old files, records, newspaper clippings, things like that. That only gets you so far, though.

I needed to investigate in person, on the ground and see it with my own two eyes. I needed to go back to Amarillo. For tactical purposes, I decided to stage a few unannounced surprise visits. That way, they couldn’t doctor or hide evidence, and I might just catch them doing something untoward. Plus, as Gen. George S. Patton said in his book “The War as I knew It“ surprise attacks, preferably from the enemy’s rear end, are highly effective. And believe me, these enemies are, themselves, rear ends. So, there’s that.

Surprise Party Supplies -- For Sale or Rent!

I ended up launching three surprise visits, as follows:

· October 24, 2020

· November 14, 2020

· January 11, 2021

Discussion

October 2020 -- Surprise visit #1 -- early morning

If I wrote this as the intro graph to one of those 10,000 word blunderbusses in The New Yorker or something, it would go like this:

“It was early morning, October 24, 2020. I had just arrived in Amarillo and was on my way to the Airport Valet to retrieve my car. The morning air was brisk and thick with cool moisture, glistening in the freshly minted sun. I was about to make a surprise visit to my family in an attempt to prise out any explanation for the campaign of vitriol directed against me. This trip would eventually kick off a series of events which are still unfolding and echoing today.”

However, since this isn’t a 10,000 word blunderbusses in The New Yorker or something, I will write it as follows:

I flew to Amarillo on October 24, 2020, arriving on the first flight out of Dallas. It was early morning. I retrieved my car from the Airport Valet, where I left it way back in December 2019, and called my dad, Fredo, to let him know I was driving up to see my Grandmother in my small town in Hansford county and would be back later in the day. A few minutes later, my mom, Hannibal, called from T.J. Max or Homegoods -- can’t remember -- acting all nice and stuff. My sister(?) was there too. Can I get anything for you? When are you coming by? Would you like a large 72 oz cup of Texas Tea, with just enough Sweet ‘N Low . . . ?

Total act, and a bad one. She was terrified.

I visited with my Grandmother for a few hours up in Hansford county. We went to the Methodist Church. Made a donation. I returned to Amarillo that afternoon and stopped by my sister’s(?) house to visit my nieces and drop off some goodies. I rang the doorbell. No answer. Their little dog saw me, came to the door, wagging her tail and jumped up and down. Still no answer. I peeked in through the window, and I could see them all hiding in the living room. Not moving. Heads down. Maybe they also thought they were invisible. They weren’t. I left the box of goodies on the doorstep and went home, in tears.

When I got back, Hannibal had “accidentally” laid out for me to “find” the deed papers to the house Fredo had bought for Myron (really for Hannibal as explained above). She did this to try to get me to “over react” or breakdown or something. This was not the first time she tried that. In fact, she did this a lot. And I am sorry to say, in earlier days, it might have worked. This time, however, I gave her nothing. I took pics with my iPhone and stayed quiet.

Later that night, I went up the stairs to my bedroom and discovered all my bedding had been removed, shoved in the closet, and replaced with cheapo Homegoods style crapola.

Let me unpack that for you! Here’s what I think happened. I arrive in Amarillo and call Fredo. Fredo calls Hannibal to let her know I arrived or tells her directly. Hannibal panics, worried about why I was there and what I might find out. Hannibal goes to my sister’s(?) house to plot. Calls me claiming to be at T.J. Max or Homegoods -- can’t remember.

Hannibal doesn’t have much time to think. So she comes up with two plans: 1. let me “find” the deed, 2. replace my bedding, both of which were designed to rile me up thinking I would cause a “scene” or something. Why, they might even be able to slap a conservatoryship on me! Well, they actually did try that about a year later. I found out and shut it down.

I was set to fly home early the next day. On that night, the night of October 24, 2020, I went up to bed to sleep. Hannibal came up a bit later and climbed into bed next to me. That had never happened before. “Ummm. What are you doing?”, I asked. Hannibal replied in her gravelly smoker/ crypt-keeper voice “well, I want to make sure you get up in time for your flight”.

I wasn’t buying that. I have missed precisely zero flights or meetings or anything by oversleeping.

The entire night, I felt an evil monstrous presence next to me, and I did not sleep. I kept praying to God and my spirit ancestors to let me survive that night.

Obviously, I did. In the morning, Hannibal went back downstairs, and I heard Fredo say “Well, Myron never did turn up. I waited up for nothing”.

Let me “refreeze” that for you. I believe Hannibal’s plan was as follows:

· Get me riled up

· Tell Fredo that Myron was coming in town that night, and that she, Hannibal, would stay up with me to keep us separated

· Myron was never going to show up. That was a ruse, and Fredo is easily fooled, plus it kept him downstairs

· Hannibal would wait for the right opportunity to smother me and make it look like I died in my sleep, all while having an excuse why she was in my room

She failed. I believe the spirits tipped me off, allowing me to keep my guard up.

Lessons from Chapter 4

Psychopaths are always planning, plotting and scheming. They have no low. They are also opportunistic. Try not to give them any openings.

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Intermission

I am beginning to bore myself again. Therefore, I will cover the January 2021 visit today, and come back to the November 2020 visit in a future episode entitled “Happy Halloversary“. That story deserves its own episode anyway. It is also a doozy.

I might change the name. Like when Paul McCartney was working up the tune for Yesterday, he used the words “scrambled eggs” as a place holder. Personally, I think it would have been better as Scrambled Eggs -- opening lyrics? “Scrambled eggs, and some pancakes and some maple syrup. . . etc, etc.”

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Chapter 5 -- Dr. Strange Mom: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Unlove my Mom

So, I dropped by my house in Amarillo, I believe it was the afternoon of January 11, 2021, and it was another unannounced visit.

Read more

This one is easy. Besides being funny, memorable and pretty accurate, this moniker stems from a single fleeting voicemail lasting an entire duration of 00:06, that is to say, 6 whole seconds. By the way, 6 is Hannibal’s favorite number. I wonder why?

Also by the way, here is a picture of baby me and Hannibal. I love baby me!

Presented without comment

Author’s archives

Help!

Quid Pro Quo Clarice

So the moniker “Hannibal” comes from from this voicemail from early Feb 2021.

“Do not come to our house in Amarillo . . . Period.” Yes, she actually said “Period”!

Even better, she used my dad Fredo’s phone to call -- possibly thinking I had blocked her (projection -- I don’t do that, they do).

Anyway, the voice reminded me of Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs.

Link

The only other time I heard this voice is when Hannibal had knee replacement surgery and was on heavy meds. The voice in this case was closer to Linda Blair’s character in The Exorcist, though. It was like the inside demon was free to come out. My nieces thought it was funny -- well it was -- but it was also freaky. I love and miss my nieces, but they all blocked me from seeing them. That is pretty evil, if you ask me.

