Dad's Memorial Card, 1988

Dad's memorial card from Zook Mortuary.  

It's hard for me to look at this and see Kansas City, Missouri.  I get that that is where Dad was born, but that certainly is not his resting place.  I am not even sure that Dad is resting anywhere for that matter. No, he's in LA somewhere, somewhere downtown or near there, probably dropping in for an early morning mass or a late afternoon confession before going across the street to Olvera Street to grab a cheese enchilada, rice, and beans and a Coors.  

I really don't like this famous image of Christ.  When we were kids we were taught to revere, even worship Christ in all of his man-made forms.  Whether it was the suffering Christ on the cross in St. Joseph's chapel at Santa Teresita in Monrovia or a more artistic rendition of the crucifix at St. Frances [one of the Franciscan orders] of Rome Parish in Azusa. But it was this particular memorial card that disturbed me as a kid because the image is one of the sacrificial Christ, a sacrifice called for by his father. Never commenting on the art or the story behind the image, my dad exalted in his own heart the holiness of Christ's suffering.  

Speaking of the Old Mission, called La Placita, I could not help but post a few pics of it.  For it was a great place of comfort for my dad.  He came here first after stepping off a train from San Diego while on leave from the war.  He'd walk over to La Placita, find a quiet pew, kneel, and pray for those he loved and the ones he missed.  The prospects of seeing his mom and dad, his wife and baby girl lifted him.  The church consoled him.  Refreshed, he stepped out of La Placita and into the sunlight.  His prospects carried him across the street to Olvera Street where he got some Mexican food.  The War was over.  He could now begin to rebuild.  

Twenty years and 7 kids later, he returned to San Diego for weekend excursions, staying in the Padre Trail Inn where he returned to his poetry of composing striking post-card greetings in his signature all capital letters and commit to hours of interest devouring the craft of local writers from the San Diego Tribune.  He settled in.  A ribbon of smoke from his Tareyton, perched at the edge of a motel dresser, rose to the ceiling and the room absorbed it.  To fuel his chariot further, Dad nursed a beverage for inspiration. 

The image of the Tareytons made me think of Dad's coconut ashtray he'd brought back from the war. It had some names and dates scrolled on it in  yellow paint, but I was too young to register the names to memory before Mom tossed it. I am sure it had Majuro Island written on it somewhere.  I liked the ashtray because the fibers or hairs of the coconut were still on it, making it look like a fresh extraction from an island in the Pacific from a war only 20 years since its close.  It was a brilliant trophy to survival and how men made useful things from bad situations.  All was not lost. Oblivion and death do not hold sway over men's lives.  

The pack of cigarettes there at the right are 100's. Before he quit cold turkey, Dad almost always smoked Tareyton regulars and only rarely did he buy 100's when a liquor store was out of regulars. But I like the image of the worked pack, and that's why I posted it. 

He'd explore Presidio Park with his children and schedule a stop to the San Diego Zoo.  

And as the day came to a close, he'd take us out to dinner in Old Town San Diego at La Pinata with its colorful wicker seats and pinatas hanging from the ceiling. 

To digress even further, my last visit to San Diego with my dad came in 1982.  It was me, my dad, and Sally.  I drove my green, 1980 VW bug.  We stayed at many hotels over the years.  This time we stayed at Mission Valley Inn.  

And as Dad settled in to read the local journalists and write his memorable postcards, Sally and I drove down to the Old Town State Park bypassing our old, childhood haunts, Presidio Park, where we found a weekend festival with booths lining the periphery of the park. The city-given name of the park is Plaza de Las Armas.

And why wouldn't there be a festival?  It was after all Cinco de Mayo weekend, 1982.  We were there actually on May 1, a Saturday, and Cinco de Mayo fell on the following Wednesday. So that weekend there were lots of vendors that occupied the park. Wandering through the park and observing things and people, sliding through the hordes we found a vendor selling dollar-sized corn tortillas for $.25.  They served them fresh from the grill on a sheet of baking paper.  The tortillas were topped with butter and salsa. Uncomplicated. They were warm, salty, and divine. So we ordered more.

Afterward, we drove downtown looking for a movie theater.  The Walgenbachs were always the ones for the movies.  It was a tradition.  It was love. It was history.  It was a way to share the times of our parents, who loved the movies and legends of Hollywood. We found a film.  Blade Runner, starring Harrison Ford, aka, Hans Solo.  We didn't plan to see this movie, so when we arrived the line was wrapped around the block.  We got in line anyway.  We stood.  We waited. We sat.  On the sidewalk.  The official release date for Blade Runner wasn't until June 25, 1982. But we were in San Diego on May 1st.  So how did we see a movie prior to its official release? San Diego happened to have an early, special preview.  

A San Diego Sneak Preview shown only once in May 1982.^[4] This version is nearly identical to the 1982 US theatrical version, except that it included three additional scenes not shown before or since, including the Final Cut version (2007).

Call it luck.  The movie was long for me.  The visuals were stunning but haunted by a predacious search for replicants, beauties that needed to be eliminated.  The movie seemed to be a hard-boiled, noirish commentary on post-deconstruction, whatever that means.  Where has the time gone? Where are the people and actors of the era that anchored my identity and mojo? Where is Sean Young, Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer, and character actor M. Emmet Walsh, Daryl Hannah, James Hong, Brion James, Edward James Olmos, aka, "Jaime Escalante," and others?  I don't like the detachment or dispossession from life of those days.  I was still working nights at UPS in Baldwin Park and trying to make a go at selling Amway.  Mom was a good soul and a good sport in those days to buy a large tub of Amway's soap at wholesale from me. She actually liked the soap and said so, which worked to silence the criticism and suspicions from my siblings.  It was Bill and Darlene Hardister who were my Amway mentors.  Bill said he had given up his lucrative $70,000/year trucking job to sell Amway.  I loved Darlene.  She had an older daughter, quite attractive, from a previous marriage.  Wish I could remember her name.  The picture of Darlene below is one that in my mind captures her funny laugh, her energy, and joy.  She may not like the picture, but for me, it captures how much she loved to laugh and thought how so many things that people did in life were funny.  Life and people absolutely delighted her.  

Darlene Hardister.  Not sure of the year.  2005 maybe.

But to return to La Placita Plaza in downtown Los Angeles.  It is a beautiful, old little Spanish chapel. I love it.  I loved it because he loved it.  

For some excellent older shots of this little chapel and perhaps a glimpse of the world my dad inhabited, see these pics.

Even in the mornings before he'd go into work, he'd stop here for a 5:30 or 6am mass. He'd get on the Pasadena Freeway from the 210 and wind his way toward downtown. But instead of going directly to the courthouse, he'd stop here and pray for his Pa, Ma, and sister, Josephine.  Before ballgames, he'd stop here and run across the street for a Mexican dinner for he and his three youngest sons, and a beer for himself and sodas for the boys.

The interior was tiny but beautiful.  It was all aged gold.  I do remember thinking where do I fix my devotion since there was no large crucifix on the wall behind the altar as they have at Immaculate Conception or St. Joseph's Chapel at Santa Teresita Hospital in Monrovia.  Instead, this tiny La Placita chapel had only gilded framed paintings. Okay.  The chapel evoked a storied worship. But knowing how much comfort this place gave my dad means that this place still occupies a very dear corner of my heart.