Birthday Wishes

Today Dad would have turned 60. It seems incredible that a decade has passed since his now infamous 50th bash. No doubt if he were were alive still we'd all be somewhere on the Oregon coast right now whooping it up with amazing food, micro brewed beer and probably the belly dancers he was so taken with.  He really knew how to throw a party, didn't he?

Happy Birthday Daddy.

Three Years

11-26-51 to 10-26-2008

Love and miss you papa. Three years is a long time not to hear your laugh.

Conversations About Art With Dad

During the Spring semester this year I was taking a Western Art History class and one of the papers required was an exhibit critique. The professor gave a list of options at local museums but we were allowed to choose freely among that list. I had not paid much attention to what exhibits I would be visiting, only knowing I’d visit all three available to us at the LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art) when I went and would make up my mind upon seeing them. So I was not prepared when I spent most of my visit overwhelmed and close to tears.

The first exhibit I visited was the David Smith: Cubes & Anarchy solo exhibit that had opened in early April in the new Resnick Pavilion. David Smith is often considered one of the most important sculptors of his generation and the exhibit was the first of this size of his work since his memorial exhibit in the mid-60’s. David Smith was interested in Geometric Constructivism and part of the Constructed Sculpture movement beginning in Surrealism and traveling into Abstract Expressionism. The exhibits focus was on his life-long fascination and exploration with geometric shapes as well as affiliation and representation of socialist ideals. Regardless of Smith’s accomplishments – the exhibit was like walking into an entire room full of my own father’s sculptures.

I am certain anyone watching me thought I was a super hard core Smith fan with my immediate intake of breath upon entering the pavilion, how I just stood unable to move for several minutes as I took in the room my eyes fill with tears. I was overwhelmed but gradually got it together enough to start through the room. I was there for school after all, so I took notes and pictures of every piece.

I was extremely touched and very emotional viewing Smith’s work, but also critical of some pieces where I saw sloppy welding and other flaws, not knowing if they were truly intentional or not. It was as if my father were at my side pointing out those nuances just as if he would have in person. After a lifetime of playing in his workshops and learning both by direct instruction and by osmosis how to recognize skilled welding when I saw it I could hear his voice throughout the room, his praise and critique of each peace. It was the longest conversation I’ve had with my father since his death. I longed to touch each piece, run my hands down their sides, both rough and smooth.

Later, when I read up more on Smith’s like I learned that beyond the art itself, the two men had many parallels, the varied but “of the people” art forms they pursued (Smith and my father were also both photographers). Dad was a welder his entire life and began his career working in a both jewelry design and later a sheet metal shop and making steel or iron sculptures on the side, the full extent of which I did not learn until after he had died. He was a teenager in the 60’s and 70’s and I realize he must have been influenced by both Julio Gonzalez but particularly David Smith since he worked so much with stainless steel late in his life. Even Smith’s earlier smaller scale work resembles Dad’s early works.

I thought the exhibit was impressive and was surprised none like it had been put together before except for one memorial show shortly after Smith’s death in the 60’s. I particularly enjoyed his notebooks and paintings. It is always fascinating to me to be able to somewhat see into the artists brain and how they work out concepts and bring them to life. I loved how he signed his pieces and the exact dates placed on them, as well as the secret messages to his daughters and wife. I photographed every single metal piece wishing there was some way to send them to my father, desperate for a way to call him to tell him about this experience. While Cubism is not my personal favorite, it is something I will always be nostalgic for because of the connection to my father.

My only disappointment of the show is that I would have liked to have seen the larger metal Cubi series outside as they are meant to be viewed, though the gallery light was for the most part natural. This series are large steel cubes tipped on end and jetting out at odd angles, creating unique figures. The welding on them is somewhat sloppy feeling, possibly intentionally. What is clearly intentional is the rough shiny polishing of the metal, clearly smooth but they look like someone went over them with a giant Bristol pad scratching the surface into other shapes and designs, almost as if communicating something but just on the side of illegible. Though meant for outdoors, Cubi V was directly below a skylight and was almost blinding with how it shined.

