“When the Cowboy Rides Away.”

Each morning in my hometown of La Jolla, California, I would go out the front door, thru the gated courtyard entrance, and step to the edge of our circular driveway where the daily newspaper would be laying, waiting to be picked up. It was one of my chores, but it was more than that; my little morning adventure made me feel special, gave me an opportunity to start each day with a sense of accomplishment, and set me apart from my sisters, as it was my Dad who had assigned me that task, and to whose hands I delivered the rubber-banded bundle.

I’ll probably never know the reason why I was his favorite, but it was clear, even way back then, that the title was mine. Maybe it was because both he and I shared, as well as survived, the diagnosis of Tuberculosis when I was six months old, or maybe it was because I was never hesitant to greet him when he’d come home late from the office, often with the scent of Scotch in the air? Perhaps, it was because I’d have eagerly chosen to do outdoor chores, like raking the leaves of the enormous Magnolia tree in our backyard, on Sunday afternoons with him, rather than the tasks that my sisters opted to stay inside and help my Mom to do? It could also have been our shared love of dogs, all the varieties, and my ever ready willingness to go on random weekend trips to meet new breeds which he usually wanted to adopt and add to our family, or the frequent excursions to his beloved 100 acre, Big Rock Lemon Ranch, where we’d light smudge pots to prevent the fruit trees from freezing on cold winter evenings, or where I learned to drive a tractor, and where I shot my first gun? As I said before, I’ll never know the reason why, because he passed away too soon, many years ago, and I never got the opportunity, or had the foresight, to ask the question back then.

“A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms, even when his hands are empty.”

Dad was an attorney by profession, but not of his own choosing. His life had been painstakingly chosen, carefully planned and laid out before him like a set of architectural drawings, just waiting to be followed. Deep down at heart, he desperately yearned to be either a Cowboy or a Navy fighter pilot. While he caught slight glimpses of both those dreams, and their accompanying worlds, he was never able to immerse himself in either pursuit in “real” life…certainly not to the extent he would have wanted. His time serving in the Navy never translated to the image of the Tom Cruise persona in “Top Gun,” Dad’s favorite movie, and another reminder of our likenesses. Like me, he could re-watch a movie time and again, trying I think to reimagine the scenes with ourselves in the role we each so identified as being a part of us, or because watching a story unravel that was undeniably and inextricably linked to the vision we had of our own lives, was an odd source of comfort we both needed. Similarly, being a weekend cowboy at the horse shows my family competed in for years, or the “once-a-year cowboy” he got to play as a longtime member of the well-known brotherhood, the Ranchero Visitadores, never satisfied the longing that the stories within his Louis L’Amour’s novels painted for him. As his career path was chosen, so too…was his wife, my Mom. Each had been hand-picked for the other and were supposed to have been “an ideal match,” which both sets of my Grandparents approved of and had orchestrated. The pictures that chronical my parent’s years together, from their wedding, and throughout my childhood, which fill frames, albums and file boxes galore, reflect two attractive people, with a seemingly idyllic life and family.

Not everything is always as it appears. Mom and Dad, shortly after their marriage.

What those pictures don’t reveal is that theirs was a far from perfect union, and each of them were merely acting out the roles they had been assigned. I don’t remember seeing them display great signs of love or even much affection for one another? I do remember hearing a great deal of fighting, and I also remember hearing, often, that Dad found “affection” elsewhere. Regardless, of what they felt or didn’t feel for each other, I know the love and bond that my Dad and I had was genuine. The silly, treasured, and tragic little snapshots in my memory remind me that Dad was always the one to tend to errant splinters, the care of cuts and “boo-boo’s” with his “Merthiolate and a bandage” treatment, the Ben Gay and one of his old, white undershirts that fixed every cold, cough and ache I had for the first many years of my upbringing, are mixed in between the memories of Saturday lunches eating a big pot of clams at “Anthony’s” in La Jolla; his taking the training wheels off my bike in the alley behind our Vista De La Mesa home and then, still in his suit fresh from work, spending a good, solid hour pushing my bike back and forth while I pedaled, until I finally got the hang of it and rode off unassisted. Those times combined with our outings to watch the “Gull’s” play hockey from Dad’s firms box seats, or the weekend visits to his sailboat kept near Mission Bay are all experiences which have been deeply etched into a piece of my soul. So too are the memories that I hold recalling the many instances when Dad would get home late, with too much alcohol on his breath, and then after the always heated exchanges between them, my Mom would insist Dad leave. He always complied with the requests, but not before stepping inside my room to kiss my forehead and whisper good bye. There was never a time when I didn’t sit up in my bed and beg him to take me with him on those occasions. I don’t know where he went each time, but I knew I wanted to go too!

