The Family That Never Was

By Jacque Lynn Singer

This highly emotional novel follows six generations of one family from the eighteen hundreds to the present. The main thrust of the story revolves around Jacob and Esther, their unabashed love for one-another, and their total lack of love, care, and nurturing of four children whom they brought into the world.

The four children, of whom I am the oldest, grow up fending for themselves or relying on me, their Cinderella without glass slippers. The novel chronicles life and death, passionate love, rape and incest, childbirth and abortion, open heart surgery and more, including some fun and fascinating experiences; as well as our innumerable attempts to bring our family together.

Along with being a novel abounding with emotion and incredulous happenstances, it hopes to disprove a long-standing adage that people live what they learn; as the four siblings around whom the novel is built have all risen above The Family That Never Was to being successful, loving and caring individuals with thriving families of their own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452087528

Jacque Lynn Singer

Jacque Lynn Singer was born in Hartford, Connecticut in the early nineteen-forties, moved to Central California to complete high school and college and is now retired in Southern Nevada. She received her bachelors and masters degrees in education through the California State University system and dedicated forty years of her life to teaching basically sixth, seventh, and eighth graders and trying to help them find their niches in life; five of the forty years were spent teaching for a virtual school in Nevada where she also worked as a home school counselor. One of the CTIIP grants received by Ms. Singer while teaching language arts in California allowed her to give students the opportunity to read, story tell, and act while being videotaped which greatly enhanced the students writing styles. Although she has no other published books, she has written innumerable poems for friends and family. She also built and published a website which provides immeasurable resources for students in grades kindergarten through high school. Her family consists of her wonderful husband James, three sons, ages thirty-five to fifty-two, seven grandchildren, and four great grandchildren.

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© 2011 Jacque Lynn Singer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/8/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8750-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8751-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8752-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011900902

Printed in the United States of America

Edited by First Editing 10/2010

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

A revealing novel based on actual fact about a dysfunctional family…

As each generation attempts to rectify the problems of the previous one,

new dysfunctional situations arise — are all families this dysfunctional?

Could this be your family?

By

Jacque Lynn Singer

Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FORWARD

MY RATIONALE

MY LIFE AS A CHILD (THE EARLY YEARS)

OUR FIRST NEW START

CALIFORNIA, HERE WE COME

MY COLLEGE YEARS

IT’S NOW OR NEVER (SANDI’S REBIRTH)

THE LATER YEARS

I’M A TEACHER NOW

THROWN OUT

PREGNANT AND NOWHERE TO TURN (OR MY MOTHER LOSES MY JOB)

ANOTHER SCHOOL DISTRICT — ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING

STARTING AGAIN — I BUY MY FIRST HOME

TWO CHRISTMAS DILEMMAS (AN UNWANTED GIFT)

COULD I POSSIBLY BE PREGNANT AGAIN? (OR THE WORST DECISION I’VE HAD TO MAKE)

TIME MARCHES ON (OR WHAT ELSE CAN GO AMISS?)

MY FAMILY GROWS — NOW THERE ARE TWO

INSURANCE SAYS YES — NO MORE HUGE BREASTS

BACK TO THE DATING GAME — I FIND THE REAL MR. RIGHT

A MUTUAL PROPOSAL, A MARRIAGE, AND A LONG TRIP

A FINAL ATTEMPT TO MAKE THE FAMILY THAT NEVER WAS THE FAMILY THAT IS

CHARLIE UNRAVELS AND MY BODY FALLS APART

CHARLIE GETS NEW GUARDIANS AND TONY SUCCUMBS TO CANCER

STRANGE DEATHS TAKE MY MOTHER AND JAMES’ DAD

CHARLIE GROWS UP (OR RETIREMENT CAN’T COME FAST ENOUGH)

OUR THREE SONS

JACQUE FALLS AND CAN’T GET UP — JAMES TO THE RESCUE

FINAL REVELATIONS (OR IS IT A NEW BEGINNING?)

DEDICATION

This book could only be dedicated to my husband, to whom I’ve been married for thirty years. He has seen me through years of joy and misery, helped raise my two boys, which he swore he would never do, and has provided me with the strength to go on, no matter how sick or depressed I’ve been. When I had a complete breakdown and my entire immune system quit, he took over most of my household chores and still found time to be a part-time caregiver and lover to me. Without him and his undying support, I would not be here to write this book.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank my husband for his encouragement and belief that I could successfully complete this prodigious undertaking. Each time I would throw my hands up in despair, he would find reason to strengthen and embolden me to go on.