The Epiloguer

There is a whole backstory to this voicemail, which I well deliver up in a future Episode entitled Is This the Way to Amarillo?

P.S. Viewer notice: We in the Republic of Handbook have opted out of Daylight Savings Time. We would probably just end up wasting that “extra” hour anyway, so we changed the time zone on our miscellaneous and assorted devices to the next time zone over.

The actual clocks needed no adjustment.

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

Or, you can just watch the movie -- for example, like The Red Badge by Stephen Crane, about the Civil War and how cowardice can turn into courage. This really happened: this one time, in high school, we all had to do a book report on The Red Badge of Courage, which, needless to say, required us to read it. By some strange coincidence, the movie version (starring John Boy Walton, I think) was airing the day before the book reports on said subject were due. No doubt that saved many students from the arduous task of actually having to read the book.

Not me, though. I have always enjoyed reading . . . since before I could even read! When I was little, I would look at the pictures and pretend to read. It must have been funny to watch.

Later, when I could actually read, I read everything I could find. e.g., all the Nancy Drew books, two times over. Later, my mother made me read books about Ted Bundy. Why would someone do that? Seems creepy?

Anyway, here I am at my Aunt’s JuJu’s birthday party when I could read. She was really old then, like 23 or something.

Yes, I am adorable. Thank you for noticing! What are those red marks above my eyes? Funny you should ask. I was in the car with Hannibal. She was driving fast then abruptly slammed on the brakes. I hit the dashboard. I forgot about that incident until recently when my Aunt sent me this snap.

When I was young, I used to read magazines from back to front. It seemed more interesting that way. I even read trade magazines like “The American Cattleman“ that way (though I can’t say I understood too much, seeing as how I was a kid and all).

Much like the time I watched True Detective, Season One from 2014. You know, the one with Matthew McConaughey (I admit it, I had to look up the spelling of that) and Woody Harrelson (I knew how to spell that). Everyone at the time was saying how mysterious and slow and confusing and meandering, etc., etc., True Detective, Season One was.

Well, I watched the first episode and it seemed totally straightforward to me and entirely understandable. I was excited to see how the story would “runfold”. Well, turns out, I somehow goofed up the recording schedule and watched the last episode first. So, for me, it played out like one of those cleverly structured psychological stories where you know the ending, and the fun part is seeing how in the heck we get there.

Kind of like a David Lynch film. We love David Lynch films (including TV).

So, back to Book Reports. Today I will cover the first book on psychopaths I read.

Before I get into the Report, please note that I don’t always read every single word of every book. Sometimes I will skip around and find the fun and relevant parts. Sometimes I might read a few parts in one sitting, then come back days or months later and read other parts.

I had a professor in college who told the class we didn’t need to read every word or every page of the assigned reading. What useless advice is that?!? I mean, unless you read every word, how will you know what not to read? Is there is a movie version?

Plus, I wouldn’t want to be like this guy --

Far Side, by Gary Larson

OK. I hope that makes things clearer!

How I Met My Mother

Confessions of a Psychopath -- A life spent hiding in plain sight, by M.E. Thomas, Crown Publishers, New York, 2013

The Preambulator

In 2013 or so, I started reading books about psychopaths . . . for some reason. Seriously, I don’t know why. Except for the above mentioned Ted Bundy books my Hannibal mom made me read, I hadn’t really thought much about psychopaths, narcissists or other such malformed miscreants.

Maybe it was my subconscious telling me what to do, as if whispering “hey, you just might want to check this out . . . you know, just sayin’. . .” Or maybe it was a guardian angel or some of the other majestic spirits who I think are trying to help me.

Introduction

Anyway, this book is the first one I bought -- probably on Amazon. Amazon link here

I haven’t looked at it for a few years, and when I recently opened it up for today’s Book Report, several airplane tickets fell out. I remember reading this book on airplane trips, for a few reasons. First, you can get hours of quiet and focus on an airplane. Second, anyone sitting next to you will think twice about striking up a conversation! I make me laugh.

Confessions of a Psychopath is written from the perspective of a self-identified psychopath. Now, our Handbook aims to dissect the counterfeit human -- one ever-loving piece at a time. In Confessions of a Psychopath, however, the counterfeit human dissects herself.

Jumping Right In

The book starts off with a purported psychological evaluation (written in pretend typewriter font and so maybe didn’t even happen). Here are some quotes from the evaluation:

“M.E. Thomas is a 30-year old Caucasian” (is “Caucasian” capitalized?); “seeking an assessment of her personality” (doubt it); “particularly in regards to the presence or absence of psychopathic traits” (really doubt that, psychopaths know who they are).

The evaluation goes on to say she “scored at the 99th percentile of the community normative data” -- ummm, what? She also took the PCL:SV test which, de-jargonized -- is the Psychopathy Checklist : Screening Version, developed by psychologist Robert D. Hare, and influenced by the work of psychiatrist Hervey M. Checkly. On future Book Report Days I will cover both of their works; though for now, I will say they are some of the most important [and highly informative and informational(!) - ed].
Dr. Checkly began treating and writing about psychopaths in the 1930s and published Mask of Sanity in 1941; he is one of the originators of the school of psychos.
Mask of Sanity itself went through six editions, the last one published in 1982. That’s the one I have.

There is an earlier German language book describing psychopathic behavior, from the 1920s maybe, the name of which escapes me. Yeah, well, I have enough trouble with English.

Back to Ms. Thomas: Patient displays “a pronounced lack of empathy, a ruthless and calculating attitude towards social and interpersonal relationships, and a relative immunity to experience negative emotions”. Patient also displays “ antisocial and psychopathic traits” (you don’t say). . . “interpersonal dominance, verbal aggression, and excessive self-esteem” (don’t I know it!) . . . combined with “very low scores on measures tapping negative affective experiences” -- a/k/a those weakling traits, like shame, empathy, humility, the rest of us actual ordinary humans have.

All psychopaths I know of are like this. So, this is just a long way of saying
Ms. Thomas a full on Olympic level psychopath.

Here’s another key statement: “Ms. Thomas does not view herself as ‘disordered. . .”

My view is Psychopaths are not mentally ill. They are not broken. They function exactly as their own genes made them. Psychopaths are not humans, though, but consider themselves to be superior to actual humans. Everything that exists is theirs for the taking.

Sell me this Book

The rest of Confessions of a Psychopath alternates between clinical descriptions and excerpts from experts and personal stories told from the view point of the actual psychopath. Those stories are the highlight, largely because they demonstrate the sheer calculating and savage way psychopaths think, annotated with Ms. Thomas’ own thoughts at the time. Cumulatively, these thoughts prove the adage that, as bad as you think something might be, it’s a lot worse.

