The Dedalus Log

I have a song to sing, O
(Sing me your song, O)
It is sung to the moon by a love-lorn loon
Who fled from the mocking throng-o

It’s the song of a merry man moping mum
Whose soul was sad, and his glance was glum
Who sipped no sup and who craved no crumb
As he sighed for the love of a lady.

Hey-di, hey-di, misery me, lack-a-day-di
He sipped no sup and he craved no crumb
As he sighed for the love of a lady.
(I Have a Song to Sing O: Peter, Paul, and Mary)

 I have noticed an interesting phenomenon in the telling of old family memories – the more the stories are told, the less factual they become, and the more mythical they grow in the telling. This is what happens to memoir. We cobble together recalled scenes and events from the past, and then string them together into a seemingly coherent narrative. These stories make sense to the teller – but they may not be the way other people remember them. The following is one of those stories. It involves my wife Kathleen, her brother Greg Greaney, and her friend Susan (Frosty) Von Tobel, and it occurred in the Winter of 1975.





Of the many guests to our apartment in Santa Monica during those 2 ½ years, the two most frequent were Frosty, a college friend of Kathy’s, and her younger brother, Greg. Frosty had just moved into a nearby apartment on San Vicente Blvd., and Greg was attending UCLA in Westwood. Of all of Kathy’s numerous girlfriends – from her neighborhood, grade school, high school, and college – Frosty was probably her closest at the time we first met in 1973. They met at Mount Saint Mary’s College in 1968 and evolved into best friends after graduation. Frosty was a regular presence at many Greaney family events and Mount parties. So, as I was dating Kathy, I saw a lot of Frosty and grew to accept her as a friend. Greg, on the other hand, I came to know best on my own.




During my dating years with Kathy, I paid more attention to her 7 sisters than to her two brothers, Mike and Greg. The sisters were both curious and wary of me – and since I felt that I needed their good opinion to truly win Kathy’s affection, I worked harder to befriend them. The brothers, on the other hand, remained mildly indifferent to me, and I to them. However, that relationship changed with Greg at UCLA. In the Fall of 1973, Greg enrolled at UCLA as a Freshman, and I returned there as a graduate student under the G.I. Bill. Now with an enrollment of over 3,000 students on a campus of 419 acres, the chances of meeting someone you know is incredibly small (In my undergraduate years at UCLA, I would only run into former high school classmates about once a year). However, through a strange confluence of factors, it seemed I was running into Greg on campus about once a week. Both of us were college commuters driving cars to school. Both of us arrived early to school because Greg had 8:00 am classes, and I had to ensure a free street parking space along Veteran Avenue. Therefore, we both had to catch the early UCLA shuttle bus at the Veteran & Kinross Student Parking Lot. And so it was, on an overcast morning in September, that I spotted someone that looked like Kathy’s brother on the shuttle bus. I’d met him on previous occasions – at Kathy’s family home in Sherman Oaks, at his high school graduation and party, and I’d embarrassed myself at a family beach house party at Capistrano Beach that featured Mickey’s Big Mouth malt liquor. While I was trying to convince myself that the student I spotted on the bus was not Greg, he turned, saw me, and called out: “Hey Tony, what are you doing here?” That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.





At first, we simply met and talked while waiting for or riding the shuttle, either in the morning in the parking lot, or on afternoons, on our way home, in front of Ackerman Student Union. Then one afternoon, Greg suggested that we disembark early to browse the book, music, and record stores that abounded in Westwood Village at that time. It was there we discovered our mutual love of 60’s folk and rock, and 70’s country-rock music. I was astounded at the breadth of his musical taste and interests. He would wander through all the sections of the music store looking for bargains: country, jazz, blues, and rock. He was an eclectic connoisseur of music. But more important, I came to appreciate his laughter and sense of humor. What I had at first taken as high school mockery and juvenile satire, clarified itself into a more refined sense of the absurd. Even at his most critical and argumentative, Greg never seemed to take himself too seriously, and he made as much fun of himself as he did about other people and things. We found commonalities about music, television, movies, sports (remember we attended UCLA during its years of NCAA basketball dominance), and cultural trivia. His knowledge of TV and movie trivia was confirmed when, on another occasion, he spotted me riding my Honda 50 to campus, while wearing a night watch cap, and labeled it my “Then Came Bronson” look. Two years later, after Kathy and I married, Greg became a frequent drop-in guest at our apartment – either on weekdays after his UCLA classes, or on weekends.


