201 Intro to Western World Geography

OH, UGH!!!


Intro to Western Geography. Not Western as in land masses so much as Western Ideology. Lecture names Trump and talks about his speech over in Poland and how he says the West must decide if it wants to survive. He sees the Western world as picked on and threatened. Next comes an essay question –what is the definition of the

Mr. Mime

Shiny Mr. Mime visits our local convenience store (c) 2019 Peggy A Rowe-Snyder

How did it get that way, and why, etc, etc. My definition has turned into a “I hate Trump” monologue. Teacher asked for it as far as I am concerned. Read it to Clyde & he says I’ll get an A. But, consider a lot of the original west was built on Eastern ideas and principles. The modern west is defined mostly by America at this point. America is the leader of the West. America defines west mostly by it’s own idea of what the west was as our borders expanded from the Atlantic to the Pacific. What America’s western world was basically virile, male, and white. America and the west is not under threat. Or at least let me say that the threat out there could probably be snuffed out here and now if America wanted to play bully. Mr. Trump portrays a myth… he is a symptom. It is the ELITE white male who feels threatened and he has passed his fears on to the uneducated masses. People who work hard for a living and yet can’t get a head because of economy sucking leeches like Trump who files bankruptcy in multiplicity. I have a lot to say, but I have no interest in saying it. I don’t want to feel it, and I don’t want to read it. My opinion is there, I won’t grow another or even begin to think through any other point of view because I truly believe I am correct in the way I see this. I sure the heck wish Trump had not been brought into the lesson. I could have done without all this emotion. I am so invested in this, and I could NOT begin to tell anyone WHY! (copied and pasted from Facebook)

My answer to the professors question and to the lesson — Does the west have an identity. 

Since Mr. Trump (not my President) came up in this lesson I have to say that from what I’ve seen Americans have an arrogant perception that America is the west and the west’s identity is America. America is white and other colors need not apply. If I sound somewhat angry it is perhaps, because I am.

I would love to say that each individual person defines the identity of the west, and that the identity really does lie within the eyes of the beholder. Well, I do believe this to a point. But, for each person to take into account where he or she lives, and the local culture and social norms, each must live within a system with an ever-evolving “Western culture” where the funny part is that we are learning the ideas from the east all the time! (think Marie Kondo, the decluttering lady)

Here in the United States it may even be more so because of the fluidity of the language and the vast melding of cultures, and norms. If the theory that today’s liberalism is nothing more than an extension of the Enlightenment where humanity came to the conclusion that t all men are created equal (originally, all except the black, red, yellow, and brown ones) with rights to liberty, and pursuit of happiness, then one can argue that education is key to a healthy society for that is where people learn the norms. And in terms of modern times, for those to have liberty regardless of their culture, people in other cultures must be open minded enough to accept their neighbors lifestyle and cultural idiosyncrasies. In this way, the west should become a world wide melting pot. But this is in an ideal world.

Today in the United States we are in the process of finally beginning to truly integrate culture and social norms into our national identity. And what is a National identity? In our case it is tightly fitted to the idea of the west, because we’ve had many wests over the years as the country expanded from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The American west is free, wild, full of opportunity, growing, accepting, full of gold and overwhelmingly virile white male. (and, some of that is a myth) Top that with the fact that today, North America is one of the largest land areas in the world , defined as the west, and considering we, Americans, are the ‘leaders’ of the Western world it stands to reason that American’s pretty much define what is the west and its identity today.

The stereotypical western identity from an American’s point of view: American, White, hardworking, capitalistic (NO socialism allowed, and yet, they are apples & oranges), Christian, picked on, underappreciated, abused, minority, and male. And probably from the rest of the world’s vantage point, we as a nation could not be anymore wrong.

It is the expressions of today, the words that Mr. Trump spoke about the threatened and torn west who must decide if it wants to survive is nothing more than a myth. He and his theory are the symptom. An angry white ELITE male feeling some loss of control, who happens to be positive he is right and sorry for none of it.

And I have to say, from MY vantage point, its time for a new definition, because the fake news Mr. Trump spouts couldn’t be more wrong.

And now that I have written this, I read this: https://www.fpri.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/WH-McNeil-What-We-Mean-by-the-West.pdf and discovered, that I am probably a product of the newest or at least the American definition of what the west is.

Posted in Culture, General News, History, Just Jabber, Personal, Political Crap, Womens Rights | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Done (again…)


My new kitten, Lucy

This is Little Lucy Lou my new kitty. She is about seven weeks old in this photo taken on August 1, 2019. Lucy is a Tortoise Shell type kitty with the tabby markings to boot. Her stripes slowly turn into spots as they move to her underside. Her markings are not unheard of, but on the other hand, she’s not in the majority of the different types of kitties. She’s a sweetie.

I have to say, this is probably the one time I’ll actually cry when saying good bye to a therapist.   I fight trusting people.  Trust is hard for me to give.  So many people I should have been able to trust for love and support have hurt me.  I am talking in terms of childhood.  But, that ability to trust damaged so many years ago, still exists.  It’s further away, not quite so powerful.  But, still there is always a typical cycle I go through when I meet anyone, and a therapist must wait through an even longer ‘cycle’.  

I sit back and I participate to the best of my ability, but I do not give trust.  I can talk about ANYTHING with ANYONE, but that does not mean that I feel particularly close to you, nor does it mean I trust you.  It just means that I am an open book and there isn’t much if anything anyone can use against me in terms of ‘secrets’.    

Having said that, there are details to some situations that I have never told a single person.  This is not because I distrust, or that I am hiding anything.  It is simply that the details are so disgustingly abusive in nature that I would not put another person through the details unless they were specifically warned first.  I’ve just never gone there. 

So, should I decide I trust you, and don’t ask me when that moment comes and how I know.  It is a very gradual process, and at some point, I realize I do trust, and I realize how free I feel.  In my mind, that is truly a day to celebrate.  There are few in my life that I truly trust.  And so, I begin to let the wall that protects me come done…not all at once but in tiny bits and pieces.  Still testing who you are and if I can trust.  

It has taken a long, long time.  I’m not sure anymore how long I’ve been seeing this particular therapist.  Five–six years maybe??  It’s been one of my longest if not the longest therapeutic relationships I’ve had. 

She’s been patient as I learn to trust.  I know, it’s her job.  She lets me take side trips into topics that I love: science, history, culture, physics, astronomy.  She gets excited about the same things I do.  Last session I found out that her minor was in Physics.  My reaction was “wow, I want to pick your brain.” I realized some couple of years ago that she and I would be great friends in the outside world.  

First I mentioned it to Clyde who encouraged me to ‘friend’ her in the real world.  I told him how that would be professionally unethical on her part.  She can not ethically be my friend.  Which I feel is really sad.  When people know where the boundaries are and respect them, which is something we’d both do, then there is no reason two real people can’t be friends.  

