The Life Story of Mother Phyllis Jean 5/15/1930 - 7/17/2013
                                 The Life Story of   Mother Phyllis Jean   5/15/1930 - 7/17/2013

ACT I : You have to Travel through Hell to get to Heaven

Shortly after I was released from the South Bend hospital in 1963, my Mom’s husband moved the family to a very small town in the State of Iowa.

 

Please understand that for the past 3,000 years, up until the 1980’s, if you wanted to escape liability and/or prosecution, all you had to do was cross a State line. Police files and corporate billing records were kept on paper - computers and cell phones had not been invented - so unless you murdered a government official, people would often simply vanish into the thin air.

 

So why would a man suddenly abandon the family business and give up a nice home in the city with a country club membership to move to a small little town in Iowa with a snake infested backyard?

 

Many, many people were asking questions of my Mom’s husband and he was very afraid that he would go to jail, so he fled across TWO State lines in an effort to escape. He even changed his name to Victor from Virgil while living in Iowa.

 

The civil authorities in the State of Indiana, especially the District Attorney in South Bend, had many questions for my Mom’s husband, questions such as:

 

1). Why did he drive a boy that had been kicked in the head by a horse to a hospital in South Bend, Indiana, more than 50 miles away from the accident site, when he could have driven to the Plymouth Hospital Emergency Room only three miles away?

 

2). Why did he drop off this boy in the ER, then sneak out a side door, without leaving his insurance information, name or any form of contact?

 

3). And of course, the really big question, the one that the District Attorney struggled with to find a reason to prosecute - when the medical community could not agree if it was a crime -  was why was this young boy sexually mutilated?

 

You see, back in 1963 in the Midwest section of the United States, medical workers had never heard of, read about , nor let alone - seen a young boy like me before!

 

Male circumcision was a ritual only practiced by those of the Jewish religion as part of an elaborate, painful and somewhat embarrassing ritual on young men around 13 years of age.

 

In 1963 when the doctors saw that I was already “cut” at 5-years old, I was considered a side-show freak, an oddity; no one in the hospital had ever seen a little circumcised boy like me before. I was the 1960’s “bat boy” @.

 

With no background information, just a name written on the elastic band of my underwear @ as they disrobed me to clean my blood-drenched body, the hospital staff assumed that I was some kind of American-German hybrid.

 

"This little boy is not just Jew-ish, he must be SUPER Jew-ish!" the Emergency Room Doctor exclaimed, after noticing that as a young boy, I was already circumcised.

 

"Martha- Martha Kent!" he called for the Head Nurse.

 

"Please call the local Jewish Community (in South Bend, Indiana) and see if they know who this little boy is."

 

"...and also ask them for a nurses’ aide to watch over this little comatose boy, poor little bastard..."

 

The call was answered by my “Auntie Vena”, one of the truly great, last, legendary White Russian Nobles, (several nurses whispered that she was actually the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia @ ) whom with her husband had just left Saint Petersburg on their honeymoon mere hours before Lenin and his murdering cutthroats captured their families at their on-going wedding reception and then later had them executed.

 

Auntie Vena had marched across Russia, through the Himalayans mountains to Peking (as it was called back then), then to Shanghai, where she was known as the White Haired Woman (even though she was only in her early 20's) from the land of the Crescent-Moon-Shaped sickle @, later to the Philippines, Sydney Australia, and finally to a community in Middle America that would keep her secret – (ten times the length of Chairman Mao’s “Long March”! @) opening orphanages and missionaries wherever she went.

 

She used to rock me in a chair and fill my head with the most wonderful and marvelous of stories. She would brush my hair with her fingers and call me her “little link of magic”.

 

But I digress. This is the story of my Mother Phyllis Jean, with an explanation on why we had to suddenly move to a small town in the middle of nowhere.

 

In this section you have to go through Hell to get to Heaven,

 

AS upsetting as it was for the District Attorney to be after daddy, my brother

M1 later told me what really had Daddy afraid was the house visit by three Hasidic Jews all dressed in black, with big black hats and long grey and black beards, much like the local Amish @, after they had learned of the family custom of marking the fourth son of the first-born son from the doctor that had performed the circumcision on me (Dr. Ken @ and his wife,  Nurse Barbie @).  After their visit, Dad announced that we were moving. Within a few days we were gone, we had left town with no forwarding address.

 

He told my mom to follow him and not to question his rules or he would leave her alone with all four boys to raise on her own. That was an awful choice in 1963, as there were no social welfare programs, no shelters for battered women, and even the option of divorce was seen as a sin by the church during the 1960’s, so my Mom became determined to endure his ego for the sake of her children.

 

A couple of years later Vic’s dad, a preacher of a religion known as “The Brethren of Christ" @, sold the family farm in Indiana and moved to Ontario, California after Vic got caught being bad. I’ll never forget Grandpa yelling at him, telling Dad that it was his fault he had to sell the family farm. Grandpa screamed that the police and the Jews were always dropping by the farm trying to find Vic.

