Daddy Dear

By Jeff Flagel

I have never taken anything more seriously than parenting, say nothing of doing it alone -- in a virtual vacuum -- every day bringing a new challenge, problem and occasionally a fantastic event involving one of my boys that I'll remember as long as I live. Eric asked me once some time ago if I would do it all again -- marry his mother again -- go it alone with two helpless children to care for. Even to this day -- as I look at him, and although his brother, Travis, has been a challenge, to say the least, when I think of all our triumphs -- I couldn't imagine living life without them. So I guess I didn't really answer the question, did I?

The events in this book are true, and they have been written in the hopes that my boys can learn more about their Dad later, when they dont want, or need anything from me, except of course, my love and friendship.

I was married and divorced inside of two years, and only six weeks later woke up to the responsibility of raising a 3 year old and 11 month old all by myself. I hadnt even adopted Travis yet, as his mother would play head games with us both I suppose punishing me for not being his natural father so go figure.

This book documents, in almost a timeline by-chapter, significant events and the emotional consequences that accompanied most all of them. It follows my career and desperation for monetary support early-on, as well as the boys lives from diapers through young adulthood, including childhood, adolescence, and the incredible task of letting go as they assert their independence. It is a journey of love one that I hope my children will understand at some point, when and if they take the time to sit and read this story of single fatherhood and of their own young lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 9, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462834525

Jeff Flagel

Jeff Flagel was born in February 1957 in Dayton, Ohio, and grew up in Southern California. He was married for two short years, and divorced in late 1982 when his wife decided marriage and motherhood were not for her. Seventeen years later, he remarried – with his 21 year old and 18 year old sons by his side. Jeff is a Director of Subcontracts at the Boeing Company in Southern California. This is Jeff’s first publication, yet he has written music for more than twenty years, and has kept a journal of his trials and tribulations of single fatherhood, the subjects of which are presented in this book.

Book preview

1

When we look at our kids, we sometimes hope that the special moments will stay with them forever. But when I think back to my childhood, only certain events stick out, and truthfully most of them are pretty vague, and a majority of those are things my parents would probably prefer that I forget.

My parents—Bert and Wendy. Both Bert and Wendy’s parents were children of Jewish immigrants from all over eastern Europe: Bert’s grandparents were from Russia (Kiev, Ukraine) and Wendy’s grandparents from Poland, Hungary and Bulgaria . . . bottom line: Eastern European Jewish roots. These are people that we kids heard much too little about who made the bold and fantastic journey to a new world at the turn of the century. They mortgaged their lives for a chance at prosperity in the new world—and thanks to them, their children, and their children’s children, and my brothers and me were all born in this country with the opportunity to do and be anything we chose.

Bert was born and raised in Dayton and Wendy in Los Angeles, though she had relatives in Dayton. They met during one of her visits to the midwest, fell in love, engaged in pre-marital sex (I’m assuming things haven’t changed that much) and were married Christmas day 1955 (no big deal for Jewish folk).

I was first—born February 24, 1957, then Mark on September 18, 1958, then David on October 15, 1961. Back then it was OK to have kids when you were still a kid yourself. By the time Mom was finished reproducing (love those scientific terms), she was only 24 years old. In those days, a woman who chose to have children had been raised that having and rearing and loving children made them whole. Girls nowadays think this is very funny—they often look at their own mothers and shake their heads and laugh. How often do you see women now that have children at a young age, and then feeling somehow dissatisfied? . . . as if they are missing something or haven’t experienced enough to give up their lives at such a young age. Do they seriously believe that having children is in effect giving up their lives?

My parents lived in Dayton until I was born, then moved to L.A. and lived with my mom’s parents for a short while (had to be short, since my Dad and grandfather loathed each other). Dad finished law school while Mom mommed. My earliest memory is when we lived in an apartment on Malcolm Avenue (in West L.A.), I was about four years old and Mark a bit over two—we were filling little dixie cups with water from the Sparkletts dispenser (not a cooler—don’t forget this is 1961), then walking to the center of our small, upstairs apartment living room, and pouring the water in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t until the neighbor saw water spots on her ceiling that Mom came up, probably upset with us—but I truly don’t remember.