The book opens as follows:

In Chapter 1 - entitled I’m a Sociopath and So Are You, starting right there on page 1, she describes showing up for private swim lessons she is about to give, when she notices a baby opossum (you say “opossum”, I say just “possum”) in the pool struggling to reach safety. She grabs a net, pushes the possum underwater a few times, playing with it like a killer whale plays with a seal, then walks away to let the possum die. But all is not lost. Ms. Thomas calls her swim pupil, cancels the meeting on account of something is wrong with the pool, and gets the day off.

When she gets back home, she picks up the net again, scoops out the now dead possum, and tosses it over the fence.

The story itself is not the worst part. What’s worse is that Ms. Thomas writes it up like a movie scene -- demonstrating to me, at least, that psychopaths are pretty pleased with themselves. Why, she outta be in pictures!

No, I said sell me this book

Remember, telling is not selling! OK, I got me there.

Why I like this book is because on nearly every page, I will find stories that remind me of my Hannibal mom. Let’s take a short random-ish walk.

Pg. 50 -- Motor City Mama

“Perhaps my risk taking can be best seen in terms of my affection for mishaps with motor vehicles. I love cars. I feel invincible behind the wheel, and I often put myself and others at risk . . . .”

Oh boy, does that ever describe my Hannibal mom. I can think of at least 10 accidents she has had over the years. I have definitely been in the car with her, driving down a busy street, where she will abruptly change lanes with no notice.

In Texas, many folks drive some variation of a giant Pickup or a Suburban type vehicle. That’s what Hannibal drives. I pity the poor fool who might be driving a regular old sedan when Hannibal comes to town. She doesn’t care, however. In fact, just in the past 5 years, I think she has gotten 3 new vehicles following accidents.

For example, in 2020, she got T-boned at an intersection . . . and lived to tell. New car. Then, in 2022, she somehow had a collision with the cement parking pillars at the local Sams Club. She got another car last year. Don’t know why. They stopped telling me stuff.

OK. Do one more!

Page 134 -- Shoplift, Hoard and Give ‘em all away

“I started an elaborate shoplifting scheme from the BYU convenience stores. One of my friends told me about a sack lunch program that was woefully unsupervised. Over the course of a semester or two I took over a thousand dollars in merchandise. At first, I consumed or hoarded the goods . . . . Eventually I started giving the stuff away in fits of well-calculated generosity.”

Just like Hannibal. She is a giant hoarder. Every empty space, inside the house, in the garage, in the barn a few miles away (which I think doubles as an illegal gambling machine operation run by my brother (?) Myron — allegedly) is filled with hoarded, and possibly purloined, stuff and assorted junk.

I have long suspected my Hannibal mom is a klepto.

She did the giveaway thing too. The Aunt I never knew about until recently told me a story. Maybe 25 years ago, Hannibal delivered to her siblings racks full of new clothes, many still with tags, and some from high end stores. Where did Hannibal come up with all these clothes. Your guess is as good as mine. Except, I ain’t guessing. I think she swiped them -- probably over many years.

Conclusion

Confessions of a Psychopath really made me think. What about? Psychopaths are smoldering piles of evil malcontentedness. We all get that. The key message for me, however, is that they are all the same -- not just in their traits -- but in their actions. They all seem to do all the same things!

So, reading Confessions of a Psychopath is how I met my mother. I mean, it is a dead on accurate description of Hannibal.

Or as Marisa Tomei said in My Cousin Vinny, “dead-on balls accurate”!

Marisa totally deserved the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress for her performance. I feel bad she got sabotaged afterwards.

There is a lot more useful stuff in this book. But for now, I am beginning to bore myself. Seriously, isn’t there a movie . . .

Oh well, I guess I might have to do a sequel!

Epilogue

What I think about psychopaths in general -- if they weren’t so savage and evil, you might admire them. They can be very effective and are not slowed down by any discernable emotion or remorse. They really only have one weakness, i.e., the super high regard they have for their own-darned-selves. That, plus, risk taking. Sometimes, they can’t help themselves.

We, however, can, learn from them without being them. Turnabout is fair play, so they say.

P.S. “M.E. Thomas” is a pseudonym, which sort of sounds like she is saying “me thomas” or something. She was outed later on. Her real name is Jamie, I think, and she now does podcasts and stuff like that.

She also has a sub-reddit see here:

https://www.reddit.com/r/sociopath/comments/1m7o9uz/hi_im_me_thomas_im_an_author_a_psychopath_and_im/

In which we return to the fire on January 13, 1979, as more fully described in our episode entitled Prelude to a Con -- Part 1A: Fire in the Holy. That is where I told you about the fire, at midnight, in a blizzard, which totally destroyed our local Methodist Church, which no doubt is a common occurrence. I will talk about why I think the fire was not an accident, and what the real purpose of it was. Hint: it was a set-up to introduce a con-man.

Fields of Flubber

Our story today takes place in the grass fields just outside Pineville, MO -- a town of 3 people. It’s early morning, late March 1979. The Sun has just inched up over the horizon to take a gander at today’s happenings. As for me, I am almost 2 years old, and adorable.

Back in those days, it was pretty common to see thousands of head of cattle, stacked up over miles of grass land, spanning over most neighboring counties. Some black, some brown, some brown an white. Nowadays, though, most cattle end up in feed yards, so you don’t see them out in the fields as much.

Back in March 1979, a dozen-ish double decker cattle trucks, each carrying 50 or more calves, roll down the dirt and gravel country roads outside of Pineville, MO, a town of 3 people. They pass fields -- some grass, some winter wheat, most lined by barbed-wire -- kicking up a line of dust extending a few miles behind them, glittering in the brand new sunlight.

They turn and pull up through an opened steel gate and clutter over a cattle grate -- those are thick steel rods spaced a few inches apart above a ditch to prevent cattle escaping. Because they definitely will. Once inside, the trucks stop and the gregarious truckers get out of their cabs. The truckers are usually good natured chaps -- with names like Red, Tex, Vernon, Buddy, Wade, Cade, Donner, Blixen, etc. -- and always seem to have the latest and best small town gossip, usually about who was caught stepping out with whom and where.

They started out in Kansas hours earlier, well before sunrise, and more than a hundred miles away. They are getting tired, but are happy to be at the delivery point. As they step out of their cabs, they take one last sip of lukewarm Allsup’s coffee (helpful hint: best avoid the Allsup’s sushi), and unload their cargo. A total of 1,150 calves, delivered over two days, averaging 370 lbs each for total weight of 425,756 lbs. And, yes, I know that is not a complete sentence.

These are my Grandfather’s calves and he is delivering them to Doug A. Landers, who will turn out to be a con-man (at least one of them, anyway) with less than zero cattle experience.

Based on the weight, these calves are less than a year old, probably 9 months, I’m guessing.

