BOOK TWO: A Mama’s Long View Redemption Chapter Ten Playing Strindberg in August
BOOK TWO: A Mama’s Long View Redemption
Chapter Ten
Playing Strindberg in August
“I feel that one of
us must go under in this struggle.”
--- Adolf to Laura
regarding their child’s future in Act II of August Strindberg’s The Father, 1887
10K road races were all the rage in the
My goal in the Iowa Games 10K for three Augusts had been
just to finish it – and not to have
ever walked during any part of it. Never
officially walked, that is. Alongside me, others could walk faster than I
could run, but that wasn’t the point to me.
I had “to run” the whole damn thing and never, during any of it, be
found walking. That third, and the last, Iowa Games 10K that I ever entered, I
was just certain about half way through it along around the cut east from the
Veekner Golf Course onto 13th Street and the beginning of that
annual, horrid, so – long rise to the final turn, that I was, any minute then,
gonna catch up to that woman’s orange butt just 20 strides in front of me and
surpass it. I didn’t.
The second year they’d even sent out a scout on horseback …
no, not another man on a horse; he was astride a sleek 10 - speed, to find
me. I was just about at that same
halfway point when he did. He rode
beside me the entire way to the end encouraging me, never letting both of my
feet touch the pavement simultaneously.
I had managed a rather breathless explanation of what I was about and
he, in his skintight tartan biking shorts and about 15 years my senior maybe,
understood. The usual words. Coach – like.
“You can do it. Suuuurre, ya’ can. I’ll stay right here beside you. I won’t leave you. We just wanted to make sure you were okay,
ya’ know. You got kids? O, they’ll be so proud o’ you! Just so proud. You’ll see.
We’ll get ya’ there. You
betcha! Com’on, now, just one in front
of the other. And then just one in front
of the other again. That’s it. Com’on, now.”
The whole time, except for a few moments when he said he was going to
shut up and just ride beside me and he actually did. All the way back to the line. Believe me, he hadn’t needed those 10
speeds. Not at the rate I was never to
exceed it seems. Every single 10K every
one of those three consecutive years I came in dead last.
I didn’t tell Coach Tartan that Dr. Edinsmaier ... ah, Dr.
Wonderful was gonna see to it that none of my three kids was gonna be there to
see me at the end. It wouldn’t’ve helped
me. Or him.
At the starting gate / finish line, the one and the same
area in the loop that was the circular route of the whole race every year,
there was always a bejeweled behemoth of an ambulance out from its usual hanger
at our town’s hospital emergency room.
The kind with all the lovely bells and whistles and flashing red and
yellow lights. It and its staff rarely,
if ever, in my stint at road – racing were ever used as I recall. Hundreds of us ran; but we seemed hardly out
for blood, either figuratively or otherwise, so fortunately, few injuries or
collapses ever occurred. Yet it was
there every year just in case, probably because of insurance or that sort of
legal stuff; and that was reassuring and comforting. It really was. As reassuring as the four hearty thumbs – up
were to me from both of its arm – waving and hooting attendants who had been
leaning cross – legged out in front of it until I finally came into their view
about an hour and 20 minutes or so after I had first left it. I probably wasn’t the darling of their race
every year. It was just that they could
go back to the garage now so, after giving me that welcome home, they’d jump in
the cab, rev up its engine and be hauling ass out of their assigned medics’
corner as I finally crossed the line.
Dead last. But I did come
in. And … I never walked.
And they all had helped to do that, too. I know none of their names and guess I never
did, and I have never kept in touch with any of them that I’m aware of since
that last hot, hot summertime; but they all did this thing, too. This running and finishing thing. This finishing feeling is Midwestern or so I
was thinking it was.
After a bit of breath – catching, it was time to head back
to Othello Drive and the Brookside Forest backyard. This was not very far at all, less than 6½
blocks, since the route of the race looped first beside that urban Forest’s southern
periphery with the palatial bachelor’s pad at the north end of the circle –
around which I had just crawled. I
reached the double garage door and paused on the driver’s side of Herry’s
Toyota Crown, an old white station wagon with an aluminum plating about a foot
square riveted around and hiding some skin flaw near its rear – end. I never did know what flaw was being covered
over back there.
