Category Archives: Memories

January 11, 2012 · 8:01 am

My dad’s love of ‘The Three Stooges’

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy day, so I put on my ‘Three Stooges’ hoodie as I headed to work. It was the first time I’d worn it to work since I had received that fateful phone call from mom during the middle of my shift, telling me through tears that my father had died. So I couldn’t help but think about dad and how “The Three Stooges” was another bonding moment for us, much like those college bowl games were, but this bond was deeper and longer-lasting.

Every Sunday afternoon, “The Three Stooges” would air shorts for an hour on a local network affiliate in L.A. It just so happened that it was the time my dad would sit down for a cup of coffee before heading out to church. I don’t remember how it started, all I remember is that for years, watching “The Three Stooges” together was a Sunday ritual that had more meaning to me than any church service.

As a kid, I enjoyed the zany hijinks of Moe, Larry and Curly. They are like children who never grew up. For dad, they held a key to a bittersweet time in his childhood. Having been born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, he was subjected to the aerial bombings delivered by the Nazis before he was a teenager. He remembered running to the bomb shelter with his family. And in between the fear of another bombing and the fear of another lashing across the hands from the ruler in Sister Mary’s iron fist, he and his school pals would escape their miserable childhood by going to the movie theatre. There, they would watch all of the movies that we consider American classics today. But each film would start with a ‘Three Stooges’ short, and I think that may have been the kids’ favorite part.

My love of the Stooges has not dissipated as I have become an adult, if anything, I appreciate their comedic talent more than ever. I’ve been watching the shorts over the past couple of months, as dad declined and passed away, and they offered me much needed levity and made me feel close to my father. Maybe dad is enjoying a few good “nyuk, nyuk, nyuks” and pies to the face with the Stooges wherever he is now.

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January 10, 2012 · 6:00 am

A birthday card by any other name

I just finished reading Joan Didion’s wonderful book about loss, “The Year of Magical Thinking.” It’s highly recommended for anyone dealing with the death of a loved one. One of the more poignant passages is regarding the last birthday gift her husband gave her before he died. This made me remember an incident that occurred as my father’s dementia was progressing.

My mother’s birthday was coming up, and I guess she had mentioned it to my dad in passing. Now even when my dad was mentally healthy, he was one of those guys that often forgot to mark special occasions such as birthdays and anniversaries. So my mom was certainly not expecting anything now, with dad’s mental state deteriorating.

She was surprised when she saw an envelope on the dining room table. She knew it wasn’t from me, as I was a couple of thousand miles away and she had not gone to get the mail that day. She opened it and out popped bunny rabbits holding baskets of pastel-painted eggs. “Happy Easter” was emblazoned in puffy letters across the card. My dad had signed the card inside.

I believe it is the last gift he ever gave my mom.

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January 9, 2012 · 5:56 am

Dad, the die-hard Notre Dame fan

I think dad was more enamored by the history of sports than by the action on the field. He loved to talk about the legendary baseball players like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio. His European roots meant he also enjoyed soccer, and would watch matches on the Spanish TV station to get his fix. My dad and I would giggle over the Spanish-speaking announcer, who would turn the word “goal” into a minute-long phrase. He also loved to follow his favorite college football team, which of course was Notre Dame, the Fighting Irish. What other team could he possibly root for? He would watch a game anytime one was on TV, and had plenty to say about the coach at the time, Lou Holtz, but he didn’t necessarily keep up with all of the stats and recruiting news.


We watched more baseball games together than football, but I clearly remember two bowl games in consecutive years that had dad and I on opposite sides. Notre Dame and Colorado met up in the Orange Bowl in 1990 and 1991. The first year Notre Dame won handily 21-6; the second year, Colorado managed to eek out a 10-9 victory. My mom still remembers the shouts that came from the couch during those games. It was one of the rare memories I have of a bonding moment with my dad.

As a typical teenager, I had to be the opposite of my parents, so I chose to root for Colorado instead of my dad’s beloved Notre Dame. I wish we had had the chance to go to a Notre Dame game together, I think dad would have been thrilled. Dad, I promise to root for Notre Dame this upcoming season in your memory.

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January 8, 2012 · 6:00 am

Dad the wanderer

Last night I had a dream that my parents and I were navigating some large place, like a mall or airport. We paused for a moment and I was keeping an eye on dad. He was there one moment, but when I turned around again, he had vanished. A stressful search ensued in my dream. Finally, he appeared out of nowhere, as if nothing had happened. There was great relief and the dream ended shortly after that.

