Author: feigelgoremckenzie

One of things I love about trains is how peacefully I could sleep. It was often difficult at home in Santa Monica and while in Evansville.

The house in Santa Monica had three bedrooms, so Mimi and I had separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. My mom and stepdad’s master bedroom suite was not only big, it also had a spacious “sun room” attached. I was drawn to their big, walk in closet because it had a safe hidden in it and I fantasized it being full of pirates’ treasure.

My bedroom backed onto theirs and I could hear their loud arguments. I was also sensitive to any strange sounds or changes in light and my bedroom windows. I’d occasionally see flashes of light play on my bedroom windows and walls from the passing cars or the neighbor’s driveway next to our house.

The absence of an argument would make getting off to sleep a problem as well because I would lay there waiting to hear one start.

Just as I was about to give up and drift into sleep I’d often be visited by an old man with white hair and beard. He’d invite me to take his hand and go on journeys. The journeys were always to exotic places with beautiful sounds like crystal windchimes, glistening fountains and music. When we’d return I’d sleep peacefully.

This happened nearly every night until I was around ten. And I’ve never forgotten the man.

Years later when I was living on Maui I became a practitioner of Kriya Yoga as taught by Paramahansa Yogananda, the founder of the Self Realization Fellowship. I’d visited the SRF Shrine on Sunset near the beach in Pacific Palisades with my mother several times because she practiced certain aspects of Kriya Yoga. But it wasn’t until I was on Maui that I started learning Kriya.

I joined the SRF after reading Yogananda’s book “Autobiography of a Yogi.” and was surprised to discover a photo of the man who used to visit me. His name, Swami Sri Yukteswar or Yukteswarji.

One day while I was still living at home my mother told me I was ‘fey’. By that time I knew what it meant and asked her in what way I was fey. As usual with mom I got a cryptic answer that didn’t answer my question. She told me that I’d find out soon enough.

A few days later I woke up in the middle of the night to find grandma standing in front of the bed in her best traveling clothes. It was the outfit she’d wear when returning on the train to Evansville or arriving to visit us in California. The brown felt hat she wore had something I think used to be called a “hat-veil” or “face veil” of lace with tiny beads that came down to just above the tip of her nose. With it she always wore a fox “wrap” around the neck of her brown suit. She smiled and raised the veil so I could see her eyes.

I ask her what she was doing there in the middle of the night and she told me that she was going home and wanted to say goodbye before she went. It didn’t seem like a dream because I remember kicking off the cover and feeling the cool wood of the walnut bedstead with my bare feet. By the next morning, the memory had been shoved aside by my getting ready for school routine.

When I started to tell my mom about the dream she put her fingers up to her lips and made a shushing sound.

“And you woke up to find grandma standing in front of your bed in her traveling clothes?” finished my mother. “I had the same dream … but when it happens like that it’s not a dream. You’re fey. We’re both fey. It’s a gift.”

After a quick breakfast I headed off to Santa Monica City College where I was attending my first semester after graduating from high school. Half way through my American history class someone from the administration office asked me to accompany them to the main office. I was informed that my grandmother had died and told to use the office phone to call home. My mother sounded perfectly businesslike. She told for me to return home because we had a funeral to organize.

I was devastated. My grandmother and I were always very close. I’d stay over at her place in Evansville during summers when she still lived there. My dad’s mother refused to be called grandma (she had to be called “Mother Elsie” even by her sons) and treated me like an unwelcome burden (I can’t remember her ever smiling). My grandma Farrow welcomed me with love and treated me like a little prince and spoiled me royally.

But most of all we had fun and laughed a lot. She let me catch her cheating at cards and would drop her upper denture and make funny faces. There would always be Hostess Twinkies in her “icebox.” There was so much we enjoyed together. A particular treat was to accompany her to her “quilting circle” with Spanish American War widows. It was held in a basement room of the Vanderburg County Courthouse. No air-conditioning but the room was cool and had the most amazing murals around the walls. They depicted major battles of the Spanish American War and were pretty gruesome, particularly to a kid. Lots of blood and anguished faces twisted in the throes of death. Even better than the illustrations in the family bibles. Her quilting friends would tell me to avert my eyes but I’d still take in the carnage when their attention turned back to their quilt.

Grandma never learned to drive so during her extended visits to California she’d rent an apartment in Ocean Park so she could be near the beach. From there she’d take me on the fabled Red Cars into LA and environs for shopping excursions, lunch and a movie. It was almost like being on a train but not nearly as comfortable.

When her section of Evansville was scheduled for demolition as part of a civic renewal program (ironically my dad was the committee chairman and my mom was sure he’d earmarked her neighborhood on purpose) she moved out West permanently.

I’d visit her in her new place – a small suite of rooms she rented in a large house on a quiet street in Santa Monica.

