Category Archives: women

TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN

The Golden KeyIn order to love truly and long, one must always put words — especially those spoken in spite — within the context of the moment, and decide whether past words spoken in love are more precious and true than those spewed in anger.
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Ultimately, ones capacity of heart is judged, not by what another forgives, but by what you forgive — and not by what you choose to remember, but by what you choose to forget.
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Truth is seldom what an outsider looking in concludes. More often, truth becomes what we need others to believe in order for us to survive during dire times we helped create. Truth can be deceptive and troubling and biased. It always has an agenda.
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Never choose the weakness of today’s truth over the power of tomorrow’s forgiveness. That’s like betting your heart, in a fixed race, on a blind horse named Regret.

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist. She is the author of the highly praised IMOGENE’S ELOISE: Inspired by a true story © 2014.

Her second book, Seriously, Mom, you didn’t know?, is a collection of true stories demonstrating how women who lead heartfelt lives find purpose and feel joy. It’s scheduled for release by May 13, 2019 on Amazon.

 

THIS BEARS REPEATING

Bears RepeatingSixteen friends called it quits in March. Adultery was cited as the cause in 5 of the 8 couple splits. I’m saddened when I learn of such heartbreak. Here’s why:
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I once knew a woman who was a serial cheater, oozing charm whenever she wanted to seduce someone. Mostly, she targeted women with troubled lives. To gain their trust, she claimed to be the victim of a failed relationship. She fed them with words she knew only damaged women longed to hear. She raised them up while having her way with them. She promised them a future. She convinced them that they needed her. Eventually and inevitably, she ditched them. And, just to ensure none would chase after her, the last words she spoke to each woman she cut loose were: “No wonder nobody loves you.”
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Infidelity is such an old and popular game of deception, you’d think women would have learned to avoid cheaters by now.
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But no. Women persist in thinking they’ll be the one to tame the fox welcomed into their henhouse.
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The fact is this: Every woman on earth has been victimized to some extent during her lifetime. Every . . . single . . . one of us.
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Where love is involved, some choose to be perpetual victims, always eager for the ‘ideal’ person to choose them, accepting of similar characteristics in new partners to replace the former, growing old and stale like hard candy until all traces of sweetness have dissolved into bitterness.
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A toxic indicator of having been victimized is chronic rage, a corollary of post-traumatic stress syndrome. When physical, verbal, or emotional abuse is experienced for extended periods (especially during childhood) it never leaves you. Certain words or actions push buttons in your brain creating a fight-or-flight frenzy, unleashing the dormant fury.
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The thing is, we all tend to blame others for rages directed at us — while excusing our own rages directed at others — in order to justify the decisions we make.
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This is where the intent of the heart comes in.
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In the aftermath of tears and loneliness that are sure to follow once rage erupts, you must learn to measure the intent of your heart against the intent of the heart of the person who hurt you. You must. Only then will walking away be easier than staying; leaving be easier than being left.
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The death of love is intended to be the hardest learned lesson in the test of time.
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Because the reward of love is priceless.
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So, try to remember the journey you took with the other person — not from the end of it looking back, but from the memory of the start. Chart how it soared. Determine if you made every effort to catch it when it began to teeter, every effort to shore it up when it started to crumble, every effort to revive it before you let it die.
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Own that you aren’t innocent. Own your part in the turmoil. Own the buttons you pushed. Own the choices you made that enabled the demise of your life together. Own the carrot of false hope you dangled long after hope in you was gone. Own the lies you told to yourself and others.
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If you’re hurting, join a support group to find comfort and get help. You can’t recover alone. But don’t allow the group to become your only source for self-esteem. Have an exit plan from it.
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Then, every morning, face yourself in the mirror and ask: Have I cast myself as a victim? Do I look like one? Have I presented myself to others as such? Do I enjoy being seen as a victim? Is victimhood my aspiration?
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If not, don’t adopt that image. Don’t encourage or allow others to attach that tag to you. Don’t become a poster girl for victimhood.
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Because, in the short term, you might find the comfort you need and the support you deserve — but in the long term, there are only two types of people you’ll attract:
(1) Those who embrace their suffering, dwell on their past, and treat being victimized as their red badge of courage.
(2) Those who will target you as prey to be used and abused again.
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Victims say, “I am who I am because of …”
Survivors say, “I am who I am in spite of …”
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Be a survivor.
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On behalf of all essayists and authors — my heartfelt thanks!

