MY LIFE AS A BILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER

These two Hoochie Mamas are my hot cousins from Lufkin, I forgot they looked me up years ago and they’re fun. Baby, we got teeth. That’s Frank, I miss Frank.

This is me, laughing at Becky Boyer and Lisa Dickison calling me The Cryptkeeper and other names. Like THESE bitches can hurt me. In case you wondered WHY I can laugh at it and it doesn’t bother me, here’s a little history below.

Don’t feel sorry for me, except losing my Greg, the rest of it made me who I am and I like me. I like standing up to men with dyed eyebrows trying to go “There, there little lady”, like poor Dustin Chapman, “Quotation Mark Eyebrows”.

I also set my own leg in Mexico but that’s another story.

I also figure if they treat me badly, and I am usually taller than they are, think of how they treat the littler women. OHMYGAWD.

I laugh at these “big men”, with their small dicks and “Glory Day” bullshit, except Dustin Chapman, I doubt he has any Glory Days. Good looking big dick Par of yesteryear doing his bit for the Taurus Club, well, I’ve got your number old buddy. Boy, do I.

Parnell McNamara: THE DEGENERATE OFFSPRING OF AN ILLUSTRIOUS SIRE

They’re too busy being adored by the ignorant to even bother to research what THEY’RE DEALING WITH, because they’re little paper tigers. A bright red M&M with a rotten peanut inside.

Call me names, go ahead and fk with me, I laugh at you.’

It took me ten years to teach a bird to talk in Mexico, you, ain’t shit.

It may be interesting to note that I have NEVER met Parnell McNamara. No. Not even once. When I moved here in the seventies, I walked in somewhere, and there they were, Mike and Parnell in their HOT glory days (me too mfkr), and I knew exactly what those two were. They looked at me, yummy at the time me, and I looked at them and I left.

I was TP’s friend quite by accident, I’ll write about that Hallmark moment another time, however.

Never met Parnell, never met Mike. They chewed up and plowed under women all over the world. They did nothing for their own wives but heartbreak. Too pretty, too much money, big famous daddy, look out. Consider poor Becky Boyer, still in love after all these years. Look at poor wife, the beautiful Linda.

Let’s get to it, the bastard, age 77 borrowed $5K from Sherre Johnston then had to get it from his then Chief Deputy Dave Kilcrease. Because Kilcrease keeps his license there he has to pretend this didn’t happen. It’s job of the future maybe maybe not blackmail and it sucks.

ALSO, there’s that loyalty oath clause in their MCSO Contract. The FBI agent thought that was a bit much but, hey.

My life as the daughter of a multi millionaire began in Seton Hospital on 25th. Street in Austin, Texas January 13, 1948.

My mother, whose medical records I obtained in the seventies, was so upset and hysterical they had to sedate her to have me. This is amazing because I weighed in at a little over three pounds, and frankly, as a woman, it must have been like a heavy period.

It should be noted that at the age of 34 I gave birth by Caesarean to a 9 pound 14 ounce child, now THAT is childbirth.

An incubator was my home for a month and after some research you are in an incubator and no one touches you, no rocking, no celebration at your birth, and, back then, I was NOT their only baby.

My mother, Sarah Mae Teutsch, a good Baptist girl hiding out in a Catholic Home for unwed mothers, probably only saw me for a moment and, to help her mental recovery, that was that. She went on about her life and I laid there for a month waiting for my new parents to pick me up.

Unfortunately, too late, I now know that being alone in that plexiglass bed for a month probably led to more than one “attachment” problems. I never wanted to cuddle with anyone and touching or hugging just triggered my “flight or fight” and I had no idea what that even was until my life of people wanting to touch me, hug me, or (puke) cuddle me was/is over.

The way they named you was very personal at the Orphanage. You got a name that began with your place in a one to twenty six alphabet. I was “E”, and they named me “Estelle”, and sealed my Birth Certificate, actually WITH sealing wax and that was that.