After her diabetes worsened she moved in with us and while school and surfing gave me a good excuse to avoid the tensions at home things finally came to a head and my mom decided to put grandma into a “rest home.”

Grandma and I got along extremely well. Unfortunately, I was the only one in the family she did get along with. So I’d drive my behemoth of a Buick convertible down to the rest home in Anaheim, through what was then bean fields.

That day I arrived to find her staring at the floor. So rather than frighten her, I put my shoes where she could see them and moved them around a bit. After a moment or two she slowly looked up, saw it was me and the light in her eyes lit up again and warmed us both.

That day I decided to take her away for a drive. The only official-type person I could find wasn’t very nice and didn’t want my grandmother to leave, but she gave up in the end. However, that wasn’t the major reason it was so difficult for us to go. It was the others. Grandma’s fellow inmates. As we made our way past where they sat in chairs along the walls in what they called the ‘Sunroom’. They’d hold on to my hand or trouser leg so I felt I had to say something to each of them. It took quite a while to get down the front front steps to the car.

Finally, grandma and I were in the front seat and I took off at a stately pace I thought appropriate for my special passenger. “Faster?” asked grandma. “Faster,” she repeated. “FASTER,” she ordered as we drove up and down the straight, empty roads through bean fields. Laughing and crying as the wind blew through our hair.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life was take her back. She was so good about it, but I felt like someone had taken a shovel to my heart. Once again, her fellow inmates made it difficult to leave. But grandma insisted and gently loosened fingers. “Let’s go for another one of those rides next time,” she said in my ear as we hugged.

Sad as all that sounds my most vivid memories of grandma are happy ones. And some hilarious. Mrs Brodsky, the woman who owned the house where grandma rented allowed her to have a television in grandma’s small sitting room. The woman was an Orthodox Jew who was strictly kosher. So they had separate kitchens. The house was across the street from the little corner grocery owned my actor, Richard Jaekel’s parents and I remember his photos plastered on the wall. They were so proud.

Mrs Brodsky had never had a television before and they both formed a close friendship while watching “the wrestling” on TV. They became ardent and rather boisterous fans and God help anyone who interrupted them.

One day I sat through a match with them marveling at their passionate demands for more violence and mayhem that made me think of Madame Defarge. Her landlady had returned to her part of the house and as the screen winked out I noticed that my grandmother was putting a shawl over the TV. I asked her why and she looked at me like I was missing something important. “You’re kidding of course,” she replied. “No … are you trying to hide it?”

“Of course not. I get dressed and undressed in this room and I don’t want the little people peering at me.” I must have looked puzzled so she added, “You know, the little people in the box. I don’t want them looking around.”

Then one day I overheard my grandma and her landlady having one of their little spats with grandma kidding her about having two refrigerators and two sets of dishes and Mrs Broner ending it with, “Ha … don’t try and tell me … after all, you believe your Jesus’s mother was a virgin. A virgin! HA! Who’d she think she was kidding!”

Well if I can have a bearded man then grandma can have her little people.

The Bearded Man vs the Little People and a Virgin © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

I was a sensitive little kid. Oversensitive. I was only three months younger than the youngest kid in my class but I was short and skinny. And I wasn’t just a slow learner, I was the kid in the class the teacher would point to as being dumb because I couldn’t recite the alphabet, read a sentence or add and subtract. Turns out there were two reasons for this. One, I couldn’t see the blackboard. Anything further away from the end of my hands was a blur. I was severely short sighted. And two, I was dyslexic. Severely dyslexic. When I looked at a line of text in a book it would flip around like it was trying to hide. The alphabet stopped being legible after ‘E’. Numbers would reverse themselves and become a jumble. At the same time I was verbal and had an extensive vocabulary that I could use effectively by the time I was in first grade.

At first my parents weren’t concerned because they found me to be articulate and socially adept in situations with adults. Since it hadn’t occurred to anyone to test my vision and dyslexia wasn’t known about then, it was only in school where I appeared to be failing. I was one of the last kids to be picked for team sports. I was one of the kids that was constantly bullied. I seemed to attract bullies. But not just other kids, I was bullied by teachers as well because, as it was explained to me later, I made teachers look bad. Since teachers made an example of me in front of the class why shouldn’t the bullies join in?

Somewhere along the line I developed the ability to make people laugh. So I became a class clown and that stopped most of the bullying by the kids. But my teachers weren’t laughing. I came to the attention of the school administration who met with my mom and stepdad to discuss my lack of achievement. I was given batteries of tests. All sorts of tests. It turned out I had a high IQ result that was revealed to my mom and stepdad who shared it with me. But it wasn’t until I was given further tests in high school that my score of 163 was explained to me. Years later it came in at 168 on the test I took for admission to MENSA, but it’s never earned me a lollipop. The opposite in fact.

