STUDIO CITY (CBSLA.com) — Do you have a question for Bravo’s Tabatha Coffey?

Hair designer, business owner and star of Bravo’s hit show “Tabatha Takes Over”, Tabatha Coffey, stopped by KCAL9 Thursday to talk about her speaking tour and memoir!

An Evening with Tabatha Coffey is an interactive event Saturday, June 8, at 7 p.m. at Club Nokia where fans can submit a short video for a chance to join Coffey on stage to get a question answered.

Coffey’s memoir, titled “It’s Not Really About The Hair: The Honest Truth About Life, Love and The Business of Beauty”, delves into her life and charts her rise up the ranks of the competitive hairstyling world.

Tabatha Takes over airs Thursdays at 10 p.m. on Bravo.

For more information, visit Tabatha Coffey.

A defaulter

Finding every reason

To sustain away from

Love, Life and Lust

A degraded soul

Meant to solve

Your every problem

Never raising from

Uncertainties within

Narrowing dreams

Wet eyes all the time

No reasons meant to be

Always Smiling

In front of you

Always weeping

In front of me

Emotions unleashed unrealistically

Dictating, Deviating and Debating

All the time

Carried upon

By the storm

Into no man’s land

Never trying to

Regain strength again

One day sharing

All my sorrows within

Until the day

I come to know

Whatever happens

This soul & heart

Will beat for you

Never letting you

Down again

Like a mirror

Showing mirage of you

Never meant to

Show me again

IMAGE COURTESY: GOOGLE IMAGE

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Jean Harlow with husband Paul Bern sign the register at the entrance to Grauman’s. Paul Bern, a writer and director at MGM contributed to the script of “Grand Hotel” and would commit suicide not long after this event.

Edward G. Robinson, Fred Niblo, Joan Crawford, Edmund Goulding, Norma Shearer, and Clark Gable sign – along with Hedda Hopper:

And, Lew Ayres and Lola Lane:

There’s a lot of pressure when you’re a writer faced with very few obligations besides writing for three whole weeks! Each day counts, and of course, each day a nagging voice says to you, “why don’t you just knock off today and go to the beach instead?” Monday night, as I was falling asleep, I was thinking nervously about the long Tuesday ahead with a manuscript to read/edit and blog posts to write and all sorts of things to accomplish. Then I had my brilliant idea: why not make the day a kind of holistic writing retreat?

So, after I kicked out L. and B. around 8:45, I began the retreat. I started with as many sun salutations as it took to get me feeling very warm and invigorated. Then I meditated for ten minutes. Then I made a pot of tea and spent the morning reading aloud and making line notes on my now-really-almost-finished memoir. Around 11:30, I took a break and walked slowly and thoughtfully to the coffee shop. When I returned, I picked a salad from the garden and made a nice lunch (you know how they always advertise “beautiful organic food” on retreats? Well, I planned to deliver). Then it was straight back to the manuscript for more line notes. Around two, I shifted gears and started using the computer.

There’s something about being alone in a house, without distractions, that just makes you feel alive. I think I’ll declare the next two Tuesdays writing retreat days. Why not?

The Last Holiday, the stunning memoir of musician, songwriter, poet, and Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award winner Gil Scott-Heron, has received extraordinary attention both here and abroad. The Last Holiday provides a remarkable glimpse into Scott-Heron’s life and times, from his humble beginnings to becoming one of the most uncompromising and influential artists of his generation.

The memoir climaxes with a historic Stevie Wonder concert tour in which Scott-Heron’s band replaced Bob Marley as the opening act after Marley was diagnosed with cancer. The Hotter than July tour covered forty-one cities across America, drumming up popular support for the creation of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a national holiday that would honor the great civil rights leader. King’s birthday, January 15, 1981, was marked with a massive rally in Washington.