One Saturday in December of 1975, Greg dropped by the apartment and began chiding us on the absence of a stereo record player as he perused our combined LP collection stacked in the extra bedroom (along with our books). Although we had purchased a TV set and a couch for the apartment, we hadn’t gotten around to a stereo. So, taking advantage of Greg’s musical and technical expertise, we took him shopping with us to purchase one – on the condition that he would set it up for us. We visited a music store in Santa Monica where Greg chose our first stereo player, and then we watched him set it up in our apartment. We kept that stereo for many years after, and Greg always made a point of bringing his recommended record albums as gifts for birthdays and Christmas. I especially recall two of them that became my favorites: Aja by Steely Dan, and The Best of Earl Klug.


At some point during that day, Kathy asked Greg if he would like to join us at a Christmas party Frosty was hosting for her Mount St. Mary’s College co-workers and nuns of the Congregation of St. Joseph (CSJ). Reluctant at first to attend a party with a lot of nuns, we cajoled him to accept and cleared his attendance with Frosty. To pass the time before the party we then decided to play a new Jeopardy board game we had purchased, while warming up with a few “brewskeys”. Each of us considered ourselves masters of this popular television game, so the matches were highly competitive. One would act as the host and judge (ala Alex Trebek) and read the categories and answers to the two contestants (e.g., “He cared for a blue ox”). The contestants would “click-in” with hand clickers, and the swiftest would respond with the appropriate question (Who was Paul Bunyan?). Then we would alternate roles: the winner of the match would then play the host, and the loser would assume the role of reader and judge. We played one complete round with enough time left for one more match between Greg and me. Only this time, Greg suggested that the loser had to pay a penalty of some sort.


Discussion over the criteria of this penalty took as much time as the game itself – with a lot of squabbling, laughter, and crazy ideas. We finally decided that the penalty would be to sing a song of the loser’s choice that had to occur during Frosty’s Christmas party, and it was to remain a secret until the moment it was sung. Also, the song could not be introduced. It had to happen spontaneously; the way songs occur in Broadway musicals. I suspected this was more of a seductive challenge for Greg because it was a penalty he wouldn’t mind paying. I, on the other hand, was definitely not eager to lose.

The match proved a very tight one, with the winner being decided by the Final Jeopardy question. I wish I could remember what it was – but the upshot was that Greg responded with the correct question, and I lost the game and the bet. The penalty was mine to pay. However, I did have a plan. All the discussion over criteria was aimed at making the penalty palatable and fun. While Greg had more advantages because he memorized popular songs and could sing them, I was not altogether unprepared. I had gone through a stage of watching movie versions of popular Broadway musicals, and listening to their recordings on my mother’s vinyl LP’s: Oklahoma, Carousel, The King and I, West Side Story, The Music Man, and South Pacific. I loved the musicals, and I loved the songs, but I never thought of memorizing them until I found a library book containing the music and lyrics of songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein when I was in high school. On a whim I checked out the book and memorized some of them. I had a particular one in mind as we played our final game of Jeopardy.


I was the center of attention as the three of us walked to Frosty’s apartment on San Vicente Blvd. Greg and Kathy peppered me with questions: What song did I pick? When would I sing it? How would I introduce it? I ignored the pressuring questions and told them they’d have to wait and see. I wasn’t sure myself, so I tried putting it out of my mind on our arrival. As to Greg’s early apprehensions of attending a party with so many single women and nuns present, they were immediately assuaged. He was quite the hit of the party, chatting up the nuns and telling them stories of when Kathy was a teenager. However, he always made a point, during his interactions with guests, of catching my attention with a look. Raising his eyebrows, he would give me a questioning and challenging look as if to say: “Are you going to do it? Don’t chicken out!”

And so, in the middle of a conversation with one of Kathy’s former teachers, I said in a loud voice: “You know sister, this party reminds of the first time I met Kathy”, and I started singing:

Some enchanted evening.
You may see a stranger.
You may see a stranger,
Across a crowded room.
And somehow you know,
You know even then,
That somehow, you’ll see her again,
and again.

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing,
You may hear her laughing,
Across a crowded room.
And night after night,
As strange as it seems,
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Who can explain it?
Who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons,
Wise men never try.

Once you have found her,
Never let her go.
Once you have found her,
Never let her go!

