Sad Anniversary

This entry is definitely on the deeply personal side, but even 32 years later it continues to be a dark day every July 13th, and one that I’ve decided to finally write about and share. On that day back in the summer of 1977, I was a little girl enjoying the vacation from school and in general, a charming childhood. Raised by my mom, and who by now was “Dad” to me, my stepdad who adopted me when they married, I had only a few vague memories of my biological father. My mom had divorced him when I was 4, and remarried when I turned 5.

I remember the day vividly, every sound, sight, as if replaying in my mind like some Cold Case flashback. My mother came into my room and hugged me, crying. “He” was dead. As if that wasn’t enough for a child to compute, it was homicide.

My father had been murdered, his life ended brutally with a knife.

It wasn’t until after his death did I learn how much he loved me. Stories were told to me by his family, that stay with me to this very day. The day he had signed away his parental rights, he wouldn’t come out of his room for 5 days, extremely distraught over losing me, but wanting to do right by me and what was best. My dad had many demons, and was no angel. Not a perfect man by any means, the disease of alcoholism and addiction running in his veins and his family as well, (the reason my mom divorced him.) But I *was* loved, and in some ways it’s so odd that all these years later, it only gets harder every July 13th. Only as I’ve grown older have I truly realized what was taken away from me in such a violent way.

My stepdad was a good dad for many years, stellar and for a long time we had a nice typical American dream family. He left overnight when I was 19, and the fallout that followed haunted my mom, my little sister and I for years and years. We lost our home, the car, he took all the money in the bank, charged up all the credit cards, and so many other “assaults” on us that it’s hard to remember them all. He’s now living somewhere across the country and sends holiday and birthday cards to myself, my sister and our kids, but there was never any closure, never any answers. My “dad” is alive and kicking but my real father is not, and as my daughters and I have faced a few challenging last few years, it is both sad and angering that somebody deprived me of that dad and my kids their grandfather. Not a perfect man, but one I know with no doubt would have been here if we needed him. And that we have.

He had two children in a second marriage, a boy and girl. I always try and remind myself that while I was the “lost one” as his family said, I can only imagine the loss they must have felt, him ripped right out of their daily lives.

The Treasure Box

My most cherished story of my dad involves a treasure box. It was nothing more than a simple metal box that he kept with all his “riches” inside. His family told me the story after his death. He knew something was going wrong and went to his dad and told him as much. And he told him if anything should happen to him, to keep his treasure box safe, and advised him how to open it up. When the worst did happen, his dad retrieved the box as promised. When he opened it up, he found … a photo of me, a picture I’d drawn him and a flower I had given him. That was it, his “treasure”. I can still see the tears in my paternal grandfather’s eyes as he told me this as a young girl, coupled with stories from his sister and younger brother, all I’ve lost touch with many many years ago now. But the memories remain strong.

Easter Sunday

This memory would have never probably been recalled or put together if not for a conversation I had with my beloved Nana (since passed) about 12 years ago. My dad and her had hated each other. He was never good enough for her daughter. However my grandmother revealed that she had been accepting phonecalls from him a few times a year, when he’d call to ask how I was doing. They actually ended up having many pleasant conversations, my Nana had told me, and I think that had meant a lot to her that she herself had that closure and not all the previous hatred between them. She told me the last time she had spoken with him was a few months before his death. He had driven by her house and parked on the street and watched me from across the street as I played outside on Easter Sunday. Her mentioning this sparked an immediate long forgotten memory. A man, sitting outside his very long red car, several houses away across the street, elbows resting on his knees, driver door opened. I remember distinctly knowing I was being watched, and considering the fairly shy and wary little girl I was, I fully recall wondering why this man’s observance of my playtime didn’t at all phase me, but instead I waved to him and can still see the hesitant but gentle wave back. I had not see him in many years at that time and not since I was 4. I have only 3 memories of him during those early years, playing with him. But that strange man on Easter Sunday I’ll never forget. I had no idea for 20 some years later that the stranger was my father.

Elvis

My dad was murdered in July of 1977. At that young age, and that I already had a “dad”, nothing was cut and dry or easy to come to terms with. I went to the viewing and have a vivid memory of looking at the half smiling sleeping man in the casket and “knowing” this is/was my “father”, with my “dad” standing next to me. Confusing for a little girl. I was, however, a fan of Elvis, as a result of my mom playing his Aloha from Hawaii special maaaany times over. Loved Elvis, loved his music, movies, anything I’d seen up to that point. That next month, I had just finished watching an Elvis movie on TV that day with my friend and my family and I sat down to dinner. The phone rang, a neighbor “turn the TV on, Elvis is dead.” TV on, news, “Elvis has died”. I stood in the room with my family in silence as I tried to compute “death’ again for the second time in a month. It was not until a few days later that I was listening to an Elvis record in my room and “You’ll Never Walk Alone” came on. I broke. I cried. The tears came flooding like a river. It was not until halfway through that song did I realize, I was crying over my father.

To this day, the death of Elvis and the murder of my father are forever intertwined in my mind and embedded in my psyche. And to this day, I adore Elvis and he has a very special place in my heart.

Cold Case

Every July since adulthood, I think strongly about my dad, I wonder about the details of his death. His murder was unsolved at the last time I had spoken to his family, still in my young teens. Every summer I wonder, … if justice had been served, especially with DNA and all the new technologies for solving crimes. It haunted me.

Finally just a few months ago, at the urging of my daughters, I mustered up the emotional strength to face this childhood trauma. Shaking like a leaf, I picked up the phone and called that homicide department. I told an investigator my plight, gave him the name, the date, and he told me he’d call me back within the hour. As promised, he did, with my dad’s case file information in hand.

It’s remains unsolved.

A cold case team reopened the file back in 2004, but all leads cold, no solid evidence, and it’s likely that it won’t ever be solved. Hard to live with, … but harder even still, all these years later, to continue to struggle with knowing my dad loved me and yet being forever deprived of experiencing that love.

This 32nd year is no different. It may even be harder. The loss of a parent, the loss of childhood innocence and blissful naivety, coupled with the extreme brutality of a senseless savage crime, … I’ve come to the conclusion that the only real answers to be found … are within, … the rest is up to God.

Browsing around on YouTube a while back, I found the “song” my mom always used to tell me reminded my dad of me. My dad was a “soul” type of guy and loved the Righteous Brothers, James Brown, etc …

… but this song, Happy Heart, by Andy Williams was his song to me.

After the marriage & adoption, his sister said he could not listen to this:

And finally, Elvis, the song.

Tags: Personal

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