On February 6, Martha presented Anne Frank: Hiding and Writing to several dozen at a Parkinson’s Disease Support Group, in a meeting in Westlake Village.

It’s a meaningful day. A day of remembering. Honoring. Loving. Celebrating, if only silently, the birthday of a loved one no longer here.

Ah, would that this parent of mine still be with me, though circumstance and chronology of course make the point moot.

But to walk again with my father, to relive many moments, others to redo…

He would be with me just now, as I step out beyond the door of the cafe.

I see the honey bronze of late autumn trees, the stunning blue of the sky. I feel the filtered cool sun.

I would have involuntarily touched his arm. “Look, Dad…” and I would need say no more, for he would love this day as I do.

I am blessed in my life, in many ways. With those whom I love, and who love me in return. Those with whom I call this village home. This hamlet of a town, so serene, so lovely, so full of that which is extraordinarily ordinary - yet so beautiful.

The crisp gold of the oak leaf. The geese overhead, keeping pace with crystalline contrails in flawless sky. The flowers, abundant in number and color, flanking my walking path.

I love this hamlet. It is home to me, more poignant this day as I honor the date of my father’s birth.

I will not forget this day, as I will not forget him.

Would he be proud? I find myself asking. Yes, I decide, of both my life and my choice to live it in this serene little village.

The air is crisp. It bites at my cheek, just a bit.

A single gold leaf, dipped in honey and edged in caramel, falls from the oak and falls toward the ground.

My father’s memory stirs. My eyes mist, blurring the leaf as I stoop to pick it up.

“Look Dad,” I say again. “It is the mighty oak. It is safe in my hand. As you are safe in His.”

Cleaning the house just took on new meaning. I dust, I scrub. I wipe away neglect. At times like this, progress is slow. And I am forced, as I work, to redefine my self image as a good homemaker.

Nevertheless, I have thrown myself into the task of conquering my housework.

I am in my home office, now thinned and tossed, sorted and filed. I put bare feet up on bare desk. New energy pours through me, bordering on self righteousness, a sin of which I am particularly guilty.

Taking my dampened cloth in hand, I begin the detail work. Around the crevices of my desk lamp, the terra cotta pots of my houseplants, the folds of my stapler.

The yellow and black of my taxi cab bank.

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“Never, never forget your family.”

One thing is sure…I’ll never forget the moment a man said this to me.

The time? The specifics have faded. A business trip to New York, perhaps two decades ago.

The place? A taxi cab, somewhere in the sea of yellow and black on the streets of Manhattan.

The man? Armenian, perhaps. An immigrant. Married with children, and to be sure, a hard worker. In our brief ride together, it is evident he is proud of his accomplishments. Prouder still of his family.

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Some call them lucky pennies. The ones on the sidewalk. For me, they are reminders from God. 

Several years ago, I start dropping my “lucky money” - found pennies, an occasional nickel or dime - into a special bank. Slowly I notice a pattern. I start to pay attention.

I’d have a drought - no pennies in my path for days. I would ask, “Lord, what haven’t I done? Am I missing the mark?” I’d pray, and listen. Pennies would appear. “Ah, Lord, what are you telling me? Am I doing something right?”

Over the years, my bank has filled.

A few weeks ago, I make five stops by car. Five parts of town. Each time - five times - a penny outside the driver door. “Oh Lord, I must be on the right track! Thank you for reassuring me!” Then another drought. More asking. More pennies.

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The white cottony tail streaks across the street, its owner’s long ears pushing forward, his brown eyes darting.

Never does the dog in pursuit have a chance.

The white tail and swirl of fur around it race down the greenbelt and disappear into safe shrubbery, no doubt to catch a fresh breath.

All without a sound. 

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He looks at me intently as he perches on a wrought iron chair. Purposeful, a tad arrogant. A little bird: attractive, chirpy, chippy. But the whiskers? I’ve never seen a little bird with whiskers. “Walrus-like,” my coffee partner says.

Well, of course, little birds don’t have whiskers. But he looks darling - I say so out loud - and almost human, his inky eyes boring into me: black eyes that hold the wisdom of life. But whiskers? Please explain these, I ask him silently.

“Look, he is nesting in the hanging basket above us,” I reason. “He has nesting material in his mouth.”

“No, they are whiskers.” My partner teases back a reply. “Look at his eyes, fixed on you. Yes, he is darling.”

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A thousand miles away and fifty years ago, I stumble across him in an unexpected memory. His throat tightens…his voice throbs…the words to El Paso mournful, strong.  The Gibson guitar rests comfortably, like the chin of a faithful dog, on his knee. His fingering shows moderate confidence, his baritone clear, lyrics precise, eyes somehow distant.

I pause while the lump in my throat passes, remembering my father. Missing him even as I never knew him. Loving him now even as I couldn’t reach him then. Wanting to try again. Knowing it’s too late.

Marty Robbins was his favorite. I learned each word to El Paso when I was four. By fourteen, I wanted to be wicked Felina, not knowing specifically what that would entail.

A flock of geese creases past the pink sky in a ragged vee; it is too early for precision. Uneven in form, still the vee has its point. A flock of geese always has a leader: one, then another in relief, as energy of the first flags. Follower geese honk encouragement to the head of their flock.

     On my walk, looking up, I observe leadership by providing direction.

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