My dad died today.

I’m not quite sure where to go from there — “My dad died” pretty much covers it pretty well. Seeing the words on the screen like that… Wrong, yet inevitable. I’m sad and numb and tired and … I don’t know. Dead inside, a little.

My relationship with my father has been long and strange and taxing and has felt very much one-sided for a long, long time. My parents split up about 30 years ago, and my brothers and sisters and I lived in California with our mother while my dad lived in Colorado and started a new family there. I have been the glue linking these two sects and practically the only open line of communication between them the entire time. It has been frustrating and tiring and taxing and thankless — and now it is over.

I’m feeling a lot of guilt and regret right now, but I think that’s inevitable, especially in estranged families like mine. I think the only way you could possibly have someone die and not feel any “I wish I’d done it differently” would be for them to drop dead while you were hugging them at the end of a marathon “I love you, let’s clear the air, here’s all the things I wish I’d said and all the apologies I wish I’d made” session. Which, let’s face it, just doesn’t happen. At least not without a murder charge to go along with it.

I’m feeling guilty because I sort of started turning my back on my dad over the last several months. After more than a decade of being the only one keeping the lines of communication open between him and my siblings — and doing it partially because I didn’t want them to regret not having had a relationship with him after he passed — I had finally gotten tired of it. I never did it for anyone to thank me or owe me anything for it, but in the end I did get tired of the thanklessness of it. My brothers didn’t appreciate it — I think they resented my making them feel guilty when I’d remind them of his birthday and urge them to call him, or telling them he was sick and he’d like to hear from them. My sister couldn’t care less, since she completely internalized my mother’s accounts of his many faults and wrong-doings and had written him off years before. And my dad… Well, there’s some resentment from me there…

I honestly can’t say that my father loved me. I like to think he did, but I don’t know it. I certainly never felt it. And toward the end, I started to wonder why I even bothered. In nearly every telephone conversation I had with him he would eventually turn the conversation toward my brothers and sister and basically complain that he hadn’t heard from them or that they hadn’t visited or that they hadn’t reached out to him in some way. There was always some almost petulant complaint and then a sigh and “Well, they know where I am if they want me…” Never any kind of thanks that I was making an effort to stay in his life, only regret that the others weren’t. And it was always me calling him. Practically the only time he ever called me was when he needed something. It was as if his phone was incapable of making outgoing calls — at least to California.

Phones only working one way: that’s how it always was with him. The mountain had to come to Mohammed. I was 13 when my parents split up, my brothers were 11, my sister 10. We were kids, and yet somehow it was incumbent upon us to maintain a relationship with him. And in later years, when there wasn’t a relationship, there was never any regret from him that he hadn’t done more to stay in touch with us or apologies for how he had shut us out of his life — only resentment that we hadn’t reached out more to him. He would complain to me that my brothers or sister hadn’t called him and I would bite my tongue — at least until the last year, when I started saying, “Well, your phone dials too, doesn’t it?” And he’d get quiet for a minute and then “Yeah, but…” and change the subject.

After the divorce he started a new family in Colorado, where he had two more daughters and ended up raising them himself. He was a completely different father to them than he was to me and my siblings. It was like night and day. Completely different. He doted on them and loved them unreservedly. He was, to put it bluntly, a model father to them. Everything he never gave us, he gave them in spades. It was almost as though he took all the love and care he never gave us and gave it to them, so they got two families’ worth of his Dadness.

I can remember an incident from when his “new” daughters were kids that illustrates this perfectly. After years of trying, I had finally brokered a breakfast between my dad and me and my brothers and my sister. He and my siblings had been completely estranged with no contact at all for five years or so, during which time he had had these two new daughters, and I had finally managed to cajole him into coming to California to visit and my brothers and sister to agree to have breakfast with him. I have a photo taken of all of us together that day — my dad, my siblings, his two new daughters — and I always refer to it as my proudest moment, the day I got them all together again.

Anyway, we’re all having breakfast at this coffee shop in Pasadena, and his two newest daughters who were probably 5 and 6 years old were all over him — climbing in his lap, crawling on and under the table, eating with their hands, eating off his plate … it was one of the most impressive displays I’ve ever seen of children with absolutely atrocious table manners and a doting parent letting them get away with murder. It was the kind of thing where if they were at the table next to you, you would have been muttering snarky comments about poor parenting and giving them dirty looks.