It was kind of helpful to have that unique spot there though
because whenever I was about town and couldn’t see Herry’s 5’6½” stature
leering up above the steering wheel, only a silly straw hat or woolen wide –
brim atop the driver, I would know it was he because that particular vehicle
was his. That one with the silver
metallic plate near the left rear. He
wore those attention – grabber hats I don’t know why. He never said a thing at all about them
saving his complexion from the harmful rays, he being a pathologist and all
and, by this time, having done a lot of biopsies of skin cancers of the
outright worst kinds. Maybe he thought
they made him look taller in the saddle.
I really don’t know. ‘Cept that
they did, indeed, garner him a lot of attention all right. You knew it was he coming along when you saw
those hats and that car. A couple of
his private airplanes were stabled back at the Kansas airport a couple of
states away so Herry must’ve ridden that old beater wagon around town as his
source of a certain kind of assumed humility or somethin’.
Maybe I should have checked out what was behind that
galvanized plate more closely. What other
secrets might have been holed up back there?
As it was, I blew out one last long build – up of lactic acid as carbon
dioxide and remembered that ugly drift of Herry’s usual type that’d come over
the family’s other wagon seat, that one in the tan Dodge Diplomat about how it
was I wouldn’t even be able to find
the track on which to run the 10K, the one that Herry’d chucked into my chest
from his driver’s seat right before he and Zane and Jesse and Mirzah had just
dropped me off there at the starting line a couple hours earlier before their
all headin’ on over to Jesse’s soccer match.
Makin’ sure, he must’ve been doing, probably. Makin’ sure I found the track okay after all.
Its side window was rolled down; and a white splash on the
driver’s bucket seat next to the black console all strewn with the usual front
– seat driver stuff of used, crumpled paper cups and several pens and cassette
tapes not inside the dash deck and not in their jackets either, caught my eye
as I headed toward the russet garage door that opened into the kitchen. I reached in and picked it up. It had writing on it. “Darling Herry,” it began. I turned it over. A lovely autumnal colors’ mountain scene but
with no words was on the other side, and
I didn’t recognize the area of the picture nor the postcard as any I had ever
sent Herry.
Herry, our husband and father, had physically been absent a
lot before we’d finally moved to Ames.
First it had been to south central Missouri four hours away
from the Boys and me. Subbing a week at
a time, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier did, for that one pathologist down there who had
no kids himself and who flew off east to confab with the feds on some funky
military project one week out of every month for about a year. Then Herry lived three to four days a week
every week inside Kansas City bunking in some hotel there that I never did
visit one time. And drove two hours back
home to Manhattan after pathology work
at a small, private lab in KC arriving late Thursday nights about 11 or
so.
Solidly every single weekend then of the eight of them, that
is, for the first two months we had lived in Manhattan and just a mere five
hours or so after Dr. Edinsmaier’s ingress I myself was up that very next
Friday morning and on the road at 4 am back to Columbia for yet another four –
day weekend spent finishing up the writing of the dissertation there. I’d sent Herry cards and letters, not a lot
but some. More than one time I had had
flowers delivered to him, too, usually carnations, three blue – tipped ones and
one white one, the symbolism I am now fairly certain totally lost on him. He may have gotten it, however, and likely
made the conscience choice to specifically not say that he had actually noticed
it. Still, I sent them again.
This postcard from next to the Crown’s console wasn’t one of
mine. Rhoda it was signed, and she
continued in rather a quite scrawled script not, I remember thinking later, not
too characteristic of many a woman’s graceful handwriting, “I miss you so. Miss you so much. I’m sending you this picture so you’ll have
it to remind you of our wonderful conversations out at The View. I go out there now sometimes after work just
to …” I didn’t finish it. I just threw it back onto his front seat
without regard as to how it landed there.
It didn’t matter how it was placed there. I took no care to see that this particular
postcard was propped and tilted just as it had initially been before its tossed
placement had netted my notice. None at
all.
* *
* *
That message was one piece of a puzzle, and there were only
going to be many, many more to come.
Once they began to show up then, the pieces seemed to appear quicker and
quicker and to not be so far apart from each other either. Like I was supposed to find these clues.
And to get the puzzle figured
out myself alone – all before everyone else in the family even knew there was a
new structure to our long – term futures going up at all. Herry was excluded, of course, as he was the
mastermind actually and strategically positioning these little clues all
around.
