Living in Little Saigon but craving old-school Cantonese

Just give me a torn red-vinyl booth, a plastic lazy susan with sticky bottles of soy sauce, and a dim room full of hanging lanterns.

One of the very few downsides of living in an area that's been blessed with zillions of fairly recent Asian immigrants is the slow death of the old-school, Cantonese-inspired, inauthentic, risky Chinese restaurant. Gone (largely) is the day trip to Chinatown for a family lunch of won ton soup (sizzling rice soup $1.00 more per person; hot-and-sour soup $2.50 more per person), sweet-and-sour pork, cashew chicken, and all the rest of those interpreted dishes that end up being about as Chinese as I am. Honestly, the food our more recent immigrants have brought is better, while improved transportation has allowed the marketplace to accommodate them with things that are a lot closer to what they had at home. I'm grateful, for both the food itself and the opportunity to learn.

But still. Once in a while a craving comes up for a gaudily decorated restaurant with lazy Susans on the tables, sticky bottles of soy sauce, and SOMETHING on the menu that says "chop suey." Every now and then, the heart yearns to journey back, back to Grant Street and Broadway, back to Daddy and Uncle Mel arguing over the check, back to Aunt Lady helping a little girl figure out what the fortune in her cookie really meant. On such occasions, the food needs to reflect the nostalgia, and that's getting harder to find around here.

Enter Fu Wing Low, unobtrusively tucked away in a strip mall in Fountain Valley. It has everything I needed -- enormous round tables with lazy Susans and bottles of soy sauce, lucky bamboo plants in every corner, red vinyl chairs, and an old couple arguing loudly over whether or not she should care if the kids come home for Thanksgiving. (Spoiler: Yes, ma'am, you should. Your daughter-in-law can't be THAT bad. )

Herewith, vegetable egg foo young, cashew chicken, and of course, the obligatory almond and fortune cookies.

Every cliche in the book. I am happy.

Musings on photographing your own children

 Offering a thought here, or perhaps it's a counterpoint, that I wish younger parents would consider.

I see and hear so many of you urging your children to sit up straight, look at the camera and smile. And I'm here to encourage you not to. Please save yourselves and your kids a lot of stress and leave those posed, coldly perfect shots to the professionals. Yes, there are still photo studios where you can get them all dolled up with meticulously arranged hair and spotless faces while trained pros, who do this for a living, deal with the heavy burden of getting the "perfect" portrait. (Sure, you want a few formal portraits -- we all do -- but your child is a multi-dimensional human being, not a prop for Instagram.)

When you're out and about with your kids, or home doing something with your kids, or wrangling the carpool with your kids, and you want a picture, grab your camera/phone and shoot the thing. Shoot it immediately, as soon as you decide you want it. Try not to get caught, and for God's sake, don't call the child's attention to it.

Catch their goofy expressions, don't sweat their messy hair (and at the same time, don't deliberately mess it up because that kind of artificiality shows in every frame), don't holler at them to force a smile. Catch your real kids living their real lives.

On the one hand, you'll have a collection of pleasant, forgettable photos. Who doesn't. Snoooooze town. You'll also waste a ton of time and spend precious emotional currency fighting with your kids and trying to force them into artificial poses, artificial smiles, and artificial settings. You are just NEVER going to get a two-year-old to face the camera and smile flawlessly on command (and, if you have a hardheaded one, it won't work on a 17-year-old either). Trust me.

On the other, you'll have a visual reminder of a million precious stories -- stories of who your kids really are -- the first time little Timmy tasted ice cream, the expression on Sophia's face when Grandma complimented her first home-cooked meal, the sadness of knowing Jared didn't make the team. When your kids are interacting with their friends, catch them *interacting with their friends.* Don't make them stand shoulder to shoulder, all facing front, and smile at you. Nothing on earth is more boring than a line-'em-up'and-shoot-'em photo of a bunch of teenagers heading to the homecoming dance. (And yes, the sad moments are often worth preserving too -- you don't have to display them and make the poor kid relive every tantrum and every humiliation until she's old enough to serve as President. But you'll have them and someday your kiddo will have them and many of those bleak moments ARE worth remembering because they help to form us.)