The Last Holiday is a fitting testament to the career and achievements of an extraordinary man. These pages provide a deeply moving portrait of Scott-Heron’s close relationship with his mother, a heartfelt and highly personal recollection of Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, John Lennon, Michael Jackson, Clive Davis, and other musical peers and acquaintances, and a compelling narrative vehicle for Scott-Heron’s keen insights into the music industry, the civil rights movement, modern America, governmental hypocrisy, and our wider place in the world. The Last Holiday confirms Scott-Heron as a fearless truth-teller, an unpretentiously powerful artist, and a bracing and inspiring observer of his times.

From Grove Atlantic Press (Publisher)

Case in point: Yesterday I had the afternoon free and I was really looking forward to seeing the film Mud, with Matthew McConaughey and Reese Witherspoon (I heard it was excellent!). And since my friend and I were running a bit late – which is usually the case in Los Angeles for a boatload of reasons – we knew we had minutes to spare once we got there. But as soon as we parked, my friend takes a call from her Mom.

Not good.

Because she proceeded to have a heated discussion with her with no regard for me or the start of the movie. So what did I do? I waved for her to meet me inside, then I darted off to buy the tickets. And to wait…which I did for the next 15 minutes until I refunded our unused tickets and went back to the car – where my non-thoughtful friend was still arguing with her Mom.

So whatever your situation, remember that your actions will affect others…so Be Thoughtful.

Enjoy – R

PS – here’s a thoughtful clip from my AudioBook, Chapter 54 – Mother’s Day

forget-me-nots
growing in gardens
and inbetween the bricks
that form a path
Memorial Day

Image: antiqueclipart.com.

shapko jam

“Come in! You’ve come to the right place!” he said, when I told him I was looking for music. “It’s a jam session – we’re just taking a break.”

“With that sax around your neck, I can see it’s a real break,” I said, or something like that.

Shapko is the coolest Russian sax player I know – OK, the only one too – and he lives in Nice – which if you go back a century had a lot of other Russians – and he owns and operates this extremely cool and laid back music bar. Wednesdays, it turned out, was the vocal jam night, open to anyone, but with some very fine musicians on the nice round stage to back up any singer brave enough – or with a big enough misplaced ego – to join them.

It Was an Open Jam at Shapko and Not Just Jazz

I say misplaced ego, because although it was clearly a jazz jam, I decided after at first rejecting the offer from the guitar player, to take to the stage to sing a song. And after all, Dimitri, in his career has played with people like Wynton Marsalis, Al Grey, Lionel Hampton, Clark Terry, Ali Jackson, Jeniffer Vincent, Steve Kirby, Doug Sides and Debora Carter. But in fact, I had reasoned that some of the songs – like “Route 66,” and like “Summertime” – did not necessarily have to be interpreted as jazz. So I reached into the deep well of my easily-played popular song bag, and I came up with the entirely non-jazz song of “Wicked Game.” I just knew that if I played those three chords throughout, then Dimitri, the lead guitarist, the pianist, the woman drummer, and the upright acoustic base player would be able to work magic behind my three chords, and I’d get to sing in Shapko’s with these insanely great musicians.

SO that’s what I did, and I loved it. So much fun, and so beautiful to be able to play with such talent, especially when it is NOT a pop/rock night.

And the Batteries Died on My Recording Devices for the Jam Session

AND especially when the evening had actually begun in a very inauspicious and stupid way. My batteries on my Zoom recorder ran out after I had recorded only two songs. And when I reached into my guitar bag to get the extra batteries I always carry with me, I found them gone. AND then I decided to record some stuff with my iPhone, and before I could even get to the camera on it, the iPhone ran out of battery power.

So I was left with just the two videos of a night full of fabulous performers and vocalists. But it was a great, great evening anyway. This venue is one of THE venues to visit in Nice if you happen to visit – either to play or simply to listen. There is no cover charge, and for music of this quality in most major cities, there WOULD be a cover charge.

Thanks Dimitri and the gang at Shapko, I’ll no doubt drop by again before the weekend is over, even if not to consider playing….

Today, I am posting the updated pic.

Have a great, Narrow-Minded Day, my friends!

