Category Archives: Memories

April 30, 2012 · 12:43 pm

Dad reunited with his mother

My aunt told my mother that the family took part of Dad’s ashes and scattered them on their mother’s grave in Ireland. And then, being good Catholics, sprinkled the ground with holy water. So my Dad is reunited with his beloved mother at long last.

I don’t know if a photo exists of my grandmother, Catherine, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen one. I did see a photo of my grandfather, Joseph, on his mass card. I know little about either of my grandparents on my dad’s side of the family. My dad spoke highly of his mother, he obviously loved her dearly and always said how sweet and hard-working she was. He had very little to say about his father. From what I have gathered, his father would be away from home a lot working, so he did not bond with his children the way Catherine did.

Who knows which came first, but Dad was more of the sensitive type, the young man who loved to read and write, not the kind who liked to engage in “manly” pastimes like working with tools. So he naturally gravitated towards his mother, and it probably helped that he had multiple sisters but only one brother. So the family was dominated by women.

I think it turned out to be a good thing, and I guess it turned out right that I was a girl. Dad always was very respectful of women, having been raised “right” by so many women back home.

I’m glad he is reunited with his mother at long last, if only symbolically. I know it is what he would have wanted.

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April 29, 2012 · 12:59 pm

A not-so-magical search for “David Copperfield”

Parents do a lot of mundane tasks for their kids. They haul them around to various team sport outings and other extra-curricular activities. I had no interest in such things, so my parents got off easy most of the time.

Until we embarked upon a search for “David Copperfield.” (The book, not the magician. He probably would have been easier to find.)

I was a slightly above-average student in school, and was enrolled in an honors reading class. I believe I was in 5th grade at the time. “David Copperfield” was the next book on our reading list and I had to procure a copy that weekend to bring to class on Monday.

So how hard can it be to find a copy of a classic novel by Charles Dickens in a large suburban area of California? This was back in the mid-1980’s, when bricks-and-mortar bookstores were bountiful and Amazon was just a river. We set out at a leisurely pace on a Sunday afternoon, heading to the nearest mall.

We stopped in at Walden’s bookstore. Nope, sold the last copy yesterday. We went to the next bookstore and they were on back-order. We asked where the nearest bookstore was from there and headed back to the car in defeat.

It seemed every damn student in my town was reading this book, and had been smarter than I and bought it earlier.

So we went to the next bookstore down the street, and then to another mall, and by then, Dad was grumbling about the gas he was wasting. When he wasn’t complaining about the cost, he was talking about his memories of the book and other Charles Dickens novels. His enthusiasm and knowledge of the works made me know I was going to hate reading this book, if I ever got my hands on it.

The sun was setting and we still had not found a copy. The next day at school, the teacher found an extra copy that I was allowed to “borrow” for class until I finally got my hands on a copy of my own at some point that week. And guess what, I hated every word of it. In fact, it was one of the first books I faked reading just to get through the book report assignment.

To this day, I still have no interest in reading “David Copperfield” or any other work by Charles Dickens, for that matter. Sorry, Dad.

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April 28, 2012 · 1:29 pm

The hair soup special

My parents were not gourmet foodies. As I’ve mentioned before, most of our restaurant outings consisted of fast food. But occasionally my parents would opt for something different. On this particular outing, we regretted our decision, but it became a big family joke for years to come.

Mom had unearthed a coupon from somewhere for a restaurant that we had not been to yet near the shopping mall. Dad could never pass up a good deal, so off we went on a Sunday afternoon. We did a bit of shopping and then it was time for dinner. (Which was around 5 p.m.. Even when my parents were younger they ate dinner at the “old folks” hour.

Spires was the name of the restaurant. It was a nondescript diner-style restaurant, but the building that housed the restaurant was memorable because it was an odd hexagon-shape. In fact, the building still exists, and a Persian restaurant is currently in the spot.

I remember little about the interior of the restaurant or what Dad and I ordered. That’s because what Mom chose off the menu became the focus of our meal. Mom ordered soup, which was a bit unusual for her. I have no memory of what kind of soup, because there was only one ingredient bobbing in the broth that was delivered to our table that mattered.

A long, dark strand of hair.

Unfortunately for my mom, she didn’t discover this “special ingredient” until she had a spoonful of soup in her mouth. At first she thought it was a celery string. Then she pulled it out with her fingers, and discovered the hairy truth.