You know what else forms us? EVERYDAY LIFE, with its awkward attempts at fashion, its teenaged facial breakouts, its sibling quarrels, its baseball practice, its burnt toast, its mismatched socks, and all its precious disorderliness. Very few of our days are Christmas Eve, graduation, someone's engagement. Far, FAR more numerous are the days of wrestling with the math homework, walking off the field defeated, triumphing over that impossible ice-skating move, getting completely lost in Little Women.

How do I know? Because I have the honor of having an only (biological) child, the most over-photographed, painstakingly documented species in the known world, and I tried both approaches.

I have all the formal portraits and all the candids. The formal portraits are nice, sure, but the ones that really warm my heart are the un-posed, unscripted, hey-that's-a-pretty-cool-moment shots that capture the essence of my real kid. When we go through old photos now, the formal portraits get a shrug and a turned page. The candids get us laughing, reminiscing, maybe shedding a tear or two -- but they're real. They're real life. They're who he was and they carry the seeds of who he is now and who he will be one day.

I hope you'll consider it. (PS: I offer this in a spirit of warmth and affection, not high-handed snarkiness. For a change.)

xoxoxoxoxo -- love, jillie

Remembering my grandmother "Neenie" on her birthday

 IdaMae Skiles Hobbs "Neenie" 12/18/1901 -- 11/27/1997

My grandmother was born at home in what is now considered a "census-designated place" in the "hard coal" (anthracite) region of Cambria County, Pennsylvania. She was the second-youngest of 11 children, the daughter of a raging abusive mother and a benign, kindhearted railroadman father. Her childhood hero was her brother Harry, who served in the Army in WWI, came home a hero and bought the town's first automobile, and apparently introduced her to all the cutest boys. Neenie remained an accomplished flirt until the day she died.

She left school early and went to work in a nearby clothing factory. She married my grandfather, a coal miner, in 1926 and they quickly found themselves standing in as informal foster parents to my Uncle Rich, the son of Neenie's younger sister. My mother (little IdaMae) followed shortly after, in 1929. Uncle Rich's mother was eventually able to care for him and he left the household but always cherished "Aunt" as a second mother. When he served in New Guinea in WWII, he used scrap metal from a downed Japanese plane to make her a bracelet with floral designs and "Aunt" in a central medallion.

Moving from patch town to patch town was frequent, as the mines often "worked out" or my grandfather lost his temper over real and imagined slights and quit on the spot. Neenie had a homemaker's heart but was never really able to establish a true home because they were never in one place for more than a year.

In 1951, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, resulting in a radical mastectomy and a completely cancer-free life thereafter. I realize this makes no clinical sense but I chuckle to myself that Neenie's ferocity and grit scared the malignant cells away.

Once my mother was established, licensed as a nurse and seriously dating my father, Neenie put her size 5 foot down and said "Enough. We are moving out of this coal dust and constant moving and we are going to either Florida or California. You can pick which one. If you decide you're staying here, you'll stay alone because I AM GOING." Papa Hobbs quietly surrendered and agreed to move to California. Nobody knew at the time they'd become part of a statistical phenomenon we'd later study as the "postwar boom."

The drive in 1955 to Los Angeles was the longest trip any of them had ever taken (except my WWII veteran dad, who decided to come along, get a quickie Reno divorce from his first wife and marry my mother, his emerald-eyed dream girl). Route 66--another postwar cliche--was their route for most of the trip, but they indulged in a lot of side jaunts for sightseeing. Chicago ("Chicaga" when she said it), the Grand Canyon and finally the Santa Monica pier left the deepest impressions on Neenie.

The two couples arrived in the Golden State with their terrier Ted in a pickup truck and a Studebaker, having sold or given away most of their furniture and household accoutrements.