Even in the last few years of my parent’s troubled marriage, I was still the one who sought his company, defended him, and as always offered to do the outside chores with him, whether it was shoveling out the back of the horse trailer after a horseshow weekend, cleaning the tack room of our barn, or the storage closets in our expansive carport. My older sister was away at boarding school for much of my upbringing, but when she was home, she challenged both my parents constantly; probably as retaliation for having sent her away to begin with, and I can’t say I blame her? I was never as rambunctious or willful as my younger sisters, and was very content to read quietly from my beloved collection of Nancy Drew mysteries, rather than stir up the trouble and noise that always seemed to follow Dorothy and Lilith. If I were to try to elaborate further on the reason for being a Daddy’s girl, it might have been that my quieter and softer temperament was easier on the hangovers he surely must have suffered from, and with much more frequency towards the end. Heaven knows there was a side to “the drinking Dad” that was sharp, impatient, combative and brought a large measure of unrest and trouble to our family of six, but still, even then I felt far more compatible with him than with the rest of the girls that made up the 6C ranch on Lago Lindo.

The 6 C’s… No easy feat to accomplish that line-up!

To be the one that just happened to answer the phone that one summer afternoon only to hear the voice of a woman at the other end asking to speak to Andy, was my misfortune. I didn’t recognize whose voice it was at the time, but I knew it wasn’t his secretary, Louisa’s, just as I knew it also wasn’t a voice that belonged to any of our many extended female family members? Passing the phone to my Mom, who just happened to be walking through the room right at that very moment, changed our lives forever. I don’t recall all that was said during their exchange…that brief conversation between the unseen woman on the other side of the call and my Mom standing there in our living room, but I remember my Mom’s facial expression and the steely tone her voice took on. I also remember hearing the words “brazen tramp” later on that same evening, when Dad got home late, again, after drinking too much and packed his bag to leave following one of their worst fights yet, and which would prove to be the last fight, or night, that would occur in that home between them. I didn’t beg to go with Dad that time, but I thought about what might happen next, and I also wondered why I had been the one to answer that call? What was different this time? Why now…why had the “secret” finally blown up? All the people living in that home seemed to be okay preserving the unspoken understanding that this wasn’t the first occasion when another woman’s “voice” had been in my Dad’s life? Everything that happened afterwards became a bit fuzzy in my memory, but I remember being in a courtroom; I remember being told repeatedly following the formal legal experience, that the judge presiding over my parent’s divorce had told my sisters and I, lined up, dressed alike, and seated politely alongside my Mom, that we “never had to be in our Dad’s presence again, unless it was of our choosing?” We were further told that my Dad had not been granted any custodial rights at all? Keeping that last sentence in mind, my next memory is of an overnight visit that my younger sisters and I (or maybe it was just me?) took to my Dad’s new home, with his new wife (the unseen voice from the call I answered), new kids (hers) and his new dog, an English Springer Spaniel named “Cheer.” It was one of those instances that has a way of sticking with you, and while I don’t remember much more of the visit, I do know my feelings for my Dad weren’t changed much from what I had always felt. That he didn’t blink an eye and issued an immediate “yes,” when asked if I could bring Barney, my pet Pygmy Goat, along with me, was somehow proof positive in my mind, that he and I would always have an unspoken, but well-understood bond, that no Judge nor alleged stories could easily diminish or alter. I never found out, until several years ago when speaking to two of my remaining Aunts and piecing together my memories following the divorce that my Mom had taken that Judge’s words to an elevated and very extreme level…if those words were ever, in fact, even uttered? That one visit to my Dad’s home with a slightly obstreperous, but beloved, Barney would be one of the two to three times I saw my Dad for the next four years. Our once tight network of extended family on my Dad’s side was banished; just gone, along with my Dad, and I wouldn’t hear or understand why for decades and decades.