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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist. She is the author of Imogene’s Eloise: Inspired by a true story © 2014 and Seriously, Mom, you didn’t know?, due for release on Amazon in April, 2019.

CELEBRITY RECALLS

Long before it became a song or included in quizzes, “Do you know who you are?” was one of those instantaneous, absurd (yet common) questions most starstruck fans would ask a celebrity encountered on the streets of New York City. Not that I knew it in March of 1973 and not that I’ve made a fool of myself by uttering the question ever again. In fact, I was embarrassed and surprised I did the one time.Scan 2019-3-12 15.14.08

But we were young and giddy and on our way to Julius’ in the West Village to celebrate our anniversary with out-of-town friends when I spotted Lily Tomlin walking towards us on Greenwich Avenue in the West Village.

“Do you know who you are?” The words just gushed out.

“Gee, I think so,” was Lily’s reply, and “sure” to my request to take her photo. The shorter girl with blonde hair accompanying her hurried back out of frame range and, even though I waved her back in, she’d have nothing to do with the invite.

Apparently gaydar was down that day because none of us picked up on the other as being a couple. Or maybe an over abundance of happiness was drowning the frequency out? Because they would have been enjoying their first year together around then to our third. Which means this must be their 47th anniversary year to our 49th.

Oh happy daze!

~ ~ ~

I rode in my first limousine on New Year’s Eve, 1973. Our friend, Tom Dale, was a market research specialist and producer of television commercials who lived in a penthouse on East 48th Street and needed to be seen on the town with arm candy as a guise for his closeted true self. Elizabeth and I were his go-to-gal-pals and happily so. It afforded us the luxury to eat at the most trendy restaurants, attend posh events, and always have third row orchestra seats on the aisle at Broadway shows. That New Year’s Eve we’d seen Pippin’ at The Music Box Theater on West 45th Street.

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The show let out to throngs of partygoers who had already gathered in Times Square and beyond anticipating the ball dropping at midnight to welcome the start of 1974. At some point the limo needed to cross Broadway to the east side. When the police separated the crowds enough for traffic from the theater district to pass through, the people began to touch the darkened windows, hoping to get a glimpse of a celebrity hidden inside.

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At that moment I realized how much more we identified with those oozing joy on the outside of the limo freezing in the streets than we’d ever be like those presumed to be riding within. I’ve never ceased wondering who’s hidden behind the tinted windows of limousines — but I stopped assuming it was anyone famous long, long ago.

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Three weeks later, after attending Liza Minnelli Live At The Winter Garden, we joined Tom’s chum, Ted, for dinner at his private table in Ted Hook’s Backstage Restaurant next door to the Martin Beck Theater. Besides being a former hoofer in the chorus of more than 400 movies, Ted served as Talulah Bankhead’s personal secretary for five years and regularly entertained friends and customers with intimate stories of the star.

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Seated next to my Liz and directly across from me was Wayland Flowers of Wayland & Madam fame. Madam was a pink wood head-to-waist puppet that looked like the exaggerated character portrayed by Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.

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Unlike our friend Tom, Wayland Flowers was unabashedly gay and out about it. His act, like his performance at the dinner table with Madam seated to his left, was bewitching. But when dinner was served he stuck Madam head first into a brown paper bag, as if she wasn’t alive to the rest of us. (Oddly enough, I never quite came to terms with that.)

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Wayland Parrott Flowers was a creative genius of natural quick wit. He died October 11, 1988 of AIDS at age 48.

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Ted Hook was a sparking personality who was the personification of instant entertainment. He died July 19, 1995 of AIDS at age 65.

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Thomas Bryon Dale died in 2007. He was 76. I don’t know exactly when, or of what. No notice was placed on his behalf, nor acknowledgement made of his passing. It wasn’t until the publication of his brother’s obituary many years later that Tom was mentioned as having preceded him in death.

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Lisa Minnelli’s show closed after a 20 day run.

~ ~ ~

I’ve never been attracted to men but I have always been egocentric about their attraction to me to.

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One afternoon while returning to my job on Fifth Avenue a strikingly handsome man walked by. Certain I knew him, I turned my head after passing, only to spot him looking back at me. We smiled, waved, and continued on.

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Hours later, while scanning books at Barnes & Noble we encountered each other again, both of us demonstratively delighted to see each other.

