Yeah, I Draw 003

Shadow Of Sophronia
1998

oil pastels on illustration board

Yeah, I Paint 001

A Boy I Used To Know
2008
oil on canvas

Quick Fix

Let me introduce you to The Best Salad Ever. Really.



The Best Salad Ever

3 handfuls of romaine lettuce
3 teaspoons of Cindy's Kitchen Raspberry Nectar Vinaigrette
2 chopped hard boiled eggs
1 handful of crushed organic blue corn sesame chips
1 handful of dried cranberries
lots and lots of raw almond slivers

Toss all ingredients and eat immediately.

This Is Love: Photography By Trautima

I came across David Trautima's work the other day and it reminded me of one of my favorite books, Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino. David is a Canadian artist who re-purposes household kitchen utensils by deconstructing and photographing them. He then manipulates the images by exaggerating their scale and digitally reassembling them. The results are modern architecture meets Star Wars to me. After seeing his prints, I think every kid in architecture school should be forced to play around with a vintage blender or mixer for at least a few weeks.

You can check out the rest of his work here. I find The Automobile Factory particularly interesting.

Mean Flowers

What should you do when your tenant posts a Mean Dog sign?

Yeah, I Draw 002

2002
ink on trace paper

Twenty Three Percent

That's the number, according to a National Public Radio broadcast that I heard this morning, of Floridians that are delinquent in paying their home mortgage loans.

Check out that story here.

Unplugging Appliances

Does it really save money?

Click here to see the video experiment.

I was interested to learn this since I actually do unplug things like toasters, lamps and hairdryers while they're not in use.

(But all I could think about when I saw this was, Why pay 30 bucks to see if your dustbuster is costing you 10 or 20 cents?)

Stainless Steel Tables

One of my favorite things to design a kitchen with is a large commercial grade stainless steel table. It's the perfect replacement for the standard island of built-in cabinets and stone countertops. (In the past I've purchased mine from the commerial supplier Ace Mart.) Here's a few reasons why:

1. It's reflective texture coordinates with a polished granite, but provides a welcome change in finish.

2. It's durable and can handle the kicking and banging that kitchen islands often endure.

3. It's removable, allowing the flexibility to take it to another property or used it in another room.

4. At a couple of hundred dollars, it's much less expensive than building a whole other set of cabinets and countertops.

5. It's open below and provides easy access to your favorite cookware or cookbooks, as well as a place to showcase them.

I Could Totally Live Here

Check out this rooftop lounging space by Peter Gluck and Partners in Colorado. Built in a narrow valley, it was placed perpendicular to other houses, in order to receive the maximum Southern exposure.

Spilling The Beans

I know, I make an update about the new home purchase.

So they didn't accept our counteroffer last week. Not that I expected them to, but I do believe it was a fair offer (and the maximum we are willing to budget for the property).

Anyway, the counteroffer expiration date came and went with nothing but silence from the seller's side. We began looking for other properties, and we found a very interesting building across the river in another historical district. On the upside, it has 3,400 square feet with a view of the water plus a detached two car garage with a one bedroom apartment above it. On the downside, the street is a busier road with some retail on it, versus the virtual mansions on the quiet street that the other home is tucked into.

We were booking yet another trip to the area to check it out (no small feat with Andrew's travel schedule), and guess who finally gets around to emailing me back a revised counteroffer? Days after it expired. And all of the sudden, the large gaps in sales price and closing costs had shrunk. By a lot.

But not quite enough.

Yep, we countered again. At this point, I'm okay with losing the property. It has nothing to do with being stubborn, I just know what our numbers need to be, and I believe that our offer is fair. He has until Monday to accept or decline.

Lengthening Legs

Women are breaking their bones in Siberia to lengthen their legs.

Stupid, yes. But maybe if I did this I could reach the upper cabinets without a spatula.

This Is Love: Wallpaper

This bathroom was recently featured at Apartment Therapy, and while I've always considered myself a no-potpourri-or-wallpaper-kinda-gal, this kind of makes me rethink that mantra.

Hurricane Bill Update

"...BILL APPROACHING MAJOR HURRICANE STATUS..." says the National Hurricane Center. "MAXIMUM SUSTAINED WINDS ARE NEAR 110 MPH... WITH HIGHER GUSTS. BILL IS A CATEGORY TWO HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR-SIMPSON SCALE. STRENGTHENING IS FORECAST DURING THE NEXT DAY OR TWO AND BILL IS EXPECTED TO BECOME A MAJOR HURRICANE TONIGHT OR WEDNESDAY."

Polaroid That Space

Lately I've been noticing photography. Fantastic photography showcasing lousy places. I'm not going to point them out, but there are a few websites (one in particular) of the home and architecture genre that I normally wander around that I'm talking about. But I'm starting to feel like it's all about the pictures. Beautifully taken photos of really below average spaces.

