Yang Girly Girl

“Happy Father’s Day.”  The card was written in faded crayon on a dog eared, torn piece of construction paper.  I probably wrote that in Kindergarten.  Inside the card, it said   “Fathers are good, Love, Linda.”  I chuckle at the simplicity of that statement:  direct, to the point, and honest, much like my dad, Bob Travis; much like the way he lived his life

A month ago, I got “the” call from my brother, the one that implored me to get to my dad’s house as soon as I could.  As usual, I thought it would be a false alarm, and that Daddy would recover as he always did, and we’d be spending the time laughing about the close call.  It didn’t happen that way this time.

Bob Travis, my father, passed away three days after I arrived, and as macabre as it may sound, I’m glad I was there to see him depart from his decrepit body and enter the world of the sublime.

The first memory I have of my father was when I was three.  My mother had led me up the concrete steps of a large building.  It was raining, naturally, since it rains all the time in Japan.  I entered a room, and there, on the couch, sat my future mother, father, and sister.  They looked like giants.  Everything looks like “Land of the Lost” when you’re three. I was handed off to a local official who placed me into a small side room, gave me a blanket and a pillow and told me to go to sleep.  Then they turned out the lights and closed the door.  I remember watching the stream of light under the door, curious about the shadows of leather shoes pacing back and forth. Eventually I fell asleep, and finally, when the door opened, Bob Travis’ smiling face and long arms lead me out of the building.  I never saw my biological mother again.  I only saw the world from atop my new father’s shoulders, a world that looked completely possible.

At the time, I didn’t know that a Navy Chaplain had approached my father and asked if he would be interested in adopting a three year old girl, one that was born to a Japanese woman and an American Service man.  My mother raised me alone until then, finally deciding it was best to give me up for adoption.  I’d like to believe that it was a noble act of courage on her part, and someday, I’ll have my vortex of questions answered.  All I know is if I hadn’t been adopted by Bob, Mary, and Pat Travis, I’d still been eating seaweed wrapped rice cakes and raw squid.   I wouldn’t have experienced cardiac clenching pleasure of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy; the latter, commonly known in the South, as ambrosia.  I wouldn’t have grown up in California, traveled the U.S. gone to college, or learned about navigating through rough seas at full sail, from an extraordinary man. 

What about Bob?

He was ahead of his time.  In the early sixties, when it was fashionable for fathers to work, drink martinis for lunch, and eat meatloaf served on a silver platter by a woman in pearls and a silk dress, Daddy was doing the opposite.  He was the one serving the meatloaf, ironing my clothes and fixing my hair.   He was a better housewife than a handyman.  He didn’t know his way around a drill or saw, a car engine or light fixture, but he could make a mean spaghetti sauce, knotted the tightest French braid, and put the best crease I ever saw in a pair of pants.  I think that was what a career in the Navy did for him.   He took me to work sometimes, and the some of the most memorable were when he took me aboard ship, lifted me through submarine doors, and walked the length of aircraft carriers.  He shared his love of the Navy with everyone, even the smallest in his life, and to this day, that love is a part of who I am and how I see the world.

He was my greatest supporter and biggest fan.  Even at an awkward age when I felt inadequate, clumsy, and a misfit, my dad made me feel beautiful and intelligent.  When I was fourteen, I had made some money babysitting.  With my earnings, the first things I purchased were a pair of 6 inch platform wedgies, a jar of suntan crème, and some lip gloss.  You should have heard my mother rant and rave about how utterly stupid my purchases were.  It was an anathema, why, I should have opened up a savings account and started an IRA.  (Too bad hindsight is 20/20.  She was right.  I’d be a millionaire by now).  Daddy, on the other hand, rationalized.  “Well, with these shoes, she’ll be tall, and she’ll be able to see better, you know how bad her eyesight is; and, suntan crème, well we DO live in California and everyone needs that, and the lip gloss will keep her lips from chapping up.  Yes, I think all these things are much needed.  I would have bought the same thing.”  Go Daddy. 

