WAR GAMES - January 30, 1991 “What was terribly frightening was the cheerleading aspect, ‘We’re No.1’. I’m fearful of that attitude."
My son, Brad Starling, was the 4-year-old model in this drawing. So sweet and innocent at the time. Son, Judy and I are aware of the struggles you have recently been through regarding your work and ultimate resignation as Fire Chief, you can't block us from the media, no matter how hard your wife tries. I won't blame it on karma's retribution for your treatment of me and my family, mostly because karma isn't a thing. Also, because my grandma, mom, both sisters, and I have been casualties of workplace gossip, discrimination, politics - whatever you want to call it. Sadly, there is always a pathetic, jealous, immoral, ignorant bully who tries to disparage any other employee (or relative) that they know, deep down in their soul, is much higher on the moral measure. We are sorry you had to experience this, it's heartbreaking. Equally depressing that you can't vent to the family members who know you best - at least know the Brad we grew up with. Liars are hard to fight, I have found the best way to deal with them is to walk away, which is why I'm quite comfortable without your wife in my life, it didn't cost me my soul. From the newspaper articles it is apparent that the fight you were in was political, and we are proud that you stood your ground and defended your character, along with the many friends that supported you. Your maternal DNA is pretty strong stuff, we always triumph over those who attempt to malign us. I'm confident that you have won this particular battle and can now take a little nap in preparation for the next one. - Carla “It’s funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for are the ones behind the trigger.” – Unknown
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I can't find the name of this poet, which makes me sad, because I would really like to thank them for so eloquently expressing what I cannot. The betrayal of my adult children is bewildering and unconscionable. My son has estranged himself from me and my family for almost twenty years, and I do know, in some measure, how it started. It began with his toxic wife, who one Aunt kindly described as "a mess". I would perhaps characterize her as overly dark, or even downright evil. My daughter's treachery to me and my family is appalling, however, in hindsight it could have been anticipated, given her propensity to go with the flow that would benefit her the most. She tore herself from us during our sister's covid illness and death, choosing to hitch her wagon to sister's abusive, cheating, narcissistic, bible-thumping husband. It will soon be three years since my daughter's infidelity, and I truly no longer question what I did to cause it, I've realized that it is all on her. I'm writing this as a challenge to my kids: to answer my questions, and to justify their betrayals. To my son: describe to me exactly what kind of a monster you think I am. What hideous beast do you see that others do not? And when did that start? I know the exact timing but would love to hear your perspective. Why were you never my champion against distain? To my daughter: WTF? Explain yourself and your behavior. Family loyalty has never been your strong suit, at least not to the maternal side, and I want to know your motives. Why were you never my champion against distain? Why did they betray me, my sisters, and my family? I will listen to their explanation, if they first pay heed to my side of the story. I'm not sure either one has the emotional and moral strength to comprehend truths, it's much easier to swallow a mythomaniac's rantings. I want a direct confrontation, not this childish ghosting. I don't expect agreement, if they decide to go on about their merry way without me in their life, that's okay, at least they would know my truths. If they won't hear my narrative of our estrangement in private, I have no choice but to put it out there on social media, (and if this goes on without resolution, in my obituary) so that those who know me will understand that my own children's disloyalty and cruelty is not a reflection on me, but on their own brokenness. Like Judy Kay says, "I feel ya, Grandma". “It’s funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for are the ones behind the trigger.” – Unknown
Cousin Liza came across this painting at an art exhibition in Taos. It was about 3 months after her dad died. It spoke to her, she thought the windows looked like Grandma’s eyes, as Grandma depicts in many of her drawings.
