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A question on the anniversary of my father's death

Image
My dad, on the right.
I woke up this morning thinking about my father. He died 26 years ago today, and since it’s British Isles Friday I thought I’d share a few pix of my very British old man. I also have a question about the old family photo above. I believe it was taken sometime in the 1950’s when we lived in Tripoli, Libya. There is another photograph somewhere of the larger group at what appears to be some sort of professional gathering or meeting, a handful of men and one woman sitting on chairs at either side. My father, ex-British Intelligence, fluent in Arabic, was working for the American government at the AFEX, the Army & Air Force exchange store at Wheelus Air Force base in Tripoli at the time. I don’t know the exact nature of his work but while he was investigating some unusually large financial losses he learned that an American he became close friends with turned out to be embezzling funds. That must have been one helluva an awkward friend breakup! 

What I’m really cur…

Leaving Home: A Divorce Story [Part Three]

Leaving Home: The Beginning I looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard; just after eleven...

Leaving Home: Part Two He was tall and almost cool with aviators and a mustache that matched his shaggy golden brown hair...


Leaving Home: Part ThreeThe next couple of months blurred by. Phillip kept up, I don't know, I guess I'd call it a full frontal attack, but gently. First came the awkward acknowledgment that calling all over Vegas, hunting me down, was going too far. He neighed his whinny of a laugh.

"I guess I got a little crazy."

In return, did I tell him I didn't need crazy in my life? Did I tell him to scram, to get lost? Did I tell him we were on two separate journeys? Or instead did I say nothing? Did I find his fascination fascinating and blush demurely when he talked about the skin in the hollow of my throat or told me I looked pretty in pink?

Funny how something like that, a compliment when you're craving one, can stop up a hole for awhile.

Otherwise the d…

#15 Leaving Home: A Divorce Story [Part Two]

#15 Euclid Street, Santa Monica

Last week I posted the first part of this transition piece, the story of my first marriage, the tale that took me from my parents' home to my first place. Leaving Home: The Beginningis #15 of the On The Street Where I Live stories. You may want to read it before you read this. Here's the second installment.

Leaving Home: Part Two

He was tall and almost cool with aviators and a mustache that matched his shaggy golden brown hair. What made Phillip uncool was the way he had to shove those aviators up his slippery nose over and over, an act of uncoolness I could relate to all too well. The other thing that marked him as uncool was that he was full-time; a management trainee at Drug Star in Santa Monica. The rest of us that worked there, the young ones anyway, were part time. We were going to school, trying to be something else, trying to find a real place to start our careers. The drug store as a place to have a career? Definitely not cool. 
At first I …

#15 Leaving Home: A Divorce Story [The Beginning]

#15 Euclid Street, Santa Monica, California

I've been married twice; one that didn't take, and one that did (knock on wood).This is about the one that didn't. You'll notice, it's only the beginning. I'm not sure how long it will end up being, as long — or as short — as it takes I guess. It's one of those transition pieces, the story that took me from my parents' apartment on Fourteenth Street in Santa Monica to a sweet little back house one short block away on Euclid, #15 of the On the Street Where I Live stories. If you've been here before you know this isn't a story in the fictional sense of the word, it's memoir. I'm of an age where I'm looking back, trying to figure out the route my life has followed. A few of you have showed an interest; thanks for that.

Also, I hate titles; mainly because I'm no good at them. I think I'll call this one 

Leaving Home

I looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard; just after eleven. I don…