My adopted parents, Alphonse and Mildred, were Catholic and had been married thirteen years. They went to the Parish Priest, they handed out babies back then, ask the ghost of Mark Deering, and after some interviews and interviews with other people in their little city of Taylor, Texas, they got me. They were already thirty six, alcoholic, and years later, I went back to the Holy Name Infancy as soon as I was able to drive and lodged a complaint in person.

TWICE.

The first time, it was a nun. If the sight of a Sister of Charity doesn’t strike fear into you, I don’t know what does. She gave me some angry mumbo jumbo about how grateful I should be and I got nowhere. Years later, however, the nuns changed their Origami like habits like Sally Field in the Flying Nun, and the Organization hired non religious Social Workers.

I got one.

I went in and told her my story and she told me there wasn’t anything she could do. She told me this as she walked out the door and pointed to a file on her desk that she left me with on purpose. I opened it and read about my life and adoption.

I was about twenty seven back then and I read letter after letter about how wonderful my parents were and the Parish Priest, Father Pavelka, told the agency that my father drank a lot and they fought BUT, “a child is just what they need to bring this family together” or some justification.

My Uncle Louie, a brother in law of my mother’s, wrote that my father was an abuser, an alcoholic, dangerous and that my parents didn’t need a child to come into this.

Naurally, the weight of Father Pavelka’s recommendation carried the most weight and Mildred and Alphonse were given a by that time six pound, stringy, bald baby girl named “Estelle”, that they promptly renamed and rebaptized with a Saint for a name, “Bernadette”.

My father, a veteran, took his government money and built a beer joint on Highway 95, five miles out of town. We had lived behind my oldest Aunt in Taylor, she was born in 1895, and Daddy Alphonse couldn’t terrorize her as her screams pierced the 1948 Taylor Small Town quiet and, Lord knows, we can’t have the neighbors know.

It should be noted here that one of my reasons for being totally non religious is the Catholic Church plus the Taylor, Texas mentality. You could beat your family, and my Uncles did, so did Alphonse, usually on a Saturday night at some familial get together from Hell. The main thing was that YOU showed up to Church come rain, shine, or bruises. Alphonse was a “deacon” and an “usher” which he took seriously and if Mildred and I had a bad night, we merely pretended to come in late and sit in the back, exiting as soon as possible so no one would see our collection of inflictions and talk about us.

It didn’t matter what they did, it only mattered that other Catholics “knew”.

I figured this out rather quickly but I never, ever adhered to it, much to the chagrin of my parents, family, and an occasional Catholic Priest.

After years of hiding beatings, watching my cousins get thrown around, belittled, called names, culminating in rather like a zombie-like stare and look by about twelve, I went to our priest and asked him why he didn’t talk about terrorizing your family from the pulpit. This was met with anger from the priest, and a whopping lecture and slap around when I got off the Granger bus at home.

I grew to be five foot nine by the time I was about eleven, I had a shock of red hair my mother did a “Novena” and prayed to the Virgin Mary to change. I was smart, dyslexic, stand up mean, and a big animal lover.

My aunts adored me and my uncles hated me, much like my male and female life now.

Being six feet tall at about thirteen, red hair, green eyes, covered in freckles, I was called “turkey egg”, “slim”, “zipper”, and was taunted at every recess. An old photo of St. Mary’s school, shows the outside all brick and nice with a lonely shrub by the North window. That is where I used to spend recess. Behind that shrub, hiding from the name calling. Being adopted was its own fun thing too as my classmates knew what a “bastard” was, I didn’t care and I still find that word rather midevil.

I was the only girl of my generation and my farm cousins understood “blood” and “close”.

If you yell, “she ain’t blood” around me, you’ll still see me do a four minute mile running to protect a virginity I didn’t even understand.

Being different, I wondered who the hell and where the hell was this other six foot woman that had me.

Everywhere I went I looked for her. I looked and looked in crowds, nope, I was always the tallest.

When you are adopted, you are BORN into a mystery and that’s where I got my start with records, libraries, and great tenacity.

