The life and death of Ralph Barclay Neil (Ralph Neil, Ralph B. Neil, Neil, Ralph), and experiences with one of his sons.
Ken Neil, Ken l Lyle Neil, Ralph Barclay Neil (Ralph Neil, Ralph B. Neil, Neil, Ralph), Kenneth Lyle Neil, Ray Brown (Raymond C. Brown, Deceased (obituary), Teresa Neil, Teresa Neal, Bimbo Neil, 53 foot Skookum sailboat, SV Spellbound, Ray (Raymond) Brown (deceased), Barbara jo Neil, Barbara Jo Clough, Barbara Jo Brown, Doug Brown, James Neil, Gladys Brown, Carl Brown, Everett Neil, Corrine (Corine) Neil, Russel Neil, Stockholm Syndrome, kidnappers, Mike Bender (San Francisco Attorney)

Obituary Obituaries Dorothy O'Connor and Nelson O'Conner THIS IS THE JANINE RENE HART ALBRIGHT THOMSON PAGE Pollock Pines, California RETURN TO KEN NEIL PAGE 1 This editorial site contains and includes my opinions, hunches, best recollections, and suspicions, and is cleared by my First Amendment attorney. Wanna sue me? Ask Hewlett Packard how that worked out for them. Rene Hart / Albright / Thomson Janine Renee Thomson rintinhart@aol.com (408) 782-2026 ? Pollock Pines California bus driver San Jose, California When Ralph Barclay Neil left this earth, and good riddance by the way, I had absolutely no further reason to have anything to do with The Little House of Horrors (i.e. The Family). I was mercifully done. Fini. The End. Blessed be sweet silence. Silence of the Fucking Lambs. Unfortunately, my son had other ideas. His great aunt, Dorothy Gross, then Hemphill, (then O'Connor at time of Death), and her idiot husband, one sociological prize named Nelson O'Connor, had befriended him at an early age and he spent many summers with them in California. Nelson took on a kind of surrogate father role. It's good for a kid to learn many different perspectives in life. Dorothy and Nelson took good care of him during those many visits and taught him much. I didn't like Nelson. My wife hated him passionately. He was arrogant, egotistical, pushy, disrespectful, demanding, critical, insulting, cutting, rude -- and we might have dealt with all that because no one is perfect and every family has a few clinkers. But he was odd beyond my ability to describe. Something in Nelson O'Connor just wasn't right. Let me relate just one event of literally hundreds, as was told to me, and I have gone back and verified the details to the best of everyone's recollection: He was invited to dinner -- he and Dorothy -- at a somewhat posh restaurant in upscale California by friends. Their treat. Expensive deal. Semi big deal. It was a true show of affection and friendship. So they all attended. The friend drove a high end car as I recall, but in any case he didn't want it dinged up, and the sprawling parking area wasn't full, so he parked far out in the asphalt boondocks, and they hoofed it to the restaurant. He'd parked uncounted dozens of meters from any nearest car. About halfway through the meal, of which Dorothy and Nelson were guests at the expense of the car owner and driver, the owner of the car heard his license plate being announced over the restaurant's PA system. It seems it was being towed, or about to be towed, or some such, for parking crosswise over two painted lines. I'm not a lover of people who do that if they're taking up space others might need to use. But this car was barely on the horizon it was so far out. So why would anyone care? Certainly not the restaurant, who was making good money off this lucrative gathering. Who on earth would force this issue? Nelson O'Connor, and those who knew him will say this is precisely his M.O.. As it turned out he had excused himself to go to the toilet, and on the way there, or the way back, or, hell, maybe he never even went near the toilets at all -- he had cornered the staff and in a somewhat forceful exchange in which Nelson haughtily asserted his correctness, demanded that this offending vehicle -- the vehicle he had arrived in -- be impounded. The restaurant didn't know it was owned by the very people seated at Nelson's table, who were paying Nelson's bill. I was told those people never spoke to him again, which was eminently appropriate. I don't doubt that this story, or something very very close to it, is fact, because I personally watched him pull stunts exactly as asinine, and I also listened to him boast about pulling stunts exactly as asinine Honestly, I believe he was a little bit clinically insane. The man was a fuckup. Period. That's how he lived his life, all of it. He was a fucking jackass and I saw that in him in the first hour I knew him. I tolerated his breathing my air, because my son loved him. Kids can be so gullible. Nelson had one daughter, Cristine Cram. She had disowned him at an early age. A handful of times she tried to approach him yet again and patch things up, but in every single instance, Nelson pulled some stupid-ass shit like this, and then she was gone again for another 7 or 12 years. I was told he didn't bother to inform her he was dying. I hope she can find some peace, away from this fool of a man. Nelson had no friends that I ever knew of except my son. He was universally reviled. He requested no funeral service whatsoever, likely because he knew no one lamented his passing, and I'm told no one even inquired about him after the fact. And this is where dear sister Rene Hart Albright Thomson comes in. Her maiden name was Hart -- then she married my friend and took on his name of Albright (Mike). He took his life after he caught dear sister Rene in bed, naked, with his best friend, a mentally handicapped guy Mike had befriended decades before. Nice one, Rene. Then she married some other guy named Thomson. How did that turn out. One of Rene's sisters died awhile back. She's mentioned in previous pages herein. She's the only female I ever knew or even read fictional accounts of, who committed adultery SO MANY TIMES she actually went to jail for it. I never knew there was a law for that, but I guess all things must have a theoretical limit. In any case, here's her obit. I was pleased to see I wasn't mentioned in it and I thank her for that. She was never the brightest bulb in the string, but it's nice to know she was at least smart enough to know I didn't consider her family. OBITUARY: Jacqueline Witt Hart Radke, 58, died peacefully on Tuesday, December 17, 2019 at her home surrounded by her family. She was born on May 4, 1961 in Fremont, CA, raised in Arvada, CO until she was 15 then moved to Milton, WA. She enjoyed life, hiking in younger years and camping. She was a family girl and grandkids were her hobby. Spent most of her time swimming, watching baseball, enjoyed drag racing with Bobby, sunrises, sunsets, bonfires, and being an avid animal lover. On September 8, 2012 she married Bobby Radke after dating for 14 years. Jackie had been employed at Trek Bicycle for 20 years then in 2004 began working at GE Medical in Madison. Survivors include her husband, Bobby; two children, Harmony Witt Radke, Cody Witt; two stepchildren, Tim Radke, Elizabeth Brown; one brother, John Hart of Muskitio, WA; two sisters, Renee Hart Thomson of Pollock Pines, CA, Cheryl Buckland of Nordland, WA; grandchildren, Cole Radke, Kaylee Radke, Jack Radke, Sophia Witt, Clay Witt, Charlie Radke; nephews, Joshua (Chely) Hart, Chris (Sammie) Hart, Steven Hart, Kyle Thomson, Kory Hart; nieces, Elisha Garigilo, Kyia Hart Bean; two aunts, Dorothy O’Connor, Joan Gross; one uncle Nelson O’Connor; other relatives and friends. Preceded in death by her parents, John and Jean Hart; one brother in 2019, Jerrold Hart, her uncle, Harry Gross, and many animals she had adopted through the years. Funeral services will be held at 3 p.m. on Sunday, December 22, 2019 at the Claussen Funeral Home in Lake Mills. Friends may call after 1 p.m. on Sunday at the funeral home until the time of services. In lieu of flowers, because of Jackie’s fond love of animals a donation to an animal rescue would be appreciated.. My son maintained a close relationship with Dorothy and Nelson for his entire life, and especially in the last years, when they were frail, and he was often called to drive the 100 miles over snowy 7300 foot Donner Pass to come and help them build something or repair something or go somewhere or buy something or be taken to the hospital or brought home from the hospital and my son did it tirelessly, reliably, relentlessly, and cheerfully. He did it again and again and again -- and I often asked him, aren't there people closer than 100 miles who can drive him ten miles to the emergency room? The answer was