My mother Helen is on the left and my father David is holding me, proud as proud can be. I was his first child, my mother's second. And yes, until I was 5 years old, I was blonde!
I drive these streets and cry. Not all the time. But I am struck grieving the loss of my father who died in 1988 after being shattered by a massive stroke in 1987. I was 3 months sober. He never spoke again after that. I never recorded his voice or begged him for stories of his childhood that he never offered. He lost his parents and siblings to a Nazi death camp in WWII, a handful of years after having come by himself to America to live with and work for an uncle in NYC. He never spoke of his family. Once I wrote down their names. That was all he would say.
I've cried even from the Central Coast, from the bliss joys of the oceanfront in Pismo Beach, missing my beloved father. Cherishing my father. Thanking God for the man who raised me as best he could and for whom I pray every night. Mom will be another blog entry; this one is for my Dad.
I'm seeing people I love, many of whom I haven't seen in yonks. I adore where I live now in northern Marin County - I love my Church community, my friends, the glories of nature. This - southern California - is where I grew up. There is a visceral tug that stuns me, from the Westside to the South Bay. I turn another corner and think of my father.