My Real Memoir
My dad, Bill Teemley, was ambitious, hard-working, and deeply conservative. I was a wildly liberal almost-23-year-old with a “useless” Theatre Arts degree and no job, who’d recently moved back in with the folks. Not surprisingly, a massive wall of ice had grown up between us, and we barely spoke. I didn’t get him, and he sure didn’t get me. So I figured he never even thought about me. Still, with my latest theatrical brainstorm in limbo, I had time on my hands.
So I asked Mom what I could do about The Wall.
“Well, you could go with him to pick up papers,” she suggested. Dad’s job as a Los Angeles Times dealer included picking up bundles of newspapers from the plant at 3:30 a.m. seven days a week. So naturally my response was,
“Is there something else I could do?”
Mom looked at me and blinked.
So I told Dad I thought it might “fun” to go with him.
He woke me up at 2:30 the next morning. I thought I was in purgatory.
We drove to Denny’s where, to my surprise, Dad wasn’t a generic “hun” but a warmly hello-ed “Bill.” We avoided each other over omelets.
But the next morning, we actually had a conversation. It went something like this:
“The coffee here sure is…brown.”
“Yep.”
For three months, I went with Dad to pick up newspapers, always stopping at Denny’s, each time saying a little more.
We never had any Big Talks. But as spring turned to summer, we slowly rediscovered each other. Nothing magical—unless you count being able to laugh together again magical. Just us.
When I finally relaunched my theatre group and had to stop meeting with him, I actually missed our mornings together.
Being a newspaper dealer, Dad had a couple dozen carriers, mostly college guys, who picked up their papers at 4:00 a.m. and disseminated them to the sleeping world. But every other week, one of them would fail to show up. And then Dad would have to deliver newspapers in the dark.
July 20th was one of those mornings.
I was still asleep when the phone rang. Mom answered it at her end of the house, but was suddenly next to me pushing on my shoulder:
“Honey, wake up. It’s about your dad…” She didn’t know any more than that. She didn’t want to. Because if she knew more, it would make it real.
I drove us to the hospital through a sea of undulating hope and fear. Neither of us spoke.
When we got there, we gave them Dad’s name and were ushered into a room with a curtain. Suddenly Mom was the child and I was the grown-up. A doctor entered and pulled back the curtain. Mom gasped.
There was nothing there but Dad’s wallet and keys.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Teemley has passed.”
“So, they moved him to another…?”
“Mr. Teemley is dead.”
“No. You mean…” If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t be dead.
The doctor told us what little they knew: Dad had had a heart attack while delivering newspapers and been found several hours later. It was just enough to solidify the nightmare into a stony reality that we could never wake up from.
We drove home in silence. There were no undulating layers now. Only a grey, featureless sea of despair.
When we got home, I couldn’t cry. I had to be there for Mom. She moaned like an animal with its foot caught in a trap, never speaking any actual words.
Finally, a couple of hours later, I got up and thumbed through Dad’s wallet. It contained five photographs: One of Mom and four of me.
I called Mom’s sister and asked her to tell everyone on both sides of the family.
Then I called my childhood BFF Jeff, and asked him to tell all our friends. I was matter-of-fact. Monotone. I had to be.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
And then I said what I hadn’t even known I was thinking:
“I never told him I loved him.” And the tears broke.
That was when Mom, as if released from a spell, suddenly stood, walked over to me, and said, before enfolding me in her arms,
“You told him every day for three months.”
If you love someone—or, worse, if you fear you don’t—tell them you love them.
Before it’s too late.
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In memoriam:
I love you, Dad.
Always did, and always will.
Wonderfully said. Ty.
Thank you, Teresa.
Touched. So true! Thank you 😇
My privilege, Bhavin.
My privilege, Bhavin.
So very touching. Thank you for sharing this today. It’s a good reminder that often it’s hard for those who love it to voice those words, but there are other ways to express it and we simply have to be aware of them.
Very true, my friend.
Ugghhh this could make me cry!
Very nice tribute to your dad. What part of LA? I am originally from Pasadena. 🙂
Ah, I know Pasadena well. We lived in Buena Park (in Orange County) at the time. Dad’s L.A. Times territory included Buena Park and Fullerton.
I know those areas pretty well too. I was down at the beaches of Orange County all the time,. And of course Knott’s Berry Farm! 🙂
Me too, Jeanne. I grew up going to Knott’s Berry Farm (my grandmother worked there) and Huntington Beach.
