Stranger Than Fiction - A Nod To My Father

In, 1982 when my after died, some of my relatives went through my father's ranch in Washington state. There in a study was a roll top desk In that desk was a middle drawer that was locked. After some effort, they they managed to open the drawer. But wait…let's take a look back.

*

Walter Scott Herndon, I had assumed, was the anti-social type. Even though he left when I was a year old, I didn't start thinking much about him until I was about nine. When I was fourteen, I somehow found my father's address. So I hid myself away and wrote a letter introducing myself and tried to impress him by telling him about my big decision to become a psychologist when I grew up. It seems so funny and sad now. I had always heard about my father's “creative genius”. My mother told me that men like him could not be good father's because the art would always come first. This was my mother's theory, and it made sense to me. It kept away any anger because he obviously had a higher calling. Ridiculous, I know. When I started thinking about who my father was and what he was like, this theory kept me from getting to the why of things. To me, it was as if I were sharing him with the rest of the world.

Later in life, I ran across people who had known my father, most of them worked alongside him in the movie business. One of these was Dom DeLuise. Just by chance, he was dropping off some thing at the back door of the Goodwill near my house. I had heard that he had worked with my father on a movie called “Hooper”. This was my chance. This would be the first time I had ever spoken to someone who knew my father besides my mother. I was pushing my infant daughter in the stroller and navigated my way toward his Roll Royce with the license plate “ILUV28”. He looked up and saw me and I nervously said hello.”Hey there!”, he said through an open, generous grin.

“I have a question for you.” I said. He took a step toward me as his grin fell away. “I was wondering if you knew my father....”

“You're Walter's daughter! You look just like him!”

The initial feeling of relief was dwarfed by the warmth coming from this large man. He smiled again but with sad eyes. Then he wrapped his arms around me. I cried. I felt it to be a hug, by proxy, from my father. Silly. I know. We talked for about and hour before he left me with the confirmation of my father's “genius” and how he didn't get along with Burt Reynolds for some reason.

My father was recognized in the motion picture and television industry as one of the top art directors and screenwriters. Among his notable accomplishments were production design and art direction for the films “Norma Rae”, “Hooper”, “Sounder”, and his last project, “A Soldier's Story”. As for television, he was best known for his work on the “Playhouse 90” drama series.

Movies

Television

Growing up, I didn't know about all that. I only knew that he was in the business “out there somewhere”. It turns out that he did have time to meet and know me. His girlfriend of four years even told me that he actually had the desire to connect with his kids, but that my mother had scared him to the point where he did not even dare try. Did he tell her that so he wouldn't look bad in her eyes? Who knows?

Loss takes many shapes. Sometimes it takes the shape of someone we knew well. It’s tangible and detailed, reflecting many of the specific things we miss about that person, such as their smell, the way they always sang off key, and the corny jokes they couldn’t stop telling. These are the intimate details we grieve when a loved one who occupied a particular space in our life dies.

But I didn’t know Walter Scott Herndon. Shortly after his death, his last movie “A Soldier's Story” was released. I remember going to the theater and trying to drink in all the visuals. He had been in charge of both the indoor and out outdoor sets, as well as all the lighting. Basically, he created a portion of the look of the film as he did in most of his films. I sat in the dark theater thinking that this is as close to him as I'll ever get. Seeing the results of his work at least helped me feel a connection to his thinking, his creating. I was grateful for that.

My grieving process may not be traditional. But is there such a thing? All I know is that I have less than a handful of photos of my father. And I didn't get those until a couple of years ago.

*

They finally got that drawer open. Inside was an envelope. The envelope was addressed to him. It was postmarked May, 1974.The return address was where I had lived at 14. This told me so much but so little at the same time. This adolescent letter that I had written to my father had been important enough for him to not only keep but to put in a drawer by itself and deem it important enough to lock the drawer. Yet the envelope was sealed. Evidently, he had not been able to bring himself to open it. Somehow this gives me comfort.

Happy Father's Day Walter Scott Herndon.

American Failure. American Humility. American Hope.

This year has been a disaster.
We are living through a global pandemic yet have inadequate health screenings, medical equipment or a viable vaccine.
We are witness to public killings of black people at the hands of law enforcement yet our legal system continues to be slow to act if at all.
 Our schools and hospitals are starved for resources yet police have riot gear, tear gas and army surplus tanks to patrol the streets.
 Climate change causes unprecedented storms, droughts, wildfires, hurricanes and other extreme weather yet our policymakers refuse to take any action to change it or even acknowledge it’s happening.
 We’re experiencing record unemployment and a stalled economy yet the super rich loot and pillage recovery efforts to record profits.
 Refugees with nowhere else to go seek shelter at our door and yet we respond by rounding them up like criminals, separating them from their children and caging them like animals…or kick them out alone and afraid.
 Masked as ANTIFA, white supremacists are spreading misinformation online and terrorizing our communities.
Guns are unregulated. Truth is un-celebrated. Fascism re-branded.
 All while America cries....the President hides in his bunker. And the only response is an echo of the past: “When the looting starts, the shooting starts.” Now our president has threatened to unleash America's military on it's own people.
 It’s no wonder, then, that so many folks have taken to the streets to express their outrage and demand justice.
 America is in a failed state. But there is at least two things that gives me hope. The first thing is, we have not lost our outrage. So much happens. Every month. Nearly every day. But we have refused to accept them. We refuse to shrug and let this just become normal.
Another hopeful note is the rush of optimism I feel anytime I see what is new. There have been protests before against the ingrained racism within our government, police and even well-meaning folk. But in this moment, the vast amount of faces lifting their voices to be heard are young and multicultural. Seeing people stream out onto the streets is probably the most hopeful I’ve been since the start of the pandemic. America is experiencing mass death, incompetent and vengeful leadership and economic collapse. Even under these catastrophic circumstances, people join together to demand more and better for themselves. This gives me hope for my children's world.