Tag Archives: family

Finally, An Adult Conversation

I’ve waited nearly 24 years for the conversation I had with my oldest daughter last night. She was close to 14 months old when we adopted her in the PRC, but I was 55 years old. My father had died two months shy of his 60th birthday and I’d been told all my life, “You’re exactly like your father”. I had good reason to believe I was rapidly approaching my “Use By” date, yet it deter me from becoming a first-time, adoptive father.

Part of the reason is my partner at the time (now my wife) is seven years younger than me and her family has a history of longevity. I nevertheless had some reservations about adopting, just not enough to stop the process. To, perhaps, add insult to injury I did it again at 59. Now my daughters are 25 and 22. My 25-year-old has been incredibly reluctant to spend any time with me or my wife at all for at least the last close to ten years. It’s been seriously frustrating.

At any rate, last night I was able to spend well over an hour with my oldest, talking about life, the universe, and everything (oblique Douglas Adams reference). From day one, a primary goal of mine was to ensure my girls had a good understanding of who I am and why I lived the somewhat unconventional life I lived, which included why I adopted so late in life. I didn’t have a reasonable expectation of being able to accomplish that, especially given my oldest’s reticence to converse.

Last night put all my fears to rest. We had a good, adult to adult conversation. She asked me pertinent questions and I was able to fill her in on some of the blanks in her life, such as I know them. They are few and far between, since she was abandoned at two days old. I can now look forward to at least a few more conversations before I shed this mortal coil, and leave her more than just my life insurance and the equity in our house. I am content.

One lucky guy here. PS – I’m well aware of the irony our family represents, i.e. if my girls were equally lucky, they would likely still be with their birth parents. My wife and I are just the next best thing given their circumstances.

PPS – I was best man and they were flower girls at the retaking of vows of close friends … a while back. The other pic is of us going out from Long Beach to scatter the ashes of a cousin who was taken from us far too early. 

Best Man & Flower Girls

It Hasta be Pasta!

I haven’t written much about my growing old and the illnesses I’ve encountered in the past couple of years. Suffice it to say it’s been challenging, as well as revealing. Facing one’s mortality head on is both fascinating and, at times, frightening. Not that I’m afraid of death, just a little apprehensive about the process of dying. Truth to tell, I have lots of reasons to stay alive, not the least of which is my desire to see my girls (who are currently 25 and 22) grow into the confident women I have long hoped I was helping them become.

A couple of months ago I was reasonably certain my time was running out and I was facing the end – sooner than I had hoped for. My stage 4 CKD-caused anemia, my COPD, the onset of Afib, and the possibility I had had (or soon would have) a stroke was making the future look fairly grim. About a month ago, my cardiologist and my nephrologist agreed that giving me a blood transfusion of two units would be safe and would also be likely to help me feel stronger and more comfortable. They were right and ever since I received those two units of O+ I have felt much better than I have for well over a year.

As a result, I’ve been challenging myself physically in an effort to gain back some of the strength, as well as the muscle tone I’ve lost over the past couple of years. I used to enjoy shopping for groceries and cooking for the family. Also, I’ve been going out for dinner for years on Fridays with two of my former colleagues from Rocketdyne, as well as my younger daughter and the son of one of those friends. Occasionally, I would have them over and I would cook something for our dinner. I hadn’t cooked for them in quite some time.

So, last week I got a bug up my butt and decided to cook a special meal for us. Actually, it was precipitated by my wife anticipating my love of a good spaghetti sauce and asking me if I had a favorite recipe. Not having anything I could point to, I asked ChatGPT to find me a recipe for a bold, rustic meat sauce. It provided several and I picked on, after which Linda made a shopping list. Fortunately, Smart & Final was having a promotion offering free delivery with a minimum purchase of $35.00. I was able to order just about everything I needed and had it delivered. I then asked ChatGPT for a recipe for garlic bread. We had some Texas Toast in the freezer, but I wanted something a little more authentic.

