A Happy/Sad Day in San Francisco

Frank and I drove to Dublin yesterday, jumped on BART, rode it to the last station, Balboa Park, then walked the short distance to my dad's house on Chicago Way. The last time we rode BART was more than 20 years ago. It was fun. Made me feel very worldly. The ride wasn't crowded, and people were friendly. Restrooms at the Dublin station were a mess, but in Daly City, not so bad.

I didn't know how I'd feel going to the house. It was always awkward visiting when Dad was alive, because our relationship was far from "close." We had to clear every trip with my stepmother, who told me she told Dad when he retired from the military, "You've run everything until now. Now that you're home, I'm in charge." She took good care of him as his health slowly deteriorated, and then she ran into her own problems and it got testy. I always said, "Let me know if I can do anything," but I was a daughter from my dad's former marriage, so she kept me (sometimes nicely, sometimes not) in my place, which wasn't on the inside of their lives.

Now their son has moved her to where he lives, Alaska, and she's on a waiting list for a state-run "home." It's very sad. We met Greg at their house yesterday, primarily to drive his mom's car home. It was her pride and joy, and I have mixed feelings about having bought it. It's a 1989 Chrysler LeBaron convertible, in tip top shape. I didn't need it (I have a Ford Ranger) but I've always liked it, and primarily I felt I was helping out by taking it off Greg's hands. One less thing for him to deal with.

While there, my brother gave me some mementos, mostly certificates that were framed on the wall of Dad's office. They represent his many accomplishments, of which he was very proud. And deservedly so. I loved my dad, even if (of necessity) it was from a distance. He was career military and his dress uniform is framed and hanging on the wall in my spare bedroom. I redecorated the whole room in red, white and blue, and now I'll hang the certificates. I don't know if Dad ever thought about this sort of thing, but if he did I have a hunch he had to know I would be the one to keep his memory alive.

There were a few other things tossed into the back seat of the car -- Dad's fishing knife from when they lived in Iran, his Shriner's President windbreaker, and so on. When I got home and we unloaded the car I was in for quite a surprise though. Greg had given me the folded flag that was on Dad's casket. His funeral with full military honors still affects me. I could hardly believe it when I found the triangular flag. I am so... I don't know, touched somehow... to have it in my home.

It seems odd that I feel like he's more in my life now, than when he was alive. He was far from perfect, but always, in my eyes, a hero. That most certainly would not have been true, had I grown up living with him. Maybe heroes need to be worshipped from afar. Up close, an admirer might be too distracted by all the chinks in a knight's shining armor, and disillusioned by his moans and groans about joints stiffening with age, and debilitating aches and pains. There's a lot to be said for distance.