I don’t remember much after that. All the guests were quite stunned by the unexpected song, and then they clapped. Greg patted me on the back and congratulated me for not welching on a bet. The performance was the surprise of the party and Kathy, Greg, and I laughed about it all the way back to our apartment when it was over.

"Don't forget your giri or your loincloth."
(From the Japanese novel, Sendohbeya

"Giri is a Japanese word for which there is no simple English tanslation. It refers to an innate sense of duty, obligation, morality and the absolute need to return a favor. Everyone is bound by giri - giri toward ones family (filial piety) and giri toward ones friends, teachers and benefactors... giri is taken so seriously that sometimes Japanese people have been known to commit suicide in an attempt to satisfy it... The American anthopologist, Ruth Benedict in her book, "The Chysanthemum and the Sword" explains that the reason why the Janpanese are so bound by giri is, "if they do not, they would be regarded as 'ignorant of giri and be put to shame in front of others".

The droopy, bloodhound eyebrows lifted a bit, as Kathy and I walked into the den, revealing two sparkling, hooded blue eyes. Then his lips lazily drew back, and a row of glistening white teeth burst forth into a glorious sunrise smile of greeting. Peter’s grin is the most remarkable part of his face. I don’t recall a day when he was without it. His smile is so constant, I occasionally wonder if it actually reflects his mood or disposition, or if it’s just a normal feature of his visage. It is also infectious. His smile always causes me to grin back in delight whenever I see him. Who would guess that on this day it hid the seeds of potential disaster?

“Come here, Peter” I said, taking his hand and lifting him from the den rocking chair. I enveloped his lanky, six foot frame into a Mexican-style abrazo of love and affection. “Congratulations on your confirmation” I added as I pounded his broad back. “I’m sorry I missed it”.
“Thanks” he replied shyly, returning to his seat, as I greeted his parents and grandfather, who were also in the room.
Peter is my nephew and godson. He is the youngest child of Kathy’s brother, Greg, and his wife Anne. Our intertwined connection to him was affirmed even further, when Kathy served as his sponsor for the sacrament of Confirmation. We could not be any more related to Peter except as his actual parents (and in the Roman Catholic and Mexican understanding of padrazco, we were).
“Tony, we missed you last Saturday, where were you?” asked Greg from his spot on the long sofa in the room.
“I was in Pioneertown,celebrating the 60^th birthday of an old friend from high school”.
“Where is that?” asked Anne, sitting along side of her husband, “Somewhere up North?”
“No, it’s southeast of Los Angeles, in Yucca Valley, on the way to Palms Springs. Jim is really into destination birthdays. Ten years ago, we celebrated his 50^th in Death Valley, so, actually, Pioneertown was an easier trip”.

We were sitting in the den of Kathy’s father, the Doctor. Kathy and I had decided to stop there on our way to my Brother Eddie’s 50^th birthday party in Monrovia. We hoped to catch a quick visit, and see how the doctor was doing. Finding Greg, Anne, and Peter there was a unexpected bonus, because it gave me a chance to congratulate my godson and chat with Greg and Anne. I’d felt a little awkward not having gone to the ceremony, but I had a stronger obligation to Jim. He has been my friend for 43 years. We met in high school, and remained friends through college and post-graduate years, through roommates, disagreements, jobs, girl friends, deaths, marriages, and children. Jim was the best man at my wedding, and I’ve always considered myself part of his family, and he part of mine. It was as unthinkable to miss his 60^th birthday, as it would have been to miss my brother Eddie’s.

As I sipped the Johnny Walker Black Label scotch which the doctor handed me, I looked at Peter, who was sitting to my right on the rocking chair. Since our greeting, he was totally engrossed in the cell phone he was holding with two hands, and operating with his thumbs.
“Peter, what did I tell you?” said Greg, not expecting an answer, but staring at the offending cell phone.
“All high schoolers text while they sit, Greg” explained Kathy, attempting to deflect the sharp command. “It’s almost second nature to them, and it gives them something to do”.
“We already talked about it” replied Greg, hinting that the topic of texting had been mentioned earlier. Peter closed the phone and put it in his pocket. With nothing to distract him, he slouched back into the rocking chair, watching and listening to the adults surrounding him. I refocused my attention and tried picking up the threads of conversation between Kathy and Greg. Before I had a chance to contribute, however, Peter leaned forward and, in a slow, drawling voice, loud enough for all to hear, said:
“So Tony, what’s this about your blog?”

