1-1-16 Instalment #7

Installment #7 re: The Continuing Saga of a Family’s Destruction Caused by Greed.

Narrator: Francis (Frank) T. Sganga … sicari1921@gmail.com

This sad story can be found in its entirety at: www.sganga.net

Friday January 1, 2016

Writing my memoirs is not a pleasant task, but I feel compelled to do so because:

1. I want to help others by letting them know the serious mistakes I made hoping they would learn from them.

2. I want the whole world to know about the ingratitude of my children and the cruel way they have treated
me because they disapproved of my behavior after the death of my first wife Babs, who bore them. It’s my
way of “spanking them” for THEIR misbehavior.

3. It gives me something worthwhile to do in the evening other than watch boring and inane TV shows.
Jeanie hated Joel’s wife Jammie ever since he married her. My seemingly great idea of having Joel and
his family live next door so Jeanie could have more frequent access to her grandchildren and I would
have the pleasure of helping members of my new family and playing with the kids as well. As a teacher,
kids have always been “my thing.”
Well, a few months after Joel and his family settled into their beautiful new home (which I now live
in), Jeanie changed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr(s). Hyde. She couldn’t stand having her hated daughter-in-law
living in a house so much more elegant than ours. I didn’t mind at all, and I wouldn’t have exchanged
homes with Joel because I loved my backyard swimming pool and the hot tub on my porch I soaked in
playing racquetball. Then it started to happen, like i did in the movies (Jeanie was a movie freak)

On March 3, 2006 I developed a bad sore throat. In a few days, I began coughing up phlegm that got
continually worse. The condition lasted more than a year, during which time I saw about a dozen doctors,
including my primary doctor, a lung specialist, a nose and throat specialist, an allergy specialist,
and several others. I used Advair, took pills and got shots, but nothing alleviated the condition. Also
during that year of misery, I had intermittent bouts of flu-like symptoms, including slightly elevated
fevers. I attributed it all to old age and decided the condition was chronic and I’d just have to learn
to live with it.

While I was having miserable coughing fits, Jeanie acted indifferently, and avoided me as much as possible.
No hugs, no kisses, no sex. Then, things went from bad to worse, much worse. Having been a depression-era
kid, I was fussy about lights being turned off when not in use. On the evening of September 6, 2007, I returned
home from racquetball and damn, she not only spitefully had all of the inside lights turned on but also all of
the outside lights and the half dozen ceiling fans.

I lost it. I took my racquet and slashed away at vases adorned with her favorite artificial flower arrangements
in the living room, then headed down a corridor to the bedrooms. When I got to hers, there she was standing in
the doorway glaring at me with her arms on her hips. Beside her was another flower arrangement atop a bookcase,
and I reached in beside her and smashed them too. In a flash I was on my back (she had taken Martial Arts lessons
with daughter Laura) on the floor with 220 lbs. of blob atop me with one of her massive breasts over my mouth.
The martial arts classes she took with daughter Laura paid off!

I panicked. I was sure the bitch was trying to smother me. In desperation, I grabbed her hair with my stronger
right arm and pulled her head to the right, winding up on top of her. She punched at my face with both fat fists,
while I used my forearms to deflect the blows. I kept yelling at her to quit, but to no avail. Then God intervened.

I reached out with my arm and my hand found and gripped a porcelain electrical insulator we used for a doorstop,
and I used it to give her head a glancing blow trying to get her to quit. She still wouldn’t. Since she was a lot
younger and stronger, I knew I couldn’t let her get up. So, after she smashed her fist against my nose, I angrily
hit her head a second time with the insulator, but more directly and harder.

Incredibly, my primitive animal instincts took over: I didn’t give a damn whether or not I killed her.
Blood spewed all over her face, over me and onto the carpet. This time she quit, we disentangled, and we both
called 911. Since it was a “he said, she said situation,” we were both hauled off to jail, I at 86, she at 52.

The charge: Aggravated domestic battery.

The headline in the Daytona Beach News-Journal on September 8, 2007:
Police: Ex-educator, wife had bloody fight.

We both called 9-1-1, and our yard was crowded with police cars, and an E.R. vehicle, all with their red and
blue lights flashing and gawking neighbors.

To be continued….