Mom, too, remarried quite quickly, and this time the husband she chose was a “legit,” 24/7 cowboy and horse trainer. Their courtship was brief, but how could you (she) resist the 6 ft.2 in. tall, dark, swarthy, and handsome “Portogee” (his own description) who was rarely caught without his signature pale blue button down shirt tucked into Wranglers, which were then tucked into his requisite black cowboy boots, and all topped by the black felt cowboy hat he wore constantly, regardless of the season…NO straw hats in Valdez’s world! George’s opening line of introduction disarmed and swept my Mom off her feet in a way I don’t think she ever contemplated was possible. January was always the start of the “Open A Circuit” horse show season and took place in Indio, California, just outside of Palm Desert. Divorced or not, 1976 was no exception, and we (Mom and her four daughters) were there, per usual, participating and racking up points and awards to start the year off right. It was a somewhat chilly desert morning; Mom was doing final touches on our hair, checking equitation suits, chaps, hats etc… while our horse trainer, at the time, finished saddling and tacking up our horses for the classes that were to follow. It was then that a very imposing George rode one of his horses down our barn aisle, paused briefly when he reached the area where Mom was readying us, her three daughters that would be showing shortly. With a tip of his hat, and a beguiling smile which revealed deeply-set dimples, he spoke to my Mom; “Morning, ma’am…you make a mighty fine broodmare!” It’s an absolute certainty that no one had ever run that line by her before, and it was beyond effective! She blushed and smiled but continued tending to the three of us. Mom was always the capstone of proper, an absolute lady and a beautiful one at that. It was the same day, but much later in the evening, when my older sister, Viv, talked Mom into going out to a local haunt and popular nightspot for the horseshow crowd during that particular week in January. It was a most unusual occurrence for my very, correct, Mom to have agreed to go, but I knew the next day upon hearing tales of the previous night’s outing, and how George had LITERALLY swept Mom off her feet as he swung from chandelier to chandelier in the very crowded hotspot, “The Nest” to whisk her off her seat and onto the dance floor, that she was an absolute “goner!” Her face and the smile on it, suddenly glowed in a way I hadn’t seen for a long, long time, and it was clear she had had the same effect on the “Portogee” cowboy, who was widely known and affectionately addressed as Valdez. They were married five months later, in June of 1976.

They married in the back yard of our Rancho Santa Fe home, and part of their two-week honeymoon trip included a multiple-day visit to The White House and additional stay at Camp David! As circumstances happened, one of President Gerald Ford’s sons always wanted to be a cowboy, and he had somehow found an introduction to my new Stepdad, and worked for George for over a year. That same son not only attended the wedding, but arranged for the Washington, Presidential portion of the honeymoon trip. I confess to having had a mad crush on the President’s son, but the existence of a 13 year old’s crush didn’t mean much to a 20+ something adult. Nevertheless, he was always charming, polite and thoughtful; he even went so far as to announce and wish me Happy Birthday on the “Jumbotron” in The Los Angeles Forum arena the following October during a horseshow we were all attending. At that point in time, that single gesture pretty much made my life!

