Darlings, Let's Get One Thing Straight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Excuse me, girls, for shocking you on here with that last word--straight. Not to worry; I am not headed in THAT direction? ME? Why, it is DISGUSTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What I should have said was let's get something clarified and it is this--"THE SONG OF BERNADETTE IS NOT KITSCH!" Imagine my horror, lambs, when I read the NYTimes review of the film "Lourdes," by that idiot Manhola Dargis, and she makes reference to his film as a "Hollywood kitsch classic." Again, excuse me? And with Jennifer Jones just two months gone, she has the NERVE to say this? Let me tell you, I will twist that bitch's tongue out right before her eyes for saying such a thing. She deserves it for such a desecration.

But I promised you more from yesterday, so let me tell you about THE LETTER.

The year was 1979, barely a year after the Lauren Schor incident. At this point, my mother had succumbed to the ravages of illness (Cancer, which eventually took her) and was hospitalized. At the time prior, she had still been working as a Teacher's Aide at one of the elementary schools. One day I was with her, and this letter arrives addressed to her simply as--"Mrs. Hearn, St. Peter's Hospital, New Brunswick, New Jersey." No room number or zip code; I could see it was posted locally, so it did come through the mailing system. The writing was block print, so I just assumed it was one of the students sending forth good wishes. When I opened the envelope, and removed the white lined paper, I had no reason not to assume the same thing--still childish block print. THEN I read the actual message, which I will quote on here verbatim, and found out it was NOT written by a child, but manufactured to look such. The message went as follows--"Dear Mrs. Hearn--I am very sorry that you have cancer, and you don't have long to live, but I want you to know we are all praying for you. Now maybe your son will be a man and go to work to help you and your husband. Our best to you. Your neighbors."

Until this happened, I could not believe such suburban cruelty. Well, now I do. To this day, darlings, I have NO idea who wrote it. Well, IDEAS, yes, but not proof. For years I thought my aforementioned uncle involved in the Lauren Schor incident was responsible, but it took me years to realize that he had already done the damage he set out to do, and he was not the type to be this duplicitous and clever; if he thought you were full of shit, he thought nothing of telling it to your face, as the Schor incident with me proved. Years later, it occured to me there was another possibility.

Shortly after my mother passed on, I had a brief banking job during the summer of 1979. On the way to work, I would see one of our neighbors, and the father of one of my grade school classmates, whose parents and mine were friends with, walking over the bridge into the next town. I noticed this every morning, and one of my mother's friends pointed out he was going to Temple to atone for his sins. I could not imagine what he had to atone for, as he was an innocuous, Mr. Peepers type, but then she showed me this newspaper article he had clipped. Shortly before this, he had been arrested and tried for writing a series of "lewd Letters" to two women in our town. The women were not identified, and in later years, I came to wonder if my mother had been one of them, to begin with. My parents certainly would never have discussed this with me, if it had been true. But now a second suspect loomed, one who fit all the criteria--knew my mother was hospitalized, terminally ill, with what illness, and that I was not working and having difficulty getting work. How someone so close to our family could do something like this is still beyond me, and it was a turning point--I vowed that if I survived all this, I was going to walk away and abandon the suburbs, as it was clear I was not wanted there. And I did eventually make good my vow.

When my father arrived that evening, he could see we--my mother and I were very upset. The letter was shown to him, he put it in his pocket--and that was the last it was heard of or discussed. Now, 31 years later, I do not know if the answer will ever be known. But the reprecussions in my case were devastating and were yet another contributor to my growing list of suburban resentments.

Now, what do you think of that story, darlings? Not exactly "Peter Pan;" and neither is the tale of Katina Mataras, which I will save for next time. But not to worry--sooner or later things will lighten up on here, and won't that be lovely, girls?????????

Have to run now, loves! It is teatime!!!!!!!!!!!!!