The exhibit made me realize a lot, about timing, and circumstances and random chance. Had Dad's life gone different ways, would I be visiting his art in a museum? Could I still? It also made me realize that I am forever linked to my father, that I am able to converse with him still, the ways may be for subtle and fleeting, few and far between, but just as meaningful and heartfelt, as when he was truly only a phone call away.

“Art has its tradition, but it is a visual heritage. The artist’s language is the memory from sight. Art is made from dreams, and visions, and things not known, and least of all from things that can be said. It comes from the inside of who you are when you face yourself. It is an inner declaration of purpose, it is a factor which determines artist identity.” David Smith

Dad's Beer T-Shirt Quilts

Aunt Mary's Quilt

My mother taught me how to sew when I was a small child. Like Dad taking me fishing as soon as I could hold a fishing pole, Mom had us sewing with her as soon as we could safely maneuver a needle. I’ll never be the seamstress my mother was, blind stitch as well, make so few mistakes, create such wondrous miracles of playful creativity, or ever be able to simply look at an article of clothing and recreate the pattern out of thin air, but all the same it is a skill that has brought me much joy and practical application my whole life and I am forever thankful. There are a lot of tributes I have done for my parents over the years, obviously Mom having more opportunities since she has been gone longer. Now that Dad is gone and I am still working through and coming to terms with his loss many of my tributes incorporate them both…which in many ways makes sense….they both created me after all.

Rhea's Quilt

One of the first trips to Eastern Oregon to go through Dads things we came across his clothes that had been packed up after he died, some possibly never unpacked from his move to Huntington a couple years before. Dad was never into clothes, always wearing jeans and t-shirts for the most part. None of us had any problem letting go of the jeans and other odds and ends but it was his t-shirts we all paused over, all collectively unable to part with them but all questioning what the hell we were going to do with them.

Dad had some plain t-shirts, which those were easy to give away, but what we all hard stopped on were his beer t-shirts. Anyone who knew Dad knows he loved microbreweries and even worked on and off for the McMenimin Brothers breweries over the years, building brew kettles for them and other stainless steel pieces in their bars. Whenever he traveled he also bought t-shirts from breweries he visited and enjoyed their beer. By the time he died he had amassed a huge collection of beer t-shirts, of course the McMenimins Brothers bars were the stars, with many repeats of their t-shirts like the High Street Café logo and the ruby ale logo.

We all talked about taking a shirt or two each, possibly of giving them away to friends, but many were literally threadbare and we knew they would end up being nothing more than a memento stuck in a drawer. I so wished for them to still breath life, to continue on some how. These shirts had been Dad, so represented him, with all immediately nostalgic for him when seeing them. It was Aunt Mary that I first said that I might make quilts out of them. She perked right up and said she liked that idea, and after I talked to my sisters and cousin, it was decided: I would make beer t-shirt quilts for us all.

Krista's Quilt (that lives on her bed)

It would be more than a year and a half later that I would start on them. I finally brought most of the shirts down to LA last summer and it was not till after Thanksgiving when I knew I’d be with both Rhea and Krista for Christmas that I started on the first two quilts. Four have been made so far, Rhea’s first, then Krista, then Aunt Mary’s and finally Martha. I have promised to make one for Josslyn, with some of the less beer-y shirts, and then of course, one for myself and possibly others if I can get more creative with the remaining shirts.

Although I didn’t know it when I started, I soon realized how emotional making these quilts would be. I hummed and hawed on each, each shirt carefully selected to both match the fabric I had painstakenly picked specially for each person as well as go along with each other. I had to take a full week break from initially starting Rhea’s because cutting the shirts into the squares they needed to be seemed almost sacrilegious and after only cutting one or two I had to take time to meditate and reason out the process. Cutting the shirts never got easy, but giving them new life in the squares they became moved me on to the next.