I would also be remiss to leave out my grandchildren, who make the sun shine for me when I am feeling down and dreary.

Thank you to Alex, Allen, and Sandi, my siblings, who have contributed to making my dream cover for this book a reality.

To my neighbor, who is an avid reader, thank you for taking time to read the beginning of this book, provide constructive criticism, and inspire and stimulate me to continue. It changed my direction and I believe made this much more readable.

Finally, special thanks go to my family without whom I would have had no reason to tell this story. Although most in the family do not know this book is in existence, our dysfunctional parents and others who followed provided great fodder for what you are about to read.

FORWARD

This book is different from any book you have ever read. As you start your journey through these pages, you will accept it is pure fiction, a narrative of sorts. There is a saying, however, that truth is stranger than fiction and this story will make that adage come to life for you, because everything you read happened.

Who am I and what gives me license to write a book such as this? I am not a celebrity about whom you might care to learn more. My name is Jacque Lynn Singer. I am a sixty-seven-year-old disabled woman who has personally experienced every occurrence, positive and negative, that this story relates. I stay on as much medication as I do food; well, almost as much. I could list the medications, but it would bore you, and you would not think that I would be capable of penning this book. I am not a doctor, psychologist, or a psychiatrist, just an everyday Plain Jane. I do, however, hold a master’s degree in education, teaching licenses in two states, have forty years of teaching experience — and far too many unpleasant memories and occurrences for any one person to have faced. Everything you experience in this book is a fact about my personal life or some real-life experience through which I have helped guide one of my siblings or children. Most individuals who author books such as this possess special therapeutic training, and many have never experienced the events about which they write.

Therein lies the difference. My actual experiences far outweigh the information gleaned through effective therapeutic sessions with others. Writing this book has elicited both extreme depression and intense exhilaration within me. Telling a truthful story is easy, but telling it in an interesting and sequential manner is far more difficult and, in some cases, nearly impossible. I am the kind of person who had to take some subjects more than once in college just to achieve passing grades. In history I didn’t care what happened first, second, or third, just what happened and what the final outcome was. Math, English, and foreign languages were simple for me; I learned the innate rules and voila, the pattern was set.

Trying to relate events from fifty or sixty years ago has been a challenge, but making sure they are sequentially correct is impossible. I’m in shock that I have remembered so much from my early childhood, but the actual sequence of things happening is mind boggling. I suppose that it really doesn’t matter as you, the reader, won’t know if I’m sequentially correct or not unless you recognize this as your family, and then you probably won’t remember or care.

My most enterprising moments are, when in the middle of writing, I think of something that happened at an earlier time and I need to go back, attempt to decipher where it belonged, and make it fit with the flow of the story. Making it fit gives me a sense of satisfaction and makes me want to dig even deeper.

I’ve spent almost my entire life trying to make a family from a social unit made up of six disjointed individuals — the family that never was! My parents, and I use that term very loosely, had no idea that they had four children who needed their love, care, and nurturing. They lived in their own little world, showing love and affection to one another but not to us. Maybe, the ideal term to use is quasi-parents, which, according to Merriam-Webster, means having a legal status only by construction of the law. They were our parents because we were conceived by them. I will refer to them as Mother and Father, as the terms Mom and Dad seem to reflect love and admiration that was lacking on both sides. My parents seemed to care only about each other; a child, or later, children seemed to interfere with their plans and lifestyles. Mother was a diminutive, meek, demure, and lovable (when my father was not present) person; my father was largely overweight, quite brusque, and possessed some special power over my mother. It was almost as if she feared him, thus everything had to please him. Don’t tell your father about that, was her favorite expression.

This book, built upon my own experiences growing up and throughout my adult life, injects the total lack of functionality of my birth family. A dysfunctional family is one in which the relationships between the parents and children are strained and unnatural, usually because one of the family members has a serious problem that has an impact on every other member of the family. Growing up in a dysfunctional family can cause you pain and trauma because of the attitudes, words, and actions of your parents toward you and/or your siblings. Relationships are usually strained and can often destroy the true value of the family.

Most families have some periods of time where functioning is impaired by stressful circumstances. Healthy families tend to return to normal functioning after the crisis passes. In dysfunctional families, however, problems tend to be chronic and children do not consistently get their needs met. Negative patterns of parental behavior tend to be dominant in their children’s lives. The spouse and the children assume different roles in the family to help make up for parental deficiencies.

