Keeper of the Stories

I remember sitting with my father asking him to tell me his stories. It was August, 1980 - and he was dying. We were in my parents’ living room on Sullivan street. The one with the hardwood floors and open beam ceilings, in a rough neighborhood in San Diego. My father, in his heyday, supported us in handsome style - sending money back to my Mother’s family in PA. to the row house she grew up in - (and escaped from, 14 days after meeting my father.) - but, they didn’t they save a dime for retirement. And Daddy never made it there - my father was only 58, the same age as Tim Russert, when cancer claimed him. Mom and Dad were married 35 years when Daddy passed away.
And now, I had, for the first time, asked for a story. Daddy called my Mom out of the kitchen “Your daughter wants to hear my stories Mom, what do you think of that?”. (My father always called my Mom “Mom” in our presence - I don’t think I ever heard him call her by her first name. But Mom always called him by his, Bob.) And while he said it with a laugh in his voice - they exchanged ‘the look’ - they knew what I was asking - and it made Mom angry and Dad melancholy. Because I was acknowledging the elephant in the room, I was acknowledging that I knew my father was dying and I wanted to hear his stories one last time - I wasn‘t playing by the rules. (I just now had a fleeting thought that I should have recorded Dad - and his interpretation of his life events - but, then I remembered his response.) “It’s hot- take the kiddies for a swim.” Mom and Dad saved all the soul-to-soul talks for each other.

And so, I am keeper of the stories..........and I have a million of them.

Falsely Accused

I came home to a puddle on my bathroom floor.
I have a mutt. (I will attempt to add a photo- but, I’m still new at this) - a picture being worth a thousand “OH! Is that a DOG?” comments. (And yes, it IS a dog).
He’s 15 and a half years old now. A rather nice companion. He was mine originally - having traveled up to Lancaster in a terrible storm to pick him up…and then my Mom moved in - and he was ALL about Gramma. Years later, after my Mom passed away, Toby (Tobias until Mom moved in), spent 2 weeks grieving in her room (I’m going on 5 years 2 months myself) - in her rocking chair, no less - before he ventured out to my room , and has been mine ever since. Everyone in my family hates him. Or at least, dislikes them to the best of their ability. (My daughter, with a fearful expression on her face said “He’s going to outlive us all Mom” - fearing of course that she will inherit him.) I like him, aside from the occasional chill up my spine when I walk him. (I read a passage in a book a few years ago “Young women walking small children, old women walking small dogs” and it made me cringe). Altho, only my grand daughters think I am old- it’s all relative- no one my age thinks I’m old.
But, aside from a few ‘political statements’ over the last few years the mutt hasn’t made any puddles on the floor - especially in the middle of the floor - (he’s a boy- I’ll have to check the walls) for years.
But, I did, failing to take any DNA samples- and purely on circumstantial evidence alone- accuse him.
Until I felt a drop on my head and realized it was the new sprinkler system management installed. I have notified the landlord - but, felt silly apologizing to a dog- so, I just gave him and extra walk around the block and doggie treat. Mutts are so forgiving.

Used cars, bears and gators, Oh My!

I have been thinking about my father a lot this week. I am trying to buy a car and my father was a car salesman. (‘My father was a car salesman’ is like saying Beethoven was a piano player, Einstein a smart enough guy and Maya can string together some pretty good rhymes.)
My Dad could out worthington Cal. Long before anyone was going to see Cal- my Dad had car dealerships in Arizona and Southern California where I grew up in the mid-late 50’s - early 60’s.
His lot in Az had a ‘pit’. (As I look back, I’m sure it was a well constructed ‘show place’ and it was covered with the matching tarmac- but to my little girl eyes- it was a pit with cars parked all topsey turvy.) I remember my Dad having all the cars pulled out of ‘the pit’ one summer and stocking it with trout. He passed out fishing rods to all the kids while the parents shopped for their brand new cars. This was shortly after his very successful sale for widows and orphans - but before he bought me the anteater at the whole sale car auction.
Daddy’s carmanship didn’t stop at the lot - it extended to our home. I remember coming home one day to find my Dad standing in the front year dressed as usual in a dark suite and tie - talking to a man with the most outrageous hair I had ever seen on a grown-up. It was my first afro and it was amazing. The man was a few inches shorter than my father’s 5’10’’ and was bright white in the blazing Arizona sun- but his HAIR - it was wild. I was so impressed with The Hair - that the rest of the scene- he was wearing only a red Speedo and knee hi lace up boots, holding a chain - escaped me. No man I had ever seen had hair like this (my father was bald, and all the men on the block had Beaver Cleaver’s Dad haircuts.) But, eventually I stopped staring at this poor guy and reached out to pet the bear. “Wait until he’s done drinking his coke Honey” the kindly bear wrestler told me. (The alligator was in the backyard in our pool. “Wait until Tuffy gets the gator out to go swimming, Sweetie”) I have pictures.
One of the oddest pictures I have from that time is of me. My Dad had decided to use me in a print ad for his new model cars. I was about 6 or 7. I’m sitting on this brand new Rambler wearing a dress with more ruffles and crinolines than Shirley Temple wore in a year. My hair in very tight sticky out pig tails (not to be out done by my equally sticky out ears and buck tooth laden over bite)………..smiling as if this was a GOOD thing to have propped on your new car………. My childhood - “Big Fish” or “Hotel New Hampshire”?
But, I digress, I started out with: I’m trying to buy a car.
I may find one. But, I doubt it will be as fun as buying one from my Dad.

Junk mail, e-mail, snail mail & blogs

My son suggested I begin a blog after a rather lengthy e-mail from me regarding unwanted junk mail - and how I decided to deal with it. (Open the envelope and- using the return envelope - stuff all the other junk mail I received that day inside, and mail it back to them. Seems to work by the way.) I'm not sure if it is his attempt to enlightened the world with my wisdom (instead of just his (and his sister's) busy corner(s) - or a feeble attempt to deflect the onslaught of e-mail he receives from me on a daily basis) Which, by the way, WON"T work, because as soon as I'm done here I'm going to e-mail him and tell him how long it took me to do this.......in agonizing detail.Future blogs will contain charming stories, phots ops, witty observations and sage advice as soon as all the necessary release forms have been secured and spell check installed.