When I was 3 or 4, I started to “help” my Grandfather with cattle deliveries to his own land, including “helping” with the branding, the horn tipping and feeding. At least, I thought I was helping. I think my Grandfather was really trying to protect me, and also to show me the ropes -- literally. My mom Hannibal loved watching me work out in the fields. It must have quenched her sadistic thirst. Turns out, it backfired! It made me more industrious, tougher and, unlike my siblings(?), I got to spend a lot of time with my Grandfather. I know he his still with me, though.

Here I am at 3 - 4. Aren’t I adorable? You know I am!

Author’s archives

Here is the Pasture Agreement.

Author’s archives

Pretty standard stuff, though it would have contemplated the “party of the second part” having real cattle experience. For the uninitiated and other assorted city slickers, horn tipping is not an easy process, nor is administering medication.

The idea was that the calves would be nurtured, fed (mainly on grass) for 8 - 9 months, after which they would have gained something like 500 - 700 lbs and then delivered back to my Grandfather for final finishing on a mix of grass and grain.

That was the idea, anyway. It didn’t play out that way. Of the 1,150 calves delivered, 625 went “missing”, some within days of arrival. It’s like the grass was made of Flubber, and they just floated away.

The value of the delivered calves was $410,573. That was a lot of money back in 1979. To put that in perspective, gold was trading at around $240 per ozt. Now, it trades at $4,800 per ozt, i.e., 20 times higher. On that basis, $410,573 would equate to over $8.2 million today.

This discussion reminds me of the pilot episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, where the oil company offers Jed Clampett $25 - $100 dollars for his newly discovered oil field. Jed says, “they using some kind of new dollars, called ‘million dollars’”. Great show, even though the Jethro (and Jethrine) shtick got old pretty fast. Fun Fact: The fictional Clampetts hailed from Missouri, just a few counties due East and not far from Pineville.

Let me tell the story of another Loser

Who is Doug Landers?

He was at the time a 21 year old numb-nutted Texas Tech weasel who was so unpopular he could not even get into a fraternity [and probably never had an unpaid-for date - ed], who came from Tulare county, CA, but was really from Pineville, MO, a town of 3 people, and who somehow was able to -- all by himself, mind you, with no help from any one else whatsoever -- steal 625 out of 1,150 head of cattle in the space of a few months

This numb-nutted grifter, by the way, is Douglas Arnold Landers (his 100% real actual name). The con led to at least 3 civil suits I know of, and one Federal criminal action. After he was busted, he accepted a plea deal in Federal court (in January 1981), for which he was sentenced to 5 years probation and ordered to pay restitution of $248,000. He never paid, of course. Instead, he skipped town less than two years later and fled to New Mexico, from what I have been able to dig up.

Doug Landers is still alive, you’ll be happy to hear, and living, last time I checked, in Grove, OK. Grove is about 30 miles from Pineville, MO, a town of 3 people.

Technically, he is still a fugitive from justice, and he has never had to pay a dime or do any time for this and other grifts to come.

His parents were Arnold Landers and Shirley Landers (nee, Woodfill), also from Pineville, MO, a town of 3 people.

They’re dead now. But they left behind a long and storied trail of cons and grifts -- all coincidentally benefitting specific and well known giant corporate interest -- and never had to pay for any of it. Hmmm, I wonder why? No, not really. I’m pretty sure I know. I will lay out the details in future episodes.

Doug Landers was really a distraction, though. Like that rabbit thingy they use at the dog races. The rabbit is not the key. Who is operating the rabbit is.

Back to School

Quiet kids. School is in session!

So, while who is Doug Landers is a valid question, it is not the most important one.

The real question one should be asking is why would my Grandfather entrust said numb-nutted Douglas A. Landers with $410,573 worth of cattle?

My Grandfather was an amazingly astute judge of character, and would help out anyone who was good and needed help. I am reminded of this many times. For example, at my Grandmother’s tree lighting ceremony in December 2021 (can’t wait to show you the pictures, it was beautiful), a cousin once-baked or something said to me “your Grandfather was the greatest person I ever knew”. Same here, I replied.

Now, back to the question, why would he entrust Doug Landers with 1,150 head of cattle? The answer is he wouldn’t have, unless Doug Landers had been recommended by someone who otherwise appeared trustworthy.

This takes us back to the church burning down. My operating theory is that the fire was intentionally set, partly to disrupt everyone’s lives, also knowing the town would organize a rebuilding and financing committee, and build a new church. Folks on the committee would work closely together, become familiar, and begin to trust each other. After all, proximity seeking is one of the most important tactics in the Psychopath’s Playbook.

One of the folks on the committee was a man whom we shall call George R. Downlow III. He worked for an agriculture funding business, which we shall call Crapstone. Crapstone was owned by a very large multi-national but privately owned agribusiness, which we shall call Chargrill.

One of their businesses was feed and feed yards. My Grandfather did not believe in feed yards and fed his cattle out in the fields. He was also very influential and where he went, others followed.

Here is a picture of my Grandfather, tending to the cattle in the field.

Author’s Archive

So, as the operating theory goes, George R. Downlow III hired someone to burn down the church, get on the rebuilding committee, get close to my Grandfather, recommend the numb-nutted Douglas A. Landers as a young earnest hardworking kid who just needed a leg up. “I can vouch for Douglas”, I can hear George saying. “He’s a Good’un”.

An Accident on Purpose

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You may fire when ready, Gridley . . .

Image courtesy of Pffk#7

Before we get to the story, though, a little back- and fore- ground:

Prologue -- I once had a home in Arkansas

The story today is based on a true story, once again as told to me by my mom’s younger sister, the one from the Dairy Mart episode, Pumped up Kicks.

You know, the one I never knew about until recently. It turns out I had two aunts and one uncle I never knew about. All my mom’s siblings, of course. By the way, I never even met my mom’s actual parents, Winnie and Carbomb, either. The whole family moved around a lot and there are some big gaps. They came from Pineville, Missouri, and Little Rock, then they ended up just outside of Mena, Arkansas for a spell. Yes, that Mena. Before that, they were in Tipton, OK. Then Grants, New Mexico, in the mid 1950s. Then, for some reason, Stratford, Texas, where our story today takes place.

There was also a short stint in Floydada. I know that sounds like a Spanish surrealist painter, but it is a real place. Then to the general Amarillo metropolitan area, where we also moved when I was 14 and just entering High School.

I did pretty well in High School. Go Rebels!

My mom did not, which is just one of the many reasons she hates me. Though, come to think of it, she did win the Football Queen award. One can only imagine what that entailed. . .

Anyway, Here’s me filming the people who were filming me. I was a cheerleader, as you can see.