Through most of our childhood, Grandma’s dining room table was the center of the family’s world. While the children played, the adults would gather at the table and discuss everything from politics to religion to family matters. It was such a comforting memory for me. I never remember thinking I couldn’t wait until I was an adult to join them. It was their domain, and I was good with that. When Liza showed us this picture, she shared that this is where she believe all those that have left us gather. Again, meeting around the table, discussing, laughing, waiting. Carla and I got chills when Liza told us that, and it has proven to be our go to while grieving. The most wonderful part of The Yellow House is that everyone I love is there. Anyone I chose is there. Mom and Kathy, Grandma, mothers and daughters together again. So many more. I realize this could be someone’s idea of heaven. I find that too restrictive. Too much forsaking, obedience, penance, wrath of god, blah, blah, blah. The Yellow House is filled with love, laughter and light. I know Nibbles and Cocoa are there under the table, punching legs for a treat. On this anniversary of Mom’s passing, I find solace in this painting. This is what art can do. Diogenes: He used to stroll about in full daylight with a lamp; when asked what he was doing, he would answer, "I am looking for a man." (Modern sources often say that Diogenes was looking for an "honest man", but in ancient sources he is simply "looking for a man". In his view, the unreasoning behavior of the people around him meant that they did not qualify as men.) From Wikipedia.
In an irony almost too mind-boggling to grasp, Grandma Layton's profound drawing of an historic philosopher ended up in the hands of a vulgar, ignorant, and narcissistic man. We saw through his Machiavellian tendencies long ago, unfortunately Joe Tracy's manipulation of emotions allowed him to control and influence his family and friends around him, ultimately serving his own interests. There are a hundred reasons why we formed this assessment of his character, but for now I will keep to the ones pertinent to this true backstory: the Diogenes drawing's journey from Grandma Layton's studio to the immoral hands of our brother-in-law. On July 4, 1981, Grandma gave the drawing to Kay, our mother. Mom had the same basic beliefs as Diogenes - a cynical bent on life - so this drawing fit into her personality perfectly. It would be several years before Joe made his obnoxious entrance into our lives, because during these years (the early 1980's) Kathy was married to a handsome "manly man", Jack, who adored Mom, Kathy's sisters, and his niece and nephew. Life continued, and when Kathy and Judy divorced their husbands, Judy moved to St. Joseph, MO to work at a weekly shopper, Kathy followed along, Carla and her small children moved there in early 1986 to escape a brutal ex, and Mom (with Diogenes) wasn't far behind. So you see, we knew Joe a long time, our feelings are not hyperbole. He was a braggart, liar, cheater, greedy, drug addict, glutton - I can't for the life of me think of a good quality in that man, he was the antithesis of the kind of human Diogenes was looking for. Before Mom died March 27, 2005, she bequeathed the drawing to Judy. After being stolen by Judy's ex-boyfriend and being hidden in the rafters of the basement, she finally recovered Diogenes and he found his place in her home. Kathy asked if she could borrow it to show some friends, and of course Judy said yes. It is an incredible work and should be seen by as many people as possible. We sisters had discussed many times that we would donate our Grandma Layton drawings to various museums upon our deaths, to keep Grandma's message alive, not knowing how soon that day would come. After our sister died, Joe cut us off from everything Kathy. He was horrible to her when she was alive, and it continued after her death. I will not recount everything that man did to destroy our family, that will have to wait for other posts (I'm trying really hard to keep my focus on Diogenes drawing's journey). We contacted Joe and told him we wanted the drawing returned to us or donated to a museum. We also explained to him that this was one of Grandma's "themed" drawings - he had no idea what we were talking about. Oh, what an ignorant man... We did not hear from him after that, then he died. Our sister's treasured possessions were sold off at garage sales or taken by greedy Tracy family members. We were determined to track down the drawing, going as far as threatening legal action if necessary. Finally, the drawing was found, donated by one of Joe's lackeys months after his death. I can hardly stand to look at the plaque, but it says, "donated by Joe Tracy...". No mention of Kathy's maiden name - everything is about Joe. The problem is that Diogenes was not Joe’s to donate. The drawing is Judy's. Mom, Grandma, and Kathy would be heartsick that he stole this drawing and passed it off as some benevolent tribute to Kathy. We expect this to be made right. We don’t really care who got the tax donation for it, let Joe have that, he didn’t care about Grandma’s message, just what he could get out of it. The Diogenes plaque should read, "Donated by the family of Elizabeth Layton, in honor of her granddaughter Kathy Beth Russell Tracy". I walk bent, my head twisted toward the ground.