According to the school this new information only proved that I wasn’t dumb. So I must be lazy. And that made me even more of a pariah. I wasn’t trying hard enough. I was making the school system look bad. I was a trouble maker.

Poor eyesight could no longer be used as an excuse. I’d been wearing strong corrective glasses since my first eye test when I was nine or ten (Funny story about that … I was driving with my mom in her Packard convertible when I pointed to a truck down the street and commented on all the people in Hawaiian shirts. Turned out it was a florist’s truck full of bright flowers. She booked me in for an eye test that week).

When I hit Junior High School I started fighting back. Literally. When I first arrived at Lincoln Junior High School in Santa Monica I was still short and skinny. Weedy would describe me perfectly. I had come to the conclusion that I didn’t belong here on earth. That my real parents had dropped me off from some distant planet and that they’d be back to pick me up once they realized their mistake. I wore strange combinations of clothes and different colored socks. I went out of my way to look weird and different.

I spent my first two semesters in detention (aka 7^th Period) and getting “swats” from the coaches for bad behavior. I was lucky to get a “C” on my report cards. The only class I survived was English and that’s because of my verbal vocabulary. However, I copied my book reports from Classics Illustrated comics and the family’s set of encyclopedia.

I hadn’t read a book – ever – but I could figure out what to copy. I was a copy & paste bandit before I started to shave. If I couldn’t succeed in the system I’d sure as hell find out a way around it.

In the meantime, I was still being bullied by a couple of big guys who didn’t think my clown act was all that funny. Until … one day I stopped being the short skinny guy and shot up, seemingly overnight, to six foot three and put on some solid weight.

I’d always like swimming and got on the swimming and water polo teams. I lettered. I started dressing to impress the girls. I started shaving. My grades improved. I’d finally arrived.

Nevertheless, one particular guy had picked me as his bitch. The guy was stocky and had a square head. He could have been cast as Sgt Vince Carter on Gomer Pyle a decade later. I don’t think he had a single friend in the entire school and seemed to like it that way.

Despite my new size and physical strength I still found the guy intimidating and would go out of my way to avoid him. One day I was going up the stairs in the main building when I was assaulted by a sharp pain in my rectum. Thomas (I’m omitting his last name but remember it well) had “goosed” me with his thumb, driving it up from behind while I was climbing. I reacted without thinking, whipping around and punching him squarely in the temple. He was sent falling backwards through the other kids and landed, appropriately, on the first landing.

Thomas ended up being taken to the school nurse and had a huge knot on his forehead for weeks. I ended up being hauled into the principal’s office with my parents and Thomas’ parents for a meeting to determine what punishment I’d receive. His parents demanded my expulsion and threatened legal action while my parents had been busy preparing my defense. Several students and a couple of teachers told of how Thomas was one of the school’s most obnoxious bullies and the students who witnessed the event said I’d only reacted to Thomas’ goosing assault. It was either a natural reaction or self-defense. Either way it was justified. Thomas’ parents should be grateful that he hadn’t been expelled. I think the thing that upset them the most was the revelation their wonderful boy had tried to stick his thumb up my ass. Now THAT’S REVOLTING!

I got a warning and Thomas was suspended for a week so he could recuperate at home. I thought it was fitting that the knot on his forehead was still there when he returned. He never bothered me again.

The other school bullies also decided to avoid me and I wasn’t challenged to prove myself again. I was even able to stop some bullying one day on the sports field. As part of my team obligations I was serving a short stint managing the ball box next to the track during the lunch period when I noticed two older guys pushing around a younger guy and a girl. I went over without a clue what I’d do when I got there and found that the two older guys were harassing a handicapped boy and that his sister was trying to defend him.

I was hardly a hero because all I did was tell the guys they should be ashamed of themselves and that I hoped I’d never see them do anything like that again. It was like something my mom would say. But it worked. They apologized and sloped off like naughty puppies. The girl thanked me with a hug and a kiss and I strutted back to the ball box definitely feeling rather pleased with myself.

Overcoming the victim role © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

At first, the annual trips to and from Evansville were a real adventure. When I was too young to travel on my own my dad would train out (how it used to be described) from Evansville. When it was from “E-town” it was a trip of several days (from memory three) and sometimes he’d have meetings in Los Angeles and stay over in a hotel. His preference was a corner suite and the views were usually spectacular and completely new to me. The journeys between E-Town and Florida were much shorter.

The goodbyes from my mom always involved an emotional scene and the worst part of leaving my Roberts family every summer. By comparison my annual arrivals and departures from my Feigel family were predictably temperate and warm. My only thought was wondering what spiteful and malicious bullying my stepbrother would have planned for me that summer.