That said, as part of a conversation, I let her know that I’d love to have her for a friend, but acknowledged that I understand that there are ethics involved.  And this little discussion happened before I was aware of what I am now aware of.  

During my last session my therapist let me know that she was giving her 2 weeks notices so to speak.  I think I have one more session with her this week.  

This lady has been patient with me.  She’s told me when I was wrong, or unhealthy.
She’s encouraged me when I was right, or healthy.  She’s given me hope when I felt all was lost.  She’s reminded me to never say never.  

She has left me with a choice.  She can refer me to another therapist.  Or I can walk away and see how it goes handling life on 100% on my own.  I have a tendency to do alright doing just that until someone decides to be manipulative.  I still have issues  dealing with that.  My kids are particularly hard for me to deal with that way.  I want to love unconditionally.  But, that is impossible once I realize I’ve been manipulated.  And so a war starts in my mind, and I am so hard on myself as I look the other way while they play me like a fiddle.    And the sad part of it, is that all four of them do it.  

My therapist believes I am in a great place and that I don’t need therapy right now.  She thinks I’ll be just fine.  My gut reaction to the situation is that is exactly what I will do.  Have her not refer me, but make a note in my file that some things still have not been fixed (or addressed sufficiently for me) but that I am sure willing to at the very least take a break and see how it goes.   I do believe after all these years that the ‘picking’ habit will never be broken.  It is ingrained and when I am under the worst of stress (that I can handle at least)–it is a go to behavior.  Mostly it happens in my sleep, it’s not like I have any control.  I had stopped for a long, long time.  But, it started back up, especially bad after my son got out of prison.  

I think I am easily triggered.  I am 100% that I have genetics that predispose me to PTSD.  Having said that conflict with those around me, kids, and significant others, serious conflicts lead to picking.  My significant other can not stand to see the kids manipulate me.  He can not leave it alone and let me figure it out and deal with it.  He tries but, it’s pretty much impossible for him.  Over the long haul I am usually pressured to act.  He has no idea how he makes me feel.  But, he makes me feel like I have to ‘choose’.   For the most part the reality is, he’s correct.  But, knowing how I am being treated does not mean that I do not love my kids.  And so I feel torn to pieces while trying to love both at the same time.  The only cure we’ve found is distance.    

The bottom line is that he is tired of supporting manipulative kids.  Lazy kids.  Kids that don’t pull their own weight, nor try.  Kids who fail to see that they could be helpful and  actually participate in and be a healthy piece of the family.  There is no help with housework.  If they see something on the floor for example, that needs picked up.  For the most part the item lays there. 

I do the dishes for everyone.  There is no dishwasher.  One of the things that hurt me most (and this happened quite some time ago) is when my oldest who did not in general help with housework in anyway, found a new guy, came over to visit and decided to cook.  Found a pot which was ‘too’ dirty to use.  She washed it with a loud and clear judgement.  The hurt comes when the kid didn’t help while here, and lived in the worst pig sty I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some bad stuff, so bad as a matter of fact, that I turned two people in to the police because they had kids living in the mess.   I needed glasses at the time, I was having trouble seeing tiny things.  She should have kept her opinion to herself.  The kids don’t realize, and I am unsure if they even care, how much they hurt me sometimes. 

The list goes on and on.  The bottom line to all this is that as a mother, I am done.  Soon, my youngest will be moved out (again), this time I asked her to go.  I told her it was time for  me to throw her out of the nest, which is true.    And she has been informed that if she needs to come back, it will be under the same circumstances that her brother left in.  She’ll need to arrange for a trailer, save money to have it moved here with, and live in the trailer.  Should this happen, she must plan to pay rent because we can not afford to subsidize her or any other kid for that matter. 

Having her moved out will put distance between myself and all my children.  For the most part a very healthy distance.  One of them living a couple hour drive away has been particularly helpful to my mental health.  I don’t think I could have dreamed of going back to school if he were still living here. 

Once my youngest is gone, I have no idea if I will have that empty nest syndrome that is spoken about.  I’ve thought about it, and I enjoy life far too much to think that will be a bother for me.  But, I can see on the quiet days where I might just be a little bit sad and that I won’t have that beloved therapist to fall back on with those sad feelings.  

I am going to miss her.  I’m 1000% positive that I will cry over a therapist for the first time.  Probably for the first time, I actually got ‘attached’ to a therapist. Which is the goal for some types of therapy.  I trusted..and while, this eventually had to happen.  I trusted and the person I trusted, left again.  It is a proper part of this particular cycle.  

I send many positive thoughts, and wishes of good luck.  Warm fuzzies, as many hugs as she can handle,  Mostly, I want to send appreciation and thankfulness for all this lady did for me.  

Indeed, I will miss her…and I will cry. 

In life, I will continue on…. after all, I’m a Beaver girl now!

Xan — xoxo

Go Beaver's (Decal--Beaver head on a Oregon shaped background). Oregon State University, Corvallis, Oregon.

Go Beavs!



Posted in Children, General News, Health, Mental Illnesses, Uncategorized, Womens Rights | Tagged , , | Leave a comment


Clyde Leon Snyder in 2004

You are my love, and my light…
the greatest adventure
who sits right next to me.
My conscious, my friend, 
my supporter, my clown.
You, my dear, are
My everything….

The man who walked 12 miles.
Through two feet of snow,
with with a literal broken heart
He risked his own life
Get anyone to rescue me. 

Yes, Oh Yes….
Let’s run away, today.
For I want
and I will remarry thee. 

ho ho ho — it’s done!


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My puppy named, “Puddles of Pee”

I think I may rename my puppy, “Puddles”… I am finding them  all over my floor…. My feet are pretty tired, of slippin and slidin all over…. I’m getting up and taking him out, every three hours, and If I miss it I’m pretty sure that I have back up of a husband and a daughter. Is there such thing as shaming a puppy to please, PLEASE pee outside…. His full name might be: “Puddles of Pee” (Ok, ok, that’s the nice way to say it!) Getting this off my chest…has certainly been a ‘relief’. lol

For the first time in my life, I am so thankful for linoleum. hahahahahaha!!!!!!
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In this case, it is, all about Me.

Peggy Ann Rowe-Snyder

Alvin C. Rowe

note: the person I am directing this to, knows exactly who she is.

I do not sit in a public office, nor am I running for any public office; therefore, I have the right say this: anything I say on my Facebook page is really not up for debate. I am entitled to my opinions, and I can express my truth and I am allowed to do so with the freedom of knowledge that I am safe and protected. 
I absolutely use my page to educate….I absolutely use it for a bully pulpit or soap box. There is too much MISinformation about what abused children go through. What they live through and the consequences are disheartening for anyone who bothers to really, really look. I absolutely use my page to send thoughts out to the universe and to ANYONE who will listen about *my* experiences because they might just help some mom who was in the same spot I was in. It is tough to stand up to family. It is really, really HARD to drag yourself out of denial. As a matter of fact, some people utterly fail to ever let go of their denial of the truth. There is a lot of evidence of that in my very own family.