Martha's Quilt

I found once I started a new quilt a feverish urgency came over me and it was all I could think of. I would spend an entire weekend finishing one so I could see it whole and complete. I would lay it out on my bed and stroke it flat, take pictures of it, laugh when my cats would spring up on it to christen it, fret over the flaws, or admire the triumphs, and then I would cry. Both a good and sad cry, seeing how much of myself went into these quilts, and how I had sewn my father into fabric trying to capture memories of him with the family member the quilt would soon belong to, using the skills my other lost parent had long ago taught me. I would sit and cry and hope that it would be obvious that my heart was sewn along those squares, and while I doubted if that was clear enough, I was absolutely sure Dad would have been proud of them, would have been thrilled that those silly shirts that he loved so much were not just tossed in the garbage, but preserved by us, remade into something else but still very much cherished.



The Trio of Clay Faces

They say most people people cant remember much before four or five but I have a handful of memories from when I am much younger. All my memories are different, but many have a theme of an intense feeling they created, either good or bad. Most are when I was by myself and are funny little things. Sleeping on top of a giant blue bear my mother had won for me at a carnival. Playing in a laundry basket humming the Flintstones theme song to myself and tossing myself against the side to simulate when Barney had that big rack of ribs tip over his car. I remember my frustration of not being able to get the laundry basket to flop flat, instead it rolled back and forth. There is one of me dancing and wiggling in front of the fridge pointing to the giant olive jar on top of it, that Dad would take down and give me a handful to eat after I'd place each one on a tiny toddler finger. I have a vague memory of seeing my sister being born and being confused and overwhelmed. Others are less pleasant, waking up screaming from a nightmare, with my ears ringing and bleeding from infection (I had chronic ear infections as a child and would have had tubes put in my ears if born a few year slater). There are several of my parents fights.

One memory is after my parents divorced when I must have been three or four and is one of the only memories I have of my maternal grandfather. Mom had moved to Huntington and we were living in a tiny apartment. My grandfather came to visit us and I remember he played guitar which I liked very much. I remember sitting in the brightly lite kitchen making clay faces with him using my mothers garlic press to make hair for them. I remember that I made three, painting their eyes blue like my own.

I have always had this memory and knew that one had gone with Grandpa Bill, one to Dad, and the last Mom had kept. I knew the one that Mom had very well. I saw it many times over the years. It originally had buns on either side of its head but one had broken off. After Mom died I made sure to snag it and I have always kept it on a little shelf on display explaining to people it represented one of my earliest memories. I knew the one my Grandfather had been lost for good. If he had even kept it for very long, my mother and him were estranged for most of my life and he died a couple years before Mom did. If he did still have it, it must have been tossed by whoever went through his things, it having no meaning to anyone at that point but me. The last head I knew Dad still had, he told me so each time he saw the one in my possession when he visited me and had promised to show me it, but had never got around to and had no memory of what it looked like.

I found it in my box, the ones dedicated to each kid that we had search so long for after Dad died. I was thrilled and also tickled. The head Dad had ended up was unmistakeably one of the trio. It's hair though was much more impressive than the bun bearing one I was so familiar with. I had made quite a pile of clay hair and it was piled up dramatically like a french up-do. Looking at them now they remind me of something Tim Burton would have come up with and makes me think that might be why I so love his work. Either way, this is one of the times I was thrilled Dad hung on to everything he did. Even though he was not present for the memory itself, and the third of this trio is forever gone, it meant so much to me to have this, to breath life into a toddler memory of a happy afternoon.

The Boxes

After Dad died a question that came up a lot was, had we found "the boxes"? "The boxes" were something Dad talked a lot about over the years and everyone, both intimate and casual, knew about them. They were infamous but no one had ever seen them, only heard about them. What "the boxes" were suppose to be were mini treasure chests of memories for each of us kids. There were four, one for each of us, and contained in each were going to be special mementos or memories for us. Dad was supposedly adding to them over the years and were being saved for us to look at after he died.

