Well, I told myself that I would not post on Father’s Day because I didn’t want people to feel compelled to comment or focus on me. It’s a day for all dads, mine being a wonderful guy. But then I thought, “Why not?” I share my life with everyone so why not share another piece of me? You all know it but I thought Erica deserved thoughts today, not me necessarily. I’m still here and can only reflect and miss what is missing on this day.
So, here is the column I published 9 1/2 weeks after Erica passed, my first Father’s Day in my ‘new world.’ I can’t believe it was 22 years ago.
Enjoy and treasure what you have, and miss what you’ve lost, but always Remember.
..”and a Happy Father’s Day to all of you flying with us today on Southwest Airlines.” I wondered out loud to my wife if I was still a Father and she assured me I was, that you never stop. In the Fall of 1993, I wrote a feature for the New York Times about my then 11-year-old daughter Erica on how one could raise a 90’s kid with 50’s values, avoiding the well-worn and outdated parental encumbrances of the past but holding onto the more innocent times and mixing them with the new, materialistic world of nearly a decade ago. 9 1/2 weeks ago, April 6, 2001, Erica was once again in the New York Times, but it was not a feature, but rather an obituary for an 18-year-old, whose life was cut too short in a car accident here in Arizona, our new adopted home.
This past weekend was my first Father’s Day since Erica’s death and my first thought was to “get out of Dodge,” avoiding the IHops and brunches where throngs of Dads go, because as I was told as a child, “every day is kids day,” but there is only ONE Father’s Day. Where sports heroes go to Disney World to celebrate after winning the big game, I chose Las Vegas as the place to ease the pain and escape to a fantasy world.
At the Phoenix Airport Friday night, I spoke to my 77-year-old father in Florida and wished him a Happy. After I hung up, I said to my wife Hope “There’s no one to call ME on Sunday.” As the tears welled and she gave a comforting touch the flight was called and it was time to lose a little cash, see the new hotels and watch a Las Vegas headliner.
We landed barely 55 minutes later, whisked in a cab to the Bellagio, and proceeded to hunker down for the weekend, paying $3.75 for a cup of coffee, eating at restaurants they have in Scottsdale, and New York, and partying in a town that as a rule, has no clocks, no calendars and time stands still..Or continues without road markers.
The first thing we noticed was kids. lots of them.with fathers, mothers, and steps. But this was no big deal, this was Las Vegas and we were here to have fun, never forget, but not be stuck in the land of pain and sorrow. After a nice, terribly overpriced dinner in a hotel that must have cost more to build than the entire GNP of most second-world countries; a day of tramming to a replica of the Eiffel Tour and San Marco Square, we settled in at the pool to prepare for dinner and a show.
We dined along the Canals of Venice-across from Davidoff’s and BeBe and The Gap-- and went to the MGM Grand to see Tom Jones. I had worked with Tom in the early 90’s and when we went backstage to see him, he took us away from the crowd and expressed his sincerest condolences, and spent some time with us. Later that night as we walked back to the hotel, I told Hope it was good to get away from the memories for a few days. She asked me when was the last time I was in Las Vegas. I told her..two years ago—with Erica. She then asked, “What did you do?” I told her we ate at CPK and went to see—uh—Tom Jones.” Tom had met her and his thoughts were real.
Hope then told me that in reality, I had run AWAY from a new town where I had never celebrated Father’s Day with my daughter, and ran TOWARDS a place where I had a recent connection with her, a history, a past, a link to her memory and a happy trip in her all too short life. We talked about how we sometimes inoculate ourselves from pain and that we have two choices—we can take an antihistamine to dull our senses and sleep, or we can take an aspirin to deal with the illness but still be able to function and get around. This past weekend, Scottsdale became the former, Las Vegas the latter and the key was to deal with pain and not mask the emotion. It was not so somber or as explosive as I feared.
The next morning—Father’s Day, we left Las Vegas four hours early because I wanted to get back to a barbq with my in-laws and their twins. It WAS a special day and the lessons, guidance, and support I gave to Erica were still fresh. I imagined I would always be a Father, and that I would use every opportunity to parent; maybe not my child but someone else’s through being the kind of person I am.
As we drove home from the airport, we stopped at the cemetery because since Erica could not come to me on this day, I would come to her.
I sat down on the still-fresh grass and marveled that the chopstick I put there two months ago was still there. How she loved sushi.
I said a Kaddish and told Erica that we were off to Lori and Jeff’s to “see the little monsters”, wishing my monster was coming with us. I could have sworn she said “They are so cute. I love them.be Nice, Dad.” I said I would. Because that’s what I am about.
Men like me love, nurture, and never stop being what we are. We are fathers and will remain ones until the day we die.
You are a treasure Barry. Thank you for sharing so much of your love and wisdom❤️
True. But I consider you to be a voice for many. Thanks again. BTW, 70 is cool.