I’ve been there, and done that, and still bounce back and forth. The pain in my life, will never stop. It might get duller, but it will NEVER go away. Due to what my step father did, due to what my mother did, I lost my daughter a long, long time ago. (also due to ex husband who took her and ran and hid for six years). That is the truth. *IF* I can help ONE person, ONE, then what I have been through is worth it. Therefore, just know, if you don’t like what I say, if you don’t agree, which is your right, the ‘unfriend’ button is in your upper right.

Have you ever noticed that I do not go onto your page and say anything about anything at all? I do that for a reason. I’m not out there running my mouth that way—hurting people, and I am letting them have their say in peace. Do I disagree with people? Sure, I do. But I have enough sense of boundaries to let people say what they wish, it’s called FREEDOM OF SPEECH.

Your mother, is a big, big girl and she is fully capable of taking care of herself, and you getting onto my page and announcing who you are and then saying how proud you are of being neutral and then asserting that there are two sides or more to every story, is a very underhanded way to tell my friends that I am NOT telling the truth.

Do you believe my friends are so stupid that they need you to tell them I am a liar?

I have friends who think that President Trump (yours not mine) is the best thing since peanut butter and jelly… and they say so often. I have friends that are so racist that they call the women in the “squad” ‘Blackheads’….and they think this is ok, and if they were not close to 90 years old and very, very fragile, I’d probably take them aside quietly and let them know how wrong they are. But, I do not go on their page and tell them they are wrong, nor do I preach on their page. For the most part I ignore their pages (and yours) because that way I am not tempted to post what I disagree with.

It is a matter of respect for them and their opinions. It is good boundaries. It allows me to stay friends with good people, who I often feel are quite confused.

You can have all the opinions you want about what I say. You do NOT have the right to express your opinions on *MY* Facebook page. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, if you don’t like what I say then by all means take me off your friends list. I will understand. But, don’t you dare ever again, very nicely tell me off or tell my friends in an underhanded way how wrong I am. I am not wrong!

I can have anyone for a friend that I want. And you have NOTHING to say about it. You should have never said a word about Joan being on my friends list. It’s NONE of your business. If you want to talk to me about YOUR MOTHER then let’s do it elsewhere. Because I’m done…. With this sticky sweet, back handed way of you saying, “you are wrong, Peggy” when I know damn good and well that I am not.

And I know I’m coming off strong and I’m doing it on purpose. You have upped the ante on things we disagree on for the last time. You are not going to say something ‘strong’ to me and get me to back down anymore. I’m tired of being bullied down by people and that includes by you.

And if you take the time to really think about it. And if you are capable of being truthful with yourself. Then you will realize that you do try to shut me down and you do try to get me to see things in a way that you deem proper and right. It will never happen, and no amount of debate is going to change that.

Mom doesn’t need you to run to her defense, and I’m sorry that is exactly what you were doing. Don’t do all these things and then bother to tell me to smile more. I am a person who HURTS, and the hurt is lifelong and lasting. And it is because I come from a sick and twisted family. That is my truth. And you MUST live with it. Even if you never speak to me again, I will still always hold that opinion and you will always know it.

So, let me voice my opinion as is my right. Let me do it without you trying to put me in a place where you want to control the spin—because when you do this, you show people who you really are. You don’t make me look any worse.

Basically, if you can’t say anything nice, and really mean it…. then don’t say it. Not on *MY* page. Because from now on, anything you say on my page, that I do not like, or I feel goes beyond appropriate boundaries (as defined by MY BOUNDARIES, NOT YOURS) I will delete.

Last note: It is not a “MISTAKE” when a man purposely runs over a dog on I-5 to get back a person he is angry with. That is sick, and it is called a sadistic act. Want to know the difference between your mother and father? He said he was sorry, but he never said what he was sorry for. So guess what? I get to fill in the blanks…

I’m sorry I scared you so bad when I purposely ran over the dog. That was wrong on so many levels.

I”m sorry I told you that you deserved to die and threatened you with that great big knife. (that was no mistake either)

I’m sorry I hit you so many times, being back handed by a big powerful man must have really hurt.

I’m sorry that I told you that you’d if you had any brains you’d take them out and play with them. I did not know how demeaning that was or how it would set you up for a dud of a marriage with a man just like me.

I’m sorry that I force fed you foods that you didn’t like. I should have never held you down, forced your mouth open, and crammed anything down your throat. The message I sent through those actions are horrible, and had I thought, I’d never done that to any child, let alone my own.

I’m sorry I sent dishes sailing over you and your sisters and your mother’s head. That them breaking against the wall upset you so bad. You and Pam were so little. I know that had to scare you really bad. I hope you remember that your mom was holding your hand. I can look back and see now that I had one hell of an anger issue. I know I passed some of that on to you. I know there were times when I really screwed up.

I’m sorry, Peggy, that I ever hurt you. As my child you deserved better than that. Please remember that I worked hard to provide for you, your sister and your mother. Please remember that I raised you in a way that I knew and was familiar with. When I was a kid, and we didn’t want a kitten we threw it in a gunny sack and tossed it in a river. Life was tough—so I had to get tougher. All I ever wanted was to make sure you knew how to take care of yourself. I can see now, that I went about in a not so quite right way.

Remember when I sang to you, your sister, and your mother…I really meant, “You are my sunshine.”

I remember when you did my hair. Your sister and you—you put a dozen barrettes in my hair. My hair went every which way…. I bet I made one good lookin’ woman. You girls sure had fun…you giggled and you giggled. I guess, daddy was pretty funny looking, huh?

I hope you remember being cuddled. We sat together often in my big ol’ recliner. Once you became big enough to be a real person, I wasn’t so afraid to hold you.

—————-   Thirty years later, and your mother is still incapable of “I’m sorry”

And yes, I usually talk to my kids like that.


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Copyright 2019, August 4, 2019- Peggy Ann Rowe-Snyder           

I have been a victim.

I have been a victim in many ways, many times —
I have been victimized and held helpless against my will

I have been tormented, maligned, …physically wounded.
Mentally, and emotionally  worn down.

           It started when I was tiny… and lasted throughout my childhood.
            My father hurt me in multiple ways.

He let me know once that I was too much like my mother, and that I deserved to die.  He had me open the glove compartment of his vehicle and there was the weapon of his justice.  A huge knife.

He used sadistic behaviors to keep us where he wanted us.  Killing a dog along the freeway that mom wanted to pick up and take to a shelter.  I lived in 100% fear (terrorized) by this ‘man’.

