I got a request for another letter, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it!

My Dearest Son,

I know it has been several weeks since you heard from me, and for any worry that may have caused you I apologize. However, I simply had to get away. I knew that your grandfather was behaving too well, but had no idea of what he was planning. If I had had and idea, I might have had him committed, or better yet, myself.

As you may remember, I told you that a while ago it was the rage of the local community college for the girls to try to sneak in and have their picture taken with your grandfather. Well, I fear it went far deeper than that on more then one occasion. It seems that more than one of the young women wanted the pictures taken sans clothing. They were nice enough to give your grandfather a copy of the pictures. Your grandfather, being the resourceful type, and having become addicted to the attention of the world at our doorstep, made arrangement to have the picture published in a full color 8.5 X 11 book entitled, “Shriveled Up Old Man, Hell.” In the book, there are more than fifty pictures of your grandfather in the altogether with his arm or various other body parts touching or resting on some young co-ed. Of course, your grandfather gave not thought to what it would do to my sensibilities to see him in that light, and did not use a pseudonym for publication.

I became aware of the matter when young Finglemyer’s mother pounded on the door demanding I open it up or she would kick the “motherf*#^ing thing down” (her words--not mine.) To say that she was upset would be a gross understatement and not even close to reality. As soon as I opened the door, she began beating me about the face and head with a copy of your grandfather’s book screaming at the top of her lungs that she had found her son and his friends closeted in the boy’s room “panting and abusing themselves” (again, her words--not mine.)

Hearing the commotion, both your grandfather and Mr. Spindleleg came to see what was happening. That, My Dearest Son, was when things got completely out of control. Upon seeing your grandfather, Prudence Finglemyer knocked me down and rushed at him. Your grandfather “decked her” as they say with a left hook. However, Prudence is not a perfect example of her name; she got up swinging. As Mr. Spindleleg and I tried to break up the fight, one of the combatants, (I don’t know which) managed to land a blow to my right eye which not only hurt like Hades, it knocked me out. When I came to, the first thing I saw was the worry in Mr. Spindleleg’s eyes, the second was your grandfather and Prudence Finglemyer being taken out of the house in handcuffs and the offending book lying innocently on the floor.

The EMTs insisted that I go to the hospital for x-rays, but would not allow Mr. Spindleleg to drive me, so I took a six block long five hundred dollar ride to the hospital in a bright red fire and rescue ambulance. Seven hours later, I finally made it to the jail to post your grandfather’s bail.

The reporters were waiting outside the courthouse demanding an interview with the world’s oldest “beefcake” star as they have dubbed your grandfather. Also out there were most of the young women whose images grace (I could use other words, but I try to remember that I am a lady) the pages of your grandfather’s book.

My hopes that I would be safe once I was home died as we turned onto our street. There were at least a thousand people milling around the house holding signs and banners and screaming for your grandfather to show himself. Most of the fringe groups were there including MAP, (Mother Against Porn) NOPE (No Porn Ever) and PISS (Porn is Sinful Seduction.) I begged Mr. Spindleleg to turn the car around, but it was too late, we had been spotted by none other than Prudence Finglemyer. I fear we will have to buy a new car because by the time the riot squad, or was SWAT, arrived, our car had been pelted with everything from tomatoes to rocks. Your grandfather was no help at all. During the melee, he continually made obscene gestures at the crowd, which further incited them.

So, My Dear Son, I hope you can understand why the next morning, without telling anyone, I took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the first plane leaving town. I returned only because your grandfather, in a moment of worry, or pique, reported me as a missing person, and the police, knowing that I had endured so much for so long could not imagine that I would willingly leave your grandfather to his own devices.

Being in a foreign country, I was unaware of the nationwide manhunt that was on for my supposed abductors and me. It wasn’t until I happened to catch it on CNN that I knew what was going on. I immediately contacted the American Consulate and they notified the police FBI who notified the local police who, in turn, notified your grandfather and Mr. Spindleleg that I was alive and well. I’m truly sorry that neither of them thought to notify you or your brother and sister that I had been found, (not that I was ever really lost.)

Well, My Dearest Son, I have to close because the realtor is here. I was presented with a petition demanding we move. Over 2000 people signed it. I think some of them are from what used to be known as the “cemetery vote” in politics. You know--dead people whose names and votes showed up on election lists.

Write soon,
Love always

Mom