Yearbook picture; author’s archives

Funny story: a few years ago, probably in 2022 or 2023, I was searching through a dresser in my mom’s room for some missing (and likely purloined) files and instead found my cheerleading bloomers. From like the 1990s! While that might seem odd (yep) and a little bit creepy (ya think?), it is explainable as a trinket. All psychopaths keep them.

My mom Hannibal never talked much about her family or her upbringing, other that (a) she had a bad childhood (inverted reality), (b) her father was an alcoholic (her favorite insult, other than “queso-butt”), (c) her family were thieves and grifters (projection), (d) if they ever show up at the door, they are after money, so don’t answer. I remember thinking, I have no idea what any of them look like, so how would I know not to answer the door?!?!?

So, I just decided not to answer the door at all. That way I could never be wrong and, in theory, couldn’t be blamed. Well, I say in theory, because I got blamed for a lot of things I didn’t do.

Meanwhile Back in Stratford in the 1960s

The following is based on another true story from my unknown aunt and, while some of the events and conversations may be dramatized or even totally made up, any relation to actual persons is entirely intentional.

OK, we’re still in Stratford. In the 1960s. In the last episode, Hannibal, my mom took her sister to the Dairy Mart, used stolen money to get a burger and ice cream, and had a wonderful afternoon. Her favorite treats were the ill-gotten ones, no matter the flavor or form. However, Hannibal had another agenda. By playing the role as the helpful older sister, she just might get her bike back. No dice!

In Devil with a Kickstand, we discussed how Hannibal’s mom Winnie hid the bike next door at her friend Eldna’s as punishment. Hannibal searched all over Chestnut Street and beyond but could not find it. She knew it was nearby. It had to be, and she had to have it.

You see everything is transactional with hannibals, there is no love, just money, trinkets, perks, shiny things -- all of which they use to fill up the bottomless hole where their soul should be. Right now she is missing one of her perks, her bicycle.

Where could it have gone?

Hannibal thought about it. She quizzed her mom and her neighbors and her friends and read their reactions. Psychopaths have what I call Weakno-Vision, which is one of their greatest innate talents. They can look at anyone size them up and sense their vulnerabilities, weaknesses, failings, shortcomings, etc. Like a lamprey sizing up that fat juicy lake trout. When they identify a weakness, they will exploit it. For example, in 1975, when Hannibal met my dad, Fredo, she would have picked up insecurity (yep), a desire to be liked (isn’t, unless he’s paying for it), and a fear he does not measure up (strike three -- you’re outta here!).

On the other hand, sometimes, psychopaths encounter folks who have no weaknesses (like my Hansford Grandparents). That is who they fear . . . and quietly hate. . . and usually target.

Hannibal quizzed her mom, over and over, about the bike. Where is it. When could she have it back. Did somebody steal it. Winnie was not giving in. Not verbally anyway. It took less than half a second, but Hannibal she saw it. Winnie glanced ever so slightly in the direction of her neighbor Eldna’s. The bike was indeed nearby.
It was next door!

What to do?

Simply retrieving the bike wouldn’t work. It would be obvious Hannibal took it.

Hannibal knew, however, there was an opportunity for a truly great exploit.

Maybe some sweets would help her think through the possibilities. Hannibal loves sweets like cookies, malt balls, cherry mash, old fashioned strawberry Coke, maybe a Dr. Pepper.

She waited until Eldna was baking cookies for the Stratford charity food bank and Meals On Wheels. She also knew Eldna’s patterns -- after baking, she would be at the beauty parlor for an hour or so. Like many houses in the area, Eldna’s house had one of those sliding glass doors in the back. Hannibal had long ago mastered the art of lifting and rocking the door slightly to bypass the lock - assuming it was even locked.

Side note: Hannibal told me many times growing up to always double bolt the sliding glass doors and once even demonstrated how easy it was to unlock them. One time when I was living in Fort Worth, I had inadvertently locked my self out of my apartment. Panicking, I called Hannibal, and she walked me through -- over the phone mind you -- the correct and proper method for unlocking a door with a credit card.

Hannibal had broken into Eldna’s many times before on baking day, to mess with cookie count just a little. She could just hear Eldna saying “Oh heavens, I could swear I made 2 dozen chocolate chip and 2 dozen molasses cookies. I must be losing my mind.”

Hannibal loved gaslighting -- and is an extremely skilled practitioner.

Today, Hannibal entered Eldna’s house through the sliding glass door -- it wasn’t even locked -- and as soon as she was inside, a big smile lit up her face an her chin jutted out extra far. There sat her bike! Then white hot steam blew from her ears like the Fog Launcher of the title. The steaming screaming mimi!

Hannibal marched by the cooling cookie racks and opened the upper cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink “you can’t fool me you old bag, I know where you keep your jewelry.” Hannibal laughed quietly to herself, no emotion, as she snatched Eldna’s gold watches from the cabinet and dropped them in her hot pocket.

She also grabbed a cookie. Took a bite. Hmmm, tasty. What to do?

Who do I not like? Who do I want to target? Who do I want to get close to?

She sat down on Edna’s sofa and had another cookie and stared out the window, mulling it over. Hannibal as voyeur -- that is when her best ideas come. Nowadays, she sits in her truck in Wal-Mart, McDonalds, T.J. Maxx and Homegoods parking lots just watching people. (Or at least that’s what she says she does. I have another theory.)

So there she sat, on the sofa, at Eldna’s, with her legs pretzeled just watching passing cars, humming, and it came to her. The perfect plan.

Andrea! Kaboom!

Animation courtesy of PFFK#7

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. . . in which we follow the pre-continuing saga of young Hannibal, esp. the contretemps, perversions and other maladies fomented and served up hot by her own fresh hands.

Now, I believe psychopaths are born not made. They do not become bad by having “bad childhoods”, they are themselves the “bad childhood”. And, while the environment in which they grow up may influence the severity of their predispositions, they are bad from the get go.

In fact, as soon as they can pump up the tires on their brand new -- and likely stolen -- tricycle, they are pedaling off to rustle up some havoc (and later some $200K worth of cattle).

Pumped up Trikes

Hence the title.

Image courtesy of PFFK #7

Requiem for a Record Collection

In Devil with a Kickstand, I told you about Hannibal (i.e., my mom), riding her bike to the local Stratford diner, tormenting her own mother who was working there, then burning said mother’s record collection the very next day.

This was not an isolated incident, nor even the worst.

So, let’s go back to Stratford in the early 1960s and pick up from the fire setting of the record collection.

Winnie (Hannibal’s mom) is finishing up at the diner, slides her time card into the clock punch - clift-ta-clift . . clift-clift. She gathers up her tips -- $3 whole dollars and 67 cents -- whips off and folds her dirty white apron, and drives home to Chestnut Street a few blocks away. She passes her friend Eldna’s house, and waves -- Winnie would always wave even if Eldna wasn’t there, as was the case this time. Then she saw the fire in her front yard, and her stomach turned.

