Another Strange Tale of a Book

I’m beginning to believe that the ownership stories that surround books like a penumbra are almost as wonderful as the things you find inside their covers. I’ve already told one tale of how a book moved from a man in New York City into the hands of a book dealer and into my own library and turned out to have belonged to the father of some very close friends who lived just down the road from me in Florida. That story gave me goose bumps. Now, another has made a shiver cross the back of my neck. It is a true story. You read it and tell me what you think of the coincidences.

When I was in college I had a friend called Chris. We never dated and I’m not sure all of the reasons why we didn’t but I did go out with one his close friends for a time and that may have been one of the reasons. He was very smart and we did have long talks about what we planned to do with our lives, about politics, about books, and about lots of other interesting things. When I left school he had to go into the Army for his reserve tour and I moved on into my television career and I only saw him once after that.


He was in law school in California and I was at KRON-TV and we had lunch, and after he went away, I said to myself, well that person is clearly never ever going to ask me out on a real date, so the heck with him! A few weeks later I met someone and fell in love and in due course I got married. And that was probably the last time I thought of Chris for thirty years. It was very likely the last time he thought of me as well, as he too got married soon afterward.

I worked in San Francisco, Washington D.C. and then Florida television, losing a husband and gaining a writing career along the way. In 2006, I applied for and won a research grant to do biographical research on the life of a former best-selling writer called Irving Bacheller. He died in 1950 and his literary fame did not outlast his life. But he had written quite a few of his best-selling books in Winter Park, Florida, been on the board of Rollins College and on the boards of several banks, and these things made him interesting, at least, to local history.

His books are all out of print, but you can occasionally find them in used bookstores and garage sales, but I don’t think I’d ever seen one with a dust jacket—dust jackets being the real prize in book collecting. One of his cover artists was the great N.C. Wyeth, and that in itself should suggest the stature he had with his publishers back in the day.

I made my final presentation to the Smith Grant Board and we were all pleased with the story we uncovered of Bacheller’s life. It is true, his literary fame had not survived, but his life had been one of great service to the state of Florida. He had even saved a Winter Park bank during the Great Depression by pledging his own personal fortune. His story was very much a “Wonderful Life” kind of tale.

So, when I began to build my Web site and my blog, I tossed in a little bit about old Irving Bacheller. I had one more lecture to give about him and it gave me an excuse to tell a few stories.

About this same time I got an email from my old friend Chris. It had bounced around the Internet for eight months and finally landed in my electronic “in box.” We exchanged hello-how-are-yous: he had been married thirty years and had grown children and I told him about my television career, my divorce, and my new work in writing. I didn’t talk about my research grant or Irving Bacheller. The old faded writer just didn’t come up in our abbreviated catch-up email chit chat.

I wasn’t a good correspondent with Chris. My family issues out West have left me with little emotional capital to spend on happily married men who used to have long talks with me in college. So, for a month or so, wicked me--I didn't even answer his last email.

Last week I returned from California as wrung out as an old dishrag. I had been fighting with my mother. I had seen my beloved father deconstructing before my eyes. And I had the flu. So, I went to bed with a bottle of Advil for several days, and then finally got hold of myself and dragged the old corpse to my P.O. Box.

In the box was a check for some of my books, always a nice thing. And, there was a package from Chris. Inside the package was an old book. Before he had been able to reach me by email he had read odds and ends about me on the Internet and I’ll let him tell the rest, the way he did in his enclosed letter:

“One spring weekend, I found myself in the garage, making another of my periodic efforts to get rid of “stuff” that we have collected over the years. Among the “stuff” I particularly have a hard time getting rid of are books. My appetite for books always exceeds my capacity, and I have a very difficult time getting rid of, in particular, a book that I have not yet read. Anyway, among the books that I started to put in the “donate” pile was the enclosed. It looked old, was clearly something I had “inherited” rather than purchased and I could not quite figure out where it had come from. Had my Dad bought it as a young man, particularly as he had grown up in Florida and attended the University of Florida in the 30s--well after the book had been published? But no. The book had two old bookmarks in it, both of which had left discolorations inside and showed that the book had been purchased long ago at the Caravan Book Store in Los Angeles. Weird. I set the book aside, as I thought it may have been authored by the guy I had read you were doing research on, but at the time I was not sure it was the same guy, nor did I know if I would ever hear from you.

