Happy Father’s Day, Marty!

Could this be your Dad?

Father’s Day

In the mid-’60s (1965 to be exact), Marty and I began our illustrious radio careers in Baton Rouge. We were both attending LSU, both married too early, and both fathers way too early. We did well professionally, matrimonially not so much.  Marty was first to get the Big Call every DJ dreams about - an offer of a major market gig at a Heritage radio station. Even though he was in the middle of a long-anticipated divorce, he asked his wife to move with him for the sake of the kids, maybe a possible reconciliation. She refused. She had a job and didn’t need him or his charity.  

Marty left after saying long, tearful goodbyes to his children. The oldest was 12. He told them he would call every day after school and on the weekends and come visit every chance he got.

And he did. The new gig tripled his salary; a side hustle as a disco DJ brought in an extra half of that in cash. The alimony and child support checks arrived every month right on time. And so did Marty almost every weekend. He’d fly to Baton Rouge, rent a car, and swing by his ex’s house just as the kids got home from school. They’d grab their stuff, and off they went, mostly to the Hilton near the malls and movies. He took them shopping for the things they needed after learning his ex was spending much of the support checks on clothes, a new TV, and “other stuff.” His two daughters shared one pair of new jeans. During the summer, Marty flew the kids to his place for trips to the big amusement park, movies, shows, station promotions, and concerts. Good times.

Ironically, despite of - or because of – his great success in the Big City, things turned south. He was featured in the BR papers, “Local Boy Makes It Big!” reminding readers of his Baton Rouge roots and a veiled reference to his “rumored 6-figure salary and a new multi-year contract.” His ex took him to court for a substantial increase in both alimony and child support. Evidence of her squandering money for the children on herself was mostly ignored. And while he could “afford it”, the children’s lives were not what they should have been. Their mother was spending more and more time at work and pursuing and active social life. The children were on their own from when they came home from school to when they went to bed. The oldest, now a teenager, was appointed surrogate father and babysitter. The kids put themselves to bed. Late one night, some thugs broke in and stole the new TV and stereo while the children screamed and cried. Their mother was at a party.

With that news, Marty filed for custody. He was making enough money to get them into the best private schools and be with them almost every afternoon and night. Reclaiming the alimony and child support would go a long way in handling the increased costs of teenage children.

Despite the kid’s excitement for a new life in a big city with their celebrity Dad, his ex fought it tooth and nail. Unbeknownst to Marty then, she had persuaded friends and family to write their support to the judge and condemn Marty as a Custodial Parent. The letters included all the salacious accusations every soap opera would include. Worse than that, the kids overheard conversations between their mother and others discussing Marty’s alleged “adventures.” Marty told me their maternal grandfather, never a fan, added his considerable weight to the slander. Baton Rouge was still a small town back in the ‘70s and his former father-in-law was a Somebody the judge knew. The children’s relationship with Marty cooled precipitously with their mother's constant reminders of his ‘transgressions’; that if he loved them, why was he being so cheap, fighting the child support increase? When he asked what the problem was, he received the typical shrug and silence teenagers are famous for.

Still, Marty’s calls, visits, and support continued, but gradually, the kids saw him more as a regular Santa Claus than their doting father.  When Dad came to town, it was Birthday, Christmas, and Party Time all around! But the warm, excited greetings and teary goodbyes faded into perfunctory ‘hellos’ and indifferent ‘so-longs’. Everyone got what they wanted without the former expressions of love and another painful goodbye.

As the kids got older, Marty spoke with me often, baffled and hurt by the mystery of their growing indifference and detachment. Was it just a puberty-teenage phase thing or something else?

Eventually, it became worth more to the former Mrs. Marty to be rid of the cost and responsibility of teenagers. With her ‘blessing,’ they came to live with Marty. He promptly enrolled them in two of the area's finest prep schools, and Life began anew for all involved.

Sorta.

There was still that invisible shield of emotional separation. Yeah, living with Dad was great! There were concerts, backstage passes, pictures with stars, and autographs; everyone knew his name and yours! You were a local celebrity yourself! Dad would mention your name and school on the most listened-to morning show!

At home, it wasn’t so exciting; it was more matter-of-fact antiseptic than an episode of the Brady Bunch.

Finally, the day before they were to fly back to Baton Rouge to spend Christmas with their mother, a testy moment at dinner opened the sluices. First, one, then another unloaded about “the stories” of when they were young and Dad was catting around with “every woman in town” when he was supposedly working; how everyone knew about it, talked about it behind their backs, embarrassing Mom to tears, and Granddad, too. “You just came to see us and spend money on us because you had a guilty conscience!”

It was paralyzing. Marty told me he was dumbfounded, unable to speak. Where to start? What to say? And then came the white-hot anger and resentment for his ex, not just for the lies but for allowing them to fester and grow in a malignant distrust of their father in retaliation for money and control. No broken heart or betrayal was involved; theirs had been a marriage of convenience from the beginning. Nobody ever discussed that part.

But Marty did that evening. Not finishing until after midnight, he gave them the “Genesis to Revelation” account of his marriage to their mother, the separation and divorce, right up to the “stories” he just discovered she had concocted, irrespective of the effect on the kids.

Marty told me he hoped it went over well and had the desired effect, something of an epiphany for them. They would finally “see the light,” and all would be great again between them.

It didn’t turn out quite that way. There was an ‘easing of tensions’, so to speak. But by then, the bad feelings had become like a permanent operating system. Their studied reactions to disguise their distrust and feelings of betrayal weren’t easily undone. Plus, by then, they were becoming their own person, starting their own lives, cultivating friends and associations that might last their lifetimes. Under the most Norman Rockwell of conditions, Dad was rapidly becoming a shrinking influence in their lives. He was always good for a few bucks or a concert pass so No Problem.

College, career, and their own families increased the schism and with little pain. For them, anyhow. The geographical differences just made it easier for them to edge Marty out of their lives, ‘out of sight…’ etc. It was different for Marty. He never stopped missing the silent birthdays, Christmases, and the vaunted Father’s Days that passed with no acknowledgment from any of them. The years created a fixed sadness in one of the most talented, clever, funny, people I’ve known. Despite the miles between us, we’re still great friends, one of the few close friends I can comfortably claim. He’s had a great professional life and is having some good times right now.  But as Father’s Day approaches, I know when we talk in a few days, Father’s Day will come up, a gray cloud will come out of the phone, and he’ll eventually get around to telling me the mailbox was empty again and the phone silent.

I wonder how many “Martys” will be ‘celebrating’ Father’s Day this way? How many children, now with their own ‘parenting experience,’ never see their life in the rearview mirror? Maybe their father is back there, like a devoted Marty who went to every length to make the best of a bad situation made worse without his knowledge or blame. Marty deserves that Norman Rockwell version of Father’s Day. But considering today’s “younger generations”, it’s difficult to believe it will happen for him.

Nevertheless, Happy Father’s Day, Marty!

Love ya, Dude!

Talk soon…

BW

Happy Father’s Day to all my fellow Dads out there. I hope it’s everything you wish it to be. Maybe one day, Father’s Day will be right up there with Mother’s Day! Tool sales! Shotguns! Fishing gear! And 24 hours of hugs and love.

Why do Mothers and Fathers only get a day for the lifetime job they have?

If you know a “Marty”, share this with him. Let him know there’s another Marty out there, too.

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