He often mentioned them. It was an endearing thing to hear about: a father keeping mementos he had gathered of his children to share with them after he was gone. Any women in his life most certainly knew about them, and each in their own time asked us after he died if we found them yet, and how they'd like to see them when we did. Every so often he'd tell one of us kids something he intended to put in our boxes. I often joked with him about things that should go in the boxes. The last time we talked about the boxes was only a few months before he died, but after Eric had died. He said to me we'd have to share what was in Eric's box since he was gone and I remember how sad that made me. It is only because of a conversation he and I had many years ago about those boxes that I even recognized them when we finally found them. 

The truth of it is, Dad's entire estate has been a maddening, heart wrenching, humorous, and endless treasure hunt. He always said we'd need to go through everything carefully, that there was some "good stuff" to be found mixed in with everything. I don't think any of us had any idea just how much so though. Everything I found in my box I would have found anyway, since it became clear that Dad never threw anything away. And I mean anything and everything. Mixed in with everything else, the valuable and the not was every scrap of anything we had ever sent or made for Dad. All the kid art, all the letters or cards, it is all there mixed in with everything else he seemed to treasure. Really, the entire mess of it was our treasure box to go through and in the end we all realized those boxes he had for us, he had started, but they had been outgrown many times over.

I first learned about the boxes when I was in my late teens. The fall after high school I went to Europe with a friend for what was suppose to be six weeks or longer. The trip was something of a disaster. My friend and I were not on the same page at all but were stuck with each other. He wanted to stay up and drink all night and sleep all day, with us being threatened to get kicked out of every hostel for breaking curfews. I wanted to get up early and walk the cities endlessly, going to museums and walking through parks. He insisted on leading the way but had no sense of direction and would never ask for help so we spent much of each day lost. We both desperately missed our respective partners, having a girlfriend and boyfriend back home. Neither of us spoke another language fluently. I spoke the most Spanish out of the two of us and it was lousy, we each spoke only bits and pieces of French and Italian. We had no money, having planned the trip on a $12 $20 a day budget, so quite literally survived off bread and cheese. I was terrified of the public transportation that I had never used before and was using for the first time in languages I couldn't read, in cities bigger than I had ever been to. I was almost mugged by an old lady and three small children in Rome when he rushed ahead to catch a train leaving me behind. They pressed me up against a brick wall while their little hands tugged and pushed at all my pockets, the old women directing them in some gypsy language I did not recognize. I had to literally shove them and smack their little hands away to escape, something I feel still terrible about till this day, rushing to catch the train he had abandoned me for, the foursome behind me shouting obscenities. Later I was successfully mugged by two other old women in Barcelona. However their theft was so skilled and almost like magic (and is another long story) that I carried away more respect than anger or fear or guilt, though hurting for that $60. All of this could have been enough to unsettle any 18 year old away from home for the first time, but to compound the horror and mishaps of the trip was the fact my debit card did not work.

While researching the trip I was advised that it was safest to carry as little cash as possible while in Europe. All the books I read said debit cards where best. They were easy to hide in a pocket sewn inside your clothes, and you could take out money at the best exchange rate directly from a bank in whatever country you were in as you needed it. As a back up some travels checks were suggested, to be used only in an emergency. So that's what I did. I have a few hundred dollars in travelers checks, some French currency to get me started, and my debit card when I landed in France that fall. A couple days into the trip I discovered my grave mistake.

At that time the United States had not standardized debit card numbers. My bank (Wells Fargo) would let me pick a number between four and twelve digits long. So I had picked eight. I thought that had been a reasonable middle of the road pick. Well, what none of the guide books I had read said was that Europe had early on standardized all debit passwords to being only four digits long. Which meant my debit card was worthless. It would not work in any bank in Europe. Had I banked with an international bank things might have been different, but Wells Fargo was unheard of, it was a strictly an United States bank, and only on the West coast to boot.

