Email

When Dash was born Josh set up an email address for him. Because that's what nerds do when they have babies.

Anyway, I got my first email from Dash a couple of nights ago. 

1. Fucking right? Sometimes having a child is totally worth the aggravation.
2. Please note the subject line. The kid has priorities.

Poops

Gerts “Jerry” Tarshis lost his battle with cancer on Sunday, September 2, 2012. He was 72. Jerry spent his last days surrounded by his family and loved ones. At his request, no service will be held. 

Our wedding, with Sonja & Doron, 2002

Jerry was born on December 24, 1939 in Khabarovsk in the USSR to Vera and Ruvim Tarshis. He grew up in Lvov, where he graduated from university and later worked as a pharmaceutical engineer. It was there that he met his first wife, Rima, and had his only child, Elizaveta. The family immigrated to Los Angeles in 1974. He and Rima divorced shortly thereafter, and he began a successful career as an art dealer and custom framer. 

Russian River, 2010 

In 1990, Jerry met the love of his life, Sonja, an attorney. After happily living in sin for more than 14 years, they finally tied the knot in 2004. The couple retired in 2006 and moved to Albany, Oregon where he could fulfill his dreams of living the rural life. The couple spent the next six years happily tending to fruit trees, berry bushes and myriad vegetable boxes full of wonderful things.

Russian River, 2011 

Jerry was a beloved father and husband, an artist, poet, mentor, world-class host and gardener, and an inspiration to everyone who knew him. He is mourned by his wife, Sonja Tarshis; daughter and son-in-law, Elizaveta and Joshua Engel; step-son and daughter-in-law, Doron and Cheryl Wallace-Amiran; grandson, Dashiell Engel; brother, Valery Tarshis; and cousin and her husband, Elena and Ilya Vekselman. He was preceded in death by his nephew, Roma Tarshis, and step-son, Roger Amiran.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in his name to the Jewish National Fund Tree Planting Center, 800-542-8733.

Our wedding, 2002

My Father's House, August 2012

They grow blueberries in the back yard.

Dash picked some before dinner.

Fuschia buds...

...and in bloom

Picking veggies for our salads with Grandma.

A quiet moment for Mama

Apple tree

Dash befriended some neighbors and spent most of his time thrashing around in their pool with his new love:

Miss Reagan-Reese.

Stage IV

My parents divorced when I was five years old. I have no memories of living with them both. After the divorce, my dad just kinda disappeared for many years. I used to joke that I could have passed him on the street and not recognized him. (I used to carry around a Glenn Miller record album and tell people the guy in the picture was my dad. I didn't actually think my dad was Glenn Miller, he just looked a lot like I what I remembered of him.)

When I turned thirteen years old and started seriously butting heads with my mother, my dad resurfaced and started the hard, hard work of rebuilding his relationship with me. It wasn't easy, but he was vigilant and unwavering in his determination to make up the time we had lost. And you know what? It worked. I ended up living with my dad, and later my step mom, for most of my teenage years and then off and on through my twenties (what? I was a late bloomer. also, their house was fun. and they had a cleaning lady. and food.)

It was my dad who showed me the satisfaction of growing your own vegetables. He was the one who taught me to cook. To shop for steaks at the carnecerias and for fish at the Korean grocer. The pleasure of long dinner parties with too much food and too much wine. He taught me to take chances, but not too many. He taught me that I deserved (as much as anybody else) to eat ice cream out of Baccarat crystal bowls and drink champagne out of Lalique flutes. He introduced me to Hemingway and Vonnegut and Garcia-Marquez. When I had writerly aspirations, he read every word and never failed to fawn over each turn of phrase.

My dad's house was always the place my friends wanted to be. Not because I was there, but because he was. Everyone was welcomed with a bear hug and a shot of vodka. The sound of his raucous laughter still rings loud in the memories of everyone who's ever known him. He was the first man I ever really loved, and his love for me is ferocious and informs everything I do.

And he's dying.

Stage IV renal carcinoma. There's no treatment, our only job is to keep him comfortable.

When we heard it was cancer--but not yet what kind or how bad--Dash & I flew up (he and my beloved step mom moved to Oregon shortly after Dash was born) for a few days. We're going back next month, but it already feels like it's getting too late, like he's starting to fade away. His memory is going and he needs oxygen to breathe. He sleeps most of the day, and only wakes for maybe half an hour at a time. He hallucinates and doesn't seem to be able to tell what's real and what's not anymore. I didn't see any of this coming. My heart is broken.

August 13, 2012

Grade the First

How long do you think he'll indulge me with these signs?

With pals Ethan & Jack

Nervous?

Last year (!):

The Bowl

We packed up our nearest & dearest, along with some snacks and some wine, and hit up the Hollywood Bowl this weekend. They were playing the music of Pixar, and it was a beautiful way to spend a Summer evening. (Well, you know, until Dash decided he'd had a fat assful halfway through & we left at intermission. But still).

Olympics!