Within weeks, a small house in Hollywood was home and my grandmother, ever the homemaker and seamstress, set about making curtains and slipcovers. My parents were married in August and my grandfather worked one of the minor California Potteries, Winfield China (yes, I still have a house full of the stuff). Neenie was, at long last, away from obligatory visits to her cruel mother and the constant threat of mining disasters. Life was good and stayed that way for a few years.

My grandfather died unexpectedly in 1957, having suffered a heart attack on a fishing trip out of Santa Monica. Neenie went to pieces and howled like a professional mourner about what would become of her (there wasn't much money saved up, thanks to my grandfather's capricious relationship with long-term work). My father insisted she move in with them and they became a household of three for several years.

When I came along after a series of stillbirths and infant deaths, my grandmother became my caretaker, the stay-at-home "third parent" to baby jillie ("Baby Dumplin'") and the center of my world. She looked after me with love and indulgence, driving me to kindergarten, piano lessons and the very early elementary grades, then deciding I was old enough to walk once I hit third grade. Every year for my birthday she bought me a special dress (which my mother usually insisted I save for Easter); every Halloween she made my costume; and every Christmas she commandeered my mother's vast collection of decor to ensure the entire house was bedecked and embellished.

When my parents went out for dates, she and I stayed home and watched Lawrence Welk (to this day, I can't stand snotty jokes about Lawrence Welk), Bonanza and whatever else she fancied. The apex of a big Saturday night was getting to sleep in Neenie's bed, under a silky, puffy, fluffy pink comforter with a feather design. Her best friend Helen soon became a part of the family, my "other grandmother," my Tia Helen and the source of the persimmon cookie recipe that I cherish to this day. I don't remember a holiday dinner without Neenie and Helen yakking like schoolgirls from start to finish.

She wasn't perfect. When I sassed, she "told on me" to my parents, often with enough embellishments to make her side of the dispute look pure and unsullied. When her friends did something she disapproved of, she was quick to get on the phone and gossip. When my room was messy, she'd click her tongue and ask "What'll they say if they see this mess?" (She never specified who "they" were.) If my skirt was too short (and my skirt was NEVER too short because Jack and IdaMae would have handed me my head), she tut-tutted and wondered if "they" would think I was "one of THOSE girls." But somehow things worked out quickly. Neenie was always ready to give me a hug, sweep the dispute under the rug with no discussion and carry on as if nothing had ever happened.

But every December 18, Christmas was shelved for one special night. There was an order of service for Neenie's birthday: both Mother and Daddy called home from their workplaces to sing "Happy Birthday," the afternoon was spent primping in anticipation of going out for a celebratory dinner, at which Neenie always--ALLLWAAAYYSS--chose grilled halibut. Some years there was white cake at home (the baking of which I took over in junior high because little IdaMae in the kitchen was never a good idea) and other years she requested custard pie instead. Presents consisted of sparkly things, Shalimar, warm robes and soft nightgowns. We all sang and she blew out her candles.

Life went on, I went away to school and eventually returned home, my mother retired, my dad died, and Neenie developed heart trouble. At 93, she was, by her doctor's reckoning, the oldest patient to have an angioplasty at a large hospital in Los Angeles. (I think the procedure wasn't done routinely here in OC on people in their 90s?) My mother and I were scared, but Neenie took my hand and said "Don't worry, Baby Dumplin'. I'll dance at your wedding." And she did, just a few months later. Not only did she dance at my wedding, she caught the bouquet (probably the result of a gentle conspiracy among my girlfriends).

When my son came along and we camped out at my mother's house for a while, she insisted on giving him his last bottle before bedtime because she was the only one who could "do it right." Not his father, who had previously been married and had a child; not my mother, the trained nurse who'd worked in pediatrics for years; and certainly not me, his mother. Nope, only Neenie was qualified to give that last bedtime bottle, rocking him gently in her upholstered, overstuffed chair until he fell asleep.