Oops, I did it again and strayed off topic? Oh well, that little diversion was worth the extra sentence or two…for sure! I never knew much if anything of the financial part of my parent’s divorce, but I do know Mom kept the house in Rancho Santa Fe, as well as our show horses, a few vehicles and other such things. It wasn’t long before Mom and George were discussing a move and planning the start of a new life of their own. Living in that house, and starting a new life where my Mom and Dad’s marriage had crumbled to bits couldn’t have been a terribly appealing prospect for either of the newlyweds. Plus, the horse facilities there on Lago Lindo weren’t sufficient to provide for the training business and goals that George’s business required. That said, Mom, George, the three of us younger daughters, and a huge “gang load “of animals moved to a 10 acre property in the Santa Ynez Valley. Our family knew the area pretty well, as the valley was home to The Alisal Guest Ranch, a resort and dude ranch where we had grown up vacationing. It was tradition…..ten days during August, and a week at Thanksgiving. Even before my parents were married, my Dad’s family had also followed the same routine, and our history at The Alisal was long and fondly regarded. Moving to the area meant no more vacationing at the resort, but the connections, family friendships, and relationships still endured, and it was an area which felt like, both, a warm embrace as well as a fresh beginning. Mom and George started the “redo” of our new little home and life. The house was just a modest ranch house, nothing like the Rancho Santa Fe home, but it had everything that was essential, and there was more than enough room to build the horse facility George envisioned. There would be, when all was said and done, a long single row, 12 stall barn with sizable turnouts, as well as a covered front alley, a large tack room at the beginning of the building and at the end of the barn, Mom had designed and built for her cowboy a handsome, raised office with used brick flooring, rich wood-paneled walls, a full bath, sound and tv system plus a large picture window from which George’s custom-designed desk of wood with iron finishes, provided a view of the entire front of the property with its large, unfenced sand arena that George had requested, a huge hay barn that could easily accommodate two “squeezes” of alfalfa, and the six large pastures that ran alongside the very long driveway, off of Refugio Road. George’s dream was to breed and raise horses which he would train and sell, in order to cut back on his client roster, and that particular aspect of being a horse trainer. He wanted to buy broodmares, the legit, four-legged type versus the “pick-up line” that he used to capture my Mom’s fancy. George studied and knew more about horse bloodlines and “magic crosses” than I ever dreamed possible, and bit by bit the process was started; trips were taken and mares were purchased, then bred. When George wasn’t on a horse during the day, he was with my Mom. He started early, but his midday break meant either going out to lunch with Mom or eating in; the two of them had such fun together…always holding hands, and often dancing in the kitchen. It didn’t seem to matter where they were; the two of them were perfectly content just to be together. If the weather didn’t allow for outdoor activities, they would spend the day cooking in that little ranch house’s kitchen. It wasn’t terribly large nor at all extravagant; its focus was a center island, which was really just a large, antique iron-base table with a marble top, but it suited their needs just fine! Being Portuguese, George had several old family recipes he loved to make, a few of which included a very complicated Paella and Rice dish, as well as his amazing Chili, which took all day to make. That carefully penned recipe had to have at least a page and a half of ingredients to buy, prep, and then mix, stir and simmer for hours. They also made these fantastic Chicken Burritos, a dish which was one of George’s favorite items from a well-known Mexican restaurant in San Diego, and the secret recipe for which he had charmed his way to obtaining. I’m not sure it would have mattered what was on the menu as long as they had each other, they were truly and completely happy. Theirs seemed like a fine plan, and a wonderful life…for a while.