Needless to say, I flipped the fuck out (to put it mildly but frankly). I had a plane ticket that was six weeks out and about 300 dollars to my name and a travel partner that was more adept at grunting and taking shots of whiskey than comforting a hysterical girl. So I called Dad collect. I had been calling Dad collect every Sunday since my mother died when I was 15, so this was not unusual, except for the fact I was calling him from about 5,000 miles or more away, 12 or so hours ahead of him. After a lot of sobbing and hysteria Dad agreed to wire me money from a savings account that was in my name anyway. Our western bumbling continued however as Dad wired money to a Western Union which while existed in Europe was practically unheard of. So much so that it was not even listed in the Florence phone book at my hostel. No one I asked knew what I was asking for, they would just say "American Express". Had I been a more seasoned traveler I would have known that Dad should have wired the money to an American Express office. In Europe at the time the American Express office was better than going to an embasy, but neither Dad or I knew that. It took three days and two phone calls (always collect) a day to track down where the money actually had been wired, which turned out to be a five minute walk from my hostel down a street that was more a glorified walkway between buildings. The only reason we ever found it is because the Western Union Dad had used tracked down the address for him which he had relayed to me.

The Europe story goes on and is now a funny one though I returned three weeks early from that trip thoroughly traumatized at the time. A month later Dad had informed me that the phone bill from that week of freak out had been so impressive that it was going to make the box. He wouldn't tell me how much it had been, he'd save it for me and one day I'd find it in my box. And that is when he explained what the boxes were, or intended to be. It is something I had always wanted to know and had stuck with me. Without that I don't think we'd have known we found the boxes when we did.

Dad was obsessed with containers. Hundreds of small boxes, metal, cigar, holiday, and more contained other little boxes and nicknack's. In side some were true treasures, things of value or little pretties, some were time capsules, containing receipts, tickets, pictures from an event or period of time. Others were quite literally junk boxes. Ones where you swipe everything off a surface in a hurry at the end of a move, swearing to yourself you'll go through it later but never do. Our boxes looked just the same as the rest. Little bits of sentiment, obviously with a memory or meaning attached but without the back story were just things, objects and pieces of paper. At times those things had meaning to one of us too and we'd go "Ah-ha - I know why he kept this" but more often we'd shake out head and groan, "Oh Dad, Why!?!". For example, during one of the early trips place in the "go" pile was a crooked ill made yellow box with a hinged lid. Obviously trash to almost all except me, who gasped in shock, and grabbed it out of the pile - it was the first thing I had ever built with my father. Somewhere there is a picture of me holding the box in pride asa young girl. I had spent a whole afternoon on it when I was probably five or so using the scrap wood in Dad's yard. I had smashed my thumb with a small hammer making that box. Dad had helped me with the hinges. He had kept it. Like so many other things we found, it made me cry and I put it in the keep pile.

We did not find the boxes the first trip to Eastern Oregon to sort through Dad's things. It might not have been the second either. When we did it was me that recognized them but only because of that phone bill. We had all but given up finding them since at that point we had gone through almost every box, at least for a quick look and evaluation and nothing had screamed "we're the boxes!" to us. We had looked in the trunk before, but had quickly decided it was a "keep and go through later item". We had a whole room full of such things. They were the items we knew we wanted, or had been looking for, but also the all those boxes and tins that were  packed full and to hard to acess if they were a keep or go, but had to be saved for a time when we had more to spare since each trip to Oregon was always a short one, just a few days to get so much done.