You know what it reminds me of?

I've heard talent scouts say that models should always be photographed using a Polaroid camera. Because Polaroids don't lie. They capture your raw form, fuzzy and flawed from the worst possible angle. You can't hide the bags under your eyes from last night's bar hop or that slightly crooked nose that you won in basketball when you were ten. There's no distorting the truth.



If you can pull off sexy in a Polaroid then you're golden, they say.

And, really, it goes for buildings, too, I think.

Yeah, I Draw 001

2009
pencil on paper

Say Anything: 5

"Prior to the dawn of cable and the internet, one had to go to the city to experience culture. Today, the town is wired and one may choose not to go to the city learn of Woody Allen." Kazys Vamelis, Teen Urbanism

Wow

Check out this Polish couple's photographs of the country they live, work, and travel throughout.

Your jaw will drop.

The Neverending Story

So, like I said, our Absolute Final Counteroffer expired today at 5.00pm. Of course, the Seller comes back to us at a minute after five o'clock. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING YOU. Not. Even. Kidding. And with a counter offer. Of course. We're negotiating over some terms and a piddly amount of cash, and to be honest, this may be one of the most ridiculous deals I've ever been involved in. It leaves me with little faith that the closing will even run smoothly if we actually do come to an agreement on terms. Who's with me for voting this guy off the island?

Born Into Brothels: Hope House

A few years ago, when it was still playing in theaters, I saw a small independent film, Born Into Brothels. It really affected me.

"...The winner of the 77th annual Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature. A tribute to the resiliency of childhood and the restorative power of art, Born into Brothels is a portrait of several unforgettable children who live in the red light district of Calcutta, where their mothers work as prostitutes. Zana Briski, a New York-based photographer, gives each of the children a camera and teaches them to look at the world with new eyes."

One of the things that's always struck a chord with me about Ms. Briski is her raw honesty regarding her purpose. At one point during the film, after hours of fighting through red tape to try and secure a passport for one of the children in an effort to get him out of the country for a photography exhibition, she exasperately points out that she's not a trained social worker, teacher, or pyschologist. That she's a photographer. That her intent was to photograph the conditions and lives of the the mothers of these kids, not the children. She never intended to become wrapped up in teaching them or filming them or playing such an integral role in their lives. She offered them what she had, what she could pass along, the things that she knew to teach them. She wasn't trying to be a hero.



Still, the role that she plays in this heartwrenching story is incredibly inspiring.

Ever since I saw the film, I check the project's website now and again to follow up on the progress of the students. Mostly it's exciting to see how they've grown up. But not always. Some of the children did not make it out of the red-light district.

That's why I was especially happy to see the new project they've embarked on since the last time I visited. I was intrigued to find that they are building a school called Hope House that will offer top-notch education, healthcare, plus room and board to one hundred girls from Calcutta's red-light district. What an important endeavor.



If you're interested in learning more about Born Into Brothels, seeing the childrens' photography, or donating to Hope House check out their website for details.

Seven Hours Nine Minutes

That's how long the seller has left to respond to our counteroffer before it expires. If it's anything like our last two counteroffers with him, he will wait until the very last moment to get back to us.

We've gone back and forth five times now.

I've been the target of keys thrown across closing tables and people yelling over the phone in languages I've never even heard of, so this whole thing doesn't faze me too much. Andrew, on the other hand, is ready to dismantle this guy's innards.

I'm sure he's just feeling stressed because we've rented out the place we're living in now, so we have to move out by September tenth. Plus, his company is putting a lot of pressure on us to move forward with the relocation as quickly as possible.

Because of the small timeframe we have to move, and the amount of money that we are negotiating over, we made it clear that this was to be our highest and best offer; take it or leave it. We really have no idea what the seller will do.

Sorry to be so vague about the details, but I'm not comfortable posting any of the particulars until after it closes or falls apart. More to come soon, though, I promise...

Itsy Bitsy

For years I've been daydreaming of a small detached studio space where I could read, draw, paint, or just let my mind wander. Think beachy, airy surf shed meets cozy, intimate retreat space. But, like I said, it's only been a fantasy. In the past, two things have mainly gotten in the way of my whimsical work area idea; either I wasn't living in a property with a suitable yard or I had too much square footage (because I was living alone and couldn't justify an additional outdoor office space) inside of my home.

Well, that may be changing. Most of the places we're looking at in North Florida either have detached garages, sheds, or patio areas, which would be perfect for my mini library plans. My mind has been racing lately with visions of an overstuffed chair surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves flooded with natural light. Perhaps a matchbox size window bench with an easel that pulls out of the wall and some tiny built-in speakers? A little pitched roof with loads of flowers, of course, and maybe a little mint in the window for sensory enjoyment? Or maybe the entire place unfolds in some magical way, opening with barn doors or a detachable skylight, like a little jewelry box...