I watched him hit my mother over and over when I was very little.  I hung on his knee and begged him to stop.

Mom was proud that I loved him, but did not like him at all and could voice that.

But my mother allowed it to happen. 
She could have left him.
Maybe she was unaware that marriage has never been forever.
She kept up appearances
– worked hard to keep the household appearing normal. 
In all reality, no matter what transpired between those two
there was a perfect partnership of perpetrator and assistant.

A little later in life, not very much later, a neighborhood girl touched me. 
It was clearly inappropriate and I said, “NO”. 
As any other perpetrator would do, I was ignored and the behavior went on. 
For months or more. 
I learned to enjoy it, but I was filled with guilt and shame for almost the rest of my life. 
It remained our little secret for years and years to come…

            Because when I finally told someone, it was my (ex) husband, and his reaction was to ask me to sleep with his sister, and let him watch.

            I have been a victim….
            many, many times.

With broken teeth and bruised limbs and bruised pride
I SURVIVED that marriage.  
Through the torture of being kept up all hours so that I’d agree to what he wanted to living with the fact that I was not capable of thinking for myself nor for thinking of consequences, I spent nearly 16 years letting this boy/man think for me. 

For nearly 16 years, I heard that I was his,
“empty headed play thing.” 
I endured, in private places, the pain of physical objects: coke bottle, fists, homemade dildo’s, and more. 

            {Question: Will a dildo made using a SEMI-TRUCKS’ water hose (Thank you Black’s Tractor Trailer of Cincinnati, Ohio) as a mold using silicone (which contains ACID) hurt?  It was bright blue.  And yes, it hurts.} 

            Through tears I would answer his question: “Does it hurt?”  Thinking that I was OBLIGATED to perform my ‘wifely duty’, I conformed.  

“No, it does not hurt.”  And so, he had what he needed to persist.  And I slept walked through life; a whole lot of life…

            Alas, it all came full circle.  Another man abused my baby.
            For three to four years, he educated my child. 

            Aged  three or four to aged seven.
            I actually tried to kill him.  Though I never came close.
            I thought I might beat the crap out of him first.
            But he grabbed my arm as if I were a rag doll
            He looked at me like I was crazy.
            He had the nerve to ask me what I thought I was doing.

            In that humiliation I began my long climb
            up and out from having been a victim.
            He did time in jail.
            The judge remarked it was the most undercharged case he’d ever seen.

            That child molester died old, and alone.
            Nothing nice was said in his obituary.
            I could not celebrate a human’s death any more.

            I asked for and received a divorce.
            A first step away from being anyone’s “empty headed play thing.”

            But, it was not over yet.

            My mother who wallows in perfect appearances,
            and worries about if what her daughter does is legal…
            and surely voices her concerns as if she were really

            Tried to sue me for custody of my injured child.
            She made up lies for an order of protection, against me.
            She claimed I endangered my children.
            She told my sister that made up stories,
            and put them in my seven-year-old babies head.
            My sister and I did not speak for at least two years.
            We’ve never been able to speak of mom since…
            Because she cares about the bitch,
            And I have trouble allowing her the time of day.

My mother and my step-father worked together to get a
judgement of 1.4 million dollars thrown out.  
Money for my daughters future,
for therapy, for any need…..  today she has MS.
Through thick and thin, including one divorce, my mother
and my step-father were a perfect partnership of perpetrator and assistant.

            When family speaks of reconciliation,
            My mother lies and says she’s willing.
            But, her actions are louder than her words…
            And after nearly 30 years she finally admits,
            that I “betrayed” her. 

            After nearly 30 years her harassment and abuse persist.
            The myth she has created with help of ONE friend,
             and one well known child molester protector lawyer-
            Has quite a few people convinced.
            Of the very same thing that she screams,
            When it came to my step-father and my child,

            I’m sorry Bitch—my child, was the BIG victim.
            And you were wrong, she has NOT survived.
            NOT LIKE YOU DID.

            Wait, did you?  Survive that is?  How is your life?
            Is it everything you dreamt it might be?

            So, to this day, my mother screams toward me that
            I am a perpetrator of so many bad things… and yet.
            People who know me, really know me….
            would beg to differ. 
            They know what my mother says,
            Can never be.


            There have been abusive people
            during the in-between…
            Boyfriends and lovers…
            some who tried very hard to control me.

            Father of a child, who actually thought
            said child could be used
            to fence me in,
            and catering to his needs.

But, by this time,
I was coming
            into my own.
            You can try to beat me down.
            You can use words, your fists, and even the law.

The truth of the matter is that, you cannot hold me down.

I was a victim.

But a victim I am no more.


Posted in Children, Children's Rights, Culture, Estrangement, Just Jabber, Lifestyle, Mental Illnesses, Political Crap, Sexual Assault, Womens Rights | Leave a comment

The Mother of all Monkeys…

The Mother of all Monkeys and exactly where SHE belongs…down the shitter…

Overwhelmed. Feel just like I got a gut punch. An older friend of mine asked about my parents. And of course, dad is deceased, so that stops that discussion in its tracks. Mom and I do not speak. After going through this situation yet again, I have finally realized I can just tell people that mom is deceased too. She might as well be as far as I am concerned. But, when the friend is asking and I feel on the spot to answer a question politely and HONESTLY as I know how. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Peggy, why doesn’t your mother talk to you?” This is a friend that when called for a reference he told the person I was the most honest person he knew. That means a lot to me. I respect him. He was obviously confused….I can understand it. I’m a good person with a good head on my shoulders who believes in doing the right thing for the right reasons, and I’ll eat the consequences like corn flakes if I find out I’m wrong or made a mistake. No one, and I mean NO one says, “I’m sorry” like me…. my kids have heard it so often they are probably sick of it. So, I answer honestly, and then I am sick to my stomach because …’here we go again’. I am sick to death of so much of thinking about my mother and how “I betrayed her” even from my own mouth.

I betrayed absolutely NO one. It is flat out impossible to betray a betrayer. She announced herself before going upstairs each evening that my daughter was with my step father, so that he could stop the hurtful, illegal, disdainful behavior he was negotiating — WITH MY CHILD. She watched from around the office doorway and saw exactly what was going on. I did NOT put those ideas into my child’s head.. the truth was certainly ugly enough without my help. And no this is not a made up story this is my reality. And it NEVER goes away….even the most innocent of questions and statements can set me off. Example: “I’m so proud of you, Peggy, that you’ve held your head up and carried on.” Not an exact quote, but the ‘held your head up” part was original to the quote. Oh so happy was I when the encouragement was given. Only later did it hit me to question it. Why would I not hold my head up?? What did I ever do wrong??? The truth of the matter is that I did NOTHING wrong. I choose my child over my mother. That is what any good mother would do. My mother choose money over her grand daughter. That is NOT what any good grandmother would do. My sister and I have a friend in common who thinks we have two separate mothers.,,, this is how much different our worlds are. I do not have the umpf it takes to explain or even begin to correct. I have been utterly exhausted by this mess for nearly if not more than 30 years now. because it never goes away.