always, apparently, no, at least when Nelson was involved. I think absolutely no one could stand Nelson, and no one would help him. He often said he had no one but my son. Dorothy approached me about 12-15 times over the years, to specifically and explicitly tell me how great she thought my son was and what a fine job I had done in raising him. She would then continue to list attributes and character traits she particularly admired. I always felt very warm and appreciative of these talks. She did it purposefully and clearly and that had great meaning for me, especially when I knew Rene was always there, like the black plague, in the background, in the shadows, doing her utmost to feed Dorothy and nelson and whoever else would listen, heaping manure bags of bullshit about my son and about me. I believe Rene felt it was all a competition -- a competition for the O'Connor Estate. I'd seen this in her again and again through her life. She was shameless.. I know I would have been hard-pressed to toss Nelson a life-jacket if I noticed him drowning in some river. He was that objectionable to me, and apparently to everyone else. But my son loved them both and had his entire life. I have no real explanation for that. I sometimes gently tried to help my son see Nelson at least a little more clearly, but he would have none of it, and he defended Nelson heartily, no matter what stupid-ass thing the odious man did next. I gave up on it as I had given up trying to find decency in Nelson O'Connor. Everyone I ever knew abandon Nelson O'Connor except my son. And Rene. Was Rene a real friend to Dorothy and Nelson? Or just another gold digger? Let's find out together. Rene lived not overly far away with no mountain passes in between them and made the trip to visit Dorthy and Nelson on occasion. During my visits to Dorothy, few after she married ham-fisted Nelson, I was continuously informed of stories Rene incessantly made up about me... ...very clearly designed to alienate Dorothy and whoever else would buy into the bullshit, from me. I had conspicuously and decidedly cut ties with Rene in the late 1980's, and that really pissed her off. Why would I cut ties with my half sister? It went like this: Our mother died from liver failure (alcoholism) one night in her sleep. She'd always said the one way she didn't want to go, was in her sleep. She said she thought it would be "creepy". Being the oldest child I was called in from out of town to attend Jeanne's funeral and manage her affairs, of which there were few. I arranged a gathering of the three boys and two girls, all children of Jeanne's (at least two more were alive but unknown to the family at that time). I proposed that we all split her assets equally. All agreed. At least two of the children hadn't spoken to her for years, but they were still her children and still, of course, entitled to equal shares. That's how it works in honorable circles. We all met at Jeanne's storage locker next morning, each of us prepared to pick out a few mementos and sell whatever was left, splitting the dividends equally. One of the sisters, Rene, however, showed up with a U-haul truck and took the lion's share of furniture and other valuables. Everyone was too stunned to object, but it was one of many acts which, in my view, cemented this type of behavior as her modus operandi. The leftovers were sold and the proceeds were split equally, including to the one hoggish sister -- that is to say she got the lion's share, PLUS an equal share of the proceeds of what was left. There was, leftover, a gaudy ring of some type; the greedy sister took that and sold it, but much to at least my surprise, split the proceeds among all the kids. There was a rundown trailer that Jeanne owed more storage fees for, than it was worth, but I took exception to the obnoxious old bastard who was holding it for ransom and bailed it out, then sold it for about half what I'd just paid in storage fees. Someone suggested I should ask the kids to equally make up the loss. That was patently ridiculous. It was MY decision to hit back at the drunken old bastard, not theirs, and the money I lost was mine to lose, not theirs. Way back in the 1980's my wife had been transfered in her work to a stinky, crime infested, Mexican Drug Cartel little outhouse called Gallup, New Mexico. Dumbest, most dishonest, most violent people in America. Mike Albright and my half sister Rene were then battling a mountain slide of "bad blood" where they lived in Tujunga, California, outside of Smell-A; their home was about to be foreclosed on and was in deep disrepair. Rene was drinking, as usual. Mike wasn't working. Selling drugs hadn't been as profitable as they'd hoped and there were rumors of people hellbent on blowing up their home. So they decided to cash out the shell of a house and come to our fair poop-pile city. Rene had been an OK sister up to then. I hadn't seen her a lot in some years before this and didn't know, at the time, they were drug dealers. I welcomed their new start in what turned out to be the worst shithole I ever lived in -- and I had lived in Mexico. Rene stayed with us for the first couple of months, while Mike tidied up the Los Angeles affairs. At first she stayed in our house. But she was bitchy and obtuse and petty and argumentative in the extreme, and after begging Mike several times to get there sooner and GET HER OUT, we moved her outside the house, into a tent. Think about that. I had not seen Rene to any appreciable degree for some time, as I said, and the transformation in her was positively jaw-dropping. It's like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers had gotten to her. What an absolute witch she had transformed into. She'd been my decent sister all my life, but this woman, whoever she had become, was someone I didn't want to know, nor did my wife. But their plans were set and they couldn't back out. Mike was finishing up the house sale and I continued to call him frequently to urge him God speed, and I told him straight up that I couldn't tolerate even a few more days of Rene. She was as off-putting, belligerent, nasty, mean spirited as anyone I had ever seen. --Very close to being what we might call a waste of flesh. This was one of the roughest, most dangerous towns I had ever come across -- worse than anything I ever saw in Mexico. But Rene went out often, hitting the loser bars alone, teeming with the worst criminal element I had ever seen -- and I had worked as a Federal Narcotics agent just to the north, in Denver, for three years! Gallup was over the top, even compared to the lowest, dirtiest corners of South Denver. Gallup was a culture shock for me; I had no idea any place like that existed IN THE AMERICAS, let alone our lower forty eight states. But Rene seemed to relish the chaos and grime and actual insanity of the place and the people and to thrive in that element -- or perhaps wallow in it. She would vanish until the wee hours of the morning (no cell phones in those days), and come staggering to her tent, drunk, and looking well used. This was a fucking bad thing to be doing to Mike, who was my heartfelt friend and a genuinely nice guy. Once we got so concerned that I drove the nearly 50 miles over icy roads at 3:30 a.m. to look for wrecks, while my wife called the few hospitals. I searched back alleys and bar parking lots. Never found her car. She never called (they did have fucking phone booths in those days!), and I came home alone. Around daylight she came straggling in. Eventually my caring and concern faded and was replaced by apathy and annoyance, and finally, by nothing at all. The last night she did this, we told her if she did it again, she wouldn't even be welcome back in our tent. She would be OUT and we didn't care what happened to her. Coyotes, mountain lions, rattlesnakes -- well all God's creatures must eat. What a bloody nightmare. Who the hell was this person Rene had become? I didn't know. I just wanted her OUT OF MY HOUSE. True to his word, Mike did arrive not long after my most frantic appeal. Mike and Rene bought a broken down travel trailer on a few acres about a mile from us. Rene went to work at a truck stop and Mike tended the new location of the drug business. Coming from my background, I had a dilemma with Mike and Rene's drug business. I was no snowflake. I played with drugs when I was 17, and I saw the destruction they caused, and very quickly I flipped over to the law enforcement side. Rene had been playing with drugs for decades by then. Apparently she was incapable of learning. I