Nothing like homemade spaghetti sauce

As a result, I had to do something I was a bit loathe to do; get into the car and head over to Trader Joe’s to purchase a Ciabatta baguette and, since I had also asked for a vegetable suggestion that would go well with the meal, I also picked up some fresh asparagus. The reason this was a big jump for me is that my walking is somewhat off-balance and halting. I have to be more aware of where I am and what I’m doing in order to avoid a misstep or a fall. I’ve had a couple of them in the past year or so. As of that Friday I had gathered all the ingredients I would need for the dinner, including a second baguette because my oldest’s cat, Lacy, had managed to break into the one I’d purchased and ate some of it.

When Friday had rolled around, I’d already put a couple of hours into the meal, what with planning, reading, and shopping. Now came the real test, not merely of the recipes I was using, but also of my stamina and ability to get done what needed to be done. I was, after all, making everything essentially from scratch. I didn’t bake the bread, nor did I grow the tomatoes of butcher the meat and make the sausage. However, I didn’t use a pre-made sauce or garlic bread. I had to finely dice a couple of carrots, an large onion, a couple stalks of celery, and about 14 cloves of garlic. I also had to slice up 8 ounces of mushrooms and finely chop up fresh Italian parsley and fresh basil. I had to measure out several herbs/spices, including oregano, thyme, basil, and fennel seeds. Normally, none of this would have been taxing, but with my weakness and instability, it was a bit of a chore. Imagine finely dicing carrots without cutting yourself when you have essential tremors. I was proud of that accomplishment.

So, Friday evening came around, my friends showed up (including my daughter and Steve’s son mentioned earlier) and the meal commenced. ChatGPT had even provided me with a timeline to follow, which was helpful, even though I have a long history of project planning and Gantt charting. Everything came out on time and I was pleased to be able to serve everyone, eventually including myself. Now I need to share the results with ChatGPT, since it’s asked for my feedback.


ChatGPT & My Health

I posted recently about how I’m using AI to help me manage my understanding of the medical information I receive from my doctor visits and from my Apple watch. I have been sharing the sleep graphic my watch and the Health app provide me each morning. This morning, there seemed to be a bit of a disconnect between the awake time the graph showed and the analysis that ChatGPT provided me.

So I decided to add screenshots of both my sleeping heart rate and respiratory rate graphs as additional information for AI to analyze. What I got was a more thorough analysis and an explanation of what my Apple watch actually measures in determining my sleep pattern. I learned that it’s quite possible for the watch to assume I’m awake after I arise at, say, 0230, to urinate (a condition referred to as nocturia) and that I could actually be going in and out of light core sleep. This aligned well with how I felt during that period. As a result, I am now going to share all three graphs each morning.

For anyone who doesn’t follow this blog, it’s probably useful for me to point out that I am living (struggling might be a better word) with numerous comorbidities, the progress of which I’m keenly paying attention to. In no particular order of importance, these are: Bradycardia, for which I had a pacemaker implanted not quite three years ago; Atherosclerosis and Essential Hypertension, for which I take several daily medications; COPD, for which I have a daily inhaler and a rescue inhaler; Stage 4 Chronic Kidney Disease, for which I have quit drinking alcohol entirely and watch my diet, and; Type II Diabetes with Proteinuria, which has been well controlled with diet.

I had been carrying the Hepatitis C virus for somewhere between 30 and 35 years with no symptoms until a couple of years ago when everything went haywire. I recently completed and 12 week regimen of Epclusa and currently am considered cured.

All to say, as I reach the culmination of my life I’m careful to do things that help me put off the inevitable for as long as possible. I still have 22 year-old and a 24 year-old daughters living with me and my wife, and I’d like to be around for at least a little while after their prefrontal cortices mature. At the same time, I’m constantly balancing the virtues of quantity of life against those of quality of life. I tend to think I’d rather enjoy the time I have left than miss out on some things because I’m worried it will shorten my already substantial length of time on this planet.