A family member comes to me and announces to me that my mother wants to make up, all I have to do is call her. How do I tell this family member who is just trying to help that if mom told her that, that its a lie…mom has no intention of ever making up because I ‘betrayed’ her. It is NOT a betrayal of a person to take care of your child with 100% of everything you have. It is IMPOSSIBLE to betray another when taking care of a seven year old who had been abused by a grown man for 3-4 years. I could go on and on and on and on…. this stuff makes me so sick. My guess is that my mother will out live me by years because this shit has made me so sick. I am tired. I am tired. the sickness has been passed on to my kids, and now I get to live with that. There are truly days when I’m not sure I really belong here anymore at all. Ok, I’ve had my say.

I signed a non – disclosure agreement in 1991 or so…. promising not to talk about this. But, I am so sick of the silence. I am sick of having to listen and not be able to say what is on my mind. I am sick to god, that I’m the one being told I am wrong when I am not. I signed the non-disclosure agreement because I was exhausted and scared. My mother took me to court and said I was a bad mother to my oldest child—not my son, only my oldest, and she sued for custody of my oldest. I was sick and tired then. I wanted it to stop And so I tried to drop the civil case against the HOMEOWNERS INSURANCE in order to make mom stop suing me. She required I sign the non-disclosure paper. That does NOT make me a looser, nor does it make me a betrayer. It made me exhausted. It wasn’t an admission of guilt, because I never was GUILTY of a damn thing.

My mother is the person who made me think that my step father was abusing my daughter. It was she who spoke the first truths. It was she who told me the story of how for WEEKS or maybe months my step father would stare over my daughters school photo while eating his oatmeal. That it was she who noticed and HID the photo from him multiple times…. He’d find the photo and the cycle started again. It was she who hid important evidence from the police that was used on my daughter including a pistol and a vibrator.

She has owed my child an apology for AT LEAST 27 years. And to make matters worse…. at that time, she was a LEGAL mandated reporter. And when I told her I called the police on my step father, she actually asked me, “WHY?” And yes this is public and yes, it’s going on my blog! This has just got to stop. I need out of this damn nightmare. I want the mother monkeys off my back!!!

Last and not least, at one time I had a $1.4 million dollar judgement in favor of my daughter and for my daughter’s future.  I sued the homeowners insurance not my mother.  She went into court with my step father and got the judge to toss the judgement.  $1.4 million dollars.  And she still turned around to sue me!!!!!  Today my daughter has MS and the ACES studies pretty much prove that MS can be caused by trauma.  And yet when she took that money from my daughter, she said in a letter to me that my daughter would “survive, just like she did.”  Heartless, I am telling you, the woman is heartless.  My daughter sure has survived, and been robbed over and over again by the people in her life that she should have been able to trust the most!

Note: Copied and pasted from my Facebook account.  

Note II:  At the time, I was told that my step father’s primary residence and means of transportation was protected from seizure by law enforcement or because/for any civil case.  My mother USED the fact that I was trying to “take away her home” as an excuse to legally bully and abuse me in order to control the information getting to law enforcement.  My mother is far from being an idiot. 

I have yesterday (8/4/2019) realized that she knew her home was protected from seizure if I were to collect on that 1.4 million judgement (the courts would take some personal property that might be worth something prior to hitting up the home owners insurance, or at least they could try.  As I learn more in life, what I see is that the insurance company would have been 100% on the hook for the money, after all that is what they were paid the premiums for).  So, my mother lied about me and harassed me (i.e. MALIGNED ME) for no reason other than to keep herself out of jail.

She succeeded in staying out of jail.  But, over the long haul, when family stories and myths are passed down, she will not win.  The generations ahead will know exactly who and what she was/is.  This story will be published in a black and white bound paper book.  It will be a story that lasts. 

Tis funny, my oldest daughter claims I called her a ‘monster’ and at any point in our disagreement did I do any such thing.  

When I look at this whole story, and when I see my mother, this is when I see a ‘monster’.   & I do have a habit of calling them as I see them, whatever that ‘them’ is.

artwork & ‘essay’ (i.e. editorial) copyright 2019, Peggy A Rowe-Snyder (the ‘monkey’ is a Pokemon Go critter that I took a photo with using my cell phone camera, so that piece art before I took it and changed it belonged to Niantic, & the Pokemon crew!)

Posted in Announcements, Cardiac Health, Children, Children's Rights, Estrangement, Health, History, Just Jabber, Memories, Mental Illnesses, Parent/Child Relationships, Personal, Political Crap, Sexual Assault, Womens Rights | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

The Price One Pays…when Caring Too Much…

     I have been caring for others in my life for nearly 50 years.  How does that work when one is only 57 years old.  Well, for one thing you give or in this case you take a few years but just a few.  The simple truth of the matter is that my 10th year of life was a game changer in every way.   But one of the biggest ways it changed things is that this is roughly the year that dad had his first heart attack, and my mother was ran over by a car and permanately disabled by it.   The consquences of these two happenings made it so that I became the chief cook and bottle washer in the home for a good while.  And while thinking about it today, I realized, I really never gave the title up, and still haven’t yet.  So what are the consquences of that??  Anger, Frustration,  deep down exhuastion, and the need for a very long vacation– the urge to run away from my reality–and never come back.  And yet the truth is from the age of 18 on, most of my ‘caring’ for others was of my own choosing and therefore a mess I made for myself.

     My dad had two heart attacks from the time I was roughly 10 to 15 years old.   During this same time period, one night before a bright Christmas Day (yes, Newark California has bright Christmas days) while my mother and her best friend were out shopping for christmas presents and standing in a Radio Shack store in Newark, a older woman racing for a parking spot accidently pushed down on the gas rather than the brake.  The car under the guidance of the floored fuel control, the older (all metal and heavy) Oldsmobile pushed over the curb and into the Radio Shack store.  The automobile plowed through the store somewhere around 30 feet, taking display cases and my mother and her best friend with them.  The only thing that stopped the car was a concrete support pillar.

       My mother was laid up for months if not years. The truth is, she’s been laid up for the rest of her life.  I do not know what she is or is not capable of at this point.  But, I know she’ll be in pain the rest of her life.  What I know was that the night we brought her home from the hospital (dad and we two girls) dad cooked that night, and then I cooked for quite some time.  And while I wasn’t allowed to ‘rule the roost’ with my younger sister, a LOT of household chores fell on me.  And what did not fall on me, I was never taught to do.  I left home not knowing how to operate a clothes washer or dryer for example.  I had no clue how often the sheets were changed (if ever).  Did mom ever scrub the tub?? I have NO clue.  I learned in my 20’s that a stove comes apart for cleaning.  But, I did cook, I did vaccum, I did to a degree watch over my sister, I did become the head back massager for my father, I was the chief dish washer….get the message? 