This was Chaplin’s house on Summit Dr.

I’d show you Marion Davies house, but it was just a chunky old Tudor.

I sit writing this while listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Life is a circle of lessons premised on love. We learn from your children, they learn from us. Our greatest gift is to “teach them well.” This afternoon I will be sitting down with my daughter to talk about love and compassion. We’ll discuss the energy of words and how much it hurts when we are the recipient of an unkind word or action.  We’ll talk about how it’s okay to lead, as long as no one is left behind. That to be a true leader, one should lead with love that wraps and uplifts.  And we’ll talk about how it hurts ourselves, perhaps even more, when we hurt others. My daughter came home from school yesterday in a foul mood, and I knew something was bothering her from the events of the day, yet she chose not to share them with me.

When I was a child, I was shamed by my unconventional lunches. I looked at the slabs of nutrient-filled home-made bread only partially covering thick slabs of cheese and sprouts curling around the edges, and thought only about how much I wanted to throw my lunch away because my peers teased me. Yesterday, a child threw her lunch away because of my daughter. It breaks my heart. It brings me no comfort knowing that she is not the only child to do this in the lunchroom. Instead, it reinforces the need to teach my child well.

As most of us know, bullying starts from a place of fear. A child will bully to be popular. Children want to be loved and accepted by their peers (just as they want to be loved and accepted at home). I am comforted in the fact that I live in a community where many parents care enough to be involved in their children’s lives, and not to turn a blind-eye when their own child causes pain and suffering to others.

Now, I await the passing of hours until my daughter comes home off the bus, while I thank the universe for sending us this lesson and opportunity for growth. I hope that together we can shift this lunch-room atmosphere into a place of love and acceptance, that we will be joined by other parents and children who sit together and learn from each other in order to create an environment where everyone is treated with respect and compassion.

“Teach Your Children Well” — Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Imagine waking up and finding out everything you believed to be true was a lie – your name, your family, your world.

In what could well be described as “TravoltaGate” a man long recognized as John Travolta’s nephew has revealed in a new book (Unbecoming Travolta: a memoir of mania and multiple personalities) that he is really suffering from multiple personality disorder and is of no relation to the famous film star – fooling the public for over 20 years.

Unbecoming Travolta is the true story of a young man who suffered multiple traumas (both physical and psychological), spawning multiple personalities, paranoid schizophrenia, and manic depression. One personality, Rikki Lee Travolta, gained fame throughout the world as John Travolta’s nephew – convincing even John Travolta’s management and security of the legitimacy of the fake relationship.

Recognized as John Travolta’s nephew, in 1996 Rikki Lee Travolta became the first celebrity guest star in the history of environmental theatre hit Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding. In 2005 he was reported alongside Donny Osmond and Patrick Cassidy as one of the Top Three headliners in the world of the Andrew Lloyd Webber/Tim Rice musical Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. His 2002 novel My Fractured Life was named an Amazon.com Top 10 Recommendation and optioned for feature film development. In 2005, betting houses in England even went so far as to publicize 20:1 odds that he would replace Pierce Brosnan as James Bond.

There was only one problem with the seemingly golden life of Rikki Lee Travolta – Rikki Lee wasn’t really Rikki Lee.

In 2008, Rikki Lee Travolta suffered a nervous breakdown. While hospitalized he learned for the first time that he was not a member of the famous Travolta entertainment family, but was rather a broken man suffering from dissociative identity disorder (more commonly known as multiple personality disorder), paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder (manic depression), anxiety, and borderline personality disorder.

Now the details of Rikki Lee Travolta’s heartbreaking battle with mental illness and how he became known throughout the world as John Travolta’s nephew are available in a new book Unbecoming Travolta: a memoir of mania and multiple personalities.

The book (ISBN 978-1-300-75242-4)  which is available through Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and Travoltanet.com, holds thematic similarities to New York Times Bestseller First Person, Plural: My Life as a Multiple by Cameron West, A Beautiful Mind by Sylvia Nasar (inspiring an Academy Award winning film by the same name), and the award-winning Broadway drama Six Degrees of Separation by John Guare.

