Today is my pa’s birthday and he would have been sixty one years young (hence his nickname for himself: Dear Young Dead). I am not sure how or when one stops counting years that a loved one would have had in the event they were still living but I’m not even sure I want to know that information. My Pops was cool on birthdays. In fact, he only thought them great for his loved ones. Every year I would get some type of teddy bear, mostly from Build-A-Bear and I couldn’t even tell you when this started. I don’t even know if that’s what he got my brothers but I know that me and my bears are having a hard time today.
I woke up deciding that I would be the person he would want me to be today: happy. But somewhere along the way, possibly between coffee and flossing, I wanted to call his number and sing “Happy Birthday” off key like I used to. But I couldn’t. My brother and I joke that we like to text each other most during the hardest times. So I’m working up the nerve to text him right now. I can’t even call my dad’s girlfriend anymore because I breakdown when the phone starts ringing, knowing that her voice will be wavering too when she finally answers. My mother seems to have a hard time all the time so I find zero solace over there. I have my Girls with Passed Fathers crew but we all just hold the phone and nod in silence, knowing there’s not much you can say on days like this. We do try to lovingly mumble a few words like “ohh honey!” but then that’s about as far as we can go because, for once, we are stumped.
I went running this morning. I decided to start trying to do that some time before my dad died when I was in LA and was missing him so I needed something else to connect me when the phone wasn’t enough. I used to ride my Pink Panther bike beside him as he jogged around his cul de sac in Southfield. Once I tried to run with him and almost died. My lung almost came up. I’ve gotten better though I can only do sprinting intervals on the treadmill but I’m up to 6.4 miles an hour which is something I never thought I would reach. Sometimes when I want to quit, I see my dad, sweating like he was in volcano, wiping his forehead with a wet washcloth and picking his drenched Adidas t shirt from his body as he slowly chugged along down the street. Today I figured I would not lay in bed longer, just in case he wanted to run through me.
On the way from the gym, I saw a dad with his son riding on his shoulders and I got a little jealous. I am, of course, too damn big to ride on someone’s shoulders but I did get reminiscent from the view up there. Remember how you thought you were as tall as a building when you were riding on shoulders? Remember the delicious slight feeling of danger lest you lean back to far? Remember knowing you’d be caught so there really was very little danger?
My dad was my dad before Thomas Turk completely got fired from the job. When I was four and my parents had really just started dating, I knew I loved my dad early in when he was the first one of my mom’s boyfriends to ever take interest in me and my “Dukes of Hazard” obsession. Then one day he picked me up from school and I ran straight to him shouting “Daddy” in my alphabet sweater and he did not flinch. He just laughed and picked me up. Deal sealed. I did visit Thomas Turk after that but I really don’t ever remember him being around so much as my stepmother, Sandi, was the one holding fort down in Azusa, California since her family paid for Tom to run his store in the mall. Clothing store. Of course. Men’s clothing. Of course. Weird knowing half your DNA comes from a dude named Tom. Anyway, Sandi had a daughter named Tanya, my sister. She was adorable and biracial and unable to complete sentences. Inevitably, the failures of Tom would lead to he and Sandi divorcing and Sandi going on with her life, taking my sister with her. The only connection I ever desired from that bloodline is my sister. I thought it would be cool to have one since I was raised an only child and what could be better than doing all the Barbie voices yourself? Having a sister to do them! Except it never worked out that way. Sandi stopped sending her famous long letters, her borderline obsessive monogrammed trinkets, her photos of what happened when I didn’t visit. After Tom missed my flight and didn’t mention it to my parents the last time I went to see he and the gang, my mother and father decided that he wasn’t really responsible enough to let me visit anymore. No worries for me. I was six or so and had discovered racism while living that summer in Azusa. Even back then I knew I could do without racism. But then I didn’t anticipate not ever hearing from Sandi again.
When I got older, the story I heard is that Sandi and Tom started having an affair when my mom was still married to him. My mom had a nervous breakdown so she took me and we moved to Cleveland, into my grandparents house. The divorce papers Tom served her were received by my grandfather who never liked Tom in the first place. My mom broke down further. There were stories of committing her but she likes to say that the responsibility of me brought her back amongst the living. I used to think that was one of those Winfrey Tall Tales her family is known for but when I left to go to college and she went even crazier, I think she just might be telling the truth. My dad was kind and used to say that she just had a tougher time than most people. Back then I would think, “No Dad, Nelson Mandela? THAT’S a tough time.” But I never said it out loud.
When I moved out to Cali, one of my goals was to find my sister. That was going to be hard given Sandi’s new husband had adopted her. But Tom reared his crazy head once and gave me their new last name. Because I’m the worst pack rat ever (well, not ever because the city has never had to come in but Scott can tell you that I have hard time putting papers and stuff in the garbage), I couldn’t find Tom’s email until a few days ago. Now, with the advent of Google, I got excited and Googled her. Sandi Lehnhard is now a librarian at some Christian school in Ontario. She and her husband Steve won a trip off of Rick Steves travel site once and I got to read all about their winding trip through Ireland. There is no mention of my sister. I emailed Sandi but haven’t heard back. My sister is barely Google-able. She’s twenty eight now and probably wouldn’t be so interested in Barbie voices. That might be just as well because I have no idea who she is and blood doesn’t make you close automatically. This has been obvious to me since my dad and I chose each other because that opened to door to so many family members I have that have nothing to do with my blood. Without my dad, I wouldn’t have known the joy of choosing your family. In fact, the renewed desire to find this mystery chick who knows less about me than that trainer at the gym who keeps stalking me for a session might have something to do with the fact that there isn’t anyone who can bring him back. That’s a fait accompli.
I’ll leave you with this as welll as great picture of my dad and my brothers because I realize today also that I sure don’t have enough pictures of me and him:
As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary- Ernest Hemingway.
Larry Ray Robinson and the boys
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Happy Birthday Larry!
T. you speak so well of him and even though I didn’t know him very well, I love him because you do.
Love you,
Renee
Comment by Mom2abunch — January 26, 2008 @ 12:42 am
Love this Tureka. I think it’s beautiful to reach out for your sister. You never know. I know i have at least ONE out there that was an “in between” that was shipped off to canada and adopted or something…nope..not Alicia Keys…but somewhere..we used to joke it was Shamar Moore…is that how he spells it…since he dances like my brother jonny. (lol) Nothing wrong with reaching. That’s love..and baby…i’m a TOM cat. I’m Tom’s daughter. T.D. baby. My son is King Thomas.
It’s one of my most favorite names. Don’t Sleep!!
Everything for a reason. Believe it. I do.
It’s 3:30am.
vampire butterfly loves u!!!!!!!!
jessica care mo’
Comment by jesse james — January 28, 2008 @ 3:30 am
Well, maybe he doesn’t deserve the name Tom. Cujo might be better. I’m a Larry girl. That’s the reason. The Tom cat lead to the Larry Ray Detroit Jefferson Chene Park West Outer Drive road dog skylines for me. Yes, that’s the reason. Ha!
Comment by scruffdiva — January 28, 2008 @ 9:15 am