Several days later, as I was continuing my garage clean-up efforts, I came across a Robin Chapman letter from long ago, which you will find inside the cover of the book. It was among the stuff from my Army days. Being a silly old man, I re-read the letter and with the Bacheller grant notion in the back of my mind was struck by your comment in this old letter that, ‘I’ve decided I would like to write a biography of someone one day—if only I could figure out who. Any suggestions?'"

The book Chris had enclosed was a first edition of Irving Bacheller’s 1919 A Man for the Ages, a book Bacheller wrote about the young Abraham Lincoln. And wow, it had a dust jacket! It was the first Bacheller one I had seen and it was a beauty: a color-tinted lithograph done by Brandywine Valley artist John Wolcott Adams, a descendant of the two presidents. Adams was an especially appropriate choice for a cover artist on a book about Lincoln. The entire story of this book was beginning to seem pretty wonderful and strange. As my old-and-only-recently-mysteriously-reappeared friend Chris put it:

“Crazy series of events, huh? If they had not happened in the order that they did, I probably would never have connected them. I could easily have disposed of the book or your letter any number of years ago. But I didn’t. And when I read your web page about Bacheller, it just all connected up.

By the way: I never have figured out where the book came from nor how it got into my garage.”

Thus, my second Strange Tale of a Book. My friend Chris, lucky, kind, and happily married, continues to find Robin completely resistible. But this old man, Irving Bacheller--now that guy just won’t leave me alone.
Irving Bacheller--he must be the perfect old geezer for me.

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News

Letter from the Afghan Front

Americans--at least the ones I run into--don't talk much about the fact that we are at war. Since I've had several family members serve in Iraq and Afghanistan, the war we are fighting against what we can only label as "terror" is very real to me. My neice, Dana, has recently returned from Afghanistan, and she returned a bit battle scarred I think--not physically, but in spirit. It was tough over there. As I was cleaning out a pile of stuff this morning, I found this email from her, sent at the very beginning of her tour, that I had printed out and saved. She's a good writer and it gives the reader a taste of what it must be like to fly into what would be, to most of us, the unknown. I print it here with only edits for her security. It was written in July 2008. (The photo is of a lighthearted moment with some of her pilot friends here in the States.)
Greetings from Afghanistan,

My trip was uneventful and smooth, with the primary excitement being a delay in the States on my flight from Tampa to Dulles due to a thunderstorm. I made my connecting flight, Dulles-Doha (Qatar), without event, and arrived in Camp As Sayliyah on the evening of the 1st of July. The temperature was 105 at six in the morning when we stepped off the plane.

I spent a couple of days in Qatar, checking in, receiving my general gear issue and enjoying my allowed three beers a night. I was surprised that Camp As Sayliyah is used as a rest and relaxation (R&R) point for troops deployed forward. (Editor's note: I think she is suggesting she wouldn't want to R&R in this particular place, if given a choice.)

I spent the majority of my 4th of July trying to get comfortable in a cargo net of a C-130, using my body armor as a pillow. I slept a little bit, looked out the window a little bit, and otherwise enjoyed the ride to my base in Afghanistan.

I am living in a four person "hooch" which is a plywood building with plywood closets separating the room into four sections. Three of us are living there, but we will soon be down to two as my replacement, and one of the other girls in the room are rotating out. I've never met the other girls as they work a day shift and I work zulu hours, which puts us on opposite shifts.

The days are long, but there is some down time during the shift to sneak out and take a short nap, or go to the gym, so it isn't as bad as it sounds. The showers are decent and the toilets are decent and the chow is tolerable.

None of the amenities are worthy of much complaint or much praise. The purpose of all amenities here is their utility not their enjoyment. I am sure the reconstituted cow milk product from the United Arab Emirates has the requisite calcium--it just isn't something to savor on one's cereal. The base is safe. I'll take some pictures of the things that I can take pictures of, but might not be able to send them out until I get home.