did tell Mike what I thought of the business. Their daughter, Alisha Albright, was sleeping less than a meter from their main installation in the trailer. It was all as screwed up as it gets. Let's just call it for what it was: Child abuse. Alisha was young enough I doubt she was even aware of what they were doing. The entire home, every cupboard, every drawer, every shelf, every closet, was a drug operation. Even though Mike and Rene were now a mile away down a dirt road, the problems began almost immediately. Rene began collecting stray dogs, then complaining when they killed her chickens. This was life 50 miles out of Gallup on the redstone hogback, surrounded by Indian territory. I disposed of a few of them and she was angry about that. When those chicken-killing problems were solved, and there were no more stray dogs to take home, Rene began coming to our property early in the morning, and picking up OUR OWN dogs, and taking them back to her ramshackle trailer (we called it little trailer on the prairie), and when our dogs, who had never harmed a chicken in their lives, started killing Rene's chickens, and she wanted to be paid for them, we had words. My dogs had never even known where Rene lived, and so when her complaints came, I demanded to know why they were even going there! Rene answered sheepishly that she was coming to our place early in the mornings and picking them up, and taking them home. I was dumbstruck. Why in the name of God would she do that? And I asked it! She replied she didn't know. I got rid of the worst offenders, because I have never found a solution to a chicken-killing dog, and there was no such thing as "animal control" out on that high range (8900 feet elevation). The only animal control facility that existed was a pit measuring about 30 yards by 60 yards and ten yards deep, dug by the county for explicitly that purpose of disposal and it was full of every kind of animal. I was tired of buying her dead chickens. It was a pretty simple formula: If you don't want dead chickens, don't bring home stray dogs. When the worst offenders were gone, Rene started coming again, and taking even our most prized mostly indoor dog when no one was around. Fortunately that dog simply wouldn't harm a fly, so Rene's apparent ploy to cause trouble and make more money was thwarted. It was at that point that I began to question her sanity. Question: Why are you taking my dogs before sunrise? Answer: I don't know. Ok then, Houston, we have a problem. We went to a weekend rodeo as was our habit, and our one true pet, the only one we allowed in the house, went with us, as was her habit. She ran around as dogs do but she was a scaredy-cat dog and stayed close to us always. At the end of the afternoon we packed up our horses and called our dog. Ten meters from us would have been a big adventure for her, so we knew she was close, yet she didn't come when called. We called again. And again. More loudly. We asked if anyone had seen her. No....and as she had been dog-napped once before, and recovered through her implanted chip, we began to fear this had happened again. Our search became more frantic. My wife was crying. After 30 minutes, there was no question -- the dog was gone. It was a small area, only maybe 5 acres, flat and bare except for the cars and horse fences. Not even a barn. This dog would NEVER run away. It seemed that all we had to do was think about her and she'd appear instantly at our feet, tail wagging, smiling broadly. So where in the Hell was she this time? After 30 minutes my son found her only a few meters way. Rene had been holding her down, preventing her from running to us. I was stunned. I asked Rene point blank why she had done that. She answered straight up: "I don't know." These types of bizarre interactions continued and grew worse. I had worked as a horse trainer during different phases of my life, and I was OK at it, and I rode a great deal. Rene, who had ridden a few times at the beach or something, paying by the hour, decided she too wanted a horse. Or three. It was a legitimate desire, living in some of the most gorgeous horse country on earth. Rene found a horrifically nasty mare and asked me about it. I told her to run far and fast from that critter. So she immediately bought it. And it proved to be exactly the wicked witch I had predicted. Rene knew everything. And so be it. A friend of Mike's came to visit them, then stayed. I can't remember his name. He was mentally slow -- quite slow. I'm not sure he could live alone. Autism? I never knew. But he was kind hearted and his brain was as drug-addled as Rene's. He helped Rene with the drug business. Years later, Dorothy O'Connor would ask me about Rene's drug use and drug business, and tried to counter my revulsion of it by screeching, "But you did drugs too!" Yes! I did! For a year! When I was a very stupid 17 year old! Yep. Guilty as charged. I did it. But I didn't cook my brain on them, and I didn't fucking sell them, and I LEARNED what they were about and what they did to peoples' lives. But Dorothy demanded to make the case that since Rene was a Goddamned 30 or 40 year old and nearly life-long drug DEALER, that was all justified because I had played with pot when I was 17. Dorothy, the core of Dorothy's life, was about FAMILY. She'd been cursed with a shitty one, just luck of the draw, but she was committed to keeping it all together and making it work no matter what hand she'd been dealt. No one has ever tried harder to make a family work. No one. Her family was her religion, and no matter what any of them did, she was determined to find a way to smooth it over, or to understand it, or to change it, or to simply ignore it if that's all that could be done. It was an admirable goal and I tried my very, very best to believe in it and subscribe to it for the first forty years of my life. Eventually I wised up. She so badly wanted me to help her be a stable hub for "The Family". The family was blessed to have her, but they never knew it. They saw her mostly as a pocketbook they could dip into from time to time, or often. She was the family's walking ATM. In the end I abandon her philosophy as simply unworkable. If a family member was shit, then they were shit, and being in "the family" didn't afford them one iota of special consideration. Ok, Ok, one iota. Not two. But virtually every single one of them would have required seven million iotas of special consideration and I didn't have that many to give. I had, at best, three, and those were used up in our childhoods. Drug dealers and insurance fraudsters and sluts and dope heads and grifters and grafters and scammers and outright tool thiefs -- fuck 'em Danno. I had better friends. Mike and Rene's lifestyle deteriorated steadily. Fairly often we fed them. The trailer became even more run down. The horse became nearly unridable. Rene accidentally locked her cat out one night in temps of minus 57f., and we found it the next morning, outside the trailer, perfectly in mid-stride, frozen as solid as a Mackerel. I called it FC for Frozen Cat. Rene was not amused, but by that time I didn't give a rat's ass if Rene was amused. Dorothy had a son and two daughters, Donita Lovett and Diane LaFranboise, and David Hemphill. Diane had a daughter named Amy LaFranboise. Donita had Andrea. We had Amy spend a summer with us in New Mexico, along with Dorothy's mother, Hazel (my Grandmother). Amy purportedly stole money from my wife's purse in the home -- I think $40, or $70. Grandma searched her and her belongings and didn't find it. Amy immediately laughed and said that "Grandma hardly searched anywhere." We sent Amy home to California with a letter to Diane, and never spoke to Amy again, though we certainly were informed about her life "adventures" for decades to come. Did Amy really steal the money? Amy said no. I grilled my wife mercilessly over an extended period of time and she swore, yes, Amy stole the money. My wife had never misplaced money before in her life, and never did after, and she handled tens of thousands of dollars in cash every day. She never made a claim like that in her life before or after. So did Amy steal the money or not? That's what polygraphs are for. The money was gone. Maybe the horses got into the house and stole it, thinking that, since it was green, it was alfalfa. I believe Amy stole it. Had she not laughed about not being thoroughly searched, I'd be on the fence: he said-she said. But her comment was for me the clincher, and I personally thought, anyway, that she was "just that