I think that was the extent of the bonding that Mark and I did. We never got along after that—at least I don’t remember us ever being close. We’d fight about absolutely everything . . . from who stole whose toys to who played with the other’s friends to who snored the loudest and kept waking the other one up. Fighting was an understatement. We’d claw, hit and bite each other HARD. At times I wondered if I really wanted him dead—and as we grew up, it was I who felt that he wanted ME dead. When we both now say that we lived through it, you can take that literally.

As we grew up, moving from L.A. to Westminster, as Orange County was building up in the early 60’s, Dad was an 8 to 5 Monday through Friday suit & tie man, who’d come home from work, kiss Mom and hug her and after she’d tell him what terrible things we’d done all day—Dad would tan our hides (a nice term for beat the flying shit out of us). Mom was a housewife. A beautiful woman like her mother—long black hair and pretty, feminine facial features who always seemed to be smiling or thinking positive thoughts. She was a good cook, too—and at dinner we were all like a pack of hungry wolves—each attacking the meat as if it were our last meal!! We had our problems as all families do. Dad seemed to be either extremely happy or totally pissed, Mom didn’t like to lose arguments with Dad, Mark and I still hated each other and used David to get each other’s goat, but we were a fairly close knit family. Mark and I excelled in school—and David was the quiet one—the baby . . . yet neither of us recalls feeling any neglect on account of having a younger brother around. Speaking for myself, I think I would have preferred a little neglect sometimes as a substitute for getting my ass hammered with the fraternity paddle. I still have Greek letters tattooed on my cheeks from some of those lessons.

I was never a tough guy growing up. Conversely, I was a bit of a wuss! I ran away from confrontation at every opportunity; and because I was a chunky kid (many syllables for FAT), I was teased and challenged constantly. While this is just one of those things—I’m sure my Dad would have preferred a tough son who would stand up for himself—punch out the guy who was throwing those insults.

One time, when I was 11 years old, one of the neighbor kids named Mike Johnson was bothering my little brother, who had come home crying (again). My Dad pulled me aside like the long lost buddy and asked me to get Mike into our backyard and beat him up. Well, being the tough, macho-man badass kid I was, I started shaking and crying and in those short difficult breaths that happen after a severe cry, I told Dad that I didn’t want to beat up and hurt anybody (as if I thought I could). Well up from the rear comes Mark who had been listening close by—my buddy, who offered to clean Mike’s clock . . . and Dad and Mark went off armin-arm into the sunset together. By the way, Mark never did confront Mike. He did what Dad wanted—he provided just the right amount of lip service and lived up to the challenge itself, then both forgot that it ever happened.

I was president of the temple youth group. I got straight A‘s in school. I had been taking piano lessons since I was seven—I was pretty good even then and played for all of our temple choir „Junior" shows. I sang in the choir and was proud of my musical talent. I showed off for the girls at every opportunity, but strangely enough, even though I knew that some liked me—I never had the guts to approach them. I was afraid of their perfection—of my imperfection, and ultimately of assured rejection. When I was in seventh grade, my best friend Robert Laham and I would compete for the best grades. It was always close—we‘d both get all A‘s, and one of us would end up with an A-minus in something and we‘d ride the other one mercilessly until the next report card came out. We stayed best friends for years, probably because neither of us ever had girlfriends. We both wanted to be doctors, then. Last I heard, Dr. Robert Laham, M.D. was living somewhere in Germany serving out his last few years as an officer in the U.S. Army, where he had completed medical school some years earlier. But unlike many of my friends, my ultimate dream was to have a family—a wife who adored me (and who I adored in return) and children all my own, and we‘d all live happily ever after. It was a dream—but I was determined to make it a reality.