The Himalayas are visible and beautiful (and the gym is great).

I hope and trust that all is well at home.
Love,
Dana

(Below is a pic of Dana in the Gulf on a previous assignment.)

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News

When Writers Need Inspiration and Refuge: Go Into Danger

That's Robin in her previous role as foreign correspondent in Iraq.

I'm a journalist by profession and even though most of that time I've been a television journalist I have, along the way, learned to write the English language and thus can also claim to be the author of three books. What do writers do when their lives are full of challenges and they need something to do that doesn't have anything to do with the reality they know? Why, they do that Hemingway thing, and go abroad.

That's my new plan.

My Dad has Alzheimer's disease and spent my most recent visit accusing me of stealing his keys, aimlessly driving his car (though I was doing errands for him), putting regular gas instead of premium in his tank, not changing his oil at regular intervals, stealing his wallet (my mother has done that for safety) and in between telling me he loved me and wished I would move there.

My mother, who doesn't have Alzheimer's, but is a terminal narcissist, accused me of waiting for her death so I can spend up all her money (which at this point we don't even know if she has, since she is clueless about managing money) and in addition accused me of planning to spend all the family fortune (in advance, whenever she actually does die, which does not appear to be imminent) so there would be none left for her great grandchildren (whom she has kept as far away from her as possible) and told me that though my father wants me to move to California to be near him, she doesn't want me anywhere near her. Especially not staying at her house, even while I look for a job. My Mom and I have a challenging relationship to put it mildly and what I did to cause this, other than be born, and have the love of my father, I do not know.

Since I caught the flu on the flight out there (my seventh--trip, not flu--at a total cost to me, including incidentals $15,000 in one year during which they have been in hospitals, nursing homes, had pneumonia, and broken bones) and since I had just given up my lease so I could move out there to a) avoid all the costs of flying there and b) find a better job to support my full time job of making sure they are okay and since c) my mother doesn't want me anywhere near her, I have come home to nurse my flu and revise my plans.

So, my new plans involve putting what my mother calls my "lavish lifestyle" into storage and going to the Middle East to work as a correspondent in what I believe will be the next hot spot. If there is one thing a reporter likes its a hot spot. Can't beat that for fun, and the occasional shot at glory. Course you could die, get blown up, or get your head separated from your body, but from what I can tell, that is much more likely to happen when I'm in close proximity to my mother. Anyway, I have friends in Israel (friends being often kinder to one than one's family) and I think I can get a temporary room with them while I look for a place to live and some freelance bureaus to hook up with. Worst case scenario: I just blog my way through a year and report my experiences here in the blogosphere.

Israel is a fascinating place: kind of a wild west version of America, where everybody is an entrepreneur. And oh, by the way, everybody packs a gun. Can't beat that for a great place to park your computer and dig up a story or two! I love my Dad, and I'll dedicate all my stories to him. He can't help his disease and I think I'm better working at something I enjoy rather than weeping daily as I see the man I adore disappear before my eyes. My mother, as always, will take care of her own dear self. That's her life's work and she is truly expert at it. She spends all of her time looking in the mirror, so she won't even notice I'm gone.

Cool Place to View Classic Films: Old Movie Palace in Palo Alto

If you love old films and live in or visit the San Francisco Bay Area, there is a great place for you. The old Stanford Theatre in Palo Alto has been restored, thanks to the David and Lucille Packard Foundation (of the Hewlett-Packard computer family). Within this beautiful space the Stanford Theatre Foundation schedules really fine programs of classic films.

Recent fare featured the films of Bette Davis with a special focus on the very first films she made when she came to Hollywood, in many of which she played small and supporting roles. You could even see her in the rarely seen CABIN IN THE COTTON in which she uttered the now famous line: “I’d love to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair.”

Last summer the theater offered a collection of Jimmy Stewart classics in honor of his centennial, and this fall showed a really interesting program called “Gainsborough Melodramas and Other Rare Treasures of the British Cinema.” The theater had a special showing of VERTIGO in October, honoring the creepy Hitchcock classic’s 50th anniversary—especially appropriate since nearby San Francisco is practically a character in this film.

