My Father My Faith (eBook)

A Daughter's Inspiring True Story of Medical Advocacy and Love's Ability to Heal.

Dana Toth Palmer (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
226 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-2166-5 (ISBN)

Infos

Alexander Toth was an American cartoonist, born June 25, 1928 in New York, New York. He was known for his animation designs for Hanna-Barbera, as well as a long list of work for DC Comics, Dell Comics, Golden Key Comics, Marvel Comics, Standard Comics and Warren Publishing. He was inducted into the comic book industry's Jack Kirby Hall of Fame in 1990. He passed away May 27, 2006 in Burbank, California at his drawing table. He was survived by his four children and seven grandchildren. Written by his oldest daughter, this is the story of their relationship and the last year of his life. When he became ill, she came back into his life after not talking to him for a decade. He hadn't left his house for fifteen years. She became his medical advocate in a broken system, and together they made his final dream come true...to become 'family.' It is a story of faith, inspiration, divine intervention and forgiveness. His artwork, 'doodles' and family photographs are integrated into this book.

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Alexander Toth was an American cartoonist, born June 25, 1928 in New York, New York. He was known for his animation designs for Hanna-Barbera, as well as a long list of work for DC Comics, Dell Comics, Golden Key Comics, Marvel Comics, Standard Comics and Warren Publishing. He was inducted into the comic book industry's Jack Kirby Hall of Fame in 1990. He passed away May 27, 2006 in Burbank, California at his drawing table. He was survived by his four children and seven grandchildren. Written by his oldest daughter, this is the story of their relationship and the last year of his life. When he became ill, she came back into his life after not talking to him for a decade. He hadn't left his house for fifteen years. She became his medical advocate in a broken system, and together they made his final dream come true...to become "e;family."e; It is a story of faith, inspiration, divine intervention and forgiveness. His artwork, "e;doodles"e; and family photographs are integrated into this book.

Textauszug

NUMBER ONE DAUGHTER

This was how I facetiously referred to myself with my father, because I was the firstborn. But in fact, it was I, the oldest of four children, that had not talked to my father for over a decade when it became clear that he was seriously unwell. There were deep reasons for my decision to set that boundary—mostly self-preservation, which will become clearer in the chapters ahead. But there came a point when a knowing arose in me that it was time to reconnect with him—for him, and for myself. The circumstances were starting to support my desire and ultimate decision to see him; eventually, there was no way to ignore it. And even in the face of criticism, I followed my inner voice, which kept reminding me that life is short.

GROWING UP “TOTH”

My father always had a bounty of opinions and observations. He was bothered by the injustices of the world and took note of every infraction, whether it was political, business, or personal. They resonated deep within his heart, sometimes tainting his spirit and validating his suspicion that the glass was, in fact, half-empty most of the time in life, in our country, and the world in general.

He was a voracious reader and informed about all things. As my mother used to say, my father studied automobiles, reading book after book, and knowing every fact, but he could not change the oil in our Buick. He was an armchair traveler of sorts, someone who would at times venture out and accept opportunities in the real world (if the timing was right and they happened to appeal to him). But more often than not, he needed little more than his simple daily comforts and the intimacy of his work. My father’s mind never stopped, and he was easily bored if there was no one to mentally spar with. He was a mystery to me as a young girl. I constantly questioned my own thoughts, all of which questioned him and his; but I did so in silence.

My father and mother referred to my siblings and me as “the kids.” We were a group, a gang, a force to be reckoned with. We were good, kind, and well-behaved, but we were also in the way at times, given the size of our home. We maneuvered around one another methodically in our minimal square footage, but nonetheless, it was an ongoing effort. The words “go out and play” were my mother’s motto. She was constantly trying to create and protect quiet for my father and his work as a freelance cartoonist.

It was an uncomplicated life growing up in Pasadena, California, with sunny days and warm weather. While our house was small, especially for four kids and two adults, we had a large backyard with an elm and two sycamore trees, a cement patio, and a built-in brick barbeque. The flowers that circled the trees were small and pink. Their stems tasted sweetly sour, and my sister and I embraced them as a free treat. Using coffee cans, we caught frogs in the ivy after dinner, and rode our bikes and skateboards every day down the subtle slope of the sidewalk in front of the house. In summer, we played in our pool—just two or three feet deep, and something set up and taken down each year. My father looked out to our backyard from his drawing table in the den. But we were not to bother him.