Nothing is ever that simple though. So far I’ve managed to completely omit the complexities of what might otherwise just have been a wonderful love story. George had been married previously, but never had children of his own, and the marriage was not a lengthy one. He had an adult nephew who like President Ford’s son, and with the same first name, also worked for George. The nephew was from a longtime ranching family in San Diego, and even though he spent some time visiting us and helping George through the move, he wasn’t interested in leaving Southern California. There were some trying times certainly, (would you expect anything less) but I’ll always have so much admiration and respect for George and the way he entered our family. He went from being a carefree bachelor to, virtually, overnight marrying a new wife, “inheriting” four daughters, ages 7 through 20, not to mention a very present set of in-laws, and a devious, jealous brother-in-law. From the get-go though, George seemed to take it all in stride. He was beyond kind to all of us, and I am here to testify that daughters #1 and #3 did not make his transition, nor the rest of anything, an easy proposition. For that matter, neither did the other members of his new extended family, being my Grandparents and uncle. It’s hard to explain my two sister’s disdain for George, as I wasn’t in their shoes, and thus can’t get in their heads to understand exactly why they disliked him so? I remember my youngest sister getting on with George really well, certainly at the beginning, and I believe she actually did feel a real fatherly kind of love for him. She was just seven when Mom and George married, and our own Dad hadn’t been around much at all for the last couple years prior to the divorce, so my guess is George represented more than a mere stepfather to her. As for me, I genuinely liked the cowboy, and I could see how incredibly happy he made my Mom, so it wasn’t much of a hardship having him around. I felt fortunate that he wanted to take on the role of stepfather so enthusiastically. As the years progressed and I became more and more OUT of sync with my younger sisters, who were just too cool, and had so very little use for me, George was my safe place and the person I could trust to be kind, non-judgmental and always had, or made time for me. Even when he would show up at school for afternoon pick-up, get out of the car and stand there waiting for us, in his black hat, boots, and with that larger-than-life imposing presence, almost as if he was challenging anyone that might dare to mess with “his girls;” I only felt that much more secure with my place in the world. I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed of his actions, as my younger sister Dorothy seemed to be. My Mom’s parents weren’t terribly pleased with her decision to marry George, and were initially very vocal about it; George “wasn’t good enough, or of the caliber” they expected for my Mom. That George spoke four languages, had gone to college, and was more than courteous in their company simply wasn’t enough. In their minds, he would never be able to provide for her the way she deserved, nor was he “to the manner born.” However, they also weren’t about to surrender and risk losing my Mom or their four granddaughters either, and eventually there was some sort of understanding reached. Wherever my Mom went, my Grandparents found themselves quickly moving nearby. George never made a fuss about the close association; we all shared many weekly meals, every holiday and before long, my very proper Grandfather had even started taking riding lessons from George. Maybe it was some type of grand gesture, an olive branch being extended, or perhaps a combination of the two, but Pa was legitimately trying to make an effort.

No cowboy hat or boots that day; the cowboy cleaned up pretty good!

My older sister, Viv, was married during the first year that Mom and George lived in Santa Ynez, and I think that diffused a small modicum of the consternation my older sister felt for George. In some fashion, over the last few years of Mom and Dad’s marriage, Viv had taken on the burden of running interference between my Mom and Dad. It was Viv who went to bail my Dad out of jail on the occasion he wrapped his car around a tree, while driving home intoxicated. It was also Viv that my Mom would confide in and draw support from during those difficult years. I’d have to imagine that while George’s entrance into our family made Viv feel a little less important or involved in my Mom’s life, it must have also provided some relief as well?

I’d never go so far as to say Viv was George’s biggest fan, but she got better and better at tolerating him. Things hummed along pretty smoothly for a bit. My Mom’s brother, DJ, who would ultimately reveal himself as wickedly devious and bizarrely jealous of George, and who was also my Mom’s only sibling, was in and out of the picture, as he pleased. While he was one of my Grandmother’s favorites, he had never been a source of pride for my Grandfather. Nor did Pa need or care to spend much time with his only son; definitely not like he did with my Mom and our family. It didn’t help matters that DJ had spent years failing at one real estate project after another, which meant my Grandfather continually found himself “bailing his son out of recurring financial woes.” DJ had chosen to settle, his family in Palo Alto in Northern California, a healthy distance away from his parents and my Mom, thus the multi-family get-togethers with his crew were noticeably rare. DJ had six children with his wife, who was also never a popular subject of conversation in our house. I don’t remember her well, if at all, and the only time I remember visiting their family, I couldn’t have been more than four or five, tops? Getting back to business though…I bring all of them up, only because DJ would prove himself to be more treacherous than I could have ever imagined as Mom and George’s life together continued, as well as far beyond! DJ and his jealous, almost obsessive, feelings about my Mom will be a story for another time, but for now it will suffice to mention that DJ inserted himself in situations where he could easily and quickly breeze in and out to appease my Grandmother, feign interest and concern for the rest of us, and still remain detached and elusive.