This is probably deeply unsound from a theological perspective, but I like to think Neenie is enjoying ethereal iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing, heavenly halibut, sanctified mashed potatoes, celestial white cake and absolutely no vegetables whatsoever. I like to think she's sitting around with my parents and my grandfather, beaming and giggling like the belle that she was. I like to think I'll be a part of that birthday party someday. But until then, may she rest in peace and may light perpetual shine upon her. 

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21Cheryl Diamond, Marcy Shands-Brown and 19 others

The Christmas Pins

The pin. The brooch, the breast pin, the circle pin, the cluster, the bar. A hallmark of dressed-up midcentury women from sea to shining sea. Not unlike a precursor to the late Madeline Albright, my mother collected pins and more pins. No outfit was complete without a pin, and her Christmas pin collection was unrivaled.

In his customary sentimental fashion, my father ritualized the giving and owning of Christmas pins. Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, he and I would get dressed up and go Christmas shopping. (This was long before “Black Friday” was institutionalized as a monument to greed and boorish behavior. Roads and stores were crowded, to be sure, but people seemed to agree on a code of behavior. Everyone waited politely in lines, greeted sales staff, chatted with those around them and extended good wishes for the season. I admit I’m biased, but I like to say we were more civilized then.)

Toward the end of the daylong shopping excursion, Daddy would wander to the costume jewelry area – which in those days took up three or four counters in a large department store – and begin the painstaking selection of three Christmas pins. One was for my mother, one for my grandmother and one for me. No pin on display went unexamined and I stood by patiently as he described my mother’s red hair, green eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion to saleswomen who showed a genuine interest in selling him just the right thing. (I have no idea if they genuinely cared or just wanted to make a sale, and I don’t care. They made him happy.) Finally at long last, he’d select a rhinestone-bedecked Christmas tree or a jaunty gold reindeer for the love of his life.

My grandmother’s pin was harder to find. For 11 months of the year, she frankly proclaimed her dislike of pins and never wore them. But come December, she became a good sport, happily putting a pin on every blouse and jacket, in an effort to spare my father’s feelings. Her favorite color was red and she loved what we would today call “bling,” preferring the “aurora borealis” rhinestones that were popular at the time. I could feel Daddy’s frustration at trying to find the right thing for her coupled with his terror of anything he considered garish or gaudy, but he always managed to find something beautiful.

I was easy and relatively content with whatever he chose, and Daddy knew I favored slightly simpler, more youthful designs. The first pin I remember getting was a simple gold Christmas tree with tiny red and green rhinestones as its “ornaments.” But during the shopping trip, I never saw exactly what he got me – that had to be a surprise when we got home.

When, at long last, we finally arrived home, the house looked like Santa’s village. The 12-foot vaulted ceiling in the living room hosted a tree that was probably 11 ½ feet, with not a needle unadorned. Most of the lights were the old C-9 bulbs with only a few “twinklers.” In the family room was a silver aluminum tree trimmed in red and gold ball ornaments and ONLY red and gold ball ornaments. That was a rule that no one dared violate, lest the incur the wrath of two exhausted, hardheaded women. There was a large Styrofoam church with a music box that played “O Come, All Ye Faithful” on a small table in the entry hall and four decorative felt stockings hung over the fireplace. I’m embarrassed to admit a lighted Santa face smiled down on people as they . . . uhhhh . . . used the bathroom. The kitchen was decorated, the bedrooms were decorated . . . not a surface was left blank in that whole house.

Daddy would hastily rush to a hall closet, designated as “his” for the season, so he could hide most of the presents he’d bought that day. But there was always a small bag in his hand, usually from Marion and Toni’s gift shop at Knott’s Berry Farm or Robinson’s before the May Company merger. With a great air of mystery, he’d ask us all to gather at the “breakfast nook” in the galley-shaped kitchen (yep, the bench was upholstered in turquoise Naugahyde). Mother and Neenie took this as a signal to eat leftover Thanksgiving pie. We all knew what was going on but we all feigned surprise as, one by one, he took the pins out of the bag, presenting them with great flourish “to my girls for an early Christmas.” Mother’s always came first, then Neenie’s, then mine.

