I’d like to think most kids today have the benefit of present and caring fathers and mothers. Some children rotated between one or the other as a result of any number of circumstances that tore families apart in the early 1980’s, and I imagine circumstances haven’t changed much in 28 years. If you were to ask me, I can only remember having Pap. That’s just how it was.
A breezy Thursday morning in November, 1984 welcomed me–then Jeffrey Brian Dagenhart; the only child of two very different people brought together by insecurity, vicious lies and false hope. But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
My earliest memories begin with waking up to the smell of pan-fried bacon and hot tea–a collaborative effort between my grandmother and one of the two daughters who still live in the house that Carney “Pap” Harrell built in the mid-1960’s.
I usually slept in a large, lofty bed in the corner room upstairs with my aunt Ruth. She was the matriarch and eldest Harrell daughter, and many nights I’d drift away soundly beside her to the lulls of crickets, or to bible story tapes she’d gotten from summer trips to Jim Bakker’s PTL complex. I’d wake up alone, and drag myself down the creaky stairs to the source of those aromas, rewarded with nostalgic stories and a filling breakfast.
In those days, it was harder to see much of Pap himself in the morning. I reckon he was young enough then to still do a day’s worth of work outside, be it chopping wood or working on a car he’d salvaged in some auction. He was so fond of auctions. This fact became a blessing and a curse on our family: nobody ever needed anything, because there was always an abundance of things. But 1985 was much different than forty years prior, and I believe that Pap began hoarding to satisfy some personal thing he’d developed when times were harder. The house would inevitably fill floor-to-ceiling with useless trinkets and clutter, effectively closing in the walls and creating shadows out of the establishment his family once knew and loved. The world that remained was mine entirely.
His proudest collection was his records. Endless boxes of vinyl spanning the entire recorded history of country/western, gospel, and miscellaneous music lined the living room and a separate sitting room so entirely that only my tiny self could gain entry by climbing through carts and canyons of stacked boxes.
It was in that very spot where I first experienced country music, and felt it resonate inside my every molecule. To any young boy, becoming aware that you have an intelligent, emotional consciousness was quite overwhelming. Mine had been awakened, and it had a definitive soundtrack.
I was always an emotional kid, and am still very much so. I was first to cry and quick to have my feelings hurt. This could have been my response to the awareness that, as the youngest of the first generation of grandchildren and sole child of a working divorcee mother, I was the underdog. Two people who understood this, Aunt Ruth and Pap, would become my most-frequent teachers and watchdogs.
To further understand this, you must know that there were 16 surviving children of 17 Harrell offspring. Few never would marry, and those who did and became parents usually didn’t bring their children around Pap’s infamous mess. This left me with few to compete for attention, and I was treated to the spoils of endless exploration and timeless wisdom.
I suppose I was around 3 when I started tinkering with my own brand of music. There was a Hammond organ in the living room that took awhile to produce a note, perhaps filling up with air or however it was. This sound was always so sad to me; the moan of an organ note finding it’s breath. I associated my sadness with it. It cried where I could not; it’s sustain rattled me so deeply that I wept all but visibly, and right there became stricken with an infection that possesses me still.
I’d pick out Christmas or church tunes rather quickly, and soon others were recognizing my gift. Picking a melody out was as easy to me as knowing which shoe went on which foot.
Pap and Ruth encouraged me immensely. Soon, there were instruments everywhere. I was spellbound. And everybody knew how I was doing it but me.
***
Nobody ever blamed me for anything, because I never did anything wrong. Well, I should re-iterate: I had never done anything wrong without an accomplice. I wasn’t allowed to. My mother had established very plainly that “fun” was disallowed. So, I found an accomplice in my cousin Daniel, 7 months my senior. Most adults figured that if we played together and got along, I’d keep the other straight–remember, I was the favorite. Fact-of-the-matter is, on a 2 1/2 acre property stockpiled with dead cars and tin shacks full of rusty tools, two four year old boys could really raise Hell.
I was Superman. I loved Superman. This meant that Daniel was villain Lex Luthor, and he hated that. He didn’t like being the bad guy, but let’s face it–he was damn good at it. We’d chase each other through freshly hung bedsheets and tall grass, or wind up covered in oil waste, sand or mud. If it was within our reach, we’d wear it. Daniel and I were brothers first and cousins second.
But Pap favored me, and his wife resented me for it. All of a sudden, my well-being was a higher priority than hers. I was the companion. In response, Grandma favored Daniel, and because I was only four years old, that was okay.
My relationship with Grandma never fully developed. I regret that.