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“I think we might have gone to school together,” I said, shaking his hand while introducing myself.

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“That’s must be it!” he grinned back. “I’m Hugh O’Brian.”

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Hugh O’Brian (The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp) was born in Rochester, New York, 1925. I was born twenty-one years later in Michigan. It was an honest mistake, given the circumstances. After all, at nine years old and for three years thereafter, his was my favorite black and white television western.

~ ~ ~

I first met Walter Leyden Brown while temporarily bunking at my brother Michael’s 49 Prince Street, New York City fifty dollar a month, three room with a water closet, 6th floor tenement walk-up. It was one of two such roach infested apartments per floor. Walter lived across the hall. Michael was a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London at the time. I lasted just four terrifying weeks there before finding an apartment and moving uptown.

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Several months later, Walter began the staging of a three night production of his play, No Way In, at the La Mama Theater. The day before opening night the actress cast as Character Number One got a paying role elsewhere and quit Walter’s show. Desperate, he asked me to take over the non-speaking role of the pole-swirling-woman. I was a student at The American Academy of Dramatic Arts then so eagerly accepted.

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Although he directed (and we’d rehearsed) a one circle spin with cry of a lady in distress, on opening night I swung wide and long screaming like a banshee. A critic for The Village Voice was in the audience. The next day his review panned the director, the play and the cast except for my performance which he applauded for scaring the bejesus out of him.

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Because his only child was starring in the play, Claude Rains (The Invisible Man, Casablanca, Notorious, Mr. Skeffington) was in the audience with his friends, Roscoe Lee Brown (The Cowboys, Uptown Saturday Night, Jumping’ Jack Flash), and Butterfly McQueen, (Gone With The Wind, Duel In The Sun). He motioned me over for introductions and they graciously complimented me on my performance.

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The next night the audience was given notice that Character Number One would be played by an understudy.

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Walter Leyden Brown, 49, of 49 Prince Street, New York City died August 23, 1988. Before returning to his family home during his final days he’d confided to friends he had AIDS.

~ ~ ~

Prior to being cast in No Way In, I’d worked as a volunteer at the lower east side off-off Broadway La Mama Theater. One grease-grill-hot summer day I helped remove, drag, and reinstall chairs from the old location to the new one. It left me conspicuously grimy, unkempt and eager to catch subway connections to my upper west side apartment.

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While crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into a rush hour crowd on a street corner waiting for the WALK sign to free us, I spotted a limousine with a swarm of people catty-corner from me. Turning my head to see if the woman on my right noticed the commotion, I was so stupefied by her beauty that I could barely mumble to the man on my left, “That’s Elizabeth Taylor next to me.”

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He leaned discreetly forward to check. “Why yes,” said Richard Burton. “Yes it is.”

~ ~ ~

Alice Demovic was the sister of a good friend who (like me) was living foot-loose-and-fancy-free in Manhattan, albeit she resided in a tonier upper east side neighborhood and hobnobbed with a much more affluent crowd. Nevertheless, I was her instant late-late night wing-woman when absolutely no one else was available and she needed a person to go on the blind side of a double date with her and her current love-interest.

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One morning just at after midnight I was awakened and told a limo was waiting for me downstairs in front of my apartment on West 85th Street and to chop-chop.

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“How shall I dress?” I asked.

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“Cute and quickly.”

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I cannot remember the name of her dinner companion, nor the occasion, but we were all seated stage-side to catch the last set at Rodney (“I don’t get no respect.”) Dangerfield’s. Afterward, Rodney joined us at his table for a late night supper. He was exactly the same person as the characters he played in Caddyshack and Easy Money.

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Jacob Rodney Cohen (Rodney Dangerfield) was born on the same date as my not-yet-met sweetheart’s father, Rufus, and he died on the date of my long-gone father, LaVerne.

~ ~ ~

During the 1960’s and early 1970’s I was street-treated as an attractive young executive working in the 666 Fifth Avenue building bordering New York City’s historic 21 Club. Over the years I’d pivoted heads of Frank Sinatra (heavier set, mid-50’s, and balding Ol’ Blue Eyes period), George Hamilton (By Love Possessed, Zorro, The Godfather III, and easily twenty times better looking in person than portrayed on the silver screen), John Lindsey (NYC Mayor photographed kissing me on Page 2 of  the New York Post during a campaign re-election rally), and others.