My eyes watching the earth at my feet, my neck is too tired to hold my head up, so I see only dirt at my feet. My back weak, my neck tired, I see only the earth and humanity at my feet. One time I walked straight, my head held high. I felt the warmth of the sun on my face, I saw the searching tops of the tallest trees. Back then I thought I saw hope, but now I know that was just an illusion. My heart aches with open wounds - the losses of years past have never healed - they don't fester, but they don't heal. I am obligated to walk until the day when the final wound will destroy my heart. I lay down, and once again feel the suns warmth. Life is not only for the strong, but also for the helpless, those without hope, we must walk one more day, and one more day, waiting for the final round. Look at the wounds on my heart. Can you see that there is room for only one or two more? This one is for brother, Debbie, the calf, the child, the parent. Debbie, the little girl who fought cancer for a year, but always hopeless from the first day the cancer word was spoken. The hopelessness started years before, I don’t remember when. This scar is for my child, my son. All I know of him is a cry at his birth - I will always hear that cry in my heart for a child, my child. written by Kay sometime in the mid 1980's For as long as I can remember our mother was depressed. Of course, there were plenty of good, happy days, so many happy memories we have shared through the years, but always a sad undercurrent ran through. As her daughter I didn't understand the depth of her sadness, I suppose I assumed it was because she was a single mother with no child support raising three daughters, along with all life's tragedies and setbacks that everybody must endure. We girls did not know about the son mom had given up for adoption, and she never mentioned him to us, even on her death bed. Until I read this poem of hers, I didn't realize the depth of her grief. We wish she would have told us, but Mom was so private, and perhaps the telling would hurt more. Mom has been gone for eighteen years now, and it still hurts to know more of her sorrow. Yet I am consoled by this knowledge of a facet of her remarkable story, from her perspective. Mom was Elizabeth's fourth child, and anyone who has read Elizabeth's biography/memoir "Signs Along the Way" knows that Mom's childhood was anything but easy. All of the siblings had traumatic experiences while growing up and had to make tough decisions that affected their entire lives. But they were also very close, and also did what they could to help each other work through their traumas. Mom was, as were her siblings, beautiful, intelligent, independent, strong, and industrious - traits they got from their mother. Fortunately for us they were also a family of writers, and saved a lot of their correspondence, poetry, short stories, and journals. Through the years I have also written down some of my life experiences, as I'm sure a lot of us do. Hopefully my own kids will be interested enough in me to read through them, and not wait until I'm dead. I now know more about my mother as a child, woman, provider, poet, teenager, person, some of her hopes and dreams - her character is so much more than I ever imagined. I understand her better than before, and that soothes my soul. “It’s funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for are the ones behind the trigger.” – Unknown Even though it had been ten years since the last electric shock treatment, the sisters were still uneasy when their mother would offer to take her grandchildren out for the day. They could never be sure if Elizabeth was suffering a manic phase or dare to hope that this might be a hint of the return of their once adventurous mother. Elizabeth was adept at masking her depression when she had to and keeping busy with the grandchildren added some structure and light to a boring and restrictive household routine. Besides, she loved being a grandmother, and was determined not to let anyone hold her back from fulfilling those duties.