And me, I was utterly shocked at the display. When I was their age, my dad ruled the dinner table with — Well, I was about to say “an iron fist,” but that’s not true. He ruled it with a butter knife handle. Kids spoke only when spoken to. Your glass of milk could not be drunk until your plate was cleared. You did not get up from the table until your plate was cleared, and if you didn’t like what was served you ate it anyway. And the butter knife handle? If one of us kids reached for something rather than ask someone to please pass it, or if we put our elbows on the table… THOCK!!! He would whack us with the knife handle. And let me tell you, that shit hurts, especially if it hits a knuckle or the bony part of your elbow. That kind of thing will get your attention — and it’s why I have the excellent table manners I enjoy today. So I was absolutely stunned to see them getting away with such behavior. When I was a kid that kind of thing would have just about landed me in a full body cast, but these two girls were getting away with it with a smile.

I think the difference was that he loved these two girls, absolutely loved them. I don’t know why he was different with them, but he was. He loved them without question, but he had … well, nothing for me and mine. I don’t know why and I never asked. It was what it was.

But I don’t think I resented it — at least not until the last year or so of his life. And that’s where the guilt I’m feeling comes from. After playing the Good Son for so long, I basically ran out of gas in the last year. I got tired of the complaints about us never calling him — but never hearing regrets that he never called us. I got tired of the guilt trips for the rich life he imagined we had here while he lived in poverty there — especially after I asked him last year to come live with me and he never gave me an answer, just kept saying he was thinking about it.

And you know, I think that really is where things changed for me. His health was failing and he was living all alone, across the state from his daughters who he loved so much, and the Colorado winters and the altitude were really hard on him. He needed help, so I offered to move him out to California and have him live with me. He never really answered me; over the course of several months — and through another winter that was the whole point of my offer — he kept saying he was thinking about it, that he wasn’t ready to move yet, that he’d let me know. I thought it would help him live more comfortably and be a great way to bring the two factions of his families together and help him get to know his grandkids and yadda, yadda, yadda. It was an idealistic move on my part that he just couldn’t accept, and it eventually became clear to me that, as the song goes, “When you choose not to decide, you’ll still have made a choice.” He didn’t choose me. Instead, he chose to live out his days near his daughters in Colorado. Away from me, away from us, away again, still, always.

And that’s when I started shutting down towards him. After choosing not to make the California part of his family a part of his life time and time and time again, he made that choice one last time and it finally hit me. And I started shutting down. And now he’s gone and I regret it. I worked so hard for thirty-some years keeping the lines of communication open so that my brothers and sister wouldn’t regret not talking to him, and now he’s gone and it’s me who regrets not talking to him.

I wish I had sent him the pictures of Zoe that I never got around to sending. I wish I had taken Zoe to visit him like I had planned to do “someday.” I wish I had been closer to him and he closer to us.

I wish things could have been different.

Charles Atkins
7/31/22 – 2/18/07

Our dogs Suki and Sammy were barking up a storm in the back yard a little while ago at 1 a.m. and wouldn’t come in when I called, so that could mean just one thing: possum. I went out and looked, and sure enough they had one “cornered” on the fence.

I say “cornered” because it was five feet in the air where they couldn’t reach it and it could have escaped in either direction on the fence or jumped into a tree on the other side, so it had plenty of avenues of escape, but it was frozen in fear. Cornered, as it were. So I shooed the dogs back inside and came out with a camera.

I’ve been telling Zoe a serial bedtime story for the past week or so, making it up as I go along and throwing little bits of our lives into the story and ending each night with a cliffhanger. One of the characters is a possum named Eloise. In tonight’s episode, Eloise is currently at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport being interrogated by Homeland Security agents on suspicion of trespassing, impeding in the operation of a jet, and maybe terrorism. So clearly she’s not here, but that’s not important right now — Zoe’s going to love it when I show her a picture of Eloise in our own back yard.