The day we discovered them was late in the afternoon. We had worked all day in the dark and dirty house and I remember we were all cranky. We decided to go through the trunk since we remembered it looked like more of a treasure box than a junk box. Inside were tons of other little boxes, and what we started to realize were bits and pieces of kids things. Old sunglasses, and toys from vending machines, a teddy bear, mugs with Krista and Eric on them. There were also several cigar boxes. Each contained little bits of paper and pictures and other odds and ends. There were more than four of them, but three that we finally identified as being dedicated to Krista, Eric and myself. Rhea's was harder to identify but one seemed more likely than the others. I knew without a doubt mine was mine when I saw it, but only because it contained along with pictures, several letters from me, my high school graduation invitation, the phone bill from when I called him collect from Italy all those years ago.

 Finding the boxes was bitter sweet since after going through everything we had till that point they did not look much different than any of the other boxes we had sorted through. We had become fully aware just how sentimental Dad had been. What we each wanted more than anything was to know the story behind each thing that had made it into the box. We started to think the entire trunk was our box, a collective one when the little cigar boxes had been outgrown. We also started to think that Dad had probably meant to make bigger boxes, had thought he;d have time, and that the trunk was a collection of what would go in them. Instead he died much sooner than anyone ever expected and like so many other projects of his, had been left half complete. Out of everyone my box had the most meaning to me. Maybe only because I had talked to him so often so knew the back story of some of the things I found in it, though I also found many other things with as much meaning in his stuff, such at that funky yellow box. In my box along with what I already listed was a clay sail boat I had made from a cookie cutter. Dad and I had sailed together when I was a tweener which I had always relished along with my fishing expeditions with him. There was also a small clay head, part of a trio I had made as a toddler and that I'll share more about later. Inside were also pictures I had taken of the house my mother died in, of her bedroom and of the front steps that Dad and I had a shared memory of the last time we saw her, her body, being taken away by the mortuary worker. Even now I keep the contents of my box intact, except for the clay head I had displayed. When I go through it my eyes brim with tears.

While "the boxes" did not exist in the grand and impressive way that everyone expected, and in all honesty were a bit anticlimactic for most of us, we were relieved to find them no matter what form they took. I think like much of Dad, it was the thought that counted. The fact he treasured us so much that he kept literally anything we touched, everything we did, while with him. And while I have other ways of showing my love, I hope that I am always as successful as conveying it to the people that matter. And for the record that phone bill was pretty impressive.

The Stamp Collection

I am not sure exactly when Dad started collecting stamps, I am only sure of when I became aware of it which was in the late 90's. I had already been living in NY a year or two when Dad first told me about his stamp collection. By this time I had figured out he was what I like to call a hobbyist - a collectors collector. For Dad it was about having new interests as much as the amazing things that went with that interest. With anything that caught his fancy he went towards it full force.

However, like many of his collections he did it with a slight twist. He did not necessarily worry about the value of the stamps he collected, but that they were interesting. One of his best friends (Brad) and he would send old stamps to each other through the mail - essentially rendering the stamps valueless - but with themes. It was like a game they played. They would buy old unused stamps that were interesting or pretty that could be bought at face value or even below, but could still be sent through the mail at face value.

Then there were the rules. First, all the stamps had to add to the appropriate postage for that size letter, you weren't suppose to go over, or if you did only by a cent or two. Then all the stamps had to "go together" - they had to have some sort of consistency or theme. Some were easy, like Christmas stamps, or stamps of famous New York City landmarks, etc. Others were more subtle and required more thought and planning. He did more than one for me of strong brazen famous women. The final rule of this postage game Dad played was that the stamps needed to be roughly in a rectangle or square, you weren't suppose to have one extra floating to the side. If its not obvious from my discription, this process is not easy. It takes forethought and creativity and a wee bit of math.

Of course I thought he was nuts. At first I thought it was a passing fancy, often his hobbies ebbed and flowed with his new and old interests competing for his free time. But after a few years of every letter ending with "keep the stamps" or "save the envelope" and often him calling to see if a letter or package arrived so we could discuss the stamps, I knew it was one that would last. I am nothing but a good daughter and since my letters and notes from Dad were often all I'd get from him on a holiday or birthday I treasured them like they were gifts, and would have even if they had not been sent through the mail with such stylish stamps. So needless to say, I have them all.

