Yearbook Frontispiece: Frank H. Kryder graduated from Indiana University, Bloomington. He was then for a time Principal of Spencerville High School.
In 1922 Frank Kryder became Secretary of the Fort Wayne Board of Realtors and with his father developed Kryder's Additions, 1, 2, 3, large parts of Fairfield Terr. Sec. B. Waynedale Gardens Original Plat, and Waynedale Gardens2 Add and 3 Add, together with other real estate.
During WWII he managed The Hannan Company realty office in Ypsilanti, MI while his father operated The Kryder Company on Berry Street, an easement of the Pennsyvlania RR.
HAPPY NEW CENTURY 21, FORT WAYNE!
Time to Tell Time
Congratulations Laura Picot Sayles. We'll just say in Century 21 right off you have shamed your righteous forefathers- true real estate men of recognized, substantiated productivity and integrity, builders of Happy Cities.
Your grandfather ran two major realty companies, aside from his family partnership, including a branch of the Detroit Hannan Company. You have shamed your mother, Kay Daniel Picot, his daugter, whose brilliance and light put Leonce Picot, food fakir, in the shadows, so he took it, and put it under her Tiffany lamp shade she was forced to sell him, to pay your bills.
Our father Leonce Louis Picot pushed our mother Kay Daniel Picot, the woman who refined and made him appear to be sophisticated, into her grave and laughed all the way to the bank. You went over to the smart money, a lot of which belonged to Kay, but you were too young and dazzled by sudden wealth to know. On your list of things successful vs unsuccessful people do- write,
"Successful people write their own term papers."
Did you hope by your shenanigans I would now commit suicide and there would be no Death Certificate for either of our parents, and no one would be left to tell? Of course, you wouldn't want a scandalous suicide to darken your brilliance.
Not, "Daughter of Famous Restaurateur Severs Head By Tri-Rail- family dysfunction the cause."
Or not, "Down Under and Casa Vecchia: Three Hidden Suicides Bullied by Restaurateur."
Poor Harry Sousely. He did not want to sell his house to Leonce, and look what happened- found dead in the garage the day I planted the first tree for Casa Vecchia.
You can believe your name will be in it, whatever it is, and it won't be something you can pay to disappear for your Reputation Score. And it won't be wimpy either. I like the book cover of me hanging from the Oakland Park Bridge, south side, wearing a sign saying,
"Way to Go
Fun to imagine, but I believe in the Doctor's Oath:
Like Leonce, you have harmed a lot of innocent people, I assure you. They know who they are.
A hero to the black man, inside his heart turned to charcoal as he walked all over those who loved and trusted him. He could not even be around for the last days of his mother's life- too busy in California though she was soon to expire. What a thoughtful son- all the means to be next to his mother in her last days, which were very mobile active days still, but Leonce being on Nob Hill was more important.
In reality, it is your tactic of threatening to do yourself mischief which kept your daddy on the hook until he died, since you plowed through two husbands.
Oh Daddy, set me up or I will cut myself with a mirror! You used his guilt against him till he died, for gain. I'd like to see where you'd be now if you had been abandoned with your children. You would not have been able to support them or yourself without Daddy Winebucks.
You have not followed Court procedure, and that is so Go Fishy. The Death Certificate is supposed to be filed.
WHO ARE YOU HIDING FROM AND WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?
The Estate of Kay Picot wishes to sue the Estate of Leonce Picot for each instance in the press or radio where he claimed her copyrights and paid no concessions to her $3,000. estate. You would not believe how many there are archived since she died, including articles in Gourmet Magazine and Esquire and nationally syndicated press releases. Before she died, he had to say the books were written by his ex-wife.
You have to prove there is no estate, under oath, and you have already published in the news that you are the daughter of Carolyn Picot, so you disinherited yourself from Kay, didn't you?
This is way better than the Estate of Randy California vs Estate of Led Zeppelin. It's YOU the song is about- the "lady we all know"...in college we were so mystified by her.
Leonce was an outright Thief and a Liar! He stole my mother's furniture, her career, her life, and who knows what else? You and he and your pseudo-mama lived off my dead mother's furniture and savvy and in the end, cut off her bloodline to boot.
But, right before he died Leonce actually admitted it in some Mai-Kai history blog.
Leonce never wrote a word of Kay's text any more than he painted over Al Kocab's illustrations. You were too young to know. He sold liquor and rental car ads for the books. He did not write the books that he waited till Kay was dead, then used to promote himself as an expert in gourmet dining for his entire career.
In fact, Leonce was so delusional he sat at the Down Under bar one night as if in a dream and said, "This is all my creation- not Al or Christian Planchon, or anyone elses- this is all me," as he blew a spit bubble and rolled his eyes up to the pink ceiling. His champagne mind had risen to its zenith that evening, leveling at the point of madness.
The Down Under itself, named by Kay Daniel Picot, was a copy of The Sign of the Dove in New York, and O'Henry's, thrown together with Dan Duckham's cheap architectural materials masked by the display of antiques and color in the interior design of Al Kocab.
Everything in the Down Under Restaurant was copied from some Mobile Guide 5-star U.S. restaurant Leonce, Kay, and Al Kocab visited in their travels. Then he recruited whatever employees he could lure from the top houses which had paid to be in the books.
Gentle Al Kocab was a partner because Leonce Picot could walk all over him. He could make Al keep shut up like me. Al probably saw the worst of the worst in the man- but he also saw a way to be an artist with a big tough guy between himself and the tough world. I loved Al, and I know he loved my mother, but he kept too many secrets, things that hurt innocent people.
Can you believe when Al Kocab died, Leonce called me to make the funeral flowers from the restaurants, to save the restaurants the money a florist would charge. Well, I got him back- I spent $450 wholesale at the florist supply and charged it to the Down Under.
I was making a floral tree topiary in my kitchen when suddenly I burst into tears. How could my father ask me to make Al's funeral flowers? I had known Mr. Kocab since I was six years old. God, the memories it provoked, all the way back to Mai-Kai days when Al kept his sunglasses on a little tiki god.
Well my father knew, since Kay died, I have never been able to attend a funeral, even of a stranger. Each orchid tube stuck into the foam ball of the topiary went through my heart. I was such a mess my husband had to fill my Prozac prescription. 80 mgs later, I was able to complete Mr. Kocab's funeral flowers on time, but it was the saddest flower arrangement I have ever made.
Surely there are more folks who may have wanted a chance to sue Daddy for stomping all over their stuff.
Laura Picot Sayles, you are messing up genealogists for centuries to come by not filing the Death Certificate of your father who lived in Broward county 79 years. People come looking for the DC for all kinds of reasons.
Are you now in control of the Mormon database? It's ok to present your DC to claim property, but why don't you want to file it in Broward County Public Records? It's your responsibility.
Art thou now more wise than the Law and the Profits?
You cannot have the Profits without the Law. It is always written, "the Law AND the Profits."
All the Law and the Profits are fixed by The Golden Rule.
Laura Picot Sayles, does not understand the Latin in the phrase bona fide sale.
Laura, a bona fide sale is not one where you are consciously wiping out your sister's homestead share as the agent selling an uninsured title to property warranteed by your dead father who you knew was terminal at the time of your sale.
One would expect this of a sister who copied her older sister's A+ term papers and turned them in as her own work without permission, and by subterfuge.
You have usurped your nephew's "inheritance" which was a business-deal 20-year investment of his father's life career put aside to work in your restaurants, for your benefit, during which time you regarded your nephew and brother-in-law as lower than you did the busboys. You always worried that a grandson may catch grandfather's eye more than girls. Further, you are too much of a coward to explain it to the nephew you lurched- leave it to me, right? Make it look like it is my fault, right? All because you have so much you wish to hide and change, such as who's yo' mamma and the sort of sister and mother you are, perpetrating falsehoods on your children.
Explain, Laura how Daddy didn't want to take a tax hit because you messed around with the Homestead transfer, so you took it out of your nephew's rights and concealed transfers in a last minute draft insurance trust to disburse unseen amounts while making it appear as there was no probate estate.
Take an oath.
It is on the Court Record, as the stenographer wrote, "There was no Trust." So you can't use the privacy of a Trust to hide if there wasn't one.
You had no right to purchase or distribute any property being held by Leonce Picot without a Trust or without opening a Probate and filing the Inventory of what you purchased. If this were legal, people would be able to transfer property of unknown origin to anyone, unaccounted. What if you took for yourself property that was hidden from Mr. Berry or other people who ticked Leonce off?
Over the years you have confused yourself with your father's ego, and you think you are he, in woman form. That is what accounts for your condescending treatment of those you consider inferiors or trashy. Leonce used threats and brutality to reign unchallenged. You use it for belittling and harming, to command respect.
You NEVER won at Clue.
This was a very amateur caper. You don't know how to conceal estate assets, someone has set you up as having done so.
"right to the end, just like a friend, I tried to warn you somehow..."
and, I am obliged to tell you, it's never too late to return to the fold, where The Good Shepherd is watching, waiting. That is what Katherine, our mother, would want me to say, and where she waits to take you back.
Carolyn your "other mother" would say,
"Raise another Peach Champagne Rum Old Fashioned- you can't take it with you!. Betty Amos Righetti and I love our lacquered nails and little inbred dogs. "
God, what happened to my innocent Whiskcopalian life- when no matter how hung over the adults were, I saw angels at the altar?
"Valiant topers" they are called in the Books of the Profits.
Laura Picot Sayles, I loved you and Daddy so much, even when you champaigned for my white trash/misfit designation in your new happy Napa Valley style family, on top of MY mother's furniture. Years and years you never saw me struggling to overlook the sham, to make some attempt at family, until I simply ceased forcing myself into your little Brady Bunch, without a word.
None of you wanted me there and yes everyone was TERRIFIED of me, not because of my character, morals, and friendly nature, but because I knew the Truth, or History of you. And these terrors were all built up in your minds by your own valiant toping, or alcoholism- all of ye.
This is the heartbreak of alcoholism. An alcoholic tosses out inconvenient relationships and replaces them with those which share and support a lifestyle centered around their impaired thinking. No relationship is indispensable- except Laura, you have been a dependant of your father, since you were born, to this day. So you had to put up with his brutality and humiliation. He used me to make it appear as though he had made a superior, successful family while at the same time exploiting me as cheap talent for the stockholders. Finally I had to just say no to his $8.00 an hour.
I only had hope that one day he would see me where he left me in 1972- a very cold orphan on the streets of Raleigh who had watched and listened to Leonce Picot beat up her mother till death, but who still wanted to be loved by a father who never thought she was much to begin with. Not worth preserving her psyche in exchange for another Yeoman's Grog.
And to the end Leonce had to deliver one brutal final blow, to me and to another innocent child born into his bloody bacchanalia.
Aided by your hand- you both had to prove he was better than Kay.
I should have chosen to be on the smart money's side!
What does the name Picot do for you now? In another year or two, if not for me, no one will ever know of the Great Restaurateur, the Bon Vivant of Broward! What good will it do you? Most people around the new crowd never heard of "The Restaurants."
The name Picot does you as much as it did Kay. It causes you to have to take an Oath of truth and give your Testimony. And the name Sayles isn't even yours, but something else to make you look normal.
The public records say the Down Under was gutted of its "cherished antiques" by a tenant named Ass Man. Isn't that Kristin's inheritance? That's what she told me when she was a child helping me doing flowers.
Kristin said, "Mommy says she is the owner of the Down Under."
Is that so?
Gee, y'all musta been plannin' against the estate plan way back yonder.
NEW PROBATE WITH NO TRUST EVASION SCHEME?
IRS doesn't like it when Daddy changes his purported estate plan while under the oxygen tent.
This was an end-time trustee, as usual in these cases. The original Trustee was a distinguished attorney in my church, who had known both Kay and Leonce since they were high school sweethearts. He knew our whole family story and more. He helped me with Kryder.
But when the original Trustee dies, the co-Trustee is too old, up pops the end-stage estate cancer of the weasel who has been waiting to dine and clear the decks for BaBa and Wolfie. Sometimes it is is a Trust Company, or a schill.
It's not as if this is the first time I have seen the exact scenario in my studies.
It looks as if Mrs. Sayles' greed clicked in when, against all previous advice and estate-planning her father had paid for, she was convinced his assets, including the money from the recent SALE of the No Title Insurance Homestead should be moved out of Trust. Then, a highly valuable lifetime of trappings was sold to her with an un-itemized paragraph all within 8 months of his death in a ploy to extirpate the rights and interests of her sister and nephew, grandson of the deceased.
The Trustee has declared for the record there was no Trust at death, the homestead sold in 2018. The "personal property" including "antiques, artworks, vehicle, jewelry, furnishings, clothing," were last sold described as such, to Laura Picot Sayles for an undisclosed amount, so "There is nothing to Probate."
The bona-fidity of the sale, to avoid taxes then expose a buyer to an empty estate claim is nada.
Laura maintains her own ideas about her authority in governorship in all things, as she has just demonstrated. So the con conned the con, and she never saw him coming, or realized how much peril we as Leonce Picot's two surviving daughters of the same mother with no other family were in estate-wise when our father died. There were no uncles or wise elder relations to watch over us over the years, to ward off plunderers.
I think all of Berry Street will laugh and laugh at Daddy's bumble bee Trustee's end-time folly.
We only had to wait till Leonce died, to open the time capsule of all that was hidden and wrong about Kay and Leonce, that his bluff could be explained. Such are the sacrifices we make for our Country. Not worth it, if you ask me, or any of the casualties. Grandfather Frank felt it too- there come's a point when losing your family and family history for your Country have nothing to do with patriotism or loyalty.
You can't make 'em love you, especially if they raise a number of champagne glasses to your sorrow.
They can't value love and sacrifice more than they will a nice Perrier Jouet. I had to see that or I could have topped myself long ago. I suppose that is what they surmised- I was permanently depressed after Kay's suicide, no question, then threatened by Leonce. He belittled me the way he did his first wife who had at least made him into some semblance of a gentleman, for a time. She never could train him to stop blowing spit bubbles.
As far as Carolyn, Leonce, and Laura were concerned, if I killed myself it would make them look right. At first it would be scandalous, but as a Public Relations Man, Leonce would have quickly re-styled himself as unlucky and tragic- with one wife and one like daughter who killed themselves. He would have made it into a national press release, like the phony stolen bottle of $2,000 wine caper.
Women would have been all over him with sympathy.
The three of them would be completely in the clear of any witnesses to their full True Past and they could pretend Carolyn was Laura's natural mother and Laura's daughters would never know a thing about their exceptional real grandmother, a true causualty of 1960s wife abuse, riding the vanguard of women's liberation with nobility.
I have experienced so many suicides of friends, clients, relatives I can see it coming a mile off in myself. It is a cyclone of anguish which may as likely pass over as make a direct hit.
It was the summer of my grass skirt- sent by Kay and Leonce from San Francisco where she also wrote about Gallatin's, in Restaurants of San Francisco, 500 Hartnell St., Monterey, CA, a restaurant he bought with the Burger King after Kay was dead. Laura and I were biding with Rebecca Kryder aka, our aunt. The morning news alarm on the radio was announcing the suicide death of Marilyn Monroe when I woke.
I did not know what suicide was. Marilyn Monroe was someone from the forbidden adult world. The language used to talk about her I did not understand. Things were hushed, not for children. My Aunt Becky was not very good at explaining sleeping pills and suicide, and I wanted my mother.
Pass the Grey Poupon.
In the late 1980's, the sisters were informed of the estate plan by professional looking attorneys. However, something seems to have gone amiss!
The father was sequestered by Laura, and in hospice. The sister was not told. The sister was not told when her father died, 13 miles away.
The next month the forgotten sister read an obituary and newspaper article featuring her father and Laura. That is how she discovered her father was dead. Sissy was not mentioned, nor the grandson. We all worked in The Family Businesses for at least 20 years.
It is tragic that Katherine believed to her death that Leonce, her childhood love from age 14, was her best friend. He may have easily pulled the trigger as she. He told me he knew she had a gun and he had searched her house everywhere for it.
(Here "Lincoln" is complicated by William Borchers Insurance Agency, Dayton, OH whose attorney was William T. Lincoln. Will the real Mr. Lincoln please stamp up?)
It was only recently that I thought, how and why did Leonce have access to Kay's house, getting in and out? How would he know when she wasn't there, to search for her gun? Since he knew she had a gun, or thought so, why didn't he go to the police then? They would have Baker Acted her and maybe preserved some more of her wonderful life.
Maybe Leonce, too, was a spy, on the other side of Kay's Father, Frank Kryder who had for forty years been battling the Northwest Bankers and Barnetts, purchasing federal national mortgage and farm loan bonds, recording a heck of a paper trail. "Barnetts" were end- time Kryder lawyers. Barnett Bank was taking over Florida.
(And her own mother, Laura has erased. Kay, is there anything else to take from you? Aren't we a little bit crazy?
According to her stepmother, Laura once slammed her daughter Kristin's head against the wall. She asked Carolyn Guerard Picot, stepmother, if she should turn herself in for child abuse, upon which, Carolyn promptly called ME and reported the incident. Go figure. Carolyn never called me for much of anything- why would a stand-offish stepmother tell this horrible thing to me about my sister? Did she think I would call DCF ?
What can be the motive for that? Vicious gossip on a sister! She talked about Laura at the Down Under Bar. I was offended and hurt for my sister everytime Carolyn, her loving pseudo-mother did it. I can write these things because it is true).
What has been said about me is nothing new coming out of champagne relatives. Employees and customers told me everything. It was lovely.
I saw Leonce and Carolyn lose a number of fine friends over the years, beautiful, respected people in the community. The nice people liked me, but weird Mr. Borchers did not. Plus, they hid me from John W. Berry.
Leonce constantly drove wedges between my sister and me, or thought he was doing so. This is because Leonce had an elder half-sister whom he hated. I liked her, but never got to see her much. I wish she had told me more stories, but I saw her maybe for ten minutes three or four times in my life.
His jealousy over his worldly station, his hatred for his half-sister, Leonce cast upon me and Katherine. And I suppose somehwere in the deep chronology, he wars against Kryder.
"Christian Planchon was
- The Laura Song
He couldn't stand it. Both you and Leonce wanted me as impoverished and stripped of opportunity as Kay was.
Laura does not care about any Kryders and doesn't want to know. She wants to be an Asheville Guerard-Picot-Sayle. She doesn't even know her Picot father was not acknowledged as part of his own Picot family.
After 60 days, no paperwork was filed for the Estate of Leonce Picot in the court. Now, the excluded sister, in shock and turmoil has to go to county records to track down the Trustee on the Homestead Deed and Trust.
The Trustee's line is this- there is no Probate. Your father sold everything to your sister and there was no Trust concerning the homestead because he sold it 8 months before he died.
Notice to Creditors?
[BEWARE HEIRS AT RISK:
this "trustee" treated a bereaved sister with hostility and chastisement, as though she were grossly detested by her father, saying she had no rights to review any documentation. He said there was NO ESTATE, her father was broke, but wanted her to sign away her rights to any further information by accepting an insurance benefit. That would have been fine, but he would not show the Northwest Mutual Life Policy, its value, distributions and so forth, moreover there is no accounting of a purported Life Insurance Trust. ]
Don't fall for it. The trustee is NOT your attorney or on your side, especially someone you have never met and doesn't behave in a professional manner.
It certainly appears in black and white that The Trustee and Laura Picot Sayles conspired to both cut out a lineal heir and grandson, and possibly evade claimants.
Sell and Tell
Truly, what would happen if people transferred away Trust property on their death bed so as to evade taxation? As if.
When there is a death in a dysfunctional family, some will suffer needlessly, beyond grief, by the snare of tricks and betrayals, the emotional strain of nasty devilish lawyers who have no right to impair your life out-of-the-blue, all designed to intimidate, to drain what strength you have left.
Now, this sale of homestead property was executed with NO TITLE INSURANCE. The title is warranteed by a dead man. The sister asked about no TITLE INSURANCE. The Trustee laughed He said, yeah I executed the deed, but the man's dead.
What do the people who paid more than one million for this condo have to say about NO TITLE INSURANCE? Were you so desperate to sell before daddy died and there wouldn't be time to fiddle about?
The lurched sister does not want to be bilked because a Trustee will come to hearings with no memory or paperwork.
In truth, the defrauded sister would not have signed away any rights to queries by accepting a check from a rude attorney; it was a ruse.
She was supposed to feel lucky to receive anything, frustrated, sad, and just wanting to end the chapter. This is where you lose. When money changes bloodlines, your genetic familial strength is diminished and predators grow stronger. Predators move in when you are at your weakest- bereaved, injured, ill, dying, frail, hearing or vision impaired.
Following the death of a loved one, major decisions need to be suspended until your thinking and nerves are stabilized.
Just all kinds of things happen and go wrong in the transfer of interest after someone has died.
For richer or for poorer, certain documents are required to be filed in the county of death, and if there is hanky-panky, perps count on no one ever checking. They size up who they think will just go away. It is tedious to check, but you may be surprised at what you find, or don't find.
Estate fraud is actually a career and profession for many, a disgusting, ghoulish practice. If you have been driven into the gutter as a victim, or denied information about your own mother and father, no one in the public really cares about your inheritance. It is not an issue, though well it should be. Perverting generational transfer and distribution of property is a perverted aim of eugenics targeting marked families.
Those who have had birthrights and legacy concealed and converted by other family members to defraud them, will be on the seat of the RAPE VICTIM in a court of justice. You will be slandered by lawyers trying to get your dander up, and they will paint you as a greedy disgruntled heir, with "unclean hands." You will be accused of trying to make up a self-serving complaint against some innocent attorney who was just doing what he was told, not by his client, not by the Testator or Trustor, but by "The Third Man, " or sister as it may be.
Why these shysters have been allowed to access private lives which were for generations miserable, ending in familial disarray is a very good question. They don't know diddly-squat about what they are messing with and what further damage they are doing for a few extra hundred thousand. People on the bottle don't think after so long- alcohol puts the conscience into a deep, deep sleep, just like poppies, pretty poppies.
It is a wonder that there is no archive of crime at least since 1913 which can be looked at head- on in chronology, paring down to those schemes associated with the same crowd over a century.
Here's my bid- I can name that tune in two weeks. We would need a wall-mounted North American map with strings, pins, and tags to define the parameters of the epicenters of activity.
On the frame overlay the century's assorted chronologies as needed, such as mergers, gold bond maturity dates, pipeline mortgages, farm loan bond maturity dates, debacles, crashes, bankruptcies acquisitions and failures.
I can name that tune in two more weeks if someone brings me wheat crackers and tea for lunch.
Picot is so much easier than the Grandfather Kryder Case of 1966. All the IRS records are current.
Very few of we town and country folk are well-schooled in codes and laws affecting estate administration, taxation, or transfer of interest in and out of a Trust. Irregularities are for forensic accountants and special examiners. There are certain hallmark characteristics which signal money "off the books."
The prepared sister has studied estate fraud for thirty years. The red-flag cases share many common elements and they occur in troubled families shrouded in lies. Big lies, little lies, naughty little porky lies.
It is pitiful what some lawyers and accountants have done to families, stepping in and manipulating sorrowful people they know and care nothing about, disturbing, disrupting, and activating years of memories and confusion- all this to set themselves up for guaranteed future work. They know who they are.
The prepared sister believes, in her situation, her dollar is best spent to determine just what is legal here. She cannot tolerate another stinkin' family lie and will buy the truth with her last nickel.
"If you have money, buy knowledge."
There is either a Trust or there is Probate or both, and an Inventory. But there can't be just nothing but insurance of unknown origin to distribute unrevealed portions.
That is what is so incoherent in the Estate of Leonce Picot. There was ne'er a man more impressed with fear of IRS. Truly, he would physically bruise Katherine or strike welts upon our legs without hesitation, but be late on a filing, never.
Maybe it was the late night Liar's Poker at the Mai-Kai scene which concerned him. Leonce was the Champion for decades, and the whole town knew it.
This scheme theoretically used a Revocable Trust with no actual corpus to veil transfers through a Life Insurance Trust, Created by the Trustee, to make disbursements from an undisclosed policy to undisclosed beneficiaries. That just smells bad.
With estates tied up and hidden, years of research demonstrate there is always an REIT, Partnership Insurance, and a FRANCHISE in the background- That is what is left.
Are you hee-hawing yet in Berryville?
Laura dear, you should decide who's on your side fast, find out how to save yourself and tell the truth. Because the Trustee is not working for you or Daddy, silly girl. He set you up and gypped you as well.
You will be blamed for anything stinky whether you did it or not. You have already been "set up" in the court record as a possible "third party" who mis-directed the Trustee to what information you revised.
Luckily this isn't Indiana, but I think this time, you have to turn yourself in, for slamming your kins' heads against the wall.