50s Kitchen Chic

This photo and its caption were posted by a friend on FB. I both commented on it and shared it with my FB friends, saying: “This is a Mom kitchen to me. I never knew my paternal grandparents and my maternal grandparents lived with us. Our kitchen wasn’t precisely like this, but it was similar. We had a ‘breakfast nook’ that was partially built-in and, if memory serves, it was turquoise and pink, which was all the rage in the 50s. My strongest memory is of eating breakfast and listening to my mother’s favorite radio show, Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club, which originated in Chicago, where both my parents were born and raised.”

I actually grew up in three different places. Panorama City from a year and a half old until I was seven. Then Palms (West L.A.) for a year, then North Hollywood on the border of Sun Valley until I left home. Although I frequently noted my disappointment my family issues couldn’t be resolved in a half hour like Donna Reed’s did, I really had a great childhood, all things considered. I consider myself luck; some may say privileged … and they’d get no argument from me. Hardly wealthy, yet reasonably comfortable.


Remembering My Mother

Today would have been my mother’s 99th birthday. It’s been 18 years since she died and, truth to tell, I don’t think of her all that often. Time, as they say, softens the blow of a loved one’s loss. It’s surely the case with my feelings toward my mother. I do, however, keep her birthday as an event on my calendar so I’m reminded at least once a year of her presence in my life.

My father died 21 years before her and my brother and I made sure she was taken care of until her final moments. I must admit there are moments—even to this day—when I question whether we did all we could for her, but I don’t find doing so all that useful as I am pretty sure we did out best. We weren’t wealthy or powerful; just a couple of working class guys doing our best.

I even lived with her for a while to help her stay in the house she had been living in for some time. I don’t quite remember the details of why that changed; it was probably due to my needing to get on with my life. Shortly after that we moved her into a modest one-room apartment not too far from the house where she had been living.

After she died, my brother and I (don’t remember if our sister was able to help) went to her apartment and cleaned it out. As I was going through her stuff and deciding what to do with things, I came across a birthday card I had sent her from US Navy boot camp, in June of 1966. That she had kept it all those years moved me to tears. After all, my feelings over her loss were still pretty raw.

I’m sharing these pictures of the card and what I wrote mostly as a way of preserving a bit of my history and as a testament to my mother. She was very good to me and, although I have gotten over her death (hell! I’m now contemplating mine) I am grateful for what she did for me and how much she loved and took care of me.


Testing The Waters

I have been working (read “struggling”) on my memoirs/autobiography for longer than I care to think about. I’ve managed to write close to 90,000 words and am sure I need to write another 90,000 (at least) in order to feel I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. Some of what I’m including comes from blog posts I’ve authored over the past decade and a half. Now I’ve decided to take a slightly different tack and publish some of my work here in my blog, in the hope I can get some feedback—at least from my friends who sometimes read what I write here. What follows is the first draft of my Preface to what I’m tentatively entitling “A Stunning Display of Intelligence”, the meaning of which is contained therein. If you read this, and have a mind to, I would greatly appreciate your thoughts, suggestions, etc. Thank you.


I’ve not been one to toot my own horn, preferring to let my actions speak for themselves. This is, in part, because I suffer from impostor syndrome, or something similar to it. My particular iteration of this syndrome isn’t a cause of great anxiety. It’s more like I’ve always felt everyone knew everything I did and what I knew or was capable of wasn’t all that special. It’s only in the last decade I’ve come to understand how this affected me and began to throw off whatever constraints it placed on my progress and enjoyment of life.

It was the blog of an online friend, someone I have never met in person but, because of our mutual interest in the advent of what was called Web 2.0, as well as social media and its application to the enterprise, that brought me my first glimmer of a deeper understanding. He named his blog “The Obvious” and, when I asked him why that was so he told me it was because his impostor syndrome led him to believe the things he wrote about were “obvious” to others; hence the name.

This work of mine is my way of not necessarily showing off, or displaying my accomplishments, but of sharing my experiences, many of which for numerous reasons I have been reluctant to talk about at all with nearly anyone save for those who were with me when they happened and who helped me plan or plot to accomplish. Some of the things I’ve done, especially when I was young and impetuous, not to mention bullet-proof and invincible, were illegal. My virtue is never having been caught, not necessarily being a good citizen. Although, in my defense I will argue much of those activities might have been illegal, but they were hardly wrong. Enjoying the pleasures of Cannabis is one of them. I will discuss this in greater detail a bit later.