I baked bread, did laundry, handled a dozen emails, and conducted an interview with the Vancouver Courier about the Grandview Heritage Group.    And all this before 8:30!

I clearly deserve breakfast out today — Skylight here I come!

I stab at my turkey, slip powdered mash potatoes around in a circle.  I organize the peas like green pearls around my plate.

“Witchy, I’m talking.  You deaf? You don’t belong there.”

In a way, she’s right. In a way that is deep and true and sharp, a way that is carved into my bones where no one can see.  No one can see, but I can feel how jagged and uneven they are, split seams with steel stuffing that scrapes against my skin.  She’s right. I don’t belong.

“Deaf people are stupid, know that? Deaf. Dumb. Blind. Figures, some witchy white girl from the country. Probably married to a cousin!” Her biting laugh echoes in my ears.  A poor white girl lost in a sea of scars and toughness that is way too big, so far out of her league.

“What do you want?” I say trying to match the strength and force of her words. I want them to sting, to burn against her cheeks with embarrassment. But they’re weak, a whisper, a passive plea.

“What do I want? Girl, you have no idea. But you – you don’t sit there.  That’s for one of us.  Whiny, soft girls sit down there.” She points to the end of the table, five chairs down.

“No different than here,” I say, my words becoming stronger like cement.  But I’m all red, a brilliant cape dangling in front of the charging bull that’s been cramped in a cage for far too long.

“Fuck off, Shawna.  Go pick on first graders of something. You’re good at bullying babies,” Roan says.  Her voice is precise, sharp.  She knows how to protect me, how to protect herself even though she’s fifteen.

“You’re a dyke, Roan. Protecting your bitch? What you think this is, prison?” Shawna slaps her thighs and laughs. A couple of the other girls start to laugh, oohing and aahing, priming the air for an all-out fight.

“Yeah, well better watch your ass then when you sleep, eh?” Roan places her tiny hands on the table, pushes herself up with pride. I can see her staring, her eyes burning right through Shawna’s act. She has a fork in her hand, clenched tight.  But it’s plastic.

“Girl, girls, come on now. This isn’t how we act here. Don’t set a bad example for the new girl.  She’s just as welcome,” Casey says as she carries a plate of colored wafers to the table.  I wonder how long she’d stood there in the kitchen with her ear to the door, listening for the moment she had to come in to stop the heat.

Shawna rolls her dark eyes, a deep pit of brown like the bottom of a swamp.  I hate her. Fear hear. Am fascinated by her.

The title is now: Sing From the Womb: Leaving Fundamentalism in Search of Voice.

Please let me know what resonates with you.

Sometimes when I had yelled myself to tears, I’d imagine running off to a cottage by the sea, just my pen and I. Because I long for Solitude, to sigh in bliss when it comes to wrap me in a blanket of silence and peaceful irresponsibility. And to be heard. Truly, quietly heard.

And I was faced with these questions: What lay underneath the anger? What wound had becoming a wife and mother uncovered? What darkness lay deep in my body?

And what light lay beyond it?

*The root word for Earth, Matter and Mother is mater.

Robin Roberts is truly a multi-talented lady and we all love her on Good Morning America and followed her struggle during her illness, now she will share it through a memoir.

Grand Central Publishing reports that Robin will write a book for publication next April.  The book is not yet titled but will talk about her rare illness and her recovery and her life lesson through it all. 

Robin underwent a bone marrow transplant last September to treat a rare blood disease.