What was worse was that our waitress had red hair, so it wasn’t as if the hair had just fallen into the soup as the waitress delivered it to our table, which would perhaps have been a little easier to accept.

Our spoons and forks went down. Suddenly, none of us was hungry anymore. A manager was alerted and of course he comped our meal.

We never ate at Spires again. But every time we drove by the iconic building, Dad would jokingly ask my mom, “Are you sure you don’t want to stop in for some hair soup?”

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April 27, 2012 · 1:15 pm

Day trips to Del Mar

My mom recently met a man on the shuttle that she rides that said he worked for 30 years at Del Mar. My mom’s interest was piqued, because we spent many a family outing there over the years.

We would take the train to the Del Mar Racetrack. The track’s slogan is, “Where the turf meets the surf” and it probably is one of the more picturesque race tracks in the country. The train ride offered inviting glimpses of the Pacific Ocean. It was a little over an hour-and-a-half away but as a kid, it felt like a real getaway, probably because the ocean scenery was in great contrast to the bland suburbia I grew up in.

All I remember about the actual track was that it was pretty, as horse race tracks go. I have snapshots in my mind of some interesting architecture that could be found on the grounds, and I seem to remember towering arches. For whatever reason, I also remember after the races, when the buses would all be gearing up to go, and the sun would be slowly setting. It was funny how patrons would be loud and boisterous on their way to the track, but on the way back, you could easily tell who had won and who had lost. (As well as who had too many beers in the hot sun.)

I poked around for some Del Mar track history, and now I know why Dad liked the track so much: Bing Crosby greeted the first patrons when the track opened back in 1937! Also, I had forgotten about Trevor Denman, charismatic racetrack announcer. He started at Del Mar in 1984, when I would have been 10 years old. We watched many a race that he began with his trademark, “And away they go!” Dad liked him because he thought he was Australian, and he had a sister that lived there, but Denman was actually from South Africa.

But the main thing I remember about these Del Mar trips was the candy. That’s right, a mysterious candy from Asia that had a clear wrapper that you could eat! Well, at least that’s what my mom said. I was probably 5 or 6 at the time but old enough to suspect she might be playing a joke on me. I went to Dad, who was busy looking over the horses in the paper, plotting out his strategy for race day. “Daddy, Mommy says I can eat the wrapper. Is that true?”

Dad barely glanced my way. “If that’s what Mommy says.” Gee, big help Dad. He also declined my offer to try one.

Finally, I tried them and sure enough, the wrapper melted in my mouth, giving away to a slightly fruity, chewy candy underneath. It became a Del Mar trip tradition, a sweet bonus to our family excursion.

(And of course, I researched the candy as well. It’s called Botan and it still exists, in the same packaging that I remember as a kid!)

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April 26, 2012 · 10:56 am

Dad was a vanilla kind of guy

Growing up, going to get ice cream was a popular family activity. Well, for two of us. My mom had lovely memories of making homemade ice cream on the farm with a hand churn, with fruit picked from their own fields and what a special treat it was that the whole family helped to make. Dad, on the other hand, was never a big dairy person as it tended to upset his stomach. (He was probably lactose intolerant.) Also, there was that time I beat him up when he couldn’t get me my “cormy” fix.

But Dad would try to be a good sport, and on those scorching summer days in Southern California, a cool treat was hard to resist. We went the route of convenience and often ended up getting our scoop on at the local drugstore, Thrifty. True to it’s name, the ice cream was cheap, 15 cents a scoop during most of my childhood! The store had a large ice cream counter in the front of the store, with a dozen or so colorful selections and a flavor of the month. I remember touching the cold glass display case which felt so good during those frequent summer heat waves.

Image credit: Savvy Mom by Kristin Bush. http://blogs.ocfamily.com/wine-lovers-rejoice/

Mainly, we were creatures of habit when it came to flavor selection. My mom always chose a nut variety, either butter pecan or black walnut. I was a bit more adventurous, going for the chocolate malted crunch, rocky road or bubble gum. Mom and I usually ordered two scoops.

Dad never failed to disappoint us by getting a single scoop of vanilla ice cream. As a kid, I thought that was the most boring selection on the planet. Mom and I would try to encourage him to try something different, but nope, vanilla it was every time. He was just a plain vanilla kind of guy.

(I did a Google search and discovered that Thrifty ice cream lives on! I had no idea about the history of the store. It’s fascinating to get the back story on such a happy, vivid childhood memory.)

