Category Archives: Memories

March 1, 2012 · 9:45 am

Daddy’s little girl

I don’t remember my dad breaking out the suit and tie very often in my childhood. He was more the “business casual” kind of guy. He usually wore slacks, a dress shirt or sweater and sturdy black walking shoes. He never owned a pair of jeans or a pair of sneakers. That’s why it was such a shock to see him in the nursing home for the first time, wearing Scooby Doo pajama bottoms and canvas sneakers. The next time I visited he had on a pair of sweat pants. The nursing home staff dressed the residents in whatever was the most comfortable and easy to manage with all of the diaper changes they had to deal with. I understood the reasoning, but it was also another blow to my dad’s identity.

But in this photo, one of my all-time favorites, Dad and I are ready to hit the town. I’m guessing this was a holiday picture of some sort. I love the joy that is radiating from both of our faces in this photo. It’s just love, pure and simple, in its natural essence. Dad’s sporting a groovy 1970’s tie and I have to say, I’m looking pretty darn adorable.

In the NPR story on Alzheimer’s that features The Memories Project, I’m referred to as “daddy’s little girl” which I never thought would have applied to me. But as I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about Dad, discovering photos and recording the family stories from over the years, I cherish the close relationship that Dad and I had when I was a little girl. Of course, I was too young to appreciate it at the time, and sadly, as I got older, we drifted apart until the final few years of his life. But at least I have photos like this to remind me that I was indeed, “Daddy’s little girl.”

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February 29, 2012 · 9:55 am

Dad’s job as a freight checker

I wish I knew more about what dad did as an occupation for most of my childhood. He was called a freight checker, and the most I know about it is that he was responsible for unloading/reloading freight trucks and keeping track of the inventory on the trucks. It doesn’t sound like the most exciting job in the world, but it was steady work at the time. For most of his career, he worked for California Motor Express (CME).

I remember the logo, as it’s forever burned in my brain. As a small child, I would point to the CME trucks that I would see on the road, saying “that’s Daddy’s company.” My dad received plenty of logo-emblazoned swag over the years, and he was always wearing the cap or jacket. My dad was a hard worker, and I think he was proud of his job, even if it was blue-collar and didn’t pay that much. (I think he topped out at around $40,000 annually.)

It’s just one of those jobs that doesn’t necessarily have a textbook definition, so it’s hard to imagine what my dad did every afternoon and evening for all of those years. Much later, when he became a security guard, I could picture exactly what he did. I guess what’s most important is that my dad was always eager to work hard to support his family.

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February 28, 2012 · 9:04 am

Dad driving me to school

The final place we moved to in Downey, Calif. was just down the street from the high school, so I had an easy walk. Before that, my dad would have to drive me.

He did not enjoy this task. Since he worked nights, he would have to get up early just to drive me in, and then go back to bed to get a bit more sleep. He was also not a morning person, which added to his displeasure.

The logo for Warren High School in Downey, Calif.

I was not happy about the arrangement either. High school was not a good experience for me, and I usually dreaded each day there. Having to hitch a ride in dad’s boat of a car just added to my adolescent anxiety. He always offered to drop me off right in front of the school, but I always made him park around the corner from the school because I was embarrassed of our car. I would glance around to make sure no one I knew was coming, and then dart out of the car quickly, not wanting to be associated with my dad or the car at that moment. I think I usually said thanks for the ride, but of course at that age, one doesn’t really appreciate the small sacrifices our parents make for us.

I still can picture those silent rides, with dad looking disheveled and unshaven, having just been rudely stirred from sleep to play chauffeur for his awkward, ungrateful teenage daughter. Looking back at it now, I wish I had taken advantage of those rare moments when we were alone together to talk to him, even if it had just been small talk. Alas, one cannot go back in time.

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February 27, 2012 · 10:58 am

Dad’s love of coffee

Coming from Ireland, one might have expected my dad to be a tea drinker, but he drank coffee like it was water. He drank coffee with every meal, and in-between meals as well. Both my parents had a love of coffee, and they were from that generation that drank it throughout the day and also at night. How did they avoid getting the caffeine jitters back then? Now there are so many “experts” that warn people shouldn’t ingest caffeine after 3 p.m. if they want to get a good night’s sleep.