From page 228 of "Signs Along the Way" It is so good for us that Grandma Layton was so involved in our lives, in spite of our mother's initial resistance. I can't even imagine a childhood without my grandmother in it... Would I know how to swim? Or sew? Or read, or write a book? Or spell supercalifragilisticexpiali-docious? Or learn grace, independence, and how to write a thank you card? I don't know, maybe. Well, probably - Mom was taught well by her mother and she passed along those finer qualities - but it was a lot more fun with Grandma! Mom adored her grandchildren, and she led them down a more cultural path: weekends at the Renaissance Festival, art shows, National Geographic magazines, telescopes, microscopes - and she attended every school and 4-H function she could - proudly applauding with every award collected by her little geniuses. Alas - half-truths and outright lies, ulterior motives and control issues (among other character flaws) from a certain in-law have fathered family estrangements, and I have been branded a pariah by some souls I love the most - unable to heed my grandmotherly calling. The truth about grandmothers is that we are also mothers. And granddaughters. We've lived the spectrum and will never settle for any of those roles by title only. What woman wants to go through the hard work of raising a child and then be denied the joys of playing with her grandchildren? I would have been a wonderful grandma - I did learn from the very best! Grandma Layton's Mother's Day drawing is at the head of this conversation, the caption reads: "Here sits the Matriarch on her throne, taking, taking, yet demanding more. I call this my sick cow look." I couldn't have gifted this drawing to a more deserving person... Carla “It’s funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for are the ones behind the trigger.” – Unknown As opposed to The Path of Least Resistance, I think I will aspire to this new philosophy! Perhaps I have in some respects, no one sets out to make bad decisions. Whether they were calculated and well thought-out, or spontaneous and out-of-character, they seemed like good decisions at the time. If the end justifies the means, it can’t be all wrong, can it?
Yes, yes it can. Running headlong into a decision without thought of how it will affect you, and others, can set you up for the deepest and darkest of regrets. Icing out someone you love because of a perceived dis or criticism. In the quest for righteousness, leaving a wake of destruction in your path. Knowing right from wrong but choosing wrong. Maybe it was the path of least resistance, at the time full steam ahead. And sometimes, it’s too late for regrets, or validations, or apologies. When I saw this drawing of Grandma’s, Lady Macbeth, the first thing that came to mind was her regret. You can tell by her eyes that she is startled at what she has done, but they also show she knows it’s too late to make amends. So she is concentrating on getting out the physical spot, because she cannot wipe the stain on her soul away. This is just my interpretation of Grandma’s profound message. Of course murder in the quest for power is a bit extreme as an example, but it is Shakespeare after all! I do have regrets, oh boy do I ever. But I don’t ever want to make a decision based on a misguided loyalty to some ideal, selfishness, or pure laziness. It’s a difficult thing to judge regrets, particularly after the fact. Is it possible to make your choices based on The Path of Least Regret? Some choices are easy: don’t hurt, kill, abuse, neglect or steal. But some choices can be more challenging, “to do or not to do”. (See what I did there?) Passing judgement, being unfaithful, taking others for granted, choices like that can be justified. But just because they seem innocuous doesn’t mean they won’t cause regret down the line. So I’ll do the best I can, strive to keep all stains to a minimum. And keep my bottle of Shout handy… "When Elizabeth was publisher of the Wellsville Globe, I had the privilege of working just a half of a block from her office. Businesswomen were scarce on Main Street in the early 1940’s and not well accepted. Almost every building was occupied by a business owner and operated by a local, hardworking man, who in most cases was somewhat chauvinistic. They were not accustomed or receptive to having women at Chamber of Commerce meetings, much less listening to their suggestions."