kind of girl". The money didn't evaporate into thin air. It went somewhere. Dorothy told me that I had only done one thing in my life that she really didn't like, and that was to tell Diane about Amy. I countered that a mother not only has a right to know, but needs to know, and what kind of a low-life, antisocial member of society would I be to keep a mother in the dark about her daughter? Perhaps I'd be the same kind of low life antisocial member of society that keeps a friend in the dark about his wife. David was my best childhood friend and I never knew him to be anything but a straight arrow. I never heard even the faintest rumor to suggest anything otherwise. He had some kind of problem or disagreement with Dorothy that apparently lasted for years. I didn't know what it was. Never inquired. It wasn't my business. But I felt for both David and Dorothy during that time because I know it hurt them both, and they missed some time together. I knew Donita as a kid and spent years in her presence. I was 5 years old when I remember thinking (in not so many words), "This is the most arrogant, conceited human I have encountered to date in my short life." I didn't see Donita for decades after that, but I did meet up with her in California later, for some family dinner, and after three minutes I remember thinking, in exactly these words: "This is the most arrogant, conceited human I have encountered to date in my long life." She invited me to come stay with her at some Oregon resort she and then-husband were building. No thank you. I never saw her again and she passed away. I was also close childhood friends with Diane. Once she was working as an apartment complex manager in San Jose. I was 17. She tried and tried and TRIED to get me to sleep with her. I was just too shy. My cousin? No. It wasn't working for me. I was to find out later that that affected her deeply for many years. I'm sorry. I just wasn't that open minded. She was a gorgeous girl. I just couldn't go there. Later in life, I was passing through California en route to deliver a rifle to Mike Albright and Diane asked me to spend the night at her home. I didn't want to leave the rifle outside in the car in freaking San Jose, California, so I informed Diane that I would be bringing it into the house and I would place it under the bed. It was securely locked in a case and unloaded (actually disassembled). Diane went absolutely berserk and was obnoxiously adamant that no firearm shall ever enter into her home (my friend, Ted, a gunsmith of some renown, always used to say, "Those people will need me long before I need them"). But whatever. I do understand peoples' sometimes odd and irrational aversion to inert machines like guns -- I am not particularly fond of them either. But they aren't Cobras and I AM afraid of Cobras. But guns can't jump out of a box and attack you, especially when the box is locked and the parts are strewn about the inside of that box and there are no bullets. For God's sake wake up and grow a brain. She could have said, oh, gee, I don't like guns, so please promise to keep the case locked and the case under your bed, OK? I would have said sure, of course, I understand, and she was welcome to keep the only key. But Diane remained absolutely mental over the issue. I tried at first to inject some small flecks of logic to it, like, Diane, please understand, the rifle is locked in the case, and only I have the key, and the rifle is disassembled, and there are no bullets. But those things simply didn't enter into her ear canals and she raged on for probably 25 minutes while I simply shut up and let her vent. I finally said OK Diane, I am sorry, I will go to a motel. She instantly grabbed my arm and calmed down and said no, no, it's OK, you can stay. We sat on the sofa together until the wee hours, reminiscing about old times as kids, while her good husband, Merle (one of my favorite people in the world back then), and daughter, Amy, slept in other rooms. Diane finally put her hand on my thigh and squeezed and out of the blue asked if I liked her to touch me. I said no, sorry, no. I thought she would be offended and I immediately regretted not finding a more sensitive way to communicate my feelings. When she didn't remove her hand I took it, gently at first, and tried to put it back into her own lap. She squeezed harder and wouldn't let go. I was forced to quite strongly remove it. I then went to bed (alone), and I never spoke to her again. But I was informed relentlessly for literally decades after that, that Diane was especially energetic in telling anyone who would listen that I had FORCED her, completely against her will, to have guns (plural) in her home, and she said she cried and cried about that, and begged me to not to bring THEM in, but I laughed and did it anyway. She said she couldn't sleep all night -- except, of course, during the many hours we talked and laughed about old times and when she was trying to get me to fuck her while her husband slept in another room. Fuck you Diane. She was a witless drunk. Now she's dead. I hope her existence now, if any, is better than it was here on earth because it couldn't have been much worse. Nelson was the one most verbose and relentless people about hitting me with this particular tall tale, and though I patiently and calmly explained what actually happened repeatedly, in minute and painstaking detail, his story never changed one iota. It was like he simply didn't hear me. Rene also did her level-best to keep this lie alive. Good ol' Rene, always there at the heart of a lie. Mike tried to supplement their food in New Mexico by shooting tiny birds. Doves? He killed uncounted dozens, but it seemed it took about six little souls to make a sandwich. We took him hunting once and we bagged eight Thanksgiving turkeys. Mike shot a lot of trees with buckshot. No turkeys. We genuinely pitied them and gave them three for Thanksgiving, but their ongoing, life-long miseries were of their own doing straight across the board and that's a fact. Eventually their trailer was a hovel, filthy, cold, leaking rain and snow, leaking wind, rusty and rattly and really not habitable. My wife's restaurant was robbed 7 times in three years by the same Mexicans (witnesses abounding but not a single conviction even though they testified and identified the robbers), and even the retired FBI agent/detective agency the corporation hired to get to the bottom of it called one night to say he was scared, and was dropping the case and leaving town forthwith. We left shortly after that too. I can't remember if we said goodbye to Mike and Rene. I think not. Rene had instigated and cultivated so many problems and quarrels and bizarre, disjointed fights that we simply didn't care. I actually still loved Mike, but I couldn't deal with what they had become. I didn't love Rene. By then I felt nothing for her whatsoever. Her nastiness and incessant, never-ending insults and putrid attitudes were just too much. We were done. I was done. I didn't want to ever hear from her, or about her, again. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. It was shortly after we left that Mike came home unexpectedly and caught Rene in bed, naked, with Mike's lifelong friend -- I remember his name now: Kerry. And Kerry was also naked. And Rene said they never had any plans to have sex; it was all just a harmless game. Mike later put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Was this incident a huge contributing factor? Of course it was. It's what tipped the cow for Mike. Without this haunting his brain, he'd be alive today and we'd have gotten back together and I'd have pried him away from drugs and we'd be having countless adventures all over Asia, where I have lived for most of the last ten years. That's when my feeling of simply never wanting to think about Rene again, turned to hating Rene. What a Goddamned fucking pig of a woman. Unacceptable in every single way, by every single measure of a human being. Now I saw her as truly a waste of flesh. Just like her mother. Just like her sister. Just like her brother Jerrold. Just like her brother, the incurable thief, Johnny. I didn't just want Rene out of my life. I wanted her off the fucking earth. If there's a shortage of air on this planet, let more valuable beings, like salamanders, breathe what's left. That was my feeling for Rene in about 1989. Scorched Earth. Be gone foul darkness. Be gone.. Was this the only stunt like this Rene had pulled? She admitted to me that something happened between her and another of Mike's best friends, years before, in Los Angeles. I was always torn whether or not to tell Mike. Where does the loyalty lie? A good friend, or a sister? Maybe any human deserves the truth. But maybe that had been a one-off, and Rene had learned her lesson, and would never fuck one of Mike's friends again, and they could live out a long and happy life together. Was it my place to potentially ruin that? Just for the sake of "the truth"? I didn't tell Mike, and we see what played out. Had I told Mike, maybe Mike would have dumped her then and there, and found a nice girl, and maybe -- I'll say even probably -- Mike would be alive today. So is Mike's death on my head? Yes, very possibly, it is.Woulda Shoulda Coulda. Hindsight is always 20-20. I elected not to tell Mike and I elected not to post this web page because it would bring nothing but heartache to Dorothy -- she revered her family, even the clinkers -- and Dorothy had enough heartache. Not telling Mike had produced an unintended consequence, but I didn't think not telling Dorothy would bring any such consequence and I'm sure that was the correct decision. One bad decision, one good decision. 