OK G~, it is like this. I am the administrator and writer. That is it except for the noble, the elite who are fed-up with Rayelan, Hobie and the Rumor Mill Contingent.
|Meow, Elderly but much loved|
On the ground here is me, The Melinda, Arthur Edward Foster, my son, his kitty, Meow, and my kitty, Graysom, who is cranky and spends most of his time trying to figure out how to beat up Meow, who is frail and very elderly. I'll take photos so you can see them.
|Graysom, our rescue from the streets|
Interruption in the Original Post: Graysom and Meow have a friend, an enormous crocodile-like creature who plays fetch with them using Melinda's Jacks ball.
|Alpine is larger than they are in this reality.|
|Rayelan's Secret Garden!|
I have friends in Other Places but it took a long time at church for people to realize Raye had slandered me hideously. If there had been any way for me to leave I would have. A list of the slanders would be time consuming so we will skip that. These were easily proven as lies because I have been active all of my life, being incapable of being inactive, and can prove it by calling up old friends, relatives, and associates and asking them to write a character reference.
Until Raye conned me into coming to Ohio I had clients and things were looking hopeful for providing Arthur with enough money to keep him safe when I die, which will happen. I am already the oldest in my generation because of the inherited heart condition. My oldest sister, Anne Aetheline Pillsbury Gripp died of a heart attack at age 59. Carol Sylvia Pillsbury Holbert died of a heart attack at age 36. Charles Arthur Pillsbury, my oldest brother, had a combination heart attack and stroke at age 59. He lingered with aphasia for some time then also died.
My younger brother, Stephen M. Pillsbury, had triple bypass surgery when he was 44. He works hard at taking care of himself as he and his wife have several children still at home. Pillsbury Family
Craig, my ex, and Morgan were sure I would die during the divorce, into which they threw every ugly twist possible. While Morgan was talking to me she said they had conference calls on how to bring this about. I think some of that is in her depositions. See Just the Evidence
But I did not die as planned.
Now, about my childhood and what I'm doing when not contending with the nasty Raye Smith.
I grew up on Colby Avenue in West Los Angeles, Dad was first a professor at UCLA and eventually Director of the Water Resources Center for the UC System. Dad took me with him on field trips and other projects, for instance work on peripheral fire danger. He was on the first committee on the problem and took me into the Brentwood Fire in 1962 before it stopped burning. I took notes on burn patterns. My 7th Grade science project was on soil composition.
After knowing me for all of my life Dad left me with the responsibility of restoring his father's legacy. I did copious interviews with Dad before he died in 1991. I was also the family historian and produced several family booklets for Christmas presents.
By 1991 I had left the Libertarian Party after managing 24 campaigns, serving as Southern California Vice Chairman for six terms and on National Committee. I could see the LP could not be returned to the decentralist form it had had when I originally joined in 1973. In 1990 I was a registered Republican. I joined to study a major party from the inside. It was informative and I still have friends from the GOP and the National Federation of Republican Women.
In 1992 I confess to trying to hijack the H. Ross Perot Campaign by getting a song written, The H. Ross Cannonball. It was an attempt to inject a consistent ideological viewpoint into the Perot mishmash of this and that.
I persuaded my then husband, Craig (Incest Porn) Franklin, to write the song because since he had written it, with editing by me, he was eager for us to pay to have it produced. Jerry Corbetta, formerly of Sugarloaf and the Four Seasons, a friend of mine, produced it for us.
Earlier, I had borrowed Jerry's camera to make the video I needed so Craig could have his 17 minutes at a live mike at the Libertarian National Convention in 1991.
Over the years Dad had realized I never gave up, despite daunting odds. So he asked me to get the truth out about his father's legacy. Both he and I were totally ignorant of how potentially political this was when I cheerfully agreed. After months of interviews Dad started sending me small notes with things which had slipped his mind. Then, in November of 1990, he told me what he had previously failed to mention.
I had just plumped myself down at my desk after delivering four children to three schools and Craig to work. Craig had, again, lost his license and I would not let him drive without it.
This took about three hours in the morning and ditto for the pick-up runs.
Dad called. This was not usual. I usually called him. No chit-chat. He abruptly told me to call Virginia and have her call him immediately. Virginia was an old, old friend of his from when he was growing up in Yosemite. I later realized he wanted her to know he was serious about what he was about to do, which was to tell me something he had held in confidence since 1928.
He hung up and I called. I sort of felt like I was bullying an old lady during the call.
Virginia was obviously uneasy when I told her Dad had asked me to call and tell her it was time to call him. She tried to put off calling Dad with all sorts of lame excuses. I repeated what Dad had said, that she knew why she needed to call.
I said good by and went back to work. About two hours later Dad called back and said, “Don't say anything. Just listen.” He then told me about the fire in his father's studio in Yosemite in November 1927. Grandfather's entire collection, a life time's worth, of negatives had been lost.
Dad told me he had been the one who went to the Valley to finalize all issues for his father in early 1928. Grandfather never, he said, returned to Yosemite. Dad later realized just how significant the loss had been, something he had overlooked at the time.
Read this letter, dated January 21, 1985, to Steve Harrison, a Park Service employee who Dad had befriended. I acquired other letters over the next years and in 2010 accidentally dropped the file folders, which ended up on the floor completely mixed. I decided to file all of them together chronologically. What I realized as I read through them was a shock but explained a lot.
To continue with Dad's narrative on the phone call to me in 1990.
Dad said the first person he went to see was Tommy Thompson, the caretaker for the studio when Grandfather was away on his lecture tours. Tommy told Dad it was not he, Tommy, who was not responsible for the fire. He wanted Dad to know what happened and so recounted events which took place just before the fire was discovered.
Tommy said he was talking to another employee at the front of the studio when they heard the back door slam. They looked. The flood lights were still on so they recognized the man leaving the studio. It was the janitor, who swept up for them. He was carrying a box. It appeared to be heavy, Tommy said.
They returned to their conversation to be interrupted seconds later by the smell of smoke. Yelling, “Fire!” they ran into the studio. Glancing toward the back Tommy saw the man with the box break into a run toward the woods behind the studio.
The man had recently married Virginia Best, Dad's childhood friend. Dad immediately went to confront the couple. Virginia begged him not to tell the story. Her husband, she said, had no motive to burn the studio. He was returning to his career as a concert pianist. You have probably heard of him.
His name was Ansel Adams.
Dad agreed to remain silent. It was not until late in his life he realized he had made a serious mistake.
Dad apologized to me. He said he knew he was leaving me with a complex task. But I am making head way. When I started Grandfather's work was largely forgotten. Today, things are changing.
Grandfather's impact on the world was enormous. Among other things he was the original 'open source' guy, refusing to patent his own inventions. You take these for granted today and probably never thought about where they came from. Read about his accomplishments on our website. Arthur C. Pillsbury website
Dad said he knew I would never give up. I haven't, because the truth matters.
Yes, I have needs which are never met. Arthur needs a caretaker 24/7. I am it and I am also disabled, along with the heart issue.
But I was raised to be stoic and not complain, unlike someone else I could mention.