At present, the theater has been running a series honoring Humphrey Bogart. Even if you have seen any or all of these famous films it is so much more enjoyable to see them on a big screen in the kind of place they were shown when they were new. This is one of the goals of the theater’s founders: “The Stanford Theatre Foundation is dedicated to preserving films from Hollywood’s golden age, along with the theatrical environment in which people first saw these films. It would be tragic if future generations had to experience the cinema only through images on personal video screens.” I say Amen to that.

On weekends, a double feature (just $7.00) includes the surprise appearance of an organist rising on an elevated platform from the theater’s orchestra pit during intermission, playing music from the scores of old films. It is difficult to find time to make a rest stop (and the restrooms are gorgeous and immaculate) with the excellent program and the wonderful live music.

The Stanford Theatre is right on University Avenue, in Palo Alto, just across El Camino Real from Stanford University. During the school year this center of downtown Palo Alto is always jumping with the sounds, vistas, bars, restaurants, and the rowdy young people of a college town. It is noisy and fun in downtown Palo Alto and the theater just adds more spice to the stew.

This is not a place you’ll want to bring a pal who won’t leave his cell phone behind, or a friend who makes loud noises when she slurps her cola. This is a place to sit in comfortable seats and breathe in the air of Hollywood in its golden age. As the program puts it: “The Stanford Theatre is famous for its intelligent and respectful audiences. If people are talking or making noise with their food, it can ruin the movie for others. Enjoy the movie, but please allow other people to enjoy it too. While the organist is playing during the intermission, we suggest that you keep your conversation as quiet as possible as a courtesy to those listening to the music.” It is slightly scolding in tone, but it makes its point.

If this worries you, there is a gigantic and beautiful lobby where you can sit and talk with friends if you need a break from an overdose of cinema classics. The popcorn is made right there and slathered in real butter—if your cholesterol can take it—and costs just two dollars.

When I want to relax, I head for a Stanford double feature, buy a bucket of fresh popcorn, and sit in the darkness watching a world where men wore suits and women wore silk, where both sexes put on hats to go out, drove large, shiny sedans, and went dancing for fun. Where the good guys put the bad guys behind bars in the last reel. Where Bogey says goodbye to Bergman for all the right reasons, Jimmy Stewart makes friends with a six-foot-two-inch invisible rabbit, Bette Davis follows her lover to a leper colony to save him from yellow fever, and everybody does everything wearing really great clothes.

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News

Weeping Over an Oil Change: Welcome to Alzheimer's Disease

My father, back when he kept his cars in perfect condition, and really was a car expert.
I try to make my father's battle with this horrible dementia disease as funny as I can because it is funny sometimes, and laughing about it helps to keep away the tears. Today, for example, he woke up with a paranoid obsession about his car. He told me there was a conspiracy of the "enlisted men" against the "officers" to not care for his car properly, and since my sister's husband was a Marine enlisted man, he was sure his son-in-law was in on the conspiracy along with "that other husband."

"But I don't have a husband," I told him.

"Well, you clearly know more about this than I do," he said and on that particular subject I have to say I am the sole expert.

But the car oil change-conspiracy-obsession ceased to be funny when we picked up my sister at the airport this morning and all he would talk about was how we had to have the oil changed. We looked for the service report and saw that it had been changed in October and since my parents drive about 10 miles a month (my father, thank goodness, no longer has a licesnse) it is clear the oil does not need to be changed. But he would not be denied and grew increasingly agitated, which caused Mom to yell at me (when I tried to distract him with a photo album) and my sister to threaten to put him in a nursing home. I put my computer in the basket of the three-speed Raleigh and headed out to the WiFi Bakery for some blogging relief.

It reminded me of a story I heard at a support group for Alzheimer's families I attend. One woman there wept and told us this month that she had had to put her husband in assisted living because he has been insisting on calling her by his first wife's name. He was married to his first wife only four years and he has been married to his present one for fifty, but he kept perusing his old divorce papers and crying and telling his present wife that he never loved "that woman he was married to for fifty years." His agitation grew each day and he just became too much for his wife to handle.