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One day while on my way to lunch with my assistant, Scott, who was obsessed with men’s fashion, said (way too loudly) about the diminutive fellow walking a mere foot in front of us, “That man’s suit is so wrinkled it looks like he sleeps in the cargo holds of planes.”

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Aristotle Onassis’ head turned back to glare at us. While they kept walking I ground to a halt, grateful to lose them in the passing of pedestrians.

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Later that same week I was within inches of Onassis again. I’d been visiting Terry, the wife of Michael at their exquisite Madison Avenue store, M. Comer of London Antiques, when Onassis entered and zeroed in on the small table situated next to me.

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“How much is this?” he inquired of Michael.

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“Three thousand dollars.”

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“Not expensive enough,” he waved off.

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I’ve often wondered, if Michael had answered “thirty thousand dollars,” would Onassis have bought the table, regardless of the actual value?

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Years later, as an animal lover en route to becoming an animal activist, I was walking behind a woman wearing (what appeared to be) genuine leather pants. I was focused so intently on determining the fabric and planning a reprimand that I didn’t noticed she’d stopped — causing me to bump into her and knock her off her feet.

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“Oh!, excuse me, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kennedy!” I rattled, mortified, as private security agents rushed to her rescue.

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She was married to Onassis at the time.

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#    #   #

This post represents an excerpt from

Seriously, Mom, you didn’t Know? by Marguerite Quantaine Copyright © 2019

due for release on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle, April 13, 2019.

To enter a drawing for a free copy of the paperback edition

please press Reply to leave your comment here.

My heartfelt thanks!

IT’S A DATE!

With uncompromising bursts of bittersweet joy this candid, effervescent chronicle reveals how the nature of thinking and depth of emotions between homosexual women is instinctively incompatible with the male dominant ideologies of a patriarch society. Through lyrically warmed words engendering benevolence these forty-nine relatable narratives shed insight on the valiant dignity of an endangered female culture vanishing-by-assimilation into an age of partial equality.

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A veritable feast of gilded memories
seasoned with silver linings.

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FOR RELEASE APRIL 13,  2019

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by Marguerite Quantaine

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Seriously, Mom, you didn’t know?

With uncompromising bursts of bittersweet joy this candid, effervescent chronicle reveals
how the nature of thinking and depth of emotions between homosexual women is
instinctively incompatible with the male dominant ideologies of a patriarch society.

Through lyrically warmed words engendering benevolence
these forty-nine relatable narratives shed insight on the valiant dignity
of an endangered female culture vanishing-by-assimilation
into this age of artificial equality.

Front Cover 4 FB

A veritable feast of gilded memories
seasoned with silver linings.

~

FOR RELEASE APRIL 13,  2019

Paperback • Kindle • Bookstores • Special Order

~

Seriously, Mom, you didn’t know?

by Marguerite Quantaine

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Find Her On Amazon

Friend Her On Facebook

Follow Her On Twitter

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Sign Up Via Email Here

http://www.margueritequanatine.com

For Automatic Notice Of

Pre-Order  Date  Confirmation

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Thank you!

 

 

C H R I S T M A S T I D E

A Merry Christmas
Cleone’s favorite holiday song was Joy To The World directed by the Philharmonic Orchestra and sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. She’d begin playing it as a daybreak reveille on December 12th and continued through the morning of her birthday, December 27th. We were reminded of the fifteen day musical salute while driving Elizabeth’s mother back to Arkansas in November 1990.
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“How come I don’t remember this tradition, Mom?”

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“You’re never home for the holidays more than a day or two, Elizabeth Ann. Besides, your daddy and I only began it after you left home.”

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During those long gone 30 years, Elizabeth’s father died and Cleone remarried several times. As a southern lady born and bred in Montgomery, Alabama, she was raised to believe a woman’s life wasn’t complete without a man in hand. Her current husband, Bill, was confined to a nursing home, diagnosed with violent hysterical dementia. He hadn’t recognized her (or anyone) for six months and never would again, but that didn’t stop Cleone from visiting him daily, ignoring his foul-mouthed curses and dodging food flung in her direction.

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We promised to stay with her through Thanksgiving, but those plans changed after she asked me to sort through stacks of personal papers to determine if any needed keeping.

