Growing up, I did not have much of a relationship with my dad. He came over on holidays, such as Christmas and Easter with the appropriate gifts and baskets of eggs. He came over on my birthday. He came whenever I needed to be taken to the Emergency Room, which was more often than most kids since I was what they called, "accident prone." Other than that, I didn't see him much and, when I did, I really did not know what to say to him. I remember riding on the bus and having Grandma point out the street where my Dad lived (Wiota Street). We would look down the hill quickly to see if his car was there, so we'd know whether or not he was home.
I remember going to his house on Wiota Street, at least once. I was excited to go, but was not very comfortable once we were there. The whole time we were there, Daddy and Kathie (my step-mother) were arguing with each other. In addition, Kathie was complaining to Grandma about what a horrible husband Daddy was. I did not like the fact that Kathie was saying such bad things about my dad, even though I liked Kathie the best of my Dad's three wives.
As an adult, I got to know Kathie's son, Chris, and his wife, Earleen. They would tell me all these stories about what a great guy my Dad was and how much fun they'd had with him when they were growing up. Even though the stories were funny and allowed me to know my Dad a bit better, a part of me did not want to hear them. I did not want to hear what great Dad my Dad had been to other people.
One of the hardest things I have done in my life was to get to know my Dad. And, I would guess, that it has not been easy for him to get to know me, either. But it is one of the best things I have done. At first, it was excruciatingly uncomfortable for me to spend time with him. I did not know what to say. It felt so forced and contrived. I was embarrassed. But I really, really wanted to have a relationship with him. And, now that I do, it is a huge blessing in my life.
By the time Grandma died, I felt quite close to my dad. He was a big help and comfort to me in the wake of her death, particularly since my cousins and their parents were quite critical of me. I know that he felt the anguish of losing her as much as I did and that he was not concerned about getting any of her material possessions or anything like that. He loved her, just as I loved her, and that was all.
Since it is Father's Day, I want to honor my Dad with a list, in no particular order, of why he is such a wonderful Dad and why I am so grateful to have him:
1. He was smart enough to know that the best life for me would be with my Grandma.
2. He fought for me in court, rather than just let my mother take me.
3. He has always believed in me and been proud of my accomplishments, no matter how small.
4. He never, ever criticized me for being fat or for being single.
5. He laughs at my jokes.
6. We agree about so many things, particularly politics and music.
7. I know that I am his favorite.
8. He is totally honest about his feelings, no b.s. from him ever.
9. He has integrity.
10. He is not a phony. He does not make a public spectacle of himself. He is what he is and that's all.
11. I can tell him anything.
12. He loves me, no matter what.
13. He gave me away at my wedding. (Although he did say he was tempted to keep me!)
14. He is passionate about what he believes in.
15. He cannot be quiet if he knows something is wrong.
People sometimes say I am like my Dad. That is high praise, in my opinion.
I love you, Daddy!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
My Brother, Michael
Last time, I wrote about my mother and a bit about my brother, Michael. I want to write more about Michael today. I think his story is so important because, except for my dad fighting for us and my Grandmother raising us, Steven and I could both be just like him.
My parents separated when I was about 2 and a half years old. Their divorce was quite a lengthy and drawn-out proces and, by the time it was done, my mother had already had another child (Michael) with another man (Bart). Both of my parents were fighting for custody of Steven and I. Now, I fully believe that our mother did not really want custody of us, she just did not want our Dad to have custody of us because she wanted to hurt him as much as she could. In those days, it was most common to give the custody of the children to the mother. My dad knew he needed something huge to use against her if he were to have even a chance of winning custody. He had found out about Michael through me. I kept talking about "the baby." Although my mother had said nothing about having had a baby, my dad acted on a hunch. He knew my mom had been in Tennessee for a few months and figured that she'd had the baby there. He called and finally found the record of the birth of a male baby to my mother. She'd named him Michael and, unbelieveably, she had put my dad's name on the birth certificate as the father of the baby, rather than put Bart's name since she was not married to him. My dad knew that Michael was not his. He'd had a vasectomy as soon as Steven was born. He got a copy of the birth certificate and took it to court with him. Outside the courtroom, as they waited to go in, my dad's attorney had a little talk with my mother's attorney. He let her attorney know that my dad was prepared to seek custody, not only of Steven and I, but of Michael as well, given that he was listed on the birth certificate as Michael's father. Also, his attorney told her attorney that her dad (my grandpa Tessler) was prepared to testify in court that she (his own daugher!) was an unfit mother and should not be given custody of us. Her attorney relayed the message to her and then walked down the hallway to where my dad, his attorney, my grandpa Tessler, and my grandma and grandpa Roberts were waiting. He told them she had agreed to not fight for custody and would tell the judge that my dad could have custody of Steven and I. Score one for daddy!