1 for 1. I left New Mexico and I left Rene. I left Mike too, but I always thought that would be temporary.Rene would be permanent. Fortunately, I had no reason to ever interact with her, or be around Rene, or even hear about her again. So it was a done deal. Rene was out of my life and out of my consciousness. Long live freedom. Unfortunately, not long after that, yet another daughter of my mother popped up out of the shadows, Cheryl Cavanaugh, of Nordland, Washington. An attorney or some such notified me of her existence I think in the late 1990's -- she had been a secret birth. Yes, yet another one. My mother then went away from where she was staying with sister Helen and Yvonne, on a trip, and left the baby Cheryl alone with them, and they simply sold Cheryl for cash to some people they met. Imagine my mother's chagrin when she returned from her trip. Or was it relief? She already had more kids than she could take care of. When people tell you your mother is a worthless whore, you're probably insulted and ready to fight. When people tell me that, I say, "Wow! So you knew her!" With Cheryl now inserting herself as the newcomer into "The Family", and with me speaking to Cheryl, at least in the beginning, it was inevitable and unavoidable that I should also hear about dear Rene. Cheryl made a trip to California to meet up with The Little House of Horrors in person, and came back admitting the utter bullshit Rene was tirelessly making up about me. About me? For what purpose? I had barely thought about her in a decade and she knew absolutely nothing about my life. Simple: Because I had disapproved of what she had become ten years before. So she had to get even. I began hearing these same kinds of stories, with details, from other members of the family who ended up interacting with Cheryl. And they were all nasty. Rene was working absolutely overtime to bash me to anyone and everyone who would listen. Cheryl admitted that straight up. Rene knew less than nothing about me or my life for years, and that was by my design, so she simply made up lies. Her intent was to poison the rest of the family against me, and it was working. Another adult secret sister had popped up, living in San Fransisco, named Debbie something. I never met her. She admitted she was a hopeless drunk and said she wanted to sue the family for not finding her and warning her that the family was genetically predisposed to alcoholism and -- Well fuck me. It was a family of utter fucking loons. Debbie had some falling out with Rene. Imagine that.. I was delighted Cheryl found me. Maybe, at long last, I had a normal, sane, family member with whom I could relate. But very early on, I realized that every single conversation with Cheryl wasn't a conversation, it was a debate. It was a competition. It was painful and upsetting and miserable and very quickly I decided I didn't want to have any more conversations with Cheryl and I wasn't alone in that exact same conclusion for that exact same reason. Cheryl said she couldn't be in the same room with her brother in her adopted family for five minutes before the bickering started. Yea verily. Poor man. I actually advised Cheryl to go buy a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence Enemies", but I don't believe she ever did. All verbal interaction was a contest, with score keeping on her part, and I found that utterly unacceptable. It didn't matter what was being said or discussed -- she wasn't happy until she won. I took a trip from the lower Forty Eight to Alaska by boat, my twentieth such trip on that route, and had plenty of time on the two month round trip voyage to search my soul, and I concluded I didn't want Cheryl in my life. I just didn't. I vowed to tell her, politely, when I returned. When I returned to the lower forty eight, I was informed she had gotten engaged to one of my best friends. Imagine my chagrin. In order to lose Cheryl, I had to lose my friend. When my wife found out about the engagement, she said this, verbatim, "You know, you will lose Ted now." I said yes, I know. And lose Ted I did. I tried to visit Ted one last time shortly after they got together. As I walked up to the door, Ted met me and said well, Cheryl just left, and he pointed to a long stretch of fresh, deep ruts, fishtailed in his graveled driveway. "She just tore out of here." It was some disagreement over her rather rude dogs that she had brought to live with Ted's rather nice dogs. I remember thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ -- the woman has been here less than a week, and already it has come to this. I didn't attend the wedding and I never went back. I then often heard from others in the family, people I had avoided for years, who told me specific stories that Rene was circulating about me and she was relentless. There wasn't a shred of truth to any of them, because Rene knew NOTHING about me or my life, nor did anyone else. They were complete and absolute fabrications, and since I didn't interact with the rest of the family, Rene knew she could spread this vile shit with absolute impunity, because I wasn't around to defend myself. I had merely wanted to be left alone. There was a man named Robert Monroe who claimed he traveled outside his body a lot and wrote three books about it. I have no clue if he actually did it, but he related at least one story in which after leaving his body, supposedly, he was on his way to somewhere or someone or something, and very shortly into that trip he encountered a "layer". The layer consisted of apparently "souls", who just sort of hung out there, eternally, and when anything passed through, they attacked it. Think: Dogs chasing cars. Monroe said in the beginning he fought back like hell, as they bit and chewed and strangled and kicked and punched and scratched, and the harder he fought to defend himself, the harder they fought to attack him, and the more of them that showed up. He said eventually he got the idea that what he was doing wasn't working, so he simply STOPPED. He relaxed and didn't lift a finger. They continued to attack him, but after awhile he noticed they were losing interest and one by one, dropping away. Eventually they were all gone. It was like stopping the car -- the dogs had nothing left to confront. And he went merrily on his way. I tried that with this family. I moved away. I had NO personal contact with any of them except Dorothy, and I was careful to never let even her know exactly what I was doing or where I was, so that innocent information couldn't get inadvertently passed along to the snarling little snipes and used as fodder for even more bullshit. But what I got for my efforts and care was even more bullshit. I figured, OK, I wasn't relaxing ENOUGH, and that if I just learned Monroe's technique, even these sons of bitches would be like Monroe's sons of bitches and lose interest and Just. Go. The Fuck. Away. But after thirty years, they didn't. So here I am. Let's have at it. The toxic tales were germinated in Rene's fetid mind and told as fact to as many of the family as would listen to her, and those hapless souls enhanced and modified them to suit their own illogical perversions, then told THOSE versions as fact. The originals from Rene were horrendous, but the passed-along edits were the stuff of homicides. Most US students got a lesson in this in about Fourth Grade. The teacher