The return scenes could also be a drama that would remind me of my duty to feel guilty for having been the cause of them. For days my mom would grill me for details that would give her an excuse to phone my dad and berate him for how I’d been mistreated. One time I divulged how I thought I’d die after my stepbrother locked me in an upstairs closet for several hours on a blistering hot summer day and how he and his friends laughed and teased me when they thought I’d wet myself. Actually I was drenched in sweat because the closet was like a sweat-box. But I did throw up and that caused them to worry that Mother Alice or my dad would find out. They did, but only because my mom called and told them.

All that aside, the journeys themselves could be great. These were the longest, closest times I got to spend with my dad as we would share a small private sitting/sleeping cabin in one of the Pullman cars. We’d sit on a small sofa during the day between meals watching the scenery as we passed through. At night a porter would come in and make up the beds. The rooms weren’t always the same, but any of them would have been a challenge for dad because he was six foot six or seven and a big man to fit into those beds.

On our first journey from Florida to Evansville he’d keep me entertained by moistening little pieces of paper, sticking them to the fingernails of his huge hands and flick them around while I tried to guess where the little pieces of paper would pop up next. He’d also hide his face behind a hand and change expressions from serious to smiles as he passed his hand in front of his face. Simple stuff, but enough to keep me mesmerized and happy.

The meals were served in the dining car and like going to a top restaurant for every meal. We’d eat an early dinner and often our beds would be made ready for us by the time we returned to our car.

I can’t remember sleeping more peacefully than I did on these train trips. Or travel more peacefully. If the choice was still there I’d much rather travel by train than any other way.

Dad continued to collect me and take me back on the train until I was able to travel on my own being looked after by the porters. He’d give them a big tip to share with the next porter when we’d change trains in St Louis or Chicago and take a less luxurious train down to Evansville and vice-versa.

In Evansville I’d share a bedroom with my stepbrother, always on alert for his next assault. After my disclosure of the closet incident to my mom she immediately called my dad to complain. So the following summer my stepbrother used the silent treatment combined with verbal threats to fulfill his need to bully. Mother Alice was aware of this and explained away his behavior by saying he was the center of attention for three quarters of the year but had to share it with me every summer. In a very real way, it was up to me to feel guilty about causing him to be a bully. He was the victim.

Oddly, I was relieved with that explanation because I’d rather feel guilty than feel that there was something wrong with me that made him hate me. And by that time he’d stopped punching me or throwing me around when nobody was looking. Now he’d have his friends do it for him so I couldn’t blame him without putting myself in an even more vulnerable position.

Of course I know that sibling rivalry and that kind of bullying can be fairly normal between brothers. In fact, I witnessed it often in my friends’ family dynamics. But the bullying engaged in by my stepbrother was so vindictive and malicious that it made my summers increasingly uncomfortable and dangerous.

When I reached a certain age, maybe nine or ten, my dad and stepmom would send my stepbrother and me away to YMCA Camp Carson near Princeton, Indiana for two weeks. I suppose they thought that would give us a chance to get to know each other better.

They couldn’t have been more wrong. We’d arrive and our age difference (he’s four years older) would ensure he’d take the option of staying in one of the tent-cabins out in the woods while I was domiciled in one of the enclosed cabins next to the camp HQ because I was considered too young for any other option.

That meant that all of our activities were age related as well so I would rarely see him except when we’d all be around the lake for various activities. One day I was standing beside the high diving board watching the older kids climbing up to the highest diving board and diving off. Suddenly my stepbrother had his hands around my shoulders marching me to the ladder and forcing me up. I tried to make him stop but the kids behind me started yelling at me to climb. When I got to the top he pushed me out onto the board to the end and pushed me off.

I landed badly. All the air was forced out of my lungs, I took in a mouthful of water and panicked. My stepbrother was nowhere to be seen. He’d dived off, entered the water smoothly and swam off. The lifeguard saw the whole thing, saw me flailing around on the way down and hit the water hard. He rescued me and reported my stepbrother.

My stepbrother got some sort of punishment from the camp councilors and I didn’t see him again until we were picked up to go home. My dad and stepdad had been informed of his actions by the camp manager and he spent the rest of the summer keeping his distance from me being sullen and silent.

I decided not to tell my mom about any of this because I thought her reaction would be worst than the event. My stepbrother’s deep resentment and malevolent behavior had finally been exposed and I didn’t even have to say a word. He knew. I knew. And now Mother Alice and dad knew. From then on I could enjoy my summers in Evansville without having to worry about his next move. The next summer he didn’t accompany me to Camp Carson and I was able to enjoy those two weeks as well. Eventually he built a room in the basement so he didn’t have to share the upstairs bedroom with me the next time I visited. We’d finally gotten to know each other. (Cue ‘Ding Dong The Witch is Dead’ from The Wizard of OZ).