My life, while reasonably normal, has not been all that conventional. By that I mean I’ve done most of the things normal people do, I just haven’t done them in the same order others normally have. I have long suggested I’ve lived a great deal of my life in reverse and I believe I am accurately depicting how I’ve done it. For instance, although I did not attend undergraduate school, I was admitted to law school eight years after I graduated high school, graduating with a Juris Doctorate three years later. Many years after that experience (33 to be exact) I earned a Master’s Degree in Knowledge Management. It was shorty after my 62nd birthday. I have considered getting a Bachelor’s Degree just to complete the backward educational hat trick, but at this stage of my life it’s unlikely. I did some undergrad work at the University of Phoenix and Cal Lutheran when I was working on the Space Shuttle Maine Engine (SSME) program at Rocketdyne. I think I finished a semester at the University of Phoenix and a year or more of work in an adult evening degree program at Cal Lu, but it was difficult to reconcile taking classes designed primarily for 18 – 22 year olds still wet behind the ears. The knowledge I could have taught some of those classes was a bit aggravating too. I will discuss these efforts a little later.

I didn’t become a father until I was 55 years old, when my wife and I, after trying to get pregnant, traveled to the People’s Republic of China to adopt our oldest child. It was a two-year, difficult, and amazing adventure. A few years later, in what I’ve often thought of sarcastically as a stunning display of intelligence, we adopted another child from China. Hence the title of this memoir. Later on I will introduce you to my girls, Fooshie and Typhoon Girl.

A word of caution. As I am writing down my recollections I am also researching dates and locations to ensure my memories are as accurate as one can expect from a seventy-five year old man. I have never been one to exaggerate my experiences, but I know that time can play tricks on one’s memory. I am making every attempt to be accurate, but I realize a few of these memories may be slightly distorted. For instance, I know I was five years old when I had surgery to correct my clubbed left foot, but I’m pretty certain (based on my research of when he played for the Los Angeles Angels) I was five years old when I picked up a foul ball during batting practice and, at his request, returned it to Chuck Connors. I’m not sure I can reconcile being mobile enough to get that ball with having some fairly major surgery done to my foot and ankle. Nevertheless, I have managed to slog through what remains of my mind and am presenting what I remember as best I can.

It is also nigh on to impossible to refer to many of the organizations I worked for or the places I visited and which meant something to me and my development or experience back then, because some of these memories are from a long time ago. As an example, one of the companies I worked for and which played a bit of a role in making my visit to Cuba somewhat strange was purchased long ago and, in fact, was re-branded sometime after that purchase-and that was a long time ago.

A substantial portion of this memoir was written over the past 10 – 15 years and posted on one of the two blogs I’ve maintained since early 2006, when I published my first post at The Cranky Curmudgeon (http://crankycur.blogspot.com/). I posted there for a few years until 2014. I did not publish very often the last few years because I had started another blog with WordPress, which I call Systems Savvy (https://rickladd.com/). My first publication there was at the beginning of 2008. I have since published there sporadically and continue to do so; currently a bit over 700 times, not including saved drafts. Some of those posts were simple, short, and sweet while others were somewhat lengthy and more complex and nuanced. Several of them recount experiences of mine, while other reflect on lessons I believe I’ve learned from work or life.

Long ago I came to the conclusion the only thing that mattered for me, in terms of what I accomplish in my life, was that I gained wisdom. When I first began to feel that way I was only in my thirties and I knew that you can’t just hang out a shingle and declare oneself a wise person. I also knew that wisdom comes with time and experience; some would say after a great deal of false starts and failures too. Whether or not I’ve reached that particular plateau will be for others to decide and I am hopeful you will find a nugget or two buried in my remembrances, especially those that are from the more seminal experiences of my now fairly long life.
I’ve struggled to find my voice for, well, pretty much forever and I’m not sure I’ve managed to do a good job with this memoir.