The effect on all four siblings in my family was, at the least, disheartening. Each of us had our own way of reacting to our upbringing. Many of the behaviors we all exhibited were negative traits of which we were not proud. Were we able to rectify things in our adult lives? As the story proceeds, we will discover the mixed effects our parents’ lack of parenting had on each of us.

MY RATIONALE

The year was 1943. World War II was raging across the world. Rationing of leather goods, metals, oil and gasoline, meats, and other food goods was being fully implemented across the United States. Wages, salaries, and prices were all frozen. Thousands of American men were shipped overseas to fight for their country.

My parents were lucky, I guess. My father, who was in the service, remained stateside with my mother. Maybe his health or his size kept him from seeing the battle front. So in 1943, in a hospital in Hartford, Connecticut, a female bundle of joy was born; my name was Jacque Lynn Singer. I was the first of four siblings born to my parents. The question was, did my parents consider me a bundle of joy or simply a burden to keep them from doing that which they chose to do? Was I part of a pre-planned family or conceived because my parents did not realize what having a child meant to their personal freedoms?

The poem that follows, The Family That Never Was was written by me over twenty-one years ago. I am a firm believer that by writing about my feelings, especially negative ones, I can clear my mind and seek solutions without burdening others. A variety of viable solutions also become more lucid.

Here I sit at age 46 —

Dreaming of things that could have been.

A household made up of six

But never a family, not then, not now!

Mother and Dad had each other, you see,

With four kids who didn’t fit into their plan.

We knew what we needed and hoped it would be,

But Mom had to make sure that she pleased her man.

Don’t tell your father, were words oft heard.

Just why Mom would say this, I’ve yet to decide.

Did she fear him? Protect him? It all sounds absurd.

But four of us kept quiet or more we were denied.

Love was a four letter word in our house

Seldom used and less seldom shown.

Mom and Dad each needed their spouse

While the four of us grew up alone.

As years went past and I grew

Many social mistakes I made.

How does one find love she never knew?

For my parents’ mistakes I have paid.

The burden of family lay upon me for years.

You’re the oldest one, I would oft say

Forget the bad times and all of the tears

Keep our family together, I’d pray.

My parents were happy when things went their way —

We’d talk, visit, and be friends,

But as soon as something for me went astray

They’d be gone-no reasons, no amends!

Now, my mother is gone, at peace at last

And I’m left with what I NEVER had!

As I sit reflecting upon the past

I’m grateful to see how I’ve learned from the bad.

A husband, my sons, a successful life —

Loving and doing things a family does.

Sharing and caring between children, husband and wife

Make up for the family that never was!

The youngest sibling in my family, Sandi, who is ten years my junior, and I have determined that we were raised in a dry alcoholic atmosphere. I’ve heard many stories of alcohol use regarding our father when I was very young. I’ve never seen him inebriated, but it is said that his military cronies would dump him on the doorstep. In my family, my father was definitely dependent upon my mother. My mother, on the other hand, always tried to protect him and cover his ass.

The children in a dysfunctional family also play specific roles. As the oldest child in the family, it was my function to make the family (my parents) feel it was doing well; as my accomplishments gave them a source of pride which they seldom, if ever, acclaimed. I was an over-achiever and able to be overly responsible. If something needed to be accomplished, I was placed first in line for the chore. It was like a Cinderella syndrome without the glass slippers, and it took many trials until I found my Prince Charming.

Inwardly, I suffered from painful feelings of inadequacy and guilt. Nothing I did was good enough to please or heal my family. My compulsive drive to succeed led to stress-related illness and compulsive over-working. My qualities of appeasement, helpfulness and nurturing my siblings caused others outside the family to pay me much positive attention. But inwardly, I felt isolated, unable to express myself or my true feelings. I became the head of the family at a very young age. Weight gain was a product of my instability. Food, especially chocolate, gave me the comfort that no one or nothing else did. I was, and still am, a chocoholic and quite overweight. Or as the doctor would say, m-o-r-b-i-d-l-y obese; a wickedly abusive sounding term toward someone trying to maintain positive self esteem; it is attributable to genetics as well as chocolate.

Most people would have completely given up at this point, but I once learned that from every negative, there comes a positive. As difficult as it has been, I have found strength from each unpleasant event. I am far stronger now than I was when I faced the plethora of abuses I dealt with in my birth family. I have, with the help of others, learned love, caring, and respect although, I must say the pathway getting there has not always been the most pleasant.