Musical Beds © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

At first, going back to Evansville every summer wasn’t a big thing. Sure, my mom would go into a meltdown for weeks before I actually left Santa Monica. It wasn’t pleasant to be part of it because I couldn’t help but feel responsible for causing her so much pain. She’d break down in tears and smother me with hugs and kisses as if I was never coming back. Then she’d get angry and rail against my dad. She’d make me promise I’d never call Mother Alice ‘mom’ or Mother Alice’s parents ‘grandma’ or ‘granddad’. And I was to report back to her if they asked me to. It was like I was her secret agent infiltrating the enemy camp. I grew up with guilt and guile.

The real issue came once I started going to school and making friends. After second grade I became a Cub Scout and our cub den mother was actress Edith Barrett, who’d recently divorced actor Vincent Price. Their son was one of my best friends.

And it is what made going to Evansville every summer a bigger thing than it needed to be. Growing up where I did, when I did meant that I was surrounded by celebrity. My stepdad was friends with many of them, so they were part of my life. He became Exalted Ruler of Elks Lodge 906 in Santa Monica and the membership was full of entertainers, musicians, actors and showbiz people.

Supermarket openings used to be major events modeled on Hollywood movie premieres only even more lavish. Klieg lights, banners, circus animals, free food and drinks, cowboys, indians, horses and live music plus “special” appearances by film and television stars, musicians and popular wrestlers like Gorgeous George. My stepdad organized the whole shebang using his connections.

Daddy Bob’s friend Leo Carrillo would park his distinctive convertible outside our house while he dropped in to visit my stepdad and another friend three houses down the street. He’d let me stand behind the wheel and honk his horn that sounded like a baying bull.

When Mimi and I would accompany my mom and stepdad to their favorite restaurant, the Fox and Hounds, we’d get introduced to the celebrities who would greet my stepdad and mom. I shook hands with Victor Mature while he was enjoying the success of Samson and Delilah. To me he looked like someone who could easily bring down a temple with his bare hands.

If I started naming all the famous people I’d met growing up my fingers would wear out. Vincent Price, of course. He’d visit his son when I was at his mother’s house just off Euclid up Carlyle in Santa Monica. We were on 9^th near Carlyle.

Probably the most amazing experience for me was getting to talk with my numero uno television hero, Hopalong Cassidy. My mom, stepdad, Mimi and I were already seated at their favorite corner booth when William Boyd and his party arrived and were waiting at the bar for their table to be cleared. Mr Boyd and Daddy Bob exchanged waves. Thinking about it now, I wonder if my folks liked that table because they could see everyone who entered and vice-versa.

Daddy Bob sat me on the bar so I could talk to ‘Hoppy’ more or less face to face. It was several years before I figured out why everyone laughed when I asked him where he’d parked ‘Topper’ and he answered, “Out in the parking lot next to you dad’s Packard.” By the time we returned to the car Mimi and I were asleep and put on the back seat for the ride home. So I’ll never know if my hero was telling the truth.

Santa Monica vs Evansville © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

Sometimes I just need to vent. So this is where I’ll do it when the whistle blows. If you don’t want to witness my little meltdowns then please feel free to avoid this section. Believe me. You won’t miss anything important.

One of the first questions my summer friends in Evansville would ask me is, “Do you know anyone famous?” Or something similar.

I soon learned that, rather than impress, I’d be branded as a liar or phony. It was one of the ways I learned the advantages of being able to lie effectively or at least “fudge” the truth. The same could be said with my two sets of parents. The main protagonists hated each other. My mom forbade me to call Mother Alice ‘mom’ while I was in Evansville and my Dad told me he didn’t want me calling Daddy Bob “dad.” But my mom insisted I call Daddy Bob ‘dad’ and my dad insisted I call Mother Alice ‘mom’. So I followed the adage, ‘when in Rome’. While my dad never grilled me about this when I arrive in Evansville, my mom certainly did. At first I’d lie when she demanded to know if I’d called Mother Alice ‘mom.’ Later on I’d simply change the subject. I think my mom knew the truth but accepted the lie as long as it looked like I felt guilty. Yes, weird.

Actually, my dad never said a bad word about my mom and my mom never said a good word about him. He more or less dismissed her from our conversations while my mom was vehement and referred to him that bastard, a son-of-a-bitch and, her favorite, a horse’s ass. Both went out of their ways to make my annual exchange as difficult as possible. Which made it difficult for me as well, particularly when dad made it awkward for me to visit my maternal grandmother who still lived in Evansville.