2

I was downstairs in the family room with Mark and David. We had been trying to do two things at once—our eyes glued to the TV (as usual), at the same time wondering why mom had been in tears for what seemed to be months. Actually, it had been about 6 weeks on and off. My father had been away on business trips before, but this one had lasted 4 weeks already—and Mom had cried the entire time.

Was he dead? The thought of that was scary, but that could also mean no more being scared of the wrath. . . yet we were confused and would never get a straight answer from Mom. My Bar Mitzvah had gone off without a hitch 3 months prior (on July 3, 1970), the 1970-71 school year had just begun. I was in the eighth grade—wanting girls to like me, acting ridiculous to that end . . . the usual.

Dad got home later that night, and Mom turned off the TV then returned to the couch to sit silently and sob (Mom couldn’t hide her emotions, so she never tried). Dad pulled up the ottoman and sat down as me (then 13), Mark (just turned 12) and David (almost 9) sat on the floor wondering what the hell was going on? Did Dad lose his job? Did Grandma or Grandpa die? Were we moving away from our friends? Spit it out, goddammit!!

And so he did. The words rattled around my brain and echoed again and again as if I was in a dream state. For the first time I felt like an observer, sort of like watching a TV show involving other people. It couldn’t be true . . . it wasn’t happening, not to us—not to our family. The words rolled off his tongue and took several minutes to stop whirling around and finally sink in. I’ll never forget the numbness that shot through my veins when my father, who never spoke softly, gently proclaimed: I want a divorce.

I don’t remember what he said after that. The next thing I recall is a standing hug. My eyes were as tall as his chest then. I felt myself crying, and out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Mark sitting a few feet from me, alone, fighting off tears. David was crying aloud, as Mom coddled him. Not long after that memory etched in stone, I remember my Dad leading my Mom off to the den, where they had closed the door and were talking privately, or so they thought.

Although the details are sketchy in retrospect, after I had snuck close enough to overhear the basics of the conversation—I remember Mom begging and sobbing—pleading with him not to do this. She’d do anything to make it work. Counseling, yes even curtail her volunteer work with the temple to make the marriage work. But his decision was made. And the biggest shock of all, the one that took months (even years) to sink in, was his admission to her of an affair with another woman, which had been going on for a couple of years now. I knew my Dad. He had lost face. His position on the pedestal had faltered. He was on the offensive now. Life as we knew it was over.

I was the oldest. I was tasked with starting dinner every night while Mom was either looking for work, or when she eventually found work as a secretary for an attorney in nearby Los Alamitos. I learned how to cook all kinds of stuff—roasts, meat loaf, chicken, hamburgers, salads, frozen vegetables, and my favorite . . . Kraft Macaroni & Cheese!! Mark and I still hated each other, taking turns using David as a weapon—bribing him into taking sides. Mom was sort of indifferent to our battles, or so it seemed at the time.

Then I remember Mom bringing home dates. Then boyfriends. Then serious boyfriends. I hated these people being in our house and eating at our dinner table. I was always uneasy—never knowing what to say, or whether I could inhale my food as I had become accustomed. One time when a serious boyfriend spent the night, I sat outside my mom’s room after everyone was in bed and the lights were out, and I listened in horror. I wanted to walk away but couldn’t. I wanted to hurt them both—or myself—anything to stop the pain. I was fourteen, and I still hadn’t grasped what had become of my family. And my Mom had been the epitome of a lady—a perfect person who loved her husband and lost, and who loved her children and had trouble coping with being a single mom, who could be both earthy and elegant. Who did I hate more? Her—for deceiving me and bedding the first man that could find the waterbed, or him—for tearing my mother from her place in my mind—her place of perfection and immortality.