It is my right to know, Laura Picot Sayles, whether transfers including your nephew's Trust Fund were concealed within Life Insurance Trust disbursements to others, or in your favor. If the transfer is on the level, show the paperwork. What's the problem? We just want to see your invoices, that's all.
You have threatened a hibernated Mother Bear. This triggers a natural sequence of events when her cub is threatened.
And of course now I will have to go to my Congressman and IRS.
Maybe there are potential claimants lurking out there, other abused young ladies, or someone told Leonce there were.
The Trustee said he was trying to do poor sister a favor, offering the insurance disbursement without documentation. What favor? Why does she need a favor to receive a life insurance benefit? What's the big sneaking around about the face value of the Northwest Mutual Life policy about?
If it was a favor, that suggests juggling.
Better to live true and poor in a lean-to, gumming a flap of pita than to dine on fat-crusted lies in a McMansion. No bad dreams or sleep problems here.
Sister, if you want a truth-telling contest, I represent your mother's side- women who kept their honor and gave up so much for your better life. Plus we make the best cherry pies, and are known for them.
It's the Age of Telling.
Forgiving a fault, forgetting an injury and "moving on" should not be confused with concealing violence or decades of cruelties and human exploitation, not when you are an eye witness.
We are so cow-towed by the presence of family immorality, exploiters leave you no choice- shut up about what is going on or have no family at all.
They will eventually make a trophy rug out of you, no better than for the mud room. The thing they take advantage of most is good nature and a devoted spirit.
Telling on Bullies is OK.
I've had sufficient credible MDs and PhDs and peers say to me that I take forgiveness to the extreme of wrong thinking.
I kept silent long enough while Leonce faked his way around our small society like some sort of Mr. Sophisticate, threatening me with ostracization should I ever complain about anything he may say or do, or mention the past. That was unnecessary, since I believe in the 10 Commandments. I vowed I would never tell the story of my father till he was gone.
He never asked me not to do it. He on the contrary said I should do it. I think he regretted plenty, but left me with the job of 'splainin.' Big and tough as he seemed, looming about with dark-circled eyes, his size 13 flat feet causing our little house to tremble, he was not a courageous person by any means, spooked by one foe or another, of record. He was afraid of injections and horses.
On the radio he said, "Champagnes are like women- they are all nice , but some of them better than others."
I was in my car when I heard it and just about ditched it.
Naturally, the longer one lives in error, the more seemingly impossible it is to admit it and get straight.
He tried to drag me from my Faith and way, insisting, "You're a Hedonist, and you know it."
The first time he said it, I had to look it up. I was horrified. As I became 30, then 40, he continued to say it, eventhough I watched him steal my every aperitif, dinner wine, and champagne at every occasion. The waiter would serve it, I wouldn't drink it, but Daddy did.
After I had a baby at 23, alcohol smelled and tasted like poison to me. I can't go into a restaurant with a bar because of the scent. It's those rubber mats and flooring behind the bar- even in the most ten- star establishments, they retain an underworldly air of refrigerant and spirits to my nose, triggering all things Mai-Kai from the past which won't go under the bamboo bridge.
Perhaps it is because when Leonce was home he trained me like a dog, with whistles and surprise whacks to the body or child sensitivities, that like a dog, my nose has a permanent memory. I prefer not going into any restaurants, and can barely get down a bowl of rice or some pita and hummus daily.
I am a marine biologist, and Leonce Picot my father was arrested by Fish and Wildlife Officers for serving Turtle Soup at the Down Under. I never said a word.
Kay told me, "He imagines he is Henry VIII."
She had such wit!
I will not go into what biological remains are hanging on the Trustee's office wall as decor, but they certainly made me wonder, what happened to those classy estate attorneys Leonce used to have?
Leonce died in the nick of time- he and the old Mai-Kai management sensualists and womanizers deserve their thorough raking over the coals. The impact of their living for themselves and the High Life in front of children has come down on their descendancy. I counted today the divorces of the Mai-Kai wives in the 1960's, Kay and all her friends. Most of the children were little girls. Everyone got divorced at once- one year we decorated Christmas cookies, all the girls together. We used to take buckets of KFC to Holiday Park and eat under the pine trees. Then our worlds fell apart, and I wonder how my friends have responded to our strange, shared experience over their lifetimes.
Laura Picot Sayles became a bully, like her father, who has left Sissy no choice but to reveal what is in her heart and pocketbook. Sis will not let Laura abscond unnoticed with a grandson's promised trust benefit, earned by his father in exchange for 20 years working at the Family Business for peanuts, then a lay-off. Leonce stranded his servant son-in-law, after 20 years, with no income, no insurance, on two weeks notice when the Down Under was sold. Every bogus promise he had made to us to support his California expansion vaporized. Leonce and Carolyn even stored some outrageously expensive furniture in our garage a long time after they had run from San Francisco in the middle of the night.
We lost our predatory mortgage house. Leonce's son-in-law soon after almost died of an unexplained intestinal tear, waiting thirteen hours for a surgeon. He was given a "temporary" colostomy right on his beltline. Afterward, there weren't even clothes he could wear to get a job outside the home. He could not return to his guitar career with this bag on his belly.
Without the guaranteed company insurance, Leonce's loyal son-in-law waited sixteen years to be put back together. It was no quality of life to be chained to unecessarily.
We scrapped around uncapitalized and never recovered.
If Laura Picot Sayles wants to get away with her mother's grandchild's picayune $25,000 endowment from Leonce, which his son-in-law worked for at the Down Under and La Casa Vecchia Restaurants for 20 years, as well as deliver a scarring generational wound to her nephew, it will have to go on the record for all to read forever and ever.
Sorry to the Sayles family, about Laura still being attached to the name. Were my father raving mad on his deathbed and the shoe was on my foot, I would NEVER have allowed my nieces, Kristin and Caitlin Sayles, to have been cheated out of their $25,000 business deal "inheritance" from their grandfather. Their father, Bryan Sayles, had to work for the company too to get those bequests on the books. I am certain it was not his cup of tea, being restaurant door lackey.
Laura's behavior is Leonce's fault, he and Carolyn said. She was taught different values by her real mother, but they were quickly rubbed out. When Kay committed suicide, Laura had already moved to Idlewyld to be with the smart money, Leonce and his new wife.
I don't blame her running from a bare household and a mother who sat against the wall and cried all day long, to the lap of luxury she had been trained by her father to crave. Leonce used to drive us around Idlewyld with Kay, when we were a family, and look at his favorite houses we would live in one day. Instead of therapy or counseling, Leonce and Carolyn gave the child of a terrible divorce and suicide, Laura, cocktail jewelry to wear to school, just as a beginning. They were the adults and they acted with absolutely no responsibility or sense, plying her with gifties her mother never could or would give her at fifteen.
They made themselves into girl teenage heroes, with walk-in closets, cars, a suite- things Leonce pulled out of a hat. Her whole set of values was turned backwards, like Linda Blair's head during a possession.
I had run away too, by taking early admissions to college on honest to goodness 15 year old SAT scores. I was just seventeen when I left for St. Mary's, Raleigh. Though intellectual capacity is separate from social maturity in a teenager, and there I was thrust into a world of Southern Belles, me the only one who didn't have an allowance on deposit.
Leonce sternly said, "No, I will not be coming to Daddy Daughter Day."
He had no concept of the importance of this tradition in an antique Southern women's college. It was bad for me at St. Mary's, no Daddy. Every daddy wanted his daughter to have the appropriate social regard.
Neither did he have a concept of what a northern wardrobe was adequate for a girl raised on the beach. I called him from school begging him for a winter coat, and some money for the canteen. Didn't get it.
He said, "It can't be that cold."
I had no spending money and a St. Mary's girl did not work. I wasn't in Florida any more. This was a formal, traditional society of young women who were there to date and marry a Chapel Hill or Duke graduate. Talk about Clueless! As if Kay had groomed me to trap a man! We were starting to have interracial friendships and discarding our brassieres in Florida. I was supposed to get a head start to use my brain and become someone, not having to live on an allowance like Kay.
This is the framework within which I was absorbed in concealing trouble and "moving on" from excrutiating emotional conflict. I was so afraid Kay would die. Her own mother and sister deserted her, thinking depressive illness was some sort of religious deficit. Only her brother-in-law, my darling Uncle Charles Zawadzki, artist, would spend time talking to her. They had known each other since their twenties.
It was the sixties, Kay was in the impossible position of an impoverished divorced woman, deserted by the two most precious men a woman cherishes- her father, and father of her daughters.
Most experts would say my parents never stood a chance, each having lost a parent traumatically at age 10. Each of them had a 50% chance of committing suicide accordingly, as adults.
Leonce was alcoholic, by all medical definition, though I only saw him appear drunk once, on a New Year's Eve, when I came home late and he had to leave the Down Under party to come over and shake up my boyfriend. Even Kay remarked she had never seen him that way. He picked up my boyfriend by his shirt collar and lifted him 30" off the ground.
In the Mai-Kai years he knew how to drink which drinks when, how many, and how fast. He taught me I should avoid the cocktails with lots of fruit juice or sugary mixers when I was old enough to drink, because it was the sugar that gave a hangover. That with the 151.
A few years of rum and rich food in the course of writing the restaurant books broke down Kay's resistance. She couldn't get up for church Sunday morning. That's the year I started crying- I just have an internal water management system now.
All her Mai-Kai wife friends kept quiet about the infidelity, pajama parties, trips to Polynesia for staff recruitment.
Kay endured till her first book, Restaurants of Puerto Rico, was pubished as "by Leonce Picot" with her name nowhere to be found. How many of ye Kryders and Dislers would put up with that? Would you expect a strong woman of your bloodline to give in to any brute who robbed her, and let it go?
Well, she did let it go, to keep the family I think. I watched Kay write those books in our house at her built in desk in the living room. The writing is way beyond the literary talent of Leonce; Leonce sold the booze ads period. The whole thing was a boozy Rums of Puerto Rico, Mai-Kai booze promotion deal. However the extraordinary art work of Al Kocab and Kay's brilliance in text made the books appealing and unique to the gourmet set.
The succeeding books credited her as "text by" though Leonce put himself over her as "editor." Kay in the books had overshadowed Leonce, encouraged by her friend, Saint author Leslie Charteris, who saw through Leonce, coming to Palm Beach yearly for visits till Kay's death in 1972.
Eventually her metabolism went haywire. She couldn't dine and keep it down.
Breakfast at Brennans, New Orleans
Champagne and Fresh Orange Juice
Take a nap before lunch.
We had a new station wagon one year when Kay was writing, which had to be exchanged for another after an attack of rejected escargot, mixed with some greenery, as I recall the small spot on the back passenger carpet the next morning. One would never believe such a small spot would ruin a brand new station wagon, but that appetizer apparently was too tenacious of odor. The car was replaced.
"I threw up all over your father's friend," Kay told me.
Several years of long-lasting food poisoning bouts followed. She would be weak for months following. We tended to get sick on road trips, one or the other of us. I remember projectile vomiting from the back seat to the front, Leonce pulling the car over somewhere in Georgia so I could finish. Oh it was hard for a child, the Pepto-Bismol available in liquid form only those days.
Some people have never had food poisoning, they say. I recall four horrific cases of my own. One kept me from watching The First Lady's Tour of the White House Kay and I had been anticipating for weeks.
After five books and the separation and divorce, I came home to our bare living room one day to find Kay in her black leotard, rooted in a standing yoga pose. I had never heard of yoga, neither had most of my friends, if any.
Kay was instantly superb with postures. She fasted. We went on eight day brown rice diets, chewing each bite one hundred times. But it did not stop the crying.
She listened to Roger Miller. She listened to Bob Dylan.
The first vitamin shop in town hired her for some writing and thereafter it became the vitamins which would save us. Her hair was falling out in heaps- mass doses of vitamin A.
She tried to detoxify her body and save her self esteem.
It was a nightmare neither child understood, nor was prepared for- six years overall of unbelievable strangeness and emotional upheaval for little girls, beginning at ages five and seven, 1960-1966, the death of Minnie, the death of Frank, the divorce. And we had to keep it all a secret from our normal friends.
Laura and I never talked about any of it to each other, when we shivered under the covers to the sound of our house being torn down. Everyone was so busy hiding our personal disaster, we became the family which did not talk. So I cannot say what Laura's personal take was.
It took many years for me to see and understand our helplessness to extract ourselves from trouble, that we weren't to blame.
When I saw a way out with early admission college, I wanted to try and get hold of my life, my way. Too many things which had nothing to do with me were starting to make me one sad puppy. I didn't want to leave Kay alone.
I tried to get her to move to Chapel Hill so I could come over weekends. That would have helped me greatly- seventeen is too young to start college far away from home. Kay would have been cool in Chapel Hill, if she came back to herself.
We toured with a realtor, but I could see in her face, she was ill and would never make the decision.
Had she moved to Chapel Hill, could little me have saved her?
This is moving on, knowing that, too many things had gone before me, and I could never have saved her.
I cannot save myself, oh, Lord.
The Profit of the Most High gives light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.
"In the shadow of death," the scavengers come into your life.
Suffer not the little children? Little children cannot process illogical sad things in their families they are forced to accept, keep hidden, without some sort of backlash in adulthood. They are not so flexible as divorcing/re-marrying parents think sometimes.
Leonce, to cover his misbehavior, used his two daughters of the woman he abused, by bribing one and blackmailing the other. If I ever wanted to eat Thanksgiving with him again, I must NEVER contradict him or question my past. That was the choice-no mother, no father.
That he threatened me with withdrawal of his fatherly love, what there was of it, was grotesque. I never talked to anyone. Plus he was not the same as I remembered.
No, I was the hearer of talk after talk from employees and customers all over town about my father and sister. They told me cartloads. A waiter showed me a thousand ink pens and about a hundred shirts he had stolen from the restaurant.
One of son's classmate's mother told me what a "dishy guy" Leonce was in the 1960's, and how she wanted to go out with him. To think, had that happened, my son would be in the same class as his half-brother.
I wanted my son to have a grandfather- this website should make it perfectly clear why. Grandfather Melancholy is Real. You can move on, walk away Renee, forgive- I did all that. Secrets are obstacles to enlightenment.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Came the day I realized how easy it is to pour love and trying into someone who doesn't feel the same, doesn't have the capacity to see you. We should be more careful with our hearts.
Everybody should be loved for what they are, but not for more than what they are.
For a time, I felt Leonce's responses were so unnatural that maybe he wasn't my father. Since I know his father was 100% French, I could rule him out with my DNA profile, unless I had another daddy with a 100% French father.
These are just cleaved parts of wishes which linger after the show- wishes of every daughter who hoped dad would value her before he died. There must be throngs of us.
In fact, any former suitors of Kay Daniel, Fort Lauderdale, FL, 1951-1953 still living might still have time to see what an amazingly handy daughter I am. Kay attended St. Mary's Episcopal College, Raleigh, University of Georgia, Athens, and University of Miami.
It's worth a shot. Anyone who knew her in youth would remember, at least anyone whom I would like meeting.
Maybe I have a secret father.
My world is very small. I left the Leonce Picots, who at a private funeral for Jack Thornton, former Mai-Kai owner, openly humiliated and snubbed my husband as being of a lower class and questioned his right to be there.
It was my husband who spent hours at Jack's side in his last days as he died in a nursing home, to be a pal and keep watch when the family couldn't be there. They watched every rat pack movie made, sort of. That was Jack's time. For a number of reasons we were both invited to the funeral, but I could not go, as I cannot bear funerals, especially for the parent of children I knew from childhood.
Hubby was asked by the Leonce Picot Family, "Oh, what is he doing here?" They moved to another side of the room. Leonce, Carolyn, and Laura Picot were so rude and snide to my husband at Jack Thornton's funeral, spewing their emotional attack at an emotion- charged time in the presence of many who knew us, that he was too shaken to attend the luncheon. He called me, distraught.
I said, "Get out of there and come home."
Of course a Thornton family member called and wanted to know, where is he? I had to explain it.
Not Leonce nor Laura nor Carolyn came to visit Jack at the nursing home, to say goodbye, or watch an old movie with him. He was one of the Down Under's largest accounts for twenty years! Leonce was way too chicken to say goodbye to his friend, but imperialist enough to make the funeral speech.
The Nouvelle Picots made it absolutely clear they didn't want Michele Picot, the Kay appendage, around their Wine Dungeons, love or not. That's it. You can't make them love you. And I sure didn't have any love affair with food and wine ever.
Eventually I dropped all group activity and social media. Don't know how to text. Hate phones. I have one Friend besides Dan'l Boone, my hubby.
Not that I am not friendly. The fewer persons there are to talk to, the more I can write. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of mind, no stress.
I waited and hoped for twenty years that my father would be decent enough to fill in the blanks, or dispel my misperceptions. I did not give myself Grandfather Melancholy! Grandfather Melancholy exists, from Kays tears beginning November 1963 to Robert Kennedy's grand-daughter's well-heralded suicide in the midst of her family. There are contiguous undercurrents in this
In a pink tea dress, a little grand-daughter places a flower on her grandfather's grave. Around her she semi- hears things she pieces together, like bits of chain molecules which become broken and re-bond with other orphan chains. There is no way to predict how a child will assimilate what precipitates from the adult cloud. When she is older, she will feel what it is like to not have a grandfather- no wise shoulder to lean on, no one to fuss over, no one to walk with.
There is a hole in the family fabric, a hole lined with answers to things that other people know who won't tell. Not even the United States Government will help. Family friends and acquaintances are mum.
By adulthood, most of our childhood misperceptions are naturally cured through education and experience. There is no Santa, tooth fairy, or bogey-man. Then we question parental authority. There they all were- smokin', drinkin', pokin' in the closets; valiums, sleeping pills- what a great time to become a young adult. Our parents were hippocrits!
Some grandfathers live to be very old; others die of sickness or old age, or not so old. Many die apart from their family. Some people don't care if they have a grandfather living or dead, or vice versa
If you were lucky enough to know and love your grandfather, death is sad, but not unnatural. We have time to know, how precious time together is.
If you never knew your grandfathers, if your grandfather disappeared, or was lost to a bloody assassination in a U.S. Hotel, and you are blocked from answers, swamped in murmurs and secrets concerning a past wrought by strangers (to put it nicely) before you were born, you bet you are at risk for Grandfather Melancholy, an important gear in family dysfunction and/or self destructive thinking.
Did Heidi have Grandfather Melancholy?
You betcha! Would I not rather be with Katherine, Minnie, Clarence Frank and Frank, in their great big real estate office in the sky? Grandfather Melancholy is a great big grippe of the soul. The pain is what no one will tell you, why you are where you are and why you are who you are- others holding keys to the puzzle box in your brain, not to protect you, but for bent reasons- covering, closing an eye, not telling.
You can be a prisoner, or you can try to get away and see who they are and what they are about.
Pure torture it is, as a rarely broached topic in treating depression. You cannot say to your doctor or husband, it's about my grandfather...
You cannot tell a family historian to "move on" from the mystery of the century, from those few days in 1963 and 1968 where your family was mortally wounded...
There is no moving on, going forward from the unresolved. Should we abandon our work and start something new when we can't explain the data?
For curiosity's satisfaction and those not up to speed on the Indiana Corporation Time Line, let us review how the paths of two mourning grand-daughters, afflicted one way or another by suicide and events of the 1960's, crossed in the 20th Century.
11/21/1963 Fort Wayne; Maxfield/Kryder (North American Van Lines HQ) U S HIGHWAY 30 FARMS INC : Creation: Inactive : 1/1/1978 (Shamrock)
11/22/1963 Pres. Kennedy Assassinated; on the same day National City Lines. Inc., a holding company, acquired 75% of the outstanding stock of Fort Wayne Leasing, Inc., for $200,000 at closing and an additional $150,000 to be paid over the next five years contingent on Fort Wayne's earnings.
Fort Wayne National Bank merged unto National City and PNC.
6/05/1968 Robert F. Kennedy assassinated
6/5/1968 ( same board as Fort Wayne Bank Building, Inc. on Pepsico Place, Tulsa) CITIES SERVICE TULSA, INC. Agent: THE CORPORATION COMPANY 120 N ROBINSON STE 735 OKLA CITY, OK 73102 Effective Date: 6/5/1968
11/27/1968 Maxfield Merged North American Van Lines into Pepsico for 22 mill stock.
I find the whole thing with grandfather's cousin Maxfield, Pepsi, and the Pepsi Bottlers Convention in Dallas changing the route of the motorcade very disturbing.
I'm pretty certain Secret Whoppers plague us as a nation.
Not that I didn't spend my time without my own Grandfather or Da well, attending death beds, and caretaking for sick friends. For every place you can't put love, there's another place where it's wanted. These are bittersweet memories, till we meet again, but it beats having people you loved and gave Christmas and birthday presents to for years and years, "to Daddy,"" to Laura," throw you in a dumpster because they so fear you might blow their cover.
They had their world and celebrated - I found two Boston Voice Teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Dane, who put me back together.
The Danes made me into a concert artist (no microphones) and called me, "Our girl."
Mr. Dane watched Miss America each year, then declared, "Our girl is much prettier!"
They selected a repertoire of exquisite Art Songs and Sacred Music in which I was focused and trained for thirty years. They rebuilt the epicenter of my emotional hit this way.
Mrs. Dane warned, "You'll hahve to watch out for yuh sistah, you know."
But I did not know, or didn't think so.
The Danes taught, "You can lead a hoss to water, but you cawn't make him drink."
When they said it I always thought of summer camp, a place where I saw my grandfather one year. I noted when the horse-riding kids led their steeds to the lake in Sebring, the hottest place in Florida, the horses didn't drink. They mucked about in the cattails and left behind a lot of yellow foam along the shoreline.
My Official Record proves my hands are surgical-clean.
Read the Estate of Flora Dane, Broward County, Florida, 2002. Mrs. Dane and her husband had no children. I prevented her nephew at a distance from losing $250,000 and assorted financial instruments to a menage a trois of her voice students who were drugging her.
The "mistress" and the gigolo went to the bank and had her change joint CD's titled with her nephew out of his name, and titled them jointly with the gigolo. The attorney changed her Will leaving the gigolo and his "wife" her house, which was free and clear, erasing the decades-old bequest to the nephew.
Mrs. Dane was one of the most strong-willed, stubborn people I have known. She was mad when the aide and I took her to the bank and proved she had been tricked. The aide caught it when she saw the gigolo throw the monthly bank statement in the bottom of the outside garbage barrel. Wouldn't you know he put a week's garbage on top of it, but that didn't stop Novelette, who waited till he left and dug down to the bottom of the 30 gallon waste container where the proof lay. She called me right away.
Poor Mrs. Dane! We had to use four page magnifiers to show her the altered bank statement; she had macular degeneration. How betrayed she felt- plus she never remembered going to the bank and changing anything.
"Get My Will, deah," she commanded in high-Bostonian.
" It's at the bahck of the Sacred Music Cahbinet."
Which of course it wasn't. Only her lawyer had a Copy- the one who took her blood nephew off the Will and substituted a gigolo.
The gigolo had told her she'd won the Reader's Digest Sweepstakes and she promptly wrote him a check for $5,000 for his son's future. We had to stop her from writing $5,000 for the daughter, to make it fair.
This was my challenge- Mrs. Dane had been dying since the age of 23, and she lived to almost 93. Her cardiologist told me he couldn't count the days left. What was keeping her alive and occasionally teaching voice still was pure will. She was torn between rejoining Mr. Dane in the afterlife, and wanting to stick around,
"...to see what happens," she rationalized.
But she could go at any minute. I prayed and prayed we would have time to set things right.
First we went to the bank- Novelette, Mrs. Dane, and myself, to get the gigolo off the CDs. He had built a house with the credit. I thought that was the asset at highest risk. Real estate you can fight, but joint accounts and direct transfers would have been ever so complicated to recover if she died.
It had always been her intention, in all the thirty years I was her student and "best girl," that her nephew, the son of her twin sister was the heir. But one year she broke her hip and the nephew couldn't get away, or wouldn't come to visit her in Florida, at which time the gigolo, who had been a student, became ever so much better than her nephew.
And so the bank history indicated. I have never received so much expedient attention from a bank officer. We were quite a trio in his little kiosk. The imposing Jamaican Novelette and I had Mrs. Dane looking like Queen Victoria in her wheelchair. She looked like fine porcelain you wouldn't dare touch. But she was so angry at what had been done, she inhaled deeply for her diva dramatic soprano voice, and commanded the CDs be re-titled at once! No problem. The bank had no idea how such a thing could have happened. Mrs. Dane had no memory of it.
This is the catch 21 with elders, especially frail elders: most of them are finished fighting, and they shouldn't have to. It was a police case- if Mrs. Dane would be willing to testify.