Like most homes in Stratford, it wasn’t much of a front yard, more like a collection of fine dirt, clumps of dried prairie grass, and holes those pesky Plains pocket gophers had dug up.

The lawn led to a small wooden sided home, about 900 sq. ft or so. The wooden porch in front had decayed somewhat over the years, due to the extreme summer heat, high winds and winter cold, and a few floor boards had collapsed. Otherwise, it was a totally serviceable home for Winnie, her three kids and her one devil.

As she came closer to the house, she saw Hannibal sitting, staring at the record collection, and the great ball of fire it had become. Goodness, Gracious! she thought.

Hannibal was laughing and humming, then began singing something quietly.

Thankfully, although it was a hot summer day, the wind was not a factor. They were lucky that day. Up in the Texas panhandle, winds can gust up to 50 - 60 miles per hour.

You may recall almost two years ago, on February 26, 2024, when the devastating Smokehouse Creek Fire broke out and burned for three weeks and consumed
1 million acres. Most folks in the panhandle know to burn things in a contained locations, like a 55 gallon oil drum, which is why you see so many of them dotted around houses, backyards, quonset huts, barns, and so forth. Well, sometimes, they also hold oil.

So, although Winnie’s record collection fire stayed contained, the fire inside Hannibal’s soul (or what counts as one) did not. Thanks Winnie!

Back to the story. As Winnie approached the fire, Hannibal was humming and then singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-a-Dee-Day”. They had seen that banned Disney movie when it rolled into town earlier in the year. Winnie was chagrined listening to the sound falling on her ears. Winnie did not like that movie, but she absolutely hated the fact the hard earned money she spent so her kids could see that movie was now to Hannibal one more taunt.

Winnie in a panicked voice said, “what on earth?” (aka “what the hell”).
Hannibal ignored her and just kept going with “my oh my, what a wonderful day.” Winnie ran for the water hose and extinguished the fire. She could see remnants of album covers. Some had been gifts and a couple she had won as Bingo prizes.

Winnie, using no discernable cuss words, asked “why would you do this?” Hannibal: “. . . plenty of sunshine, headin’ my way’.

Winnie explained that is hurtful to destroy other’s belongings. So Hannibal replied with “well, I guess everything is satisfactual now, then”.

Needless to say, Winnie did not have the best night’s sleep.

The Next Day at the Dairy Mart -- or -- This One Time, at the Dairy Mart

It was another morning in Stratford. Winnie’s husband, who we shall call “Carbomb”, was still on the road. Winne was readying herself for another day at the diner. Hannibal appeared. “I promise to take good care of my sister today” -- also named Eldna as luck would have it, and about 6 - 7 at the time. “Is it OK if I take her to the Dairy Mart?”

Winnie said that it would be fine and left a few dollars for ice cream. Hannibal’s friend, “Maria” (we don’t know her actual name) was working there and Hannibal wanted a full lunch, not just ice cream. After a bit, she grabbed her young sister’s hand and said “let’s go, we’re going out for lunch”.

They walked along the sidewalks and instead of turning toward Main St, Hannibal ducked down another residential street. Her younger sister asked where they were going. Hannibal informed her that they had to first stop by Maria’s house to get something. No one was home at Maria’s and the front door was unlocked. Hannibal let herself in and told her sister to stay outside by the door and if anyone comes home or approaches to yell out “hello”.

Before long, Hannibal re-appeared outside. She was holding quite a few dollar bills, after she basically raided Maria’s tip jar. Her sister’s mouth dropped as Hannibal said “zip it, or else”.

They headed toward Main Street and Hannibal had quite the pep in her step.
She started humming again. Her sister felt so ashamed. Meanwhile, when they at last made it to The Dairy Mart, Maria immediately smiled and greeted them “are we having ice cream today?”

Hannibal said “we came to see you and we would both like the hamburger special”.

A few school “friends” (Hannibal didn’t have real friends) came by their table to say hello. A few did not. Hannibal continued to give her sister the dead eye dagger look -- all psychopaths have it -- as if to say “I meant it, keep your trap shut”. Her sister was still thinking about the fire, it was not even 24 hours ago. Her stomach felt anxious and she told Hannibal that she was not that hungry. Hannibal told her that she will eat every bite or else.

The hamburgers with fries arrived, and Maria refilled their drinks. When the bill arrived, Hannibal’s eyes began to dance. Her sister thought they might just dance out of her sockets and waltz across the table. Hannibal skipped up to the register to pay, almost as if she were wearing tap dancing shoes and paid. Maria dropped a few bits of change in Hannibal’s hand, she thanked Maria and gave an extra little bit bigger tip. I mean, it was Maria’s money after all.

It reminds me of a line in that 2016 movie Hell or High Water -- you’re paying these boys back with their own money. Well, if that ain’t Texan, I don’t know what is.” Great movie. Jeff Bridges should have totally won best actor. Also, fun fact.
Three actors/ actresses in Hell or High Water also had bit parts in the 2007 movie No Country for Old Men. Best Coen Brothers movie ever, in my opinion. In case, again, anyone’s askin’.

P.S. Mister Bluebird’s on my shoulder

The Backdrop

At the heart of our town sits a beautiful reddish brick church with majestic stained glass windows and a small grilled steeple that houses the carillons. They are digital now, but back in 1979, where our story begins, a parishioner would have played them manually on a keyboard.

To the East is the elementary school and high school -- Go Greyhounds! -- to the West is the church park and to the South is the parsonage. I have many happy memories from our school and church, and some very tragic ones.

The church is almost an exact replica of the one that had been there since the 1950s -- built with the same red brick, topped off with heavy timber trusses, cut from old growth Douglas fir trees supporting the vaulted ceiling. The internal walls were covered in old-school plaster, the kind skilled craftsman made from quick-lime, troweled up and left to dry for a few months before painting (No drywall allowed here!). This fact will be important as you will see later.

Here is the church in 1963.

Newspaper article, Wed August 7, 1963

And here is the last picture I have of the church from April 2021. That’s my Grandmother on the left being escorted in for Sunday service. She was 92.

Image from Author archives

I did not know then that would turn out to be one of the last times we would see each other. At least in this life.

My Grandfather and Grandmother were my first and greatest heroes. They showed me how to be kind, to enjoy the small things in life but to think big. My Grandfather also taught me to keep my eyes open because, like Yogi Berra said, you can observe a lot just by watching. He also taught me how to count, organize and stack 25 lb feed bags, which probably weighed more than me at the time.

There are large gaps in my memory from when I was young (more on that in later episodes), though I can still remember running over to their house as soon as I was big enough to run, and going there during lunch breaks and after school. I also didn’t know at the time that their home was a sanctuary, protecting me from the darkness lingering at my own actual home.

