Never to be Published

God

Citation
, XML
Authors
I dream of getting my book published.  I think if A Noffzinger could write her story of sexual abuse and call it a love story I should be able to write a real love story and get it published. 

When I was in Indianapolis while Randy was still alive, (that is the watershed of my life, before Randy’s death and after) cooking for Mom and I, rearranging what she would let me rearrange in her life of collecting abandoned items that could possibly be useful for us children.  That includes the doll she salvaged from someones’ refuse and it was a nice doll except for the thinned hair.  I did make an entire suite of clothes for her:  a suit, night clothes, lots of others from Mom’s undiminished pile of material.  Leslie loved her.  I made the clothes by making the patterns myself.  Such talent.  All from Mom undoubtedly.  Now I specialize in verbal verbiage posted to one or the other blog sites.  Silly.

Dave and I spoke a few times.  He had come back from Fort Wayne where he had spent years in the strange sort of limbo we children fell into.  We would know from  Mom that Bill was out in California who had gotten in touch with Marg who declined to share this with the rest of us and maybe the most of us didn’t really want to know.  Dave was working in some kind of shop, and he had fixed up an old Jeep for driving.  He moved back to Indianapolis because (?) he lost his job or some unknown event.  He was staying at Mom’s while I was there.  I was full of fire for having my own life independent from my husband.  I had already upholstered a chair from fabric I bought out walking at a rummage sale.  And then I started making crafts; those silly dolls with the wild spike of hair–trolls.  Make a bunch of them.  I don’t think I have any now, that is almost 20 years ago.  I write that and it is hard for me to believe. 

Dave seemed to have had a difficult time now that I reflect upon it.  Tense, weary.  His comment has long stayed with me.  I said that I was the target for victimization as the cops had gotten our house.  And Dave corrected that for me; he said that the whole family were targets.  I wondered but now I am sure he is right.  How and why we drew their targeting I am not sure; if you go back far enough you can find that Dad was even targeted.  He achieved the highest score in Sacred Heart high school in Indianapolis–the same high school Patty Reese graduated from 2 generations later– the only white face in 300 black one as Uncle Jimmy said with a laugh.  This achievement was supposed to carry a scholarship to college only it went to a church contributor’s son, not Dad.  And the proper response to would have been to have two but no, only one and Dad began his post grad life with a job dunning people for past due money at the height of the depression. 

Dave went on to get an apartment and once I went with Tom and Betty Reese to see him years later.  Same as Mom, stacks of his important things everywhere.  I went because he had received the things that were stored in Mom’s house when Randy and I moved or rather crash-landed back in Oneida county after being given the bum’s rush in Gallatin.  I had a chest full of what I considered important; my Ramcraft key-wound clock I chose for our 25th wedding anniversary.  My quilts from Grandmother Armstrong and my double wedding ring Mom made each of us to be fair.  Always fair.  My Alladin lamp, a genuine antique!  My oil painting by an artist working in Rhinelander, Dave Tupa.  Other stuff.  Dave took me to the storage unit the people who now owned Mother’s property had rented to put the things they didn’t want.  That is no exaggeration because upon opening the trunk, I saw that the things I considered important they did also.  Most had been pilfered.  There was almost nothing there.  I was too shocked to speak.  When I did I asked Dave about the missing items as he had been living there until  Mom died and he was reluctant to speculate how they disappeared. 

Pat Grimes was a person I met once while I spent that summer at Mom’s.  She came by flaunting a proprietary manner and now I could see why.  For some unknown reason Mom had been talked into putting her property into Pat Grimes name.  Nothing from that time on was Mom’s.  We didn’t even know.  Mom had related an event in which some young people came by selling something after which she discovered her check book was missing and ultimately she was out $500 the bank resolving the rest.  If there was any rest.  Mother said Pat Grimes had come by when she had strep and brought her soup for several days.  How desperate my mother must have been to construe a week of soup into an obligation to sign over her property.  Was this event engineered so that Pat Grimes could make her demand sound like a good idea?  We will never know.   Her whirlwind stripping of assets when Mom died is all the evidence I needed to convince me this person never had my mom’s health, mentally or physically, at heart in her actions. 