told a very short two or three sentence story, like, "Bob went to the store and bought groceries. Bob returned home on his bicycle. Bob put the food in the house. Bob's family ate the food." The End. Simple, right? How could THAT get fucked up in the retelling? The teacher would let the first student in the first row read it several times to be clear. Then that student must turn around and whisper it to the one behind them, and that was repeated by all class members, maybe 28 times, and then the last one was told to recite the story to the class. And it would usually go something like this: "A lady took her dog to the fair and the dog was stolen and the lady called the police." Then the teacher read the original story and no one could believe it. The story was butchered in ways no one on earth could even imagine. That's what Rene was planting and spreading, and it all took on a life of its own. When relatives told me they had "defended me", I'd ask REGARDING WHAT!? And they would relate the absolutely civilly actionable bullshit Rene was spouting forth this week and last week and the month before and most of their retelling of Rene's stories matched, so I knew the stories hadn't gotten repeated too many times yet, and were at least very close to the things Rene was actually saying. It was endless. It was like flavor of the hour. I swear she made written brainstorm lists. She didn't even know where the fuck I lived or what I did for a living because no one else knew either! But she would make up and relentlessly broadcast stories of things I supposedly did here or there or in some place I had never even been to. And I learned to hate her all the more, slowly, inexorably, moving past mere hatred, and into loathing and revulsion and desires to see her come to misery and harm. I began to wish for it. I began to pray to the Great Pumpkin for it to happen. I knew these stories were coming from Rene because people and relatives swore it -- but most importantly, because I had watched her give the same treatment of my son, to me, when he was little, and I therefor knew she was capable of it. Rene was simply a nasty life form. This crap was her life blood and I think she was and is incapable of ever stopping.. And that's OK -- as long as the snake stays in its own part of the jungle, who bloody cares? But Rene was diligently struggling to influence my life and contacts with this bullshit, to reach out and touch me as it were, almost from the grave, because she was certainly dead to me, to inflict pain from afar in any way possible, and she'd been doing it since we left her, living in squalor and shame, in New Mexico. It was now ten and fifteen and twenty years later, and she was still fucking doing it, unabashed, unstoppable, unapologetic. She had become a kind of Freddy Krueger -- the nightmare you can't escape, not even in sleep. No longer just a waste of flesh, but someone who was endeavoring at every opportunity to find ways to hurt my life and alienate me from others. I had enough specific information to sue her civilly and I should have. Maybe I still will. I can do it, even from here, 8900 miles away from the USA, and I can afford to. But she can never pay an award because I think she drinks or snorts or smokes every spare centavo. I had truly never seen anything like it, nor had I even read fictional accounts of any human being that Goddamned dastardly and just plain evil. Except two. There was a particular Aunt by the name of Helen Jackson, and her daughter, Yvonne, who were as evil. Helen killed herself I believe -- or maybe the Devil just naturally called her back. But her daughter hanged herself in their garage after Helen was gone, and I hope it was in the deepest state of despair, for that's what she brought, exclusively, into the lives of every single human being she ever interacted with on this earth. So I ask myself, did Rene just inherit the Helen and Yvonne genes? That's what it looks like, and as she got older, they took root and sprouted. Her kids didn't fall far from the tree. Dorothy told me more often than any other, of Rene's tall tales, that she defended me from, as vomited forth incessantly by Rene. I told Dorothy I didn't want to hear them, and if Dorothy couldn't see through Rene, then Dorothy deserved whatever she got from Rene -- I told Dorthy that, in a nicer way. 95% of the time Dorothy didn't even know what state I lived in, and I purposely took great pains to keep it that way. She knew only what she heard from others -- who knew even less, but simply made things up to fill the vacuum. Often Dorothy had been told I lived in places I had never even visited! Dorothy actually did finally tell her daughter and grand daughter, Helen Jackson and Yvonne, plain and clear and flat out, that they were nothing short of actual, real and true manifestations of evil, and she used that word, evil, which is as hard core as Dorothy probably ever was in her entire life with anyone about anything. Dorothy finally managed to see those two serpents for what they were, but for some reason, Rene's snake-stare was too mesmerizing for Auntie Dot, and maybe she never saw through Rene. More's the pity. Dorothy approached me frequently, telling me how downtrodden "poor Rene" was and how miserable her life was and how much "bad luck" she had suffered -- well fuck that. Every single problem Rene ever had, has, or will have was brought about by Rene's endlessly stupid life decisions, by her drunkenness, by her suspect upbringing of demon-spawn, and by her own meanness and stupidity. But I believe Rene had worked as hard to groom Dorothy for pity, as she had worked to bash me and my life. This is the essence of Rene Hart Albright Thomson, Waste of Flesh. Dorothy was a good person. But she was gullible as Hell and Rene knew it and worked it like an Eskimo chews a hunk of whale blubber. It takes time and patience, but eventually you get it done. Rene had the time, the patience, and the motive. I believe her motive was multifaceted: It was to get money from Dorothy and Nelson while they were alive, and according to Dorothy, she got a lot. It was to curry sympathy so she would be included in The O'Connor trust. And Rene wanted to swat away any competition for the estate. How thoroughly do I believe that? I'd stake my life on it. The family en masse speculated openly as to why Dorothy married Nelson, or anyone like him. Dorothy's previous husband, Dave (Big Dave) Hemphill was, to me, one of the finest humans to ever walk the earth. Kind, helpful, quiet, considerate to a fault, friendly, honest -- he was my dream of the perfect Dad. I hope Dave (little Dave) was happy with him. Big Dave did a particular thing to ruin his marriage to Dorothy, and I can't defend him for that. Life is what it is. He made a mistake. Let he who is without sin cast the first -- By why, oh why, oh why, in God's name and in the name of all that is Holy, did Dorothy marry a jerk like Nelson O'Connor. No one could ever figure it out. Rebound syndrome? Even Nelson said he was amazed she accepted him. Dorothy was a beautiful woman all of her life, and smart. Not just "normal smart", but exceedingly smart. She could have had her pick. Indeed, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. All of us have blind spots, some of them glaring. Maybe she just didn't see him for what he was. I think that's the case. She was blinded by some other quality that no one else ever saw. It can also be said that ignorance is bliss. Nelson was admittedly handy -- though never as handy as he imagined himself. I bought a nearly new Cadillac with only a few thousand miles (about 4500) on it from him once in San Jose as he was a "consummate Cadillac mechanic". He had done a lot of work on the car to make it a good car for me, and I thank him for that. But it was the worst and most unreliable car I ever owned. It didn't even make it back to Washington, a few days after I bought it. It was junk and I sold it at a fraction of what I paid him -- like half. Absolutely everything gave out on that car. Things one could never imagine failing, failed. Things any half-witted mechanic should have spotted seconds after opening the hood, failed. So much for Nelson's "handiness". His supreme arrogance far and vastly overshadowed any expertise he may have possessed in any area or field. You couldn't stand to be around him so if he was indeed handy, it was rendered moot. Thankfully, I wasn't alone in that estimation or I might have wondered if the problem was me. Far from it. Nelson moved Dorothy to a