They’re all gone now, my three dear ones. But the pins remain, a glistening reminder of the love and warmth of our family Christmases. I wear them proudly, occasionally cursing the failing pin mechanisms and missing rhinestones. Each time I put one on, I’m a young girl again for just a minute, loved and loving and full of anticipation. Call me a sentimental fool, call me a heretic, but I like to believe they see me wearing those pins and know how much comfort and joy they bring me.

Those are the crown jewels of MY realm.

An All Saints Day Tribute

 

As is my custom late every Halloween night, I turn my heart to All Saints' Day. In particular, I remember with fondness "my saints" -- my parents and grandmother (who was in the household as a sort of "bonus parent" all my life).

 

Never was a little girl more blessed, more loved. Never did a tiny family laugh harder, prank better, fight fiercer, or love more deeply. We were funny, loyal, chaotic, disorganized, clever, sarcastic, overly sentimental, and smart. We might claw each other's eyes out behind closed doors, but woe betide the interloper who dared speak a bad word about one of us to any of the others.

 

We celebrated absolutely everything and invited absolutely everyone -- Daddy never met a stranger, never let a traveling colleague make do with tired hotel chicken, never met a "holiday orphan" who didn't find their way to our table for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, you name it. We ate crap on beautifully appointed, perfectly set tables -- until I learned to cook (God bless you, Elizabeth Yeager, for eighth-grade home ec!) and then we ate decent food, still on beautifully appointed, perfectly set tables.

 

We looked for Santa in the night sky, and we found him. We waited for the Great Pumpkin to rise over the patch, and he did. We hoped the Easter bunny would leave more chocolate and fewer jelly beans, and he delivered. (Well, except for the one year SOMEBODY got up early, went out to the living room in search of her basket, found nothing, and burst into Jack and IdaMae's room sobbing her heart out. She remained inconsolable until her Daddy gently reminded her that today was Saturday and E.B. wasn't expected until tomorrow. Oooops. Never did live that one down.)

 

Two of us constructed elaborate lies to fool one of us. One poor, gullible victim was convinced that visitors to the Mexican border towns could walk from La Paz to Matamoros ON the actual international border. Two cruel, horrible adults persuaded a heartbroken, scratched-up, innocent child that her hideously aggressive stray kitten was living in a special place with lots of other wild, violent kittens; this place was, of course, closed to visitors. Only the oldest and least educated of us was sharp enough to see through everybody else's bullshit.

 

We drove across the country, up and down both coasts, all over the West. We tried to eat with locals, chat with locals, learn to understand local ways of being in this big, gorgeous world. We bought beaded replicas of kachinas in New Mexico, chocolate-covered blackberry jelly candy in Oregon, rosaries for the Catholic relatives in Mexicali. One of us, trying to set up a tent for overnight camping, got caught in the tent fabric and rolled ass-over-teacups down a hill in windy Panguitch, Utah, while the other three laughed, devoid of sympathy. We watched the Angels vs. the Oakland As on July 20, 1969; one of us choked back tears as play was stopped for an announcement that Apollo 11 had safely landed on the moon. Two of us had separate small roles in building bridges, highways and power plants. One of us supported surgeons in a growing young county, later turning her professional attention to tuberculosis testing and the treatment of diseases among the underserved. One of us whipped out intricate, highly tailored dresses and coats -- on a shoestring.

Three of us have now died, leaving the fourth behind to pray for the repose of their souls and to reflect on the innumerable blessings they brought to this world and directly to her. She misses them and she cries for them. But she knows they're never far away and she carries them in her heart. She is grateful.

 

Mother, Daddy, Neenie -- I love you and I miss you. Until we meet again -- xoxoxoxo -- love, jillie

 

As Halloween ends, I turn to honor and revere "my" three saints

 Halloween is winding down and my thoughts turn to All Saints. Here are a few memories of "my" three saints (in no particular order and not all sugared up. These were genuine, three-dimensional, flawed people whom I love more deeply every day).