So here in front of me was an empty trunk, or nearly so.  My granddaughters’ will never have any of mother’s beautifully stitched quilts.  I see her sitting in a chair, next to a small lamp on the tv, with the shade tilted so the 60 watt bulb can shine fully on the neat row of treads she is inserting into the matched materials.  So unhappy but so stubborn.  She was fearful the last time I talked to her; I was living in my car but told her that I had an apartment so she wouldn’t worry.  The psycho medicos always ask:  are you fearful of your environment?  Another nugget of harassment gold gleaned from my blog post homeless for five.  Nothing is sacred, even your feelings for your mother. 

Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean that you are not being harassed.  And I gave them so much valuable information.  In my blogs later and under hypnosis at the Cedars of Lebanon state park earlier when I was finishing my degree and had delusions of grandeur.  The cops actually aided and abetted our dissatisfaction as they intended to gain in exactly the same manner Oneida county had done when they eased us out of our home on Trails End Road.  Eighteen hundred square foot up and down, drive under garage with heat and drain and insulated roll up doors.  Thermopane windows, wood furnace next to the natural gas furnace.  Sumner county figured to gain in the same way using the same methods.  Another free home, just run the family into debt and out of town. 

Tom Suren, he assures me he is still there.  Pays to be a partner-in-privilege to the cops.  I used to ask myself why Tom Suren would have been so manipulative and I still don’t know.  I always attribute it down to my officious self opinions.  Maybe.  Maybe just the mark of Cain, the Scarlett letter, the brand of slavery. 

I have an idea that this was not uncommon, with the advent of mind altering drugs used for surgery and surgery itself the epitome of the medical system, could anyone resist what appeared to be a mind free for the picking?  Propofol and its earlier cousins made it so easy to pry, to pretend to be God.  And not just to discover the victim’s life events but to change the course of their life; to substitute your destination.  God. 

Rhinelander went bust.  The paper mill went out and the town was about to die.  The entire NorthWoods of Wisconsin depended up this major industry but it had been determined that bleaching the paper was depositing dioxin in the headwaters of the Wisconsin river.  Cancer rates were unusually high in our area.  The entire economy was crashing.  We lost our home even though Randy moved his repair shop into the basement. This is the home we had made and couldn’t keep.  Now I see the community as helping us out.  This was a good private home quality built with a well and septic close to town.  More valuable than the family that built it.  And it already had dibs on who would get it.  The cops of course.  So private that you couldn’t even see it from the road but so close to town. 

The town was saved by intervention.  Medical intervention.  Those anesthetic drugs so useful for surgery?  Useful also in having the individuals entire history spooled out for entertainment and use, of course.  The individuals who became so useful, were they guilty of some secret crime?  Were they just so detached that they had no claims upon their lives?  I don’t think the qualifier was guilt.  I think it was just plain usefulness.  Rhinelander became the home of Triumph Twist Drill.  Triumph.  This business man who had lived his whole life in Illinois somewhere and made a ton of money moved upon retirement to Rhinelander just when it was collapsing.  He began Triumph Twist drill and a quarter of a century later, when he died, he employed most of the mill workers.  And just then the mill had been rebuilt and rehired all.  They got their bleached paper from Texas where one assumes there were no worries about dioxins in the discharge water.  When he died he left the estate to the town in the form of a new hospital.  Somehow this man had lived his life without the attachments most of us acquire, children, affection for our schools, or town where we were raised.  A walking bank coded for future use. 

Somewhere there is a medical inventory of people available for extraction.  They take names and file these deep pockets away for further use.  And what could be more useful than saving a christian community?  Especially is it saves the state from having a massive bail out for the crashed community?  And to think I spoiled it all for them by outing Jack Haug.  It is clear to me now what I never understood then.  How Jack could have been ‘rewarded’ with a government contract that made his business the target for a buy out?  How could this shallow person who was the epitome of distance from all community obligations be deserving of getting a federal government contract for the plastic on MREs? 

