Hello there; my name is Connie Poirier and I'd like to talk to you about a chronic problem no one wants to seem to address: Elly Patterson. As you've been told by her family, she recently wound up at the CMH after she had a breakdown last August only to have escaped last Thanksgiving. Now I know that Anne Nichols told you that I was riding her children about not being there to help look for her but, damn it, it's as if she's been forgotten or something. You'd at least think that someone would give Deanna some breathing space and try to help someone who actually is alive. I know that sounds insensitive but you, like Anne, weren't down in Ecuador. It's like Hawkeye said in the episode where the newsman interviewed the 4077th. I mean, if you bleed for everyone that's hurting, you're no good to yourself and you're no good to the people you're trying to help. I can sympathize with Deanna but I do wish that Phil wasn't the one to spare some time to figure out what, besides putting her under firmer guard, is to be done with Elly after she's released. I know that a woman like me who still resents her parents is the last one who should be talking about filial piety and that they don't owe Elly their horses; it's just that they shouldn't rubber stamp every decision he, Georgia and John make on their behalf. They actually have to see the halfway house Elly will be going to and talk to the people who decide what happens next in order to not look as dim, heartless and out-of-it as Gavin Caine. That idiot is all up in arms because, as he puts it, Tracy Mayes wants to drive away all the investors that are somehow supposed to descend from the heavens in a silver chariot and back his foolish expansion plans with talk of mutation. Greg has a friend of a friend who found out that some creep named Arsenault put the bug in his ear because he'd end up stuck with a bunch of swamp land that he can't turn into tract housing. Anyway, Tracy, Lawrence and some of the others are trying to get John to talk to the media about why Big Daddy Caine is up to monkey-business; I wish them well because those jerks remind me too much of my yapping pinhead dad for comfort.
Anyways, that's enough for now; it's my turn to have to listen to Elly talk about the time she had a fever of 40 degrees Celsius and how Farley kissed her feet after she covered them in garbage. I'll get back to you if and when I can.