Side by Side…

Side by Side…

Side by Side…

It took some convincing.  “Who the hell wants to hear about my life,” he grumbled.  Who the hell wouldn’t? I thought.  With credits that spanned fourteen feature films and 39 television movies and miniseries…

In 1998, my father and I started on a decade long journey, chronicling his life.  It took some convincing.  “Who the hell wants to hear about my life,” he grumbled.  Who the hell wouldn’t? I thought.  With credits that spanned fourteen feature films and 39 television movies and miniseries, there were more than enough stories to fill out a book. 

Dad’s best friend, the Pulitzer Prize winning writer, Frank Gilroy, weighed in.  “Come on, John, you’ve worked with stars like Paul Newman, Henry Fonda, Bette Davis, and Gregory Peck.  I love your stories!”  

And so we began.  Every Saturday, I traveled to his house, recording his memories from daily journals onto eighty-eight cassette tapes.  Then, I transcribed them into 400 pages.  Once again, he grumbled.  “I don’t do prose.” 

“Just write, Dad.  We’ll figure it out.”

 

All we had were Saturdays, so our weekly ritual continued.  He wrote, I rewrote, and we edited together. My husband and I welcomed a child into our lives and I left teaching, taking on an internship at a magazine.  Eventually, I saw my essays appear in magazines and anthologies.  Enough to believe I could write a book with the man I’d put on a pedestal.  And Dad learned he could write prose with his snappy style, sparing the words, and punching up the dialogue. 

Many Saturdays later, our manuscript was complete.  Dad was 80 years old now, driving to my house to accommodate my heavier working load.  I typed “The End” not because I needed to, just because it was.  We high-fived and let out a whoop of joy.  Then, we looked at each other.  It was that exquisitely triumphant and painful moment in time when our lives, so intertwined for a decade, would have to separate again.  Through my tears, I watched as he strode down my front steps to his car, hand clutching his briefcase, glittering JTG initials winking back.  I wanted to stop him, to bring him back into my office and start our book all over again.  I blew him a kiss goodbye.  

Dad passed away at 92.  I still see him in his office, sitting at his desk, his lively, blue eyes regarding my own.  “Ready, Jennifer?”

“Ready, Dad,” I say, every morning now as I delve into my own memoir.  That memory of us, side by side, inspires me every day.

Blogs

Related

Routine for Success

Routine for Success

As Father’s Day approaches, I think of my father and how much he inspired me. An artist captured this picture of him many years ago, living the Hollywood dream. What people didn’t know was his key to success wasn’t just talent or luck, it was adhering to a strict routine. Here’s a link to my blog this month if you feel like some motivation:

read more
When ADHD and Sports Don’t Mix

When ADHD and Sports Don’t Mix

This month’s blog is for those of you parents who are having trouble finding the right sport for your child with ADHD. Does your child get easily distracted right in the middle of a game? Does she have problems following the coach’s rules? Do you find yourself pleading with her to give the sport just one more chance? Follow me as I set out to find answers, only to miss the one staring me right in the face.

read more
Less Than Perfect

Less Than Perfect

This month’s blog is for all the moms who’ve ever felt like the world’s worst mother at one time or another. And, it’s especially for those of you struggling to parent a young child with ADHD or any other difficult challenges. Balancing your needs with those of your...

read more