LA Times: Remembering Tom (19/30)
LA Times
Remembering Tom (19th in a 30 part series)
My dad moved to San Diego when I was 12. We usually saw him a few times a year. We would fly to San Diego for a few weeks in the summer and during a school break. He would come to see us about once a year, usually in the fall, his favorite time in New England. I loved visiting San Diego during February vacation week. It was the perfect time to get out of New Hampshire. I remember the first time I flew into San Diego. As we approached the runway, the tiny palm trees grew more real, the Pacific Ocean stretched on out the window for as far as I could see, and the stucco homes lined the streets of neighborhoods like a scene out of ET. Top Gun was one of the most popular movies that year and I thought if I looked hard enough, I might catch a glimpse of Maverick flying his MiG-28 out in the distance; scenes from the movie were filmed at Miramar Naval Air Station, not far from San Diego International Airport. Visiting my dad was always a bit of an adventure. He wasn’t a daily life parent. He was a destination, which made the precious commodity of daily living as much of an experience to capture as the places we explored.
During the first few visits after he moved to San Diego, we explored some of the tourist sites. We visited the more popular attractions like the San Diego Zoo, as well as some of my dad’s favorite beaches and views. We went up to LA a few times. Once, to spend the day at Disney Land. Caily was 5 and it was her first time traveling to see Dad. As we left Disney, at about 1AM, exhausted and dragging, she was bouncing along like Tigger and exclaimed, “I thought we were going to go on aaaaalll the rides!!!!” We thought we might collapse, and she finally did, on my lap, in the car, on the two-hour drive home.
On another visit to LA, the destination was Hollywood. We drove through some of the neighborhoods of the rich and famous and stopped for a picnic in a park in some fancy part of town. As we were eating our lunch on a blanket, a white limo pulled up. Two of the men, each in white tuxes, walked near-by. They were getting ready for some photos. My step-mother was very excited at the prospect of getting to see a wedding or at the very least see a wedding photo shoot. She kept saying (to us on the blanket) “I wonder where the bride is.” I am not sure how, but at some point, the men were close by enough to talk to, maybe we walked over for a closer look. My stepmother asked, “who is getting married?” And they replied, “we are.” “Oh?”, she said, “you are both getting married?” They paused and looked at each other and smiled and then one turned back to her and motioned with his hand back and forth between him and the other man and said again “WE are getting married”. “OH, ohhh, oh. Wow, wonderful.” She replied. “Congratulations” and we walked back to our blanket. “Huh,” my 15-year-old brain thought, “that’s cool,” I remember realizing for the first time that same-gender couples could get married and realizing that it was a pretty good thing that it could happen. I didn’t have any awareness of legal or logistical struggles of that experience at the time, but it is a very solid memory of realization and of observation in how my dad and stepmom handled the situation, with grace and kindness and mostly nonchalantly with us (my 5-year-old sister, 13-year-old brother and 15-year-old me) which seemed to send a message of acceptance, non-judgment, and normalization. I am grateful for that imprint.
I am grateful for the memories that unfold as I write. I am grateful for the adventures he took us on, and for the memories created by them, intentional and by chance. And I am especially grateful for the precious memories of daily life, which with him were squeezed into visits with time limits. Memories that come with a blend of senses; sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. I remember him when I wipe a tear from my eyes with the side of my finger like he did, with the smell of a cigarette burning, with the sun setting on the Pacific Ocean. I remember him when I see or eat a mushroom pizza, when Lauren eats meatballs, when Liam eats chicken wings. I remember him when I make coffee, when college basketball is on TV, when I take Liam for a driving lesson. When someone we love dies, it seems, we are left with what was created with them, or what they created for us in the case of a parent. We are left with how they interacted with the world, and what we observed of that interaction; precious commodities that were unknowingly purchased and stored away to be retrieved by our future self. A return on the investment of love and presence, when fate has determined the allotment of time.
