Implosion, euthanasia, a Will and a Greyhound......

I often have deeply wondered what having two loving parents, much less even one loving rational parent in our lives......the difference it could have made.

When I see or hear about proud parents or proud grandparents even a faithful friend proudly celebrating their young one's graduation, simply supporting them in sporting events, music concerts, performances. Proudly displaying their art work, bragging, loving unconditionally....just being there. I am resigned to the mere fact that I will never be able to write about it in any cohesive way....Ann Lamott where are you!

I tried so very hard to do this for my own children after the foster home saga...but found it woefully in adequate. My demons were thick.


1971-

'Masako Ohura Evans' (Mrs Evans), his fourth wife, who he had just married.

Soon after arriving back at Ft. Bliss as 'Entertainment Director' he asked friends (half kidding) at a local Japanese restaurant if they could find him "a nice Japanese wife." They produced 'Masako' and they were married not to long after that.

Several years before my father's death, we began to write. In one letter he wrote that he wanted me to have many of his personal items i.e. music library, memorabilia. In the letter, was his lawyer's card who I was to contact. Which I did, only to hear the lawyer tell me 'there's nothing in the Will for you." I borrowed money from a friend, retained a lawyer, set out to get what was promised me. It was decided that what the Will stated was what happened. I got nothing.

I would call and plead with Masako for "at least his Marine sword." She would adamantly refuse. Conveniently it seems, to not speak or understand English very well..... whenever I called.

I did eventually get a shoebox of letters, photos, scrapes of articles (many of which are included…. helping to tell me the story) and a half-hearted autobiographical attempt in a loose-leaf binder. On the cover in magic marker; “Please give to my son Michael David Evans”. Many of his notes from the binder are in the posts 'On the wings of vocal wisdom,' parts I, II and III. They were the geneses (in part) to this whole project (useless).

In 1999 Masako had died and the nurse's aide who was caring for her in my father's mobile home/trailer, sold it all to an auction house.

Then, 15 years later (Xmas 2002)…. most of what else he wanted me to have, I suddenly found on E-bay for a price……

Moving constantly for the Larsons' and then too, our little family and owing a chronically late storage bills were the natural grain for our lot. Everything was lost due to eviction, implosion of the w.82^nd St apartment (1972).

The twenty cats and Barney were euthanaized by a distraught, desperate and deeply depressed Susanna…. she wept for days for the cats and her beloved Barney…. “The saddest day of my life.” Susanna cried at the mention of this for many years…. “The saddest, saddest day of my life.” It was a wretched day. Until thirteen years later when Philip lapsed into hepatic coma on her living room floor.

My mother was literally escorted by the city sheriff out of the little apartment she worked so hard to make a home; apt 3H at 139 west 82nd street NYC, with the clothes on her back and the luggage she could carry. Everything else was taken by the sheriff.

1972-

Philip and I had gone our separate ways oblivious (?) to Susanna’s plight; myself to start a band in Connecticut and get away from the insanity and heroin. And Philip, who remained in the city, battling his demons; jails, The Tombs, escape from Ward’s Island and it’s Rockefeller Program, homelessness, and eventually and more consistently into the arms of the homosexual “older man”…the predator got his way, giving him a roof, a bed, a bottle, a pill… In exchange for. But Philip was safe.

He was not alone. A Genocidal Drug Plague swept Eighty Deuce causing death and a stunted life to many a friend alike.

Susanna lived for a year and some months in a roach infested hotel at 109^th street and Broadway before leaving with two suitcases and a box on a one-way Greyhound bus to her beloved California. See letter from Vickie in next post.

Philip and I would trail each other intermittently. It was clear I was the One who had it 'more' together. I had a 'job,' a car and a driver's license....but more importantly it was The Music that kept me alive. This was the single most important factor in my survival. However the saddest was the soul connection that Philip and I nourished from early on was lost to the ether.

My father had a brother eleven years his senior, 'Uncle Walter.' When Philip and I would visit with my father in Philadelphia we would often visit with 'Uncle Walter and Aunt Ethel.' Walter and Ethel were educators, Walter a high school principal. Walter passed away in the late sixties.

Philip in the hospital 1974

('smile' for the camera...we learned from mom and dad).

Two weeks before Susanna boarded the Greyhound she received this letter from Wib’s widowed (his brother’s wife) sister-in-law Ethel Jackson Evans;

May 16, 1974

Dear Miss Foster,

Your letter to Mr. Gever dated April 18, 1974 (8 days after Philip’s surgery) was delivered to me on Monday April 29^th. Mr. Gever is no longer Wilbur’s attorney, so he will not be available to you for communication to Wilbur.

I am truly sorry that Philip is ill, but I suspect he had little resistance because of his lack of nourishing food. Why was he not living with you where you could have given him a proper diet?

Where is Michael---on his own too?

Walter and I recognized Michael’s and Philip’s fine potential when they would visit us. They were college material, but instead they became truants, with little formal education and no skills for a vocation.

Wilbur lived with us for 18 months after your flight with the boys form Philadelphia, and we knew his anguish in being separated from his flesh and blood sons whom he loved with all his heart. Where did the boys ever get the idea that their father didn’t care? I know that he did care!

I hope that you will let the boys read this letter, for I want them to know that Wilbur, Walter and I loved them dearly and were sorry to see them remain in New York City with it’s lack of opportunity for a decent education.

I am moving, so will send you at a later date an address where you can write to me. I will send my communication from you and the boys to Wilbur.

Best wishes to Philip for a complete recovery.

Sincerely,

Ethel J. Evans

Copy to W.W. Evans

Philip 1980-his tough guy eighty duece pose.
(in his sycophant's Glendale, California apartment)