This is Art. He passed away three years ago today while driving home from a concert with friends. He had a heart attack at the wheel. Luckily, it was at a red light, and his buddy was able to get the car to the side of the road. He had one of those funerals where the church is packed, and there was a huge party with all the Mexican food you could eat and beer you could drink afterwards. We met him in 1992 when we first bought season tickets to the Chargers games. He and our friend, Andy, had seats near us and invited us to tailgate with them. They were a little older than us, but you have never met a better group of people. They were a little dirty and raucous, and we may have had to pull the “earmuffs” maneuver on the kids from time to time, but it was worth it. We made tailgating into an art form, with two deep fried turkeys at Thanksgiving, big fat steaks with sauteed onions and mushrooms, tucked between fresh Filipino rolls and all the trimings, pozole and tamales at New Year’s, and carne asada any time.

Art was the official bartender, famous for his mixed drinks. They had a running dirty joke that my three kids were conceived under the influence and they were nicknamed Lemondrop, Mudslide, and Mind Eraser. We referred to Art as “Hey You”, which was how you asked for a drink. When we arrived at the stadium, he would put a drink in your hand and give the kids something sweet and sugary. He was also the glue that held the whole group together. He had something terrible to say (in jest) about everyone. Debbie was “the pinche neighbor”, I brought a friend who was instantly “the little white boy”, Ken became “Chino”, because he was half Japanese. But none of it mattered, because you knew he loved you. It showed in all his actions. Art called and emailed and had Wednesday get-togethers at his house, Thursday nights at a local bar and invited people out every single weekend. I am sure that he died with no regrets about his loved ones. He was an example of spending quality time with the people you care about, and I am reminded of it every time that I think of him. I’m missing him today.

7 August 36 Permalink

The one thing that hurt most was that Gina died before her daughter got married and had a son.   And she died the same year that we had our first child.  I know that was hard for Nick.  On a happier note, one of the things about Gina that made you smile was that you just never knew what color her hair was going to be. I saw it in shades of blonde, red, black and brown, and Nick said it was even pink one time!  She loved dressing up, wearing makeup and (obviously) coloring her hair.

16 February 13 Permalink

This is my friend, Heidi, and her beautiful family.  I’ve known Heidi since we were both about 11.  She is another that grew up in the same odd “church” with me.  She was in Anaheim, and I was in Fullerton, but we went to all the same youth retreats and conferences, and there were weekly meetings in Anaheim, so we saw a lot of each other.  Luckily, we only lived about 15 minutes apart.  Heidi, and my bff, Lynnette, and I were like the Three Musketeers.  There were a few other girls in our circle, including April, whose husband died last week.  A couple of them had really tragic stories that I don’t want to get into in detail right now.  One I’ve lost contact with altogether, and the other I may as well have.  Child abuse and drugs did a number on her and her brother that can never be repaired.

But Heidi is one of the best people I know. When those friends of ours were going through their hard times, she was always the last one to cut them off.  She visited people in jail.  She brought meals, despite having four young children of her own and very little money.  She is just pure goodness.  She only stopped visiting one woman when it turned out she had contagious hepatitis and Heidi had a brand new baby.    

Maybe the best thing about Heidi, besides her kind heart is her optimism.  She’s been through a lot in life, yet none of it soured her positive attitude. She was raised in a cult, then ex-communicated at 18 for marrying a man 18 years older than she was.  That was quite the scandal.  Luckily, she had the support of her mother, although it put a permanent wedge between her and her dad that never entirely healed.  He is still a “missionary” for that group.  Her family is dealing with depression, Asperger’s syndrome, severe financial hardship and more, but she always finds a way to look for the good in any situation and come up with a plan. 

She and I are going to be driving to my friend Danny’s funeral together on Saturday, thank goodness.  It is a couple of hours away, and I need to be back for a high school basketball event by 5:30 that evening.  It is going to be a comfort knowing I have a friend like Heidi by my side.  I may not be one of those people with dozens of friends, but I know that the ones I have are true.

9 November 5 Permalink

From time to time I share about people who are important in my life.  These photos are of our dear friend, Ransford, who lived with my family in 1971 and 1972.  He had come from Accra, Ghana with his friend, Thomas, who also lived with us.  But while we loved all the “brothers” who lived at our house, it was Ransford who made the most impact.  He was only 23 then, and I was a little girl of 6 when he came to stay.  He became like my second daddy.  I hung on his every word.  He told me stories of Anansi the Spider, he made me West African dishes for my meals (I’m sure they were for everyone-but it all felt like it was for me.); he made me feel special in a house full of people.  After two years, Ransford and Thomas went back to Ghana, but Ransford made frequent trips back to the U.S. and always came to visit us.  At some point, he brought his family back to live in Anaheim (I couldn’t tell you exactly when or for how long), so we saw much more of him) and then they lived in San Bernardino.  During some of this time we lived in New York, but then we moved to Anaheim and then Fullerton, so we were quite close.

In the 80’s, he took his family back to Accra, because he felt a burden to build “churches” in Africa.  (Incidentally, Ransford eventually sensed that this “church” was wrong and broke off from it.) His kids were younger than me, but I remember one of them telling me, “I don’t want to go back to Ghana. Everything there is like the olden days.”  I cried because he was leaving, but he told me that if I could save up half the airfare to visit, he would pay the other half.  Of course, I never did.  I was never the type to take people up on offers like that, no matter how sincere.  I am “friends” with two of his sons on facebook, but we aren’t the same age, and weren’t ever really close, because of the whole boy/girl thing as kids.

In January 2006, my parents called to say that Ransford was coming to their house for a visit. I hadn’t seen him in several years at that point, and wanted to go really badly, but I had just spent a brutal Christmas with my family at my house, and I couldn’t face seeing my parents.  I thought, there will be another time. I’ll see him next time he comes.

In August of that year, Ransford was driving on the Takoradi-Accra road, and a bus lost a tire, which flew through the windshield of his car.  He wasn’t killed immediately. He was taken to the hospital.  By the time he passed away, he had managed to convert two nurses to Christianity; such was his warmth and charisma.  

I wan’t able to go to his funeral, but a friend brought me back a copy of the funeral booklet (80 pages).  I am not surprised that many, many other people also thought of him as Daddy.  He had taken care of so many people in his village and in his church as he took care of me.  Last Father’s Day, when I didn’t even see my own dad, I cried for Ransford.  I will always regret not seeing him that one last time.  I am crying again, but I also know how very lucky I am to have had him in my life for so long.

4 November 12 Permalink