From page 9 of "Signs Along the Way" It's hard to believe how much has changed in the past hundred years regarding women's rights - and even harder to explain those issues to the current generation. As a society, we have become complacent about such matters - until Trump slapped us out of our stupor with his misogynistic rantings and behavior. I feel like I'm watching a bad movie from the 1920's... When did this non-equality thing start, anyway? And how? We all know there are physical and emotional differences, that's what makes us each special. But, every one of us starts out as the same tiny bundle of cells, in the big scheme of things it doesn't really matter what we turn out to be. No - the equality issue raises it's ugly head in matters of politics, legislation, employment, and education opportunities. I can personally relate to issues of women's equality only from the mid 1950's on - you'll have to go to Google for stats and numbers of other eras. I lived many changes, right along with Mom and Grandma Layton. Young ladies, understand that many rights you take for granted today have not always existed, and can be surely taken away. Divorce carried quite a stigma in the 1950's, and since employment opportunities were mostly limited to "traditional" women's jobs such as secretary, teacher, librarian, etc., many women settled for a cheating and/or abusive husband rather than face the social shame and financial struggles bestowed upon a "grass widow". Mom and Dad were divorced when I was three, and there were minimal child support laws in place. One hundred dollars a month for three girls would barely pay a babysitter - but Mom wasn't even able to collect a dime. In fact, the one time she took Dad back to court to enforce the support, the judge decreased the payments, because Mom made more money than Dad did - which was barely nothing. In the 60's, elementary girls were not allowed to wear trousers or slacks of any kind to school, it was dresses or skirts and blouses only. In fact, it was the early to mid-1970's before female office workers were permitted to wear pantsuits in the workplace in many cities - and they had to be a matching jacket and slacks. My daughter Shannon would have never made it past Kindergarten - it was a huge struggle to get her into a dress, at least until she turned sixteen or so... How wonderful it is to be able to choose a varied wardrobe, seems like such a little thing these days, but as a little girl, how I longed to wear pants to school! It sure would have prevented lots of skinned-up knees at recess... Birth control. Feels like it has been our "right" forever, right? Not entirely. In 1965, the Supreme Court finally gave married couples the right to use birth control. However, millions of unmarried women in 26 states were still denied birth control, literally and politically screwed. It wasn't until 1972 that the court legalized birth control for all citizens of this country, irrespective of marital status. Seven years worth of unwanted pregnancies and risky illegal abortions that could have been avoided, if only women had the right to decide. Since I brought up that touchy abortion subject, let me just say this: No woman, anywhere or ever, said, "Such a lovely day, I think I'll get an abortion." It is an unbearably difficult decision that should never be legislated. And that's all I will say about that... Financial equality hasn't always been a thing, and we still have a long way to go. Women had to have their husband's permission to get a bank account as recent as the 1960's. By 1974, the Equal Credit Opportunity Act passed, and single, married, or widowed we no longer needed a man to cosign for us. Can you believe it? That was only 43 years ago... I could go on and on, but will let Grandma Layton's drawing fill in the rest. We can't go backward - our daughters deserve so much more. Carla Carrie Fisher, may she Rest In Peace, battled her mental illness for years, sometimes quite publicly. But I was surprised to learn that she credited electroshock therapy with helping her to cope with the depression. My Grandma Layton didn't have the positive experience of that therapy. But, at one of her darkest hours, it offered hope, and her thirteen treatments were completed before she found the healing art of Blind Contour Drawing. An excerpt, titled "Transverse Shadows", from her biography/memoir, Signs Along The Way:
I was cold, hard marble. Despair and fear are at least feelings, and very intense ones. And affection is better than none. Having once been sensitive, I recalled the sensations, and as with pain, I could and did hold and examine them. Now I was unable to experience them. In this vacuum I wanted to make dejection and fear my friends, the way a person in unbearable suffering makes friends with his pain, groping the way to death. I wanted to feel my way back to life, even if I had to endure death to do it. Different experiences with different results. But Carrie and Grandma shared a common denominator: living with, and battling to overcome their disease by expressing themselves - some way, somehow. Carrie wrote, acted, and advocated. Grandma Layton wrote, drew, and advocated. I am glad they both have found peace. - Judy Kay One Sunday morning Liza woke up with a start when she felt arms laid heavy on her chest. Mrs. Burress was kneeling there, her head on the bed. She stood up, picking up a little suitcase. The catch opened and a potted Easter Lily fell out. The pot cracked, spilling dirt all over the floor. Mrs. Burress took hold of the bloom and raised the plant high. Dirt dropped off of the roots and onto the bed. "What God hath joined together let no man put asunder!" she cried loudly, "I’m going back to my husband! God blesses marriage. We are still married, and he wants me back!" That said, she returned to her room.