My dad liked his coffee with cream and sugar. I can still remember how the sweetened, caramel-colored liquid looked and smelled in his gold mug, the one he used when I was a kid. They drank instant coffee at home, but always appreciated the brewed stuff when they went out to eat. In fact, they almost always ended up enjoying a fresh pot of coffee when they were at a restaurant, because really, who drinks coffee at a Pizza Hut? My parents!

I would always cringe at the odd combination of food my parents would eat with coffee, from pizza to fish to pasta. But my dad had always lived that way, claiming that when he was a young man in New York City, he survived for years on coffee and hot dogs.

And yes, in case you are wondering, I love coffee as well. I’m a bit snobbier about my coffee, and no, I don’t drink it with pizza, but it is one of my favorite beverages.

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February 26, 2012 · 10:23 am

Feeding the ducks on a Sunday afternoon

As I was watching a man feed a large group of ducks at the park this morning, I thought about our common family outings. I’ve written before about how we enjoyed park outings. There was only one park that had ducks, and I was eager to feed them each time we visited.

That started with food, of course. Anything Dad and I refused in our lunches was fair game. I can just hear my dad voicing his dislike of a new cracker or chip my mom tried to give him: “Those things were tasteless. Just like cardboard.” Into the duck bag they went.

After the ducks were fed, it was time for our own dinner. That usually meant a trip to the nearby IHOP. I think my dad would get a rotisserie chicken entree. We always set in the same booth and the rotisserie was right in my line of vision so I would watch the birds turning over and over. My mom always ordered the Mexican salad served in a giant tostada shell. I remember being fond of the chocolate chip pancakes at one point.

Simple memories, but sometimes those are the best kind to remember.

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February 25, 2012 · 9:19 am

Family outing to the library

I’ve written about my dad’s love of libraries before. Usually this would either be a solo outing for my dad, or when I lived at home, we would often make it a father-daughter trip. Rarely did we go as a family. (Mom loves to talk too much to stay quiet for very long. Sorry Mom, but it’s true!)

Anyways, my dad carried on his library tradition after my parents left California and retired in Ruidoso, NM. The librarians knew him by name here too, calling him the formal, “Patrick.” It made him feel special. On one of my rare visits home as an adult (at least until my father became ill), Dad wanted to show off “his” library. So we all piled into whatever boat of a car my dad was driving at the time and ambled our way to the library, which was only a mile or two from their home.

Bear statues can be found all over Ruidoso, an homage to Smokey the Bear. There’s a large bear statue outside of the Ruidoso library, and my mom wanted us to pose around it, while we snagged a bystander to snap a photo for us. The photo sums up our family pretty well: corny, quirky but quite harmless.

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February 24, 2012 · 10:13 am

Dad’s vivid nightmares

I’m not sure if dad’s vivid nightmares began before or after the haunted hotel experience. Growing up, I remember both my mom and I being frightened by the screams and moans my dad would make when he was suffering from a particularly bad nightmare. I’m sure it was not fun for my mom to be awakened by my dad’s thrashing and yelling. She said sometimes it would take her quite awhile to wake him. He then would bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and with sweat lining his brow. “Oh, that was a bad one,” was a typical response.

When he could remember the dreams the next morning over breakfast, they usually consisted of the “bad man chasing me” variety of nightmares. Dad was usually a pretty calm, quiet kind of guy, so when he exhibited the kind of fear he did when he was having a nightmare, we knew he wasn’t being dramatic. The bad dreams didn’t happen that often, maybe a handful or so a year, but I can definitely recall waking my dad up from a bad nightmare on more than one occasion in my childhood. It was a bit of a role reversal in the family unit, as usually it’s the parent that has to soothe the child and convince them there’s not a monster under the bed.

It does make me wonder if Dad continued to have nightmares as his dementia progressed. If so, was he able to comprehend that it was just a dream and not reality?

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February 23, 2012 · 1:30 pm

Dad’s stay at the haunted Cecil Hotel

UPDATE Feb. 2021: The documentary, “Crime Scene: The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel,” premieres on Netflix on Feb. 10. I was interviewed for the project. Check out the trailer below.

Read my new blog post where I discuss the new documentary and my father’s own terrifying experience at the Cecil Hotel.

ORIGINAL BLOG POST Feb. 23, 2012:

Dad naturalization record

Dad’s naturalization certificate.