Mom’s custom, travelling Tack Room set-up for horseshows! (I guess graphic “T” shirts must have been big back then?)

Mom and George were living the life they wanted, but even with George riding, training and raising horses, they weren’t able to sustain the lifestyle which they designed for themselves, and “things” were getting tight; finances were becoming a regular and real struggle. I doubt either one of them wanted to address that fact, in case it somehow conceded defeat to my Grandparents, so they just continued on, and money got scarcer and scarcer. It obviously couldn’t have helped that I was in my last year attending the local private high school, with my college choice made and fast approaching, bringing yet another financial burden to bear. Also, my two younger sisters had “amped up” their horseshow game, and Mom had even endorsed them switching to a horse trainer that WAS NOT George, which meant an additional, and unnecessary outpouring of funds? “The girls needed better horses than the ones George was providing, and they wanted to attend more shows,” which is hard to do when you’ve got broodmares at the ranch having babies, local clients that needed lessons, and other clients that were PAYING George to go to different horseshows. Our, once happy, second family was being tested, and challenged big time. Dorothy by that point had been expelled from the high school I attended, and was as adept at finding trouble as a fly finds poop. She was enrolled in the public high school, but how many days she actually made an appearance was dubious? She had perfected forging George’s signature, and wrote herself more excuse notes, than the tardy notes I wrote for my own children during their school days, and which I admittedly confess were prolific. Dorothy was growing more defiant by the day and even Lilith was getting a bit “sassy.” Mom and George’s carefree love affair was not so carefree any longer. I was certainly no saint, and found myself confessing to having backed into a Veterinarian’s truck in our own driveway one day, so as not be late to “drama club” practice at school. But, I wasn’t the one taking the spare truck when Mom and George were out to dinner, so as to go for “smokes and beer” as was Dorothy’s practice, and the “hell” I caught from both Dorothy and Lilith as they dished out their cruel and cutthroat comments about me being “miss goody two shoes” was relentless. (Little did any of us know how abruptly I’d lose that label later!) For the time being, I think we were all giving George, and Mom too, a pretty decent run for their money…no pun intended. It was during that same year when there was a “problem” with my tuition at school; I’m not sure the exact nature of the “misunderstanding,” but I knew that either my Dad was suppose to pay it and hadn’t, or my Mom was responsible for it, but couldn’t pay; either way, it was an issue!

I was a wreck, as I had finally found a niche for myself, and a school environment that I loved, which up until my Sophomore year at that very same school was non-existent. I had always been the “odd man out” at school and at home? Now, at long last I was happy, thriving and popular. I was also doing well in my classes, accepted into the one and only college I applied to and graduation was approaching. I just couldn’t lose it all? I remember going into Mom and George’s bedroom one evening, after we (my two sisters and I) were all suppose to be doing homework and quiet for the night, and telling them that I wanted to call Ma and Pa, my Grandparents, and ask to borrow the delinquent tuition money (not even sure I remember the amount) and that I would work over the summer to pay it back. They both answered “no,” almost simultaneously, but I could sense the tension and was afraid to push back any further. I left their room wondering about what would happen? Two days later, Mom took me aside, when everyone else was occupied, and told me that George had sold one of his favorite two-year old fillies and paid my outstanding school tuition with the money that the beautiful and talented horse had brought. My Mom asked me not to share the information with my sisters, but wanted me to know that it was going to be okay, and that was how much George loved us all. I didn’t say anything as my Mom asked, but I promised myself that the least I could do was try my utmost best to be a help in our home, rather than a pain or a problem…there were enough problems already. I was beyond grateful, and I went out of my way to make things easier whenever I could.

The next couple years were a bit of a roller-coaster ride, and held more than a fair amount of stress, but there were some good things too. My older sister, Viv, had her first baby, a darling boy that was very much loved and doted upon; I graduated from high school; attended my first year of college; George had a huge success when he “syndicated” a yearling stud colt for a substantial amount of money, which he had bred and raised. Because he structured the deal the way he did, he was able to retain the young stud, so as to train and show him in the future. That single deal gave George’s self-esteem a much-needed boost, and for several months, again, things seemed good.