However, I don’t think it’s hyperbole to believe I can at times sense the hot breath of the grim reaper on my neck and I feel a strong need to get this done before it’s too late. As well, I want to leave some coherent (ha!) record of who—and why—I am for my daughters. They lost two fathers before they were old enough to understand what was happening to them and I want them to have something to hang on to after I’m gone. I am, for the most part, the only father they can remember.

For years I considered writing memoirs about certain parts of my life and experience; mostly my political and counter-culture activities and my becoming a first-time adoptive father so late in life. However, various circumstances militated against my doing so, not the least of which was my inability to just sit down and write, as well as organize my thoughts and memories. In this work I have decided to go through my life and get as much of it down as possible. As I began outlining and organizing my thoughts I found it increasingly easier to link various parts, the sum of which can be confusing when taken all at once.

I have therefore attempted to organize my thoughts in such a way the reader can get a sense of what I have learned from a particular part of my life without having to understand the entirety of it, the gestalt if you will. I think you will find it easy to skip over portions that aren’t terribly interesting to you and still get something of value. At least I hope that is the case. I know my life has been unconventional. Not all of it, but substantial chunks of time and experience. I’ve tried to convey what I’ve learned from those periods, as well as the more normal everyday experiences we all seem to go through. I hope you’ll find it of interest, if not enlightening.


Gobsmacked!

I am absolutely blown away. In writing my autobiography, or a couple of memoirs, whatever-the-hell-it-is I’m doing, I’ve found it necessary to do some research to confirm things like locations, relationships, personal history, even a little genealogy.

I’ve never been big on family history, but I’ve been told or have heard things throughout my life that fill in a few blanks. For instance, as far as I know my paternal grandfather was an orphan from Poland who settled in (what I grew up knowing as) “The Ukraine.” His last name, as my father spelled it, was Wladofsky. My mother’s maiden name was Moldofsky and, since the suffix “sky” means “from”, I’m pretty sure that means her family was from Moldova, which borders Ukraine to the southwest. There is also a town in the far east of Poland, right on the border of Ukraine, called Wlodowa. It’s conceivable that’s where Wladowsky (Wladofsky, Wladovsky) comes from.

Regardless, as I’ve said I haven’t really been terribly interested in discovering much of this. However, I have on occasion attempted to search the database of the Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation to see if I could find anything. I’ve not been successful, until today.

The real irony here is that I haven’t found anything about my paternal grandparents or my maternal great grandparents (my maternal grandparents where born in the U.S.) but I finally found a listing of someone. It’s not an immigration record, though. It’s a record of my father returning to New York, via Dublin, Ireland from a Murmansk Run during WWII. He was born in Chicago, but quite high school to join the U.S. Navy and was deployed aboard the U.S.S. William H. Webb.

All these years I thought he was aboard a United States Navy vessel, but I know now he was part of the Navy referred to as the Navy Armed Guard. These were small detachments of sailors who manned the guns on merchant ships. I believe the William H. Webb was a merchant ship outfitted with guns that were manned by the 29 sailors aboard a vessel which also included 41 merchant seamen. My father was the lone radioman.

Here’s what is said about the Navy Armed Guard: “The U.S. Navy Armed Guard was a service branch of the United States Navy that was responsible for defending U.S. and Allied merchant ships from attack by enemy aircraft, submarines and surface ships during World War II. The men of the Armed Guard served primarily as gunners, signal men and radio operators on cargo ships, tankers, troop ships and other merchant vessels. Disbanded following the end of the war, the Armed Guard is today little known or remembered by the general public, or even within the Navy. But without the courage and sacrifice of the men of the Armed Guard, victory in World War II would have been much more difficult and taken much longer.” https://www.armed-guard.com/.

He seldom talked about it, but when I was a child I learned early not to be near his arms when waking him up for dinner. He came out of sleep ready for action. I always “knew” the reason, but never felt it quite as clearly as I do now. I’m attaching a portion of the document that’s the very first thing I’ve ever encountered about his service, other than a certificate he received on February 23, 1944 upon their vessel crossing above the Arctic Circle which I’ve had since his death in 1984. I had to fight back tears. I’m still getting goose bumps.