It hadn’t moved an inch in the time it took me to get the dogs back inside, block the dog door, go pee (I really had to go), find the camera, and come back outside. So it was out there in the dark, all alone, free to make its escape for at least five minutes. And it was still there. So it was really scared. But there it was, so I shot a few pictures of it. And it hardly moved while I was taking the pictures, so I took it a step further: I stretched out and grabbed the tip of its tail. No reaction.

It felt like a carrot, sort of. Or maybe a rope. Or a ropey carrot. Whatever, it felt like a possum tail, and if you don’t know what that feels like then I guess you haven’t lived as exciting a life as I have. For I am He Man, Puller of Possum Tails.

After that I figured I had scared it enough, so I went back inside and left it alone.

Ten minutes later Sammy was back out there again, barking her head off again. The possum was still there. Maybe it’s just stupid.

Zoe and I went on the Love Ride today. This was her second, my… fifth, I think. We didn’t go last year — partly out of inertia, partly because BB King was the musical draw and I wasn’t interested — but she went the year before that when ZZ Top was the concert, and how cool is that, that she can say ZZ Top was her first concert? This year was the Black Crowes, another worthy addition to her Concerts I’ve Been To file.

Here’s a picture of us parked in the middle of San Fernando Blvd just up the street from Glendale Harley-Davidson as we wait for the bikes to start rolling for the ride up to Lake Castaic.

After years of Harley angst, I finally got one back in June. Unfortunately, that led to even more angst. There was a problem with the transmission, and after several failed attempts at fixing it and me refusing to roll over when Harley said “Just live with it,” they finally agreed to buy it back from me. So that took care of my lemon problem, but also left me back in the I-want-a-Harley state of angst again.

Well, angst no more. Yesterday, I bought this little beauty:

That’s a 2003 Harley-Davidson Anniversary Edition FLTRI Road Glide with a Tour-Pak, 95″ Big Bore engine, 6-speed Jim’s transmission, oil cooler, and assorted chromey sparkly bits, and I got it all for less than the sticker price on the 06 model I bought in the first place.

I’m a happy camper. A happy Harley owning camper.

I’m back from Phoenix, where I actually stayed in Tempe. There’s a lot of that for me in Phoenix, apparently — go there but not go there. Go figure.

Anyway, here’s the ever-popular view of the room:

…and here’s the even more popular view out the window:

I’m pretty proud of how I was able to focus on the window screen in that picture. I certainly didn’t want to be able to see and comment on the porn video shop and lingerie modeling joint that would otherwise have been clearly visible. No, I wouldn’t want that…

I’ve been remiss about posting my View From Here pictures again. Mea culpa and all that Latin crap. Since the last entry showing the fabulousness of Wichita, KS, I’ve also been to Phoenix, Montreal and St. Louis. Truly, I am a world traveler — if by “world traveler” you mean someone who travels only in the upper portion of the North American continent. But no matter, you’re here for the view. So…

First we have Phoenix, AZ — or rather the small suburb of Anthem:

…and that’s where my camera’s batteries died. I had to take the view picture with my camera phone and I can’t get reception to download it right now, so… Imagine a beautiful desert landscape … with a hotel pool in the foreground and a Denny’s in the background. That’s what you have to look forward to here in the next day or so.

…and then I got all francophile with it and went to Montreal, QC, where they all speak French and when the hotel desk clerk asked if I spoke French, I responded “Si!”

Here’s the quaint little room with its quaint little double beds…

…and here’s the view of the Frenchy-speaking outside:

…and finally the wonderfulness that is St. Louis, MO. I have a weird mental block about St. Louis — I always confuse it with New Orleans. I have no idea why — until this trip I’d never been to either, they have nothing in common, they’re not even in the same region. But still, in my head, if you say St. Louis I think new Orleans … and vice versa. So the Cardinals play in the bayou and St. Louis was hit by a hurricane. Go figure. But here’s the photographic evidence that I’ve been to one that wasn’t the other … not that that’s going to help me tell them apart.

Here’s the not-New Orleans room:

…and here’s the still not-New Orleans view:

And I’m in Tempe, AZ as I write this, so look for a fresh new view from here entry tomor– Oh, let’s be honest, it’ll probably be a week or two. So now you have something to look forward to. Or not.

I was in Wichita, KS a few weeks back and never got around to sharing the view with you, Constant Reader. My humble apologies.

