ok, so, for starters, i'm my father's daughter in ways big and small.
someday i'll write my story, but i long ago wrote the 1st line-
to my mother's everlasting chagrin, my father infected me at an early age w the ability to believe in dreams.
i was 17 when he died, and if you had asked, i'd have told you i hated his guts. the grief that hit me, shocked me. i had no idea where the tears came from.
i walked in that haze into and out of my 1st marriage.
i credited him for the gifts he gave me, sure. i can tell a story or a joke. i can sell everything but myself.
and as long as i dont drink as much as he did, i'm good.
other than that, i didnt give him a lot of thought.
until i started my farm.
i had to admit that i had him to thank for the skill set that was everything i needed to build this. i had been his garden buddy. he did the heavy stuff, like dig holes. i did the stoop work, planting tiny seeds and little plants.
i carried that with me all my life.
but it wasnt until José Agustín Donoso made this little film as a grad school project that i finally got on the path of reconciling it all. i thought i was talking about dirt and chickens and heirloom veggies, but he heard the story of my da.
i did a bit too much navel gazing in 2020.
for complicated reasons a lot of old memories surfaced. many of him. like me, knee high, standing on a chair next to the stove, burner on, and he's explaining atomic absorption spectra. he put coins on the burners and tossed salt and baking soda in the fire to show my how those thing all have a different color glow.
and his hugs when he came in from a sales trip- smelling of cigarettes and booze and sweat, rubbing his 3 day stubble on my cheek.
and the stories of his pet squirrels.
and like i say in the film, i wish you were here to sit in my garden w me, da.
https:///c970477ceb?fbclid=IwAR2ifAXYuXINDFW5ITfOhGOMmStjhJmT8eQQ6s-qMlfXYM7_UfKpEAbP06o
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