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April 25, 2012 · 11:23 am

Missing my chance to connect with Dad through music

I was viewing this poignant photo gallery of people with Alzheimer’s around the world. I was struck by the photos of those finding joy in music, with one woman playing the xylophone even in the final days of her life. Then there was the video that I saw posted on the Hot Dogs and Marmalade blog about the magic of music.

One big regret I have about my dad’s care during the last month of his life, other than not being there in person for those final weeks was that I didn’t bring music back into his life. The palliative care doctor asked what kind of music Dad liked, which caught Mom and I by surprise a bit, as we had spent most of the time answering routine questions as the doctor filled out a long form. She asked us if he liked Irish music, as she had some CD’s at home that she could bring in and play for him. I don’t know if she ever did, because I left for home and Dad was transferred out of the hospital a few days later.

The last photograph of dad and I together, July 2011.

I’ve written many posts about how my dad loved to sing, especially the classics by Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. There is a cassette tape recording of my dad singing to me when I was a baby, and the recording is in remarkably good shape. Before my father passed, I remembered the tape and was eager to get my hands on it. Luckily, it was in a very convenient spot, in a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet in the guest bedroom of my parent’s home. Being the modern gadget gal that I am, I no longer owned a cassette recorder so I ordered one from Amazon which could create an mp3 file on my computer.

I couldn’t wait to get home and start the process. I had to fiddle with the program a bit and only got a fuzzy but listenable file the first time around. Then Dad took another turn for the worse and I had to rush back to New Mexico and abandon the project for awhile. But I did have the first recording on my tablet and I thought about playing it for him, especially when he had the private room on the CCU floor at Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque. Of course, most of the time there he was sedated, but some experts believe there is some level of consciousness that remains in that state. I felt awkward playing it with so many staff members coming in and out, and of course my mom, who bless her soul, probably would have talked over the entire thing. By the time he was becoming a bit more aware, he was moved to a semi-private room where the TV was blaring.

There’s no guarantee that music would have made a difference, but it’s an opportunity forever lost. One last chance to connect, to bring back a happy memory, to maybe even make a smile appear on his haggard face. A moment that was never to be, because I was worried about things that didn’t matter.

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April 24, 2012 · 12:36 pm

Trips to the carnival

After spending time this weekend at a local festival and seeing all of the families enjoying the sights and sounds, it made me think about trips to the carnival when I was a kid. There was an annual carnival at the high school that took place either in the spring or fall, I can’t quite remember. But it was the old-school style of fair, with those rickety rides that required the purchase of a certain amount of what looked like raffle tickets. I didn’t like any of the more adventurous rides, and definitely nothing that would send me upside down. Nope, I was happiest on the good old merry-go-round or the bumper cars. When I was very small, my Dad would somehow get his long legs squished into one of the cars and help me “drive” around while I giggled as we bumped into other cars. I remember riding the carousel with Mom, holding on to the “reins” while waving to Dad, who stood nearby, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The one ride we all would get on was the ferris wheel. This was my mom’s favorite ride. Dad and I were less enthused, given our fear of heights. But this was a slow and steady contraption, and we never got stuck at the top as you hear people do from time to time. We would usually ride the ferris wheel at night, when the colorful lights from all of the rides would light up the sky, making our normally sleepy suburb seem electrifying and exciting.

The games were probably more fun for me than the rides. My favorite game was probably the most simple one. I don’t remember what it was called, or if if even had a name. It was just this large space with a table in the center full of cheap dishes and glassware. If you landed your coin in a bowl/glass/plate, it was yours. It was a bit like Tiddlywinks, I guess. I won Dad many an ashtray playing that game!

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April 23, 2012 · 12:16 pm

The personal side of the Alzheimer’s awareness movement

The Alzheimer’s Association Advocacy Forum is taking place this week in Washington, D.C. For those attending and promoting Alzheimer’s awareness, a big thank you. Alzheimer’s is quickly becoming a national health crisis, and we must come together as a nation to address it.

For most of us, the battle against Alzheimer’s is very personal. For me, it’s the reason why I started The Memories Project. My dad was not a celebrity or a hometown hero. He was just an average guy.

But he was my father, and he did not deserve to suffer from Alzheimer’s. No one deserves to suffer from this terrible disease.

