Evil comes in all ages.
Soon after my maternal grandmother died, my grandfather (a USMC Colonel with the Navajo Code Talkers) was seduced by a woman, Lottie Jay, who closed his life off from his friends & family. It was so bad, some of the Marines my grandfather served with wrote letters to my mother about the dire situation. Nothing changed. She didn’t want any of his descendants in her house, and she sure didn’t want his only grandson in the house. There was a period of about a year where my mother would take me to his home for him to babysit me (I was 6 years old), and when he wasn’t there Lottie Jay would force me to stay in the living room and wait—for hours—for my parents to fetch me. I was even afraid to pee. When my parents arrived to pick me up, she’d lie to their faces about what a great time we had. It was my first known encounter with a psychopath and I was too young to realize it.
When my grandfather died, she stole away the night of his burial, taking everything of value. His USMC saber and uniforms, medals & awards, his life savings, his 1965 Corvette Stingray. When we got to his house the following day, there was nothing except furniture and tattered clothes in the house. Not even a single photograph was left behind.
Fast-forward to 2010 (forty years after gramps died). I’m at the Fort Rosecrans Veterans Cemetery in San Diego. I go look up his gravesite. Kinda neat. I remember all the good times we had, think about his influence on me, etc. After some pleasant musings I walk around to the backside of the headstone to see “Lottie Jay” engraved on the back. I red line, pop a few blood vessels. I call one of my uncles (in his 70s) and ask him where his mother is buried. “Rosecrans” he says. Nope. I send him a photo and
he red lines, pops a few blood vessels. It turns out,
no one knows where my maternal grandmother is buried. But everyone knows where Lottie Jay is buried.
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