Life is single moments. It’s best to notice them.

I remember bright eyes, and rich laughter. I will always remember her laughter.

In my essay about St. Francis Hospital, I closed with Cynthia from their food service, if you recall. 

Cynthia emailed to say she visits Long Beach often and she’d like to chat with me on a visit there.

Eventually, we met and chatted on the boardwalk for about two hours. 

When Cynthia talked about her vacation with her dad, I suggested she write about it in a journal she might start. I mentioned my 16 volumes, starting in 1974. She liked the idea.

Soon after, I spoke with condo neighbors on our pool deck while their children played in the pool.

Our board keeps our pool open until Columbus Day; many close after Labor Day. The couple enjoyed the late-season fun the kids were having in front of us. I suggested they write about the moment and said it would help them relive it later. They thought it was a good idea, too.

That made me think about my old journals; I hadn’t read them in years. 

I pulled out the heavy fireproof box I keep unlocked beneath my desk. I keep it unlocked so any potential burglar can see it contains no valuables and won’t haul it away.

I piled the journals for review.

I thought it might be good to share some excerpts so you can see their value beyond keeping iPhone shots of the people you love and events you might want to revisit someday.

I enjoyed writing them. But huge gaps of months, even years, separated entries, especially in my early years of journal writing. Life was happening.

But I improved in frequency as the years passed. And as I lived longer, I wrote a bit better—I think.

In 1974, my three daughters were 3, 5, and 6.

I was 34, I’m now 86.

My daughter, Mary Lynn, was five.

The single moments in life are often so ordinary. It’s focusing on them, letting them immerse us, that gives them their initial power and lasting strength.

Sept. 24, 1974, I wrote:

I walked Mary Lynn to the kindergarten bus stop and felt a bit uneasy as all the other parents were moms. Then I saw Mary Lynn climb aboard. I waved to her when she sat by the window, and I saw her say to her friends, “That’s my daddy.”

It was only mildly amusing, but it is also one of those tiny moments in life worth savoring.

I remember her lips pouting earlier when I scolded her for dawdling; now she melted me with those bright blue eyes. I remember being abrupt many times, saying “Not now” when my nerves were frayed. 

Days are full of demands, whether at work or around the house. I love all three girls, and someday they will be beautiful young ladies. I need to wrench more time from the demands of the day and share more time with them. 

Recently, I shared a soda with Barbara Ann in the candy store while the car was being repaired at the gas station across the street. These tiny moments with her matter.

(Many moments, when they occur, might seem too trivial to note. But if it makes your brain smile, take a few minutes and write about it.)

Oct 15, 1974

Kathleen was three:

Kathleen leans against me on the chaise lounge. I see her delicate profile as she studies the plastic bottle of bubbles in her hands. Her hair is soft in the clear October sun, and single wisps of gold wave lightly. It’s cool, but we share the sun’s warmth on our shoulders, and I feel her tiny weight as she leans against me. That slight contact has its own physical, tender warmth. The only sounds are the whisper of leaves and the lazy drone of a plane high above. I feel like I’m recording this in my mind. I think if I read this again, it will be better than a photograph. 

Our girls were now 11, 13, and 14.

(The context for the next entry: Growing up in my home in the 40s and 50s, we didn’t say, “I love you.” It was just not part of our everyday talk in my family. We didn’t hug, except maybe when I was going off to the Marines or coming back.)

June 20, 1982,

It was Father’s Day and I wrote:

Father’s Day. I thought about my own father while I sat on the patio. I realized that I only told him once in my life that I loved him. That was when he lay dying in the hospital. I’m glad I at least told him then. 

I read a column in today’s paper where the writer said the same thing, and it was the only time he said it, too. He said his father answered, “I never knew.” And because of that day, he now wants his family to know.

Those words have a lot of meaning. Usually, we say them when we are trying to convince someone who maybe feels we don’t. Or sometimes we say them as a matter of fact, like when we say goodbye.

I wanted to tell the kids, “I love you,” right there on the patio, for no reason. Not trying to convince them when they think I don’t, because I have to correct their misbehavior. Just to blurt it out unexpectedly, without any context. So I said to the three of them. “It’s a beautiful Father’s Day, and I love you girls.”