It took me twenty seven years to find Sarah Mae Teutsch, who I never met. She didn’t want to meet me or know me and after I found her I wrote her a letter a year for over twenty years, discovering and rediscovering her address as she and my two half siblings moved here and there to hide from me.

True.

Finding Sperm Daddy was much more difficult. My birth certificate states my mother’s name, punish the woman, but the line for my paternity says, “Father unknown”. Nice.

They gave me some mumbo untrue version of who and what at the adoption agency, it’s always the same bullshit.

Your mother was a fourteen year old girl who got into trouble and, of course, she couldn’t keep you.

She was 27 and Daddy Sperm was older than she. Not children, not at all.

That burst a few self soothing bubbles and made me look harder.

One night, I dreamed of how to find my father. I was already married to Vic by this time.

I dreamed that if I put an ad in the Personals of the newspaper in Lufkin, I could find out who he was.

Sarah Mae was dead by this time and, believe it or not, I didn’t really want to out of embarrass her even though I was greatly, hurt and angry. In fact, one day, I went to her address in Pasadena, Texas and rang the doorbell.

A young man with green eyes and a big toothy smile opened the door and I pretended to be lookng for another address. He directed me and I left. He had my face and this biological link was a wonderful thing for me.

Biological link.

I called the Lufkin paper and talked to the woman who wrote the personal ads.

“Looking for lost father”, it began, “around age 60, mother Sarah Mae Teutsch”, I can’t remember what else it said, but the woman, “Wanda” was kind and this kind of potential gossip in small town Lufkin was GOLD and she asked me to please let her know the minute I heard something.

I sent a check off to the Lufkin paper and waited.

Within days, the phone rang.

“Hello, are you Sarah Mae’s’ daughter”, the voice said.

“Yes, I am.”

“I am going to tell you everything you want to know, but first I want to tell you why I am going to tell you because Sarah Mae was my best friend and I promised never to let anyone know who got her pregnant. My own daughter had a baby in 1960 and we made her give that baby away, I have always regretted what I did and so now, I’m going to tell you what I know”, she said.

My father was one Ernest Lynn Kurth.

The Lufkin paper was, at that time, owned by the same family as the Waco Trib, the owners were the Cox Newspaper Chain. I had and have no respect fror the Waco Trib, and when I found out that my father, Ernest, had sold HIS paper, the Lufkin News, TO the Cox family, well, this was Strike one for sure.

I called Wanda.

She was uber excited and couldn’t wait for me to stop dangling Daddy’s identity and when she said, “well, who is he”, I told her to look out her window as his office was a corner square chunk of land right there AT the newspaper where she was.

Seems “Sonny”, my dad sold the newspaper to the Cox Newspaper Chain, but refused to sell his small stamp like corner office and parking lot to them, a bone of contention for sure. Sonny’s office was surrounded by a ten foot tall chain link fence with concertina wire at he top much like a gulag or prison camp.

Vic was in a murder trial and we couldn’t go see Sonny until that was over. I had decided that phoning him was not an option and we would just drive there, with baby Greg, and go from there, which we did.

We had already heard wild stories about Sonny. Seems he had shot a couple of people, minor wounds, and was totally lawless, a real troublemaker, BUT, since his Daddy was rich, and he was rich no one did anything.

The Kurths owned a mill, the forest, the houses, the water, the banks and everything in Angelina County, especially Keltys. They owned the General Store and gave out credit to the workers who also lived in their houses. They sold out to Owen Illinois and other huge companies, some of the Kurth brothers did well, and some went broke, Sonny, well, he made tons of money and ruthlessly owned the town.

We drove from Waco to Lufkin and Vic, after hearing stories about Sonny being gun happy, told me to wait at the newspaper while he went around the corner to see Sonny whose frog piss green Mercedes was parked at the office.