Here’s the room at the luxurious (not) Four Points Sheraton – Wichita Airport:

…and here’s the view. And, yes, that’s my PT Cruiser knock-off in the parking lot.

PT Cruisers are very popular cars. I used to work with a guy who loves them. Me, I hate ’em. I think they look like hearses for midgets.

I took me a little tour of hillbilly country this week. First up was a client in West Jefferson, NC, where the dominant industry is Christmas tree farming. That made for an interesting landscape, actually — it’s really pretty country up there, with scattered lots of pine trees growing in neat rows on the hillsides. It must be beautiful up there when the snow falls. I also saw quite the unique sight while I was up there: at the side of the road, framed by tree-covered mountains on all sides, hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean, parked on a wooden frame with no trailer in sight, was a 25-foot sailboat with a For Sale sign propped against it. Wacky.

Of course I didn’t get any pictures of any of that. But I did get pictures at my hotel in nearby Boone, NC.

Following North Carolina, I was set to work with some clients in Kentucky, but they cancelled, so I got to come home early. I still had to go to Kentucky, though, because it was cheaper to go home early from there than from North Carolina, so I flew to Louisville and spent the night in a complete dump of a hotel — it was so bad that the cab driver warned me to “Watch yourself’ on the ride over from the airport. Nice. I stayed here for about five hours, then caught the first flight out for Los Angeles at 6:40 a.m. — and then went into the office until about 4:00, which made for a roughly 18 hour day. Nice.

Here’s the room:

And here’s the view:

Trust me when I tell you that there’s a high likelihood that hookers and drug dealers are somewhere in the background — in both pictures.

Greetings from Springdale, AR. I decided to switch it up this time and I’m staying in a Doubletree Club Hotel rather than my standard Hampton Inn. Same great Hilton parent, better amenities — and, surprisingly, at a lower rate. Woo.

I got here much earlier than I expected — 2:45 rather than 6:00 — because I wrapped up very early in Fort Smith. The woman I was training was… How to put this delicately? A pain in the ass. She very much didn’t want to be trained on the new software and wasn’t shy about showing it, was bitchy and unpleasant to me in general, and periodically would just turn away from me in mid-sentence to check her email and make phone calls. Plus, she had a lazy eye, so I couldn’t quite tell if she was paying attention to me or staring at the ceiling. Given her poor attitude, my money’s on the ceiling. And I think she thought I was gay — she got this sour lemon type expression when she noticed the earring in my right ear, so I made a point of camping it up after that — lots of pointing at things on the screen with my pinkie and flamboyant gestures and much talk of “and this is a fabulous feature…” By the time I left I started thinking I was gay.

Anyway, she was a PITA and kept me cooling my heels for an hour this morning when she was late, so she was trained accordingly: high speed, high level, sorry if you didn’t catch that let’s move on. I was out of there by 12:45. Seeeee ya!

And now I’m in Springdale. And I’m wondering what the hurry was. Check it out, see if you can find a reason I hurried:

As a dog returns to its own vomit, so too do I seem to keep coming back to places I’ve already been. I’m in Fort Smith, AR this time — again.

I was here three years ago, in September of ’03, when I was here for nearly two soul-sucking weeks. It was one of the first entries (#5) in my world-famous View From Here series, and also the site of the not-quite-as-world-famous Flickr photo set A Visit to Waffle House. I stayed in this very hotel, too. In a different room, but same hotel. And down the road at Waffle House, where I had dinner Monday night, Sam is still working the grill. I found that somehow comforting … and sad for Sam. This time, mercifully, I’m only here for three days. Sam’s been on the grill for three years. Damn.

I hadn’t started doing pictures of the room yet last time I was here, so I don’t have anything to compare this room’s picture to, but trust me when I say this room’s better. It has a flat-screen TV and a fridge and microwave, and most importantly: high-speed internet now — last time it was a slow dial-up connection. Progress is good.

The view has improved too. Last time I had a great view of the parking lot out back, this time I have a great view of the Fridays’ parking lot across the street.

I’ll be checking out in the morning and then heading north to Springdale, AR in the afternoon. Watch for another exciting View From Here entry from, well, there.