very rural mountain outside of San Jose and did manage to build a quite respectable hacienda, but over the years he became alienated with every single person in that entire hillside community of a hundred or so souls. Every one. Maybe, just maybe, they were all worthless assholes and not worthy of Nelson's respect. Or maybe it was the other way around. Nelson did relate to me an incident with an adjacent neighbor that turned them into mortal, mortal enemies, for decades. When Dorothy first told me about the neighbor problem I felt so badly for her that I offered to come across the country and take care of it (the neighbor). That was sort of my profession at the time. She was in fear of their lives. Then, later, I was at their house on the mountain for just a visit, forgetting all about their neighbor problem, and they both related to me exactly what had actually transpired. Nelson was wrong 100%. He had acted like a Goddamned asshole, as usual, and the neighbor wasn't rolling over for it. I remember thinking, Jeeze, Nelson, if you had done that to ME, I'd be your mortal and sworn enemy too, only I wouldn't be nearly as nice as that guy! Dorothy didn't seem to understand how wrong Nelson had been -- I began to think then that she was blinded by something and could NOT see him clearly. Love is blind? That was probably it. Nelson never did understand why the guy was ticked. And I saw that repeated again and again and again and again ad nauseam in all the decades I knew him. I was in a car with Dorothy and Nelson, in California, going out to eat, and Nelson was rambling about some other BS thing he felt he had been wronged on and I said nothing. I was an invited guest. Invited guests sit quietly and politely and keep their fucking mouths shut. We stopped somewhere en route and Nelson got out of the car to do something -- maybe go to the bathroom, and Dorothy leaned in close to me and said, "You know, I really love him." I whispered back "good", because if you're going to stay with a man, especially a jackass man, you do NEED to really love him. And then she said, "Because he's a real man's man." I choked at that one. What on earth can you say? No, he most decidedly was NOT a "real man's man". No man that I knew could stand the son of a bitch, except my son. A man's man is a man admired by most other men. No one that I knew of admired Nelson, or if they did, it was short-lived when he showed them his rectum and asked them to kiss it. He was an unmitigated asshole. But my mind was scrambling for a polite acknowledgment of some kind and the milliseconds were streaming off the clock and I was coming up blank. Finally I bit the bullet and said, "Yes, Aunt Dorothy, yes he is." I wanted her to feel warm and good and I think it worked. But by God that one was like swallowing a rancid dog turd whole. It really was. I can still taste it and smell it when I burp. I had been quite close to Dorothy as a small child. She was a stabilizing force in my ultra turbulent childhood. She was a rock. She would take me, just us together, to parks and events and restaurants, always holding my hand, being kind and decent and sober. I thought, as a 5 year old, she was the most sober person I'd ever known -- and in fact she was. We stayed in contact through my teenage years and I stayed with her and David as a family for awhile. But my rotten childhood would always haunt me, driving me to keep moving, even though I was happy. In my early adult years Aunt Dot and I wrote by snail mail a few times per week and we continued this for many years. Then eventually email came along and we communicated daily. I borrowed money from Dorothy a handful of times for business ventures. I imagine I'm one of only a few who ever paid it back. Then Nelson came along. And I met him. And most communication with Dorothy stopped. I think that was the case with many, or most of her friends. Once they met the jackass, no matter how much they loved or valued Dorothy, they kept their distance. You might love someone who was slathered in reeking dog poo, but it would be difficult to go spend time with them. Little by little I stopped interacting with all of the family. Dorothy was the last one I let go of, not because she had ever done anything wrong or had alienated me in any way. She had never been anything but my friend and defender and I thank you, Aunt Dorothy, for all of that. But interacting with Dot meant being in some proximity to Nelson, and I. just. couldn't. stomach. the man. Unfortunately, my son loved him. That was a huge complication. So I was polite to Nelson on those occasions that contact was unavoidable. But as I said, I would have never tossed him a life-jacket. Still, in view of all this, was Nelson O'Connor a better man than Ralph Barclay Neil or Kenneth Lyle Neil? Easily, hands down, yes. But Nelson still didn't meet my basic requirements of someone I'd want to know in this lifetime. I suspect Dorothy was lonely for her friends after taking this idiot in. I cannot for the life of me figure out what she saw in Nelson and I've thought about it far too much for far too long. I can only reiterate that he was.....handy about the house. But so was Big Dave Hemphill. And Big Dave was nice. What about Mike Albright? Mike Albright was a drug dealer and I struggled with that mightily. But I still loved Mike. He doted on Rene and was fastidiously faithful all his years. Too bad Rene can't say the same, on MULTIPLE counts. Before Mike killed himself he was in financial difficulty. I was, at that time, in a prime position to help him out no matter what he needed, but I was told later he thought I hated him, and so he never asked me. I find that profoundly sad. No, Mike, I hated RENE, not you. Dorothy defended Rene's drug dealing business by saying Rene told her it was all Mike, and Mike made her do it. Bullshit. Mike was equally involved. And Rene was equally involved and interested and engaged in it. And that's the fucking fact of that. Anything to the contrary was Rene, again, overworking that sympathy card. Poor Rene. Poor me. Big Bad Mike Albright forced me to sell drugs. Double bullshit. Fuck that shit. I talked to Mike Albright's family shortly after his death. I always liked and respected Mike's dad. They asked me, What about Rene? I replied I had stopped talking to Rene long before, and they replied, "Yeah, we know she wasn't much." After Rene's romp with Kerry, Mike went to a girl's house, a few hundred miles away, which is where he shot himself -- using, unfortunately, a little cap and ball pistol we used to go shooting sagebrush with, and which tended to misfire about 70% of the time. This time it didn't. Mike wasn't married to Rene, but after his death, Rene went into the home of THIS OTHER WOMAN (she said Rene literally BROKE INTO THE HOME) and stole everything that was Mike's, even though IT WASN'T HERS. Good one, Rene. You're a real class act. I urged the woman to call the police as it was an eminently prosecutable crime. Rene could have been, should have been handcuffed, arrested, and taken to jail and convicted. But the woman was so distraught she couldn't get it together to get that done. My son was told by Nelson O'Connor that he was "Taken care of in the Will" But he wasn't. No one attended Nelson's funeral because there wasn't one. Smart decision, Nelson. Five people attended Dorothy's funeral, including my son, Dave, his wife, and Dorothy's two sisters. I suspect more wanted to attend, but perhaps the stink of Nelson was just too strong even after his passing, and that memory kept them away. Who can say. I am pleased to know that Rene wasn't included in the Will either. Imagine her chagrin, after all those interminable years of lying and maneuvering and conniving and cajoling to weasel her way in there and keep others out -- and all for naught. Is that why she didn't attend the funeral? Always calculating, that one. Here's a cut and paste from one of the communications to the O'Connor Trust: "Good afternoon: I was related to Dorothy O'Connor, who was married to one Nelson O'Connor You are handling their Wills. I may have information of interest to the court regarding these Wills. My dislike of and contempt for Nelson O'Connor was well known and profound. I never figured out what planet he hatched on, but it wasn't earth -- not even planet Earth can spawn a putrid morality of that nature. I was close to Dorthy, until she married Nelson, as was the case with many. There is no chance I am mentioned in either Will. However, I believe one sister in The Little House