I don’t expect to suddenly go off in a full-blown genealogical search for my roots, but I have found a few other threads I’d like to pull on. I must, however, ensure it all serves my greater purpose, which is finishing this book (whatever) of mine fairly soon. Certainly before the end of next year.

PS – His name before he and my mother changed it when they got married, was Isadore Edward Wladofsky and he was a Radioman 3rd Class aboard the William H. Webb, all of which is included in the full document of which I’m sharing only a part.


Twenty Years Today

Me and Aimee
The First Day of the Rest of my Life

It has come to my attention that exactly 20 years have passed since the day our oldest daughter was placed into our loving arms. It was in the evening in a small conference room at the Majestic Hotel, located in the City of Nanning, People’s Republic of China.

One week before we had spent 15 hours in the air from LAX to Guangzhou, where we had a three hour layover before flying to Beijing. After six days of sight-seeing (and some interesting adventures) we flew back to Guangzhou where, after one day, we flew to Nanning. That evening there were about eleven families whose lives changed dramatically as their newly adopted children were handed over to them. We were the last to have that jarring, emotional, and life-changing experience.

As you might be able to tell from the photo, Aimee was none too happy to be ripped from her foster family, who clearly loved her, and given to these two strangers (one of whom—that would be me—had a face the likes of which she’d never seen before.) It would be several days before she would have anything to do with us.

At the time many of us referred to the day as “Gotcha Day”, but in the intervening years we have come to believe the term is parent-centric and ignores the real trauma our experience represents. We are actually our child’s third set of parents. We now refer to it as “Family Day”, as it is the day on which we became a family, one that has now lasted for two decades. Aimee has grown into a beautiful young woman and I am so proud of her and her achievements. She has made my life far richer than it otherwise might have been.


Transference

What follows is an attempt at writing a short story from something like ten years ago. It’s based on an actual experience of mine that was both enlightening and humbling.

James had been napping for at least an hour. His lunch with Daniel proved a little too much for him, as the salt content of the food made him uncomfortable and a little uneasy. Jewish soul food sure was comforting and tasty, but it would never be mistaken for health food. This was especially true if one had hypertension, like James, accompanied by a deep love of Matzo Ball soup and kosher pickles. He was pretty sure, now that he had no choice but to think about it, he’d ingested at least three or four teaspoons of salt. Although it was now the middle of the afternoon and there remained things to do, the sensations he was experiencing were unsettling and he felt he had no choice but to nap, even if somewhat fitfully. He lay in bed, drifting between different states of consciousness, at times dreaming comfortably and at others becoming keenly aware of what was happening elsewhere in the house. 

His wife, Doreen, had come into the room earlier and asked if he wanted to get up for dinner, but James declined, choosing to allow himself a few more precious minutes of rest and relaxation prior to assuming the chores he had no choice but to perform. After all, the trash and recycle containers weren’t going to take themselves out to the curb and, since the kids were off from school the next day, he wanted to get it out that evening rather than arising early to make sure they weren’t passed up by the trash trucks that always came at daybreak. 

Unfortunately, things weren’t working out quite as he hoped they would. He could hear his children arguing at the dinner table . . . and the volume seemed to be increasing dramatically. Suddenly, he heard angry footsteps approaching the girls’ bedroom across the hall, followed by a triple slamming of the door and loud screaming. He tried to ignore it. This, of course, was impossible and he was shortly fully awake. And upset. 

He forced himself out of bed and popped his head into the girls’ bedroom. His oldest, Angela, was sitting propped up in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably. He wasn’t feeling sympathetic and fixed her with as menacing a glare as he could muster.  

“How many times have I asked you not to slam doors? I’m not feeling well and you woke me up.” 