Speaking of sanctuaries, back to the story.

A Church on Fire

It’s Friday, January 12, 1979 at midnight, so in other words it really felt like Friday the 13th. Just sayin’. The town was being hit by a fierce blizzard. The pastor calls the fire department and a few congregation members nearby. Others are pulling up to the blaze. The fire department arrives but is unable to fight the fire. There was a
freeze-up. The pump water was frozen. The pastor recalls shocked faces, ash filled tears and feeling helpless. By morning, the church was gone, burned to the ground.

I was 1 ^3/4 years old at the time . . . and adorable.

Here is a newspaper article from the Sunday after the fire.

Hansford Plainsman, January 14, 1979

The text reads:

“A savage fire of undetermined origin [aka “for some reason” - ed] has totally destroyed the First United Methodist Church in [my town]. The fire was reported around midnight Friday and according to . . . Police Chief Jimmy Ratliff broke out in the sanctuary of the Church. Ratliff told the Plainsman that early damage estimates were in the vicinity of $1 Million dollars.

Fire fighters were hampered because of the blizzard conditions, and freezing water. Fire trucks responded from Spearman, however one unit became stranded in the drifting snow en route to the blaze. Fireman did save surrounding homes however after it became evident that the Church was gutted. The Rev. Mr. Tom Fuller is the pastor of the First United Methodist Church. Fire fighters are to be commended for their valiant efforts in weather where the Chill factor registered -40 degrees! “ [Emphasis added]

Jeepers, 40 degrees below zero? Totally wouldn’t want to be a brass monkey fighting that fire, is all I can say. Well, that’s not true. I can say a lot more. So I will.

Houses of the Holy

We have many churches in Hansford and surrounding counties, e.g., Methodist, Baptist, a few Catholic ones, no Mormons that I can think of. But we do have Mennonites.

One thing these churches have in common is that five or more generations will have passed through the same church doors. On any given Sunday, you will probably find two or three generations all sitting together.

For me, this church was Ground Zero for watching my mom’s reactions and how they were exactly opposite of every other person in attendance -- whether for weddings, funerals or regular Sunday services. And, even though most of my extended family sat on the right side, my mom insisted on sitting on the left.

My Grandfather died in March 1986 at the age of 60. He was one of the great men of Hansford county. He died on a Thursday, in the afternoon, and the funeral was held improbably quickly on Saturday morning, i.e., less than 48 hours later. That fact, alone, is suspicious, but there’s more to come on that subject.

Anyway, it is the church during this funeral in March 1986 where I felt she was most happy, and yet also terrified. We were all agonizing over my Grandfather’s shock death at 60. It was standing room only, and everyone was crying, every age, even the pastors’ voices were cracking. I was devastated, and lay down with my head in my mom’s lap, sobbing. My mom, Hannibal, sat motionless, as if to not attract attention or wondering if folks were looking at her, mentally pointing fingers with their inside voices.

I looked up at her and I saw her eyes dancing and ends of her lips forming a slight smirk, as much as she tried to hide it. Given my vantage point, I could see it. No one else could. Oh yeah, she was completely annoyed that I could not hold myself up and that I was devastated and sobbing. I sobbed for days. That must have really annoyed her.

Prologue to Part 2

The church was rebuilt in about 18 months. Here is the dedication announcement.

Town leaders got together to finance and rebuild a new church. My Grandmother and her friends needlepointed altar cushions, with sweet messages. They are still there now and are stunningly intricate.

An entry plaque recognizes the individuals on the church rebuilding committee.
My Grandfather’s name is on the that plaque, along with a few other men. Most were the good and great of Hansford county.

One name in particular, though, is different. I believe that person was the leader of the con and was sent to our town to implement it, and the church fire was the distraction to get people to lower their collective guard and work together. Proximity, after all, is an important key for any conman and/or psychopath to unlock the door to grift.

From birth until 1990, when we moved to Amarillo (to be covered in an upcoming episode entitled “Is This the Way to Amarillo?”), I spent almost every Sunday, Wednesday afternoon, Easter and Christmas Eve at our church. I have always felt safe there, somewhat protected. It’s in the sanctuary where the fire started, and the church was to me another sanctuary where I would sit with my Grandfather and he would remind me “you listen to every word that is said during the sermon. Then you watch how others in the congregation behave throughout the week, with the same words you heard. Let me know if anyone gets out of line.” Occasionally he would nod his head to someone he particularly wanted me to observe.

Epilogue -- The Hand of God

The fire in January 1979 burned down the entire church, save two items.

As the pastor waded through the ash of what was the sanctuary, he found the altar cross completely unharmed. The altar cross remains there today. As he continued to the western wing of the church, he came to a small group of ladies gathered in a circle. They were surrounding the nursery rocking chair, where matrons would nurse newborn babies. It was intact and unscathed from the fire. The ladies were speechless.

Next up. Why I don’t believe the fire was an accident.

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Read with theme song

The following is based on a true story. It was told to me by an Aunt I never knew about, until recently.

Our story today is set in Stratford, TX, in the early 1960s, shortly after my mom, Hannibal, and her family blew into town.

Stratford is the only known city in Sherman county -- and, no, we do not consider Texhoma a city, not a Texas one anyway. There are a few ghost towns, though. Sherman county sits right next to Hansford county on the left (i.e., to the West).
The population is around 3,000 souls, two-thirds of whom live in Stratford.

Here’s Hannibal blowing into town.

Public domain

Oh, wait, that’s a dust storm approaching Stratford in 1935. Hannibal’s approach was much worse.

The Stratford Wife

The large plate glass window of the Stratford diner was a stage, and my grandmother, who we shall call “Winnie” (mainly because that’s her real name), was trapped on it. She was balancing plates of burgers, chicken-fried-steak, steak-fried-chicken, and club sandwiches, while dodging the waiving hands of farmers, their wives and kiddos.

Winnie was in her early thirties, straw blonde, disheveled curled hair, wearing a white and blue stripped waitress uniform common in the day. Her husband was a trucker and wasn’t home much. Like many families in the panhandle, they were poor. So, in addition to being a wife and mother, Winnie worked at the diner to earn a few extra bucks when she had spare time. She had none of that, though. To free some up, she would have my mom Hannibal baby sit for her two younger sisters. Hannibal did not like that, and naturally plotted the appropriate revenge.

Hot down, Summer in the 60s

It is the early 1960s, June or July. We’re in the center of old Stratford, on Main St.
In the old farming towns of the Texas panhandle, you will find wide and accommodating roads, many with old school brick pavers laid down decades ago.

Stratford’s Main St. was no exception. The road way is wide, about 25 yards, with a center strip of those old school brick pavers, with an additional 10 ft of concrete collars on each side for parking, and leading up to raised concrete side walks in front of the miscellaneous shops, including a few restaurants, one pharmacy, one grocery store, two or three hardware and parts stores and more.