 

I never saw my grandpa again after that last argument.

 

Dad even made my Mom give up her family’s Methodist religion because he was so afraid that someone in the new Parish would call the Plymouth Parish and tell the authorities where to find Vic!

 

He was a man on the run, and all ties had to be cut. Since there were no computers to track him, he felt safe. But he was still a very bad man.

 

My mother was always very afraid of him, but the thought that she would be left to raise four boys on her own with no help was a thought that was always on her mind - something she often expressed to me when I was growing up. Times were so much different in the 1960’s and 1970’s.

 

Less than two years after moving to Maquoketa, Iowa Vic got caught being very naughty with a young boy. As a family we were attending a regional Boy Scout Jamboree with hundreds of other Boy Scouts. On the second night I was woken up in the middle of the night as my older half-brothers packed up our pop up trailer and my Mom put me next to her on the front seat of the station wagon. She parked at the bottom of a hill with the engine running and slid over, putting me on her lap and telling me not to be afraid.

 

Suddenly there was daddy running down the hill being chased by a bunch of angry men, their flashlights swinging wildly as they chased after him. He jumped into the car, slid behind the wheel and punched it, chuckling at his great escape. We drove all night back to our tiny old house. The next day we began packing up our belongings as we had to move again.

 

Back in the 1950’s, 60’s and even up to the 1990’s, there were no words to describe a character such as my Mom’s husband. Nowadays it’s quite simple. He was a closet bisexual gay pedophile predator that also practiced incest (with his boys (but not me - Vic was afraid of me, for I was the little boy that "lived", despite his "encouragements" for me to "die, just go ahead and die "during that loooong drive to the hospital AND the subsequent visit by the Germanic Cleric  @ ...!)).

 

But back in those days, such descriptions had not been invented nor had they even been imagined.

 

He played the role of a married man but his lust was for young boys –no one talked about such behavior back then.

 

(Thank goodness for the TV show “To Catch a Predator” – it has been a great tool for educating everyone just how crafty and manipulative these predator humans are!)

 

My Mom’s husband was truly awful and sick in the head but he refused to seek treatment. He knew that if he, or any of his kids, talked to a doctor or a priest about what was really happening then he would be thrown in jail, so he became an authoritarian ruler for many years.

 

Only brother K2 stood up to him; and daddy used to beat him relentlessly until K2 became big enough to take the belt away from him, and when he did, the Emperor suddenly had no clothes and his threats carried no weight.

 

Daddy became a basement drunk when he wasn’t on the prowl, usually for most of my fellow young classmates. Like all Pedophiles and Perverts, he liked to pretend that he did nothing wrong, "Bill", preferring to "forget" rather than face the horror of his actions. I had to change schools a lot, starting in Middle School, when my Mom's husband became a Proud Gay Fower in full bloom...sexually molesting my classmates for his own sick pleasures. Yuk.

 

 “Endure to persevere” were words my Mother Phyllis Jean taught me to say during those dark times. "Things will get better."

 

My Mom used to say I have to travel through Hell to get to Heaven.

 

(Kind of like this section of the story...!)

 

Sometimes I feel that I was raised in Hell so that I would see the worst of Humanity first hand, for myself, with my own eyes, in all of your sins, so that I would not be afraid to face EVIL when other men would pee their pants and run like frightened little children, crying like little babies with wet diapers full of cold poo.

 

“Whaaaaa!” @

 

I have learned to use the mighty "Power of the Pen" to fight the tide of Evil that runs rampant across this planet.

 

Words can be very powerful; words can change the world.

 

I am also reminded by my Mother Phyllis Jean that I also owe my life to people I shall never know; doctors and nurses and even dentists that saved my life from an awful death that would have surely ended my existence just one hundred years ago.

 

Mother Phyllis Jean successfully raised a Libra in me, born in the Year of the Dog. She taught me to keep a balanced perspective of life and not to rush to judgement.

 

My time on this planet has not been very pleasant but it has been extremely enlightening, and I thank God for providing me with my Mother Phyllis Jean to guide me on the right path.

 

My Mom was the glue that held me together during those tough times and I miss her love very much. I wish I could hug her again and tell her how much I love her. She was always my rock of everything good and right in this world. It is so very difficult to say goodbye. I wish everyone that reads this would call their mother right now and tell her how much you love her and truly miss her. That would make my Mom very, very happy and it will surely make your own Mother feel great!

 

 

What is the SUPER Mark of Moe?

 

No, the SUPER Mark of Moe is NOT the Mark of the Crescent Moon that was stamped onto my Chin from the hoof of a startled horse on that fateful day in 1963.

 

No, the SUPER Mark of Moe is the Mark of Morris, which is the practice of circumcising young, non-Jewish babies, usually at birth, a practice that was widely adopted after my controversial stay at Notre Dame Hospital in 1963.

 

Surprise!

 

Hello world…!

 

But wait... it's not over yet!

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Intermission
 
Have you been entertained with this internet interactive experieince in Act I?
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"Bless you!"

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