My real Dad attended my high school graduation, along with Mom, George, and our other family members, as well as several friends. Even though I still didn’t understand the exact dynamics that were at play, and why my Dad and his whole family, which was an enormous extended group of Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, Cousins, had essentially been banished from our lives, I was glad he was there. It was awkward to say the least as I watched the interactions that occurred at the party Mom and George hosted after the ceremony, but I felt relief and a sense that the world was coming full circle. My Grandfather always adored my Dad, so it was nice for both of them to visit again, and offered a good buffer for my Dad, who had to feel very out of his element amongst that assemblage of people.

It wasn’t even a year later, when during the second semester of my Freshman year of college, on the third Tuesday in February, I was just about to leave my dorm for class, when one of my roommates stepped into the hall and called me back; there was a phone call I had to take? I was surprised to hear my Dad’s voice on the other end, but listened while he said he had to talk to me; could he come by my dorm in about an hour. I told him I was just on my way to class, but that it would be over about then, and I’d meet him outside my dorm in an hour or so. After greeting one another, it only took a moment to recognize something was wrong, but he suggested we walk to my room before talking. Thankfully, none of my roommates were present; Dad sat down next to me on my bed, slowly speaking as he relayed the news that my Grandfather had passed the night before. I was stunned! “What, I talked to Ma and Pa just yesterday; they were going to Mom’s last night for dinner to celebrate my Nephew’s 1st Birthday? This can’t be right?” I was upset and needed answers; this was all happening too quickly? He explained the rest of the details quietly and gently, handing me a hankie from his pocket, as the tears started to fall. I was devastated to learn Pa was gone, but surprised too that neither my Mom, nor older Sister had been the ones to call and relay the news. Still my Dad couldn’t have been more patient or considerate, and it probably was better that someone had actually told me in person. Dad offered to take me to lunch, but I thanked him and declined, saying I thought I just wanted some time to process it all. He nodded his understanding, and hugged me before he got up to leave. I went home that next day, as Catholic tradition calls for funeral services to be held soon after death. I remember asking Viv why neither she nor my Mom had called, but she just said they thought it was better that I was told in person. Everyone at home seemed so cold and distant, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad to be there or not? Even with the circumstances of a death involved, I guessed I hoped that I’d have felt a greater sense of comfort being home?

Pa had, as he requested, a full Catholic Mass in his honor, but no burial, as he had also opted to be cremated. I’ve said it in past posts, but will repeat it again, as I still feel so strongly about the ritual and reverence that a funeral and burial marks in life, or the ending of life. I need, or at least prefer, the closure that a burial symbolizes. However, as Pa lived, he passed…and as usual, everything happened on his terms! It was all done “his way.” I spent a lot of time with Ma, just sitting and trying to be a comfort, and watching the group of people that assembled to pay their farewells to my Grandfather. There were people from all over the country… Priests, fellow Knights Of Malta, golfing, country club and business buddies, as well as the local “Handyman” who Pa had helped set up and fund his business just a year earlier. And once again, my Dad was there. It was perplexing and odd to consider I had seen him twice in a week, when I hadn’t seem him more than three times over the entirety of the past four years? My uncle, DJ, was there with a couple of his kids…all older than me, and a few of Ma’s relatives from North Dakota were present too, as were some of Ma and Pa’s friends from Minneapolis, Florida and New York. Another one of Pa’s very Irish, and NON-NEGOTIABLE requests was that we “Wake Him Good” upon his passing, and that we did! George was oddly, but perhaps merely respectfully, somber, and I think I alternated between going between the three of them…Ma, George and my Dad. Pa’s passing was a gigantic punctuation mark in our lives.