of Horrors (the family) is included in the Will of one or both parties and it is to that I speak now. This sister has made a virtual career of befriending wealthy family or friends, and weaseling money from them while alive, and grooming them to leave money after they passed. In one such instance, she actually called the soon to be deceased, (my father), literally on his death bed, while he literally gasped frantically for air, to ask for money and inclusion in the Will. He only managed a raspy NO! and disconnected. Her behavior is documented and is the subject of many family discussions over decades. I know what you deal with on a daily basis -- you see this and far worse almost hourly. Maybe you're inured to it; I am not. I need to know if this sister is included in the Wills of either Dorothy or Nelson as a matter of legality. If she is, I will raise the legal issue of fraud and will supply an affidavit to the court. Such may or may not carry sufficient weight to sway the court in this matter, but I am obligated to try. Her behavior has gone on too long, unchallenged. Please advise when, where, and how I may view the Will. I live in SE Asia; I cannot appear personally. February 22, 2021" That didn't produce any result at all. You always start out using as little pressure as possible, knowing that bigger guns are ready, and the following was step two out of 100 steps. This was sent two days later: "I'm sorry this is your position. Your position seems to be at odds with the prevailing advice on this issue. The article at the following link appears to encapsulate all the other data I have collated so far. Pursuant to that information, which agrees with a consensus of the available information, I am herewith making the legal request to view any part of the estate documents, Wills, etc., which show whether or not this one errant sister was included in the Will or Estate, and what her award amount is. If she is included, then I am alleging deception and fraud on her part. Obviously, if she was left $5, the issue might (might) not be worth pursuing. If she was left more, then it is worth pursuing as a matter of principle and legality. It's the right thing to do. I believe you are under the legal obligation to protect this estate from fraud. If this sister/drug dealer/drunk/child abuser is in the Will, then she obtained that position and status by fraudulent means. Her maiden name was/is Rene Hart. One married name was Rene Albright -- that husband shot himself in the head after discovering her in bed with his best friend. She has used other names. If indeed you are legally obligated to protect this estate from fraud, and if indeed this woman is included in the Will, then I am alleging fraud, and you are duty-bound to act in the best interests of the Estate. It seems clear that you are legally mandated to reveal whether this sister, using either of these names, or others, is included in the Will, and the amount of her award, if any. It also appears clear that many or most attorneys simply refuse to supply this info -- the reasons can only be speculated upon. I am not an attorney, only a retired Federal Narcotics Agent. I have only now begun to research this. I believe the issue could be handled easily by simply providing me with the requested information -- which WILL be forthcoming in any case, through the courts, in time. Again, for the record, re the O'Conn[o]r (Oconn[o]r?) Estate of Dorothy and Nelson O'Conner, I am legally requesting to be advised whether or not this sister is included in the Will, and what the amount, if any. If you are unsure of whatever name she might be listed under, then I request a full copy of the Will and any related documents so that I can research it further and determine it. I believe you will refuse to supply this, and we will ask you why, specifically, in a more public setting, at a later date. This request is made on February 23 (SE Asia date), at 09:40, and sent to the email shown above. If need be we will follow up via registered mail. By responding to the original email you have demonstrated that you do receive email at this address and are capable of responding to it." The full Will was forthcoming a few hours later. As it happens, Rene didn't even rate a mention in the Estate. Of course, my legal standing was only a facade; I would have been hard, hard pressed to win this in court. I now learn that Dorothy and Nelson organized and held a family reunion a few years ago, and after the fact sent Rene a photo of the gathering. Rene wasn't in the picture, because she hadn't been invited. Imagine her chagrin. I was told she was positively murderous over it. Dorothy and Nelson became a little concerned about that and tried to mitigate it by saying they had "forgotten" to invite Rene. To a major family reunion. That required months of preparation. Yeah, right. Simply, no one wanted her there. She likely would have shown up drunk and loud and stupid and no one wanted that stain on a nice event. So perhaps, just perhaps, I over-estimated Dorothy's gullibility and under-estimated her wisdom, and for that, Dear Aunt Dorothy, I humbly apologize. One might surmise she saw through Rene's clumsy ministrations and faux devotion and did the right thing after all. That's what I choose to believe. I now have no connections of any kind or form, first party, or second party, nor indirectly, nor by smoke signal to this band of mostly losers, and neither does my son, and for that, although I do not believe in God, I do believe in The Great Pumpkin, and I thank you now, Great Orange One, from the bottom of my heart, for this finally complete and total disconnect. I am done with "The Family". We will never know when any of them dies or gets sick or goes back to prison or molests a child or a dog or a sheep, or gets shot to death in a drug deal -- or makes up bullshit stories about us or anyone else ever again, and they can never know a single thing about either of us, ever again, though that won't stop Rene or anyone else from making up lies. In any case, The Family Chapter of my life is closed, and I am ecstatic. Thank you again, GP. I am at peace. Is there a lesson to be learned here for Rene, or anyone else considering heinous behavior like this? Yes. Don't make up stories about me. I don't like it and I won't tolerate it. Some losers tried it years ago and I underwent and publicly posted three polygraphs. That didn't go well for them at all, and in fact haunts their lives 22 years later. Oh, the pity. A few seconds of elementary thought would have shown any functioning mind considering it that it was a bad idea. But some substance-addled brains are incapable of a few seconds of elementary thought. So be it. All these years, decades actually because I haven't spoken to Rene in probably 30 years -- so all these decades she has been gayly spouting this shit to whoever would listen. I imagine she walked around town and approached the homeless with tales or her terrible ex-brother. No, she wouldn't have done that, because there would have been no potential gain in it for her -- so all these decades what was she thinking? She positively knew some of her fever-dream crap was coming back to me. I distanced myself from the Addams Family as well as I could, but bits and snippets still got through. So what was Rene thinking? That I would just roll over and roll over and roll over and......what? Just let it all slide, like runny dog shit off a duck's back? Well, that's what I did, for about the first 25 years of it. Then I'd had enough.     One curious final note: As I write this, or anything else, (I wrote for a living for years), I can see my heart-rate on my Apple watch. While writing this page, it's more stable and lower than it has ever been while awake. I take that to mean that writing this page was the cosmically proper thing to do. It was a blood-letting of the toxins, and now they're gone from my soul. Thanks again, GP. You're the best.       .THIS IS THE RENE HART ALBRIGHT THOMSON PAGE RETURN TO KEN NEIL PAGE 1     The life and death of Ralph Barclay Neil (Ralph Neil, Ralph B. Neil, Neil, Ralph), and experiences with one of his sons. Ken Neil, Ken l Lyle Neil, Ralph Barclay Neil (Ralph Neil, Ralph B. Neil, Neil, Ralph), Kenneth Lyle Neil, Teresa Neil, Teresa Neal, Bimbo Neil, 53 foot Skookum sailboat, SV Spellbound, Ray (Raymond) Brown, Barbara jo Neil, Barbara Jo Clough, Barbara Jo Brown, Doug Brown, James Neil, Gladys Brown, Carl Brown, Everett Neil, Corrine (Corine) Neil, Russel Neil, Stockholm Syndrome, kidnappers