I Wasn’t Trying to Write a Book

The story of how a few phone calls during the COVID lockdown led me to discover the extraordinary life my father lived before I knew him.

My dog had just died.

A global pandemic had just descended upon the world.

I was air-gapped from the rest of humanity while working at home in a living-at-work-kind of way, when I got a text message from my father.

“Tell everyone I’m fine.”

My father was 89 years old. He had a daily exercise regime that made me gasp for air. He could drive a golf ball 300 yards, and the last I knew he was living large in Waikiki, where his balcony overlooked the Ala Wai Golf Course.

My father was many things, but fine, wasn’t one of them. And he never sent text messages.

When I finally got him on the telephone, the first words out of his mouth were even more shocking.

“You remember Merv, don’t you? I need you to find him. I think he’s somewhere in Las Vegas.”

Finding Merv, despite sounding like a bad movie plot about trying to find a retired attorney somewhere in the middle of a desert in the middle of a pandemic, was honestly the easy part. Discovering why I needed to find Merv was the kicker.

He’d always been a fan of my writing. Had always wanted me to write his family story. But I’d never had the time. Who ever has that kind of time?

But daily calls to the hospital made me realize that if I didn’t make time to understand his family history, the time would never come again.

And that’s how our adventure began. With me sitting at my desk thousands of miles away in a high-tech audio-filled room consisting of a cellphone and a pocket recorder, hanging on his every word.

“Where would you like to start?”

“What?”

No longer in the hospital but still recovering, his words flowed as quickly as mint-flavored toothpaste. I had offered to interview him because I thought talking would help with his recovery. But I was frustrated that no modern-day technology, like video calls or transcription services were acceptable tools to him, and I had started our first interview without a clue as to what I wanted to hear.

“How would you like to do this? Do you want me to ask questions, or do you know where you want to start?”

“I’d like to start at the beginning.”

I assured my father that the beginning was an excellent place to start his recorded memoirs, and then I turned it back to him. He cleared his throat and began again.

“I was born. I was born…”

And then my head hit the desk. Only eighty-nine more years to go.

Those conversations continued for two years, until I realized that his personal journey from the plantation camps of Maui to Air Force Officer and fighter pilot was something I wanted to share. I mean, I’d known him all my life. How was it that I’d never heard about his plantation roots?

Do you know your family history? It’s never too late to ask.

Until it is.