Another huge crossroads came just a year and a half later. Mom and George had been struggling emotionally and financially since Pa’s passing. It was said, at the time, although I wasn’t present for the actual conversation or legal reading, but the story went that when Pa passed, he left everything to my Grandmother and my uncle (Ma and DJ); my Mom had been cut out of Pa’s will because of her marriage to George, and furthermore it was alleged that as long as she was married to George, that provision would stand…she would get nothing. Not knowing any better or differently, I took the story at face value, and I certainly understood the pressure that such a provision would put on Mom and George’s marriage, much less the burden of responsibility and grief George must have felt. It wasn’t long before George stopped working altogether, and was spending hour upon hour everyday at the local bar. Our home had become a place of drudgery and unhappiness; the joyful exuberance and passion Mom and George once felt, seemed gone forever. They were fighting all the time and George was even growing hostile; he was definitely NOT behaving like the man who had stepped into our lives and hearts several years before. It’s a selfish admission, but I was glad to be leaving for school again soon. During that next fall semester, there were phone calls and rumblings about divorce, and I was devastated, but not totally surprised. Nonetheless, I wasn’t prepared when I returned for Christmas vacation to find that Mom had sold the ranch, George was mysteriously gone, as was much of the evidence of the past six years…and my life, our life was completely upside down. It was a relief to leave again after Christmas break.

Was it really possible that the next time I came home, Mom and George were divorced, and not only was I never able to say goodbye, but it was “taboo” to even mention his name in Mom’s house? That sure seemed to be the case? If I did bring up his name, it met with hostile looks and words from my younger sisters, and the admonition that I should remember the chair George threw across the kitchen at Lilith, or his recent drunkenness, and the financial hole he left our Mother in. While a good bit of that was true, there was so much more, and yet it was just left alone…to be remembered as another very unhappy time in our lives

After my Grandfather’s passing, the door had been opened and I got the opportunity to spend more time in my Dad’s life, and because his home, his office and by then his “not so new” family were just an hour away, I spent almost every weekend with them for the next semester. I liked the feeling of being part of a family, and my stepfamily didn’t make me feel like an outcast, as I always felt in my own family. In their home, I felt wanted and special, and that’s an irreplaceably nice way to feel. As life would have it, Dad ended up divorcing a second time as well, but it was different. This time he wasn’t excised from my life, as he had been the first time. And as life does with its twists and turns, Dad and my Stepmother, who I grew to really like, eventually reunited and stayed together until his passing. From my college days forward, Dad made a conscious effort to be present for every big occasion in my life until he passed away himself, years after I was married with children. To this day, I have the hankie he shared with me the day he gave me the news about my Grandfather, and it seems fitting that I also have my Grandmother’s collection of handkerchiefs that she gave me before she passed…hankies far more ornate than my Dad’s crisp, white square with the initial “C” in blue monogrammed in one corner, but each one special, as were the people who chose to give me them.

You’ll never find me without one…plus another to share!

Life has a habit of traveling full circle in a variety of ways. I’m not certain of the precise time frame, but at some juncture following my marriage and the birth of my son, I had an occasion to reconnect with George, and we exchanged letters intermittently through the years as well as Christmas cards. When my son started performing in the sport of rodeo during middle school, I invited George, (who expressed an interest in meeting my kids), to the Junior High School State Rodeo Finals, which were being held in Plymouth, California, not too far from where George lived, and also where my son was competing in four different events.

It’s difficult to express the emotion I felt that day when George arrived at the rodeo grounds. First of all, the flood of feelings that overcame me to see George again after 28 years, when he had been a father to me for 7 years, was almost unfathomable? Then, second, to try and explain to my own son the complexity of my family of origin’s history and the depth of feelings and appreciation I had for George, and what he represented in my life at a time when I desperately needed what he offered…stability, kindness and selflessness, was overwhelming. I’m not sure if I was able to communicate that message with the justice and reverence that was due, but I certainly tried.

Ten years later, today, I think back about those two men, my two Dads, both so very different, but each of whom hold such special, irreplaceable parts of my heart, mind and memories, and I’m beyond grateful and blessed to have had them BOTH in my life at all.

To Fathers everywhere, Happy Father’s Day, and please remember, “Your greatest contribution to the world may not be something you do, but someone you raise!”

I Identify As “Un-Masked!”

Reality Check?