My grandmother, ("Neenie") was pretty much my third parent. She moved in with my parents before I was born and cared for me and the household after the pediatrician sent my mother back to work when I was six months old. (He told Mother she was such an uptight worrywart she'd ruin me, so everybody was better off with her gainfully employed. Wise words, Dr. Bornstein!) Before I was school-aged, Neenie and the dog and I had our morning coffee together (yes, I drank coffee as a toddler with no ill effects whatsoever), usually accompanied by plain buttered toast. When I was tiny, she had endless patience with everything except my sassy mouth. That patience ebbed considerably as I grew into more of an actual person, but the love remained. She hated to cook, and was the worst nightmare a suburban kitchen has ever seen, thereby fostering my early interest in getting GOOD meals on the table. She was startlingly practical -- could mend ANYTHING, from a torn coat lining to a moody antique lamp, like an early MacGyver. A survivor of extreme childhood abuse, she carried some deep wounds and used her "fragile health" as a tool to get into and out of situations at will. It wasn't all bad; we had orchestra seats to numerous flirtatious encounters, in which befuddled widowers found themselves asking "How high?" when she sighed "It would be so nice if someone would jump." It should be noted that this weak, delicate flower lived to be 96 years old. I didn't turn out to be the fluffy-minded belle she envisioned, and she never understood my academic and career pursuits. But she loved us well and deeply, and I honor and treasure her memory. I miss her soft, squishy hugs and her gentle, soothing hands in my hair. I thank her for steadfast love and care, for unwavering devotion even when she wanted to choke the last breath out of me.

Daddy. You all know about my Daddy, a textbook case of surviving the depression and the coal mines of southwestern Pennsylvania, fighting "the war," and prospering during the postwar boom. He was the youngest of four by many years, a surprise menopause baby who was initially mistaken for a case of the stomach flu. Handsome, freakishly intelligent, glib, prankish and charming, he got away with utter mayhem. He was absolutely my mother's knight in shining armor, and she was his beloved emerald-eyed queen. He called her "Sunshine," and, to this day, when I hear "You Are My Sunshine," I can't stop the tears. As was typical of his generation, he couldn't talk about his wounds, his longings, his demons; and the darkness finally overcame him. He died much too young, and in much too much pain. But no daughter ever had a better guide, a more adventurous cruise director, a prouder cheerleader, or a more vigorous coach. He was a voracious reader, a greedy absorber of whatever he could learn about other countries and cultures, and an openhearted, congenial host. I thank him for the Steelers (kinda embarrassing this season, but ya love who ya love), the world's best red sauce, a legacy of storytelling, his belief in me, his stubborn refusal to stomp on my dreams, and the emphasis he placed on cultivating an inquisitive, vigorous mind. My Daddy gave me wings.

My mother was a child of the depression, a coal miner's daughter, a young nurse in the postwar years. She never really wanted to be a nurse, but made the best of circumstances and became a damn good one. When she finally had a child who survived, she elected public health, so she could spend nights and weekends with her little girl. Mother was the walking, talking embodiment of love. Squirrely, unfocused and wildly disorganized, she tut-tutted about everybody else's untidiness while blissfully ignoring her own. Mother loved to fuss the details; she hated to cook but her holiday tables looked PERFECT, from the starched napkins to the floral arrangements to the polished silver. She was as pretty as a picture, loved to dress up, and was always -- ALWAYS -- in full hair and makeup. There was nothing, absolutely NOTHING, she wouldn't sacrifice for the ones she loved; we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted, thanks to her. When I wanted to go 3000 miles away to school, she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and swallowed her tears. When I came home after five years in Washington, D.C., she became one of my best friends. When I started a new job, she bought me a new suit -- every time. When I got married, she and Neenie gave me the wedding of my dreams (on an October evening in a university chapel by candlelight). When I arrived at her door in tears with a baby on my hip and a midnight announcement of divorce, all she said was "Well, there are sheets on your old bed. You'll stay here until things get sorted out." She was fun, playful, gullible, loyal, protective, and ferocious. Her adherence to doctrine and ecclesiastical niceties was all over the map, but her faith was solid granite. I thank her for acceptance, for a listening ear, for fake poached eggs that soothed every heartache, for innumerable rescues, for allowing me to take care of her in her last days.

