Tag Archives: dad

February 20, 2012 · 10:34 am

Two months since my father died

It seems so much has happened in the two months since my father passed away. Grief still saturates my atmosphere and I think of my father several times a day. Most of the time, I still picture him at the end of his life, which is painful. However, it is a relief to not be waiting for “that call” anymore. I realize that for almost the entire year of 2011 I lived in a state of anxiety, fearing my father’s death long before it actually happened.

In the past two months, good things have started to happen. I started this blog project, which is being well-received by the community and has been great therapy for me. I also am now a storyteller on Cowbird, where I will be writing visual-focused stories about my dad and other areas of my life. I know Dad would be proud, as he always encouraged my interest in writing. I think in a different life Dad would have been a writer as well, penning books about down-on-their-luck boxers with Irish names, and maybe a novel or two about the IRA, which he claimed to be a member of at one time.

My mom is still struggling to find her way alone in this world. She still talks to my dad every day, telling him that she misses him and loves him.

There are still regrets about the last few years that I am working my way through, but I know I cannot change the past, I can only take what I’ve learned and apply it to the present and future. A loss of a loved one changes you forever, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Dad’s love of books and libraries

The most time I ever spent with my dad one-on-one was as the library. We practically lived there every Saturday, arriving in the early afternoon and staying until closing. All of the librarians knew my dad by name, and didn’t mind special-ordering books that he requested.

Photo credit: City of Downey, Calif.

Visits to the library evoke good memories for me. When I was younger, dad and I would go our separate ways upon arrival. I would head to the children’s section and dad would head to the periodicals, where he liked to peruse newspapers from around the country and the world. As I got older, I joined him on the adult side of the library, and would often bring homework or research projects with me to complete in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that the library offered.

I also remember my dad and I collaborating at the library to find a way to ease mom’s nerves as she battled menopause. There was a gift shop in the library, and my dad would give me money to go buy her a trinket. We’d also agree to tell her how good dinner was multiple times that night when we got home. Our plan usually worked, much to our relief, as both of us shied away from emotional outbursts.

Those lazy Saturday afternoons spent in that soothing hush, and bringing home a tall stack of books to devour at my leisure, those weekly library trips are a treasured memory for me. I think they were for my dad as well. In fact, at my parents’ home, two books still reside on my father’s nightstand, gathering dust, awaiting to be read.

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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.