As a matter of fact, the house of cards was coming down, not
up; and what it was that was spiraling so low, and fairly rapidly now, was our
marriage and our family. Indeed, these
puzzle pieces or, more likely, building blocks, I was supposed to find. I was
the one of the two of us to go under. That was the major portion of Herod’s plan of marital and familial
deconstruction all along. That is,
Herry’s plan to build up his own escaped future.
At the very same juncture and most importantly to that plan
though, too, Herod badly needed to all the world but most especially to his
Boys and to his father, that Roman Catholic layman patriarch and Republican
activist leader of their rural county political party, Juggern Aut Misein, and
to his ten other siblings and all of their clans, that enormously expansive
extension of Edinsmaiers, to save face, too.
At all cost. That
same image – maneuvering that Mehitable, my
mother, was so skilled at creating,
Herod needed to securely manufacture for himself.
A rather formidable task at that, this all was going to be,
too. Or so it would seem it was going to
be. Because not only was the matter of
Herod’s image as “so – not – the –
perpetrator” of this marital bust – up quite critical to him, his entire family
of origin was allegedly rooted in the marriage – for – life – no – matter –
what religions, those western and eastern ones, among them Christianity, Islam,
Judaism, all put together over a matter of about seven millennia now and all of
them so carefully and calculatingly constructed that way by men. That is, Herry was born into and himself
hailed from the very source of that genre of marriage – vowing where ya’
couldn’t get out of it. No matter
what.
‘Least they said
they were. At least all of the
Edinsmaiers that I’d ever met walked around every day pontificating on and on
about how it was that that was that, and it couldn’t be changed. No undoing allowed here now. Not after marrying and after vowing. Not after the woman’s and the man’s sexual
union – making was performed under the auspices and only at the allowed and
granted permission of powerful males’ even – more – powerful male deities. Yada, yada, yada. At the very least Herry had to then, at the
end wherever that was going to be, come out smelling like ‘the brutalized
victim’ in this whole matter of family break – down. And looking to all others like he had had no
other option whatsoever in this made – for – television picture, ‘this
situation’ that Legion True, his would – be murderess, had forced him in to –
except to choose, in order to save himself from certain annihilation, to run,
run, run and to run as far away and as fast away as he possibly could get. This particular type of choosing, then, being
the arrant essence of Herry’s plan.
I find out much later – in private therapy and from true
friends’ so – wise counsel – that all this puzzle piece – finding of mine is
such old hat. In strategically
attempting to move toward a legally decreed divorce whilst yet retaining an
intact image – oftentimes with actually gaining an enhanced one even, clue –
dropping isn’t or need not be, by the conniving spouse of the couple, original
or clever or crafty or even well thought out.
Herry, I learn, hasn’t had to expend any effort nearly at all. Yet the entire razing of this architectural
design of his was coming along quite nicely.
And at hardly any expense to Herry of any other kind as well. Like dollars or emotional gut investment or
time spent in actual prefatory hours – in addition to the meager thinking
processes involved in the plan. I guess
the only cost to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier really was the time he spent in patience
– that is, in just waiting it out, in just waiting for the plan to unfold, to play itself out and to bring to him with its
final closing curtain the reward Herry so sought and of which he thought
himself so deserving. Escape.
* *
* *
My plan, though,
was somewhat unrelated by quite a bit. I
was going to not work. Not work at being
a veterinarian and professor, that is.
Instead, for a short – term hiatus in the little towards – the – future
– in – my – head plan for the next five years, I was actually going to take up,
full – time, what I considered to be Olympics – qualifying yet professional –
quality parenting for the next full year at least. Then I would look to re – enter actual
professional endeavor of the scientifically diagnostic and clinical teaching
type after those 12 months or thereabouts.
“I can’t take out much more time than that, a year,” I was
thinking on women. “I know what happens to PhDers who stop for
awhile to have kids and this’ll be no different! Shit happens to their careers. That’s
what. And pronto! But I can take a year off. That’ll be safe enough. And then the next four? Why, with so many, many veterinary – related
opportunities here in the immediate Ames area, that will not be a problem at
all, I’m sure of it. All the Boys will
be in middle school or high school by then.
I’ll be an established researcher or clinician by the end of the fifth
year since I’ll’ve made myself indispensable so my asking for more freed – up
time to be home nights when the Boys are all in high school or Mirzah’s
finishing middle school won’t be any hassle at all. Guys get it off all the time, fathers
do. And so will I. By that time!”
My plan! A very good
one, too: I at home much more at night
by the time all three of the Truemaier Boys reach that very vulnerable stage –
adolescence!