I still miss them, I still cry for them, I still feel their absence. But most of all, I am grateful for them. May God rest their precious souls until we meet again.

John Loughran Gillen 4/22/2020 -- 9/27/1984

 April 22, 1920 -- A boy is born in a small house in a small patch town in the soft-coal country of Fayette County, Pennsylvania, right down on the West Virginia border. His mother is tired. She's raised three children nearly to adulthood and buried a few more, fed and cared for her coal-miner husband, held her breath through explosions and strikes and mines working out and harsh weather and coal dust. In the first few months, she's convinced she has a stomach bug. But the blue-eyed charmer, her "change-of-life baby," grows into a witty, curious, wisecracking storyteller; a prankster; an autodidact; a spinner of yarns.

After graduating from high school, he went down the mine for a hot minute, decided that wasn't for him, and sweet-talked his way into a job in the company store -- based strictly on his ability to touch type. When war broke out shortly after, he enlisted in the Coast Guard and soon found himself in the United States Navy, one more young ordinary seaman in a long line of earnest, dedicated patriots who were going to save the world from totalitarianism.

The war left its mark on him and he would spend most of his later years refusing to talk about it. Once, when "I'll Be Home for Christmas" came on the radio, someone overheard him say to his wife "You know, Sunshine, a lot of the fellas never made it home for Christmas." The eavesdropper saw him blink back tears and that was about as deep as it got. More went unsaid than said; it took a diligent search years later of his service records to learn what he had done -- and where he did it -- in his quest to secure freedom for all people.

Somewhere in there was a brief, unhappy marriage that ended in the most cliched way imaginable: A quick divorce in Reno en route to California, where he'd marry his emerald-eyed princess and (finally) have a little girl. They ended up living the other postwar cliche: A ranch-style tract house in a quiet suburban setting with good schools; three cars (his mother-in-law lived with them almost from the start -- and it was HIS IDEA!); enough money (not tons, but enough); and ready access to groceries, medical care and the basic necessities of suburban life.

Working in procurement at a Los Angeles-area division of U.S. Steel in the years before strict government purchasing regulations, he was part of a team known for . . . uhhhh . . . making sure there wasn't too much surplus material left onsite to rot. Not one of those men had a patio cover made of less than #18 rebar and "nobody knew" where it came from. His wife grew roses, pelargoniums and fuschias, all fussy plants that required loads of attention, while he proudly tended their dichondra lawns. Nobody ate inside all summer (redwood patio table with attached benches, right?) and the wives had the good sense not to ask why their deskbound husbands were coming home with cases of top-grade steaks every few weeks. Suppliers sent them Christmas baskets, football tickets and weekends at the Spa in Palm Springs.

The little girl was sweet, a little mouthy, a terrible room tidier, pleasant, a good student, relatively compliant and not much trouble (until later). She adored her Daddy. The mother-in-law had her own activities and an endless parade of "gentleman callers" but the foursome was strongest and happiest together. Holidays were a dizzying festival of 12-foot Christmas trees, marathon baking sessions, all-night giftwrap parties, and Thanksgivings shared with visiting colleagues from countries that had no comparable tradition. The daughter remembers her Daddy telling the family about a man from Thailand he'd invited because he was "damned if I'll let him be all alone for Thanksgiving." (The man came, utterly bewildered, and had absolutely no idea what Thanksgiving was all about. But he got into the spirit of the thing, ate heartily and seemed to enjoy himself.)

The man was a deep believer, a committed Christian who said almost nothing about his faith but tried to live it with every breath. No hard-luck story was too improbable for him, no villainy was unforgivable and no "holiday orphan" was uninvited. Militantly unchurched, he angrily rejected Catholicism but requested a Catholic funeral. He declined to go to even a Christmas Eve service with his wife and daughter but refused to put his (copperplate) signature on the funny, secular cards his wife brought home one year. (Fear not, he gently persuaded her to exchange them -- no voices were raised and no tears were shed. After that, she sent religious Christmas cards until the end of her days.) The family lived on paradox, I guess.