After the divorce, my mother married Bart. I know that Steven and I went to visit them at least once. I believe that we may even have spent the night at their house. Bart was very nice to us, so I thought very highly of him. I certainly liked him more than I liked my mother. Their marriage did not last long and, interestingly enough, when they were divorced, Bart got full custody of Michael. Then, as I related in my previous post, my mother took Michael and never brought him back.
When I finally found out where my mother and Michael were, the one and only thing I wanted to know was whether or not Bart had ever found Michael. Had Michael known his dad? When we met our mother for the first time, at Knott's Berry Farm, I was shocked at how Michael looked. He was as tall as Steven, (over 6ft), but very heavy. He had such a huge pot belly, he folded his hands and rested them on top of his belly for the photos we took. He had absolutely NO social skills, nor did he have any hobbies or interests. He did not go to school and had not gone on a regular basis since he'd been in 5th or 6th grade. (He was about 18 by the time we met them) It turned out that all he did was sit at home all day, watching tv, smoking pot, and eating junk food while our mother was at work. I was horrified. I kept waiting for an opportunity to get to talk with Michael alone. Finally, I did and I asked him if he ever heard from his father. He sneered, "No. My dad is just a big jerk!" I was heartbroken. Bart had never found his son. I could picture in my mind that day, so many years prior, when Bart had stood in our living room, sobbing because he'd lost his son. I tried to talk to Michael about that, to tell him what a good dad he had and how much his dad loved him and wanted to find him. He would hear nothing of it.
Well, as I have already said, I saw my mother and Michael twice more. Once, at their apartment and once at their Christmas party. After that, things went from bad to worse for poor Michael. Our mother had decided he needed to learn a trade, but the kid could not even pass the math test to qualify for a job at McDonald's. She decided to enlist him in the Army, thinking that they would teach him something that he could use for a career. Well, he was so beligerent and uncooperative, the army sent him back almost immediately. By that time, Heinz's wife had died and he and my mother were married. Heinz did not particularly like Michael, nor did he want to support him financially. But, since Michael had no place else to go and no way to support himself, Heinz did not have a lot of options. One day, however, Heinz came hom and Michael held a gun on him. Michael threatened to kill Heinz if he did not give Michael some money. Heinz called the police and pressed charges against Michael for threatening him with a weapon. Michael was sent to jail for a short time. When he got out, Heinz refused to have anything to do with him, so Michael was living in a park with other local homeless people. The last time Steven talked to our mother, she said that Michael had just gotten out of jail again, was living in a park, and had had a baby wtih some girl. What a complete waste of a life! He had no home, no job, no skills, a baby but no way to help raise it, and was just another dirty, panhandling bum living on the street.
When I found out where my mother was, my grandmother was CERTAIN I'd want to go and live with her and not with my Grandmother anymore. She could not have been more wrong. I never, EVER for one second even considered moving in with my mother. When I saw Michael, I knew I was right. My life would have been just as wasted as Michael's was, if I'd lived with her. I thank Heavenly Father every day for my grandma. She literally saved my life.
I have no idea whether or not Michael is alive or where he is.