The whole thing came to a head with my stepdad’s dismissal from Uncle Fred’s company and his subsequent bankruptcy after the company Daddy Bob started after his dismissal failed. My mom had taken advantage of my stepdad’s popularity to become a rising star of Santa Monica’s social scene. She became a member of the Women’s Club and other organizations that helped her status. We had a daily maid and, when the folks entertained at home, a barman to keep the drink flowing while the maid served canapes. Mom’s photos appeared in the social columns and in photos taken at ribbon cutting ceremonies that appeared in the local papers.

It all came crashing down after she overplayed her hand with her husband’s employer. My mom was aiming to be “Queen Bee” of the Roberts family but one thing stood in her way. It was Uncle Fred’s wife. Aunt Florence was a vivacious red head of Irish ancestry whom my mom considered unworthy of being considered “Queen Bee” by virtue of that ancestry. Even worse, Aunt Florence was a Catholic and for reasons I’ve never been able to discover, both she and my adoptive father hated Catholicism and mistrusted Catholics. I wasn’t even allowed to play with Catholic kids in case their religion infected me. How my mom and dad ever came to this extreme prejudice is beyond my understanding, but it was to have a major impact on my life. In any event, she badgered my stepdad into confronting Uncle Fred with a suspicion he had.

One particular supermarket was showing significant stock losses. And it happened to be the supermarket where some of Aunt Florence’s family worked as checkout operators. Daddy Bob was getting pressured by Uncle Fred to discover the source of these high losses and stop them. He mentioned to my mom that he thought the checkout operators related to Aunt Florence were failing to charge other family members for large amounts of items when they went through their checkout lines. He couldn’t investigate further without Aunt Florence’s family members being alerted and was worried how he should handle it.

My mom was adamant. She’d already convicted the family members. After all, “What else can you expect from an Irish Catholic. Go to Fred and demand that he do something about it.” She wouldn’t let it go.

Fred’s response was swift and final. He told my stepdad that he wasn’t about to approve of anything that could upset his wife and would rather absorb the loses than insult his wife’s family. Instead he fired my stepdad, which put an end to the subject.

Along with his job he lost the beach cabin. Ironically, not long after that Fred sold off the entire chain of supermarkets which solved the loss problem permanently. He kept the liquor stores and focused on property development and demolished the old ranch house in order to build a magnificent, beautifully designed new home in 1952. After a devastating Malibu fire 1982 that house was destroyed and today the entire ranch is now part of the Solstice Canyon National Park.

Suddenly, my mom’s social position faltered and fizzled out. She discovered the fragility of a status built on a “position” that wasn’t hers to control. Once it became clear that she was no longer welcome at the Women’s Club she resigned. Bankruptcy was a huge handicap. People she thought of as friends became strangers. Invitations dried up along with her invitations to others being ignored. She’d gone from social diva to social outcast and blamed everyone but herself. My dad, her ex-husband also came in for his share of animosity. While Daddy Bob was in a favored position that my mom could take advantage of, my dad’s position had also improved. He was no longer a senior vice-president of Servel Corporation. He’d been head-hunted by his uncle (mother’s brother) John Tyler Rimstidt, who had started a savings/loan and insurance company with his business partner Richard Meyer. That company had flourished after the Depression and now had offices in several neighboring states. My father became president, then CEO and Chairman as the company grew even bigger with offices from coast to coast. My father had also married a woman who was an astute investor in her own right. Her first husband (who’d adopted my stepbrother) had been a successful young insurance broker when he suddenly died of a heart attack. He was heavily insured and left his widow and their son independently wealthy with a mortgage free home.

My mom’s friends in Evansville kept her informed of all of these successes, but it didn’t turn to envy and bitterness until Daddy Bob lost his job and had to declare bankruptcy. From then on life in the Roberts household became a never ending drama.

Learning how to lie © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

Divorce wasn’t all that uncommon when I was growing up. Especially in a showbiz town like Santa Monica, California. In fact, it was common. And I don’t think being a “joint custody kid” was that uncommon either. What made my situation different than that of the other kids I knew was that the parents who shared me lived so far apart and in such different and often conflicting cultures.

When my mom decided to leave my dad I was just over one. Florida wasn’t that far away from Evansville, Indiana and a lot of Evansville people would drive down to Florida for winter vacations. Some even had second homes in Florida. It was the place to go and that’s where my mom headed with me.

So joint custody wasn’t a big thing when the two sides were within a reasonable distance of each other.

When WWII ended and my stepdad was released from his US Navy post we all headed to California where he was born and raised. My mom, stepdad and sister Mimi and I fit comfortably in the big Packard sedan with suitcases packed in the cave-like trunk. I’d prop myself up on my knees to get a peek of the country we passed through and sometimes hold Mimi up to the window so she could see. The back seat was like a livingroom sofa so we had plenty of room to play games and sleep if we wanted. No seatbelts or special seats for us.