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The first item of interest I came across was Bill’s membership in a local white supremacist group. He kept propaganda, recruitment paraphernalia and a loaded .38 in his desk drawer next to a box of hollow point bullets. I immediately disposed of everything burnable and buried the gun in his asparagus garden. Other discoveries were as serious.
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“Mom,” I tiptoed, “it says here Bill used your Certificates of Deposit and savings as collateral to purchase this house.”
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“He promised they’d be safe until the house is paid off.”
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“You’re 83 and he’s older. The mortgage is for 30 years.”
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“I guess.”
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“Who pays the mortgage?”
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“It’s automatically deducted from my social security check each month.”
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“You have your own direct deposit checking account?”
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“Yes. Mine pays the car loan, utilities, and property taxes, too.”
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Why isn’t it all deducted from his account?”
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“He pays the insurance, charge cards, grocery account, and incidentals.” I hesitated just long enough for her to ask, “Why?”
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“Well, what’s important is, I can tell you how to fix what I’ve found, so there’s nothing for you to get upset about. Since you have his health proxy and financial power of attorney — over his very sizable bank accounts, I must say — it’s merely a matter of shuffling funds.”
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“Meaning?”
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“You have the authority to write checks.”
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By then both Cleone and Elizabeth were eager for details and had pulled chairs up to the table where I was working.
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“Mom, your name isn’t on the mortgage, deed to the house, or car title. If Bill should suddenly die, the house and car go directly to his son. His Will leaves his savings and all his belongings to his son. The executor to his estate is his son. His life insurance policy names only his son.”
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“What about me?” Cleone asked, matter-of-factly.
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“He made no provisions for you, Mom.”
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“Do you think his son knows any of this?”
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“According to these letters, he does.”
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I let that sink in between mother and daughter while I ran some figures and finalized a plan.
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After breakfast, the three of us dressed for success in matching hot pink sweatsuits and strings of vintage pearls before descending on the bank where Cleone paid off the mortgage and car loan from Bill’s savings account. Once her CD’s were released and there was no longer a lien on her savings, she transferred all automatic deductions from her checking account to his. Finally, she removed his name as survivor from her checking and savings accounts and left the bank, unencumbered.
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“How do you feel, Mom?” Elizabeth asked.
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“Free,” she answered.
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We stayed on until the 9th of December, gadding about town, buying and wrapping Christmas presents, lighting her ceramic tree, delivering frosted cookies, addressing cards, and confirming plans for Cleone’s move to Florida to forever share our home after the first of the year.
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“Are you sure you don’t want to drive back with us now,” Elizabeth hoped.
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“No, dear. I want to spend the holidays here with my Bridge club and church group. It gives me time to say a more leisurely goodbye.”
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“Are you okay?”
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“Better than okay, Elizabeth. I’m having fun.”
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It took us three days to drive home. We arrived on Cleone’s birthday to a cheerful message from her, left on our answering machine. I immediately dialed her up, putting the phone on speaker.
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Cleone’s next door neighbor answered.
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“Your mom called for an ambulance. The driver swore he got here within a minute. He knew her from church and around town. Everyone loved your mom.”
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Knew.
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Loved.
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We sped back to Arkansas, arranged for her funeral, and hosted a large reception before having Cleone’s casket returned to Montgomery where a second funeral was attended by 135 of her friends and remaining relatives. Internment was next to Elizabeth’s father in a small, historic burial ground where all their ancestors also rested. A second reception followed.
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The next morning, Elizabeth and I returned to the cemetery a final time.
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It was a quiet, cool, sunny December day with no breeze blowing nor snow on the ground. We marveled at the height and width of a mountain of fresh flowers left on Cleone’s grave, in stark contrast to the other 300 tombstones, void of any signs of recent visitors, decorated with weatherworn plastic plants, faded flags, or no remembrance at all.
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Instinctively, we began to take fresh flowers from her mother’s final resting place to adorn surrounding graves, one-by-one, until every site in the cemetery had a bouquet.
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Then we rolled down all the windows in the car, popped in a cassette, pumped up the volume to maximum, and slowly drove up and down each pathway playing — and replaying —

Joy To The World.
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# # #
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Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist.
Friend her of Facebook. Find her on Amazon. Follow her here.
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Thank you for reading CHRISTMASTIDE
by Marguerite Quantaine © 2018.
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A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH

Six Weeks in Nevada Divorce CourtsI was once sued by the Town of Huntington, NY for 7 million dollars, plus interest since 1797, and a sentence of one year in jail for refusing to surrender documents to the town historian, Rufus B. Langhams, who alleged, under oath, had been stolen from the Town by a colonial-era employee and kept hidden by his ancestors for 195 years until I was consigned to auction the papers off along with the contents of the family estate.