That's the way my Dad was this morning. My sister has come all the way from Colorado and I've come all the way from Florida so we can give him a birthday party tomorrow and right now I don't even want to see him. I know it isn't his fault, but I want my old Dad back. And like the lady at my support group, even though I know an oil change is no big deal, I weep.

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News

Meet Steve Latshaw: Guest Blogger and Screenwriter from Hollywood U.S.A.

(Note from Robin: During my years in television I met a very unique person who was always making monster movies. Turns out he became a real, honest-to-goodness screenwriter, and has remained a loyal friend. Here's a guest blog from him in what I hope will be a regular series.)
My name is Steve Latshaw. I have been called a screenwriter, filmmaker, sometimes actor, occasional television journalist in the 80s and 90s (except that I couldn’t stand to wear contact lenses but it lead to a brief stint on the TV series ADVENTURES OF SUPERBOY and other career opportunities, so what the heck.)

Mostly, I am known as a screenwriter. I didn’t start out that way… I began my semi-illustrious Hollywood career as a director, making low budget monster movies in Florida. I thought of myself as the “Roger Corman of Florida” (a maverick indy filmmaker) in those days, although critics of the time and since often compared me to Ed Wood. It’s certainly true that one of my movies of that era, JACK-O, featured starring roles played by both John Carradine and Cameron Mitchell. It didn’t help that both of those giants of cinema were dead at the time we made the movie… and appeared courtesy of unused out-takes provided by our producer Fred Olen Ray ...

After five such features, I moved the family to Los Angeles to really begin my film career. As Orson Welles (who also began at the top) once said, after that, “it was all downhill.” Of course he was referring to CITZEN KANE, not JACK-O. I didn’t work for a couple of years – it’s a closed town, this Hollywood, and no one cares what you’ve done in Florida or Illinois or, for that matter, Barstow. But gradually, I found work as a screenwriter (its own bizarre story), got my balance again and some thirteen years, one divorce and thirty-five produced movies later, here I am.

My credits you can peruse to your heart’s content on imdb.com. I work in the straight-to-video tier, mostly with stars like Treat Williams, Daniel Baldwin, Michael Dudikoff and that ilk. The biggest stars I’ve worked with so far are Jean-Claude Van Damme and Dolph Lundgren. In fact, I am currently working on my second project with Dolph, which is very good news for me, as his star is on the rise again. But it shows you where I fit in the spectrum. Mostly, I like to think of myself as legit. Produced. Experienced. The Real Thing. Because I possess whatever skill necessary to finish a reasonably decent and commercial screenplay in a reasonable amount of time I am reliable. And so I get hired. It is, as they say, a living. Sometimes. But more about that later. It’s what I do, not who I am.

Who am I? A movie nerd. The same kid who haunted his public library looking at movie stills from the 30s, 40s and 50s because the local TV stations in Decatur, Illinois usually didn’t run those movies. Especially the old westerns, serials, monster movies and various and sundry B pictures I loved. So I looked at those old pictures of Hollywood and California. But sometimes I’d get lucky. I jumped up and down when the occasional Roy Rogers or John Wayne movie popped up on screen, or Bogart, or Errol Flynn… watched with rapt attention as ROBOT MONSTER lumbered through Bronson Canyon or COMMANDO CODY zoomed over the big, dusty boulders at the Iverson movie ranch in Chatsworth, CA. And I cried after watching the original A STAR IS BORN or reading the last chapter in Errol Flynn’s biography, vowing at the tender age of 15 that I’d never end up the way those sad cases did. Bit players like Roy Barcroft and Kenne Duncan and Lionel Atwill were my heroes.

So what I guess I am trying to say is that I mostly came to Hollywood to chase ghosts. And there are plenty out here. I’ll be chasing them in this blog for you, while stopping from time to time to offer my perspective on the movie business, or provide descriptions of chance encounters with the famous and semi-famous. I’ll give you a little taste today.