He and my mother took me everywhere while I was growing up.  I suppose I was raised in much the same manner as European children and I was enriched as a result.   My parents had a life, and they simply took me along.  I can’t remember how many times I sat in plush velvet booths in fine restaurants sipping on Shirley Temples while my parents socialized with their relatives and friends.  Half the time, I expected Humphrey Bogart to come to our table in a white tuxedo and ask if I had tried the “mama-lade” with my Monte Cristo sandwich.  We were far from wealthy, but our family celebrated as though we were. 

My Dad was the strongest person I knew. He had to be.  He and his brothers were put in an orphanage after his mother died giving birth to his twin sisters.  His sisters were distributed throughout the family and the boys went to the orphanage.  Their own father, my grandfather, gave them away.  My father never got over it.   He lived in that orphanage until he ran away at the age of 17 to join the Navy.  He lied about his age and they let him in.  They needed him.  We were heading towards a war. 

Because of that history, he never took things too seriously.  He had lived through more adversity than most of us will experience in our lifetimes, and thrived.

When life threw me lemons, Daddy always said, “Make Lemonade. Here, I’ll even build the lemonade stand, put up the sign, and do your marketing.”  In other words, he wasn’t big on defeatism; you take life’s lumps and not only turn them into opportunities, but expand and capitalize on them.  He believed that whatever one chooses to do in life, work hard and do it well, regardless of the profession.   Success will follow.

Bob Travis’ legacy is significant, because he taught me how to take it on the chin, or the behind, whichever was appropriate.   He led by example, “you pick yourself up and you move on.”

Daddy’s sense of humor was second to none.  I knew he was laughing when I learned how to roller skate, grabbing every car handle that was parked along the street, as my legs flew out from under me.  I knew he was laughing until he cried; the time he taught me how to drive a manual transmission.  There I was, stuck in the middle of the intersection, grinding the gears.  Daddy could hardly contain himself.  It was all he could do to stop laughing enough to instruct me on how to get us out of that intersection.  Eckhart Tolle had nothing on him.  My dad lived in the NOW, and celebrated every moment.  I suppose that’s why when our family was together, all we ever did was laugh.

The laughter died the day he told me he was divorcing my mother after thirty-two years of marriage.  It was my 21^st birthday.  I remember I got in a car accident that day on the way home.  Perhaps I was a bit distracted.  I remember walking into a dark house and seeing my mother sitting in the corner of the living room, staring into the dark, crying.  For some reason, I couldn’t put my arms around her, or comfort her.  I was too self-absorbed with my own pain.  Maybe I was angry with her and blamed her for not holding the family together.  I wish I had held her and cried with her that day; cried for the end of the laughter, the end of dinner theaters and Shirley Temples, the end of red roses on my birthday and family vacations, the end of an era.

Daddy later took me to Baker Street in Orange County, California.  It was a dinner theater.  I remember sharing a bottle of Cabernet, eating steak, and solving all the world’s problems while avoiding bloomer laced legs dancing to the Can-Can.  I think the one thing he always enjoyed were our conversations and debates over issues.  He respected my intelligence, even if my opinions weren’t his.  I knew he felt bad and it was a small consolation to me for him moving on with his life.

Daddy remarried shortly thereafter to someone I know he truly loved.   I think they both tried to integrate the families, but as is typical, ours became polarized, and people chose sides.    Daddy never turned his back on his former life or his children, but the ribbons of memories unraveled into fine silken threads.  Whether or not Daddy consciously decided to close one chapter of his life and open a new one, I don’t know.  All I know is that birthdays became forgotten, and phone calls ceased all together. He became a father and a husband to people who needed him most at that moment, and I am grateful for that.  They had him thirty three years until the day he died.  The end of another era.  I have my memories, of my sometimes wacky, intelligent, loving, supportive dad who was both a father and often a mother to me.

Relationships are hard, sometimes impossible, because humans call the shots, and humans are flawed, but what lies at the cornerstone of any relationship is unconditional love.   That is something I never failed to feel from my father.  He’s gone from this earthly life, but his death has brought me new connections, new relationships, all based on his unconditional love and the impending legacy of our own.

He was my nurturer, my friend, my comedian, my pillar, my lemonade stand, the sun, moon, and stars all rolled up into a fallible human being.  He was my Father and Fathers are Good.