Previous to this my father had already had his first heart attack and had one of America’s earliest triple by pass surgeries (His surgeon? Look up Shumway).  I could not really take up his jobs for him, thank god.  I never was interested in concrete work.  But, us girls were recruited to help in his new foundation stake business.  Dad simply could not do all the work (this is based on my own experience with heart disease).  If his experience was anything like mine and I’m positive it was, then there was NO way with 1/3 of his heart dead load the dunnage onto his pick up and then unload it into the yard at home.  Nope, two girls aged, TEN and SEVEN did that, plus they pulled all the nails and screws out of the boards to boot.  And then we restacked the lumber nicely and neatly.   Dad ran the wood through his table saw and banded the stakes together into nice little bundles.  He then loaded the little bundles into the pick up and drove them over to the local lumber yard (who supplied the dunnage).  That was really hard physical work for little girls, and I can tell you, there’s never been a day since that I did not have a backache.  I’m pretty sure that permanant damage was done to my spine.  This worked continued for us until Dad left ‘us’ when I was around 15 years old.  

All this and I pulled pretty damn good grades at school too!!!

Combine school, housework, and the stake business and one wonders if I had a childhood.  Well, I did.  Not much of one really.  But, there were some fun times.  Fishing trips, roller skating beside the house, baseball games (Go A’s), a pony named Pickles, Barbie dolls, and Monopoly and that’s just a start.  It was not all work, but it was enough work that at one point, I was ready to go on strike.  It was partly because the work was hard, and partly because all that wood and nails were messing with my fingernails and I for one, was ready to be a real girl!!!  I can tell you now, without embarassment, that I did not get much sympathy.  

I met my first husband when I was almost 16, so yes, technically, I was still 15.  I made a promise to him within months that I would marry him.  And because a promise was a scared thing, I kept it.  Even after he’d gone back home to Ohio and we’d spent nearly two years apart, and when my plane touched down at the Cincinnati airport, and I got off the plane looking for the young man, I came to a stunning revelation. I no longer recognized him.  I was unable to pick him out of a crowd.  He picked me out of the crowd.  

I was in essence running away from home.  When my mother found out she protested LOUDLY.  Which made me want to leave all the more.  Had she protested in a move loving way, there is a good chance I’d never left, but that is neither here nor there at this point. The fact is that I left, and once I got there, I didn’t recognize the boy that I promised to marry.  And I did, marry him that is.  

I spent 15 legal years with that boy/man.  Nearly enough months to make 16 years.  Kind of like my age when I met him.  And I will tell you, he was so frickin lazy when it came up to getting out of bed in the mornings and getting ready for work, and I was so worried about him getting to work on time, that I literally put his socks on for him while he laid there in bed.  And I started his pants for him.  He need only stand up and pull up (onesies?)   The young man either could not or refused to cook or clean.  Of course, I was used to doing the work, so I just kept up what I knew and never expected much out of him.  And he never gave much either.  His work ethic was atrious.  While I worked nearly 60 hours per week, and then came home and cooked and cleaned, and gave him (what for me was hurtful and sickening) sex.  He worked his 20 to 40 hour week, came home and went back out and played Dragons and Dungeons, and smoked weed, fucked the neighbor girls, and got into trouble in general.  

This went on in general until we were aged 23 (him) and 22 (me) when after I’d had my first child.  I wanted the drug scenes to stop.   I wanted to not be lonely at night while he was out partying with his friends.  I wanted him to get a steady job (he’d lost the job he had in Cincinnati, I don’t remember why).  I wanted him to have a GED so that his daughter would be proud of him.  If he could not conform to those ‘demands’, I was ready to put feet to pavement and leave.  Since I did not have a drivers license that’s exactly what I had to do.  Nevermind that we lived out in the middle of nowhere in Clermont County, Ohio.  It was during this time that he admitted he did not want me to have a drivers license because he was afraid I’d leave.  It was during this time I lost my temper for the first time.  One of his friends came by and wanted my ex to get drunk with him.  I said NO because I had bought and paid for the home, and I was the one who would be cleaning up the puke.  The ‘friend’ had the nerve to say, “…IF she were my wife, she’d be out the door.”  To which I answered, “I’m not your wife, and you are out the door.”  He came back another day looking for us to charge a bunch of stuff.  It was credit cards after all.  It didn’t take any money.  The kid had no concept of paying the bills.  And my husband was so grown up, he really had no issues with the kid.  I was the trouble maker in the situation.

I stood up for myself in someways.  But, I utterly failed to stand up for myself in others.  I’d heard my father say that my mother’s car wreck (the one mentioned above) made it so that she could not ‘perform her wifely duties.’ I did not know yet, what wifely duties were.   But,  knew that I was told not to repeat the words, and I knew that my dad waited until he was alone with my uncle (except me) to tell the ‘secret’ and I KNOW now, that the empathsis clearly made ‘wifely duties’ a big deal in a marriage.  Therefore, even had I known that I had a right to say NO to my husband, when it came to sex of any kind, I did not.  Not when it was abusive, not when it was extremely painful (I found out later) because he’d brought home an STD to me, not once but twice.   I did not say no or stop even if it was painful from the fact that a foreign object (as in a glass coke bottle, and other things) was stuck up there for HIS pleasure.  

My childhood, and the way I was taught to work and submit (when I fought it, i.e. go on strike) taught me to grin and bear it all —- and I did not leave it until I was 32 years old, nearly 33.  

After I left him, the name of the game became survival.  I was now a single mother.  I could not even pay the rent with the money I made at first.  I literally signed my paychecks over to the daycare sitter which meant I could not pay my rent.  In order to find a remedy, I ended up going on public assistance (which believe me, I hated), and went to college for three years.  After recieving a certificate and an AS, I began my own business, and worked up to three part time jobs at a time.  With the help from the state in the form of health insurance and food stamps, I barely made the rent in Sonoma County, California.  I spent 8 years during this time with a ‘boyfriend’ –an abusive one.  The relationship was mostly off.  But, it took me nearly the whole time to actually get him out of my door after he moved in without my permission.  And during this time, I finished school, and began my business, and worked my ass off, while he continued school.  And after HIS baby arrived, he had me know that I was to stay home and care for the baby (girl) while he continued in school because that was HIS JOB and he’d bring in the money.  Ho ho ho, ha ha ha.  That went over with a HUGE thud.  I was slowly finding my voice and my power.  Eventually, after many a fight, and after finally reaching the point of hate and resentment, I tricked him out of my home and never looked back.  (He was asked to leave many, many times, and he flat out refused).  There was NO passive agressiveness from me when I was asking/telling him to get out and then actually locking him out, etc. etc. etc.