Lunch Monday. Art’s Deli. Favorite Deli Hangout in Studio City. Jerry’s Famous Deli also good but suffers from High Prices and We’re-Now-A-Chain syndrome. Art’s is more homey. Art himself told me once the key to Deli success is you must maintain three lines of business at once… walk-in customers/restaurant, pick-up/delivery and catering. One will always carry the other two. Art also refers to the giant color photographs of sandwiches on his wall as Jewish Erotica, so go figure. Personally, I like the Reuben. For obvious reasons.

Anyway, Lunch Monday at Art’s. Was meeting my pal Billy Hinsche for lunch. Billy is a longtime rock and roll star. Back in the 1960s he was one third of that powerhouse teen trio DINO, DESI & BILLY, Dino being Dean Martin’s son Dean Paul, Desi being Desi and Lucy’s son Desi and Billy being Billy. Their big hits included “I’m A Fool” and “Not The Lovin’ Kind.” You may have caught them on the Ed Sullivan show. They auditioned, by the way, for Reprise Records under decidedly harrowing conditions. The audition took place in Frank Sinatra’s living room. The audience consisted of Lucy Arnaz (aka Lucille Ball), Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. But I digress. Anyway, Billy is a consummate musician (guitar, piano, anything you want) and went on to play for some 30 years as a member of The Beach Boys band, singing hits like “Sail On Sailor” in front of audiences as big as 500,000 (Washington DC Mall… July 4, 1985). (Robin’s note: I was in Washington D.C. covering that concert and it was such a zoo. So much alcohol, consumed by so many, photographed by we few!) Being a confirmed, life long Beach Boys fan, I have also been a Billy Hinsche fan. He’s been a great friend for the last ten years and my entrée into the world of the Beach Boys and Brian Wilson.

So anyway, we’re at Art’s Deli. Billy lives in Vegas but when in LA on business likes to have the Pastrami at Art’s. So we’re having the Pastrami at Art’s when famed LA character actor Miguel Ferrer walks up to the table. Turns out he and Billy were best buds at Beverly Hills High and have remained friends ever since. Miguel’s Mom was Rosemary Clooney. His Dad was famed actor Jose Ferrer and George Clooney is his cousin. But Miguel, balding, muscular, bearded most of the time, gruff voice, is one of the most engaging character actors in the business, in features, and frequent starring roles in TV series. An amazing resume. Look him up. But what we sit there and talk about is High School, relationships, who married who, family stuff. Fun stuff. Normal stuff. Cool. Nice. Soon, we’re talking about the pending possible SAG (Screen Actor’s Guild) maybe strike. Hopefully not. But it’s these sort of normal conversations that remind you that you made it, you’re making a living, you’re in the business, you’re respected. And I need that. We all need that in this business. Because out here, we need a hell of a lot of validation to get through the day. Some guy once said Hollywood is the only place you can starve from encouragement. I didn’t say it. But I know what he meant.

On to the ghosts.

I live in Burbank. I am a block from something called Toluca Lake, which was primarily a lake surrounded by a golf course called Lakeside Country Club and lots of nice houses where movie stars like Bob Hope and WC Fields lived and radio personalities like Dick Whittinghill had lots of drinks and golfed lots of balls. It’s still a nice place, with the wonderful old school steakhouse called THE SMOKEHOUSE nearby (try the cheese bread). I live across the street from Warner Brothers and, more importantly, around the block from the original, first, Bob’s Big Boy. And I’m five minutes from Hollywood. But it also means I’m about 30 miles from ocean or desert or, most importantly, old movie locations. And a guy’s got to get out. Know what I mean?

A While Back I visited a place described in the imdb.com as “California Highway 118 between Simi Valley and the outskirts of Moorpark, CA… Southern Pacific Railway crossing. At Strathearn.” What this really is is a movie location from my childhood.

In 1968, when I was 9, my Grandfather Clyde “Pop” Wheeler bought a Super 8mm projector and camera. It triggered my obsession with movies, naturally, but also came with its own movie. Something called “Have Badge, Will Chase,” starring Abbott & Costello. What it was was an edited version of “Abbott & Costello Meet The Keystone Kops” (1955). In it, Bud & Lou, on a motorcycle with side car, outrace a train, then get stopped (along with the Keystone Kops) in the middle of the track as the train roared down on them. This was the first old movie I held in my hands, the first black & white, dust and boulder-strewn images I have had of Southern California and Hollywood. I watched it, over and over again, year after year, until I wore it out. And now, 40 years later, on this Sunday afternoon, I drove down an asphalt road, along a railroad track bordered by a dirt cliff. I reached a railroad crossing, turned around and faced the way I came.