I was at any beach from Seal Beach to Laguna on a daily basis in the summers, and a lot of times other than summer too. 🙂
Made me tear up, Mitch. Your mother’s words strike me as profound and correct.
I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who “teared up” at this, Mitch. We show our love in many ways, ways that are beyond words. Your dad felt your love at 3 in the morning, every day for three months. Sitting in Denny’s. Picking up papers. Speaking to one another. Laughing together. Your mom was right; dad knew, and not only at 3 in the morning. And not only for 3 months. ❤️
<3
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Oof, you got me there at the end, Mitch.
Strange how the statements of greatest authenticity are so often hidden from the conscious mind, yet when they emerge from unknown depths, we realize they were always the full truth of the matter.
I’m 100% sure your father hears that you love him. God bless both of you.
Thank you for your kind and thoughtful words, Abe.
Oh, man, I’m so sorry you lost your Dad at such a young age. What a beautiful thing for your mom to say in that sad moment.
It was indeed, Rhonda. And thank you.
Grown up children really have to grow up when a parent dies and my three were great when my late husband was ill. Fortunately they had time to see him. Sad it was such a seemingly brutal way they treated you and your mother at the hospital.
Oh, I don’t think they meant it to be so blunt, Janet. Honestly, that may just be the way I remember it. We were so unprepared–Dad was only 45 and didn’t have any known heart problems.
I’m glad you had that time with your dad of the Wall thawing, and you could talk and laugh together. I’d count that as magical. Especially given the contrast of what you had before then. And you’re right on about telling our dear ones that we love them. This is a touching post, Mitch.
Thank you, Dave.
Who was it that said, “Love is a verb?” As others have pointed out, you showed your dad that you loved him, Mitch. Such devotion is more meaningful than just words. I too am sorry you didn’t have many more years to demonstrate your love for him.
Bless you, dear friend.
I got to this part, and teared up without even knowing I was going to do it. 🥺🥺🥺
“When we got home, I couldn’t cry. I had to be there for Mom. She moaned like an animal with its foot caught in a trap, never speaking any actual words.
Finally, a couple of hours later, I got up and thumbed through Dad’s wallet. It contained five photographs: One of Mom and four of me.”
I’m very adamant about telling the people I love that I love them. I show them as well. Life is just too short.
Peace and blessings, Mitch. Your dad was a handsome man. 🙏🏾💙
Thank you, dear trE.
It’s so important to do that!
This was beautiful, Mitch
Thank you, Manu.
Powerful post, Mitch. I grew up without a father, so this one touched my heart deeply. 🙏🏼
Bless you, Edward, in your own unique journey.
Thank you.
This brought tears to my eyes.
<3
I’m so sorry for how he passed. I am glad you and he were able to have quality time before that.
This was a beautiful article.
Thank you for sharing this.
My privilege, and thank you, my friend.
Wow what a beautiful story Mitch. You didn’t have to say the words, he knew.
That’s so kind of you to say, Alegria.
So sorry for your sudden loss, Mitch. But how wonderful that you spent that time with him. Absolutely beautiful! <3
Thank you so much, Wynne.
Sorry to read of your sudden and heartbreaking loss. Touching story.
Thank you, Michele.
You’re welcome, Mitch.
I’m from the Tustin, Irvine area. Very touching and sad post but, your Mom was right.
Thank you, Venus. I hadn’t known you were a fellow Orange Countyan.
Yep. Took me 50 years to get away from there.
Beautiful tribute to your dad. Very touching.
Thank you, Doval.
Thank God for your mom’s wisdom – her knowing how to break through the wall, and for assuring you that you HAD told your dad you loved him – by taking her advice.
Amen, Annie.
Hi Friend,
I will be 23 at the October end. I do have nearly useless degree in history.
I do have my father with me. We don’t have a strong bonding. I think I don’t understand him.
He suffers through knee pain. For the same reason he remains frustrated and angry.
When I was admitted to a residential school he used to come to pickup me in vacations.
It’s a long 6 hour journey. Basically he remained a support.
However, our Mother leads the family largely. He covers family expenses cost by her salary which’s not much.
Papa don’t earn. But he helps as a family member member.
Your story deeply touched. Knowing that your father was committed his work till his last breath, I respect him for that.
But what made his health worse at that time would be a question worth exploring.