We had a lot to to do to reverse Mrs. Dane's lawyer and the gigolo. Two bank excursions, changing the Will back as the attorney almost shook to death- these were personal business events for which Mrs. Dane had to be sound and present, and which upset her because of the meddling of others into her private life.
Mrs. Dane then gave me Power of Attorney her last year of life. I ran her household, visited every day, and never took a cent though she urged me. I had full care of her household, and made sure she lived there till she died, with an aide and me. Did the shopping, driving, and Health Proxying. Hired cleaning and maintenance people to keep the house well. Her nephew knew none of this was going on- he seldom even called his Auntie. She was angry at him and the thieves had taken advantage of that- they were there, the blood heir was not.
We could only attempt one task a day at most. I was jumping out of my skin, worrried the physical stress would push her over the brink, worried how completely unjust it would be if she died and her life's work jumped from her bloodline to a trash gigolo.
Getting Mrs. Dane fed, dressed, medicated, groomed and out the door into my car, with the expertise of Novelette, CNA extraordinaire was at least a two hour project. Novelette would do the seatbelt while I then had to lift "old ironside," the two-ton wheelchair, into my trunk.
"Are we almost theah yet, deah?"
Then you travel, park, get the wheelchair, get Mrs. Dane into it without breaking any of her parts, roll along the asphalt in the blazing heat to a destination and take a number.
She did enjoy the excursions thoroughly, always the center of attention everywhere. For Novelette and I the tedium was immense, but it wasn't about us- it was about Mrs. Dane ending her life as well as she had lived it, dying at home in diginity and privacy, surrounded by her precious domain, in control of her own wishes.
We had to let her untangle the problem herself. No undue influence openings, just putting things back the way they were and as they should be. We prayed that though she was in heart failure and her skin as thin as tissue paper, for time.
She put things aright and lived another seven months happily at home. By her 92nd birthday she was in bed. In that period I had a manicurist come to the house for polish and pampering. Her hair was colored and curled, though she liked a lacy nightcap when laid-up.
On that last birthday I had a florist deliver two vases of two dozen pink roses with big satin ribbons, for the bedroom. She liked things 1950's style still. I called the owner of Mrs. Dane's favorite neighborhood Chinese Restaurant. She personally delivered a feast of Maine Lobster (which I don't eat- no bottom feeders) and joined our little trio.
She had long ago trained the restaurant to cut her lobster a certain way. I sat next to the bed watching Mrs. Dane tear through two sliced lobster tails with her beautiful, shining teeth.
If you are a heart patient, Medicare provides required periodontal coverage, and she was always having surgeries, which meant required periodontal monitoring. When I took her to an appointment, the M.D. brought me back to the chair and shined a flashlight into her oral cavity.
"I want you to see this," the old-tyme gent doctor insisted.
It really was a periodontal triumph- over ninety years old. Every gleaming tooth was her own in an absolutely pristine pink mouth.
A fine inheritance went from Auntie to grand-nephew, intact. Was he surprised! Probably some of the most fun I ever had, a good ending and consolation for the loss of the woman who had molded me from age 20-50.
Moreover Flora P. Dane died in 2002. In 2019 I still have retained the years of checkbooks and bank statements which establish I took no money from my teacher. I paid her, for thirty years. I have years of bank statements from previous student bookkeepers who wrote themselves checks for $1500 here and $600 there.
I have saved it all, moving it with my other like valuables five times since 2002.
Don't tell me Leonce Picot's paperwork is gone less than a year following his death.
Just remember, Laura Ellen Picot, Katherine Ann Kryder is your mother, not Carolyn Guerard Picot, no matter what you say to the newspapers, or the court.
Katherine Ann Kryder, as Katherine Ann Daniel, your mother, married your father, Leonce Louis Picot, of East Orange, NJ, June, 1953, and I was born that December, the day Howard Hughes delivered his charitable estate to Raytheon (Fort Wayne) about three hours before and 40 minutes away from where I was being born (Fort Lauderdale.)
I am your big sister.
You were an EMKO baby born August 1956. Neither of us were planned pregnancies.
Our mother used the name Kay Daniel Picot as her nom de plume.
This was not her legal name on her social security or other legal documents. Isn't that odd? Her social security card was issued to Katherine Ann Daniel, not her legal name either.
This slip and other things omitted the marriage of LeVonne Lawhon to Frank H. Kryder, his third marriage, in the genealogy of John Kryder III, Patriot and Pioneer of the Pennsylvania Wilderness, Kryder, Dr. Edward Hemington; 2 vol.
In 1966 Leonce Louis Picot was found guilty of extreme cruelty and desertion in divorce proceedings brought by our mother after years of despicable mistreatment, infidelity, physical injury, and unfairness to her as an author. Step by step he broke her down spiritually, mentally, and financially, leaving us embarassingly stripped of furniture and clothing after the divorce.
Do you not remember how we could afford not even a ticket to Promenade, while Daddy-O was preparing to move into one of the first Mossack Fonseca client homes on Flamingo Drive?
Wasn't it embarassing that we couldn't ask our friends over after school because we didn't have any furniture?
The divorce was final in the spring of the year Frank himself was being compromised by his estate and federal tax lawyers and family members you never knew as life-long adversaries.
When our mother died we were both minors. I was at college and you forged my signature to a document giving Leonce Picot the right to become Personal Represenentative of his ex-wife's estate, the woman he pushed into her grave.
My mother had committed suicide and I was away from home with no family or counseling. I had no idea what a Personal Representative was, and no one bothered to explain it to me. Leonce encouraged me not to come home for my mother's memorial service at St. Mark the Evangelist- hence my lifelong non-attendance at any funeral. They make me too sad about OUR mother.
As his ex-wife's Personal Representative, Leonce Picot did not cancel Kay's social security account and collect our benefit. The account was still open in 1995 when I opened Frank Kryder's estate.
Our grandmother, Frank's ex-wife, had bought us two sofas eventually. As Personal Representative for Kay, Leonce took these sofas and re-upholstered them for his mansion on Flamingo. Technically, we should have been paid for all the effects of our mother which he simply subsumed unto himself. The man who cannot be trusted with small things should never be trusted with bigger things, such as Katherine's insurance benefit from her father's life insurance.
I never received any of her paperwork.
Most important is her divorce contract.
From 1966-1972 in newspaper archives, which always refer to Leonce's lovely wife Kay ( they never called your fake mother lovely- because she wasn't) Leonce refers to the books "written by my ex-wife."
Kay's books were his only credential into the world of Gourmet. His job was selling ads to Hertz and liquor outfits for the books. That was always his job- he called it public relations, but Leonce Picot was essentially trained and experienced in the sales of rum.
Once Kay was out of his way he was free to violate ALL the conditions of her Divorce Contract, since we had not been provided copies. I knew what was in it because when Leonce re-married to Carolyn Guerard, Kay made a special flight to North Carolina to explain a few things to me about inheritance in the least upsetting way she could muster. I will never forget how my beautiful mother looked then. Her face was gray, and how I knew she was not long for this world.
Naturally Leonce's most blatant violation as soon as Kay was dead was to claim himself as the author of the restaurant books in every interview, story, radio show, to anyone he met. The amount of his publicity in important food and dining, wine, and restaurant industry publications, was kept at a furious boil until the shut-down in 1998. He never stopped calling himself the author of the books.
So there we have about thirty years of constant violation of the divorce contract, theft of copyright, absolute denial of the love of his youth, the woman who propelled him to a greater career.
It is said, desperate times call for drastic measures...
(All notable because Hazel Gerardot once took me to her home in New Haven. She showed me the detailed drawn portrait of Mary Ann Treace, aka "Harrison's Squaw." That referred to Harrison W. Kryder, Frank Sr.'s father. Well dang if I didn't find myself looking straight at my sister, Laura Picot Sayles. Mary Ann was around thirty then, 1870. They were both extraordinarily beautiful young women, with dimples, dark eyes, finely chiseled features.
Look above to young Frank's portrait. He, the squaw, and Laura Picot Sayles have identical lips and a very similar browline. We all have the high cheekbones of Harrison's Squaw. We are tall women.
Rosemary Kryder had the sharpened features as well, but no one could make themselves look like a bona-fide Hollywood- style Indian more than Katherine could. It was her thick, straight as a stick dark hair that added the right touch. Shoulder length, blunt cut, crowned with a headband, she would sometimes put on a facial masque with this hairstyle, and curdle the blood of the neighborhood kids when they came to the door.
So we are looking at very strenuous genetic expression, and many characteristics which seem to indicate there is not enough Restalyn to plump the Treace out of my sister, Katherine's daughter, no matter who she says she is.)
I tend to be more fair, a Fitzpatrick 2 at least, but my genes have the twine that keeps me contemporaneous with Frank, Minnie, and Frank. It is a hereditary phenomenon worth exploring. They called me back to their day and brought me into their Fort Wayne. Then my eyes were opened to the world I am living in, and from whence it came.
At any rate, Hazel and her sister Dorothy, after checking me out personally, were clearly astounded by the sudden appearance in Fort Wayne of a relative they did not know, who wanted the story of her "Indian Blood" through the Kryders.
But Hazel and Dorothy were most concerned over their longtime family controversy as to whether there was actually Indian blood in the Kryders. They were living cousins of Frank , Jr., he being fourteen years older.
I suppose me showing up as Frank's grand-daughter, with a parallel Indian-blood story, settled the decades-long issue. I guess I earned my look at the portrait.
However, the blood of Mary Treace only made it to a few Kryders through her marriage to Harrison, to his eldest sons which included Clarence Frank, but not all his children. His land in Cedarville was given to him by Mary's father. Mary died at 40, when C.F. was only 10, and Harrison had more wives and kids.
This page is written in real time as time marches in all its directions. I am fairly positive it is not at all mobile friendly, by design. Don't miss the archives.
Friends, please read freely and in comfort! This story goes down great with your morning coffee. There are no annoying ads on this website, only annoying truth.
MATHEMATICAL, Retrievable, Indelible TRUTH
Site Map- Updated 2016
Robert S. Walters and James M. Barrett III Offices succeeding The Kryder Company Inc., rm 225 Standard Building,
On the register of historic places, designed by Wing and Mahurin, Masons of the 32°.
All of East Berry street in Fort Wayne was platted in an easement of the Pennsylvania RR.
Frank H. Kryder 1894-1966, Last Kryder Company, Inc. President and Trustee.
and Thomas M. Moorhead, Vice-President, Minnie V. Kryder's Estate Lawyer, of Shoaff, Simon, Keegan, and Baird, retired from Baker and Daniels and Shoaff, 1969 VP of the Allen County Bar.
Bordner encumbered the entire Kryder estate in 1963 in a self-filed affidavit, Superior Court Order 5789, the last four digits of Moorhead's father's social security number.
Minnie Viola Disler Kryder and her grandchild, Katherine Ann Kryder who was plundered by 200 year old Fort Wayne cooperating lawyer and judge associations, banks, and trust companies.
Clarence Frank Kryder (C.F.) with his grand-daughter Katherine Kryder, a real estate developer who sacrificed heavily to make Fort Wayne America's Happiest City by 1950, the year he died; robbed by those who keep secrets and silence, as well as his securities. Kryder had assured the correct descension of his estate by living entirely on his United States Treasury guaranteed to the registrant tax-exempt securities, which have never been cashed out as he never had a taxppayer number. He deeded in Allen Superior Court the family-owned Kryder Company, Inc. interest in a large chunk of Fairfield Terr. Sec. B. to his only child, granchildren, and unborn undescendants.
But Fort Wayne, Indiana is historically described by Indian Agent John Tipton as being too far from the federal arm of Washington, DC to be a safe place for families.
Fort Wayne Straus Commercial Bank, correspondent of Commercial Bank of Basle, now UBS. The Chief Jean Baptiste de Richardville Estate was transferred to Straus by Senator Stephen Bond Fleming in 1902, despite restrictions requiring Presidential approval. This was done for the benefit of the International Agricultural Corporation so the DuPonts could strip Indiana of limestone to build New York City erections, and with the Balls, mine the state of Florida for phosphate fertilizer.
All merged with the German American National Bank into Lincoln National Bank and Trust Company, now Wells Fargo.
FOR SALE BY KRYDER'S GRAND-DAUGHTER
If you need help, wherever you are, call God, it's free.
9/10/2019 September Song
Savings and Trust. Satisfaction, Judgment, Maker and Redemption. Estate and Inheritance. Bond, Covenant, Pledge. By Word and Deed. Pray to the court.
The language of Faith, Law, and Banking, why is it interchangeable? I learned it all in church as a Whiskcopalian child. I memorized every creed and general prayer of the people. There was nothing to do but memorize the service. I sat motionlessly Sundays, next to the perfectly dressed Kay, and stared into the beady eyes of a misfortunate fox, wrapped in whole around the shoulders of the lady in front of me, and wondered.
9/13/2019 Try To Remember
Try to remember
10/21/2019 Free Range Church
Since no one can read their writing, I do it for the Step Hens. Last Sunday, they are certain they were recognized by Brother Osteen's choosing Eggs in the Shell as an image of Faith. Chickens and Donkeys should be revered alike for their contribution of Sunday service. Chickens have long been the staple of many a Sunday dinner. It's always been chicken eggs the kids hunt, and donkeys are significant on both Christmas Eve and Palm Sunday.
10/27/2019 I Love to Tell the Story Brother Osteen #743
Dr. Lawhon, Katherine's maternal great-grandfather wrote in his 1933-1936 diaries,
"There is no bitterness in my heart."
His wife Pearl Hemphill had died in 1924 after the late birth of a fifth child, great Uncle Harry. Ministers were exquisitely poor in those days, moreso in 1933-1936. With two doctorates and three master's degrees from Baker University, Baldwin, Kansas, he raked leaves and built hurricane shutters for the winter residents, working as a security guard at night when the Governor's Club was being built.
His daughter, my grandmother LeVonne, who married Frank Kryder, said to me,
"But, he never amounted to much," referring to her father and his five degrees, a man who daily translated parts of the Bible into French, in beautiful violet script, before bed.
You see, it was Bunny who was the Bitter One. It is said I refused to call her anything but Bunny since the age of speaking, and it became the family name.
I am just here to tell about the fallout, one hundred years later, and yes indeed it is a hard and sorrowful task, but that is the kind of evangelism to which I am assigned . The Good News is, Jesus is on our side.
Who said, "Seek ye the Truth."
We are in Eternity- Jesus is the same, Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. When do you move on? Jesus suffered, volunteer! We are still talking about it, too.
Bunny was 19 when her mother Pearl died, just as I was 19 when her daughter, my mother, Katherine, died. She was furious with the Reverend, her father, and the baby Harry, blaming them for the loss of her mother due to post-partem complications. Pearl had not lived to Bunny's high school graduation. Dr. Lawhon then had a baby and three younger children to raise.
Needing another car to get to his jobs and the church, her father gave Bunny the old family car.
Now, in my case, my father gave me my mother's car which she had to sell to him to pay her expenses. He was driving a luxury mobile, and she was in poverty. It was traumatizing, tearing me between two parents, but here's where Bunny and I part ways, though she ironed altar cloths for years, hoping to mke up.
I left the hated car at college that Christmas and flew home. Katherine had died that September. My college friends had agreed to start the car every day to keep up the battery, so they had the keys.
On Christmas Eve my stepmother had planned a little cocktail party of people I didn't know. I was trying my best to not look sad when the phone rang.
"Hello, Sally?" For that is what they called me at school, for some reason.
"Sally, we're really sorry to mess up your Christmas, but we have some bad news."
"Go ahead and give it," since I'd rather be on the phone than at the party.
"Well, Mr. O. and I took your car to Charlotte and we totaled it. We're really sorry, Sally, no one was hurt. It was our fault, too."
Oh Christmas Joy!
"Col. Sanders, don't worry about it! It's all insured. I didn't like that car very much anyway. Merry Christmas."
That Pontiac Firebird V-8 was eating a hole in my heart and wallet- it was Nixon 1972. My naughty friends just got the spirit to get rid of it, eventhough I had never told anyone the origin of the car. Only God and my father, stepmother, sister and Bunny knew.
On the contrary, what did Bunny do with the car her father gave her?
I might not ever have found out, if I hadn't gone a- truth seeking. Bunny never said a word about her father, Frank Kryder, or her baby brother Harry, except that Harry had run afoul of the law, and should not be sought out ever.
Now I realize she brought this up not long before her death, for Harry being nineteen years younger than she, alive and kicking somewhere was a link to her youth and marriage to Frank Kryder.
I was very confused about my origins, because Bunny hid so many things which impacted a constellation of souls. Bunny was bitter.
At my county historical society I found information that my Kansas great-grandparents are buried right here, where I always lived, in the elite Pioneers cemetery, that the homestead was on a main road downtown I had passed countless times growing up. I stopped dead in my tracks. This was 1993. I had lived forty years thinking my ancestors were buried somewhere in Kansas and did not know I had a great-uncle Lawhon living. I had never been to the graves of Rev. and Pearl Lawhon.
I did not know Dr. Lawhon was the first itinerant preacher in the county, sent by the Kansas Conference in 1913. He was here to save the winter rich tourists, and managed to get First United Methodist built, eldest standing church in the county now. Dr. Lawhon dedicated the church in 1924. I had gone shopping at the Burdine's across from the church with Bunny even, as late as my teens, and never noticed the church or had it pointed out to me.
Bunny raised her daughters, and granddaughters, pure as a lily Episcopalian. It was the High Church of High Society where Bunny longed to be. From her father's diaries, I'm sure it rankled him some. He was no lover of "the Romanists" and wrote a poem mocking St. Patrick's Day, in his diary. Although some merger of Methodist and Episocopal has evolved, this is as confusing as the Sunday School teacher's definition of Episcopal being "Protestant-Catholic."
Back to Dr. Lawhon's car, once I realized I had sham relatives and real ones I didn't know of, the first thing I did was locate Great Uncle Harry. Thus began my career as a girl sleuth. He was still living then, in Washington state, and I told him right off Bunny said I was not supposed to connect with him. That dispelled any hesitation he had about telling me as much as I could glean about the Reverend and Frank Kryder. I asked Uncle Harry, what was Frank Kryder like?
"Well, I remember the day he had driven down from Indiana and parked his brand new silver Chrysler in our yard. I thought, anyone with a car like that must be next to God..."
It was an awesome moment as Harry thought of his father, and I thought of Frank Kryder. Knowing Dr. Lawhon's credentials, his son Harry would not make such a statement casually. It said a lot about Frank, Sr. as well, his goodness confirmed by the children of people he helped to endure the Depression.
"Ask about my Son."
So Harry, son of Lawhon, cleared up the picture of Bunny for me. I just happened to think it must be Dr. Lawhon's version of the tale he told; Harry would have been too young to remember the details. The diaries I have tell about times with Harry at six and ten years. He was the last to fly the nest, and the two were intimates.
"Dad's car wasn't that bad, really. But he needed LeVonne to drive the kids to school, and he had jobs all the time. "
"LeVonne wanted the newer car when Dad decided we needed two cars. Of course, he refused."
"On a Saturday night the police came to the house to get Dad. Someone had seen LeVonne's car go into the rock pit. He got there just in time to see the chain pulling it from the water, to see if his first born was inside."
That is bitterness. She unreasonably hated her father for the loss of her mother, setting about to terrify him, hurt him and defy him. Afterwards she moved to Atlanta, where her uncle L.H. Parris worked for Asa Candler as a bank vice president. This put her in the right setting to marry rich by 1930, having been introduced to Frank Kryder, Jr. when he came to Atlanta on a real estate junket.
Bunny hid Harry and the Kryders from her daughters and grand-daughters, for the purpose of making herself appear as a proper Daughter of the King. After Frank, she married two well-off gentlemen one after the other, and spent her golden years cruising with "Gramps," my stand-in grandfather. The impact reaches into the minds of my sister, her children, and my son. Our children don't know the why, or where of half their history, but they cannot understand who they are without it.
A bad culture is rearing its head, Hefner-ism lives. Women and children truly suffered emotional and physical harm, carefully mixed in the revealing sixties tiki bars, exploding into strip joints, alcoholism followed by drug addiction. Then we have your sex addictions, gambling, mass shootings, suicides and the like in the present. How do you disconnect eternity and where?
I guess you had to be there, an adolescent in 1966, in a broken home, Jim Morrison having relieved himself on a Miami audience, to feel as though something may be going amiss. There was a Head Shop on chic Las Olas Boulevard. Where was Centerville anymore? All along we grew up with textbooks depicting an orderly world where adults were in control. You did business with local shop keepers and were familiar with almost the whole neighborhood, except those houses where crazy hermits lived inside, or where there had been an axe murder.
This is eternity. Anyone in America and conscious in 1963 for the Kennedy assassination puts a little Google-like marker there. What did walking away and letting go do for Robert Kennedy's grand-daughter?
But, there are other markers on which we can focus, something in a workable radius from 1963 backward and forward. The impact of that wrong doing goes right into the future. It didn't stop. We yoots were hit with two more assassinations and riots before we got to college.
There is a distinction between trivial insults, fiddle-dee-dee and fol-de-rol, and violence. Murder, assault, and theft are unlawful. A hound dog stays with the scent.
Detectives don't let go of a mystery because they are bitter. Once they see a pattern, they have to find out what it means. One BBC detective solved a 150-year old murder case! That's perserverance.
Well, you can go back to the Abraham Lincoln assassination and see how quickly America moves on from negativity and violence. We move on because there is a new crisis around the corner in the future.
I don't move on, because I have a case to solve, with as few markers as possible. Had I locked away or tried to segregate my memories, I would never have put two and two together to fulfill my purpose.
Theologically, I don't believe the goal of life is happiness or accruing benefits. It can't be.
What sort of depression am I treating, since all is re-classified now, and the condition Melancholia has gone off the list?
If I stop taking Prozac, I plummet into the deeps- easily controlled with 80 mg, then 40mg daily. That means no matter what is going on, the person on the street sees me happy, friendly, if not garrulous. Sometimes I feel so fine I stop taking the medicine. Finally, I'm cured.
The concensus is one of those "complete change of environment" cures, having lived too long in the same place. As a biologist, I have this analyzed to a fine point in myself because
1. People who have not experienced depression cannot understand it. They will say, they can't fathom suicide. This is normal. They become upset if they can't cheer up a depressed friend or loved one.
2. A melancholy person cannot explain a series of brain impressions which come to the foreground and take over their thinking as serotonin levels drop. Any little sad thing that ever happened can trigger a thought loop which won't stop playing. You can't escape from the loop in your head, it garners a new sadness unto itself with every cycle.
When serotonin is raised, it all washes away with the tide.
Sometimes brooding in a person is too complex for anyone else to understand, not one person on this earth. I understand it in myself, but never say a peep to someone brooding, unless they first approach me about a trouble. Who knows better than the Step Hens, What a Friend We Have in Jesus.
12/17/2019 Joel Osteen, Evangelist
Evangelical has different connotations in Christianity, like Christians are perceived differently by each other and non-Christians with numerous divisions amongst themselves and their examples.
"The Church Militant," I listened to the elders in the Parish Hall discuss when just a tot.
When I was in the Methodist Choir downtown, several girls joined and had their hair cut very short. They were rebelling Evangelicals, it was explained to me.
And once my own hair had grown so long the stylist said, "My God, this is too much hair! You look like one of those Evangelists!"
Brought up in clouds of Frankincense and High Anglican Catechism, an Evangelist, in my child impressionism, was a speaker of the Gospel. The Gospel is the Good News, and the major Evangelists were such as Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
I could not connect to Rev. Billy Graham. America's pastor seemed stone-like. I never listened to a sentence. What is wrong with me?
I do like Rev. Dr. Charles Stanley as a theologian and teacher. Appreciate him to high heaven I might, but pleasure cruising is more marine pollution than people would care to formally learn. God is Holy in land, in air, and sea. The Alaskan tours gave me cold feet.
Evangelist I think ranks just below Archangel, but above Prophet. The evangelist perpetuates the Gospel between Archangel appearances, and is not subject to anything churchy.
Brother Joel brings me glad tidings- sometimes the only ones I get all week. Glad tidings stir hope and revive the soul. I need reviving- not by might, but by spirit, to remind me, if I'm still alive, I have not fulfilled the Will.
No false promises.
"Get the manna yourself now."
Learn how not to be a slave. It must be from Gabriel. He came to my carport sale once, tan and laden with golden chains.
"I'll be back" is what he said.
01/6/2020 AI: We Three Kings of Ore an' Tar
01/13/2020 December 11, 1981: The Great Grandfather Sign! #joelOsteen #Lakewood#CapCom
Brother Joel, I knew you had it! Did I not start this "Spirituality Column" on Frank Kryder for you? Have I not tiptoed around religious snobbery and the subject of Catholics, Protestants, and Jews in historical Fort Wayne, The City of Churches? The churches were built there by the early directors of the banks, as contractors. They were how shares of power were meted out amongst lawyers and industrialists during the World Wars and The Great Depression. Shares of parking lots, office buildings, oil leases, farm mortgages, manufacturing- because weddings, births, and deaths are momentous giddy occasions for the soul, but more interesting to others as the inanimate financial gears of the estate, no matter how mean, no matter how cheaply accounted, and most of those events are monitored by a church. Hmph.