He wasn't perfect; he was no saint. There were dark spots, storm clouds, ice-cold quarrels, red-hot quarrels, horrible times. This is neither the time nor the place to enumerate their nauseating ugliness. Suffice to say there was enough love in that simple suburban house to keep everybody going.

When the daughter, having spent a week in Washington, D.C. during her senior year of high school, expressed a desire to go to college there, his wife quailed at the idea. "She is NOT going that far away! She's too young and Washington, D.C. is nothing but crime!" she shouted, cowering in horror. (To this day, nobody knows if she meant street crime or the Nixon administration.) He held his tongue and his temper. "Just think it over, Sunshine," he said. "She's headstrong and hardheaded; if we force her to go to the small private women's college 45 minutes away--the one you chose because you always wanted that life--what's she going to get out of being there when she doesn't want to? She's a lot tougher than you think she is because we raised her right. She can handle this and we need to let her." A few days later, he quietly took the daughter out for pizza. "It's late in the game but get on the phone and see if you can 'sell yourself' to a school in D.C. I'll handle your mother." She sold, he handled, she went and she's now near retirement age and swears it was the undisputed best choice.

Time passed. The girl grew up, the grandmother aged. The blue-eyed charmer retired from an international architect-engineer-construction firm shortly after the daughter's college graduation, but not before she started working there and dropping in to her Daddy's office now and then for breaks and a short chat.

Two years later, on September 27, 1984, he shuffled off this mortal coil and found the peace that eluded him in this life. He got his Catholic funeral (a nice Irish priest probably bent some rules) and is buried in a military cemetery in Southern California. Dressing for the funeral, his wife pulled a veiled chapeau from her closet, looked at her daughter through tears and said "I'm going to wear a hat for your Daddy one last time. He always loved women in suits and hats." Honorary pallbearers were wonderful family friends, the owner of a local Mexican restaurant (sadly, now gone) and his numerous sons, all in those short-sleeved embroidered shirts that might (?) be called guyaberas. They brought color and life to a heartbreaking day. His oldest sister, the last of the family, came from Pennsylvania to help bury her baby brother.

He was not there to walk his daughter down the aisle when she married. He was not part of the rescuing committee when she showed up at the parental house at midnight with a baby on her hip sobbing "My marriage is over." He didn't get to take his wife to London, one of her dearest desires (again, fear not -- she went a few years later and took up residence in Harrods Food Hall indulging the love affair of the century with English Cheddar.) He wasn't there to cheer his favorite nephew through Air Force retirement and a second career as an airline pilot. He didn't get to meet his grandson (though most doubt that he's truly absent from the young man's life). He wasn't around to see his wife through to the end, but that's probably better, as her death would have killed him anyway.

But this man lives on, with the verve and energy he used in his own too-short life. His daughter jokes that as long as there's a breath in her own son's body, her Daddy will never be truly gone. He gave her an insatiable desire to learn, to know things, to understand people, to experience as much of this gorgeous big, beautiful world as she could possibly cram into one lifespan. His fervent Steelers fandom lives on, to the extent that even his baby grandson's first sweatsuit proudly boasted the hypocycloid logo before the kid was out of diapers. "His" red sauce graces most of the family's holiday tables now, and the daughter keeps roughly a gallon of it frozen "just in case."

If you haven't figured it out by now (and you have), I'm honored to tell you our protagonist is my father. And I'd happily give up a kidney to be shopping for one more wallet, one more belt, one more comprehensive account of the history of God-knows-what for his birthday (hardbound, please). I'd pay any price to throw some burgers on the grill and make him the simple birthday dinner he would have asked for. As it is, I will pray for the repose of his soul, send love into the universe, and try to make my Daddy proud on what would have been his 102nd birthday. And I will miss him until my dying day.

Until we meet again, Daddy, Little Sunshine loves you.