He doesn’t have an account with us, she said,
and he wants to cash this check -
i was sitting at my desk, she was standing in front of it –
she thrust both pieces of paper in my face -

the check was payable to a Bob Kaufman
the third string ID card had the same name

i looked up at her and said
Is this the Bob Kaufman?

if she’d had a little more wattage
the look she gave me might’ve risen to clueless,
instead, it was simply blank -

i stood up and looked down the long teller line
to where i gauged her window must be -

there, leaning slightly across the counter, fidgeting,
was a slender black man in ragged clothes who
looked as out of place in that bank as i felt –
i recognized him from photographs -

the poet was here trying to cash his government check
and this child from a mormon employment agency,
who dreamed of little beyond marriage and breeding,
had no idea who he was and
wouldn’t of cared even if she had -

i scrawled my initials in a corner on the front of the check,
approving it for cash,
but when she reached for it, i gripped it tight -

You treat that man with respect, i said,
trying to wedge a vague edge of threat into
my best imitation of a managerial voice,
he is a great poet -

Him? She said,
voice flat and brittle as an ancient page of microfiche -

Any time that man comes in here with a check, i said,
you bring it straight to me –

Okay, she said, reluctantly,
if you say so.
But I don’t think that ID of his
is really any good –

Never mind, i said, i vouch for him -

Well, it’s your job, she tossed back and headed to her window -
having no idea that the sashay she injected into her ass
as she walked away held no sway over me -

from a discreet supervisorial distance i watched
while she counted out the money

saw the poet thank her
pocket the cash and
quietly leave

that was the only time i saw him in the bank,
i was never called upon to approve another of his checks -

occasionally i would see him on Upper Grant street,
or walking down Columbus, or up Broadway,
or at a sidewalk coffeehouse table -

usually alone
often looking lost
or confused -

then i left The City
and moved north -

i never saw him again.

01/26/2012 – 02/09/2012
minor revisions 07/13/2012
Sebastopol, CA

She’s lit all the lights in the house ahead of their arrival; she’s already grilled the burgers.  She’s cut the tomato slices from her garden and bought local hydroponic bibb lettuces and pulled them apart and plated them, too, and the whole wheat buns.  Ketchup and Durkees but no mustard, and she puts the jars on coasters on the table.  She’s got the sweet potato slices baking in the oven, won’t be done for 30 minutes more, so they stoop in and open the first bottle of wine.

The children are racing through the house, screaming bloody murder, whooping through the back door and slamming it hard.  The knob might get twisted back yet if they keep this up.  The dogs have taken up a full on chase: the tricolor chases the grey one chases the black one in pursuit of the boys, their fleshy little arms flailing like they might break off and fly through the air like a stick to be retrieved, a prize to be had.  So far they remain intact, but the chase continues.  The door slams again and again; their laughter become so hysterical its verging on choking sobs, threatening to sour the evening.

In the kitchen the glasses have been drained and refilled, the dark liquid swishing around the bottom of the cut crystal like a whirlpool forming over sharp rocks, even if the froth is only momentary with the pour.  The two smokers have taken up their stance, stooped by the eat-in breakfast nook, situated into a bay window overlooking the backyard; they face the innards of the kitchen, its massive range exhausting a low, tonal buzz as the sweet potatoes bake, and a heat that hums through the room.  There’s an equally dull chatter as the smokers pitter back and forth about this and that, talking to no one in particular but talking just the same; their mother fidgeting from stove to sink, stove to sink, stove to sink and back again, the floorboards whimpering softly from the shifting weight.  I’m pressed against the counter facing back of the house, my garden poking out through the angled right side of the bay window, just behind my sister and her husband.  The whooping and screaming of the children punctuating the low drone here and there.  Hands alternate reaching into the bowl of bar snacks placed on the far counter closest to the smokers, the crunching of pretzels and peanuts and salts and hot spices, as they take turns swooping down on the feeder, then retreating back to their stations around the kitchen.

There’s a loud crack as the door slams again, the hysterics have escalated to a fever pitch, dissolving into cries for help.  The older child comes running into the kitchen, throwing his arms around the legs of his mother, his panic beyond delirious, beyond insanity, his plea for help, help.  Just behind him has run the younger one, almost tripping on his laces as he barrels through the doorway and careens to a stop behind his brother.  Please help me, please, the older brother is crying now, the younger one grabbing him by the arms and pulling him backwards, back to the dining room.  No, no, please don’t, please help me, he’s sobbing, his exasperation echoing through the doorframe and urgently ringing through both kitchen and dining room.