How true, we wait and look for signs, especially when we live by faith. I have been bereft, so wishing to talk to my great-gandfather Reverend Samuel Earnest Lawhon, D.D., Baker University, Baldwin Kansas. I have books he collected, old gospel hymns from around America, and his Depression diaries.
Why does life unfold too far ahead of us, that we cannot connect to our kindred spirit for some coffee and pie, and wise counsel in the flesh?
Dr. Lawhon's birthday is December 11. You couldn't have picked a better day to pray for a miracle. For years I have "saved the date" and you called it out loud and clear.
That is supernatural enough for me. You stood in the flesh, eyes a'-glittering, extolling the power of the same God who put me here for some reason, by the Faith of Our Fathers. (and Mothers)
We have come full circle now from Rums of Puerto Rico, 1959, to Leonce Picot RICO, one perfectly amortized cycle of life insurance and rairoad debentures. There is nothing higher than nature's laws. There is nothing like being born to live, observe and describe a cold case in the future. Now I can write the book my father hounded me all my adult life to write, once he wasn't around to read it.
I have survived as Methodist tea-total; the continuous study of and exposure to crime in families is a Major Depressant. You have to fight it, not become it. You can't blot it out or dull it down. This is a narrow path. No soy, no casino, no pop, no smoke, no booze, no opium, no suicide. Whaddayado? I take a lot of NAP.
From Insta-Burgers to tomato slaves, Pepsi whoppers, shaky stakes, and rum and coke, never has 20th century family dysfunction, financial misconduct, and the generational curse been so relentlessly chronicled with the American history which drove us to the nut house than by Frank Kryder's grand-daughter, Princess Trustworthy.
(Laura Picot Sayles, please file yo' Daddy's Death Certificate in Broward County. His name was Leonce Picot and he died 2018, though you thought it would be best to exclude me, the literal witness to Leonce Picot's extreme cruelty and desertion of his wife Kay Picot aka Katherine Ann Kryder of Fort Wayne, of public record. He bled out her last six years buying up most of her worldly goods so she could pay her electric bill. Your mother killed herself in 1972. Are you really that cheap? It's your responsibility. Record it.)
Loren M. Berry Phone Book Interest Group Wanted- Go Ahead and Fund My Red Book
Kryder Real Estate chronicles many interesting details of early telephone companies, telephone numbers and telephone books. Phone numbers were used to identify the location of trust company safes in 1927. The Tri-State Trust Company safe was located at -5630, in Fort Wayne. In Fort Lauderdale, where we were growing up, where Katherine and Leonce always were, so was our phone -5630. Assets of First and Tri-State Corporation, including the bank, are one of the hidden mysteries of the Depression in Fort Wayne. (Comptroller's Order 344, 1930, Treasury Cause 3280).
How did Leonce L. Picot for years at -5630 end up embroiled with John Berry, Borchers Inurance, and the Burger King? Picot had nothing but a lease on his ex-wife's estate, and for that I witnessed aka Katherine Kryder stalked from 1960-1972, by a Fort Wayne army doctor, who had tested pyschoactive drugs and post-hypnotic suggestion while enlisted. Not to mention the trouble her ex-husband gave her as a garnish.
In 1963 I was stalked by an eighteen year old sex-offender who was also the same doctor's patient. Fortunately, there is a police case to prove it. I was with a friend when he tried to get us into his car when he had no pants on. Susie and I believed it was our civic duty to testify in court. I knew Katherine related it to her terrorizing late night calls, but of course I was scarcely old enough to understand stalking. It was not easy to live through as a teenager who didn't know what was happening in the world, and oh the so much more unforgettable. I still would like someone to please explain it to me.
DAUGHTERS OF ALLEN COUNTY PIONEERS
Minnie Kryder Grand-daughter:
From the family of John Kryder III and Abraham Disler, Katherine Ann Kryder aka Kay Daniel Picot or Mrs. Leonce Picot (ex) was a classic Indiana Beauty born to Frank H. and LeVonne Kryder in Fort Wayne, May 25, 1931. It was Frank's third marriage, celebrated in Covington, KY.
Katherine Ann could sing, act, write, was very athletic, and maintained her size 4, 5'9" stature till death at 40. Better if she had been a Fort Wayne movie star. She had all the qualities of a Hughes favorite. But she was kidnapped in 1941 by her mother and was told her father had a gun and would shoot her. So I was told by Rebecca Louise Kryder, her sister b. 1936, Fort Wayne.
What Kay said to me was, "Mother took me away from my father and never let me see him again." That is all she voiced, and that her grandmother grew such beautiful flowers.
It was particularly sad for Frank, Sr. and Minnie Kryder who had lost three children in infancy. Photographs show Katherine, Rebecca. and Rosemary, the three grand-daughters at the senior Kryders. Though younger than Rosemary, her half-sisters remembered her well, as I remember them talking about her at my grandmother's house on Riverside Drive.
This left in the lurch daughter and grand-daughter of Fort Wayne developers, The Kryder Company, Inc. really deserved a better shake from the Allen County Bar when her father died. All the old pretenses of "there were never any Kryders here" have been dispelled. The senior Kryders purchased HOLC bonds so people could refinance their homes when Fort Wayne National Bank and Lincoln National Bank wouldn't in 1934.
The Allen bankers, representatives of the Bond family, or First State, F.S., then later First National Company as we came to know it in the mid-century, reorganized with $2,000,000 government dollars, but Clarence Frank Kryder and Minnie V. Kryder took the low-interest investment hit of a New Deal security so that Fort Wayne would not lose families needed for labor, so that farms would not be seized. That was what it meant to uphold the integrity of Members of the Fort Wayne Board of Realtors. There had to be housing for soldiers after WWII- the plats left half-finished during the Great Depression had waited in reserve. Without housing for workers, industry in Fort Wayne would leave. In short, banks would have been foreclosing on people in The Kryder Company developments, without private investor purchases of HOLC Bonds to make money available for refinancing. It was like a MOB threat.
Reparations to Mrs. James Ewing Bond's half-sister are appropriate. Need we do more? Rosemary Kryder Bond's mother, Rose Phillips, worked in the Allen County Recorder's Office until Frank Kryder died, keeping track of every transfer. Naturally, Rosemary was listed as the only survivng child in the obituary, with her children, though Rosemary had as little contact with her father Frank as did Katherine and Rebecca, which was none. We all know what that means when two daughters from another marriage are at a distance at the death of their father, and James Bond and James Barrett worked out the estate works.
We don't care how long ago it was- we care about the Trust and Frank's Life Insurance. We care about an over-agressive mutual fund which thwarted the Kryders' intent for ALL their lineal descendants. Look it up and prove me wrong, Our North American Half- Cousin Richard, Rosemary's Baby. I so wish you would. Did I not leave Rosemary in peace at your request? Give us some peace.
Perhaps the Towers of Allen will reclaim their own by suing for Katherine's estate, for copyright theft by a mortal enemy, who built corporations and a career on her work, enriching many stockholders, and European wine exporters, as well as Don Q, adding substantial gain to the estate of a brutal, philandering ex-husband, Leonce Picot. I understand the Towers are teeming with fine attorneys expert at dealing with these matters of intellectual property. A smart move would be to buy all the remaining copies off Amazon now and hoard them for after a sensational suit revealing the bare bones of North American Exploitation of Women.
The Don-Q 60's: 151 Rums of Puerto RICO, Tobacco, Assassination
11/22/1963 My President, My President!
by Michele Picot, daughter of Kay and Leonce
It is 11/22/2019, and for the second consecutive year there has been no memorial or acknowledgement of the man who was murdered in font of the world because of some of the people in this country are too big for their britches, and have been getting way with murder since Abraham Lincoln. A whole generation has come up who were barely conscious in 1963, but those of us who were studying Centerville in grade school or above in 1963 did not escape the deep trauma of being yanked out of our developing concept of family, society, and the Great United States into turmoil, an overturning of our existing ideas about all races getting along, and the horrifying realization that the adults in our daily lives were not at all at one or necessarily in control.
11/22/1963 is a date which should be entered into a large database of simultaneous financial transactions and maturities. That is sure way to become educated because at the end of the day, money makes the world go 'round. Assassination most certainly is an acceptable avenue to the brewers and bottlers who have a history of doing it to inconvenient people.There is a trail that filters right to 411 Elm Street which happens to intersect Minnie V. and Frank Kryder, North American Van Lines and Pepsi in Dallas. I can bring home the Bacon, if asked.
Nevertheless, to not annually memorialize the highest elected official of the United States assassinated in the line of duty, with all its impact and wake of trouble affecting so many families for years to come, a troubling thing that has made Thankgsgiving moldy, to me, is bizarre. We make a spectacle out of a groundhog every year, but we do not commemorate an important, widely loved president, cut down in his prime.
The assassination of President Kennedy is date-worthy millenial history. We are an irreverent self-concerned bunch, eh what? Black Friday has more influence over our brains.
If this has to do with dumbing down the young ones, when I started on the Kryder Estate and Florida East Coast Railroad, I began to learn what should have been taught in college about the state. So there are things which can't be found in historical textbooks, and where have our textbooks come from over time, what has been left out, or slanted?
I think about causes of holiday depression, why are some people never depressed, why others are. Childhood memories play role
AT THE MARVELOUS MAI-KAI RESTAURANT, Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Speaking of Bars, The Tiki Bar model conceived by the Thornton Brothers was a deadly culture for innocent children and helpless wives flying over our heads as this womanizing planned House of Pleasures destroyed the marriages of nearly all who worked there. It was very sad for we kids, using drink stirrers, colored plastic thin straws and cocktail napkins for crafts and Christmas decorations. People were always arguing, parties and gatherings never ended well, and it was very disturbing to the children. Very.
The Mai-Kai girls were the model of the Playboy Bunny, but more revealingly draped in the popular post-War Polynesian motif. I wished I would be a Mai-Kai girl when I grew up, because then my father would look at me. You see at the table both Bob Thornton and Leonce- always seated at the edge, ready to fly away to some important thing. You never felt like you were really at the table with Leonce, or that he was ever with you even. He was always pointing out this beautiful girl, or some set of legs, perhaps criticizing a tasteless cocktail dress, even if you were mid-sentence.
The Mai-Kai was not inherited by the lineal heirs of their grand-parents who completely financed the operation for their sons Bob Thornton and Jack Thornton. Bob tricked Jack in a stock exchange and in the end Jack's children were wiped out and the intention of both the maternal and paternal grand-parents was thwarted. Bob had no children. Therefore no one in the Chicago blood lines of those who set up the Mai-Kai for their descendants in Florida has an iota of interest in their own family bucks a half -century later. It is owned by new blood, so-to-speak, and the Jack Thornton heirs were severed. Bob Thornton did not think twice about wiping out his own blood totally, ignoring his parents' wishes and turning the Senior Thornton investment over to an unrelated family. That's the curse of rum, the wrath of Papa Q.
A Half-Century of Liar's Poker at the Molokai Bar, Mai-Kai Restaurant, Fort Lauderale, Florida*
(*This is my disclaimer, because I have not crossed the threshold of the Mai-Kai since I was last forced to in the early 1980's, nor will I ever again: the new blood of the Mai-Kai, having become so by marriage or having been staff there for at least part of the term Leonce worked there, may not have known about The Game those years they were just staff, and may not have known Leonce played there years after Bob Thornton died. The Thorntons may not have known the game was on. I heard there are altogether unrelated new owners. Best of luck.)
Many a Down Under waiter knew about the game in 1973 and people who spent afternoons at the Down Under bar talked freely. I made flower arrangements, and just in placing them around, heard things I didn't want to hear. I thought, that is why the bars were once called Speak-easies. Good place to go if you are trying to pick up intel.
But in those times I too had rum, after the flowers were finished. The bartender liked to make me the house special- rum whipped in butter pecan ice cream as an afternoon treat. I could definitely afford the calories, so yum-yum, a buttery, nutty rum milkshake. It was served in its own special custom-made handled mug. I would take it back to the wine room to escape the bar crowd, and hide, though I was usually followed by someone who thought I needed company.
It as bad enough when I came home from college, that waiters and staff clamored to tell me goodies about my father. It was painful, what they thought would amuse me. But customers or people who knew Leonce or said they did ruined my rum milkshakes with gossip, and I would leave many work days at the Down Under down in the dumps, driving exceedingly carefully home.
Cristino Alicea worked for Leonce who grabbed him as purchasing agent from the Mai-Kai. Cristino was Puerto Rican and drove an average of 50 in town, 90 on the highway. I wouldn't ride with him after one trip. He raced cash to NABANCO.
One day I was in the kitchen and he loudly announced to twenty or so personnel, "I donno how such an ugly man like Leonce can have such a beautiful daughter!"
"Because I look like my mother."
I was mad. Cristino knew Kay, and what Leonce did to her, and all the doin's of those small town playboy high-lifers. The others around the kitchen who laughed never knew or saw my mother. Carolyn told people she was my mother, against my wishes. It would not have been seemly to correct those who thought Carolyn was my mother when Cristino put me on the spot. I wanted them all to know that Kay named the Down Under, that Kay wrote the books and developed the lifestyle which gave the ugly man a credential in fine food, that she was so beautiful Leonce had to help destroy her. He benefited by her death!
Nevertheless, I personally knew about the Liar's Poker because Leonce gloated over me, his Cinderella, burbling too much when he won.
Liar's Poker after hours in the Molokai Bar was an elite game run since almost its opening during the life time of Leonce Picot, at least till 1997 or so, unless Leonce was lying about his winnings. Men who play it drink The Mystery Drink, Yeoman's Grog, and libations in Shrunken Heads; they have completely lost judgment over maintaining this little nook of racketeering in quiet. Of course our mothers tried to make we little girls think life was a fairy tale and distract us from the lurid lives of our fathers after dark. But Leonce Picot, my Daddy, was crowned Molokai Liar's Poker champion of the City throughout his life, and those looks on his face after a big winning night were sinister to me.
He always bought himself a treat after a win- a little collectible soldier, a Fiat Spyder, clothing, art, laughing the ghoulish "hoo-hoo-hoo" laugh which curiously piqued Kay to nickname him "Lurch" as early as the 1960's. Convert your winnings to art and collectibles.
Leonce's Molokai Liar's Poker was played with serial numbers on U.S. Currency. That is all I know about the game, but what a BS jab at the U.S. Treasury- gambling with the serial numbers. I will not say my father was not patriotic- I am pointing out what RUM will do to the very very best of us, injuring the innocents along the roadside. It made power-driving fortunes here in these United States by doing irreparable damage to families via inhumane acts long ago which have never received due acknowledgment in United States History, much less relief for survivors. The power of the brewers is not fully in the public perception- they are heavily veiled, with influence over transportation, amusements, hospitality, fruit crops, sugar, everything.
Ye who think U.S. Sugar is the end all, Guinness LLC is higher up the ladder.
We as a society share the "curse" of addiction, on multiple fronts, including law enforcement and rehabilitation costs. The same people make the money curing a problem they caused, if you climb the corporate ladder. You can't ignore a bad foundation, especially as the condo grows taller and taller. Think about all the things floating in that cocktail as you imbibe- all that went into it, including the dead bodies from human families like your own, forced and beaten in broiling fields of sugar cane for the Boss. Or, if you are country-club only, think about the mangled, charred kids in their Teslas, crashing on the way home from Graduation.
(Wine makes me think of Leo Goodwin, ordering up a party from Leonce in the Down Under Wine Room, to celebrate the day he would be released from jail for vehicular homicide. Though, grapes have been reserved for another section of this writing).
Let's embellish Rum in America with elegant Christmas gift packaging, fruit twists, orchids, paper umbrellas, plastic sticks and elaborate drinkware. Why are these drink trinkets so colorful, attractive and fun? They are manifestations of the eldest witch doctor in the world, hidden deep in the jungles of the forgotten Haitian Sugar Company. He has appeared in various fiction novels- one I read from the Lutheran library. He was called Papa something. He steals young girls from convents. He has never been caught when his captives were rescued. Papa Q.
Remedy the past, re-insure the integrity of the future.
Papa Q will work his way into families to ignite trouble where there was none. Your family may be good as gold, but Papa Q works on us as a Nation because we have invited him into our home.
Back in the 1990's I was at my local IRS unit making payment arrangements on my meager income and in the cublicle next to me was a Korean man pleading with an undercurrent of hysteria about criminal charges over his weekly poker night with friends.
"It is just friends...we get together and play cahds."
The agent was explaining the agency's point of view on unreported cash flow and poker games. I was trying to not overhear. I was still impressed by the fear I heard in the man's voice and the idea that IRS had enough manpower to track down residential poker games, while so much large ticket financial mischief can't be prevented, and less glamorous cases where fleecing rests on the fine line of criminality have to be fought in court by victims.
Oakland Park, the municipality of the Mai-Kai, used to have a 4:00 A.M. closing ordinance for bars and liquor stores. Men could treat their wives to an uncontestably pleasant dinner and atmosphere, then send them home to tuck in the girls as they slipped into the Molokai wee hours of overly tanned hips and breasts leaning over to serve them another hit of 151 for a tip. They were shifty-eyed behind their fans of paper money, and thorougly intoxicated.
Actually, I am not sure how the game Liar's Poker is played- but by the age of twelve I could easily beat Leonce at Clue and Hearts, to the extent that he forced me into Chess to get ten minutes of his time, though I was never taught the game. He was always the happy winner- he beat me at Chess, and he beat the town playboys and hot shots at Liar's Poker, a game I never heard of except as being played at the Molokai. How he justified this in his upright anti-mobster, no casinos in Florida position is with RUM.
Rum drinks can make a person do or say anything they would not ordinarily say or do. Rum is sold by what is called "purveyors of spirits."
If rum is to be a spirit, then we have to classify this, for the sake of the young.
Is it a good spirit or a bad spirit?
There is a house in New Orleans, from which there is no return from rum. I am a witness. I saw Rum drinks tear down healthy American families one by one- the licentious, "we can do anything the best" Mai-Kai killer drinks, womanizing culture. It is not illegal for adults to drink rum, but if they have children, the children will now or in future generations pay the price. Why can't this be recognized once and for all?
Rum in America is the Spirit of the Slave Trade, and say it all you want, there are some places in the past from which there is yet to be any semblance of "moving on." Though, Papa Q in his rage has gone on enslaving, beyond all races and classes. Who will face him down?
Leonce continued his Liar's Poker reign over the decades, though he had fallen out with Robert Thornton over starting his own restaurant, or maybe that was a lie as well.
The Down Under, named by the literary one, Kay Daniel Picot, was only a beautiful Al Kocab illlustration to gather investors when Bob Thornton found out and immediately fired Leonce, leaving him without an income and two young girls and an ex-wife to support.
Well I remember those days, just coming into the first level of maturity, Leonce sold print advertising to banks in Sarasota, and around and about, for small time rags and mags.
Finally Bob Thornton died of the traditional outcome of a life of cigarettes, rum, and charred meat, and this made Leonce even more comfortable returning to what he imagined was his creation, the Molokai, enjoying many more years winning bucks for the talkative Carolyn and himself. Like Lotto tickets, Liar's Poker was a necessity as they aged and became very poor.
Here's some non-fictional Mai-Kai History only Michele Picot can tell:
"Here I am photographed in Kendall Green, Pompano, by my Uncle Charles Zawadzki who married Rebecca Louise Kryder, aka Beckilou Daniel etc., Frank Kryder's third and youngest daughter, b.1936 in Fort Wayne, Indiana.
Becky and Chuck were both artists. Their one daughter was our one cousin, Tamara Veronica. The family was separated, but all three died within three years of each other.
My nickname for my father was "Peapod," after my friend's "Pe-pa." We ate a good deal of sauteed peapods, pork fried rice and bamboo shoots, just to make him happy. To win his approval, as a child I feigned to enjoy steak tartare and oysters. Blech. I became at risk for serious infection after puncturing my foot on a stone crab claw which had fallen out of the garbage can outside. We didn't wear shirts and we didn't wear shoes.
Leonce whistled for me like a dog when he wanted me to come home from a friend's yard. I could go where I wanted from the age of five if I remained within whistling reach. He had a separate whistle for the beagle.I was the laughing stock of all the girls. I protested very young and believed the whistles were a humiliating act. Now it fits with the profile of men who go too far. Nobody's mother or father I knew whistled them home.
In my neighborhood, Oakland Park, and in my school, my best friends that I liked were of the Protestant neighborhood churches. I liked Baptist Bible School in summer. My best friends were Lutherans, Presbyterians, and Methodists. I was welcomed and loved in any family, eventhough I learned young they thought of me as Whiskcopalian. How hard is it for a child under the age of ten to be in conflict with the religion of the household? The Episcopalians at the time were a real cocktail set, and so were my parents. Leonce was in the grog set then. He never had wine till wine became cool after people realized they needed to ease up! Before the Napa craze, all was concocted spirits.
I wanted a normal house like what I saw at my friends' houses, not focused on idols and over the top booze. If you have rum in a cupboard, it's for flavoring festive baked goods.
I was younger than ten when I began picking up thoughts that as a Mai-Kai child, I was regarded by decent people as the child of a debauched home. And I was. It is embarassing to be born into an odd life. I did not want the tiki gods, the blowfish lamps, the cocktail shakers, the shaking hips, heavy eye-make-up, long coconut oil hair and jiggling bodices. I did not want to be conspicuous, and judged by the parents of my friends.
In my mind, I wanted to cry out, " none of this is me or of my choosing. " Children cannot articulate family and deep spiritual conflict, but never at anytime do they like it or want anyone else to know it is there.
My father, Leonce Louis Picot was kept in an underling station at the Mai-Kai, jealous of the Thornton Brothers and any peer in general who was set up in college then financed in business by their parents. He coveted their clothes and cars. Leonce wanted a wardrobe to rival Jack Thornton's, things to amuse himself with, to be able to eat and drink and do anything he desired. Ironically, though he considered himself the cleverest in the bunch, his salary as Public Relations Department was less than the manager's. The bartenders and serving girls probably earned more. His office at the Mai-Kai was a closet. He did much to promote the Mai-Kai with creative advertising and publicity, and worked nights on the door, to make ends meet, and to be there till 4:00 A.M. I am certain he was more intelligent than Robert Thornton, but the rich guys liked to keep the ambitious Leonce down in his place, west of Dixie Highway.
The son of East Orange New Jersey City Commissioner Leonce Louis Picot, the recently deceased Leonce Louis Picot was rejected by his father's French family because they considered his mother beneath their social station. They did not acknowledge the marriage of their son, the Commissioner, to Leonce's mother, Nell Avelia Henderson. Elsewise he would have been Leonce Louis Picot IV, b. 1932.; Leonce Louis Picot III was b. 1911. The Commissioner Leonce L. Picot had no other children and was burned alive in a downstairs bedroom when Leonce was 10. His mother moved him to Fort Lauderdale with the Life Insurance. money.
He had wanted to go to University in style, and festered over it so much in his soul over the years that he was determined his eldest daughter, the proven scholar, would not receive adequate clothing, heat, or food at North Carolina State University, or enough to complete a university education in general. Though, had I been a man, he may have seen worth in me.
Never mind, I did it myself later, but having to leave North Carolina State University, Raleigh was the worst thing for my welfare as a 19 year-old whose mother had just comitted suicide. True I was starving, even with waitress jobs, but at last I was thriving at State, in Botany, in good favor with the Department. I was absorbing the aftershock of losing my mother to suicide at a distance, in a stabilizing environment around professors who were interested in my scholastic progress. It was the first time I had felt anyone was interested in me since the sixth grade. I was living on my own, I was in love, and we were trying to make do. But Leonce promised me better things, if I would leave college and get into his act.
I worked on the Leonce Picot genealogy, but he didn't want to see any of it. was interested to see if Daddy was hiding from any relation to the Sykes-Picot Agreement. Though Leonce was a more perfect Bill Sykes.
Carolyn Guerard Picot, Leonce's second-wife who was an avid RUM-TALKER at the Down Under bar, told of the terrible nightmares he suffered night after night, throughout their marriage. They must have developed after he married her, because they never happened in our house. Leonce told me perhaps he really needed a psychiatrist- and truly he did. You can't sit around the champagne and caviar table, and tell about the day your father burned up in a fire.