Prior to the lawsuit being heard before New York State Supreme Court Justice William L. Underwood, Jr., I was vilified in print by The Long Islander and Newsday, shunned by former friends, slandered by candidates and their political operatives, chastised by churchgoers, and kept under surveillance for nearly a year — only to be threatened by an assistant town attorney hiding in the bushes of my front yard after midnight, incessantly meowing until I ventured out, then backing me up against my front door while brandishing a knife-like object in order to serve me with court papers.

I share this to demonstrate my profound respect for Christine Blasey Ford’s anticipated testimony before Congress pertaining to Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court of the United States.

She is courageous.

Few can imagine the resolve it takes to risk one’s life and livelihood in order to ensure justice be done on behalf of the majority who will not seek it for themselves, nor for the benefit of another, nor for the good of a nation — because the fear of retribution makes stepping up perilous.

I suspect Ford does not want to testify. But as a competent citizen with a conscience compelling her to intervene, she knows her freedom of speech is denied the moment she chooses to silence herself, and — like all rights guaranteed by our constitution — free speech was granted as an individual’s responsibility to protect.

It is not an entitlement.

The fact that her testimony involves exposing intimacies secreted by shame engineered by patriarchal societies to silence women for centuries makes her testimony all the more ominous — and her decision to testify all the more valiant.

Our demand for her to be heard should be deafening.

Our cry should be, “Can you hear us, now?”
~

They sent three lawyers with the Huntington town historian to admonish me for costing the taxpayers nearly a million dollars to wage a year long war against me, arguing the merits of their action of replevin. They called for my incarceration, demanded to be rewarded all the original Town documents in my possession, urged that I be fined, and asked that I be assigned all legal fees and court costs.

I stood alone, without consul, in Propria Persona, as evidence of my innocence.

I presented a book on special loan to me from the reference section of the Huntington Public Library, authored by Rufus Langhams. Published a decade earlier, it contained photographs of every document I harbored that he’d sworn had been stolen during colonial times, with captions confirming the originals were in his possession, kept locked in the archives of the Huntington Historical Society, to which he had sole access.

I presented letters from several museums attesting to many of those same original documents being sold to them by Rufus Langhams, while acting in the capacity of town historian as directed by the Town of Huntington.

I listed names, addresses and phone numbers of other Town residents who were coerced into surrendering copies of inherited documents to Rufus Langhams when he showed up at their homes and demanded them, citing the New York State Property Tort of Replevin as his legal right to confiscate heirlooms.

I contended the documents I held were copies from 195 years passed, not the originals of documents that Langhams sold to profit himself over his many years of incumbency as the Town of Huntington historian.

Supreme Court Justice William L. Underwood, Jr. immediately dismissed the charges against me, with prejudice, thereby barring the Town from ever bringing an action against me on the claim again, and granted me sole property rights, before assigning all expenses incurred, court costs and attorney fees to the Town.

I was then excused. The town historian and three town attorneys were ordered to stay.

~

Newsday and The Long Islander never published a retraction, nor did they do a follow up story.

There was no public acknowledgement of wrongdoing by the town historian. The spurious charges in the action lodged against me were never revealed. There was no further discussion of the papers in question.

I was never offered an apology.

Eventually, a friend within Town government told me that, in lieu of no one else wanting the job, Rufus Langhams would remain as town historian, but would no longer be trusted with unaccompanied access to historic documents, and a full accounting of the archives had been ordered.

Eight years later, the town historian died of a heart attack. His obituary read, in part: “Rufus Buford Langhams of Huntington, L.I., once went to England seeking to collect $15,000 in Revolutionary War debts from the British Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was not successful.”

~

I was once a force to be reckoned with.

Christine Blasey Ford is one.

Shouldn’t we all be?

# # #

 

Marguerite Quantaine is an essayist, author, and animal rescue activist.

Find her on Amazon. Friend her on Facebook. Follow her @ margueritequantaine.com.

A Force To Be Reckoned With © 9.22.18
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