And the door slams again, and the kitchen song rumbles back into a steady rhythm.

******

Just felt like doing a little free-writing rather than “blogging” this morning.  I don’t know why, but I’m completely obsessed with families and their ritualistic habits, and, subsequently, the subtle power plays underpinning these interactions.  For my family, that often comes in the form of meals, especially for holidays: there are a lot of unspoken rules governing how to eat a celebratory feast.  But it’s gotten to the point where just about anytime there’s a congregation of four or more gathered around the table, a certain amount of scriptedness comes out and, forsaking spontaneity and personality, we embody our respective acts.  There’s an element of appearance and propriety that must be maintained, and you just don’t look too closely, don’t ask too pointedly, or perhaps just don’t speak up at all – or maybe that’s just my role, which was (hopefully) obvious from the way I wrote about dinner last night.

Don’t get me wrong – I love my family.  I loved dinner last night.  I find it funny – both interesting funny and “haha” funny – how these dynamics work.  It intrigues me, and I don’t mind that I’m considered the “not as smart but tries really hard” one in my family.  People are entitled to their opinions about me; I’m not going to waste time trying to change that, and maybe I’ll get the last laugh yet.  Plus it means I get to sit and observe, which I prefer to do anyway.

This morning I feel so much gratitude for my family, for family dinners and family celebrations.  They are the moments I cherish most in this world (and certainly inspire me most).  May you feel the warmth and love of your family on this beautiful day.

This is the house architect Wallace Neff designed for them – it was completed in 1928:

1. laniersmith

   What a beautiful couple! The house looks amazing. Is that an outdoor fireplace? Hope the house is still around I can just imagine what it looks like today with big trees.

   Reply
   • Vickie Lester

     Oh, I try not to think too much about these things because it makes me CRAZY – but, the house is gone or unrecognizable… A few years back the Tower Drive residents battled Saudi royalty over building a compound on the property… But, well before that things began to go downhill for the house. King and Eleanor split in 1932, he put the house on the market at a spite price and she came racing back from Europe to change the terms of the sale. It was sold, subdivided, later owners altered it. Hey! I know this is weird but one of my favorite things about King Vidor (who was married – a lot) was that he was true to his lover, Coleen Moore (silent film star turned NYC banker) for something like fifty years.

Lit is Mary Karr’s third memoir and is the genuine and shameless story her journey towards getting sober, finding herself and believing in God.  Karr fluently writes of her whacked up childhood and teenage years, a one of a kind alcoholic mother, hitchhiking and dumpster diving, writing poetry, having a son, combating her own alcoholism and depression and finally becoming Catholic. Her Texan attitude, brash humor and cuss words on every page make this deeply felt memoir a pleasing and inspiring read.

Lit will never let you look at an alcoholic, a single mother or a poet the same way again.  To read Lit is to walk around in Karr’s shoes and understand the world from a completely new perspective.  The most inspiring part of this memoir is Karr’s journey toward finding God through prayer.  After becoming sober, Karr still feels a void in her chest which her various spiritual mentors urge her to fill with God. She humbly and willingly begins a journey of prayer and by the prodding of her son, attends religious services of all sorts.  In the end, her fervent prayer fills her spiritually as she starts believing and trusting in God. She attends a Catholic Mass where she feels a sense of family and community and eventually converts.

Karr shows the reader what it really means to get down on your knees and pray to God.  Her sincerity, humility and amazing effort at finding God in her life is uplifting and inspiring.  No matter your religion, Karr’s story shows how powerful spirituality can be in life. I never thought I’d learn so much from reading about someone whose life experiences hardly parallel my own.  Yet Karr has given me appreciation for my own life, an openness to others, understanding for struggling alcoholics, respect for Catholicism and meaning for prayer.

Lit by Mary Karr is a must read for those who love memoirs, sober stories and faith journeys!