While my mom and stepdad looked for a house to buy in Santa Monica we lived on the Malibu ranch owned by my stepdad’s cousin. Fred Roberts was a successful businessman who’d opened a large grocery store in Santa Monica and built that into a mini-empire with a chain of early supermarkets and liquor stores. He’d also invested wisely in real estate. His Malibu ranch (Roberts Ranch up in Solstice Canyon) was not only a place to get away from his nearby businesses, it provided a very handy tax deduction. He also had a big yacht that served the same purpose.

Fred became “Uncle Fred” and his lovely wife Florence became “Aunt Florence.” While Mimi stuck close to the main house I had the run of the place. I was four and Aunt Florence insisted that I wear proper footwear around the ranch. So she bought me my first pair of cowboy boots. It was a magic time in a magic place. I got to ride a horse for the first time. I learned to check for scorpions in my boots before pulling them on. What kid wouldn’t find that magic.

The ranch had a resident hermit named “Con” or “Khan” who’d wander around the place. I first ran into him at The Grotto, with it’s handbuilt stone shrine to Mary, mother of Jesus. It was probably there she became part of my life.

Con was not easy to talk to. It was more like he allowed you to be with him in silence before he decided whether or not to break the silence. Being four going on five I was full of questions and he was very patient and kind. He looked gruff and a bit scruffy, but that just made him more interesting. We spent a lot of time down at the grotto on the stone steps enjoying the cooling peacefulness. Most of my questions went unanswered, but he told me I was “fey,” a term I wouldn’t understand for a few more years.

Uncle Fred gave my stepdad the job of general manager of his supermarket chain and appointed him editor of the company’s free weekly community newspaper called ‘The Roberts News’. The job came with one of the small cabins owned by Uncle Fred along the Pacific Coast Highway near Big Rock in Malibu.

It was there, on the beach in front of our cabin where, on a surf mat, caught my first wave a few years later. I’ll save that story.

After living on the ranch for a number of weeks my mom and stepdad were able to rent a house in Santa Monica just down 9^th Street from the house they’d just bought. The new house needed some work done on it so the rented house was a temporary thing to allow me to start school at Roosevelt Elementary.

I remember my mom and stepdad discussing the pros and cons of enrolling me before I turned five. If I started kindergarten in September before my fifth birthday in December I’d always be a few months younger than my classmates. But if I started the next year I’d always be a few months older. They decided to enroll me early.

Joint Custody © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

I’ve been wondering how much my father was immersed or involved with his Native American culture. So far I’ve not been able to find out what life was like on the Blue Jacket Reservation in 1903 when he was born. From my woefully meager understanding of the conditions after the forced eviction of the Shawnee from their ancestral lands in the Ohio Valley followed by the ‘Trail of Tears’ and the subsequent broken promises and dishonored treaties I imagine the conditions would have been pretty bleak. After all, that part of Oklahoma was hardly on a par with the lush, fertile lands the Shawnee were forced to leave. Had it been I doubt the displaced tribes would have been offered it in the first place. Then it didn’t take long for even the latest Indian territories in both Kansas and Oklahoma to be whittled down by yet more broken treaties.

In the end, the Shawnee who’d fought on the side of the Union during the civil war returned to their promised “Indian Territory” in Kansas to find that most that land had been taken once again by white settlers with the support of the very government they’d been away fighting for. Loyalty was one-way and the “Loyal Shawnee” had no choice but to move on again, this time into the upper northwest of Oklahoma to land already ceded to the Cherokee and and become part of the Cherokee Nation. In fact, all of Oklahoma was supposed to be “Indian Territory.” But it didn’t take long for 100% to be whittled down once oil was discovered.

When my father was born in 1903 Oklahoma wasn’t yet a state. Statehood was bestowed in 1907 and that part of Oklahoma became Craig County with the tiny settlement of Bluejacket named after my great-great-grandfather, Charles. W. Kal-we Bluejacket.

My father’s birthplace in Bluejacket isn’t that far from where Rev. Bluejacket had lived in what became “Shawnee Town,” Kansas. My father’s mother and father were married by Rev. Bluejacket, who was her grandfather.

We know that my great-great-grandfather, had adapted to the “white man’s ways.” He dressed like a white man, become a Methodist minister, a Masonic brother, a translator, a captain in the Union Army and was someone respected by the communities he’d became part of after leaving Ohio. There’s a memorial dedicated to him in Shawnee Town, Kansas – around 175 miles north of my father’s birthplace.

Perhaps it was because of his great-great grandfather’s Mana and standing as the last hereditary chief of the Shawnee tribe that my father and his siblings were taken from their family home to attend a residential Indian Mission School. Being direct descendants of Shawnee chiefs going back to Chief Bluejacket himself might have been finally been an advantage. Then the treatment of students in these residential schools wasn’t exactly known to b preferential.