This, after all, was right on schedule really with that
Master Plan for me, the one I’d devised back in Hershey during Herod’s
pathology residency there when I was working two practices, subbing and taking
call so much. I’d become an academician
and have more time, then, to be home nights.
Home with Herry, Zane, Mirzah and Jesse and not having to take that
call. So, as the Boys each blazed past
the 12 – year – old mile – marker of their lives and acquired that totally
frightening title known as ‘teenager’ … one right after the other … why, I
would really physically be home nights then.
I had had to forfeit that peace of mind as a vet student when Z was such
a sweetie baby. Then, too, as a clinician
during Jesse’s infancy – of which I can
never remember his first six months of existence at all – not even by my
purposefully trying on Mother’s Days in Quaker Meetings for Silent Worship to
reminisce about Jesse’s wee beginning weeks.
Yet cannot seem ever to bring any of it back to my mind. Again, I was gone nights and weekends
studying or in the lab or writing the dissertation a state away those four
years in the University of Missouri’s Veterinary Microbiology PhD program at
Columbia. But those several had been the
sacrifices which both Dr. Edinsmaier and I were more than willing to make,
Herry being very much in favor of my obtaining the last nine of the 14 total
years that constituted my higher education.
Those days – and nights – were now all in our past. History.
I could hardly contain myself. No more lip service was I going to give to
‘being there’ for Jesse, Mirzah and Zane.
I was going to be there
literally now and chaperone class field trips, host holiday cookie decorating
parties, chauffeur the whole team if they all needed rides and volunteer to not
only be homeroom parent but to also have an active voice on the principal’s
budget – planning committee.
Our committee recommended the Boys’ elementary school’s
needs and expenditures for the next academic year on up to the Ames Community
Schools’ superintendent and his budget - planning committee by November, and
all of those budgeting deliberations then went on up to the School Board which
held open hearings for the public’s input as well during the following new
year’s February. I was going to lead,
too, both the First Day School and the Library Committees at Friends
Meeting.
In addition, I would get the instrument lessons well
underway. A major part of my getting
those up and running would be for me to figure out some manner in which to get
the Boys all to practice because, well, practicing was such enjoyment that they
just wanted to! Clarinet first for Zane,
then the nearly immediate switch to cornet.
He really didn’t ‘have the lip’ for the reed nor the abdominal muscle
power of wind behind it or, at this very beginning, the willingness to try to
develop it. And his right thumb
hurt. A lot. From holding up the whole thing, the thumb constantly
strained in its position under the silver metal support at the back of the
clarinet a bit over halfway down its length.
This I understood so Zane took up with the brass thingy
instead, rented also from Howard over at the Main Street Music Shop; and the
contract agreement just transferred over to the cornet. No problem.
Howard was real cool. He knew
about young boys and their playing band instruments at the first. He knew, too, about politics and the
Democratic Party and had sat with me ‘til 3 in the morning a couple of weeks
earlier while, together, we had hammered out what resolutions and planks we
wanted to have worded exactly so and right ready for the county convention
upcoming the next spring. Part of my
five – year plan, too, was to get involved in party politicking which I was. Like it mattered. And I should show the Boys that it did.
Flute suited Jesse, my very own, closed – hole Gemeinhardt
30 years old and seasoned now, the one that Mehitable insisted, nearly
demanded, I sell off and get rid of as soon as I’d become a college
freshmen. But I reneged. And had never sold it. I didn’t take it out of its scuffed, caramel
– colored case, assemble it or play it much ever at all anymore. That much was true. But it was mine, and it was a part of me, and
the flute would not be sold. The case
handle had come apart in two pieces several years earlier and could not be used
to carry the instrument in its case at all.
For Jesse I fashioned it a new handle out of white hanger wire and
cellophane tape, clear at first, now dirty clear, of course, and rusted. I think he was ashamed of it, mentioned something
to that effect a couple of times and then apparently fell to actually playing
the flute fairly well and said no more about that handle. Which worked.
And adorns that flute’s case still.
Also the accordion, of all things, that Mehitable and AmTaham
had purchased second – or thirdhand at auction and given to Jesse. The accordion, they said, because of all
three Truemaier Boys, Jesse was the one who demonstrated an intense proclivity
for the keyboard. That did appear to be
true, too. Playing the piano and the
typewriting with computer keyboards both.