Once I researched Leonce, I felt compassion for him, regardless of his abuses, because I believe he had blocked that memory of his father's violent death, confused it with another story that he almost burned his house down playing with matches under the fir tree. It was said the Commissioner likely fell asleep in bed smoking in a downstairs bedroom. Leonce may have accidentally burned up his father, or it may have been an enemy. City Commissioners had lots of trouble in East Orange. At 10, there is no telling how Leonce remembered the trauma, what he was told, or what the real story was, is there? He denied the value of knowledge of ancestry, as though it can be severed from the eternal chronology and marching on of Truth.
He expected my sister and me to adopt his Manifesto after Kay's tragic death.
Gilbert Picot, a cousin, traveled here once to try and meet Leonce but my father refused to speak with him on the phone. I would have liked to have met Gilbert! Leonce's people migrated to Manhattan from France, were merchants, representatives of the East India Rubber Co. and maintained households with three or more servants. He was born and lived for 10 years a block from his grand-parents, but he never met them. His Uncles were lawyers in Washington, DC and his father East Orange, NJ City Commissioner.
People who say, "Forget about it, that's the past," don't realize this is not an answer or advice.
I used to think if Kay had not been so stripped to poverty, maybe she would not have lost her Faith and lived. She may have made a comeback and continued witing. She had one of the strongest spirits fixed on the Most High I have ever known. She was deserted by her mother, sister, and husband. Good candidate for suicide- plus, lost her father at age 10.
It is haunting to me, since I admit to a heavy case of Grandfather Melancholy, that Robert Kennedy's grand-daughter not only stated and published her feelings of hopelessness ahead of time, her access to the finest medical treatment, wealth, social station, fun things to do, the prime of youth, beauty, and a huge family makes no difference. When a person publishes their statement of hopelessness, there is no time to lose.
My Grandfather melancholy is so great that the sight of an elderly man walking on the street, or waiting for a bus sets me off. I think, "Is he someone's grandfather? Is he properly loved?"
I've learned that generational lies and/or secrets lead to suicide after a period of incubation, maybe one or two generations later, or continuing down the line as part of medical family history. I have watched it, lived it, noted the reactions of others, felt it, fought it. We who are subjected to violent trauma in youth need truthful answers to our questions in order to untangle incorrect, distorted, or deliberately created mis-perceptions, fragmented memories, and general distillation of thought which starts to challenge our identity and logic, and worst of all Faith. Or call it Hope, or Will to Live, they each one way or another are on the Bob's Barricade to overcoming melancholic pain in those who have been battered or confused with lies. No matter what course you take in your mind, all is vanity, there is no hope. It is an agonizing thing to endure, but like a hurricane, it will pass over if you wait. Your thinking will clear faster if you do not add depressants to the chemistry of it, ever.
One Lie can cause a logical, healthy human being to self-destruct. One Lie lives on generations, who knows how many?
The Liar's Poker King, died business partners with the flame-broiled Burger King. To think I was born with the literary sense to be able to put that in words.
I wore my Alice in Wonderland Dress to the Mai-Kai once. Leonce left me alone in the kitchen with the cooks and Mariano, the mixologist. I was so young, visiting daddy's work, wearing my white gloves. But Leonce was too busy to hang around. Mariano was going to make something special for me. I had to take my gloves off. Then, he had me cup my hands which he lined with crushed ice. He added some fruit juice with fresh pineapple and maraschino cherries. My hands were starting to burn and ache from the ice. Where was my father? I was only 6. I started to cry from confusion and pain and all the staff crowded round trying to get me to drink the juice from my hands. It hurt! By the time Leonce returned I was hysterical and Mariano was holding my hands under running water.
I had to completely compose myself in a short time for the return home. Seems like my childhood was occupied worrying whether or not people could tell if I'd been crying. I would not dare tell Kay. She constantly rallied for child safety, though rallying had a different form then. Her rules and regulations on what was appropriate for little girls to wear, see, eat, say and do should have been a magazine for juvenile sophisticates. She guarded us like a lioness, and had she known Leonce had left me alone in a room full of men who filled my hands with ice that hurt, there would have been fury.
All this was complicated by daily afternoon war movies featuring Oriental people crawling through the jungles on their bellies with knives in their teeth to kill Us. The movies were both WWII and Korean War movies- at the Mai-Kai was a mix of Polynesia, China and Korea. The movie South Pacific was released. We weren't allowed to see it, but Leonce had the soundtrack and played it everyday. I was 6 and couldn't put it together. For years I avoided the history- but my mind was so tangled. Such a stage set with tappa cloth, raffia, grass skirts, women with breasts, knives, war, daiquiris, destruction, betrayal- pikaki perfumes, sarongs, women painted on black velvet, mystery drinks! Did this have to be Leonce's career? Very bad choice of work for raising little girls. Accidental little girls, I should emphasize.
I do not expect to ever be able to put safety latches on things which trigger memories. I have tried it for 50 years. I can stop thinking altogether, I can forget and reconstruct another life which excludes anyone who has ever put me down. This is my experience: dampening what was originally a nervous system overload out of your control, by shifting tension and stress, is like repairing part of a roof very well so that the stress is moved to the unrepaired part, which will eventually deteriorate and leak. I may have filed some things in the memory basement, but new things I had not thought of, or had reason to think of for years and years are what's leaking.
But, Jesus Wept, for all the innocents forced to manage a lifetime injury and its sequelae, and for their offspring who will be raised in the wake of unnatural injury, induced not by the consequences of a plain accident or illness, but by cruel injuries inflicted by lost soul predators, converted by lust and greed, resulting in violence, sister against sister, brother against brother, Civil War.
They haven't learned a thing.
I wish Lewis Carroll were here.
They were all of them nothing more than a pack of cahds. "
The Down Under Restaurant and La Casa Vecchia, Fort Lauderdale, Florida,
Those in Broward County who raised their glasses from 11:30 AM till closing, in the Reagan Years, at the Down Under or La Casa Vecchia were toasting Leonce Picot and Carolyn Guerard's dance on the graves of the suicides beneath the founding of each establishment. They were ruthless.
The Down Under, named by the first Mrs.Picot, Kay, was conceived by Kay with Al Kocab, Leonce Picot, and Dan Duckham, the architect. Duckham was going to design our dream house on Cherry Creek. He was the hip and wild architect of the sixties. The landscape design field, ecologists, farmers, and nursery operators will be battling his 1960's mass planting of Wedelia for many more years to come.
Leonce never mentioned the name Dan Duckham because he felt Duckham cheated him by building a copy of the Down Under, the Sea Watch. It really rankled Leonce. He wanted an originale erection, plus, the Sea Watch has a much superior location, right on the ocean. He was jealous of the Sea Watch.
So like many, Duckham went on the very long Picot S-List for Life. A confirmed alcoholic never forgives or compromises in a relationship which was once valuable. Because...the addicted must have what they need and that is the driver of the personality. They will rationalize their behavior if you will accept it, but they will not deal civilly with confrontation. Had Leonce known more designers of all kinds, he would have known Duckham did nothing out of the ordinary for an architect. Leonce knew the hallmarks of Duckham architecture- so did I for that matter. We looked at Duckham house after Duckham house, every weekend. They were basically the same house in different shapes. It was useful architecture for odd shape lots, as was ours on Cherry Creek.
The instant rather hard to believe success of the Down Under was celebrated gaily by the stockholders, many who used to dine with Kay and Leonce, as the rest of us who loved Kay choked down our pain. She got Leonce off the idea of owning a Thornton House of Pleasures to becoming a more stylish restaurateur, and the three while publishing the books, concocted the so called eclecticism of the Down Under which, as I have mentioned, was a conglomeration of what they had seen in their travels.
Really Kay put up with more in Leonce than was safe. He decayed morally, to her despair. She too just wanted a normal family, going to church and the church picnics, a house where the father was sometimes present at least. Despite Leonce's recruitment of serving girls for the Molokai Bar as a side job, Kay believed the children came first. There were no sharks in the water here back then, yet my mother was swimming with them. Taking credit for her authorship was unconscionable. I have her library. She was a literary genius, ground beneath the heel of a man with no self-esteem. For twelve years she endured his insults, but the times they were a'changin'. Once she challenged him on the authorship sham, he became violent. Kay had an indomitable spirit.
Skipping over the mire, Leonce did the same thing to me when I began hearing him take credit everywhere for her work after she had died. I was too old to hit or beat with his Martin Burns belts anymore. But I was beginning to see the gluttony and greed burst free at last, fueled by the luxury-starved Carolyn. No more teaching at South Side School. It was Jaguars and 5-Star hotel suites from here on out.
Kay died bullied by Leonce for the Down Under. I hope everyone enjoyed the Beluga caviar, flown in from Iran on ice daily.
Harry Sousely, lawyer, died bullied by Leonce for La Casa Vecchia. Leonce wanted Harry's personal property and pushed him off old west style.
Carolyn droned in the background, "And, you know no one can do a restaurant here like we can."
Oh really. Who is we? Carolyn had no gourmet experience whatsoever other than eating and drinking what was put in front of her. Any epicure knows the palette is destroyed after a day of valium and two rum old-fashioneds before the aperitif. That was what she did at home while getting ready for dinner at the Down Under each evening.
So in essence, Carolyn had latched onto Kay's star- when it came to what we do best, and thusly reaped the benefits of an abused woman's career and death through the man who had usurped his wife's authority and used it for his life.
As for Harry Sousely, he was in a state where he was not going to leave his home he had created. Sometimes a depressed person believes they will die in their home. Harry was found dead in his car in the garage the day after the real estate closing. It was the Casa Vecchia ground-breaking. Early birds get the worm. I saw Harry on the gurney.
In the words of the deceased Carolyn Picot, "You know Leonce, he gets what he wants. So you better play ball."
My society friend and her husband refused to eat there.
Through it all, I never said a word to ruffle their ludicrous reinvention of the truth.
Daughter of Adultery
Laura, the younger, decided to become a female alter-ego of Leonce as her battle plan for survival. Fortunately, she did not become at all like Carolyn Guerard, her alternate mother figure, but she may be worse as a double jigger of Leonce.
She began by being deliberately caught in her marital bed with another man. She ruined two marriages this way twice- same m.o. It is sad, because I really liked my brother-in-laws. The first was so kind, but that lasted only a few months. Of course I cry when I see pictures of us at the beach. What did it all mean?
Laura dragged all sorts of people into her life experience which she would suddenly bomb and walk off as if nothing happened. Who was hurt or bewildered in the aftermath did not matter. That was a magnified Leonce and Carolyn trait.
She married the man she was caught in bed with and had two children. That was all she wanted from him- children with other back-up grandparents with old money.
Perhaps it was the old fashioned way to be sneaky and try and never get caught, like Leonce did it.
Perhaps by a bio-magnification factor, Laura took to a more shocking method of achieving her goals- let your husband catch you shagging a restaurant manager at home in front of the two little girls. This was more than I could stand- after all we had been through as children, that she would risk such an injury to elementary age girls is 100% selfishness- all to prove her manhood. She did not not even have the discretion to go to a Marriott. She is too cheap to go to a Marriott, or even Days Inn.
Though Leonce and Carolyn used my husband and me mostly for rides to the airport and cheap labor, when it came to telling on Laura they were on my phone in a flash.
"Oh God, Laura was in bed with this guy when Bryan came home and he punched her in front of the girls. We think the police took him away."
Why didn't they just leave me out of it? Laura was their special project. I really didn't need to know, at all. They could have dealt with it themselves. Laura called them, not me.
Let us consider that when they married, Leonce and Carolyn Picot were middle age adults and Laura and I were minors emerging from years of household distress and suicide. They did not behave as responsible adults. They were insensitive to our sorrows, having the time of their lives, free at last. Laura and I hadn't a penny. Leonce took everything of Kay's as her Personal Representative. We should have been sent to therapy, counseling, given emotional support, not threats. Laura was already alcoholic by college, which Leonce and Carolyn supported with a fully stocked pecky cypress bar in the home.
It was Laura who made double trouble in the family, not me, the one like Kay.
I remember the start of the whole collapse of the Down Under, Casa Vecchia, La Vieille Maison, and the California debacle. Laura started it on the Fourth of July. We were gathered at the Picot North American Properties beachfront condo to have the best view of the Lauderdale-by-the-Sea fireworks show. Present were Laura Picot Sayles, Laura's two girls, my boy, my husband, Laura's husband, the ambitious new manager, Leonce and Carolyn Picot.
The menu was Brown's fried chicken , Carolyn's famous sliced tomatoes and several wines. By this time in my life I had been away from the scent of alcohol so long that I could actually enjoy, in my sarcastic way, spying on the new age wine-talkers. This I was enjoying on the balcony, waiting for the show to start. Laura in her stunning frock, joyously swilling in a large piece of Baccarat was at the end of the balcony leaning all over the tall blond new restaurant manager. I was sitting with my husband. We were a little disturbed, as was Bryan, Laura's husband who was right there on the balcony too looking very displeased. She kept ordering him to watch the children, not even looking at them herself on this sky high ledge.
Leonce and Carolyn both saw Laura getting closer and closer, talking restaurant jive to this person I'd never met. They saw Bryan's expression.
I said to my husband, "What does she think she is doing? Her whole family is here!"
Yep, her whole family was there and she was openly tantalizing this man, ignoring her immediate family completely, laughing and chatting to this guy like a magpie to her mate, as if to say, "I can do anything I want and none of you can stop me."
That is what Leonce and Carolyn Picot showed her as a means to survive. She just over-applied their method, tearing apart her own home, then with William Borchers, taking apart her father's business plan, among other of his plans.
The problem with Laura being, she flaunted her freedom to do anything she wanted, to run over countless people, but once she was divorced, she could not make a living that suited her without Leonce. By that time she had become privy to the inner business with Borchers. Leonce became vulnerable by breaking his own golden rule- no family member can know his books, especially a child.
Laura, like so many other bad habits of Leonce's, picked up his Threat routine. It was almost comical, in a pathetic way, when she tried to be tough, bullying employees, humiliating someone who hadn't read her latest dictatorial taped to the cashier's window. She became a Leonce-Carolyn hybrid, asleep at the wheel.
Kay never banged our heads against the wall. She was too conscious of concussion.
But back to the Fourth of July. The girls were all over the place and Bryan was having to watch them as well as his overly-friendly wife. I could not believe my eyes when ssszszzz ffizzz pop pop, the whole fireworks display was cancelled. A technician had been burned. Maybe a thousand people were around the beach for the show.
Suddenly, my right jaw completely locked. I was howling with pain. I couldn't open my mouth and my ear was aching. We couldn't leave because of the throng, there is only one street out of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. They gave me a hot washcloth. I could not open my mouth. The kids wanted to know where the fireworks were.
Eventually the spasm released enough so that I had some movement in my jaw, but the malady remained for sixteen months. Then I cured it in one day of intense treatment with Burrow's Solution, or aluminum acetate, packed with cotton in the ear canal, and moist heat. I don't know why this worked, but it did.
Rum Talk and Coke
How did Mr. Edgerton come to be called "Uncle Edgy-burger?" That was the snide nickname Carolyn Guerard Picot had for Leonce's partner after Al Kocab. David R. Edgerton invented the Burger King flame broiler- well, probably. He dropped out of Cornell, he dropped out of Ohio Northwestern, but he had a clever father with dough.
I remember Leonce driving us with Kay way up to Pompano or thereabouts in 1959 to see the first Burger King sitting on his Whopper tuffet. We couldn't afford to get anything, but he made us all look at this wonderful hamburger place a friend of his had opened up. This was Leonce's dream- to serve a really good hamburger with really good beer, or a milkshake.
But he had but a musty closet in the rich establishent of the Thornton Brothers for his office. It is not true there was ever such a post as "assistant manager" as he claimed he had at the Mai-Kai. Leonce Picot was hired as a Public Relations man, and he undoubtedly exposed the Mai-Kai to the tourist industry in fabulous ways. But, Bob Van Dorpe was the manager, and he had twice Leonce's salary. Just as Leonce made up things on the side, like helping invent the Derby Daiquiri, or being the sole spirit of The Down Under, he had to embellish himself in some way with little twists of the truth about his station in life.
PR man was an exotic sort of job in our beach town in the boonies back then.
"What does your father do?"
"Oh, he's the public relations man at the Mai-Kai." Well, amidst elementary school kids that sounded weird.
He was actually more into pubic relations as assistant- manager, which meant Van Dorpe could leave the door and go home at a decent hour, and Leonce would assist-manage till 4:00 A.M. Laura Picot Sayles and I spent a good deal of time at the Van Dorpe residence- he had the most adorable daughter. I watched that famous bullfighter movie with Uncle Bob VD once. We sat the two of us alone in the Florida room, watching the whole movie without uttering a peep. At the end, when the bull fighter was gored forever, he cleared his throat a few times and blinked his big blue watery eyes. I was as terrified of him as his daughter was of Leonce. When the fathers were home from work, they do not want to hear any children, we were told. Finally he left his beautiful wife and daughter and ran away to the South Pacific where life is real.
So there we were in the years- the Thorntons had it made with their mind-boggling House of Pleasures, Dave Edgerton had Leonce's dream for a hamburger joint, and all Leonce had was Kay, Michele, and Laura, and our beagle, Punch. Leonce wanted to serve a good burger, though. Beautiful Kay wanted nothing more than for the man she loved to become fulfilled, but fulfilled as a good man, not a lecher, not a chauvinist, not a brute. She got him where he needed to be- recognized in the gourmet world. Then, Leonce, Carolyn and Laura proceeded to party on her grave.
Long past adulthood, Kay's etiquette is so engrained I have never been comfortable calling the parental generation by first name. It would have been unthinkable to be nine or ten and say, hey, Jim, pass the fries, to an adult. As I get older, I notice there are fewer of these elders to address as Mr. or Mrs.because I am becoming their contemporary. Kay let us use aunt and uncle for only the most familiar of our grown-up contacts.
Starved out of college and hanging around the Mossack Fonseca Flamingo Drive Picot pad for scraps, one Saturday in 1974 Carolyn ordered me to oil the burl wood table because Uncle Edgy-burger is coming for lunch. Oh, so now I was finding out that Dave Edgerton, the Burger King King, so ardently admired by Leonce in 1959 was the guy, but we were now calling him Uncle Edgy-burger.
I thought it was kind of silly, I mean, why? Why not Dave, or David, or Mr. Edgerton?
"Oh we just call him that because he had that big problem with cocaine, you know, it makes him kind of edgy." Carolyn was eager to fill me in, her lunch hour rum-talk cranking up.
I did not know, and would never have needed to know, except that her slip of the Don Q International rum tongue gave me the answers to many questions about Leonce Picot and David R. Edgerton that I need to finish the picture, now that they are all dead.
Leonce breezed through the dining room where I was rubbing the table furiously with a special chamois cloth for expensive tables.
"We've got that little problem taken care of now," he grumbled deeply.
Oh, Daddy! Leonce, whose very East Orange, New Jersey genes bore the essence of legal conduct, who only ever abused that substance called alcohol, worldly as he may have become, in 1974 he did not know that cocaine addiction is never taken care of in the jet set, not in a man who dropped out of two of the best universities, married a Swedish stewardess for a few years, then floated around on stock dividends, dabbling. In college at least I learned that cocaine was worse than rum. Rum will make you say and do things you ordinarily dassn't, or even forget what you've done, but cocaine brings you into association with people you would never want for an associate. Though old money cocaine associates are a different breed of gangster who need well-known, respected American contacts, who need cocaine, to form financial institutions under the least regulation.
At the end of the day, estate assets get laundered in the same web as drugs, firearms, military weapons, bankruptcy and bank robbery, bank failure too. It can't all go through the casinos and tracks, the population is exploding!
Thus I was introduced to my father's future business partner, in a house of offshore money (Sloan Investments) in the stylish neighborhood of Idlewyld. The Burger King and I, together again at last. Dave must have been almost 50. He had purple-black circles under his eyes.
"I always wanted to do something like your dad did, something classy," was how he opened our conversation. He was quite at home in the Flamingo Drive house. At this time he had a Bodega left. Little did I know what had been simmering on the back broiler as the BCCI was beginning to lay roots here in a cash-rich network of franchises, food store chains and liquor sales.
Mama Nell Picot, my grandmother, Leonce's mother, who told me my father had wanted me to be a boy, was superstitious, albeit Presbyterian, preferring gin to rum, with the horse sense to know the value of Leonce maintaining a clean reputation. Without a liquor license, he would not be worth much. He certainly couldn't write books! When she found out Leonce was going to San Francisco and Edgerton was coming along she wailed.
"Michele, I begged him not to get mixed up with that Edgerton. I just know they are going to fail out there. Something terrible will happen, I know."
Those close to Mama Nell would confrm she generated waves of negativity seemingly unawares. However, Mama Nell had also lived through the torrid romance of Leonce and Kay off and on since they were 14 years old. Mama Nell knew who wrote the books, who was the beautiful person, who was the brilliant one. She knew her son tore down his home and misused the wife who stepped him up to the plate, and his children, to become what he considered successful.
She knew Kay would not let him take Gallatin's which was her rightful place, nor would anyone take her place as 1001 Nob Hill on California Street. My mother may have been stripped of worldly power in life, but like Chuck Norris in a trance, through the years I've seen her Defender, rearing the ghostly steed which takes on the foes of those she loves.
Without Kay, Leonce could never become rich and famous, or even enjoy being well-off. He was riddled with guilt. As soon as he fixed one problem, there was another, and he would have to draw his very last breaths until he realized it.
Without Kay, Leonce could not fix Laura.
Without me, Laura will not find Kay again, and she cannot fix herself.
Laura's children will never understand their own past. There is nothing in their past they shouldn't know about, that all things hidden and water under the bridge are all there only to hide the misbehavior of both Leonce and Laura from them. They have a right to know who was minding their manners since 1956, and who wasn't. One day it will burden them if they do not know.
Grapes of Wrath
So Leonce went off track when he began a career with Rums of Puerto Rico, years before the Cuban migration, and it would seem Don Q International was around most of his business life. (I am starting on a theory of the BCCI and certain liquor mergers and railroad bankruptcies). I have a photo of Kay in Puerto Rico, when she was writing Restaurants of Puerto Rico. She is dressed up but looks like she had been crying. So much for Puerto Rico.
Leonce had a good sized refrigerated warehouse of bottles from the Sonoma Valley to supply his Florida restaurants. There was an old wine press outside an upstairs window at the Down Under. I really got a kick out of Falcon Crest. I knew it was coming, the trampling, Leonce and his glorious Wine Room. In death, Katherine is too strong, or, I should say, the power of her Advocate is beyond knowing. The neo-Picots were on top of the world then, my husband and I their humble part-time $8.00/hour slaves. One day the Cup passes from the bad stewards to the good .
I was a little worried about the Richter Scale when they were at their restaurant, 1001 Nob Hill, aka 1001 California Street, San Francisco. But my father told me not to pray for him. However, there is still 500 Hartnell Street in the picture, in Monterey, once the restaurant of a famous Chef, called Gallatin's, as Kay wrote about in Restaurants of San Francisco. Here I think we have a fatal error in that The Old House In Old Monterey " renamed by the Leonce gang from "Stokes Adobe" has been wiped out of 1980's history. The story of the restaurant now is that it was Gallatin's until it became a property of the presently financially plagued owner of a ten year lease on the property, David Bernahl. That lease was transferred by Leonce's partner, Burger King David Edgerton in 2010, who had Leonce's Power of Attorney. In California records, Monterey Old House Ltd is listed as an active entity with an active attorney in Orlando; David Edgerton, president, listed at The Down Under 3000 East Oakland Park Boulevard, FL. There is no Dave, and there is no Down Under. The Down Under had long been sold before the Monterey lease transferred in 2010.
Looking a little deeper I found UCC Filings for Stokes Restaurant and Bar, run by David Edgerton, after Monterey Old House. Leonce had a clean nose, but I don't think Uncle Edgy Burger would have been able to acquire a liquor license, and Leonce's Golden Rule of Hospitality was you can't make money without a liquor license. Even stupid Disney World caught on to that- God as my witness, I will nevah go there!
So perhaps this is why Laura Picot Sayles does not want Leonce Picot's Death Certificate filed in Broward County- maybe the coroner has a different date than was reported. She already erroneously reported the wrong mother, as fake news. David Edgerton's death date was reported twice, 15 days between two different dates. The Old House in Old Monterey was made to disappear. Perhaps Stokes Restaurant and Bar was a quick way of covering tracks. The present leaseholder at 500 Hartnell St., Monterey, is buried in Federal Tax Liens.Whose Lot is that, anyway?
We country folk here in Florida weren't privy to the California debacle, just that the warehouse guys told us some trucks arrived in the middle of the night with a load of brand new kitchen equipment from 1001 Nob Hill. Leonce and Carolyn asked to store a $40,000 bedroom set in our garage, when we had one, and an antique carved Chinese altar table.