They felt it, came over, and kissed me. Mary Lynn hugged me and said, “I love you, Dad.” I told her, “I’m proud to be your father.” She might not have realized it because of all the problems she’s had in her life, but it is the truth.

Yesterday we went to Milleridge Inn to celebrate Barbara Ann’s graduation from Our Lady of Lourdes. Mary Lynn sat across from me, and her eyes sparkled as she laughed with Barbara Ann about something. Mary Lynn has such a spirit, despite the tough life she has had. I feel she will be a strong adult because adversity has tempered her. She will persevere. She will find happiness. Through the grace of God. 

Apr. 6, 1983, 11:00 p.m.

(We had Muscovy ducks as pets because Mary Lynn was allergic to dogs and cats. Muscovy ducks don’t quack, so they don’t annoy neighbors. We even had a small in-ground pool for the ducks.)

(I clipped the tips of the flight feathers from one wing to prevent them from flying into other yards. For a while, I used a short plastic fence to keep the ducks out of the rest of the yard, but they forged right over it like Sherman tanks. So, I put up a wooden picket fence. I shared other entries about those ducks in earlier essays, such as “Life at the End of the Tundra.”)

When our girls were 12, 14 and 15 I wrote:

The girls were great. We put the first coat of paint on; they really went at it-the fence, I mean, not each other. Because they can easily get into each other’s hair. But today they painted, taking turns with the roller and brush.

There was some horsing around, like Mary Lynn putting a paintbrush to Barbara Ann’s back and vice versa. I took pictures. They might be fun to look at someday. (I haven’t seen those photos in decades.)

After we finished, Hanzel went out to investigate and got a little paint on his snout. The girls got most of the paint off themselves before they risked getting on the furniture. Barbara came home and loved the fence. She said, “It looks so homey.”

May 30, 1985

Barbara Ann, our oldest daughter, was 17:

Barbara Ann started her first job. She now works at Orange Julius in the Gardener Manor Mall. 

She wasn’t here when I got home, but Barbara told me how excited she was. She said there was so much to remember: making Orange Juliuses, burgers, etc. A man gave her a $50 bill, and she rang up $5,000 in the register. 

Barbara told me about the night she picked her up from the job interview. She could hardly wait to get into the car and impatiently knocked on the window.

When Barbara let her in, she shouted, “I got the job!” Barbara said, ” Great, ” and asked what the hours were. Barbara Ann said, “I don’t know.” Then she asked, “What will you be doing?” Barbara Ann said, “I don’t know.” Finally, Barbara asked, “How much will they be paying you?” Again, Barbara Ann said, “I don’t know, but I got the job.” She said, “I don’t care if I have to wash dishes. I got the job.” Barbara and I laughed as she told me about it. 

After 30 years of marriage, Barbara and I parted in 1998 and divorced in 1999. 

Barbara Ann and Kathleen married and had children.

November 5th, 2016, Barbara took Mary Lynn in her car to pick up new compression stockings.

En route, Barbara noticed Mary Lynn seemed asleep and had leaned to one side. Mary Lynn didn’t respond to repeated calling and shaking.

Barbara pulled over into a strip mall parking area. She gave her CPR; 911 was called, and an ambulance arrived.

But Mary Lynn died; she was 47.

She lived with her mom until that day. Barbara died in 218 at age 80.

Mary Lynn left us much too soon, but she brought so much love and joy to us, to those who grew up with her, or even those who just met her.

She was a Stern’s department store cashier, and she always had the most new store credit card sign-ups, winning awards. All, I’m sure, because of her indomitable effervescence.

This morning I spoke with my sweetheart, Cheryl who recalled going through Mary Lynns checkout. I asked how she was.

Cheryl said, “Effervescent,” not knowing I used the same word here.

Cheryl said, “She smiled; she was happy; she asked me to sign up for a Stern’s credit card.”

Cheryl said, “I declined; I never sign up for store credit cards.” We both laughed about that.

Mary Lynn’s eyes so often glowed with love; her laughter was full and deep. I have never laughed like that in my life.

What I wrote about Mary Lynn brings those moments back to me far more powerfully than this photo.

I remember her at the kindergarten bus window. I remember her voice on the patio on Father’s Day.

I can hear her words again: “I love you, Dad.”

Then her laughter—the sound that stays with me. Even now, as I type this.

I will always hear her laughter.

Be well,

Leebythesea