I used to think my pleading and tears lying on the floor of the bedroom/living/kitchen of the junk body shop on Frank Drive (8783) in Minocqua reached their heart and they decided not to subject another family to the horrific abuse we had been experiencing.  After all, Jack and Sue had to move when he was fired from Daniels and built a new house in Milwaukee which had to be sold at a loss when he lost that job also.  He wound up in Canada.  Then, when I turn my heart inside out, they are back.  Back to the house they rented but did not have to sell.  And they pick up where they left off.  Nothing changes.  Except we never see them. Randy still gets to go on his opening day of deer and fishing season.  For 6 years he comes back so drunk he is unable to walk. Not happy like he is normally, even drunk.  Sad.  Then Jack decided to cut to the chase, Randy is invited to a birthday outing at the bowling alley in Minocqua (not there now of course) and there I know from what he tells me that all pretenses are dropped.  It is not him they don’t like I tell myself but me.  They would prefer to get rid of me.  The cops don’t want to see us in the area since they own our home, it is uncomfortable.  I have hung on and not been corruptible so patience is wearing thin, if Randy won’t get rid of me in spite of the temptation of the pending substitute he met at the casino, then he will have to go.  This taking him on fishing and hunting trips is old.  Jack is a business man with big money now that they has sold the company to Mosinee paper. 

The one time Jack and Sue came to Frank Drive in 6 years was a summer day.  They stayed for an hour.  We sat outside on the picnic table.  It was not old times, it was marking time.   They just wanted to be seen holding onto long time friendships.  No.  They just wanted to be seen.  Their purchase was pending and as usual for Jack and Sue they left no stone unturned in putting on their best face. Old friends included.  It took me a while to figure that out.  Self-centered in all things, Jack and Sue. 

Randy comes back from the ‘party’ so drunk. So upset.  I have never seen him so upset, so inwardly roiled.  He is never angry, but he is angry.  So injured in spirit.  So crushed he can barely make it to the room we sleep in. He doesn’t lay down.  He sits, he crosses his legs, his strong back that has borne so much cruelty is bent, his strong arms are unable to hold his hands which lie in his lap and catch the tears that flow.  I have never seen this man so apart.  I know my accusations against the cops and community are mostly to blame but he knows this too.  He tells me it is my fault, he is admitting this openly to himself as he refused to hear the friends disrespect me.  I am so sorry, I reach out but never has he pushed my hand away in anger but he does.  It is my fault he tells me even though he can barely talk he is so broken.  And then he tells me what they did:  every comment he made was ignored.  They didn’t even talk to him.  They talked over him, by him, past him, above him but ignored him completely.  The cruelest thing you can do to someone of your party — cut them dead.  And they did.  He died from the stroke 3 days later.  They murdered him.  Jack murdered his best friend.  And I know.  And they know.  And the worthless greedy cops know. 

What use is it to make sure Jack has a fortune in money when he is so shallow.  When he retires he would have had some minor surgery like the time he had a suspected brain tumor when he started his business, and then he would have been the rescue of a christian community that needed a business man to come in and put the people back to work.  I wrecked that plan because everyone knows now.  Even Jack and Sue.  They won’t be the easy target as they would have been had I not revealed this, even with Sue having a minor surgery on her back so that both of them have visited surgery futureland.    A man who would murder his best friend is someone the psycho medicos would not have any problem with in setting a new goal in his life.  

Ryan is 7, in summer school, and having just been slugged by the playgound bully, is running flat out and runs into the steel monkey bars.  He is unconscious but the school officials deal with this not by calling an ambulance but by calling me.  Carl Corey, the superintendent, decides the best way to deal with this especially since the parents are too honest to contact a lawyer is to delete it from his school record so that in the future his difficulties due to the brain trauma gets identified as a dysfunctional family problem. 

They discover this when they experiment with my memory at Cedars of Lebanon.  They also discover that I fell out of a moving car when a toddler so hence my brain abnormalities.  Did I not tell you that our entire line was targeted?  A mother and a child with brain trauma.  Their solution:  send us back to Wisconsin so they can repair the damage.  I would laugh here but there is nothing even remotely funny.  The answer Rhinelander has planned for us is to have a business doing what Randy has done not by choice but by necessity, body work and painting.   Their choice to heal their wrong has nothing to do with fairness but with benefit for themselves.  Throwing lives away on car repairs that won’t even be road worthy when the man who repaired them develops Parkinson’s. 

 But then the real question is why they had to kill a deep-hearted man and destroy his family to set up their easy pickings.  God it seems can’t create without destroying.