I sat with Wanda and we didn’t wait long when Vic came back hopping mad. Seems Vic had gone in and talked to Sonny who reached into his desk and pulled out a .45 and told Vic Feazell the following words:

YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOU’RE DEALING WITH

Vic was mad as hell and I already knew that if I wanted my story in the Lufkin paper, I could have it, mumbled to myself, “neither do you”.

Okay, I am a sappy old person. That said, I never loved another human being and felt as protected as I did that day with Vic Feazell. Whatever happened in the future, that day touched a heart I have tried for years to kill. No one ever took up for me before like Vic.

This is also what makes him just the best attorney you can get, IF, you can get him. I can joke and laugh and tell you that Vic can “cry at a contract dispute”, and that’s funny AND true. The man loses hours off his lifespan in court. Even when we hated one another, I still sent him clients. Facts are facts.

You will never find an ex client who didn’t have glowing things to say about him and the only Grievances that State Bar ever got against him were from fkn. Judges not clients.

A badge of courage in my book.

We got into the car and Vic rounded the corner back around Sonny’s office, by this time there was another car there, his lawyer, “Greasy Eddie” Mooney.

I asked Vic to slow down and when he did I hopped out of the car and walked into Sonny’s office.

There was a tiny, mean, bald man behind a big desk surrounded by about twelve some kind of bird hunting dogs in various stages of licking their testicles.

Sonny told me that he would NEVER have had sex with Sarah Mae Teutsch as she was the sister of his “fishing buddy”, William. Right?

Greasy Eddie, who wasn’t a bad guy, walked us out and told us that he believed me and that he figured Sonny had at least five or six other illegitimate kids out there. Great.

The Lufkin News had the story about Sonny pulling the gun etc on Vic a few days later and Sonny threatened the paper, I laughed.

All I wanted was to see these people and that seemed too much for them, you gotta love it.

Years later, thanks to DNA and 23andME I can tell you that the Kurth Foundation has about ten billion dollars AND on my paternal side, I have one sister, Elizabeth Wren, who Sonny kept, and thanks to science, I know that I have at least seven other siblings of various ages, thanks to Sonny.

His WILL had nine codicils and was intermingled with sayings from Marcus Aurelius, he left the house, the black man servant, “Mr. Sam”, to four horses and two dogs, or four dogs and two horses, until they died. Their lives were pampered and never changed, I drove by the house one day and the dogs were lying on the beautiful porch.

“There are your uncles”, I said to Greg.

Sonny had the dogs and horses buried with him in I believe Trinity County and my sister, Elizabeth get about five million a year each or 1% of his estate whichever is greater, the Kurth Foundation is in Dallas and this is his.

There is also a Kurth Animal Shelter and I like that.

He provided for animals he knew and future animals that had nothing and no one yet he littered the world with his offspring and turned women into unwed mothers it seems all over Texas.

I look at him and what he did and “YES” I am resentful. Very. I am resentful for myself, abandoned, given to two alcoholics, no education, no future, picked cotton, endured bullying, beating, and a life of fear.

Alphonse died in 1966 in a fist fight. Dropped right on dead. Mildred, poor lovely weak Mildred, child number 10 of 13, lived until 1992 and we were closed and loved one another. We had endured watching Alphonse drop dead in a fist fight on vacation and after he died, I was told there was no money for me and at 18, I left Taylor, never to return.

Rich men taking advantage of the local females is not a new thing, I am the product of that.

I just watched Netflix’s THE MAN WITH 1,000 KIDS and that tipped me over into thinking about Sonny Kurth again. What a bastard.

What am I saying? Maybe today I don’t even know.

I know that I started off investigating records in person at the library, on to rolodexes, on to Courthouses, on and on to the 2000 and MUCKROCK.

What would I have liked?

A chance.

A chance at an education, I’m a brilliant person, a lot of us are and thrust into a dead end life of picking cotton, minimum wage and a lot of just true hell didn’t interest my real father, a big Christian, one bit. Now, seven brothers and sisters too? Oh, great.

When we lost our Greg. I lost the only relative I ever knew.

I have stopped looking.

H