Sherman (unlike Hansford) is a “wet” county -- for alcohol that is -- but the bars would be out of town a bit, not in the center square.

We are in the middle of the intersection of Main and 3rd. We see pavers bleeding into and forming a giant 75 foot diameter circle with a Lone Star inlayed in the center.
The top of star points to the North. We are looking South down Main St. to the large plate glass window of the Stratford diner a few hundred feet away.

Outside, the summer sun is intense in the wide open blue sky above Stratford, Texas, where two large hawks glide and curve, projecting shadows across the pavement, parked cars and store windows. The hawks trace looping figure 6’s and call out
purr-yeeear. . . purr-yeeear. . . puryear.

The Low Rider

My mother was supposed to be three blocks away, on Chestnut St., playing the role of the dutiful eldest daughter, tending to her two younger sisters.

Instead she was on that bike. A little girl with blonde hair, blue eyes alternately pedaling and gliding, with that pursed lipped, jaw jutted smirk which would later become an identifying feature throughout her life.

For context, here is her second grade photo from the 1960 Stratford yearbook -- probably taken in the fall of 1959 when she was 8 years old. Is it just me, or does 8 seem a little old for second grade?

From: Ancestry.com

I say, check out this side by side of my mom Hannibal and Rhoda (”Rhoda Dear”) Penmark from the 1956 movie The Bad Seed. I think they are the same person.

The Bad Seed, 1956

She knew it was the busy lunch crowd at the diner. She didn’t sneak off from her house to go swimming or to say hello to her friends at the Dairy Mart -- not even to pick-pocket a bazooka joe or two.

She pedaled her way to Main Street and smirking as she saw the many pick-up trucks and cars parked in front of the diner. She rode a slow, agonizing loop back and forth, back and forth, in the form of a six, directly in my grandmother’s sight.

Every time my grandmother looked up to check the clock or wipe the counter, there was the “Bad Riding Seed” – a little silhouette on wheels, a tiny devil with a kickstand, her grimace turned to grin, reminding Winnie: I am not where I’m supposed to be, you can’t do anything about it. I have no idea, Hannibal would telegraph with her blue dagger eyes, if my younger sisters are safe at home. And I don’t even care.

It wasn’t an escape, it was a taunt. It was a master class in the power of odious dark presence as protest. She saw one farmer leave a tip for Winnie. As he exited the diner, she “accidentally” ran his foot over. “Sorry” she said, and later under her breath “Ha-Ha!” She continued to ride down Main, around the corner and back through the alley way. While tucked in a hiding spot, waiting for the farmer to head back out into the fields, she found a tennis ball. “Perfect” she smirked.

She pulled up to the curb, right in front of the diner’s main window. She walloped the kickstand which went down with a sharp metallic clack – like the sound a shell might make as its loaded into the magazine of a Sherman tank.

She looked the through the grease-filmed glass and waited to lock eyes with her mother. The second Winnie’s tired blue eyes met her eldest daughter’s, Hannibal’s eyes narrowed to a squint, and the ball went flying -- first to the sidewalk at an angle, bouncing up hitting the glass, and back to Hannibal’s grip. Over and over the ball flew.

“Tacket-a -tacket-a thump” . . .

The glass rattled. Inside, everyone turned to see Hannibal, as the tennis ball returned to her hand and flew out again.

“Tacket -a-tacket-a thump” . . .

It was a metronome of pure spite. Every bounce was a reminder that the sisters were home alone, that the rules were broken and the “Bad Seed” had officially sprouted, and that, to use a phrase common in rural Arkansas and Missouri, don’t give me no more never-mind.

“Tacket -a-tacket-a thump”.

My grandmother Winnie had to stand there, pouring coffee with a shaking hand, listening to the rhythmic heartbeat growing louder with worry, fury and the never ending question every parent of a budding psychopath asks, viz. “what am I going to do with her?” She could only imagine what the dwindling lunch crowd of men in feed caps were thinking. Her boss raised an eye brow in sympathy, and scratched his head. She felt every thump of the tennis ball as a strike.

It “weren’t no question” of discipline or remediation; it was a question of containment. How do you bottle up a lighting storm? She looked at her daughter – the blonde haired blue-eyed devil (just like it ever was?) with a kickstand – and realized the standard tools of motherhood were useless. Shaming wouldn’t work.
She was doing this in public. She would have probably enjoyed a spanking.
Isolation didn’t work, she’d just find another bike and a ball. Fear didn’t work, the girl had already decided the world was hers. As Led Zepplin would later write “cryin’ won’t help you, praying will do you no good”.

Epilogue -- The Aftermath

When my grandmother returned home after her shift, she asked her oldest daughter, Hannibal, what and why and how could she. The reply was flat ‘whatever’. I’m home now and my sisters are fine. I think they are hungry. They want dinner.

During the warm night, Winnie waited until the daughters were asleep. She went out to find the dastardly bike, pulled up the kickstand and walked it to her friend Eldna’s house. She left a note on the bike so Eldna would know why the bike was there in the morning. Winnie and her daughter needed the bike confiscated and missing for a few days because, Lord knows, grounding her never ever worked.

The following morning Eldna entered the kitchen breakfast room and put on one of her watches from her collection. It may seem like an odd habit, but many housewives in the panhandle would hide watches and jewelry in the kitchen, figuring no thief would look there.

As Eldna walked to the kitchen she saw the bike and was struck with fear that her friend’s daughter was somewhere near. Then she saw the note tied to the right handle and went out to read it.

Oh her poor friend, what was she going to do with that child? She had been causing trouble since birth. She prayed daily for her friend and for the community. Eldna recalled pulling by the school, as the school year wrapped up, only to see tangled bodies and tufts of hair flying. In what felt like slow motion, Eldna watched as Hannibal had a few fingers’ full of Candy Lopez’s hair and was vigorously trying to rip it out. Candy was a few grades above Hannibal.

Winnie was back at the diner the next day. As the busy lunch hour bled into a quiet afternoon, my grandmother Winnie was a nervous wreck wondering what the day would bring. She had left the house before any of her daughters were awake. The lunch crowd came and went. So far, no sign of Hannibal and certainly no mention of her by the town’s polite folks. She deeply wished to feel relief and like there might be one day without chaos.

Her shift had finished and she went home. She first passed by Eldna’s house and there was no bike in sight. Then as she looked toward their house, she saw flames. Her heart sunk and her stomach turned. There in the front yard, Hannibal was sitting on the ground starring into the flames. Her eldest daughter had stacked Winnie’s record collection on the front lawn and lit it on fire.

The School of Handbook is Now in Session

Pay attention kids!

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