I was 4 years old when my Dad came into my life. My “real” father died when I was 2. But what could be more real than a man who embraces as his own a 4-year old who had been indulged for the past two years by two sets of grandparents. With only good intentions, my grandparents tried their best to shield me from the loss of my father and to keep life normal. After my father’s death, my mother went back to secretarial school in Beverly Hills. I lived with her parents on their avocado ranch in Southern California. She visited on weekends. She was 22 years old when my father died, and her life had turned on a dime.
Dad and Mom first met at Stanford. Both were undergraduates. She was a blonde, athletic sorority girl. He was a History major who brought with him to Stanford his love of the outdoors and his passion for horses. His father, Stanford Class of early 19-something, commuted to Stanford from Southern California on horseback during his undergraduate years.
Mom was a city girl. Dad is a country fella. Oil and water. Dad grew up in the old family home built by his grandfather in the late 1800s in a ranching community in Southern California. After Stanford, Dad returned home to ponder work possibilities. About that time, my widowed Mom, a newly minted secretary, was offered a job and a cottage by a prominent rancher who lived in the same small town where my Dad had returned after college. One thing led to another, Mom and Dad re-met, and began to see each other. They were married at The Last Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas in 1949. Somewhere in a box in the old family home is a photo of the two of them, Mom in a white linen jacket, navy blue linen skirt, and blue and white spectator pumps. Dad is wearing a dark suit. They are framed under an arch that notes “The Last Frontier.”
And so began our life in small town Southern California. We lived in another old family home in Santa Paula, affectionately known to my brothers and me as “805.” Within the walls of that old green house with a solarium and a three-car garage, our family played out the 1950s family life. Dad worked. Mom stayed home. First one brother was born and then a second brother. That day at The Last Frontier may have been the first and last real happiness between my parents as it quickly became apparent that City and Country had little in common other than their 3 children.
Dad began to travel for work. Out on Monday, home on Friday. Mom was not happy. But all problems were held close; they were “private family matters.” No one else need know. My response to friction at home was to close my bedroom door and open a book. I didn’t really know Dad well in those days. In fact, it has taken me a lot of time to know my Dad.
Next week, Dad celebrates his 87th birthday. He is as trim and handsome today as he was in his Stanford undergraduate years. Most days, he still drinks a glass of whiskey. He still rides his horse. He adores his grandchildren, my two and my brother’s two. And he has learned to convey his affection to his three children. There were years when I kept a distance. We have never agreed on politics and that for me was personal for a lot of years. With time and age – mine and his – the things that separate us have receded and the things that bind us have come into sharp focus. This is the man who took me on my first camping trip to Pine Flat. This is the man who taught me to ride a horse and let me ride his Arabian mare, Lady Grey. This is the man who taught me when we were hiking to chew the wild anise to refresh my breath and to rub the wild sage between my palms to generate an amazing scent. This is the man who took a bet on a 4-year old girl and has stuck with her all these years. Happy birthday, Dad. You are loved!
Dad and Mom first met at Stanford. Both were undergraduates. She was a blonde, athletic sorority girl. He was a History major who brought with him to Stanford his love of the outdoors and his passion for horses. His father, Stanford Class of early 19-something, commuted to Stanford from Southern California on horseback during his undergraduate years.
Mom was a city girl. Dad is a country fella. Oil and water. Dad grew up in the old family home built by his grandfather in the late 1800s in a ranching community in Southern California. After Stanford, Dad returned home to ponder work possibilities. About that time, my widowed Mom, a newly minted secretary, was offered a job and a cottage by a prominent rancher who lived in the same small town where my Dad had returned after college. One thing led to another, Mom and Dad re-met, and began to see each other. They were married at The Last Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas in 1949. Somewhere in a box in the old family home is a photo of the two of them, Mom in a white linen jacket, navy blue linen skirt, and blue and white spectator pumps. Dad is wearing a dark suit. They are framed under an arch that notes “The Last Frontier.”
And so began our life in small town Southern California. We lived in another old family home in Santa Paula, affectionately known to my brothers and me as “805.” Within the walls of that old green house with a solarium and a three-car garage, our family played out the 1950s family life. Dad worked. Mom stayed home. First one brother was born and then a second brother. That day at The Last Frontier may have been the first and last real happiness between my parents as it quickly became apparent that City and Country had little in common other than their 3 children.
Dad began to travel for work. Out on Monday, home on Friday. Mom was not happy. But all problems were held close; they were “private family matters.” No one else need know. My response to friction at home was to close my bedroom door and open a book. I didn’t really know Dad well in those days. In fact, it has taken me a lot of time to know my Dad.
Next week, Dad celebrates his 87th birthday. He is as trim and handsome today as he was in his Stanford undergraduate years. Most days, he still drinks a glass of whiskey. He still rides his horse. He adores his grandchildren, my two and my brother’s two. And he has learned to convey his affection to his three children. There were years when I kept a distance. We have never agreed on politics and that for me was personal for a lot of years. With time and age – mine and his – the things that separate us have receded and the things that bind us have come into sharp focus. This is the man who took me on my first camping trip to Pine Flat. This is the man who taught me to ride a horse and let me ride his Arabian mare, Lady Grey. This is the man who taught me when we were hiking to chew the wild anise to refresh my breath and to rub the wild sage between my palms to generate an amazing scent. This is the man who took a bet on a 4-year old girl and has stuck with her all these years. Happy birthday, Dad. You are loved!
3 comments:
This is such an intimate, authentic, exquisite and poignant celebration of your Father.They say we learn from each other and you have certainly shown me that in this piece..I have learned from it as well...I love you Lisaox
What a beautifully written, deeply honest, and heartwarming tribute to your Dad. It blew me away ...
I have fond memories of your dad from when we would take the train up to LA and your mother would pick us up and we would drive to Santa Paula. Your dad was very nice and indulgent with a house full of teenage girls.
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