There it was. I was standing in the original camera position used by the Universal-International film crew. On that hot, dusty day in 1955, they called “Action!” and camera rolled as Bud & Lou sped across that very railroad crossing where I stood – big cliffs in the background - as a massive, belching locomotive tried to catch them. That location hadn’t changed much in all those years. In the late afternoon sun it still looked like 1955.

And after all these years, it felt like it was 1968. And I was 9 again, and had actually climbed inside that moving picture image flickering from my Pop’s movie projector, like Alice … well, Steve, In Wonderland.

In the right frame of mind you don’t have to go looking too far for your childhood out here in Hollywood. It’s just around the corner, waiting for you to come out and play.

Steve Latshaw
December 4, 2008
Hollywood, CA

In Steve's honor, here's a picture taken during the shoot of his film ON LOCATION FLORIDA, which was hosted by Robin Chapman. Robin is seen here with Steve's now grown son Ryan.)

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News

Visiting my father in California these days almost always involves the unexpected, so I'm not quite sure what I will see when I arrive there this week. In February, when I made my first visit of 2008, everything was just great with the parents as far as I knew. Mom didn't say there was anything wrong with Dad, and my Aunt Ruth was even going to be there, making it a double family get together.

From the moment I walked in the door, it was clear things were not okay. Mom and my aunt were in the kitchen laughing and carrying on but I found my father in the back hallway struggling to get into the kitchen to see me. He was in such great pain that he was hunched over and pushing a chair, holding onto it for support. I knew he had fallen about a week before and hit his head and seeing him now, I was afraid he had also broken his hip.

"Oh he is just so spoiled," my mother said. "I'm the one's that suffering. I have a terrible cold." She was not happy when I called his doctor, set an appointment for the next day, and rushed out to get him a walker. At the doctor we learned Dad had a fractured pelvis. He went immediately into the hospital, and it was there, in the disorienting conditions of a hospital room surrounded by nurses and other strangers that he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

"When I woke up this morning," he told me on the first day, "I thought they had remodeled my room."

"You're an engineer Dad. Does this hospital room look like your remodeled bedroom to you?"

"No. No it doesn't now. But I just thought ... " Over the three days he was in the hospital he constantly asked for my mother, always worried that she wouldn't know where to find him. I spent a lot of time assuring him. He worried about remembering his phone number--and I went over it lots of times with him, always finding him comforted when he learned he could still recite it from memory.

I was so worried about him I spent one whole day at his bedside, talking with him. Near the end of that day he told me he was going to take a nap and--ever the polite gentleman from Birmingham, Alabama--he asked me if I minded. No, no, I said. I have to go home and have dinner with Mom. He put his head back on his pillow and looked at me before he closed his eyes:

"You know, Robin, I think this is the first day we've spent together in, I don't know, forever," and then he smiled a little. "It was nice," and then he went to sleep.

Mom didn't seem to want to visit Dad in the hospital. We think this was because she couldn't accept the idea that he was ill and being in denial helped her get through it.

"Your father is doing better because he's made up his mind," she has told both my sister and me recently, much to our mutual dismay. "I wish he'd make up his mind not to have dementia," I said under my breath, but I don't think my mother heard me.

Denial is a defense mechanism. In fact, at a Thanksgiving gathering, my sister heard a story from a family friend that illustrated this. The friend was a fireman who once went on a call to the home of an elderly couple. The woman was dusting when they arrived and said her husband had fainted in his chair.

"I hope he'll be all right. We have to leave to visit our grandchildren in half an hour," she said. But the fireman found that the old man in the chair was dead, and had been for some time.

"He must be able to travel", said the old woman, with some impatience. "We really do have to go."

But the old man was gone already. It must have been a shock. It was probably the first time in many years the old man had gone anywhere ... without first checking with his wife.

Subscribe to Robin Chapman News