Dad married Joanne the day after the divorce was final. Not terribly significant, I thought—it must have been laundry night (since Dad is without a doubt the most helpless man on the planet). I saw Dad on weekends, and all he seemed to do was bag on Mom and insist that we love Joanne and show our constant appreciation and concern for her. While I now understand what Dad was going through, and we have all grown to love Joanne—at the time I was miserable and uncomfortable, and I’m sure he could sense my feelings. I believe that contributed to the gradual disintegration of our relationship. I no longer wanted to be there, and I’m sure Dad knew it. He handled it with anger and jealousy, and things progressed through my teenage years to a complete absence of love—and two people that seemed to truly despise each other. To this day I don’t know what I wanted, but I’m certain what I didn’t want—and that was everything he did, everything he said, everything he stood for.

In high school things began to go sour. I wasn’t getting along with Mom—dreaded having to go visit Dad on the weekends, and even more—I dreaded those horrible camp outs where I’d get car sick in the back of the truck, had to sleep in the cramped trailer with people who snored (so did I, but I couldn’t hear myself) or on the nasty ground—all the while being subject to the wrath which seemed to be almost constant. My brother Mark was happy with lots of friends—some of them had been mine. He seemed to cope easily with Mom, Dad, or any situation much better than I, or at least this was my perception. My grades weren’t as they had been in Jr. High—seemed like I had to fight for my A’s, whereas they had come easily before. I put on more weight (I was already chunky)—and by the time I was a Junior I weighed over 220 pounds. I worked at McDonalds, and began to hang-out with friends that smoked dope, and basically just loitered hours on end.

By the time I graduated high school, I had moved in with my Dad, since Mom and I weren’t getting along and Dad seemed like he really wanted to re-establish a relationship with me. Well it wasn’t long until I was a fat, useless sonofabitch again, and found myself living in my 1967 Ford Galaxy, which Dad had arranged for me to buy WITHOUT my knowledge. In retrospect, it’s a good thing, too—since I had wanted a car like my first one (which I had driven to death)—a VW Bug . . . hardly suitable living quarters for the weight-watchers poster boy (the before picture, naturally).

What an experience. Since I had become a recluse of sorts, and was self-conscious about nearly everything about myself including my now 250 pounds of blubber, I seemed to face impossible situation after impossible situation. First, where do I park so no one notices that I am there—or worse, calls the cops? Then, how and where do I clean up? . . . and where do I go to the bathroom? Where does my laundry get clean? And being out of work part of the time, how do I afford gas and food? Somehow these questions always got answered, but only after an enormous painful struggle, seemingly every hour on the hour. I had friends that worked at Jack-in-the-Box who handed me leftovers, and very caring friends that would loan me a dollar or two for gas. But once in this situation, deterioration comes swiftly—and your friends become spectators, each of them slowly backing away from the gutter so as not to get splashed with the filth . . . No, not a literal description of my lack of shower time, but of my all-too-real situation. I was needy. I needed help, but was too self-conscious and just plain down on myself to even ask. Some call it pride, but I was completely humiliated and embarrassed. I’d have given everything for even an ounce of pride then.

Bill Grandia, a friend from Westminster High School, as well as when we had both worked at McDonalds, invited me to come over to his house sometimes. I had been living in the car for close to 16 months (on and off—but mostly on). Bill’s parents at first seemed indifferent to me—and that made me feel at least comfortable enough to agree to stay the night occasionally. And food was no problem. The Grandia’s had seven kids—Bill was the oldest—he was ten years older than his youngest brother. Mrs. ‘G’ would prepare huge bowls of food at meal time—and they made me feel like one of the family. She was a truly exceptional person—and I later learned that although I was the first, I was not the last transient that she took in.

I lived with the Grandia’s for months. I would go with Bill to work with his Dad in Santa Fe Springs—Mr. ‘G’ was an inventor, doodling with electronic measuring & testing devices and occasionally making a big sale to a high-tech company. The Grandia’s, without knowing it, gave me what I needed at the time—which was simply time to NOT feel so goddamn self-conscious about everything, and get back on my feet without any pressure. Then one day out of the blue, Mr. Grandia finally approached me and said that I needed