Somebody wove a tangled web. That is how Bank of America, the Sons of Italy, came all the way from San Francisco to be headquatered in Charlotte.
How notable was my luncheon in Firenze opposite Count Piero Antinori, with Leonce Picot in 1973. It feels like another NAP-a deal to me, especially when in 1966, Leonce's magical divorce of Katherine, his creation of Rescon and death of Katherine's father Frank in Indiana, the Count first aspired to acquire parts of Napa, and completed his dream in 1993 when the trust of C.F. and Minnie V. Kryder expired and Mossack-Fonseca organized.
Anti-ca, as it came to be called, first burned in 2017 two months before Laura Picot Sayles as a real estate agent sold Leonce's condo without title insurance. In December when the condo changed hands, Santa Ana let loose. The damage of 2017 was unsurpassed till 2018 , and we are still waiting the tally on the present.
Laura was at the luncheon too, in 1973, though she was mortified by my unpolished nails. She and the new Mrs. Picot may have been varnished to the hilt, but it was I who was seated opposite the Count Antinori at the head of the table. Princess Trustworthy was so glad she had learned her table manners, though sneaking frequent peeks at the handsome, deeply tanned Count in his perfect Italian gray morning suit, with whom Leonce was going to make a wine deal. He seemed very tall to me at the time, though years and years later, he was on 60 Minutes, and had somehow transformed into a short, very-well-fed balding jolly vintner.
So, here today, gone tomorrow, water under the bridge and all that rot. Once you have been compromised by the North American Company, it's deeper and deeper into liquid mud you go. Leonce imported so much wine from Italy and France he put local shopkeepers out of business.
There were daily trips to airports in Dade and Broward county, to pick up the 1985 Iranian caviar, Nova Scotia Salmon, wine from Caifornia and Europe arriving in shipments to the warehouse.
Transportation is everything in this case. There's your overseas flights, overseas shipping, and overland freight-hauling. Shipments, shipments, shipments.
Some BOOKS BY KAY DANIEL PICOT
AKA KATHERINE ANN KRYDER OF FORT WAYNE, IN b1931.
(Gallatins aka The Old House in Old Monterey; see 500 Hartnell Street, Monterey- John W. Berry vs.Picot in Broward County, FL, David Edgerton, Burger King)
More fictional history has been recently published by the Monterey Herald concerning the sale of a ten year lease for 500 Hartnell Street, Monterey, CA.
The writer states
" In 1950, Gallatin Powers transformed the house into a restaurant that went on to garner national prominence. It has attracted the likes of Frank Sinatra and Hollywood stars.
(2010) Later, when it became Restaurant 1833, it also garnered accolades. The decor earned it four stars from the San Francisco Chronicle and was named a James Beard “Best New Restaurant” semifinalist."
Let's put on our thinking caps. North American Properties, Inc. was founded in 1950 following the death of Frank, Sr., whose death tax securities were never redeemed, coincident with the certification of Anthony Wayne Bank (Morris Plan merged to NBD).
Between the existence of Gallatin's and 2010 were actually two unmentionable restaurants at 500 Hartnell Street. The Old House in Old Monterey, and the Burger King's "Stokes Restaurant and Bar."
Even if Leonce and Al had not become Mobil Guide 5-Star Restaurateurs and hoped to open yet another 5 star baby in California, surely it would have been noteworthy for the Herald's article that the early inventor of the Burger King Flame Broiler and founder of Insta-burger was the last operator there, as Stokes, who sold Bernahl a 10 year lease, now again for sale- just the lease. Jiminy Cricket. I'm sure glad I didn't let that one go by and move on. That is a North American Properties deal like the Down Under's 99 year Intracoastal Waterway easement lease, held under another legal name. North American Properties nabbed all the Intracoastal development and best neighborhoods here long ago, with Barnett Bank.
When Leonce first got rich, just before Kay topped herself, he lived in a Mossack Fonseca Mansion, then suddenly he moved to a North American Properties, Inc. beachfront development in the late 1970's. Looking back, I don't think he really wanted to leave that house- it was amazing, but beachfront luxury condo was nonetheless prestigious. Yet, if funds of Katherine from the senior Kryder's Trust or her father had been "leased" to the over-ambitious abusive jealous ex-husband, I can see why Leonce was suddenly whisked from Mossack Fonseca to NAP, then out of there, to a more expensive place, with Northwestern Mutual Life Insurance Company, Janesville, WI raising its head at the end of the day. That is the way of The North American Exploitation Company, they wipe out their puppets at death, heirs or whole bloodlines, if they can. They fold their sting.
The 1980's is called many things as an era, but the prosperity of the day was all about laundering legitimate money of domestic origin illegitimately concealed in railroad bankruptcies and bank failures by trust companies for many years. Let's cut to the Chase. Leonce was just about peaking at the time of the Miami organized BCCI which resulted in the closure of First American Bankshares in Washington, DC. How did Abedi buy a U.S. bank right under everyone's nose? Should we care, or get on to the next thing?
Since the Down Under merchant services, originally NaBanco, started by John Bull, George Burl, of Contel, Leonce Picot director, ended up merging Grabill Bank, Allen County, IN, also at the end of the day, it is certainly way too much to walk away from, after having come this far. How far? Far enough to have watched Leonce swallow half a bottle of Xanax right from his desk drawer, when I told him in 1994 I was going to Fort Wayne.
Here at large are some important con issues. For instance, Leonce and Al were Rescon, Uncle Edgy was Burcon, and George Burl was Contel or Continental of Illinois Telephone aka Continental Bank of Illinois the stock of which was sold to subscribers by the Los Angeles Bank of America. Continental Bank then owned Chicago Title and Trust, and sold it to Lincoln National Corporation. Real estate deeded to Chicago Title and Trust by WWII Industrialists was owned by Bank of America, next generation heirs at a distance discovered.
So I picked up a lot of details along the way. I was just working on my genealogy, just trying to find out why Bunny was such a liar. To find my Kryders, I had to go to where they had lived, to their graves, to their church, living history as it had shaped their lives for a hundred years. Who was Frank Kryder? Who's the man on the back of Birds of the West Indies, 1961 First American Edition? It couldn't be the ornithologist James Bond, born 1901. Was Leslie Charteris's moniker for Simon Templar, actually a reference to Robert Fleming's SAINT, The Scottish American Investment Trust of Scottish widows, used to build Norfolk Southern and the Union Pacific, one way or another? Was Mr. Charteris's writing partner Anson Bond, who had broken off with his Indiana family someone who might have known Katherine's history, and hence the Charteris fascination with Kay?
Who lives day to day, year by year, really? Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, seek the truth, he said.
Are we to just move on and not even review what was archived for our future by the greatest generation? 1963 is much too woven into my existence to move on. Every Thanksgiving it is there, the way Kay looked so grief stricken, her pallor that of a marble statue. It was the last year she was high-spirited and marvelous, the mother I'd always known. Our clock stopped there, when Minnie Kryder's Estate closed and NAVPAC formed, before ending up in a Pepsi stock deal. Then in November the chronological marker was set, the focus point- they were all present in Dallas- Pepsi, National City, Nixon, Fort Wayne Leasing. I didn't know that part of it in 1963, but the date was saved. At ten, added to my embarassed position as a Mai-Kai child, I started to think there was no Centerville, and we had experienced a national hit. The wind had been knocked out of Ma, and I have no doubt that memorialization of one tragedy with another kept me on the right course till I was mature enough to become interested in uncovering lies, one linked to the other. That would be opposed to spending my time in a bar, restaurant, salon, shopping, golfing, cruising or hiding at the Greenbrier.
It's pretty clear to me, I was not supposed to forget and move forward, as people say. In my leisure time I began making time lines in 1993. I knew nothing about genealogy, Indiana, Little Turtle, banking, corporations, probate, real estate transfers, lawyers or any Kryders. But I sure do now, including odd details of November 1963.
Once you think on time lines by connecting dates with events, it's like having a time machine, without the made up conundrums. You can go to the future from any point in the past. When you think in mortgage loan and insurance time, based on the past, the future will be dictated by maturities and due dates, as it always has.
I trust in God. In my case, I was never meant to forget, a number of things. But when I searched for my grandfather, and started the timelines, I learned the unvarnished why Fort Wayne is a crossroads of the northern midwest- and it isn't just the railroads of yesteryear which confirm it. The time lines meet at major intersections there. These are time lines of war, American financial crime, economic loss, shortage, violence. Think of Brigadoon in a 40-year NAP, an REIT which arranged for Allyn and Bacon to purchase the Texas School Book Depository two months before the assassination.
Written by Kay Daniel Picot aka Katherine Kryder.
The Mutiny at the Mai-Kai was in its own fog sustained by Papa Q. The men were not paying attention to anything but thighs, cleavage and bare hips. The wives had to deal with shielding their children and surviving the immediate future deck stacked against them.
Beyond Polynesia on U.S. 1, there were integration snipers, assassins, head shops, obscene Jim Morrison concerts, sleeping pills, Corvette Stingrays. We skipped merrily home from school never knowing Kruschev had missiles pointed at Miami. We thought we lived in Centerville, not a few miles from Cuba! Cuba was Ricky and Lucy. That's how well the mothers and teachers shielded the younger children, on their frugal household allowances.
There is no doubt we rose to the top of the levy in 1963. What men did to a woman with two babies, to a nationally adored family, to perhaps the most admired First Lady of good taste, to our handsome President of the United States, creating a forever re-broadcast scene of horror on Elm Street- this was the last cocktail straw.
The last time I saw my mother was in 1972. I was in college, but in the hospital with undiagnosed mononucleosis. She drove to Raleigh in a rental car. She could not afford a car anymore. She had to sell her car to Leonce for bills, then he gave it to me as my first car!
How could he do that to us?
God I was so glad when my friends totalled it over Christmas vacation!
Kay stayed with me in my little house for a time afterward. Her entire body from the neck down was covered with bruises, huge purple green and yellow bruises 2' x 2'.
"Mother, what happened to you?"
She told me her mother had kicked her. Well, I don't think my grandmother at that time had that much kick. It looked like a Leonce caper to me. I was so sick- fevers every afternoon of 104° with killer headaches. In those days mono was not quickly diagnosed. I was sure it was a tumor.
That is the trouble- Kay was set on not saying anything negative to her children about their father. She told us what a great man he was, how he would be rich and famous, that he was good- she loved him so much, she opened the doors to greater things than Mai-Kai PR man for him!
I suppose that was the right thing to do, but eventually I had to realize things didn't add up- not his sudden rise to stardom while Kay died in poverty, nor his threats against me to play ball or get lost. This was a very conflicted choice. I wanted a family. But he was cold and cruel and didn't care who he crushed for his goodies.
Kay had to return the rental car, and thus we parted. She covered with bruises, a slave to a brute, and me feeling half-dead and almost an orphan. I knew I would not see her again.
I was alone, except for college friends, and remained sick for almost a year when strep throat complicated things. Friends came over and looked at me in bed.
I heard my girlfiend whisper, "She looks awful!"
A story based on true events, people and places, fictional history, and historical fiction.
Cherrie has been moved from the front page to make room for current doings and exciting revelations.
12/17/2019-12/17/1953 An Unusual Birth Coincidence in the Frank Kryder Family of Things
It was a balmy Florida winter afternoon 12/17/1953 when in Miami, Florida (actually named for the Indian tribe, though it is widely denied- it all comes out in the history of Julia Tuttle and Lincoln Road...) Howard Robard Hughes bought a local Blood Bank which was made the Howard Hughes Medical Institute as we know it today. Hughes Aviation was made Raytheon Charitable Foundation. A few miles north of this tangled event, L'il Michele Picot was born, the daughter of Katherine Ann Kryder aka Kay Daniel Picot and Leonce Louis Picot, in Broward General Hospital. L'il Michele was the grand-daughter of Frank Kryder, just like the children of Rosemary Kryder Bond were his grandchildren, and the half- cousins all are the great-grandchildren of Clarence Frank Kryder and Minnie Viola Disler.
But Barrett Law does odd things to legacies and legatees, even those recorded with real estate, and that is how the birth of Katherine's Daughter coincided with the transfer of Hughes Aviation and Hughes Electronics to the fka Raytheon Charitable Foundation. Raytheon owns the lease to Parkview Medical lands, in Fort Wayne, interestingly. Hughes liked Indiana girls, mistaking their buried Injun bloodlines for high cheek-boned wholesome beauty and thick hair.
10/6/2019 Daddy, Where Are You?
Little orphaint Michele
10/1/2019 Cherrie Book delayed by She Lived on Suicide Street
I hope to spend a few years on the Cherrie series, but She Lived on Suicide Street I aim to publish before Christmas. It's kind of an emergency, isn't it? We have almost opened the dialogue on a hush-hush medically preventable accident which leaves victims who suffer for generations to come. I'm willing to talk freely, to give something to the thought pool- this has to come out of the attic. Every thing else hidden has come out before suicide, almost. So much shame!
The shame is that suicide is beginning to take younger victims with ease, though we have talked about an increase in self-destructive, cutting adolescents and sucker-punching bullies since Kurt Cobain. She Lived on Suicide Street is not about statistical things. We can gather and stand around looking at data forever and no one is going to feel any better.
I have been personally involved with so many suicides in my life, it would be plain wrong to keep silent on my observations and experience. I think there are congruencies many survivors of the suicide of a loved one or friend would like to consider, story by story, or case by case. This is not to say individual circumstances don't vary. But forgetting about them all as unpleasantries is impossible and shouldn't be done.
It's not an easy, fun, exciting book to write- I like Cherrie or even Garden Books much more for writing. Being serious is not my forte. Amazingly, about ten years after Kay's death I learned another mother of a close playmate down the street where we had lived with Leonce, had killed herself. It did not take much thinking to see the layers of similarities which broke down these two fiercely strong women, different as their lives were, as they raised their children houses away from each other.
A year of BBC mystery and crime detection programming taught me the line between suicide and homicide becomes more clear when suicide appears as a modus operandus with years between linked cases.
I used to talk to my doctor about the Princess Diana, the doleful. He never had any answers, the best man in the business.
I said, "There is something else there- with all that, can't you occupy yourself and be happy? How can someone look so sad in velvet?"
Later, when I read she was not wearing a seat belt during the high speed chase I knew she had a Death Wish. Her instincts to preserve herself as a mother were overridden. (I cannot start my car without the feeling of the seatbelt.) Finally, I read that she had been abandoned at age seven by her mother. That explains the Princess. There is no moving on. Psychologically, there is no filling the empty hole of losing a parent in childhood. What good is being a Princess when your mother is not there to see you married, to see your children, to see your success and popularity? There was never getting around it, like Kay, who believed her father abandoned her, both women were fated for an early death while still young and beautiful.
The Princes will always feel abandoned, I will always feel abandoned. There is only one solace for Mum, and that is true love. A good marriage is the best fortification. Love comes alive for only you, and life begins your way, as a pair.
But where there was violence, mystery, whispering, surrounding the loss of your parent when you were a child, the questions at some year germinate. Unnatural death feels like murder. Who's to blame? How far back in the security tapes do we look?
Mrs. Dane, always trying to do me some good would say, "You know, the good thing is that your mother died while she was still beautiful."
I was happy for real at my courthouse wedding 43 years ago. Though Kay never saw my handsome husband. Every mother-daughter milestone I passed as a young woman without her, I felt the gaping hole in my heart, telling myself I was more mature being both of us, being just me for the rites of passage. I am Steve Martin's greatest failure, tears pouring down my face during the whole of "Father of the Bride." It doesn't go away. I may sound like a cry baby, but very few have ever seen me cry. Very few ever see me at all anymore, for that matter. I don't think there is a way to successfully replace the traumatic loss of a parent, or child, with some sort of filling, or blotto out the memories. Filling is not recovery, but filling can let you "move on."
Will anyone buy the book if I say people drink to mask a Death Wish? Or, that a daily drinking and depressants lifestyle is slow, expensive death? You won't know Rum has killed you till it is too late. It is a slow, dehydrating death from the inside.
Everybody pay Papa Q for his potion.
6/23/2019 Supernatural You
The American Age of Reality Entertainment is coming to a close, overshadowed by evening news Reality, and somewhat shamed by the run-on offering of "characters" without classical theatrical, dance, or voice training as Entertainment once required. We prefer stories with a supernatural principle, although "religion" is criticized as a supernatural crutch, and God sometimes criticized as a supernatural group wish.
Personally, I am interested in the supernatural aspects of brother Osteen appearing in the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia. There will be quite a head of Allen County supernatural steam beneath the evangelist in Philly- from the wealth of Little Turtle, who once strolled its streets dressed like the wealthy, after death subsumed by the Northwest Bancorporation, to the home of the original James Bond, ornithologist b. 1901. This is not the same James Bond, father of Rosemary's Baby, Richard, my North American Half Cousin. The Philadelphia Bond was author Birds of the West Indies, whose purported Bond name was used with permission by Ian Fleming, who had an interest in Bermudan birds. However we can uncover this Flematic enigma on the back cover of Birds, First American Edition published 1961. The James Bond pictured on the back cover is in his forties at most, with jet black hair and the body of a much younger naturalist than any James Bond b. 1901.
In 1901 the Norfolk and Western Ry was in receivership for the third time since its construction over the old Wabash and Erie Extension Canal bed, and placed into the hands of Capt. Michael Valentine Fleming, father of Ian.
There are still Fort Waynians, Rollandians, who know stories about the Norfolk and Western Ry, by virtue of a long life in Allen amidst those who had lived longer lives in Allen, just as I grew up listening to the grown ups go on for hours about the Florida East Coast Ry, aka The Flagler System. It has been a plaque of financial corruption since 1913, the Federal Reserve Act. That is when the stock was sold.
Walt Disney was born in 1901.
So with our old time Allen Bonds and Flemings, at least three Secret Service agencies in town in 1927 before the crash, is it so hard to see 1978 Shamrock (Fleming and Disney) buying Central Soya in 1985 with Douglas G. Fleming and Roy E. Disney signing the papers, return to Baker and Daniels, while the Kryder securities of 1976 disappeared, managed by Thomas M. Moorhead, Baker and Daniels?
Is it not supernatural that the Walt Disney Company incorporated in 1938 nine days ahead of The Suburban Building Company of Fort Wayne Indiana, Frank Kryder president? And that Raymond Disney and Frank Kryder were movin' and shakin' around the country in Atlanta and Woodland Hills, as Realtor Board officers before Minnie Mouse put on her first dress? While they were planning towns, D.W. McMillen, aforetime president and founder of Central Soya, was busy in Pennsy as president of Central Sugar.
Why were the Beagle Boys always moving loot around in vans?
Why did most of the land purchased for Walt Disney World originate from bankrupt railroads?
Why did Pepsi lure its way into Disney World while North American Van Lines was being sold by Frank Kryder's kin to Pepsi?
Those in Allen County who locate tombstones and visit graves may want to take a peep at the fortune in marble Shamrocks festooning the stone of Donnelly P. MacDonald, president of People's Bank and Trust in the Kryder days. Specially commissioned and shipped from Ireland, most would say the elaborate floral monument celebrates his heritage, but to me it is MacDonald's greatest contribution to his country- a permanent clue, most likely, with reference to Shamrock, a caper which devalued his family-owned bank in the merger of Anthony Wayne Bank, Summit Bank, People's Trust, and National Bank of Detroit, Chicago.
AWB was founded essentially with Kryder mortgage securities. Its bookkeeping department moved into the Kryder offices at 215 East Berry.
But Shamrock Family Funds 1978 triggered events in fast food, for example. In 1978 tomato prices in Florida were frozen for almost twenty years. The biggest buyers of tomatoes being Burger King and MacDonald's, and Florida tomatoes being essentially inedible on their own, the price fix fostered actual slave conditions for pickers housed in trucks and found chained. https://ciw-online.org/
Shamrock is a clue, and it is supernatural that Shamrock Inn, Georgia was incorporated the same day as the Ford Foundation.
5/31/2019 These Are The Latter Days
Jeremiah says, "In the latter days they will talk of these things." I know I am in the Latter Days because I can't stop talking about that which was.
This is the marvelous thing about Eternity- we cannot conceive it, because scripture causes us to divide Old and New, B.C. and A.D., Past and Present, Former and Latter, and so we cannot connect Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, unless we are scholars following the money since the Crucifixion. This I learned the Christmas of 1972, three months after losing Katherine. A television commercial was running that season to the lyrics "Money Makes the World Go 'Round" while a model with platinum hair, wearing a white mink, strolled a glamorous mall, then slouched around on the hood of a Jaguar, counting her diamonds. It was a difficult and dismal holiday.
That was 1972, people, when we were asked to turn our thermostats up or down, waiting in line for gas. Minks were still something to want.
But in 1932, family folks in Allen County were having to borrow money for coal to buy it in advance. The lenders were of course, Shoaffs, Barretts, Flemings, Bonds, McCullochs, and Ewings, same ones as created a divide in the Miami and Pottawatomie, robbed the Richardville Reserve, and orchestrated coal shortages by hoarding it in warehouses. These are probably a nest of the best-disguised oligarchs in America, mostly Latter Day Lawyers . No one would suspect what lives on Berry Street. Because most of your life you are worrying about paying these people off, one way or another. You owe them for your mortgage, insurance, car, fuel, food, drugs, financial fees, and medical practice, if you are a new doctor. Those are just necessities. If you are hooked, you pay them for cigarettes, booze, and opium, by the long route to Singapore. You pay them for Disney, Pepsi, and your Lincoln Continental Bank of Illinois.You owe these barons because they are descended from aggressors by tradition who brought their ways with them to the New World, got into government, and enriched themselves from the inside the minute our country was organized. They got the best lands from the BLM as soon as surveys were complete for minerals and gas and the Union Pacific student council took control.
So I don't see any AllenCo Barretts, Bonds, and Ewings out there in Fred B. Shoaff III Winslow rubber life rafts helping people off their rooves. They'd like to sell the government a fleet of manufactured housing right now, but not to help the homeless. I've been thinking we all ought to live in manufactured housing- less of a footprint on the building site, more disposable, and made of recycled steel product. It's the landscaping that makes a homesite, anyway. Maybe if people didn't need so much globs of molded concrete, impractically high ceilings, immense windows, and building jewelry on their permanent structures they would spend a little more on a bush, tree or shrub. As a lifelong Garden Designer, my career was doomed by 600 yds. of peach silk flounce window treatments, $24,000 wicker sofas, home theatres, and things people need more than a beautiful garden to look at or to present to others.
And something has to be done with those railroad cars, the ones with the 499-yr leases on them. I think they're cute. Maybe Norfolk Southern would spare me a couple to retire in, considering I was robbed by Kenneth W. Maxfield, et al. And I'm sure North American Properties has some spoil mound for siting my freight cars. However, I am not paying you goons one cent of rent, you can count on that. I have a Maker and Redeemer to settle my account, coming soon. Women shouldn't be burdened with money.
We regulars all could be living in their junk industry much cheaper- homes of annexed freightliners, moving vans, using storage units of conjoined washing machines, freezers. Actually, on the AMTRAK you can see people living just that way along the RR easements. Though their refrigerator houses and toilets on the side of the track have not been made into any big reveal you'd want to see. That's the plan.
Whatever "Acts of God" come along are always turned to profits by our oppressors who can manipulate anything, from crashes of the Farm Credit system, or the "market," to expensive crises on land far from our huts and lean-tos. Therefore, unless we folk don't divide Former and Latter right now, we are going to end up in a perverted nightmarish conception of a Celebration Greenbrier Land for the Blessed, and in the low country, manufactured worker housing for the clerks and service people. Dat's de devil's plan, and it will get you, if you don't watch out.
Boy, I can rant like a tent preacher.
5/20/2019 What Chickens Like to Eat
It can't be left unreported that the Pemiscot County Step Hens have every feather a-ruffled after Joel Osteen described the diet of a chicken as a reflection of bad attitude. In the first place, dance rehearsals have been going on in storm shelters for the most part lately, and the Step Hens were so gathered this Sunday for Meet the Press and then Joel Osteen, before practice. That is dedication.
Chickens do not enjoy eating waste material, by any means, but it is what they are given or left with, by man, keeper of all creatures great and small. The Step Hens admired the platters of tasty seeds and nicely cut fresh super foods prepared by chefs for Martha Stewart's Pet Keeping show. That is what they want to eat, what the Hollywood animal stars and Martha Stewart's pets eat.
Step Hens have overcome by making a dance team. They pound the pavement, thump in the mud, stir up dust, tap on wood- that's attitude. They enjoy a bright evangelist now and then, but their religion is Stomp- an earth vibration of dancing feet, thundering herds, and footed animalia.
Chickens are not dead producers- in fact, an egg has always had a bio-score of 100 as a complete food for man. That is life producing. How the more wonderful is a chicken- forced to eat slop and waste from which comes 100% life. Humans can't do that, not usually.