Written if not sent, felt if not touched, communicated if not received

Years ago you had a dream and though I did not know what was going on it was the start of your mother putting an end to my dreams of having loving, caring daughters as part of my life.

I reach out now because I have given up on waiting for you girls to realize that I never left but that  I was threatened and forced away with no way to communicate and no due process to get my truth out to the light of day. I lost you because I was in the dream of an out of control thirteen year old girl who had acted out in multiple harmful behaviors after I was separated from your mother. I never wanted to leave our home. I left because your mother could not hear or see the real me. She was weak emotionally from a past which occurred long before I met her.

Heidi when you had your dream you were institutionalized. You were psychotic and put on medications immediately after I brought you to the hospital.  You were anorexic and bulimic with ketones showing in your blood. The doctors said you were a couple of weeks from the chance of death. You had experimented with both illegal and prescription drugs and alcohol, and were acting out in many other destructive ways. After I left the house your mother did her best to keep us apart no matter how much I wished to keep a connection.  In June I set up the apartment to stay close and have a place for you and your sisters to visit or stay over.

Your mother also kept me out of the loop and in the dark about you acting out in an unreasoned adolescence and abusive behavior. I only got clues and pieces when I started talking to Aerial after your mother had lost control and it was too late. All I could do was to bring you to appointments. It broke my heart. All of this was not fair to you or me and if I had any idea that all this would happen I would have stayed in the house to keep a connection to you girls alive and watch over you.

I firmly believe that my leaving followed by Heather a month later was the root cause of your problems. I also know from DSS reports that your mother had not told me about much of her past and had not dealt with it. As you girls reached the age when her problems began she started to transfer the feelings to our family. In her mind if it could happen to her and her sisters it could happen to you.

I fought as hard as I could when you had the dream to stop the legal threats and restraining orders which prevented me seeing you at your time of greatest need. It tore me up. I wanted so much to keep connection and communication alive. I have never done anything to hurt or harm you Heidi. I tried to teach you right from wrong but once you girls reached adolescence my voice was silenced and I could only set an example by being a good hardworking father who lived to help others and support you. I firmly believe that you needed a strong fathers influence to teach and communicate with. It has always been my dream to watch over and help you grow, learn, and find your way in life, to see you find joy and contentment. Unconditional love is what a father feels for his daughters. No matter what you did or went through I would have and will be there for you. Since I left the house my dream has been denied. I was made a scapegoat and victim of separation, divorce, and the unreasoned action of an emotionally damaged partner. I have never been listened to only shunned. I am so sorry for and hurt by what you had to go through. I wish I had been allowed to be there for you.  To protect, console and guide you. You and your sisters are in my thoughts each day. Each day I miss you and am concerned for your welfare. It is not an easy world to grow up in and survive. A part of me will always be lost without you in my life.

I am proud of you. You have not only survived that unreasoned adolescence but moved on and restructured your life. I have learned from internet searches that you graduated with distinction in Criminal Justice from UMass Boston. I wish I could have been there. I have been forced to miss so many occasions and milestones in your life. I always think of you on your birthday with both joy and sadness. Joy at being the first to hold you and in watching you grow.  Joy in remembering the good and simple days like driving you to preschool in Waltham and walking you to the bus stop at the Fulton School. A couple of weeks ago I went down to Falmouth for your great Aunt Paula’s funeral (grandma’s sister) and passed by the “Bay View Campground.” We camped there both as a family and with just you. We had time together and you wanted me to swim in all four pools and walk the whole campground. I teared up when I saw the sign in Bourne. It is difficult not having you in my life, it is my greatest tragedy and it is wrong. It never should have been this way and I only survived it because of a true love and relationship. I wish you could have seen a real loving, caring, true relationship growing up. I can only hope that you have found one.

I do not know if this letter will get to you.  I hope and pray that this is not the end of hope but the beginning of a healing that only connection, communication and the truth can bring.

The Unconditional Love of your DAD always

Happy Birthday May 23, 2013