He continued his glare. She seemed not to care, merely staring back at him with sad, tear-filled eyes. Of course, this infuriated him more. Fortunately, he managed to summon up his nurturing side; at least enough to realize he wasn’t going to help by getting angry with her. With a heavy sigh, he withdrew and moved into the family room. He sat down and instead trained his glare on the television which, to his surprise, also showed no sign of caring. 

Doreen, seeing him now awake, began to recount—step-by-step—the events leading up to this latest drama. He didn’t want to hear it. Most of the conversation, arguing, and yelling between the kids had made it into his consciousness while he was struggling to ignore it and remain asleep; he had no desire to relive it all from her viewpoint, thank you very much. If he had been feeling better, he would have listened better. He wasn’t. 

Ten minutes later, he could still hear Angela sobbing heavily in her room. James was finally convinced he wasn’t having a heart attack and now was becoming concerned for his oldest daughter’s anguish. He felt a little pang of guilt for having scolded her. Feeling a bit selfish and narcissistic, he wanted to do something about it. 

Softly, he knocked on the bedroom door. There was no response. He knocked again and heard a quiet, somewhat surly “What is it?” He now had permission to enter the room and state his business. 

James walked slowly over to the bed. Angela was still sobbing, not even looking up to acknowledge his presence. He gently sat on the bed and looked at his oldest. Her sadness washed over him and his guilt was replaced with warmth and the love he felt for this wonderful child he felt so privileged to have in his life. He took her hand. She looked up, somewhat surprised, and he stared directly into her eyes. 

“Sweetheart, I’m very sorry I yelled at you for waking me up. I know you had a fight with your sister and you’re very upset.” She continued to stare at him, softening slightly from the stone-faced, hurt child he’d seen when he entered the room. 

“I can’t stay mad at you, and it hurts me to see you like this. Is there anything I can do to help?” Her face again softened almost imperceptibly as he continued, “I’ll talk to Annie about teasing you and being so annoying. Would you like that?” The mention of her little sister brought Angela back to the feelings she had before he entered the room. Again she began to sob. James took a deep breath, wondering how he could make this better. 

Seeing one of the great loves of his life this miserable was overwhelming and, as he looked into her eyes, he felt tears beginning to fill his own. He could not look away from her and, therefore, could not hide the fact he was crying. As she saw the tears in his eyes, the corners of her mouth began to turn up ever so slightly, and her eyes took on a slight twinkle. 

“You know how much I love you, baby. Can you forgive me for getting angry with you? I really, really am sorry.” As he spoke, a tear slowly flowed from one eye and began running down his cheek. Angela’s eyes widened and she smiled at him with a look of both wonder and appreciation. 

“Would you like to come out of the room with me and see what Mommy’s fixing for dinner?” he asked. She nodded, and continued to look lovingly into his eyes. James was filled with a sense of deep relief and not a little wonder at what had just happened. He’d entered the room hoping to merely calm his daughter down a little. Now he had unwittingly achieved something far greater and more enduring. 

Somehow, his display of emotion had managed to suck the anguish out of Angela. Since he was much older than her, it was easy for him to deal with the depth of feeling he experienced and, in fact, once he saw her reaction he was filled with a profound sense of satisfaction. 

He arose and held out his hand. Angela took it and stood up beside him. “Feeling better?” he asked. She nodded. He turned and led her out of the room—this magical room where something special had just happened. Mommy was making dinner and Annie was still Annie, lying in wait out in the family room. This moment, though, was very special and he savored it. He knew there would be more—perhaps even greater—battles fought between the two of them but, for now he was content to soak up the intense connection he had found in his short conversation with Angela. Life would, indeed, go on. 


My Dad The Bowler

Just found this in the garage, covered by dust. I resurrected it, meaning I cleaned it off and hit it with some Howard Feed-N-Wax. hard to believe it’s been nearly 58 years.

No Lucky Strikes Here

That series works out to an average of 247 per game. The old man was a good bowler, and a scratch golfer. He never rolled a 300; I think his best game was 279.

I used to keep score for his team back then. I was finishing my Junior year of high school when he did this. I don’t recall if I used to sneak sips of beer when no one was looking.