So we'd like you to consider, Brother Osteen, the Step Hens being numbered with the godly, do bless you anyway, and forgive you for every once-dancing chicken leg you savor.
Death producers take all kinds of waste and make it into weapons for more death. What a lovely thing the implosion of Bethlehem Steel was. Take God out of the steel business, and that would include B'Nai Jacob.
5/17/2019 Living Poor But Good
There are many pleasures to pursue in this life, I learned from years of designing landscape for the only people who can afford professional design. So many that one becomes dependent on outside help, just to maintain the scenery. You have your cleaning staff, lawn workers, car detailer, handy man, window washers, pool man, and nanny in and around the house every day. The community is gated, but the theiving comes from people let right through the gate. Is it worth it to be free to eat some half-baked lunch at The Club?
At some point I realized none of my clients knew what it was like to have to run to the check cashing store by the time their nails were dry enough to pay me.
I decided I would be of better use to Habitat for Humanity or some such project, and use my talent to not only demonstrate sustainable and practical community plans, but to spread the notion that a pleasant environs, such as fresh paint and plantings, are important to the psyche. However, like every other opportunity, such jobs, even "volunteer" are sewn up tight before the groundbeaking. They are political.
I've never met a free-lance landscape architect who wasn't as broke as I. We have to make jokes about it to ward off bitterness. We are people who will not deceive a client for The Company. We are into working for the client, for all the good it does us.
In England I would have a much better career.
5/14/2019 Never Make a Life Insurance Trust, or LIT
Unless you want your successor trustees to have open season in your intended beneficiaries' pocketbooks, do your life insurance the old fashioned way. I'd bet the majority of people with LITs were talked into it. Take a look at Northwestern Mutual Life's website, for example. They are there to keep hold of insurance benefit money that never really leaves the company. There a a jillion financial products to purchase with benefits. There is more information on what to buy with your benefit than you can look at.
This forms an organized banking and insurance relationship which should be illegal, and once was. The problem now is that lawyer or accountant co-trustees are operating annexed to banks. Do you think you have financial privacy?
The Trust Company was devised to get around bank and insurance company marriages, particularly after 1905. It had to be admitted that the insurance companies were bullies with the ability to control commerce. To avoid the appearance of a monopoly, citizens were guided into pooling their assets in the Trust Company within the bank, for absolute safety in the storm.
That was the Straus Brother's testimony, Straus smelled like a rose after weathering seven depressions which Allen County endured from the 19th to 20th Century. It has been noted that once enrolled in the old Lincoln Trust, you couldn't just pull out. The strength of the trust was the industrialist, newspaper, gravel pit, coal merchant, main grocer, large scale dry goods merchant, receiver, judge, law firm and land owner. This was the grid plan, and across the nation 1905-1928, if all these contributors were present in a town, they were recruited. They liked it, because the Trust gave them assured wealth. These groups were always the prominent people of the town and by the time any of us were born, our surroundings were what they had constructed, supported by The Trust Company.
Who's in control here, folks? Who afflicts your daily consciousness most? The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. We see it with our eyes. We live the experience.
But the Trust Company wants the role of giving and taking away, competing against the Almighty on earth.
Around 2010 I connected some research and published that 2018 would commence a good deal of financial affliction on independent farmers. A load of Farm Loan bonds from some years back matured that year. It is not easy to assemble such information to demonstrate the presence of The Trust Company, but it had to be done to solve the mystery of the Frank Kryder family.
Once I found the Trust Company had dictated the course of my family, in the place of God, I could see why my life had gone so ridiculously wrong, so off-course, even insensible. It didn't suit my nature. It is why I grew up wishing to be normal. I had friends in families who were normal. So I knew we were not.
If not for the Trust Company, I may have been born in Fort Wayne. Katherine may have married a Fleming or a Ewing. Or she may have gone to Hollywood-she was that beautiful and entertaining.
This is what makes sense. Rosemary Kryder would not have married James Ewing Bond if she didn't have access to any Kryder Money. Her mother was a clerk in the Recorder's Office until Frank died. Ewing Bonds don't marry filing clerk's daughters. Rosemary was entitled to a per stirpes share. So where was Katherine's? Where was Rebecca's, her sister?
In Allen County, by the time Ian M. Rolland was president of Lincoln National Corporation and multi-bank holding companies had been legislated, The Trust Company had the edge, as always, now over independently gathered Mutual Funds. Some may have noticed that "financial products" is the name of the game now. Products are sold for banks and insurance companies by independent contractors who are completely self-interested. Why introduce so many strangers to your nest egg?
These are all steps to put more and more barriers between you and your beneficiaries. They will have to pay Wolfie and BaBa kiosk lawyers with shaky paperwork that couldn't be right. Your kids will be at risk with a trustee unknown to them. Especially when a parent dies, it has long been calculated the offspring's response to estate matters will be impaired by grief and the impact of change. Death of a parent wakens memories, good and bad, if you have them.
If a parent had been sequestered by an interferor, in bed with the co-trustee, your legacy may have little chance of reaching its destination without paying a load of strangers and having to steel up for a fight of undetermined length and expense.
It is a Lie that having a Trust will avoid the agony and expense of Probate. I have collected cases as proof.
The phrase "wealth accumulation" is abhorrent once you have learned the origin.. It's a damned golden calf. So we have been told, but it is irresistible, and worthy to be worshiped.
Knowledge is more than wealth, though you must dig it up for yourself. I grew up listening to every teacher, loving my textbooks. Still have many of them. When in graduate school I started on the Kryder genealogy. This is when I began knowledge accumulation. I was propelled into law libraries, city county complexes, cemeteries, sociology. I spent my money on Moody's Banking, Insurance, and Transportation Manuals, 1929-1982.
How many ladies do you know who would spend an afternoon curled up in bed with maps of the Pennsy, deep in thought?
I may be poor, but I know a thing or two, enough that out there somewhere someone will see the value.
5/13/2019 Remembering Marge Kryder
In all fairness, though she was a Klopfenstien, Marge Kryder, who was married to Dick the photographer in Leo, who didn't know his lifelong neighbor "Kenny" Maxfield was a lawyer, was the most kind to me in my efforts to sort out my own family. I think it was Jeanette Cook who told me to call Marge, from my hotel room across from the topless St. Mary's Cathedral in 1994.
Marge knew Clarence and Minnie well enough. There was actually another Clarence A. and Minnie Kryder, younger. Marge helped me untangle some bits, but she became very concerned when I told her Frank's lawyers were lying to me.
She said, "Oh dear. Maybe there's something about your grandfather they don't want you to know!"
"Listen, I'm going to have to cut this short, my husband just came in."
Once I received a mail asking if The Kryder House had something to do with my family. This was Marge's memorial, a home for women in trouble. Someone said, "She'd take in just about anybody."
Then I heard the Fred Kryder family intercepted a copy or photo of the pencil portrait of "Harrison's Squaw," Hazel Gerardot had promised she would send.
Marge came through with a number of interesting photos which she took the time to mail to me. God Bless her heart.
I called Dick Kryder one day, and he said he would send Frank Kryder's website link to Otto Bonahoom at Barrett and McNagny.
Don't jive me with any of this, "But that was so long ago. You have to move on."
That is a lie. The Devil is a Liar. There is no moving on in eternity. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I was born to Katherine, herself born into in a world of subterfuge she never understood. She had to be parentally kidnapped in the middle of the night to get out of Fort Wayne. There was trouble with the railroads, and trouble at the bank in Atlanta where her great-uncle was VP for Asa Candler. Candler's son-in-law was murdered. The wife was the sole Coca-Cola heiress and was swiftly taken over by trustees.
I was witness to Katherine Ann Kryder's life, how she was treated, her thoughts and notions, witness to her struggle to survive dirty plots of bad nasty men.
Katherine was given an allowance by her husband Leonce, from which she had to provide a week's meals, gasoline, and our daily expenses. She could not buy herself anything at will. Clothing for herself or we girls was procured by separate allotment. That is how I came to start weaving potholders and selling them to the neighbors by the age of six. I wanted money to buy my mother presents at the dime store.
I do not move from the day Leonce had the police contact me at college in 1972 to get the news. Leonce , BTW, gave me $35.00 weekly for college though he was fabulously rich. This was when I knew for certain something had always been wrong, flying over our child heads, something that was in motion before I was born.
5/13/2019 The Victims of Estate Fraud and Who Cares
Theft of your bicycle from behind your own fence is about how important or concerned the police department will be, even if your blood relatives are witnessed litererally ripping a legitimate Will right out of your hands on the way to the Recorder. Not even suicide with estate theft, followed by the sudden wealthiness of an abusive ex-spouse raises their eyebrows.
IRS is an option to get your complaint on record, but once you work with IRS, they take everything you can fork over and then forget your face forever. They will treat you as though you were trying to use them to collect a reward.
The FBI has a victims of financial crimes unit, and a special unit devoted to financial crime. There are no cases of estate fraud you can find in their list of achievements. Financial crime has to have hundreds or more complainants and an iron-clad looting of a pension, or loss in a definable Ponzi to rouse interest. This applies even if the hot property is more government securities than Madoff ever possessed, instruments and pledges which have been lost track of and passed around the country clubs since The Great Depression. You are in fact, given loads of attention, interviews, and maybe tv if you were greedy enough to be ripped off by an apparently independent financial wiz. Yet there is no acknowledgment, except by forensic accountants, that organized estate fraud exists as a seriously larcenous racket which is being allowed to flourish in the United States. Because, estate-owed sources of funds do not look like money being laundered, but quess what is mingled with those juicy dividends of your great-aunt you forgot about in Kansas, now being mailed to someone else?
Now, cases of the elderly are a different class because the ripped off elderly tend to be compromised from the start by illness or simply the desire to avoid stress. The problem there is, who wants to ask the elderly to testify? If they find their savings and Will have been interfered with by someone close, the emotional devastation is a health threat. Those who have been induced to change their Wills secretly by interferors have to be kept alive and in good mental condition, if the crime is discovered before death, in order to put the paperwork back the way it had always been.
Financial crime also must be easy to prosecute for law enforcement to consider a case. Therein lies the success of a two-century old caper, handed down through generations, in great secret ceremony, which succeeds on the knowledge of the limititations of the law and the number of years involved in cultivating an estate fraud being too complex for a not so incorruptible bureaucracy.
We should get the picture by now, that the greatest financial crime, especially by insiders, is much too complicated, too politically sensitive, and perhaps bad for the career to pursue. The thinking crowd who played the game of LIFE must remember, that doctors were once the most esteemed and prosperous class professionally. Lawyers did not usurp the rank of physicians by accident.
Which is why estate frauds are becoming more ludicrous by the day. You must pay them to get pay for their buddies, so that your family-owned legacy may be released from various holds. Further, who cares about a lost inheritance?
The thing to know is your legacy, great or small, is a matter of small concern, as the world turns, unless it is paying a lawyer and trustee. Maybe one day we'll all revolt against tampering and interference. Though never forget, whether the outsider is a relative, caretaker, or otherwise acquainted with a Legator, they will need that person's attorneys and trustees to obstruct intent and loot the dead.
5/12//2019 Katherine's Day and Erin's Day
It is Mother's Day, decidedly the worst day of each year to endure, regardless of the passage of time since Katherine suffered violent unresolved death in 1972. I went to Office Depot and saw a rack of Mother's Day cards and burst into tears. I should be making a card as I always did, for my mother today.
I observe strict taboos so as not to become degenerate with melancholy.
No: alcohol, any establisment with a bar, soy, opium, cigarettes, lottery tickets, casinos, slots, living on credit, telling lies, motor boats in the waterways, ostentation or luxury. The list is posted at the Step Hens' rehearsal barn. They liked it so well they printed it up really cute and adopted it for the dance team code.
What about you, Mr. Ewing? Mr. B. Edward Ewing, with whom I have much in common, what happens to you on Erin's birthday, for instance? Have you lost your enthusiasm for Christmas yet? I still have the stocking Katherine knitted with my name on it when I was nine. The santa beard is kitten-soft white angora, something little girls love. But I have it hidden away where I cannot see it, ever. Eventually I decided there was something worthwhile in the Jehovah's Witness idealogy on the subject of celebrations of birthdays and Christmas. Evils for many, Christmas trappings and birthday bashes open doors to depression.
A candle, a boys choir and some evergreen foliage is all I can muster for Christmas.
Once grown up, I can't say I have ever "celebrated" a birthday. Why, I know people who throw two or three parties for themselves, not that I attend.
I will celebrate the day I am in my own cabin in the woods with no landlord. On that day I will feel happiness as I once did so long ago.
Do you go through your photos of Erin? My first baby picture, in its 1950's metal frame also makes me burst into tears. It is at the bottom of a lily of the valley box. Katherine made my baby book. In those days a birth certificate was the first page of the book. At one time, that was valid enough to obtain a marriage license. The doctor and nurses signed.
Katherine recorded each gift, things from people I never knew, and who gave it. I had god-parents I never knew. She had started my family tree with a mistake, listing F.C. Kryder, not C.F. Kryder as my great-grandfather. That is as far as she could go.
Though born in Fort Wayne and in school in Fort Wayne to about age 10, Katherine had blocked the memory. I never heard her say a word once about Indiana. I thought she had been born in Florida. She told me her grandmother grew the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen. That had to have been Minnie, as her maternal grandmother had died before she was born. She took me to the hardware store each spring for seeds.
Between the pages of my baby book is a picture of Frank Kryder in Lloyd Bridges-type swim trunks. I asked Katherine who is this? She said he was a friend of her mother's. More than twenty- five years after Katherine's death, I realized the picture was of Frank and my grandmother at Cree Lake where the Kryders spent summers. Why hadn't I been told the truth? Why keep the picture?
Viewing pictures of my childhood is like stripping off my epidermis. I just don't do it.
What do you do for pain relief, Bedward, my friend? Is it easier when you are NAP PING?
5/11/2019 Laura Picot Sayles, In the 21st Century , Should Have Hired Her Own Counsel
Whether in scriptures or fairy tales, the story goes, a sibling is caused one day to make a choice which will impact the other. It is never the right choice to over-endow one's self with a sibling's share, believing freedom to do so is some sort of cosmic endorsement.
How much like the Temptation in the Wilderness is that? Laura Picot Sayles went to Sunday School, but decades of wine and champagne burbled everything Katherine gave her right out of her head.
At the fated time, Laura chose what was behind the unknown trustee's curtain.
Now she will have to see what she could have had if she'd held out for the envelope.
5/11/2019 Can You Avoid Estate Fraud
As one of the eldest of transgressions recorded against one's own blood, the proof is in towers everywhere that Theft of Birthright and Estate Fraud is a well established profession preying upon the most astute and powerful amongst us. No one is immune or can be well enough prepared for the kind of interference others, mischievous strangers, will orchestrate against a beneficiary for their own gain.
My twenty-four year unplanned research hiatus dragged me through a web of theft of royalties from celebrities, diversion of interest payments, lease, oil and stock dividends, organized for the purpose conversion. It buys a lot of municipal bonds around the nation.
I'm not speaking of independent sheisters and hornswogglers drummed out of once higher status, courting elderly ladies for their life estate interests. The real operators are the best of the best, employing a two hundred year psychology cultivated to gain your trust, "scientifically," and "on a grid." That is a 1920's self-description of The Lincoln's advertised strategy.
However, except in the estates of those who die all alone, you must count on at least one family member teaming up with a single parent's accountant or a successor trustee, someone you may never have heard of, taking your birthright, assembling an unpleasant, sometimes very painful and destructive course of events to drive a wedge. The ownership of assets will be confused. You may not know where any of your own father's papers are, and no nice gentleman comes knocking on the door to fill you in.
For in twenty-four years I followed a slough of estates gone wrong, things either related to Kryder, and other connections who came to me because of information tying in with their estate problems. Saddest is childen prevented from receiving their parental legacy. One group of adult children had to pay $4,000,000 in legal fees to inherit their father's estate, the fortune of a bona fide self-made man. Two of the siblings died before the estate settled. One of the siblings, the male, was the interferor, teamed with an accountant who was sent late in time to the businessman, would you believe referred by Fred B. Shoaff III? I wouldn't be able to write it if it weren't the truth.
Boy that accountant whammied that family forever. The ordeal lasted years. Here was a person showing up in a hard-workin' man's golden days, re-structuring this and that for tax advantages, for his heirs, then the man dies suddenly, alone in his home. The interfering sibling takes over all the responsibilities with the Sheriff and so forth, and has the body cremated before any discussion with his sisters.
That is how it starts, folks. Many tidy fortunes have been built, hoarded, scrimped for, or saved over a lifetime by regular country folk who are in no way as sophisticated as the people they let manage their money. Those without family become someone's bread and butter to purchase items in the name of a foundation. It's a lousy thought, but not as obscene as that of an interfering stranger, trodding across decades of family dynamics to disrupt the natural descendancy of property.
Of all the nerve! None of us asked to be born, that we can say for sure. A parental legacy is created by the birth of the child. Years of mate changing and morals deterioration do not extinguish an estate created by birth. This is serious to society, but we are casual marrying and divorcing, going on late life fugues, as if the responsibility of a birth can be diminished or undergo alterations with time.
I regret to say that I was not resilient when my family broke apart, in 1966. I don't believe the children are unscathed in divorce no matter how beautifully handled. Half a century later can I go back to every painful moment as if it were yesterday.I remember the day I felt my heart ripping in half, eating a hot dog with Leonce at a beach drug store. He wasn't living at home with us then. Yes, I burst into tears, worried he that he did not have home dinners anymore. He was busy doing you know what with the Molokai girls. To think I was feeling so sorry for him. That bastard.
Interference with your birthright can be introduced by kin afar, kin unknown even. Or it may come from your own sister. My sister, Laura Picot Sayles, who is licensed to know better, almost followed the book of stealing a birthright when she made her first (likely only) real estate sale, our father's condo, in such a way as to conceal my interest. There is no Title Insurance and the WD is that of a dead man. I bet the property forecloses in two years to clear the title.
The 1922 Fort Wayne Board of Realtors was truly against this sort of real estating. Laura Picot Sayles has acted in complete opposition to the old Board and the ideals of The Kryder Company. For example, from the beginning, to join an established realty firm, one brought their own realty for sale with them, like Bernard Hedekin did when he joined The Kryder Company Realtors.
Leonce supported Laura her entire life, for the persona she donned in early adulthood was an unemployable version of Leonce. It was all she knew, to act like him, to command and give orders, to insult and belittle, this seasoned with fulminating haughtiness that caused eyes to roll. Her adaptation of Leonce did not work in a woman.
Leonce even admitted, "I created a monster." She could only work for him. He had to provide for her forever.
I understood it. It never occurred to Leonce and his new wife the teenaged girls ravaged by suicide and years of preceding illness, abuse, and divorce may have benefited from immediate therapy and counseling.
Instead they took us to Europe. That was the cure. I had to watch Leonce buy his new wife a dinner ring for billions of lira. Katherine never wore jewelry other than her plan wedding band.
In Rome I got drunk. Leonce and his wife were at the table the entire time I consumed thirteen Bloody Mary's. No one cut me off. Laura thought I was disgusting because I did not wear nail polish. Then stricken with a parasite I picked up in Firenze I was not interested in being dragged along to the French Riviera, and asked for a ticket back to the U.S.A.
Clearly we each were going deal with our new lives in our own way. My love for my mother, coupled with the hidden horrors leading to her insensible death, would not let me follow the man who rolled her into her grave. Nevertheless, I hid my stance in order to obey The Commandments. Over the years, people in town who had a distaste for my father, for things he did, and sometimes for how he treated Kay remarked:
"You know, your father is very lucky you came out the way you did."
Laura Picot Sayles, in the words of Leslie Charteris, has joined the "ungodly."
Leonce and Laura did not like church. Katherine and I wanted to be a church family. The division of interests was clear early in the household. Much as I craved my father's attention, especially by accomplishment and achievement, his game was to not be proud, blow a large spit bubble and pick a copy of Esquire. He believed it was wrong for children to be given self-esteem.
My sister and I were children seen and not heard. We at times inexplicably broke into giggles at the dinner table. If we couldn't stop with the first warning, his big hairy hand would come out of nowhere to the side of our faces. I just do not remember the two controlled little girls we were, ever warranting the welts he left on our legs with his Martin Burns belts.
She does not know that Leonce Picot participated in defrauding Katherine when her father died in 1966. She comforted herself with Leonce riches, which were essentially Frank's, Minnie's, Frank's then Katherine's. Major interference at the receiving end here.
Laura said, "What do I care about a bunch of old dead people?"
She in fact considered Leonce Picot such a winner with his buddies The Burger King, Borchers and Berry, she denied her mother Katherine altogether, surely as did Peter deny Jesus, and most everyone believed her stepmother, 12 sizes bigger than our actual mother, was her mother. She reported it to the papers, just to confuse the issue.
I think it is very interesting that a coherent layer concerning inheritance laws, boundary stones, towers and subdividing, comes up as a matter of subject in King James,with frequent use of banking words such as trust, save, and redeem. Trust, save and redeem are not in the vocabularly of today's peasant, but they are definite banking terms. But the peasants of yesterday didn't have trusts, savings, or things to redeem, nor will the peasants of tomorrow have.
Trust, Save, and Redeem are words of the commercially active world.
Personally, I'm an Anchor and Rock fan.
One goes through many death rolls and causes of death in historical and other researches, but the Fort Wayne deaths of women since Katherine Kryder is more of an in-your-face list I incidentally encountered, not all in one place, not looking for it at all. That would be weird, and the only weirdness going on here is silent Leo, Cedarville, Grabill kin. Katherine was barely 40 when she was found in her bed, shot through the heart.
The question is, for Dr. Shoaff, aforetime county surgeon, is it better to be a living pauper with no quality of life, than to be rich with no life at all?
There was the Leichty girl and her battle with cancer, a really sad situation in Leo as described in Mark Souder's Book Country Folks, and though I know of no Leichty relations, Kryder was conspicuously missing from his account of Leo-Cedarville history. Very odd considering John Kryder III ran for state senator in the Lincoln election, coming to Cedarville, Allen county in the 1850's or earlier.
Nora MacDonald, daughter of the Peoples Trust and Savings which was Trustee for 23 acres of Clarence Frank Kyder's and Minnie Viola Disler Kryder's Original Plat of Waynedale, inherited $40 million, believing she and her sister had been ripped off in the Anthony Wayne Bank/Peoples Trust/Summit/NBD merger, died young of brain cancer.
Michele Bruggeman, dead at 40 from cancer. Patrick Bruggeman received Lot 88 Original Plat from Walter P. Helmke in the sham of the James Irwin Evans Estate. J.I. Evans and C.F. Kryder were more than associates.
The Lapp woman, who was reporting on sheriff activities, was violently murdered and the special needs suspect was hanged in jail before a case was made. B. Paul Lapp Quit-Claimed Lot 209 Avondale to Farmer's Trust, to Clarence Frank and Minnie V. Kryder.
Patricia Steigerwald, Allen County Treasurer, drank a fatal dose of herbicide. Then NAVL put a man in as Treasurer who went on to become State Treasurer of "The Cheapest State."
What quality of life is left for the survivors? Do the Towers send you fruit cakes on a regular basis? The Towers should be sending me some diverted Burger King International dividends which are unclaimed property of Bernie Ewing in California. That is why the Word says, "Erin for Katherine."
Quality of life is no antidote for pain, though no quality of life accelerates pain to the unbearable. People in unbearable pain cannot work or have fun with their friends and family. They have to watch videos of other people's trips to Walt Disney World.
I have seen with mine own eyes quality riches are nothing against disease, my own clients falling in their prime while I worked for them. Children of Privilege have driven their Teslas on graduation night into infernos. In my "Expensive State" quality of life sends young daughters off on island vacations from which they never return alive, children raid their home's custom built bars and drink until their livers explode.
Leo Goodwin, Jr. was a high school contemporary of mine, a few years ahead. Katherine never allowed me to hang with that crowd. His father created GEICO originally for the government. There was an intermarriage with Singer Sewing machines, and some of my higher quality of life friends went to the mansion parties, or they said they did. I was afraid of it. Leo was a teenage alcoholic with fast cars and after several accidents, the last killing someone, there was no way to keep him out of jail for a while.
The day of his release Leo, Jr. made a reservation for the Wine Room in my father's restaurant. He ordered that only the very best wines be poured unceasingly for his party. There were Oysters Rockefeller, Beef Wellington, Giant Stone Crab Claws, and Beluga Caviar. Now that's quality of life.
Soon after Leo, Jr. cracked his own self up. He was dead. He had the most opulent quality of life in town. The quality of life of his survivors built a small alcoholic treatment center, named in Leo's memory, and those he killed and mortally wounded emotionally with his quality of life.