But an accordion? I think it was
taken out of its huge and hard – to – store case twice, the second time to show
some friends of Jesse’s. And that was
it. Ever.
That black and white monstrosity did serve to remind me,
though, that I could not let Jesse – nor Zane
and Mirzah either for that matter – lose touch with the many
music skills they had learned from Suzuki.
I was, indeed, going to make sure that Celestine’s teachings
and my earlier untiring efforts with all three
of them and piano continued to pay off long into their
adolescence and beyond, I was. I would
keep the battered 1939 W. P. Haines & Co., New York, tuned well and
humidified – something that I had been most lax about doing in the past – even
when the Boys actively took those four years of lessons each in Columbia where
I, alone and without Herry even one time making any such offer to do so,
accompanied each one of them to every weekly lesson and nightly, right after
concluding my day job of graduate studies, practiced separately with each Boy
ultimately arranging for their Saturday group lessons as well as for their
individual Book recitals. And I was
going to buy their favorite rock and roll songs in scores easy enough for both
them and me to read and to play. Not
just their Suzuki Books. If that would
help.
Grandpa and Grandma also announced at the same time the
accordion came to live with us for a little while how it was that they had also
bought a drum for Mirzah whenever he was ready to start lessons. Well, not exactly a drum … but four of them actually.
Complete with two foot pedals, top hat cymbals and hot pink, glow – in –
the – dark drumsticks. “You wouldn’t
usually think it so, I know,” the seller had easily convinced Grandpa AmTaham
who already knew he was going to buy the shiny, bing cherry red and pearly
silver and chrome set for Mirzah, “but the drums and the drummer? They’re the Soul of the band, Mister! Without the drummer, well, ya’ just haven’t
got a band at all.”
And not to forget to get in enough time for just plain
playing in the pool along with diving fun.
In addition to making absolutely certain that all three of them kept
current their star abilities as strong swimmers now, the skill they had acquired
at great dollar cost to Herry and me when they had had those private swim
lessons, too, in Columbia. Literally, …
life – altering … lessons paid for after Herry’s four – minute canoeing
calamity on the North Fork of southern Missouri’s White River with Mirzah,
Jesse and me all violently plunged into an early spring melt’s worth of a
raging, debris – strewn and St. Patrick’s Day – freezing cold river tempest – –
and after the deflating air mattress near – tragedy at Finger Lakes State Park
with the babysitter, Stacey. When she
hadn’t put a life jacket on any one of them.
Life jackets that we actually possessed.
And that likely had saved us all during that North Fork fiasco. Which Herod had, truly, the same evening that its shameful story came crashing
through to the psyches of the Truemaier Boys’ parents, giggled away with, “Well, nothing happened, did it? So forget about it.”
My babies’ lives!
But. Hey. I should forget about it! My husband and the father of my precious Boys
was actually making to me, their mother, the declarative statement that I
should forget about it!
I have never forgotten about it! Not the crippling and frigid fear knotting up
my gut, the throat choke when I couldn’t swallow. Their friggin’ real – life yet near – death,
literal day – at – the – beach mother – fuck!
Jesse, Zane and Mirzah have not forgotten how that ‘special’ splash in
the pond made them feel that day either.
No. We would swim and swim and
swim and truly practice this year. And
we would – all four of us – we would
remember Nursemaid Stacey’s stupid, Finger Lakes faux pas. Even if Herry – Daddee again made it his choice to forget.
Pretty Stacey was a puzzle piece, too. One of those numerous names of females that
was ushered in and uttered up in that southwest Othello bedroom on dark, mother
– fucking nights. “I haven’t nailed her
yet; but if you died,” Herod Edinsmaier figured out loud to me, “why, the
Boys’d need a mom and since they really liked Stacey and her little twin
sisters who were just Zane’s age when we lived there, then I reckon I could probably go back there and get her
to marry me even though she’s half my age and not yet done with nursing
school. She’d be done, though, no doubt,
by the time you died.”
I wondered: “Do
normal married couples converse like this?
Like, ‘In case you died, then I’d go off and marry so and so.’ Quite matter of fact – like and not, ‘I’d cry
like freakin’ hell if you died!!! It
would grieve me so!!!’ Especially as
foreplay conversation?” I wasn’t wearing
a life jacket either. While flailing
about and trying to swim in that swampy pond scum smut that was Herry’s
spew. And Herry’s semen.