After getting rid of him, it was a short time later, that I met my current husband.  I told him to not get attached because he’d be  a rebound, and I was not in business to hurt people.  But, we both got attached.  I have KNOWN since day ONE, that my current husband has inherited heart issues.  He has worked as hard as I have and probably more so, because he has let me not work or work as I please.  Any money I make is basically my spending money.  But, when it comes to working in the home and caring for others — nothing has changed.  I am at age 57 still chief cook and bottle washer.  

And I say this -as my 28 year old son and 20 year old daughter sit here waiting for me to finish making pasta salad like a couple of vultures, neither of them lifting a hand to help, and that is with them knowing at this point, that I have heart health issues too.  

I mean how many times should a kid have to hear that their mother’s heart is still weak and she can’t do everything she did before—before you offer to actually help around the house???  Rarely do these two adult CHILDREN do their own laundry, let alone a dish. Flat out forget about anything else.  

My husband has a significant portion of his heart dead now.   My 20 year old came to me the other day and asked if he were a ticking time bomb.  My answer was, “he’s always been a ticking time bomb.”  And yet, she still does not offer to help with yard work or anything else actually.   Both kids still at home, do as they please, when they please. 

I do the cooking (the full meals) and I clean my house.  I clean the toilet.  I wash the sinks.  I do 99% of the laundry.  I mow the grass.  I sweep. I vacuum.  I wash the walls.
I feed and bathe the dogs (except the hubby’s of course).  I trim the bushes.  I pick up the garbage.  I take the garbage out.  I pick up the dog shit until I get tired of it and tell her (owner of one of the now three dogs to help) Do you get the picture…..  ??

So, where does that leave me?  Well, for one angry.  I am angry that I set such a good work eithic example for my kids and this is what I get back in return.  I feel used at this point.  Even though they say ‘thank you’ for the pasta salad.  Of course, it did not help that my youngest pointed out that  I said, I’d make pasta salad today.  I did not need reminded, and because of the circumstances I highly resented being reminded.  

I have kids who don’t think twice about lying and then have the gaul to call me a liar.  But, looking at the whole picture, what they all have turned out to be are people who live in their own realities—one’s that do not jive in the least with real life.  

Where does a 20 year old get off, thinking that she can move out at 18 years old (because she did NOT want to clean up her space and I was forcing it, because it was MY house) and then move back in at 20 and expect to be fed, watered, cared for, and 100% supported.  The girl had a job making more money than I ever have (except a few computer jobs where I had clients wealthy enough to actually pay what I was worth).  When asked when she was going to get a job, she informed us she was going to take a much needed break first.  The truth is, it looks like, she has no intention of looking for a job.  So, yes, my husband and I both feel very, very used. 

It looks like that as much trouble as my son has gotten into that he perhaps is the  healthiest of them all (emotionally).  At least he’s saying thank you, and he’s beginning to do his own wash, and is trying to learn what is right.    What I get from the youngest is total disregard.  What I get from the  oldest is total silence — and no gratitude for anything, even the mistakes I made trying to do the right things.  

So, it leaves me angered, resentful, feeling used.  But, most of all, it’s  been a growing realization that this has been a  theme my whole adult life: I am tired.  At first I thought I was tired because I was so badly abused by first husband.  I’m sure that played into it.  But, what the real cause probably was the lack of voice that lived with, and the fact that I was caring for three people day in and day out, and that would be one adult besides myself, and two children.  

Even when I was sick, legitimately sick, he called me a hyperchondriac.  I recieved NO help whatsoever from the man.  Even back then, I was doing the dishes, mowing the grass, carrying the water from the cistern to the kitchen or bathroom in 5 gallon buckets (summer or winter in Clermont County, Ohio).  And no, I was not Wonder Woman and it wasn’t a ‘wonder I was a woman’ as my ex used to put it.  I was trained by life to do what was needed to be done to get through life, and for the longest part of my life, I knew no different, and because of ignorance had no recourse that I could see. 

When you have young people in a house hold that refuse to so much as try to help.  And my 20 year old has a sunburn right now, so she is 100% incapable of doing anything.  After all it hurts down to the bone.  I’ve had sunburns just as bad and worked right through them without complaint mind you.  Where is the effort?  Recently she was telling me how her boyfriends mother just cuts the bugs out of the apples she processes and uses them in her homemade foods anyhow.  So, I ask doesn’t it hurt her?  I have arthritis and have for a few years now.  I have quit processing buggy anything.  If I can’t simply peel it or better yet cook it with a peel it won’t be done.  My youngest informs me that the mother of the boyfriend must ignore her pain and work right through it.  You talk about one angry mother.  Especially in light of her failure to ignore her sunburn pain and work right through it.  I have raised some whimps that is for certain.  And I did it with the frame of mind that I was doing all the right things for all the right reasons. 

Keep in mind that I purposely spread my children out 7-8 years.  At one time, I read David Elkind’s book, “Miseducation”.  I thought it would be a good idea to give each child it’s own time with their parent.  Each in a dream world would get one on one attention, etc. etc.  I have four kids, but one is adopted.  That is three spread out by those years.  My eldest is around 34/35 yrs. old.  My youngest still at the Junior college level and 20 years old is still at home (or rather back at home) and being supported.  That has stretched motherhood out for a full 34/35 years.  To raise three girls and a boy, two girls that have emotional issues, and a boy who is bi polar and autistic (and has emotional issues) has left me utterly exahusted. I am ready for a break, and actually for my own mental and physical health, I NEED a long break if not full fledged retirement. 

And at nearly 60 years of age, I am angry, resentful, hurt, and feeling used.  I have four children who take all the help for granted.  Feel like they owe no one anything.  And see me  as if I am the one who is insane.   They even lie about myself and my husband about their circumstances to make themselves look better when they know the truth will make them look pretty bad–er lazy, helpless, whatever.  ( You blew your head gasket, no one else did— you refused to help with utilities even after blowing money on electronics, that is why he asked you to leave, which puts the blame squarely on YOU.”You’ll get it when I get it” are the exact words that got you asked to leave, after watching you charge that bunch of electronics)

I signed my youngest up for public housing the other day.  She got the thank you email.  After verifying that I did it, she asked me if I was trying to get rid of her already.  My answer, was, “not exactly”.  It’s not getting rid of YOU.  It’s putting you in your own space and forcing you to become responsible away from myself thereby giving me the rest and relaxation I not only deserve….but NEED.   

But, its also getting rid of a person who won’t pull their own weight.  Two grown ups willing to pick up after themselves on a constant basis have NO issues keeping a home clean and picked up almost 100% of the time.  Two adults and two children where two adults pick up after themselves and the grown children expect to be picked up after even though the two adults have failing health makes a house become more and more full of mess and chaos, which leads to a house full of emotional mess and chaos.  And that makes me pretty angry.  And feeling pretty used.