My parents separated when I was about 2 and a half years old. Their divorce was quite a lengthy and drawn-out proces and, by the time it was done, my mother had already had another child (Michael) with another man (Bart). Both of my parents were fighting for custody of Steven and I. Now, I fully believe that our mother did not really want custody of us, she just did not want our Dad to have custody of us because she wanted to hurt him as much as she could. In those days, it was most common to give the custody of the children to the mother. My dad knew he needed something huge to use against her if he were to have even a chance of winning custody. He had found out about Michael through me. I kept talking about "the baby." Although my mother had said nothing about having had a baby, my dad acted on a hunch. He knew my mom had been in Tennessee for a few months and figured that she'd had the baby there. He called and finally found the record of the birth of a male baby to my mother. She'd named him Michael and, unbelieveably, she had put my dad's name on the birth certificate as the father of the baby, rather than put Bart's name since she was not married to him. My dad knew that Michael was not his. He'd had a vasectomy as soon as Steven was born. He got a copy of the birth certificate and took it to court with him. Outside the courtroom, as they waited to go in, my dad's attorney had a little talk with my mother's attorney. He let her attorney know that my dad was prepared to seek custody, not only of Steven and I, but of Michael as well, given that he was listed on the birth certificate as Michael's father. Also, his attorney told her attorney that her dad (my grandpa Tessler) was prepared to testify in court that she (his own daugher!) was an unfit mother and should not be given custody of us. Her attorney relayed the message to her and then walked down the hallway to where my dad, his attorney, my grandpa Tessler, and my grandma and grandpa Roberts were waiting. He told them she had agreed to not fight for custody and would tell the judge that my dad could have custody of Steven and I. Score one for daddy!
After the divorce, my mother married Bart. I know that Steven and I went to visit them at least once. I believe that we may even have spent the night at their house. Bart was very nice to us, so I thought very highly of him. I certainly liked him more than I liked my mother. Their marriage did not last long and, interestingly enough, when they were divorced, Bart got full custody of Michael. Then, as I related in my previous post, my mother took Michael and never brought him back.
When I finally found out where my mother and Michael were, the one and only thing I wanted to know was whether or not Bart had ever found Michael. Had Michael known his dad? When we met our mother for the first time, at Knott's Berry Farm, I was shocked at how Michael looked. He was as tall as Steven, (over 6ft), but very heavy. He had such a huge pot belly, he folded his hands and rested them on top of his belly for the photos we took. He had absolutely NO social skills, nor did he have any hobbies or interests. He did not go to school and had not gone on a regular basis since he'd been in 5th or 6th grade. (He was about 18 by the time we met them) It turned out that all he did was sit at home all day, watching tv, smoking pot, and eating junk food while our mother was at work. I was horrified. I kept waiting for an opportunity to get to talk with Michael alone. Finally, I did and I asked him if he ever heard from his father. He sneered, "No. My dad is just a big jerk!" I was heartbroken. Bart had never found his son. I could picture in my mind that day, so many years prior, when Bart had stood in our living room, sobbing because he'd lost his son. I tried to talk to Michael about that, to tell him what a good dad he had and how much his dad loved him and wanted to find him. He would hear nothing of it.
Well, as I have already said, I saw my mother and Michael twice more. Once, at their apartment and once at their Christmas party. After that, things went from bad to worse for poor Michael. Our mother had decided he needed to learn a trade, but the kid could not even pass the math test to qualify for a job at McDonald's. She decided to enlist him in the Army, thinking that they would teach him something that he could use for a career. Well, he was so beligerent and uncooperative, the army sent him back almost immediately. By that time, Heinz's wife had died and he and my mother were married. Heinz did not particularly like Michael, nor did he want to support him financially. But, since Michael had no place else to go and no way to support himself, Heinz did not have a lot of options. One day, however, Heinz came hom and Michael held a gun on him. Michael threatened to kill Heinz if he did not give Michael some money. Heinz called the police and pressed charges against Michael for threatening him with a weapon. Michael was sent to jail for a short time. When he got out, Heinz refused to have anything to do with him, so Michael was living in a park with other local homeless people. The last time Steven talked to our mother, she said that Michael had just gotten out of jail again, was living in a park, and had had a baby wtih some girl. What a complete waste of a life! He had no home, no job, no skills, a baby but no way to help raise it, and was just another dirty, panhandling bum living on the street.
When I found out where my mother was, my grandmother was CERTAIN I'd want to go and live with her and not with my Grandmother anymore. She could not have been more wrong. I never, EVER for one second even considered moving in with my mother. When I saw Michael, I knew I was right. My life would have been just as wasted as Michael's was, if I'd lived with her. I thank Heavenly Father every day for my grandma. She literally saved my life.