Daniel visited regularly, sometimes with his brother Casey and sister Heather. They were a few years older, so they kept their distance. It was 1988, and there was so much social distraction that a house and a yard full of junk was no longer appealing to them. Alternatively, Daniel and I built an imaginary empire to facilitate any situation or dream we could dream. We super-imposed our thoughts over the backdrop of the property until we practically went missing.
But then, as it went, Daniel would go home to his family, and I stayed there.
I was staying with Pap frequently when my mom worked. She had moved into a few places since I had been born, but ultimately settled with a modest Section 8 apartment in Hagerstown, Maryland, just 20 minutes from Pap’s house in Williamsport. She was working as a Pinkerton security guard at Mack Powertrain, the engine supplier for 18-wheel semis who once employed half the town. She worked odd shifts, but eventually found more time to raise me and begin dating again.
There were plenty of prospects–ranch hands and tow-truck drivers, a military drifter; but mom eventually found her man in church. If I recall, she had once met a guy named Lou Troppman, who attended Agapé Christian Fellowship in Hagerstown. Lou was a close friend to another man active in the church named Larry Swope. It wasn’t long before he took an interest in my Mom and quickly became visible at our place as well.
For many reasons, myself being five years old or otherwise, I initially disapproved of Larry. I imagine the whole thing was awkward to me. I never became fully accustomed to the standard “mother-father” dynamic, as what was already in place had worked just fine. I wasn’t escaping to Pap’s as much, and immediately there was a power struggle between this new, strange figure and myself. In retrospect, I may have developed my problem with authority at that age, abdicating my position as the center of attention. Who knows?
He always held my hand a little too tightly. My fingers turned purple. When church service was over, he’d look for the children to come out of Sunday school so that I could be wrangled in and hand-delivered to my mom. I was far above being treated as cattle, and much more intelligent than he must’ve given me credit for, so most Sundays I was right there with mom when he’d regroup empty handed.
Ironically, as their relationship blossomed, girls would take an interest in me as well. My very first crush was on Lou Troppman’s daughter Jessica. He had married years before and had children, and Jessica was a twin, and everybody thought it was adorable that we’d exchange looks and call each other pet names. I tried to look my best for her, and she did the same for me. Eventually it faded out, overshadowed by something completely foreign and spontaneous; something that no girl or cousin or grandfather could distract me from. Something that would give me an identity, and ultimately an inspired sense of purpose.
***
There wasn’t a talk. I didn’t even know that it had happened, just that soon, I’d be calling him “Dad.”
I was excited to have a full set of parents; this I remember. But I couldn’t have understood that it would mean moving out of the apartment and further from my beloved Pap.
1990 came with a new understanding of life; there were new grandchildren, new friends at church, and Larry Swope had asked Kay Dagenhart to marry him, with the intention of adopting me as soon as it became possible.
They set the date: Saturday, May 5th. I’d get to meet my new family. I became “ring bearer”, which meant I had to stand still for the duration of the ceremony–an impossible feat that nobody took into consideration. Since Jessica was a twin, the couple had chosen another girl my age to spread flowers. This streamlined the wedding party, and eliminated animosity between sisters. Lou Troppman was to be the best man.
Planning took time and attention, and I got to stay back at Pap’s more frequently.
But there was an awkwardness in the air; a sense of impending departure, and my once malleable curiosities were disspelled by the knowledge of inevitable and somewhat unwelcome changes.
I remember that morning in church, wearing my tuxedo and shiny tuxedo shoes. I had my heart-shaped pillow, the rings tied neatly into a bow. My fine blond hair was combed neatly to one side, and I stood with anticipation as the more prominent figures in the party stepped their way to the front of a kind-of-familiar crowd. Trumpet music was playing at first, then the traditional bridal music began. Larry was much skinnier then, as all grooms are before they become husbands, with his matching tux and finely groomed mustache. He smiled as my mom approached. She was covered in blush, her big flowery dress blossoming under a halo of neatly fixed brown hair.
Someone waved at me. I waved back.
I was being summoned. People were calling my name. It was my queue to begin the step that I had practiced: right foot, stop. Left foot, stop. And like a true soldier, I joined my mother and her partner in impenetrable matrimony in the presence of friends, family, and otherwize unfamiliar grown-ups.
The wedding video still exists, and there I am, unspoiled by future chapters of this crazy story that is my life. Pap’s 18th child–who learned how to tie his shoes by watching Sesame Street, how to ride a bicycle in one try. The musician in me, so fresh and raw and innocent. The beauty of the beginning only shines now against the contrasting saga that started soon after I became Jeff Swope.
On June 14th, 1990, in a back office at the Washington County Department of Social Services, I was adopted. It was complete and official.
