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Who Killed JFK? Hasn’t Trump Heard Yet? October 21, 2017

Posted by voolavex in despicable, Election 2016, Idiots in Government, murder, Politics & Religion, Putin, sins, Social Issues, The 45th.
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So the 45s have turned into the Borgias. This may be one of the best examples of diverting attention from the now to events in then.  Instead of concentrating on the immediate issues at hand; the lack of action in the Congress and the White House, the lack of intelligence in the government, the never-ending suspicions – yea – beliefs that the 2016 Election was a joint effort by The US and Russia, the lies, high crimes and misdemeanors that rouse no anger or suspicions, we dig up the good old “Who Killed JFK” tamasha. This one never crossed my mind, but the plan is brilliant and evil.

Those who still remember that day in Dallas – 54 years ago(!!!!!) are still fascinated by the entire story. Theories, conspiracies, facts, lies, the size dress Mrs. Kennedy wore,  the grassy knoll, the unanswered questions, Jack Ruby and the weeping are a never healing suppurating wound in the side of this nation.

Is this the fiddle that the 45’s have found to accompany the nation’s perpetual dirge? Gone are the perps ; their due process null and void. The people in the painful images of those days are mostly dead. The last child standing is a grown woman. Does he want really yearn for this “history” to be further told. Why not just disinter the corpses and have them be questioned. Or preserved under glass and laid in the rotunda? Was this one of “promises” and did I miss it.  No wonder he stays up all night.  Stephen Miller at his finest hour (his folks must be so proud).  Or maybe he had never heard of it before?

I must note that of all the dirty, nasty red herrings the 45’s have tossed, stinking, into the last 22 months – this one defies description.

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My Mother’s Birthday April 26, 1923 -1978 April 26, 2017

Posted by voolavex in birthday, mother, serial monster, funeral, life baggage, loss, dead, death certificate, despicable, Domestic Violence, guilt, Mann & Mann, marriage, murder, My Mother, serial monster, Social Issues.
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Back in the days when domestic disputes were shameful and unreported, my mother was the dead body in a domestic murder.

In a small blue-collar town in Massachusetts. On January 24, 1978.  It was a long time ago and it was a moment ago.  It was the tragic finale to many phone calls and plane ticket reservations and telephone commiseration for a mother who simply couldn’t.  She fought back, she screamed, she saw a doctor, she drank, but she could not leave with my two much younger siblings, or the pony or the house or the lingering affection she carried for a man who was a serial monster.  Bigamist, philanderer, narcissist, sociopath and murderer.  One sib says many calls of service were made to the local police – their hands tied by 1977/1978 concepts and legalities.  Another sib tells of death threats  made to them on the night of my mother death.  I did not know anything about this part.  I only knew my mother wrote and cried and simply said “he” had a girlfriend and she was confused and didn’t know what to do.  At 54 she was probably menopausal. Not much to go on.  She didn’t want to move out with the children or leave the pets and the laundry list of excuses women have conjured for time immemorial.  I was in Los Angeles and not welcome in her house. (Actually on February 10, 1958 I was no longer welcome in her life.  At 12, I thought it was because he really loved her.)  I blame myself for not listening harder and asking more questions.  And I had no idea that physical violence was part of the picture.  Neither of my siblings (19+ and 15) called me to ask for help. My mother had pride that went before all else.  Including her funeral.

Her death certificate from that time reads  COD: undetermined.  A residual fear stops me from requesting a new one.  She will still be dead.

She was only 54. Today is her 95th birthday. May I say she was beautiful and gentle and kind? May I say by the time I arrived at her house, anything of sentimental value that had belonged to her was gone?  That her grieving husband knew I knew and it was not pleasant?  That I swallowed my rage, stepped back and stayed for the children ( I am my mother’s daughter)? That I drank and sobbed and that the tables overflowed with funeral meats and that 200+ attended her funeral in Boston? That mourners continued;  people I never knew, arrived in tears? That it was the same funeral home by her high school best friend’s parents? Mann & Mann. That I had played as small child in their huge house upstairs? That my family went back as close friends of the Manns? That the grieving husband read a sickening tribute?. And that my own father wept with me in stunned sorrow?

In 1978,  it was simply another domestic dispute. Perhaps still in the local police records – on paper in a box; with so many others of the time.  

There was no investigation.  I knew of no interviews with siblings. That police never asked me anything.  My grandmother thought it was a heart attack.  She had just lost her only child.  Was it mine to reveal?  Information continued to seep through and very long after  I found out the history of the man she had married in 1958.  From his children; who loved my mother.  I should have wondered more about the words of my dear step-brother who walked in, in 1978,  crying, and said to me, sotto voce, “what did he do to her?”

 I have always known it was murder.  I have always known he patiently waited.  I knew she did not wash down 40 or 50 pills with vodka.  She didn’t ever take Darvon and that’s what they found. I know he sat beside her and watched. I have no idea how he managed to make it happen.  He died five years later; alone  in a rented apartment in Lawrence; the other woman long gone.  He was soup when they found him.  Dead five days of a heart attack in a fall from the up high liquor shelf. One he needed a step stool to reach.  In a closed apartment on a sweltering summer day.

 

He was short and bald and had good teeth.

I could kill him again and again for his crime but she would not have wanted that.  And dead never ends. They would have been married twenty years on that February 10th.

She has been gone 39 years. Since the day my  broken heart and endless anger met all at once.  And no one of us leftover has ever been able to move on.  We try to unpack that valise, only to realize that some things travel with you forever,  in your life luggage.