October 10, 1971.
We had just returned to Northern California after the family had spent the previous week in Los Angeles saying goodbye to him. By family, I mean everyone besides me. I wasn't allowed upstairs to his hospital room. I was told I was too young.
We had just returned to Northern California after the family had spent the previous week in Los Angeles saying goodbye to him. By family, I mean everyone besides me. I wasn't allowed upstairs to his hospital room. I was told I was too young.
Although I understood what had happened, my older brother still sat me down to tell me. But then he said something that didn't make sense. I don't remember his exact words. It was something like, "He wasn't our real grandfather." I remember the word "adopted" being part of it.
Simultaneously, I realized two things: that my teen-aged brother was bad at explaining things and that blood didn't matter. Of course he was my real grandpa. He loved me.
My earliest memory of my grandpa's love was Easter when I was maybe three or four years old. We'd driven down to LA from El Dorado Hills the day before. Like most little girls, I was excited about Easter, and I asked my grandparents if there would be an Easter picnic.
My grandparents looked at me as if I was some strange, extraterrestrial creature. They were Jewish. But I had a Baptist father and lived in a very Protestant neighborhood. Easter was part of my normal.
My grandpa loved me. He also liked a good party and a good story. So he immediately started working the phone. He managed to rally my grandma's family, and they all showed up, a little perplexed perhaps, for the Easter picnic. Although my memories of that day are a little fuzzy, I remember happily hunting for Easter eggs under the shade of my grandparents English walnut in their North Hollywood backyard.
And I remember feeling loved.
So back to that awful night in 1971. Was he my real grandpa? Absolutely. The fact that he insisted upon adopting my mom when he married my grandma made him all the more real. It was an affirmation of his commitment.
Grandpa was a screenwriter. So, you see, my need to write is not in my blood. It's in my soul.
Simultaneously, I realized two things: that my teen-aged brother was bad at explaining things and that blood didn't matter. Of course he was my real grandpa. He loved me.
My earliest memory of my grandpa's love was Easter when I was maybe three or four years old. We'd driven down to LA from El Dorado Hills the day before. Like most little girls, I was excited about Easter, and I asked my grandparents if there would be an Easter picnic.
My grandparents looked at me as if I was some strange, extraterrestrial creature. They were Jewish. But I had a Baptist father and lived in a very Protestant neighborhood. Easter was part of my normal.
And I remember feeling loved.
So back to that awful night in 1971. Was he my real grandpa? Absolutely. The fact that he insisted upon adopting my mom when he married my grandma made him all the more real. It was an affirmation of his commitment.
Grandpa was a screenwriter. So, you see, my need to write is not in my blood. It's in my soul.
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