Don't know why the Good Lord didn't make me a farmer's daughter. An apple tree is quality of life. A pecan gove fills me with joy. Living in the mountains, in the green, green trees is heaven.
Enjoy your novelette, my dears.
4/25/2019 Fort Wayne #eugenics
American society has always looked down on the poor- yet someone devises ways to create more and more of us, while others are concerned with extinguishing us except for purposes of slavery. We don't want no po' folks 'round, except for the dirtiest jobs, and there're too many of us in America already. Think, Fort Wayne, why is Indiana the "cheapest" state in the country to live? Because the po' folk have no money to pay national prices inflated by Fort Wayne securities trading. All around the U.S. Indiana po' folk are needed by the world to slop the hogs, for clerking, for inescapable tenancies, mortgages on dubiously owned farms and homes, and for taking out the garbage. Everyone in the country pays more than Indianans for the same quality of life. Thus Fort Wayne surgeon, Dr. Barnett, of Shoaff-Barnett, Barnett Bank, Bank of America, is quoted in the Journal Gazette around 1920 for his emphatic views on pauperism, birth defects, and genetically-linked disability- these are people with no quality of life; for the good of the state, their lines should become extinct via mandatory sterilizations.
#metoo This is the subject of my upcoming work of historical fiction, "Cherrie and the Die Masters," set in a fictional Fort Wayne Home for the Feeble Minded, at a moment when epileptic mature females, ladies with depression and a host of maladies which today are treated with medication, faced forced sterilization, along with the depauperates who lived in the woods. The underpinnings have been researched for twenty-five years. The history of the Home, its politicians, trustees, attorneys, and contractors shows Tower attitudes have not changed for the better, but evolved into a more aggressive plan to completely financially control a pleasant paradise world built and maintained for the wealth accumulators. Their world is founded on slavery, murder, larceny and mind control with terror, and we allow it to go on and on, too afraid to speak.
Step up to the plates!
#disney All take note of the public opposition made in a surprise appearance of Walt Disney's niece to the CEO salary at Disney as compared with salaries of the rest of the company. Who makes Disney magical? Singers, dancers, musicians, performers- no pay at all when you consider time in training for theatrical work. The beautiful gardens- try very low-paid horticultural internships offered for the privilege of being associated with such glamor. Disney World serves some of the world's worst canned cuisine, I misfortunately detected on my one visit there. I will never go to Disney anything again, or see another one of their ugly Alice movies, or listen to their fart jokes. Remember all, Raymond Disney was a real estate contemporary of Frank Kryder, and the 1938 Walt Disney Company was founded just days ahead of Kryder's The Suburban Building Company of Fort Wayne, Indiana, 215 East Berry Street, rm 225 Standard Building.
#disney Since Barrett is on 215 Berry, and the names Barrett and Barnett are essentially interchangeable as census taker errors, and Tom Shoaff merged Central Soya into Disney-Shamrock Family funds, get this: Fred Shoaff III, King of Venice-Nokomis, incorporated ROIC in Florida. The last four digits of the taxpayer i.d. are the same as Florida Walt Disney World. People get wisened. It's only the last four digits that mean anything as a tag- a tag which would be very handy for double books. This is just too much coincidence for any decent Detective Chief Inspector.
The #Kennedyassassinations were national terrorism and psychological battering which took a lot of heat off General Dynamics and extinguished interest in the 40 years of railroad gold mortgage bond fraud by The Flagler System, founded simultaneously with the Federal Reserve, on the heels of the court-ordered dissolution of the Standard Oil Trust. We teenagers thought riot and confusion was all about integration and Viet Nam. Yet what was going on were the Tower manipulations and buy-backs which have created more poor. We are living it now, because we don't think in terms of bank and insurance time increments: 25 years, 30 years, 50 years, 99 years, 100 years. However, we can work backward from the present now, with new eyes, look at the chronology, pinpoint the influx of illicit funds, who was robbed, and what is in whose wallet now.
Why doesn't anybody want to do that, #elizabethwarren, when we can watch things get sleazier till the next big crisis takes us by complete surprise? Is the FBI too busy with government corruption?
Bernie Ewing, if you are feeling Normal in Nashville (another in my book series) it is a sure sign you have lost your soul. I certainly don't ever feel normal, but I do sleep very well. I know how they worked you, when you were young, like they did my father, Katherine's husband. You sailed on like Chili Palmer; I, being a woman, was put down, lied to, and kept poor, though HQ has Princeton and Wechsler proof who is the smarter. I actually kind of liked you, when you had your DC look for U.S. Steel and Marine. North American Properties sold my father a condo on the beach, after the Panamanians bought his mansion, infinitely more tasteful than yours. Sorry, I can't help being Frank. You are blinded by Elvis-ism and can't see- Erin for Katherine.
I lost my mother Katherine when I was 19. Think of all in life we both lost for that, all the seasons and rites of passage. At 19, I received $3,000 for my mother Katherine's unnatural suicide estate. You paid millions, only to lose your daughter, at 17. ("at 17, I learned the truth.").
You and I together could make a positive lasting contribution to society if you would support the Truth. Or is this not possible, because a chief's daughter, Harrison Kryder's squaw is in my blood?
I don't blame. It's just that there is only $2.00 in my Wells Fargo savings, no checking, it rains in the house, there is a black rat under the kitchen cabinets, and we have no heat or screens. You think you were poor? I have never had a deed to as much as a teepee. And Katherine had no furniture after her divorce.
Which is why a good Methodist cries out LOUD to the Living God Almighty, powerful to subdue the ungodly and place the faithful under the safety of their own vine. God is my Maker, and it is a legal reality that 99% or more of Promissory Notes get paid.
4/24/2019 High Towers and Graven Images
Terribly picky about theologians, especially considering my favorite is Lewis Carroll, the rise of the mega-churches, slick evangelists and glass palaces has been difficult to stomach, while searching for God and Frank Kryder. To my surprise, I like to hear Joel Osteen, prettied up as he is for broadcast, for he has the qualities and background of sincerity, and reminds the lowly and outcast, the widows and orphans, they are nonetheless the same children of the Most High God, and loved even more for their condition, enslaved by the spawn of high towers and their old bank note engraving equipment.
The Word is everlasting, yesterday, today, and tomorrow. What are the people in today's high towers doing? Are they absolutely pushing their luck with the Master? Woe to those whose nest is built at eagle's height, grinding the face of poverty into sand. Sand for glass, sand for bottling and brewing. Next we will be eating it, if not already.
But there is more to be reported about the graven images of the old Lincoln National Bank and Trust Company, and those of the Fort Wayne National Bank. The bank note printing presses were owned by the Bonds who ran FWNB with McCulloch, Lincoln's short-time Secretary of the Treasury. The Kryders were associated with Puritan Press, in 1927, when there were four Secret Service Agencies in Fort Wayne, with phone numbers. Two worked in the Fort Wayne National Bank Building.
Graven image has a stepped around definition, closest coming to sculptures or idols, though the Biblical taboo separates "graven images" from statuary or idols for worship. The etymology is directly related to graves, digging, and burying. En-grave or grav-en, take your pick.
My opinion- if God could be provoked by molded or carved angel, deity, demonic, animal, gnome, god or goddess statues, that would be a bit petty. And most of the world would have to be wiped away. Why do all that when graven images of bank notes and financial instruments is restricted to a privileged group which has abused its "leased" power?
When Katherine should have inherited, Florida was in the midst of a 40-year railway strike and bankruptcy, whose Ball of debt has been kicked down the road since 1930 (Fort Wayne ground breaking for Lincoln Tower), for the benefit of those who nest in such towers and worship graven images. In time it appears Fort Wayne Tower people arranged the debt to disappear through stock buy-backs in 1989, into the fold of Norfolk Southern Corporation.
All of Leo and Cedarville kin will remember C.F. Kryder and what was done to his bloodline. Already they have been blinded to the lives which were prematurely taken for Katherine's ransom. They cannot see what tragedy they doomed the children of their righteous kin to endure, and what all who know have received in exchange for Katherine's life. Are ya' happy?
All keep silence. How many think that God, Creator of all Things, has walked on the earth as a man?
So, "Who will rob God?" Get out your Books and take a Look.
4/16/2019 Lot 209 Associates
The Fort Wayne Board of Realtors organized in 1908. In 1922 Frank H. Kryder, only two years in the business, became secretary-treasurer of the Board.
Most Fort Wayne city history remembers the realtor names Curdes, Ninde, City and Suburban, but not the Kryders. History remembers Robert G. Beams, Kryder sales manager and later Allen County Tax Assessor, Bernard Hedekin, a Kryder realtor whose father had built the remembered but ravaged Hedekin House. It remembers the law firm Beers, Mallers, Backs, and Salin, but not Kenneth W. Maxfield, of counsel, also unremembered as an in-law of Clarence's brother, Clyde. In fact Dick Kryder, lifelong Leo neighbor of "Kenny," insisted to me, "Kenny's not a lawyer, he's just North American."
That is how informed we are in Fort Wayne about who is who and what is going on in our own families, and this misfortunate ruse is the meat of financial wolves.
The German American Bank, Jasper IN organized ;
Exactly one 99-year lease prior to the burning of Notre Dame,
STRAUS BROTHERS COMPANY THE Creation : 4/15/1910
7/13/1910 death of the father of H.H. Peckham, an infant.
7/12/1910 Fort Wayne Trust Company transferred Lot 209 Avondale Addition to H.H. Peckham. It had been acquired from Judge Hough in the last century, when most of the railroad and canal receivership land was conveyed by judges, extending to the same rule for Kryders' Additions in 1922, re-platted in Hough's Out Lots.
Howard H. Peckham
He began writing in the late 1930s, noting the difference between fictional history and historical fiction. Lot 209 Avondale is a marker of great historical significance, from the hands of H.H. Peckham to Kryder. It is a mid-century connector of the questionably obtained then bankrupted "canal lands" of Jesse Williams, Allen Hamilton, and the notorious Ewing Brothers (see Tipton Papers), to 1950 Maxfield; North American Properties to Norfolk Southern Corporation 1989. This is historical money laundering and securities fraud in your face.
The Wabash Canal Extension in Indiana, following the Indian Treaties, bankrupted the State of Indiana and was obsolete before it was complete. Common stockholders were damaged, and given shares in the new Norfolk and Western Ry, which would be sensibly built over the former canal bed. However, this version of Norfolk and Western became bankrupt, taken over by Robert Fleming and placed under Michael Valentine Fleming in 1901.
In 1902 Senator Stephen Fleming buzzed into Allen long enough to transfer patent reserve lands of the Richardville daughters to The Straus Bros. Company. Mining for the valuable Indiana limestone of New York City's buildings held by REIT commenced on the reserve properties immediately, under straw company names. It was a time when gravel and hard rock made the families we should recognize today as The Indiana-Florida Sand and Gravel Peerage, DuPont and Ball undoubtedly the most prominent of the pit.
05/03/1932 B. Paul Lapp Quit -Claim to Farmers Trust Company, Trustee, Lot 209 Avondale Addition;
most of Farmer's Trust Company acreage was transferred back to Clarence F. and Minnie V. Kryder after Farmer's Trust closed, and Clarence Frank Kryder moved into Harley Somers office as Trustee of Farmers Trust, rm. 225 Standard Building, the lattter-day book keeping department of Anthony Wayne Bank, the former Fort Wayne Morris Plan Company215 East Berry St. (see below).
History remembers Harley Somers as a long time director of the Federal Farm Loan Bank in Kentucky.
The Kryder Company Inc. was incorporated 12/30/1932. History well remembers the Kryder Company law firm, Vesey & Vesey, and later Judge Lloyd Hartzler, when he went on his own, did the Kryder Company, Inc. paperwork.
LINCOLN TRUST CO Creation : 10/11/1910 merged with Straus Bros. in 1928 as first Morris Plan organized in Norfolk, VA (now think: Norfolk Western RR, Anthony Wayne Bank (Summit) North American Van Lines, Norfolk Southern Corporation, Maxfield.)
Allen County Superior Court Doc 13934 shows Frank H. Kryder was appointed a successor trustee 4/15/1950 for Lot 209 Avondale "together with other..."
History remembers D.W. McMillen, aforetime president of U.S. Sugar, Farmer's Trust, and founder of Central Soya, but no one talks about the Farmer's Trust actual land which became Waynedale Gardens. Remembered are members of Kryder's National Farm Loan Association: John Burns (attorney), Judge Kirkpatrick (gravel), and Hodson (Star Bank), but no Kryder (capitalist).
It is the History of Lot 209, with rm 225 Standard Building, which set the stage for the outcome in Fort Wayne, 1910 to now, and what happened to those beauteous original aspirations of The Fort Wayne Board of Realtors.
On 5/4/1950, Frank H. Kryder quit-claimed Lot 209 Avondale to Samuel S. and Opal Kline, a gravel hauling family.
No one knew Clarence Frank Kryder was half-breed. His cousins did not know. There was a rumor in the family, but you were shamed for mentioning it. His Swiss genes masked the coloring, but not the facial bones. Though his mother, Mary Ann Treace, a full-blood chief's daughter, appeared again after two generations, in the face of Frank, Jr., and after two more generations in my sister. Minnie was nevertheless President of the Kryder Company, 100% white.
Firstly, after the treaties, Indians, as they were called then, were not allowed to sell or mortgage their land. Though Miami and Pottawatomie were deported from the limberlost to a dust bowl, there were various chiefs and wealthy natives worth keeping around. To the delight of the exploiters, this caused an irreparable divide in the tribe.
It is genealogical folly to find the real Mary Ann Treace for several reasons. The census rolls showing her married to Harrison Kryder were burned in 1870. Mary Ann died in 1879, when Clarence was a minor. A new census was ordered as the only official roll, by which time Harrison Kryder had re-married. Not Clarence nor his progeny could ever connect to their tribe.
Many people have Mary Ann Treace with various families in their genealogies, all of which have conflicting data, unless Mary Ann was hidden as a native in one of the Treace families. At any rate, considering the subterfuge, a possibility is that Mary Ann and Luiza Treace, sisters, were both entered on the Cherokee Roll, in case of record loss.
White men married Indian women with good land so it could be mortgaged and farmed. Sometimes families boarded deported natives, listing them as children or relatives with the census taker. The underground railroad brought escaping slaves into the fray who also boarded with white families. Rural Indiana was hardly under anyone's microscope, except the Northwest Bancorporation, and historical county plats show that some families had farmed close to each other for generations, migrating as a unit from Pennsylvania through Ohio to northern Indiana.
The point being, marrying native wealth upped the station of Revolutionary War veterans, and families settled as neighbors, for strength and protection not against savages, but against organized financial predators who always knew one step ahead of the rest what the government would be doing next.
It is written in Public Records that the daughters of Chief Richardville, himself a half-breed, were uneducated, not capable of handling their wealth, which should therefore be transfered to The Trust Company. In Allen County it was required that all Indians, even before the deportation, be Americanized in dress and attend Catholic school. Richardville's 100% Miami blood mother, who got him the job as Chief, was considered one of the wealthiest and most astute business women in America, controlling ports essential to Canadian-American river freight. Do we believe this wealthy half French fur trader, half Miami Indian Chief raised three ignorant daughters when Indian children were being rigorously schooled and re-trained for the white world?
Fort Wayne is a hub of fictional history. The H.H. Peckham REAL estate chain proves it is, when one inserts what has been left out. That is the utility of a full scale real estate proprietorship; it records through time how and when changes of power occur. Real estate history is the only way to bust The Trust Company. Bust the Trust. Remove the sucking trustees from the Bust of the Trust, and open the floodgates of reality. End bank failures, stock market crashes, mortgage crises and more. These are not accidental things, happening periodically and in time cycles, as if no one knows why or how. Why believe it?
Truly, if I lived in Fort Wayne, I would spend my days in the Main Library, the Courthouse, and the Assessor's Office. There lie the keys to more historical fiction than a writer could crank out in lifetime.
H.H. Peckham died in 1995, three months after I opened Frank H. Kryder's estate. If only I may have talked to him, but too late! He would have told me some history I need. Needless to say, the P C Step Hens revere Peckham's significance by draping his portrait in the dance hall with a stars and stripes swag.
4/15/2019 Notre Dame Burning, or Where's My Golden Arm?
Exactly 69 years prior to the Paris conflagration, F.H. Kryder, on April 15, 1950 filed a petition ex parte to be trustee of Lot 209 Avondale "together with other..." number of lots in Waynedale Gardens Second Add. titled to his father and mother Clarence Frank and Minnie V. Kryder. The majority of the other developments were Waynedale Gardens Original Plat, Peoples Trust, Tr. , Fairfield Gardens Sec. A., Alexander Pursley, Tr. (nephew of Bishop Leo Pursley whose St. Mary's burned when I came to open Frank's estate in 1995- one of the "estate miracles"), other Trs for Fairfield Terrace Sec B. , all titled to The Kryder Company, Inc. and owned in fee by Clarence Frank and Minnie V. Kryder who had previously put all such in Trust F.S. 58070 for their lineal descendants.
"Kryders Additions" were purchased with the Kryders' Pennsylvania Railroad /Norfolk Western gold mortgage interest. So was Berry Street.
Investigators, if you don't think F.S. stands for Fred Shoaff or Florida Statutes, try FLAGLER SYSTEM. For in the end, it was all about the 1930 Florida East Coast Ry Bankruptcy, and the 1970 folding of it into the bankruptcy of the Penn Central for preferred stockholders, while the government was ripped off for aid that went to Liechtenstein, followed by the crash of U.S.Bank San Diego, then BCCI. All these are sides of the same coin and the perps are spending it right along with the other sorts of money washers, like Meyer Lansky.
Clarence had died April 2, 1950 and his Will was not probated till the close of the Homeowners Loan Corporation in 1954. This was when Burger King, first named Insta-Burger and Ryder Transportation kind of hooked up in Florida, while probably the only other Insta-Burger in the USA existed no where else but Indiana. It was the beginning of North American Properties, Inc., and NAVL.
Recently I discovered my father's first mansion, after Katherine died of course, was sold to a Mossack-Fonseca Panamanian client, while his next residence was developed by North American Properties, Inc.
So it's cheeseburger, franchiser, leasco, pepsi and with my father ending up partners with Mr. Insta Burger, the original Burger King, having received his financing in 1966 when Maxfield got a big shot in the arm for NAVL, and daddy having gotten his "financing" in 1966 the same day Lincoln Financial started up in Florida, and RYDER and NAVL being what they became, it seems to me that Frank's impending death in 1966 resulted in a life insurance arrangement which never reached Katherine because it was "leased" to her aggressive ex-husband, who became conveniently her PR after her suicide, and now in fact the old Bancorporation wants it back because the Burger King died two months prior to my father and they had some sort of weirdo Tonto Trust which caused a trustee I never met to disappear with the Northwestern Mutual Life Insurance and stuff like 'at.
You want abject poverty for your heirs? Hire the best estate lawyers in Fort Wayne. It's practically genocide.
3/12/2019 Real Time Real Estate Fraud for Investigators
"One thing leads to another," they used to sing, slinging Pimm's Cups with a wink, as if we little ones didn't sense a thing going on over our heads. And the memory of all that, no amount of prayer, self discipline, education, physical exercise, cultural pursuit, or therapy can strike from my genes, my central nervous system, or my tender childhood soul.
Now we can connect the year of Frank Kryder's death with the Lincoln Florida corporations coinciding exactly with the incorporation of my bio-father's restaurants, 1966, within his two-man partnership, Rescon, Inc. It was the year my magnificent, brilliant mother Katherine Kryder (aka Kay Daniel Picot or Katherine Ann Daniel) divorced Leonce Louis Picot, found guilty by the court of extreme cruelty and desertion. This type of divorce was a terrible stigma to an abused woman in the 1960's. It has left me in anguish since Kennedy 1963, when our gourmet china and crystal went first in the War, used as grenades by our parents as my sister and I hid under our covers, unable even to speak to one another. How could we? We did not know what was going on and how many adult people were busy at interfering with our future lives and bloodline, and undoing the trust plans of our maternal kin.
Mornings we would wake and get ready for school with shards of glass covering the floors, a whole collection of Fenton cranberry glass thrown at the walls irreparably. The whole household was destroyed before it was over. Katherine was left penniless in the divorce. Picot was poor and Katherine's father was dead, Kryder's estate lawyers and federal tax lawyers saying Frank was penniless.
We had a house with no furniture, just beds. It was a little embarassing for already traumatized teenagers as we were.
Now, as a person with a family reading this thinks of their estate plan, think of this: Katherine had been terrorized, stalked, abused, and humiliated by a greedy, aggressive, cruel husband with no capital of his own, for years prior to Frank Kryder's death. She was not exactly in the mood in 1966 to question trustees, or believe anything else other than final rejection by her father and grandparents as the "family estate lawyers" told it to her. That was a nice touch, Fort Wayne legal beagles.
People, your life's work belongs with your ongoing line- that is the strength of the family. It is your blood, sweat, and tears which genocidal predators have worked forever to take over, by dividing, redividing, sub-dividing, insuring, re-insuring, re-assuring, long-leasing estate property which will never benefit your seed.
As for the laundering of the property of The Flagler System along Florida's Gold Coast, by nice people who know how to cheat right, I am going to explain this henceforward from all my memories now which come together finally to a sensible conclusion.
Because one things leads to another and it's too late to turn back now.
*LETTERS TO COUSIN RICHARD, Son of James Bond, Grandson of Frank H. Kryder *
Dear Cousin Richard,
Well, I was unable to afford a train car all right, so for $7200 I moved to the only slum house on a lovely street near the hospital. $2300 monthly rent and I have no toilet, bathtub, kitchen sink, doors, two working sockets in the living room, no lighting, no window blinds, porch screens or doors, and very dirty floors and an awful kitchen to clean. It is disgusting, really, but we seem to be magnets for nefarious landlords. What they do is hide all the flaws and problems, get your first, last, and security, run and pay their property tax with the money with no intention of remedies. They hold real estate in nice neighborhoods, which is disastrous on the inside, and used for Lord knows what.
Many windows are bolted closed in this house and five kids age 5-13 were here several months alone everyday while their father worked in Miami. We were promised a professionally clean house ready to move in. The occupants, unknown to us, were being removed by police as our movers were loading.
Oh, I can't afford North American, naturally, but the truck with the Budget Rental cube was an International, and inside the door it said Navistar. I thought about you, how nice it was to have someone in the Navistar family of things. The movers were awful, though, damaged my poor lowly furnishings, and called me a liar. I guess it's better than being shot by guns in roses, overall.
I do wish you would look into the estates of Clarence Frank Kryder, Minnie V. Kryder, and Frank H. Kryder and explain why Rosemary Kryder Bond got such a good start in life while someone had a license to kill Katherine Kryder, my mother. You'll have to admit, until 1960, Katherine was doing a pretty decent job of becoming a beauty and nationally known author, even with her "bad start." Although Katherine's death when I was in college diminished my ability to feel glad or happy about daily life. Once I was a fine comedienne. I never laugh anymore. Nothing is funny at all, except the estate work.
Why shouldn't you be decent about it? Can't you admit what you know in your heart? Don't you ever watch Miss Marple?
Dear Cousin Richard,
There is the cutest little manufactured house put together on an assembly lot near my Baba Yaga rental hut where I am currently kept prisoner.
Dear Cousin Richard,
Sometimes I think I hear the Mayflower Van comin' down the street for me!
It could be something from Richard up in Elkhart,
I was published in The Southern Poetry Review at 19, spotted by Guy Owen, author of The Flim Flam Man who taught at NCSU, Raleigh where I was studying. I did not even know what that was. I didn't care. I didn't get a good start either.
I became a botanist and a marine scientist on my own, but without a good start, that doesn't get you anywhere either, even with straight A's all the way through graduate school.
It's harder for women, you know.
I wasn't trained to only marry out of this or that college, or into certain families. My mother gave her life for the nobility of women.
It would still be nice if you would step up to the plate, do a fraction of the delving as I have.
My friends in the Pemiscot County Step Hens Dance Team say you are too chicken.
Rosemary Kryder Bond with her half-sister Katherine Anne Kryder and their grandparents, Clarence Frank and Minnie Viola Kryder, at 2025 St. Joe Boulevard, Fort Wayne, IN.
Rosemary got a good start in life and Katherine got a bad start.
Disclaimer: Historical incorporation Time Lines are utilized on this website for purposes of chronological reference. Inclusion of a corporate entity in a reference Time Line does not imply involvement with distribution of the Kryder estate. Incorporation dates are useful in marking the business climate and flow of capital for a particular moment in time or over a period of time. As with any database there is a likelihood of artifacts. Corrections are welcomed and will be promptly acknowledged and applied. Links to the world wide web do not imply endorsement by this site or by the Personal Representative. email@example.com 2001-2019