My father is an amazing man, not so much because of the great things he has accomplished, but perhaps more so because of the little things, the moments when his undaunted spirit for life comes to the surface, reminding me how unique my dad really is.
Over sixty years ago, Dad spent a considerable amount of time with the great ceramics master, Claude "Duke" Horan. If I recall correctly, Dad studied with Horan both in LA and in Hawaii. (I found a picture of Horan in his studio in Hawaii. It's the picture shown above.) Several pieces by Horan and his of student Harue Oyama dotted the bookshelves and patios of every home our family lived in. When Mom and Dad moved to Carlsbad last year, they took all of the Horan and Oyama pieces with them, except for a blue plate with a fish design on the inside, signed "Harue Oyama, Hawaii." It's the plate shown at the top here.
My brother called today and shared with me that many residents and staff have become enthralled with Dad's stories about his photographs and ceramic pieces. (No surprise.) Apparently my other brother, who lives in Hawaii, recently sent Dad a book about Duke Horan and since then, Dad has been thinking, and talking, and going on and on about the old days, in Hawaii, in LA, on the beach, and in the studio, with Horan.
Dad asked my brother if he knew if Horan is still alive. (He is.)
Dad asked my brother to bring a pad of paper. (He did.)
When my brother came the next morning, Dad handed him a two page handwritten letter--Dad's attempt, at almost 96 years old, to reconnect with an old friend, 94 years old, who Dad hasn't seen in over 60 years, a reminiscing about "the old days," "at the beach," "in the studio."
I find it amazing.....inspiring.......overwhelmingly heartbreaking, that Dad, at 95, has suddenly decided to sit down and hand-write (an activity few of us engage in anymore) a two page letter to basically say hello, remember-when, and hope-you're-well to a man he hasn't seen in at least sixty years. (By the way, the closest Dad has come in recent years to writing a letter of any length, was eight years ago when he started but never finished a letter to my sister. That's it. Dad is not big on letter-writing.)
It's also amazing because writing letters has always been difficult for Dad. My father is a perfectionist. Consequently, his letters are riddled with crossed-out words, scratched-through sentences, and giant arrows pointing from one sentence to another sentence. It used to take him days to compose a letter that he ultimately deemed acceptable enough to mail.
And so, I am without words when I think of Dad, at 95, getting a bee in his bonnet about writing to an old friend, then sitting down with full focus and total commitment, and writing one two-page missive, without arrows, or cross-outs, or cross-throughs.
I would love to be in the room when Claude "Duke" Horan receives, opens, and reads that letter.