I am a person who stands up for myself and my beliefs. I stand up for those I love. I speak my own mind and do things my own way. I won’t compromise what’s in my heart. I live my life my own way and won’t allow others to step on me. I refuse to tolerate injustice to me or others and, when necessary, I speak against it. I have the courage and strength to allow myself to be who I truly am and refuse to become anyone else’s idea of what they think I should be. I am outspoken, opinionated and determined, although I will never deliberately hurt anyone with my thoughts or words. Just because I know what I want does not take away from my ability to treat others as respectfully as they deserve to be treated.

A quote from Dr. Seuss that seems to fit here is, Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.

We learn when we are quite young that certain four-letter words in our language are no-nos. I have learned that other four-letter words that are usually considered acceptable can also have some negative power.

Probably the harshest thing I have learned to deal with in my life is hurt. Hurt is one of those four-letter words. We are all aware of the marks left by physical hurt, but seldom consider the damage done by mental and emotional hurt. The hurt that I have faced throughout all segments of my life has again, I believe, made me a stronger, more determined person ready to face the next obstacle.

My parents had no concept of the hurt that they were imposing on other family members. The dictionary defines hurt as that which causes pain, has a bad effect, and /or causes harm to. Our minds and bodies interpret hurt as an emotional explosion that permeates every facet of our being. Hurt is inflicted upon us by others; it is imposed upon us by uncaring, insensitive individuals who, in trying to find themselves, care not of the others who become harmed along the way.

Hurt is everlasting, eternal! Its blatancy can be temporarily masked or softened by the words of others; but hurt itself and the scars it leaves remain forever. How can a human being inflict such hurt upon another, especially flesh and blood-parent to child?

How insecure these people are

To inflict pain and hurt this far?

Forget material wealth, there is no doubt

The hurt that I feel is from being left out!

Love, another four-letter word, carries a variety of connotations. I will define it, at this point, as a feeling of warm personal attachment for a parent or child. It depicts fondness, predilection, devotion and affection. An infant is born with unconditional love for its mother, as this parent usually provides the baby with life’s necessities and makes it comfortable in its new surroundings. There is also a special unity because the baby was carried in the mother’s womb.

How intense this love is and for how long it remains unconditional is totally dependent upon the family unit into which the child is born. Love is reciprocal; it must be provided by all parties. In my birth family, my mother showed love (through hugs and kisses) or told us she loved us so seldom, it was almost as if it hurt her to do so. She did exhibit such love toward my father. I do believe that my mother loved us, but was afraid to share the love; she was more devoted to my father, or she may have even feared him. My father NEVER showed any type of positive affection, verbal or physical, to anyone other than my mother. I don’t think he knew the word love, or what it meant as it related to his children. It hurt!

Love cannot exist without caring. Care is yet another positive four-letter word in our vocabulary. Care denotes concern and attentiveness toward another. It involves taking the mental responsibility and hovering attentiveness for those close to you. In our family unit, care was strictly between mother and father. We were simply added entities who really didn’t belong; I believed we were in my parents’ way.

As people age, they relive their life events either vicariously through others or mentally, reminiscing all that has evolved. It has been said that people learn what they live. I was brought up with a lack of loving and nurturing. Does that mean I will live my life the same way? Does that mean that I will treat my own children the same way? This all remains to be seen as the story continues.

They say I have reached my Golden Years; however, I have yet to find the gold. I am more apt to refer to these years as the Rusty Years, because of the ailments, aches and pains, and heartaches.

Mark Twain relates some ideas regarding age that appeal to me. Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Another quote from Twain that provides more food for thought is, The first half of life consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity.

I believe the most lucid view of the Golden Years was written by Theodore Geisel in his book, Dr. Seuss on Old Age. In his inimitable way, he pays homage to the Golden Years: My memory shrinks, my hearing stinks, No sense of smell; I look like hell! My mood is bad — can you tell? My body’s drooping, have trouble pooping. The Golden Years have come at last. The Golden Years can kiss my ass.

Families come in all shapes, sizes, and configurations. The family unit has formed the immediate basis of inter-dependence amongst human beings since the beginning of time. Since my story revolves around a variety of different families (my birth family, my immediate family, and the families of our three children) and their similarities and differences, it needs to be understood that none of the families discussed in this book fit stereotypical families. I recall my first grade reading book with Dick and Jane, the children, Mom in her apron, Dad in his suit with a briefcase, Fluffy the cat and Spot the dog. Although back then that represented a typical functional family, many children today would be hard-pressed to relate to such a familial structure. It certainly did not represent a typical family as I saw it.