All talk stopped, and all heads, except the doctor’s, snapped sharply toward Peter. We all stared at his beaming, innocent face, as he waited for my answer with a Mona Lisa smile. I was dumbfounded. Peter never initiated conversations with me, or asked me direct questions. He always waited for me to engage him, or he entertained himself by watching T.V. or, seemingly, daydreaming while pretending to listen to the adults speak(or at least I thought he pretended). Now, without warning, he was pitching a question of critical mass potential, in his grandfather’s house. I was stunned. Does Peter know what he’s doing? I wondered, searching his grinning face for telltale clues. Is he purposely baiting me?
“What do you know about my blog?’ I finally countered, trying to gain more time before answering.
“Everybody was talking about it last week” he replied, with what I thought was a glint of mischief in his eyes.
He is baiting me! I realized in amazement. Little Peter is trying to stir up the pot of family controversy by getting me to talk about a politically incorrect topic in his grandfather’s house. I couldn’t help but laugh at this revelation.
“I do have a blog”, I said, choosing not to answer his question, “but this is not a good time to talk about what I wrote. Another time, I promise”. I whispered “Good try Peter” as he resigned himself to my non-answer and fell back into his chair.

With the end of this exchange, the tension relaxed in the room, and Kathy, Greg, and Anne finally exhaled the breath they’d collectively held since Peter’s first question. The doctor looked around quizzically, not having a clue of what had transpired, and no one willing to explain. I was sure he did not suspect that I had redirected the conversation away from my blog. Kathy recovered first and rebooted the talk with a new, more benign topic. As I listened to the ebb and flow of renewed talk, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself about what I was sure Peter had tried to pull. He was growing up and becoming curious about what his adult relatives felt, thought and said. He obviously paid attention to what his parents and Kathy said about my blog at his Confirmation, and he was trying to be playfully clever. However, attempting to introduce a hot button political issue by provoking me into mentioning a story I posted in my blog was dangerous. I might have risen to the bait 5 or 10 years ago, but no longer. The doctor’s house is a politics-free zone. Kathy, and some of her brothers or sisters, refrains from mentioning politically controversial issues in the doctor’s presence. This precaution is fiercely observed, reaching almost taboo status. In my youth, as a recently married member of the family, I would foolishly find ways of undermining this proscription. In those days, I could not imagine family reunions without expressing political differences and arguing. I thought politics encouraged interaction and enlivened family birthdays, barbeques, and dinners. Over time, however, I eventually learned that this tendency was not worth the glaring looks from Kathy, and the gentle scoldings from Mary, her mother. I thought I had become a respecter of this ban.

Growing up in a Mexican-American home, it was my father, the eldest son of 12 children, who detonated the political discussions in my grandfather’s house. I remember him stirring up lively debate, while taking the high ground and claiming more interest in learning about candidates than defending their positions. He avoided using political labels and stereotypes, disliked hearing knee-jerk political cant, and prized rational and well-reasoned political analysis. Moreover, from my perspective, he was the lone, solitary voice of progressive conservatism (liberal republicanism?) in a working class family of committed New Deal Democrats. This contrarian position fit right in with my mother’s emotional politics, which were a unique blend of upper-class Mexican prejudices forged in the flames of Mexico’s revolutionary nationalism. However, while political arguments were natural storms in my grandfather’s house, Kathy was more fearful of the potential Category 5 Hurricane (Katrina level) in hers. I never witnessed the full force of these political catastrophes, nor their devastation, for myself. Kathy’s recollections led me to compare them with some of the distasteful scenes I did see in my grandfather’s home. Even though the volume levels of our Mexican-American political discussions were loud, they never reached the emotional pitch and dramatic turmoil ignited by arguments over religious morals and personal behavior. Mentioning, and discussing the moral actions of family members, or their friends and spouses, were the taboo topics in abuelito’s house, and in his presence. They became the divisive issues that enflamed intolerance and led to angry, ugly words, and condemnations. I remember vivid scenes of anguished weeping, harsh cursing, and being suddenly rushed out of the house by my mother, who told us it was time to leave and to ignore the upsetting sights and sounds around us. With these scenes in mind, I grudgingly supported Kathy’s wariness about mentioning politics in her father’s presence. Peter’s question about my blog offered me a tantalizing opportunity to bring up a matter I desperately wanted to discuss with Greg, but not if it gave offense or violated the family taboo.