I have no idea whether or not Michael is alive or where he is.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
My Mother Is Dead
I found out on Monday (Memorial Day, by coincidence) that my mother is dead. She died in Henderson, Nevada on February 19, 2007. I have no idea how she died. I have never been close to my mother. My childhood memories of her are not good. She was the woman who would come to visit us at Grandma's house and would greet me, not with a 'hello' or a hug, but with the words, "There's my ugly daughter!" Then, she would demand to see my fingernails, which were always bitten down to the quick, and would scold me for biting them. She would often have a man with her (rarely the same one twice, though) whom she would introduce as "Your new daddy." (If I had a dime for every new daddy she brought around.......but, I digress.) One time, she and our newest daddy took Steven and I on a Sunday. Grandma did not want to let her take us, she preferred that we be visited at her house where she could keep an eye on things, but she had no legal right to deny our own mother a day with us. The deal was that they would take us for the day but would deliver us to the church in time for Sacrament Meeting, which was still held in the evenings in those days. We left the house that morning, dressed for church. They drove us to the boyfriend's parent's house. I have no idea where it was but it seemed like a very, VERY long drive. Once there, they put us in the backyard and gave us each a sandwich. There were no trees or grass in the backyard; just dirt. There was no shade or anyplace to sit. We just had to sit in the dirt in the sun and eat our sandwiches. There was really big dog (I believe it was a German Shepherd) out there with us who scared me. We sat out there all day while the grown-ups were all in the house doing who knows what. No one ever came to check on us or talk to us. Finally, it was time to leave. Our mother came and told us to get in the car. We sat in the back seat while she and the boyfriend sat in the front. I remember they had the radio on and one of the songs that played was the song about Billy Jo McAllister jumping off the Talahachee Bridge. (How strange is it that I remember that???) Again, the drive seemed to take forever. At some point, our mother started telling us that she was not going to take us home and that we would never see our grandma again. We were, of course, very upset by this and began crying and begging her to please take us home. She and the boyfriend laughed and laughed. I was not old enough to put together the fact that, since they were laughing, it probably wasn't true. I felt sure we were doomed to never go home again. We cried and begged and they continued taunting us. Finally, we reached the church building. Steven and I lept from the car, hardly waiting for it to come to a stop. Sacrament Meeting had already begun and Grandma, as usual, was up in the very front, playing the organ. Suddenly, into the chapel ran Steven and I, dirty and crying and calling out for our Grandma and making quite a scene. Grandma quickly grabbed us and took us outside to try to calm us down. We told her what had happened. She soothed us and calmed us down and took us back into the meeting. The story doesn't end there, however. A few months later, on a Saturday, there was a knock at our door. Bart, our mother's second husband and the father of her third child, Michael, was at the door. We'd met Bart a time or two and he'd always been kind to us, so I liked him more than the other daddy's our mother had brought around. This time, though, Bart was crying......sobbing......asking Grandma if she'd seen or heard from our mother. We had not heard a word from her since that horrible Sunday, Grandma told him. He said that she had made arrangements with him to take Michael for a day and that she'd taken him and never come back. He was desperate to try and find his son, who was only probably 3 or 4 years old. Grandma looked at us nervously. I know she was wishing that we were not there hearing this conversation. She promised Bart that, if she heard anything at all, she'd call him. After Bart left, I completely fell apart, realizing that the same thing that had happened to us on that Sunday had happened to Michael, but with one difference: she really hadn't taken him home. That could have been us! All three of us (Steven, Grandma, and me) were very scared. Grandma drilled us on what we should do if someone tried to take us away, had us recite our phone number, address, her name, and other vital information, to make sure that we knew it all. We talked about how to call the police or how to get help if someone is trying to grab you on the street. We spent the next several years of our childhood afraid that, at any moment, she might come and take us away, just as she had done with Michael. I have never forgotten how awful it was to see Bart sobbing that day.