Things were going so great for mom. She had a new house to care for, a new husband with children of his own, and a new chance at life. He’d even been kind enough to adopt her only child, and make me his own.
Larry was my new dad, but he didn’t have to be. Things at Paps had worked just fine. I really liked Sesame Street. I didn’t mind wandering free, learning at my own pace, and waking up to pan-fried bacon.
And so, it truly changed right then. And this is where it really began.
***
May 13th was a Sunday. Any other Sunday, Jeffrey Dagenhart would have gone to church with Pap, Grandma and Ruth, or to Agape with mom and Larry. Instead on this day, my parents stood over me with cold hands and woke me up in my new room. Lar…er.. Dad wasn’t wearing a shirt. I remember now how weird that was to me. But then, it was his house.
Dad tried very hard to appeal to me in the very beginning. He would read me stories every night from a book in his collection; simplified Bible stories with implied “lessons” too complex for a five year old. Moses and Aaron turned their rods into serpents. Young Samuel heard a voice from God while sleeping. To me, they were just stories. And no matter how interesting, it was still a cold and foreign environment.
What made matters worse those first several months was that Dad’s daughter Missy was living in a room down in the basement of our house. Kevin, her brother from Dad’s first marriage, had worked for the same lumber and hardware company Dad did, and had lived with his mom. Missy was a daddy’s girl.
Almost immediately, there was another power struggle–this time between early-twenties Missy and the newly christened woman of the house, my 31 year-old mom. Mom would complain that Missy’s music was too loud, that she was too cavalier or rogue to be in the house with us, but she usually only said these things to me.
Missy was an often troubled girl, and had been with a guy that everybody just called “Man” for quite some time. He was very abusive, and the two would get in wild fights. I imagine this was an instrumental reason she stayed with us.
On my birthday that year, my very first nephew Bruce was born. He was just like me in that our true fathers were for the most part absent or unwelcome from our lives. Despite this, Missy would sporadically return to Man, and soon after to our basement.
I can’t say I remember what caused it, but I told Missy everything one afternoon. I said things no child should say. I told her that she was unwanted and hated and ugly; that my mom didn’t like her, and that her new son was a burden to everybody. Keep in mind, I was 6.
Missy was outraged, and she delivered some serious retaliation on my mom for my comments. Years later, Mom would cite “every word in the book” being thrown at her, and Missy must have thought it was quite justified.
That was my fault, but it didn’t stop there.
Missy promptly moved out. My mother and I didn’t hear much from her afterwords, except for the occasional instance in which she was beaten again, bloodied and bruised and needing help.
Between myself and mom, it was no secret that lines had been drawn. Sides had been taken. This was how I first familiarized myself with the Larry Swope family that I had become a part of–a hostile and animose spirit was born in me then; one of selfishness and uncharted resentment.
***
There were good times with the Swope family, too. Dad had a younger brother, Melvin and sister Debbie with families of their own.
While Debbie’s family seemed ro keep to themselves, Uncle Melvin had a modest house on the Mason-Dixon line with his wife Betty and two daughters, Kathy and Kristi. I imagine they were in their late teens then, and visits to their house consisted of board games and funny stories that always had us belly-laughing. I couldn’t wait to go back, and they loved me too.
I’d spend considerable time with Uncle Melvin’s family until I grew up ever so quickly, and developed a teenagers sense of self and typical disinterest in family–or quite possibly people altogether. But even through such, the few times I had truly established myself with the Swope family are some of the fondest family memories I have.
Jeffrey Swope was finding himself. It was time to face the world.
***
I remember looking at schools in the Hagerstown area with Aunt Ruth, and thinking they were so different from the ideas of school I’d had in mind from Sesame Street. I was a very outgoing child, and elated to be inducted into a new social pool, but couldn’t have understood that private schools like Heritage Academy were somewhat isolated, in some ways, from the real world. I didn’t understand that yet, anyway.
Regardless, I started attending Heritage Academy in 1991. The principal enrolled me directly into first grade, as she had thought Kindergarten would be much too boring for me and my TV education. I could read with high comprehension, count to one hundred forwards and backwards, and carry an intelligent conversation.
So they thought. During the second week of school, Mrs. Miles asked her class about thermometers. I had just heard somewhere that thermometers must sometimes be inserted rectally, and proudly–but not eloquently–declared so to my classmates, and that was it. It was like a switch had gone off. I was destined to become disruptive, rude, and above all too vulgar for the Christian-geared curriculum. It seemed almost constantly from then on, I’d warrant notes about my talkativeness, behavior, and complete absence of tact.
My academic performance said something much different.
Life & Love & Why 