Previously, I wrote about finding my dad’s naturalization record on Ancestry.com. I also found the original certificate after sorting through my father’s belongings. Out of curiosity, I Googled the address listed as my dad’s residential address on the form. Results for the Cecil Hotel in downtown Los Angeles popped up. As I delved deeper, I discovered what a bizarre history this place has, and it also made me remember dad’s haunted hotel story.

In more modern times, the Cecil became home to serial killers, such as the “Night Stalker” Richard Ramirez and Jack Unterweger. Now the hotel is trying to reinvent itself by promoting its central location and affordable rates. You really should check out the reviews and photos online. Talk about bait-and-switch. The lobby is absolutely grand, pristine with gorgeous architectural details. But once you leave the lobby, things get grim (and grimy) in a hurry.

If you enjoy reading hotel horror stories, just Google it. Some politely refer to it as a “transient hotel” and others call it an outright dump. This gentleman has an excellent description of his stay there, entitled “A Dump with a Future.”

The Cecil Hotel also served as inspiration for the “Hotel” installment of American Horror Story.

In a nutshell, the Cecil Hotel has never had a sterling reputation, even when it was known as the Hotel Cecil during my dad’s tenure there in the mid-1960’s. In 1962, a woman committed suicide by jumping from a room at the Cecil, also killing a pedestrian that she landed on below. Goldie Osgood, known as the “pigeon lady of Pershing Square” was choked to death in a room there in 1964. The case was never solved.

Which leads right into my dad’s haunted hotel experience. Every time he told the story, I could feel the fear come off of him in waves, even after so much time had passed. He claims he went to sleep that night in his room at the Cecil, only to awaken to the feeling that he was being smothered and choked. He was bathed in a cold sweat and couldn’t move or call for help. He felt a heavy presence weighing down on his chest, and what felt like hands around his throat, but he could not see anyone. He literally thought he was going to die in that room. Finally, he was able to move. He bolted out of the room and ran downstairs to the front desk. After he gasped for breath, he told the hotel clerk what had happened. The clerk said nonchalantly that someone had been murdered in that room. Dad was able to get his room changed, as he made it clear he would never sleep another moment in that room.

Did Dad have a supernatural experience in that room? Was it the room the pigeon lady was murdered in just the year before? I’ll never know, but it does make for one hell of a story.

If you have your own experience at the Cecil Hotel, I’d love to hear about it. Many have reached out and shared their accounts. Feel free to share your story in the comments section.

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February 22, 2012 · 11:32 am

Dad’s naturalization record

As part of my research for this blog, I’ve been spending some time on Ancestry.com, building out the family tree and looking for any documents I can find relating to my family. I did stumble upon my dad’s naturalization record. It doesn’t reveal much, though it does finally solve a family mystery of sorts.

Dad’s birth year was 1932. That’s what it said on his driver’s license and other official documents. But Dad would insist he was born in 1933. My mom and I never understood this little white lie. If you are going to fib about your age, wouldn’t you go ahead and shave at least 5 years off? What difference does a year make in the scheme of things?

The naturalization record says April 10, 1932 so case closed. Sorry, Dad.

I was curious about the address listed as my dad’s residence on the document. It turns out to be a very interesting place. More about that tomorrow.

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February 21, 2012 · 10:37 am

Dad’s odd breakfast favorites

For most of his career, my dad worked a swing shift, so he would eat dinner late at night and have “breakfast” later in the morning when he woke up. I say “breakfast” because what my mom would serve him after waking wasn’t your typical breakfast food by a long shot. Clam chowder was a favorite, as was baked halibut. I clearly remember the disconcerting aroma of fish wafting through the house at ten in the morning.

And being from that generation that consumed coffee like water, he always had a cup of coffee with every meal. He also enjoyed V-8, and I can still remember how the viscous beverage left a film around the glass that always disgusted me.

Clam chowder for breakfast? Photo via microwaverecipescookbook.com

Dad also had a sweet tooth, so that meant a lot of jelly or honey with his toast. He would usually watch the news while he was eating or maybe just sit and “listen” to mom chatter as she did her daily chores. Then it would be time for him to get ready for work and do it all over again.

At the end of his life, I remember the palliative doctor asking us what dad’s favorite foods were, as they were going to remove the feeding tube and start hand feeding. “He loved fish,” I said without hesitation. They proceeded with the hand feeding over the last month of his life, but I’m not sure if he ever had the chance to taste fish again in this world. That’s when you know it’s time to let someone go, when they can no longer take pleasure in the simple things that nourish our body and soul.

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