After a two month gestation period during this primary election season, I finally wrote a blog about Barack Obama (A Whisper of Hope) in April. Because I send email notices of my blog (with a pasted copy and link) to friends and relatives who represent a broad spectrum of political ideologies, I made an extra effort to de-politicize the essay. Instead of a reasoned treatise supporting one particular candidate over others, I simply tried to tell a story of personal rediscovery and hope. Although I was curious about how people on my mailing list would respond to this particular piece of writing, I didn’t expect much of a reaction. I’ve been blogging for two years, and posting online stories to the internet is like sending exploratory probes into outer space, they rarely hit anything, and extraterrestrials never respond. Admittedly, I do get an occasional response by a generous friend or relative, but it’s rare. The day following my posting, I received a solitary email response from my sister-in-law, Anne. I thought, at first, that my quota was full, but I was wrong. For the first time ever, I received two pointed rebuttals (with critiques of my idealism), which were sent to everyone I had emailed. Apparently I had started a blogging war! At first I was flattered by the activity and attention, and then worried. None of my previous postings had elicited disagreement, but now, people were picking sides and commenting on the comments and reactions of other people about my blog. Some were sarcastic, some bemused, some protective, and some supportive. I felt like I was in the middle of a gossipy beauty salon, eavesdropping on the chatter around me. When I mentioned this phenomenon to Kathy, she simply looked at me curiously for a long time, and then finally said, “What did you expect?” She seemed much more concerned about Prisa, who I described in the story as a dedicated Obama campaign worker, whose actions had sparked my interest in the candidate. Kathy worried that she might take the mocking tone of some comments as personal criticism of her politics, and be hurt by them. Getting, what I felt was, little sympathy from Kathy on this matter, I decided to keep the topic to myself, until I could discuss it with more likeminded people. Jim’s birthday celebration at Pioneertown, which fell on the same weekend as Peter’s Confirmation, gave me the chance to finally have a face-to-face conversation about my blog with two old and dear high school friends. John and Greg (see Amigos) had already weighed into the online banter about my blog. Since Greg was driving up from San Diego, and John and I were coming from the west San Fernando Valley, we agreed to rendezvous at the Pechanga Resort and Casino in Temecula, in route to Yucca Valley. The first thing they said when they saw me was “Man, what’s up with your blog?”

There is nothing more comforting than the solace of old friends who are undeniably and unabashedly on your side. At what point in friendship does one cross that invisible line when you choose to back a friend, not because he (or she) is right, but because they are your friends? I’ve known these two guys long enough to have stored up catalogues of notations on their poor choices and bad decisions in life (and they mine). Yet, at some long forgotten moment in time, we each decided that it was better to forgive and accept each other (poor choices, willful actions, crazy idiosyncrasies, and all), than to pass judgments and condemn. I informally adopted these friends into my family long ago when I gave them the honorific titles of “Uncle” to my two children. However, even though our affections for each other may appear very sibling-like, they’re different. I love my brothers because we are related as family; I love these brothers-in-arms because I chose to make them part of my family. Over the years we have become battle-weary comrades, as we fought the wars and vagaries of time, schools, marriages, careers, and aging. We are a special band, and our reunions allow us to assume a different persona when we come together. I can become the willful teenager I was when we first met in high school. We can again be selfish, egocentric, bullheaded, argumentative, idealistic, and arrogant with each other. The only living witnesses of these Quantum Leap changes of demeanor (from aging father to self-centered teenager), are our respective children, who, as youngsters, accompanied us on a few camping trips and vacations without their mothers. What they may recall from those long, fire-lit evenings of raucous laughter and loud arguments would be interesting to hear (as long as they promised to be generous and sympathetic to their elderly fathers and adopted uncles). The Pechanga stop, on the way to Jim’s party, gave me a glorious opportunity to vent, in adolescent fashion, about the Obama affair and the blogging war I started. Over pitchers of beer and baskets of French fries, I could sit and listen to the soothing biased assurances of John and Greg that I was the aggrieved and misunderstood party in this whole affair. With the rhythmic cacophony of slot machines in the background, I was finally able to relax and revel in their whole hearted support and compliments. Even though I didn’t hit a jackpot in the few games I played after eating, I nevertheless felt like a big winner after having unburdened myself among friends and prepared myself to enjoy the weekend with Jim and his family in Pioneertown.

