I have had two families in my lifetime--the
one I was born into and the one I made, adopted, picked up along the
way--this is about the family I was born into.

My mother’s parents were immigrants from
Russia who lived on the Lower East Side of New York. They had 8
children—5 girls
and 3 boys—and raised them by selling fruits and vegetables in a
pushcart
working 16-18 hours a day. My grandmother was a big, strong woman who
ruled the
children and my grandfather was a small, quiet man who provided a roof
over the
heads and food for all.

The five girls from childhood, and up, competed
with each other in every aspect of life while the brothers all went
their own
way. (When I called my uncle, who I hadn’t spoken to in over 40 years,
to tell
him my mother, his sister, died he said, “So what?” and hung up.)

My
father’s parents were immigrants from England and also lived on the
Lower East
Side. I never knew this grandfather and only got to know my grandmother
when I was
in my twenties. They had 4 children: 2 boys and 2 girls. I really don’t
know
much more about these grandparents.

My father was an ambitious go-getting
charmer along with being tall and good looking. When I was born he
started a
company-manufacturing children’s sportswear. By the time I was 5 he was
successful enough to buy a brand new home in the fashionable
neighborhood of
Pelham Parkway in the Bronx, a summer home in Lake Hiawatha, in New
Jersey and
could afford a new Buick every year. He was, among other things, a very
much
admired, and honored, salesman in the New York, and surrounding area.
All in all
he was the living the American dream but he was only with us every other

weekend. Whether this was due to his work or his home life is open to
question.
:O)

My mother would remain a ‘lower east side’
woman her whole life. She didn’t
‘grow’ as her life got better. She really tried her best to be a good
wife, a
good mother and a good housekeeper. She only succeeded in the latter
though she
was a lousy cook! She did do the best she could but, unfortunately, my
father
didn’t appreciate her effort.

They had two sons: my older brother and me.
There is a question about an adopted sister but that’s all foggy in my
memory.

My parents were certainly mismatched and when they were
together---every other weekend—it was war, verbally and, I seem to
recall, once
physically. He constantly put her down saying that he was ashamed to
take her to
the any of the glamorous affairs involved with his work because of the
way she
dressed and acted.

My father didn’t know how to show love except
by
giving ‘things’ while my mother smothered me and wanted me to provide
her with
what my father couldn’t/wouldn’t. My mother lived as if we were going to
the
poorhouse the next day while my father stayed in the best hotels, was
known by
all the owners of the best restaurants wherever he traveled. My mother
bought us
second hand clothes while my father insisted we always go first class.

It

wasn’t until I was in my early teens that I discovered my hero—my
father—had
feet's of clay. He was known as a notorious womanizer, showed off his
children
only when it got him something, like an extra order from a buyer. His
philosophy
was “Screw them before they screw you.” He didn’t believe in loyalty and
used
people up. He was strictly for himself in all aspects of life.

I
‘divorced’ my family when I was 16 going out on my own. Until her death,
about
30 years later. I think I saw my mother three times, once when she flew
down to
Miami where I was living at the time, to beg me to call my father and
tell him
not to go through with his divorce so he could marry another woman. (One
he
thought would bring him some ‘class’, would be a good hostess for him,
etc., and
she did.) I saw my father a few times after I left home mostly when it
was to
his advantage: when he could introduce me to his business friends when I
was in
my Marine Corps dress blues or when I was being honored in Memphis for
my work
with Weight Watchers and one time when I insisted he attend a session
with my
therapist and me—he agreed to the latter because it was in Memphis and
he was
there for the dinner.

My brother has been married for 57 years to
a
wonderful woman who taught him how to love, to be a good father and
grandfather.
Without his wife’s, Carol, efforts, my brother and I would have had no
communication for the past 50 years. She has insisted that I know what
was
happening in his life and for him to know what was happening in my
life.

When I was 31 years old I came to realize that my parents
did the
best they could with what they had, how they were brought up, what they
were
taught and whether they needed/wanted it or not I forgave them.

Trust
me—this is a very condensed version—if you want all the details you can

buy my books, one being a 148 page novella, "The Free Prisoner" which is
a fictionalized story of my childhood and my family.  The other is
“Letting It All Hang Out” in which I devoted
a few
chapters to my take on my parents.  Or, if you have questions feel free
to ask and I will answer.