So, what happens when you care for people too much, for too long, all your life??
They become spoiled brats.   And I become angry, resentful, feeling used….which
is going to end up making me the thing I swore I’d never be as an older person:


Feeling very disrespected and unloved.  And the truth is, that is exactly what I am, disrespected and unloved by my own children.  No wonder why I’d like to run away and never come back (and probably will, as soon as I can–when I no longer have prevailing responsiblities, and I do have more disposable income).


I am 100% positive after my kids read this one, they’ll hate me all the more.  But, the truth is I really have reached the point where my own sanity means more to me than they do.  Unfortunately, that is just what it boils down to.








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Well, I did it

My Book over at Amazon
The Accidental Adventurers 
Three Days atop a Mountain

I finally got our missing on a mountain top story written (in serious fashion) and put it in a book.  It is a small book, less than 70 pages (69 I think).   It has a lot of the photos taken on that trip, along with a serious version of the story and the humorous one I wrote right away afterward.  Hoping that I’ll get a bit of income from it, and that I can pay for a few things around the house.  

Thanks for reading, take care.  Peg


Product page over at Amazon

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Thinking about Peter Glen (1939-2001) …

Peter Glen at his home outside of Cloverdale, California. (A goat trail off of highway 128)

Thought about friend, mentor, and client Peter Glen today. Did some looking around and despite the fact that he’s been gone nearly 20 years, he doesn’t have a memorial at findagrave.com, nor a profile atfamilysearch.org, or ancestry. I just felt so sad about it. He was such a nice guy that I thought he should be remembered. So, now he has a profile on all three sites. I have three photos readily available. Plus I have more packed away in my office. I also have more than one of his books, so eventually, I’ll get his bio out of one of those. Found a write up about him tonight in Billboard magazine from 2001, when he passed away. I do not know how many family members he had at the time. When we scattered his ashes the only family present was a 1/2 brother. Peter’s New York office assistant, Robert Cohen, called me later on and asked if I had anything that Peter’s niece could have. I inherited a LOT of stuff. The prize though was a beautiful lamp. The lamp is too big and heavy to ship, I still have it. I sent her one of his dress shirts and several sets of home sewn dinner napkins. I don’t remember now… I filled a pretty big box. I kept the silverware, which is not silver, but super cool (in my not so humble opinion) and still use the set to this day!

Peter loved cats and he had a slew of them on his ranch. My oldest inherited two of them, I do not remember their original names, but one got its name changed to ‘Stinky’ and you can imagine why. LOL. If I remember right the other one, I just called Grouchy. I know I was not in his will. I think I probably got a lot of stuff because I was the poor sapsucker that found him on the floor and way beyond help, other than a ride to the coroner’s office. I was also the last person to see him alive. I was able to confirm some suspicions for the coroner. He died the same weekend I was to launch his website which was at the time, promoting one of his newest books. (Not the one mentioned below)

Promo shot for one of Peter’s books, probably taken in New York, where he lived before he came west to California.

I am super glad that I got to meet him, and that he let me listen into his business calls so that I learned more about assertiveness and business sense. (some anyhow). When I put myself down, he let me know that it was not true. He heard me talk to myself one day while installing phone lines into his office. His was the very first job where I worked remotely. I took care of his Sonoma County office and his New York office…both from Cloverdale. (So to the woman in the Santa Rosa employment office who just a year or so before told me to get my head out of the clouds because I’d NEVER be able to work remotely! Bah!) I was allowed to haul my kids (Diane and Wesley) up to the ranch with me while I worked. He seemed to enjoy them.

10 Years of Peter Glen. A book of 100 essays.

He lived on a gated ranch, lovingly called: Jasmin Hill. The first time I drove there, I not only didn’t know how to get into the gate, but I was also way afraid that the residence was too rich for my blood. Then I called Peter a father, to his younger (ahem, very handsome-er, drag queen) boyfriend. Boyfriend whispered, “uh, Peggy he’s not my father.” Oh you talk about embarrassed. I knew I wasn’t going back to that house ever. And yet, I was called back over and over again. In the end, I was trusted enough to have keys to his house –the boyfriend left while Peter was doing shows on the road. I was the one who went in and took a mental snapshot of what was left so that when he called and asked, I’d have answers. I think he took the news better than I did. But, then he had the income to replace all that rich stuff, where I would have lost it permanently, I’d probably never had afforded it again! LOL – but, by then we knew each other pretty well, and I was pretty protective. He refurbished and redraped and rebuilt. I got a kick, after he died, while we were all sitting around telling stories about him when I realized that his fancy dancy drapes were not hemmed. That is when I learned that money allows for a whole lot of show…and if anyone knew about the show it was him. After finding him, after the ambulance came and went, Diane (my youngest) and I drove to my son’s school for an IEP meeting. Another day where I learned that life, it just goes on. Even so, I will never forget Peter Glen.

Peter and some ‘Happy’ Cows of California.

P.S. This was the man who paid me $50 an hour, to find a ‘show cow’ for a show in Chicago. I searched and searched, and made calls, and in the end, I said, ‘Peter, when you get to Chicago, call 4-H, those cows are used to doing shows.” & I’ve got the video! LOL (See page 101 of Peter’s book Encore, for the meaning behind the cow.)

For your information, if I remember right, Peter has three books. It might be two.
I own two of them. I own a few of his video’s (some used as customer service training video’s). The books that I am aware of:

  1. It’s Not My Department, How America can return to Excellence giving and receiving quality service.
  2. Encore!, 57 Essays to Prompt, Provoke, and Produce.

    If you read these books, you’ll find them semi-autobiographical, as Peter writes partly about customer service experiences he’s had and of course about his ideas.
A memorial to Peter Glen
A memorial collage that I made after Peter’s passing. I took my camera one of the last times I was on the ranch. Took photos of the ranch (Aka Jasmin Hill, note those words under his name in the graphic), the roses, etc. So, the background is his ranch, the roses are Peter’s. His name is the title graphic from his website. Another of his promo shots to the right (I did not take that one) and what I thought at the time was a fitting quote. RIP, Peter Glen.

Partial cover of Peter’s book, Encore!

If you knew Peter, and would like to add anything feel free to send anything you’d like (as long as it is something nice, and in good taste)–photos, stories, memories, history. I’ll put them up for you, and give you credit if you’d like. Feel free to email me at: pegrowe62@gmail.com

final note: Remember that I work hard to create graphics and websites and pages for a living. Please do not ‘borrow’ any of my work without my permission. It is unethical and immoral, and I will choose to enforce any legal rights that I have if I see someone is profiting from my work. Thanks!

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