I did see my mother again. It was when I was 20 years old. I'd been going to BYU and had tried to find out anything about her and her whereabouts. It wasn't because I cared about her or wanted to see her. It was just that I had always worried about Michael and wondered if poor Bart had ever managed to find him. Finally, on President's Day, the last holiday of the schoolyear and the last day I could possibly sleep in, my phone rang at about 7 a.m. It was my Grandma Fischer, my mother's mother. Grandma Fischer and I were certainly not at all close. I did not particularly like her at all but had always been nice to her because she was my only link to my mother and also because Grandma would never have allowed me to be rude to anybody, much less a family member. Grandma Fischer announced that she was now going to tell me where my mother was. It turned out she'd been living for years in Wesminster, California. I wrote a letter to Michael at their address. I received a letter back from my mother, all excited that I wanted to see her again. I wanted to scream, "I don't want to see you again, you idiot! I want to know what happened to Michael!" Long story short, I saw my mother and Michael three times in my adult life. The first time was at Knott's Berry Farm. We decided to have our first meeting be in a public place. I was shocked at Michael. He was fat, completely anti-social, had not been to school past about the 5th or 6th grade, and basically was just a surly guy. The second time we saw them was at their apartment. As soon as we got there, my mother offered us some pot. Steven said, "Sure!" and he and Michael went out back to smoke a joint. I stayed in the apartment and my mother showed me her photo albums. Among the photos were many of her boyfriend, Heinz. There were also many of Heinz with his wife. It was then that I realized my mother was somebody's mistress. The third time we saw her was at a Christmas Eve party. She came to pick us up to take us to this party at her house. When we got to the party, it was just a dark, smoky room, filled with older men who were all drinking. My mother introduced me to them and told me that they were all her "friends from the bar." She encouraged me to go up to each on and sit on their lap or give them a kiss. I flat-out refused to do any of that; I wanted nothing to do with these guys. When she kept pushing, I told her I wanted to go home. We got Steven, who was outside smoking pot with Michael again, and she had someone drive us home. My own mother had been trying to pimp me out! That was the last time I saw her. And now I find out that she is dead. I don't feel sad, really, I just feel weird. I keep saying it to myself, "My mother is dead......My mother is dead......" I don't want to cry or anything. I just don't know how to feel. Or, for that matter, what to do. Do I tell people, "By the way, my mother is dead" I haven't really said anything to anyone. I guess this post is, for the three people who might possibly still check on here for new posts, my way of announcing it. My mother is dead. I don't miss her. I am eternally grateful to not have been raised by her. I had nothing in common with her. But she did give me life and, because of that, I guess I do owe her my thanks. My mother is dead.
I did see my mother again. It was when I was 20 years old. I'd been going to BYU and had tried to find out anything about her and her whereabouts. It wasn't because I cared about her or wanted to see her. It was just that I had always worried about Michael and wondered if poor Bart had ever managed to find him. Finally, on President's Day, the last holiday of the schoolyear and the last day I could possibly sleep in, my phone rang at about 7 a.m. It was my Grandma Fischer, my mother's mother. Grandma Fischer and I were certainly not at all close. I did not particularly like her at all but had always been nice to her because she was my only link to my mother and also because Grandma would never have allowed me to be rude to anybody, much less a family member. Grandma Fischer announced that she was now going to tell me where my mother was. It turned out she'd been living for years in Wesminster, California. I wrote a letter to Michael at their address. I received a letter back from my mother, all excited that I wanted to see her again. I wanted to scream, "I don't want to see you again, you idiot! I want to know what happened to Michael!" Long story short, I saw my mother and Michael three times in my adult life. The first time was at Knott's Berry Farm. We decided to have our first meeting be in a public place. I was shocked at Michael. He was fat, completely anti-social, had not been to school past about the 5th or 6th grade, and basically was just a surly guy. The second time we saw them was at their apartment. As soon as we got there, my mother offered us some pot. Steven said, "Sure!" and he and Michael went out back to smoke a joint. I stayed in the apartment and my mother showed me her photo albums. Among the photos were many of her boyfriend, Heinz. There were also many of Heinz with his wife. It was then that I realized my mother was somebody's mistress. The third time we saw her was at a Christmas Eve party. She came to pick us up to take us to this party at her house. When we got to the party, it was just a dark, smoky room, filled with older men who were all drinking. My mother introduced me to them and told me that they were all her "friends from the bar." She encouraged me to go up to each on and sit on their lap or give them a kiss. I flat-out refused to do any of that; I wanted nothing to do with these guys. When she kept pushing, I told her I wanted to go home. We got Steven, who was outside smoking pot with Michael again, and she had someone drive us home. My own mother had been trying to pimp me out! That was the last time I saw her. And now I find out that she is dead. I don't feel sad, really, I just feel weird. I keep saying it to myself, "My mother is dead......My mother is dead......" I don't want to cry or anything. I just don't know how to feel. Or, for that matter, what to do. Do I tell people, "By the way, my mother is dead" I haven't really said anything to anyone. I guess this post is, for the three people who might possibly still check on here for new posts, my way of announcing it. My mother is dead. I don't miss her. I am eternally grateful to not have been raised by her. I had nothing in common with her. But she did give me life and, because of that, I guess I do owe her my thanks. My mother is dead.
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