My father was one of seven children, all of whom survived childhood to become adults. All were tall and successful in their chosen fields. My father and his youngest brother Wilbur got law degrees, became lawyers and opened a law practice. I understand that my Uncle Wilbur remained a lawyer while my father became a fire investigator and finally a country judge.

The Shawnee Connection © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

Deactivating Facebook

For me it’s very easy to spend a lot of time on Facebook. It’s like an interactive window or door to the outside world. It’s a difficult habit to moderate. So difficult for me that I decided to deactivate my account while I work on this book/blog.

But don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy. It took me some time to find out how to deactivate it and quite a bit time going through the process. Facebook does not make it easy.

The reason is pretty clear. Facebook is a business that relies on advertising. When I first signed up for an account there was no advertising on my feed. That’s when Facebook was truly “social media.” Once the advertising became the source of its income stream then it became just another member of “the media,” like a magazine, newspaper, radio station or television station, etc.

As anyone who has worked in the media or in advertising will tell you, what a medium like Facebook can charge its advertisers (aka customers) depends entirely on traffic volume (aka bums on seats, the punters, viewers, readers and … subscribers). What makes Facebook an even more effective means of advertising for FB customers is the fact that Facebook can actually tell the advertisers what we’ve bought from FB advertisers, what we like to eat and wear. Where we live. How we live. What we do in our spare time. What kind of friends and family we have. Where we work. What we drive. What we read. Where we shop. What makes us happy or what pisses us off. How often we use FB and for how long. Where we’ve been on vacation. Where we’re planning to go next. What songs we like. What movies and television we’ve watched or plan to watch. What pets we have or don’t have. Right up to how much firewood we use, etc. It is a gold mine of personal information any advertiser would pay extra for to know and apply to their advertising, its placement and its marketing message. And we supply this information willingly and for free!

Then it doesn’t take a genius like me to figure out why Facebook makes it so difficult to deactivate or cancel an account.

In my case the instructions I found on Facebook and from independent sources was confusing. And I’ve been using computers since the late-70s. What they tell you to do is perfectly clear, but once you start the process you find that there are subtle differences in terminology and directions that lead you on a journey that goes round and round.

Then BINGO! I discover the payload at the very bottom of the page I’ve been trying to find and that’s the beginning of yet another runaround.

Long/short. I reach the deactivation button, click on it and … more choices. Many choices, starting with the default choice of deactivating my account temporarily for 7 days, after which our friends at FB with automatically reactivate my account without even having to ask me. How convenient …

Having already been through this kind of runaround before and knowing their little tricks I scroll right down to the bottom and find there is no choice listed for giving them the reason I want to deactivate my account for an unspecified period. Instead it offers me the ubiquitous “Other” that allows me to explain my effrontery in a few words. That’s right, they demand that I justify myself for having the audacity to deactivate my account.

Finally, after all the runarounds, little boxes to click, choices that don’t apply to me and there’s nothing else since I’m now at the very bottom of the page I click on the final deactivate my account button and … yet another little message pops up asking me if I’m sure. Sort of like Windows asking me if I really, really, really want to delete whatever it is I wanted to delete in the first place.

Facebook has been useful to me. At times it’s been a lot of fun. It has kept me in touch with family and old friends from around the world. It has introduced me to new friends and different points of view that has widened my understanding. It has helped connect me with information and assisted me in my journey to discover my biological family. And it’s given me a platform to rant and rage.

Over the past year or two I’ve worn out myself by getting involved with issues I have absolutely no chance of influencing. I see the Western World going down the same path that anyone can read about in Gibbon’s ‘Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” If the similarities between the moral decline of Rome and today’s world aren’t enough then think about the popularity of today’s gladiator combats on television and the celebration of violence and depravity in the entertainment industry. The small and big screens have become today’s Colosseum.

So I’ve taken a break from FB with mixed feelings and a sense of relief. Sad that I won’t be greeted by the latest posts (and advertising) and happy I won’t be tempted to make snarky comments about a snarky comment or correct some clueless kook in one of the surfing groups. And since I usually open FB on my mobile phone while sitting on the loo engaged in the most urgent and enjoyable of my morning ablutions it will be an added relief to be focusing on the day ahead while relieving myself of yesterday’s crap. Goodbye Facebook. I’ll be seeing you again …

Facebook Rant © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved

While my focus at the moment is on writing my book/blog I would hate to lose touch with my old friends and the new friends I’ve made on Facebook. But if you do feel like firing off an email please understand that I may not respond until I come up for air. Cheers, Bob

MY EMAIL: bobfeigel AT gmail DOT com