Liza ran downstairs and called Mr. Burress. He came right over, and together they persuaded the woman to check into the nearby rest home. Liza went to visit her for three days, then the lady in charge said, "We couldn’t handle her anymore, had to tie her to the bed, so we sent her to the insane asylum." "There but for the Grace of God, go I," Liza whispered. From page 126 of Signs Along the Way... June 2016 was a good month for bad news. A co-worker, Barbro, lost her battle with cancer... I thought for sure she was too stubborn to let go. Mary, another co-worker, lost her husband to cancer within a couple of weeks of Barbro's passing. Orlando Florida lost 49 souls at the Pulse nightclub terrorist attack, the deadliest attack in US history. A couple of days later a two-year old boy was pulled into a lagoon by an alligator at a Disney World resort, and in spite of his father's valiant efforts to save him, was killed - his body recovered days later. And then we have our personal daily life obstacles and burdens. Judy Kay was reluctant to talk to her sisters about any of her job related stress - she figured her problems were not as abysmal as my marriage dissolution, or as agonizing as Kathy Beth's rheumatoid arthritis. I really didn't want go on and on about my endless, bizarre arguments with my meth-damaged husband - everybody else seemed to have much bigger miseries to bear. That's the humanity in us, I suppose, to feel empathy and sympathy for our fellow humans and critters when they are suffering and sad. While I usually don't think, "There, but for the grace of God, go I"... the first words to myself are often, "My troubles aren't that big..." Until Kathy Beth told me and Judy Kay about a conversation between her and her RA doctor concerning Kathy's close friend, that went something like this: "She had just been diagnosed with RA and I told him I felt bad for her, that she would have to deal with the pain and all that goes with RA. He patted my leg and said, 'Kathy, very few people have RA as bad as you do'. I'm glad for her!" Yes!!! That was my reaction. Let me explain... The doctor's simple mention of the severity of Kathy's RA was an affirmation of sorts - that yes, it's a deep trouble. What I am about to relate is not a woe-is-me, self-pity rant - it's just a simple statement: My marriage is bad - very, very bad. Unbearably horrid. And it's been like that for the past three years. Before that, I thought we were pretty darned good together. I'm not going to go into the bizarre changes in his personality, suffice it to say that I thought he had a brain tumor, and was desperate to help him. Stupid me. The day I tried to sit him down and talk him into seeking medical help is the day my love for him vanished; he was cocky, mean, ugly, defensive - and tweaking. No brain tumor messing with his head, he proudly admitted, meth was his madness. Months before that day this monster had been accusing me of witchcraft, porn making, hiding money from him - at one point he even accused me of kidnapping children - and of being an actual stolen child myself. I have found seven hidden (well, not very well hidden) mini-recorders, two super dooper motion-activated video camera's (one was in my bedroom, and one was in the vent above the toilet). There's a lot more, I could write a book! Turns out he had been spying on me incessantly, I can't even begin to describe how violated I feel... Apparently all meth addicts behave in this manner, it kills that part of the brain. But you can't tell them that - they live in their own perverted fantasy world. My emotions have ranged from compassion to fury, all the while attempting to keep up the house, my job, and my own sanity. And my money. Part of his insane delusion is that I pretty much own the internet, along with China, Germany, Canada, Gill Studios, horse stables, etc. Since he is unable to maintain steady employment, he wants all he can get from me. Oh, and he has a girlfriend. Which tickles me to no end, although I did hope that he would find somebody who could support him financially. But I should have known that he doesn't run in those kind of circles... So for now, my entire life is carried along in my purse, truck, and office desk drawer, for thirty-four days, when our divorce is final and he is out of my life for good. Thirty-four more horrid days with a meth addict, free-loading off of me while recording my every move, and accusing me of impossible, disgusting things. I feel better already, admitting to myself that yes, this is a very, very bad trouble. Oh wait - he's leaving town with his (slightly) younger girlfriend! For three glorious days!!! A taste of the freedom yet to come! So by next Friday I will have only thirty-one unbearable days to go... - Carla |
AuthorIf an inquisitive somebody were to demand a DNA analysis be done on the 3 sisters, he may not be surprised to find those twisted strands are coated with a healthy dose of printer's ink, given our pedigree and the many literary contributions from our maternal ancestors: Archives
August 2024
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