We’ve spent the evening listening to the albums of Glen Phillips, former lead singer of Toad the Wet Sprocket. It’s sobering and disappointing that a man of such great talent has not seen his career skyrocket. One of the pleasures of living in Southern California is having the opportunity to see him perform live with frequency. If you don’t know his music, check it out today. You can reach his website here.
My Mom told me that memories of my Dad would come unexpectedly. She’s been right.
For example, shortly after I got back from his funeral, I did a preliminary hearing on a murder (and attempted murder) case in which some of the witnesses and shooting victims had ties to street gangs. At one point, the defense attorney asked one of the victims about the activities of his gang. He resorted to a bit of sarcasm in his questioning: “Well, it’s not an organization like the Rotary Club or the Kiwanis Club, is it?”
After the hearing, the court reporter asked me if I knew how to spell Kiwanis. Of course I did; the club was a big part of my Dad’s life for years. I spelled it for her, and tried not to let her see me tearing up.
As we have unpacked this weekend, we have run across numerous sets of photographs. I have looked at only a fraction of them — mostly the ones already in frames. There’s the one of Dad with a younger Patterico and Mrs. P. There’s the one (now on the fireplace mantlepiece) of Dad cradling a baby Lauren. (She just celebrated her sixth birthday, which he didn’t live to see.) You should see the look on his face.
Luckily, inside my own house, I don’t have to hide my tears from anyone. I guess they’ll always come, as long as I live and love.