My conception of a family is that of a teaching unit. Children need to be taught right from wrong, the proper ways to care for themselves and to help others. They need to be taught how to love, care, and respect. These things just do not happen without proper instruction from adult figures in the family. In families such as my birth family, some of these things are never learned or they are learned by watching others. It is reprehensible, in my opinion, that parents are not taught to be parents as they are to do so many other things as a part of their schooling. Being a parent is one of the most difficult jobs in the world, yet there is no preparation. Just consider the difference that preparation for parenthood might make in our society!

MY LIFE AS A CHILD

 (

THE EARLY YEARS)

It was springtime, specifically April 1943. The flowers were starting to bloom and the birds were singing. The chill in the air had diminished, except at night, and the sun provided warmth not felt during the colder months. As the story begins, the family welcomed a bundle of joy. I guess I am allowed to take the writer’s prerogative to speak of myself that way.

My mother was a petite young woman in her early twenties, a pretty woman. My father was a husky, quite robust man. He was in the U.S. military. He was not home much, but I attributed it to his military duties and commitments. I don’t believe that my parents had much money or much in the way of worldly goods, so we were living with my paternal grandparents in an upstairs apartment in one of the nicer suburban areas of Hartford, Connecticut.

Sociologists and psychologists say that we don’t have long-term memory of happenings or surroundings from when we were very young, so I will attribute these and other memories to pictures I’ve seen or conversations I’ve heard from others as I’ve grown older.

My grandparents came from the Old Country, Russia, I believe. No one knew exactly how old they were, as birth records were not kept at that time. They were Jewish and continued with their Jewish faith in the United States. I can’t remember my parents attending synagogue, but I could be wrong. I do know Mother, Father, myself and my siblings, Allen, Alex, and Sandi, were raised without any religious training.

Pictures I’ve seen show my grandmother holding me, hugging me, and playing with me. Had I continued living with these grandparents for a more prolonged period, I believe I would have a totally different feeling of family life and what it was supposed to be because of my grandmother’s loving ways. I also have pictures of being pushed in a baby carriage down the street in front of the apartment building where we lived, at times by my grandmother and other times by my mother.

My grandmother would sit for hours, rock me in her arms and sing to me. She had a beautiful voice and I loved to hear her sing. I always knew, even as an infant that she would be there to love, nurture, and when I got a little older play with me. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

My grandfather, as I remember him, was of normal build and weight. He worked in movie theaters. When not in the service, my father did the same thing. In those days, a movie house had only one theater and usually two protectors, so that if the film had two reels, the movie could be continued without taking time to change the reels on the projector. I don’t remember him as being the easiest person to get along with. He was gone much of the time that I was awake due to the nature of his job.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was extremely kind and loving. She was a businesswoman and owned a series of dress shops. She always looked immaculate and treated people accordingly. I’ve been told that she was a gambler and, although there was no gambling available in the suburb where she lived, she would take the bus to the dog races and other gambling venues. She was also a smoker, which in those days denoted women who were well off. My grandmother passed away at an early age from a heart attack when I was eight or nine years old. I felt cheated that I did not get to know her better. I feel she was a very special woman and would have made a big difference in my life.

I guess while I’m talking about grandparents, I should discuss my maternal grandparents. They were Russian Jews. They also lived in an apartment, although I don’t remember much about it. My grandfather was a tailor, and a good one at that. Many times, because he worked in pawnshops, his life was endangered by thieves and robbers. He was one of the most peaceful, caring, and loving gentleman that you could ever hope to meet. He was one of those individuals who would give whatever money or items of value he had if someone needed them, whether he knew them or not. I know my grandfather continued to follow the Jewish faith. We watched him go through the stages of dementia similar to Alzheimer’s before he passed. I don’t know if the term Alzheimer’s was even used at the time of his death, but it was horrible to watch as he returned to childhood with all systems failing. I reached a point when I stopped visiting him (he didn’t know who I was anyway). It hurt me too much to see him the way he was. I wanted something positive to remember.

On the other hand, my grandmother was vicious. That’s the only word I can find to describe this woman’s vile mouth and her treacherous actions toward me. She stood about four-foot-nine and was as round as she was tall; her breasts hung to the floor. She did not know how to treat anyone with a kind word. My kind and loving grandfather used to sneak us money because my grandmother would never have allowed it. She, too, died at a very young age, of a severe stroke and heart attack.

I don’t remember exactly how long we lived with my paternal grandmother and grandfather, but I do know that the older of my two brothers, Allen, who is two years younger than I, was born on a military base down South. I have seen pictures of me playing by myself