I was working the National Publicity Summit in New York, representing the magazine where I wrote a column about angels. In a large hotel ballroom, conference attendees stood in line waiting to speak with editors, hoping we might cover their books, projects, products, or stories. Each person had three minutes.
The line moved along. A pile of folders, gift bags, and tee shirts began to build on the little table beside me. Then a woman approached. She handed me a book, The Sunshine on My Face.
“My name is Lydia Burdick,” she said, “and I wrote this as a picture book because Alzheimer’s patients often respond better to images than words. Families can use it to coach a loved one through conversation. Maybe spark a memory.”
“It’s lovely,” I said, turning pages. “What a beautiful —”
“Where do I know you from?” she asked, squinting at me.
“Yes,” I nodded, already scanning my memories. “I know you, too.”
We started guessing. Jobs, clubs, affiliations. We’d almost given up when her eyes brightened. “I know!” she said. “You’re Ray Ozarow’s daughter!”
“How in the world . . . ?”
“You look just like him,” she said. Then she laughed. “I was your counselor at Camp Edalia!”
We stared at each other, amazed. Wow. I mean, seriously. What are the odds?
“Your father has been my hero all my life,” Lydia said. “Ever since I met him, he’s been an example of what it’s possible to accomplish. Because of him, I’m doing this work. Because of him, I am who I am today.”
My father-in-law, Stanley, has told me, repeatedly, that he believes my father is one of the 33 hidden saints described in Torah. I laughed the first time he said it. “My dad?” He nodded and I laughed again. Bemused. Looking back, I feel a combination of weird feelings about this. Cringe and also, seriously? Pride and also, what planet dude? Feelings that have always been hard to explain with regular words.
I think about all of this in the car — my little black Prius, where I spend so much time driving between them. From home to Katie’s school. From school to the magazine. From work to Dad, wherever he happened to be: Nora’s, the hospital, the nursing home. From Dad to Mom. From Mom back to Katie, where I might spend the evening backstage sewing costumes. Then home.
In the car, my thoughts unwind from the spool. I listen to music, scribble in notebooks, speak into recording devices, and leave myself long phone messages so I won’t forget.
That’s where this whole book comes from. Not from any one visit. From the driving between them.
Right now, as Dad fights to maintain mastery over his physical limitations and his inner demons at the same time, “I have trouble with relationships,” he tells me.
And yet. What Lydia said. What Lise said, when she called to bust Dad out of the hospital on her motorbike.
And just last month, at the annual dinner with my high school friends, Freddi said, “Your father made me like myself.”
“He was always just... Ray,” Gayle nodded. “I loved coming to your house. It felt like a second home.”
“To me,” Susan said, “he was... comfortable. Warm and wise.”
They told me because I mentioned I was writing about him. Figuring things out. How I feel about him. What he was — and is — to me now.
“Honestly, I didn’t know where to look,” Hilarie admits. “He made me so uncomfortable.”
“See, now, that’s funny,” Gayle says. “I never saw his disability.”
“Me neither,” Susan agrees.
“I did,” Freddi says. “But it was just part of him.”
“He made a lot of people uncomfortable,” I tell Hilarie. “Even me. Sometimes.”
My father was not a bear. Nor was he a monster. He was also not a hero. Not a “great man” — as George said. And I doubt that he was one of the 33 hidden saints on earth. Unless we all are. Each of us, all the billions — and still, somehow, only ever thirty-three.
Dad was grumpy and gruff and moody. A great listener for many people. A bully when he was frustrated with my mom, and sometimes with me and my sisters. He was complex. Wounded. Flawed. Like anyone else. A conclusion I think he would have liked. Something he said, over and over, as long as I knew him: I just want to be normal.
And he was that. Just a normal man — with cerebral palsy.
Now, about a month after a police officer pulled me over for driving along the shoulder near the George Washington Bridge, I was sitting in traffic court, awaiting my turn.
This judge is kind, funny — joking with some, gently prodding others. “Tell me what happened.” I relax a little. This will be okay. I watch as names are called. People approach the bench, state their cases, receive their fines.
Then, a young man approaches the bench. Pressed black suit, white shirt and tie, a lawyer beside him.
“Why are you here?” the judge asks the lawyer. “You could have taken care of this by mail.”
“May I answer, Your Honor?” the young man asks.
“Of course.”
“I asked to appear before you, sir. You may not remember me —”
“Oh, but I do remember you,” the judge says. “Breaking into a store. A deli, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. A 7-Eleven. You could have sent me away. You gave me probation. I’m in law school now. Because of you.”
“Is that right?” The judge smiles. Removes his glasses. Puts them back on. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
They finish their business. As the young man walks to the door, the judge addresses the room.
“This is what happens when it works.”
Then he calls my name.
“Is everything okay, dear?” he asks, as I take my place before him, wiping away tears.
“Oh, yes,” I sniffle, into the tissue I am now smart enough to carry. “Fire away.”
After paying my traffic fine, I got back in the car. I drove to Dad’s nursing home, bringing him a Frappuccino and a fat straw, scribbling these notes along the way.
This week, I’m filling in scenes from earlier in the book. I’m remembering more. Finding more journal entries. This week, I sent out: Spine and Blue Skirt Set and Yes, your mother is crazy and Salamander and Little Pieces and Canoe. I have also been doing some soul-searching, rethinking what this book is really about - and where I want it to go next. That’s in Cartwheels.
It’s all from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.
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But what happened in traffic court?