I can’t be in the nation’s capital to be a part of the forum, but if I had the opportunity to share a personal memory of how our family was touched by Alzheimer’s, I would share this snapshot in time, my last visit home when my father still lived there:

My dad was restless and paced the living room, while trying to get the zipper on his jacket to work. Suddenly, he turned around and looked straight at my mom, who was sitting on the couch next to me. He asked with a tone of distress, “Where’s Jane?”

My mom is Jane. My parents were married for 40 years.

My mom’s face crumpled internally, the words striking her skin as painfully as physical blows. She answered in an even tone, “I’m right here.”

There were many other painful memories that Alzheimer’s created for our family, but this one stands out starkly in my mind and makes my heart hurt. It was difficult to know who to have more sympathy for, my dad suffering from advanced memory loss or my mom forced to deal with the fact that her partner of 40 years could no longer remember who she was.

This is why I am an advocate for Alzheimer’s Awareness.

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April 22, 2012 · 11:25 am

Watching the Dodgers with Dad

Dad wasn’t a huge sports fan. In fact, I think he loved the history of some teams more than a particular sport. I’ve written before about his Notre Dame allegiance. Being from Europe, he also loved soccer and I’ve mentioned before how Dad would watch the Spanish-language station (despite only knowing a few words of Spanish) just to get his soccer fix.

And then there was baseball. Dad loved to talk about Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig and all of the other legendary baseball players. There were plenty of baseball teams to root for in California: the Angels, the Athletics and of course, the Dodgers. It was the latter that my Dad seemed to be a fan of the most, other than the New York Yankees. (Dad overlooked the teams’ heated rivalry.) I think both of these choices were steeped in nostalgia for Dad; after all, before coming to L.A., the Dodgers were based in Brooklyn, and Dad may have seen a game or two when he was living in the Big Apple back in the 1950’s.

Courtesy of L.A. Dodgers & Major League Baseball

I learned the basics of America’s pastime by watching Dodgers games with Dad. It was the perfect kind of game for Dad; the slow pace meant he could read the newspaper and keep up with the game at the same time. Of course, one can’t think of the Dodgers without thinking of Vin Scully, the legendary announcer who has been with the team for over 60 years. A devout Catholic whose mother was Irish, Dad was a huge fan of Scully. It’s amazing to me that Scully is still working for the Dodgers after all of these years and after my Dad’s passing.

With a new baseball season underway, I couldn’t help but think about learning the game with Dad as the armchair coach. I was able to attend a few Dodgers games as part of school field trips, but I never had the chance to attend a game with Dad. I wish I had.

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April 21, 2012 · 11:45 am

Dad buys a haunted TV

I’ve written before about how Dad relied on the guys at work for car advice. He also ended up with several “great deals” on what Mom and I politely referred to as junk. Dad was a bit of a chump when someone at work was looking to sell an item and gave Dad a slick sales pitch he couldn’t refuse. This is how we ended with the “haunted” television.

Our former TV had gone on the blitz but Dad, being a cheapskate, decided to look for a deal. (And I mean that in a loving way. Clark Howard would have approved of Dad’s penny-pinching ways.) He mentioned it to the guys at work, and sure enough, someone had a “gently used” TV to sell Dad. It was working just fine, Dad was told, they only wanted to get rid of it because they were getting a new set. I don’t remember how much Dad paid for it. Not much, but a penny was more than it was worth.

I remember how proud Dad was when he lugged the big behemoth into the house. We plugged it in and everything seemed to be working fine. This was before remote controls were standard with television sets, so we turned the dial and the local channels appeared, some with more static than others. We were used to flipping around the rabbit ears like magicians to get the best image. (That’s right, we didn’t have cable, either. I never saw any cable TV channels until I was in college.)

By this point, Dad was bragging about how good of a deal it was and how we had been wrong to doubt him. We were all sitting on the couch, and all of a sudden, the television’s volume, which had been turned down to low, leaped to blaring at maximum force. I covered ears while my parents ran over to the TV. The volume knob was useless, as the TV continued to play at top volume. Finally, one of them turned the power off. Blessed silence returned to our house. My mom and I exchanged knowing glances and then waited for Dad to respond.

“It’s probably just a little glitch, it will work itself out,” Dad tried to reassure us.

But the TV, which we started referring to as “haunted,” continued to have its volume fits. It was especially a problem late at night, as I would be trying to sleep and my parents were night owls. We all probably lost a few pounds running to the TV to turn it off when it started blaring randomly. I believe it was a few months before we finally wore down Dad’s stubborn streak and convinced him to buy a new TV and kick this lemon to the curb.

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