While I was smugly sipping my drink, confident that I had dodged the bullet of family controversy by deflecting Peter’s question about my blog story on Obama, something unusual occurred. The doctor re-entered the conversation and brought up a new topic, raising a doubt in my mind as to his unawareness of the issue I had ducked. At some point in the talk, Kathy mentioned their old house on Weddington Street, the site of countless parties, weddings, and holidays. It was while describing the Christmas celebrations to Peter that the doctor said:
“Peter, did your father ever tell you the story of how your grandmother and I had to shut off the water during our Christmas party?”
“What?” said Peter, again becoming alert to this new twist in the conversation.
“We lost a sprinkler head in the front lawn, one Christmas night” continued the doctor, looking straight at me, “and it set off a huge geyser of water. It brought the party to a halt; it was quite a sight.”
“Oh, I remember that”, added Greg, nodding his head “it took us a long time to figure out what to do, and how to stop it”.
“It was your mother who took command of the situation” the doctor reminded him, “she was the only one who knew where to find the shut off valve, and how to close it. She was a wonder”.

Mary was a wonder, and I was indebted to her patience and compassion in putting up with my foolish youthful actions for so many years. I knew exactly what Greg and the doctor were alluding to, because I had caused it. Blushing with shame, I recalled the embarrassment I felt then, and now, over my behavior that night.
“Peter” I interjected, hoping to put a humorous spin on the story, “here is another example of what a critical role I play in the family lore. Not only was I the first Mexican to marry into the family, but I was also the only one to run over a water sprinkler on Christmas night, and set off “Old Faithful” in the front yard”.
Peter looked at me in wide-eyed wonder. “You’re kidding; that must have been something!”

Yes it was. I was having a wonderful time on that Christmas evening, ignoring, as I did in those days, the family taboo on politics, and pocking fun at my in-laws to provoke an argument. I’d also had too much to drink, and was ignoring Kathy’s rising discomfort, until she intruded on my animated discussions by insisting that she and the kids were tired and that we needed to leave. I was upset, and my anger translated into impulsive and headstrong actions. As I was maneuvering our station wagon out of the crowded driveway, I drove onto a patch of the front lawn and caught onto something under the car. Already peeved at the string of directions Kathy was giving me about how to turn and where to go, I ignored her advice to back up and, instead, gunned the car forward. I heard a dull THUMP, followed by a loud WHOOSH. “Oh shit” I said as I looked at the rearview mirror to see a wide jet of water shooting into the air, “I’ve done it now”.
“I learned three humbling lessons that night” I added, trying to keep a note of levity in my pseudo-lecture to Peter: “It is not wise to leave a party mad; it pays to listen to your wife; and don’t step on the gas after striking an obstacle on the front lawn”.
“Dad, wasn’t it your friend Dr. Van Owen” Greg interrupted, “who also knocked down the fence post in that same driveway once?”
God bless him! I thought to myself as I realized what Greg was doing. Rather than piling on, he was changing the subject, and saving me from further embarrassments. He was taking the spotlight off me and moving the conversation along; it was something that Mary would have done.
“Once” exclaimed Kathy, joining the rescue efforts “he knocked it down twice in the same year! I think Mom finally gave up and had it removed. It was becoming a target in the driveway”.

After another 10 minutes of joking and reminiscing about the Weddington house and other family mishaps and accidents, Kathy suggested that it was time to leave. We had stayed longer than planned; and I wanted to get to Eddie’s party with plenty of time to speak with family and guests. Greg walked out with us, and gave me a big hug.
“You know” he said, with the same smile that his son Peter inherited, “we need to talk about your blog soon. Kathy told us that my response might have upset you and Prisa. I was shocked! It was meant to kid you, the way I usually do when we talk about these things. Writing is a clumsy way of communicating. I love you guys”.

We left the doctor’s home in Pasadena in great spirits. The mixture of tense moments, humorous interactions, and some clarification about my blog had me feeling very satisfied. Peter’s attempt to challenge the family taboo especially delighted me. As we drove along the 210 Freeway to Eddie’s party in Monrovia, I told Kathy that perhaps we had witnessed Peter breaking out of his adolescent cocoon and his first attempts at developing an independent identity by testing the limits of family traditions and obligations. He was growing up. I wondered how long it would take him to recognize their value and wisdom. I’m still learning.