Our life was simple and humble. We didn’t have fancy cars, expensive vacations, or any other extravagances. Neither my mother nor my father had a desire for material wealth. Growing up in the sixties, many people didn’t; life really was different then in that way. Going out to dinner was special, not commonplace. And when we did go, it was to Bob’s Big Boy, where having a hamburger and a Coca-Cola was a treat. As I got older, my father would periodically ask me the same rhetorical question. He’d say, “Dana, do you know how much money you need?” His answer was always the same: “You only need enough.” He despised greed, opulence, and superficiality.

Ironically, it was not until my father and mother separated that we had an art table for us kids. My mother made that happen using a hollow core door on a set of bricks, and filling jars full of crayons and markers. On the other hand, my father infused art into our childhood in ways that we may have protested, if allowed. We quietly assumed our places, whether it was in front of the television every year to watch The Wizard of Oz, a field trip to the LaBrea Tar Pits paleontology park, or a special showing of Fantasia seven years in a row. I never wanted to see another dancing broom for the rest of my life. When the Norton Simon Museum of Art in Pasadena reopened, my father took us there and critiqued each piece out loud. He appeared to have little reverence for abstract art. In my young mind there floated afterthoughts that disagreed, but I never brought them up. There was no place or space for that conversation. Instead of him finding curiosity in what we saw and thought, he seemed more interested in us adopting his opinion. My father had so much to say, to share, and to teach. As a child, it felt overwhelming to me. We all quietly passed the gallery art—wall after wall, listening to him, but letting our minds wander as we secretly wished we were talking about lighter topics or going to see a movie in a regular theater.

But the fact remained that my father was one of the most talked-about and highly respected artists of his time. The way he saw things was unique. He had a way with simple, clean lines, and executed the best use of black and white and reversed imagery that I’ve ever seen. I loved the way he drew men: chiseled features, a widow’s peak hairline, cleft chin, lean, and wearing classic clothing. Even casual shirts were always cuffed just right—with a certain element of style. It was as if he were drawing a version of himself in each one. It gave me a visual standard for men that is somewhat difficult to override, and rare in everyday people. Whether or not someone actually followed my father’s work, many people my age remember him as the creator of Space Ghost, because they watched it as they were growing up in the 60s and 70s. To this day, my father’s work is held as the gold standard for his genre.

DRAWING...BORED

Whether my father was at his drawing table or not, he liked his quiet time. My mother would often take his dinner into the living room on a TV tray, where he could watch the news alone. Noise was uncomfortable for him. He was hypersensitive to any of it, including four kids at the dinner table, or the phone ringing in the middle of a meal. Looking back, I can see that he was constantly trying to grab a piece of serenity—a seemingly impossible task.

When I was in my teens, my mother asked me if I knew that there was a fan club for my father and his work. I had no idea. To me, he was just my father. He was someone I wanted to know, but even more profoundly, I wanted him to know me—or at least to want to know me. And yet it seemed that almost any conversation with my father was about his work. Looking back, I think it was because he didn’t know how to talk to children. Or, as I write that, I correct myself—he didn’t know how to talk about anything that a child might want to talk about. I’m not sure that he, himself, ever had the freedom to truly be a child. By the age of sixteen, he’d already taken on the responsibility of supporting my grandmother. As a young boy, he also found himself breaking up physical arguments between his mother and father. He was a latchkey kid, and his art offered him company within the isolation. His talent offered him a future.

Most of the adults that came into my father’s life wanted to talk about his work also, or that field of work, which was comics and animation. That was the life he led. From my perspective, it seemed like a club of sorts. He was immersed in the art of his work, and those around him shared that priority. So whether we were sitting around a coffee table, restaurant table, driving, or listening to him catch up with my mother, the conversation was the same. The topic was his work, along with many names of people in his industry, all of which were foreign to my siblings and me. At times, I would pretend to understand or be interested. That was all I had when I was with him, so I made the best of it, but I felt alienated from him.

Later, after my parents’ separation, my father would sometimes come to take us to the park. While we played, he’d photograph us. On occasion, we’d visit the Los Angeles County Arboretum in Arcadia to feed the ducks and swans and watch the peacocks prance around. The Arboretum was a 100-acre historical site with a combination of botanical gardens, pristine grounds, and an area that had been used as a backdrop for Tarzan movies. The distinct cry of the peacocks was a natural soundtrack as I envisioned Tarzan swinging from the vines over the large ponds and under the moss-draped trees and overhanging branches. It was time travel to peer in the windows of the Queen Anne Victorian Cottage and Coach Barn showing life in the late 1800s. No matter how many times my father took us there, there was always something else to see. Places like the Arboretum were part of the magic of growing up in Southern California. At the end of those outings to the Arboretum, my father would buy us a 50/50 ice cream bar out...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 14.1.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-2166-0 / 1667821660
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-2166-5 / 9781667821665