I was particularly going to get involved in making certain
Zane and Jesse became certified safe Iowa
hunters. It was a
little early for this since certification, by Iowa law, couldn’t occur before a
youth’s age of 12 years; but, still, we could go to all the classes and I
myself could become a certified instructor.
As part of my plan, then, the four of us, Zane, Jesse, Grandpa AmTaham
and I would be readied, three generations together of hunter - gatherers! This was going to be a key piece of my super
– parenting year off from vet work; and with three teaching sessions offered in
the county that same year, there would even be a choice of times for our
fitting this in. Or, we could go to them
all certain to learn something new each time and, at the last one then, Zane would be 12 and able
to sit for the certifying exam! Mirzah
was not hunter – inclined, and that was just fine. No pressure there. But Jesse and Zane certainly were, and this
so pleased me.
And AmTaham. My daddy
had such grand plans himself that he
could hardly be contained. Besides the
hunting thing, his favorite babes were finally, at last, all back in Iowa and
only two short hours’ driving time from him.
Even I pleased him immensely. He
couldn’t get any happier. It was early
August 1987.
* *
* *
The Iowa Games over it was time to think about school
enrollment and all of my school – related activities besides those of the
Boys. At the pinnacle was the fact that
this would be yet another new school placement for all of them. Zane’s next birthday, as well as Jesse’s,
was fast approaching, too, but Zane was yet officially ten years old.
And this one, to Ames, constituted Herry’s and my 12th
move then as a couple. Four of those had
been several states or some states apart, not just cross town. A dozen moves in Zane’s first ten years. What kind of parents do this to a kid? No, to three kids. Because while it was that many moves done
onto Zane, to date Jesse, too, had been moved by his parents ten times in his
eight years of life; and in his seven years on the Planet Earth then, Mirzah
was uprooted by these same two adults from whatever personal space he had
managed to claim as his own eight different times, too.
So. ‘Upwardly mobile’
I think it’s termed. That’s the genre of
parents that have no apparent qualms about this level of unrest in three little
Boys’ lives. At least it’s one kind of
parent that often does this anyhow.
Rationalization and justification had come easy. Herry had to do what Herry had to do. Everyone knew that. It was standard. The guy did whatever made him feel good about
himself as a human doing. And that was that. No matter that this particular guy was absent
a lot. That was part and parcel to the
making of a man’s identity. The kids’d just have to come in second. Or third.
Or later somewhere. The man, he
is especial. So. Herry was off doctoring. Although three times a daddy, Herry was off
doctoring somewhere. He was da’
man. Androcentrically, the standard measure. And that was right.
Me? Legion? I cleaned
up after every one of those packed Ryders or U – Hauls – – ya’ know, the
oven, the stovetop, the refrigerator –
freezer, the floors, shampooed the carpets, scoured the toilets, polished the
fixtures. And the windows. I often joked – but only to myself since
Herry was never around to be found with a scrub rag, a floor mop or a toilet
brush in his hand – that, “My house was never cleaner than when I’d scrubbed it
up that one last time ‘fore we were all traipsin’ away from it for good!” And I, Legion, retrieved back then for our
family, as well, every single penny of rental deposit money after every single
landlord’s walk – through and checkout.
All twelve times. Like clockwork,
this deal of finishing up.
Not the human doing
of the Edinsmaier – True marriage, I, on the other hand, had done it all in
particular preparation for my being home early evenings when the Boys neared
and entered their respective adolescent years.
That was my plan. Back when.
To enter and finish veterinary medical school. Then, soon after, to enter and finish the PhD
program. A Midwestern thing in me, this
finishing, or so I was thinking it was.
And I felt so proud of myself for these accomplishments. A dozen moves and over a decade later, damned
if it weren’t true. We were right on
track. The plan was on the right track –
– and I was finding it!
On schedule, too, we were for our next move, the one that is
‘the movin’ on up’ one. After all, the
two airplanes and the sprawling bachelor ranch were already material proof of
that one happening. And I was not only
home early evenings, I was home all day, too!
For the next 12 months or so at least – so that quest on my part to be a
star – studded, celestially Olympian mother would make it all up to the
Truemaier Boys for both Herry’s and my having been so occupied with the
acquisition of our educations and our beginning professional experiences –
before this upcoming 11th birthday of Zane’s and the ninth of
Jesse’s. And then so closely following
his older brothers’, Mirzah’s eighth one in late September.
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