You become your own and family’s support is something that encourages me..
Thanks for sharing! Stay happy! 😊
And thank you for sharing a little of your own ongoing father/son story, Loku. I pray your bond with him will grow stronger.
Lovely memoir
Thank you, Vanya.
That was a masterful write, Mitch.
Thank you so much, Nancy.
Splendid job, Mitch. I loved this.
Thank you so much, Janet.
What a touching story, Mitch. I bet you are really glad you had that time alone with him at Dennys during those few months before he died.
SO glad, Nancy.
Now, here is the task ! The story begins with the question of where my father is? However,we will get there. We will find the authentication of the Jesus phrase:” I and the father are one.”
Oh Mitch…. weeping with you (past or present.) Childhood gaps, lost opportunities, unrecognized grace… and redemption.
Thank you so much. (Unfortunately, WordPress identifies you as Anonymous.)
Brought me to tears… lost opportunities, but redemption in the undervalued minutes of living out our love.
Blessings and grace.
And the same to you, dear Anne.
Having a difficult time seeing my keyboard, Mitch. Thank you for sharing and reminding all of us what is truly important in life. Cher xoxoxo
My privilege, Cher.
I grieve your loss with you my friend, my dad also has passed away at the age of 61, I was 34 years old when he passed, and I miss him everyday. The last day he was alive, I was sick and could not visit him. He was recovering from a triple-bypass, and I didn’t want to make him sick. Dads can be hard to read, that’s why I tell my children often how much I love them.
Blessings Mitch, thank you for sharing this.
My privilege, Pete.
People say this a lot, “tell them you love them before it’s too late.” But there are people like you and me who know how true it is from personal experience. Losing a parent is always hard, and I sympathize.
When I was in a near-fatal auto accident 21 years ago, lying in a trauma unit, I was actually comforting my son as he stood by my side. I’d been in a coma and my body was almost as trashed as my truck. I know a little sign language so I taught all the family members standing at my bedside how to say “I love you” with the one-hand gesture and told them to never let a loved one leave you without saying, “I love you.”
My family knew how blessed I was to be alive, and it sort of changed my son’s attitude about things. God bless you, Mitch, for always sharing the personal stuff.
Mitch, I figured out why my comments come in as “anonymous.” I fail to log in as me. (duh) Anyway, it’s me, Paula G.
Thank you, dear Paula. And thank you for share some of your remarkable story here as well.
Oh, my heart! I can only imagine the shock at such a young age. Yes, take every opportunity to let people know how much they mean to you, if not with words, through your actions. As I was leaving my mother’s funeral several years ago, one of our longtime family friends (of my parent’s generation) wasn’t doing well and I remember make a point of giving her a hug and telling her I loved her. She passed away a few months later.
Little moments like that can indeed become big ones.
I have no memorable comment on this one but am grateful for the sharing. My mind turns to my departed Dad whom I loved ferociously.
So glad to hear that, Joseph.
That was so touching! And your mom was right, you did tell him every day for three months. I sure he knew even before that, but getting up early with him certainly demonstrated that love. It seems to me that the best of him lives on in you.
That’s so kind of you to say, Ann.
What a blessing that you spent so much time with your Dad in the months before he passed! And that the ice wall was being melted. God was with you both. 🗞️🗞️
Wow, so sad and beautiful and moving at the same time. Thank you so much for sharing this. It’s an honor to have read it.
Aw, bless you, my friend (I’m afraid I don’t know your name).
haha, it’s Ada! Thanks for sharing this beautiful post 💜
My privilege, Ada.
Thank you for sharing Mitch, that was beautiful. I was a bit young, but I remember Uncle Bill and know how much he was loved. Love you Cuz.
Aw, thanks, cuz. Is this cousin Sherry? (I’m guessing because WordPress labels you “Anonymous.”)
So true and still so difficult to do so in those situations . Thanks for sharing
My privilege, Mateo.
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Such a poignant and powerful tribute to your father, Mitch, and a reminder about the importance of spending time with those we love. 💜
Thank you so much, Carol.
💜
Thank you, Carol. I’m so glad it spoke to you.
Very interesting!
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This brought me to tears, Mitch. I’m very sorry for the loss you experienced then and the way it happened. My favorite part of this story is that on such a dark day, your wise mom remembered and reminded you that love shared is so much more than words.
Thank you so much, Debbie.
You’re welcome, friend, your words always touch me!