Wandering is common with Alzheimer’s patients. When my father still lived at home, he would go to the bank on Sundays, even though it was closed. He would wander to the post office when he said he was going to the convenience store on the corner to buy a pack of cigarettes. While my mom went to the restroom at McDonald’s and told him to wait right outside for her, he was eventually found at the drive-thru window. A few times, the police had to be called to locate him. It got to the point where I worried about him just stepping out onto the front porch to smoke.

I bought a tracking device from the Alzheimer’s association, but dad got sick and went into the hospital before I convinced my mom to use it. I read on Twitter that they are developing shoes with GPS built in them. This sounds like a great idea.

Anyways, I’ve always wondered what Alzheimer’s patients are thinking about when they wander. Are they really intending to go to the place they end up at, or were they searching for something that only exists in their mind? I guess we may never know for sure, but I hope my dad has found what he was looking for on the other side.

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January 7, 2012 · 9:39 am

Kennedy, table for three

As I was making restaurant reservations last night, it got me to thinking about how Dad would change our last name if we had to check-in and wait for a table at a restaurant. This didn’t happen too often, as we mainly ate out at fast food joints, where there was no wait and no reservation required.

Interior of The Red Chile. It hasn't changed! Photo credit: Ai M., Yelp

But there was one Mexican restaurant we used to frequent, The Red Chile in Cerritos, Calif. and it was often packed when we went and we would have to wait awhile for a table. (I just Googled it and it is still going strong, and people still wait for an hour for a table!) My parents were particular about where they wanted to sit (not too close to the front) and since we were semi-regulars, the staff learned to humor my parents. We pretty much ordered the same thing each time as we were creatures of habit. My mom ordered the chile relleno, my dad a burrito, and until I was older, I would just get refried beans with cheese and a side of tortillas. It was the only time I ever got real butter and I loved slathering it on the warm, soft tortillas and how the melted butter greased my fingers as I bit into a folded tortilla.

But back to our name. My dad was obsessed with the Kennedy family. He read numerous tomes about their lives and could make your eyes glaze over with his litany of Kennedy tales that he could recite at the drop of a hat. And if you wanted to make my dad mad, just say something critical of the Kennedy clan. He was not fond of his last name because he didn’t think it sounded “Irish enough.” So when he would put our name down on the waiting list, he always wrote, “Kennedy” instead of “Johnston.” He then would quickly depart outside to smoke a cigarette, leaving my mom and I to remember that we were “Kennedys” at least for the duration of the meal.

As I became a typical surly teenager, I would blow our cover to the restaurant hostess. “Our name is actually Johnston,” I would say as she led us to our table. I’m sure she didn’t care what our name was, as long as we paid.

Dad, I guess you can go by whatever name you please wherever you are now. No reservations required, and no waiting lists ever.

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January 6, 2012 · 5:55 am

Dad’s love of walking

Some of my fondest memories growing up is going to the park together as a family. In fact, this was our typical weekend excursion. We’d walk and walk, with dad and I leaving mom in the dust, our long legs striding much faster than hers. She’d call out to us to wait for her, and we’d laugh and slow down. Sometimes.

Dad and I posing together at the park.

That’s why it was difficult to see my dad in the assisted living facility, where he struggled to walk. His gait became unsteady, and he lurched along the hallways like a zombie. He also fell several times, which usually resulted in a trip to the ER and an alarming call to us in the middle of the night. On our visits, my mom and I had to be at his side to steady him as we walked slowly around the grounds of the facility.

I still love to walk. It’s my main mode of transportation and exercise. I find it also to be a great way to relieve stress. I live near a park and since my father’s death, have gone many times, walking the trails and circling the lake where dozens of ducks reside. It reminds me of my dad but in a good way.

Dad, if there are streets in the afterlife I know you are out there strolling along them in quick, confident strides.

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January 5, 2012 · 5:53 am

Dad’s fear of bugs

An odd little incident at work the other day made me think of my dad. A ladybug appeared on my desk and proceeded to be my assistant for the rest of the day. It crawled around my desk, then attached itself to my coffee mug. They are supposed to be lucky so I let it hang out, even though I wonder how it made it to the 6th floor. I guess the elevator like the rest of us?

Anyways, it made me think of dad and his dislike of bugs. Picnics in California with him were spent with him slapping the air every time a winged insect entered his no-fly zone. I think he spent more time slashing the air with his arms like a windmill than actually enjoying the food. It drove my mom crazy, who was raised on a farm where she dealt with a wide variety of living creatures every day.

But I’m more like my dad. Oh, sure, cute little ladybugs don’t strike fear in my heart, and anything slow, like worms, is given a pass. But the big, fast-moving creatures, your spiders and roaches, those will send me screaming for help every time.

Anyways, as I observed the ladybug on my desk, I thought how ironic it would be if dad had been reincarnated as a bug. Dad, as long as you’re a ladybug, I won’t swat at or step on you, I promise.

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