I also bought him stamps over the years. Whenever I traveled Dad usually asked for currency as his gift since another one of his collections was of foreign currency. When I went to London for my 23rd birthday I added stamps to his loot I brought back. While walking through the Portobello Market with my friend we came upon a stamp vendor and we found a series of King Henry and his six wives. Each had a stamp of their own. I thought they were hilarious and perfect. So did my friend, he bought himself a set as well. Dad also enjoyed them, even if I was poking fun of him.

As I mentioned, I was already living in NYC when Dad took up this hobby. It did not take Dad long to suggest I go to the next New York Stamp show for him. Dad had a funny way of bringing things up, "You know, they have a really big stamp show there in New York...." I was in my very early 20's and not prone to attending stamp shows of my own free will, but I did actively go to many cultural and art events in the city. After some bartering and haggling I agreed to go to the show for him. There was a particular stamp that Dad was after that was hard to find. It was not an US stamp so not one he meant to send through the mail, this was purely a stamp he was collecting.

It was the famous nude done by Fancesco Goya. The nude had caused quite a sensation when originally painted (it is often referred to as the first nude in history with pubic hair depicted on a woman) and caused another sensation when made into a stamp. The stamp itself is not that large as far as pictures of naked women go. It's about an inch and a half by and inch probably. Well, regardless of its size, I was about to find out that this stamp is the equivalent of a nudie mag to the nerdy stamp collector. I was no stranger to my father collecting of naked lady pictures and art, so it did not phase me nor bother me when he asked. I was amused, because he said it was hard to get a hold of and he wanted it to show off to his other stamp collecting buddies.

I enlisted a friend of mine to attend the stamp convention with me and in the early afternoon we set off to attend. I was in my early 20's, and it was either spring or early summer. I was wearing a sundress and sandals, my long blond hair in a pony tail. Well, you could count the women in attendance on one hand and all were at least a few decades older than me. There were two types of men, old of the either grumpy or charming variety, and or young and awkward - the kind of men who never make eye contact. Basically, the kind of people you envision would be stamp collectors. A young 22 year old girl not so much. My presence alone set off a buzz in the convention hall and just in case I was reading to much into it, my friend (also male) leaned over to me several times to make mocking and embarrassing comments about the looks of curiosity I was getting. And this was before I started approaching the tables that carried non-united states stamps to issue my request: the famous Goya nude stamp.

The reaction was hilarious. For some I might as well as have asked for the most grotesque pervy porn, they were appalled and wanted me to move along as quickly as possible. Others were tickled just beyond themselves. Never in all their wildest dreams had they imagined a young pretty girl would be at their table asking for the Goya nude. Some men outright blushed many shaded of red. Many had to admit that while they knew and enjoyed the Goya nude very much, they did not have it. A beautiful stamp! They'd say.

Finally I scored and found a vendor that had several of the stamp and I bought as many as I could with what Dad had allotted for the purchase. The vendor even whipped out a magnifying glass for me, chuckling to himself the whole time. Later on when I called Dad to tell him he was as pleased with the successful purchase as the story that now went with it. My fathers famous giggle is one that I know everyone will always miss, and one that we all probably prided ourselves on when we could evoke. Well I got a lot of giggles out of that story, for many years whenever retold.

While Dad's stamp collecting is just one of the dozens of collections he acquired over the years, it is one that I have a lot of nostalgia associated with it, possibly because it is one that engaged in communication with me and when he started sending more things in the mail to me, or maybe simply from that those few stories of me participating in the collecting and the humor that went along with it. I am currently organizing the bulk of them to sell and even found someone who does a similar game with them and sells the stamps in sets with matching stationary. And while none are worth a fortune, they are gorgeous and interesting and it is just one of the many examples of my father giving new life to the forgotten. The stamps had value to him, even after sent through the mail, in part just for existing, for traveling, for representing the past.