This sixty four square foot home in South Carolina has been inspiring me lately, as well.

Say Anything: 4

"I'm not satisfied with the explanations that I get from television or from school." Erykah Badu

First Bag Of Mail: Demolishing Tile

Hi Kelly! :) I have a quick question for you. My boyfriend and I are doing some do-it-yourself renovations to his house. We want to tear up the tile on the floor in his kitchen/dining room. He thinks it's ceramic and he says that it's sealed. As someone who fixes up houses, what would you suggest would be the most effective way to go about this? Our ultimate goal is to stain the concrete throughout his house. Any advice would be appreciated. (Ever think about doing a question and answer section in your blog?) By the way, you are a great read!

Happy Sunday,
Ann
Ann's Bag Of Goodies

So, Ann, you want to know about the lovely process of demolishing tile, do you? Well. Are you ready for a good time? Is your refrigerator stocked with beer? Are the little ones pre-occupied? Is your patience properly in place? Once you've checked yes to all of the above, there are a few ways you can go about this process. I highly recommend the first one.

1. I know most of your project is intended to be do-it-yourself, but you really should consider paying someone to demolish the tile. If you ask me, it is well worth the approximately $1.00 per square foot that I usually get away with paying. I just use a handyman since there isn't a lot of training or skill required to get the job done. Let them give you the price for the job then offer to remove the tile and dump it yourself. Use this as a negotiating tool. Paying someone to do it could save you a lot of time and, depending your level of experience, many cuts and bruises. Also, instead of finding your local dumpsite for the dropoff, try tooling around your neighborhood to see if anyone else is doing a renovation or dumping that they'll let you piggy-back on. It'll save you both a few dollars.

2. It is possible to use the old sledgehammer and flat bladed chisel for the job, but keep in mind how large the area is and how old your kneecaps are. (I have no idea what your age is, so don't take that personally. I'm only thirty, but my knees have suffered over two decades of running so they're probably as rickety as your grandmother's.) If you decide to go this route, let me warn you that this is about as much fun as eating sand. Actually, I take that back. Eating sand is way better.

3. This is the option that most do-it-yourselvers (I'm aware of that's not a real word) I know choose to do. Rent a demolition hammer. An electric jackhammer will get the job done faster than any other destruction method you can employ by hand, and your boyfriend will probably have a good 'ole time doing it. You can rent one for less than $100 a day, which should be plenty of time to knock it all out. The problem with this method, in my experience, is flying shards of sharp tile plus inexperienced operators. I've never seen someone try this for the first time that DIDN'T end up cut up at the end of the day. If you're going to do this, for crying out loud, wear pants, goggles, gloves and have a really ugly face. Because if you cut up your pretty mug on account of a suggestion of mine, I will feel mucho terrible. Probably. So in other words, please refer to my first suggestion.



Next, a few more things to keep in mind:

1. This will be dirty. Dirtier than a raunchy magazine rack. The amount of dust and debris will surprise you, I promise. Cover everything in your house that's not in the demolition area, including taping off all doors with plastic. After you're finished, you should strongly consider having your air conditioning vents professionally cleaned.

2. A lot of times the tile will just pop up once the grout has been removed. So it makes sense to tackle the grout first, then try to get underneath the tile.

3. The sealant that you mentioned on the existing tile was most likely a clear formula mopped over the it to protect the porous nature of the material. It shouldn't have any bearing on the removal.

4. This is a good resource to check out tools of the trade.

Lastly, in terms of staining concrete:

I adore stained concrete. There are so many directions that you can go with it, and I love the look and feel of concrete. I have had a bit of a nightmarish experience with staining it, though. During my last year of architecture school, I was working on my very first private commission, which was a home in the South Florida community of Lighthouse Point. Inspired by some retail floors she'd seen that were stained concrete, the owner had a company (that she hand picked out of Texas who specialized in staining concrete) come out to apply stain her slab. The first problem was that leveling and prepping the floors was quite a chore. There was some existing settlement, and even after we floated them, they were never quite perfect. Keep that in mind. The next problem came to my attention recently. While working with her last year on another project, I went to her home for the first time in years and got a good look at the floor. I was so disappointed to see how the sun had caused extensive uneven fading of the stain. If I had known it would change the character of the color so drastically over time, we might have considered a lighter stain with just a high gloss seal of some type. So those are a couple of issues that I'd want to be aware of moving forward if I were you.

I hope this answered your question, Ann?

Good luck with your floors!

Better Than Funny

So tonight Andrew and I decided to check out a movie the old school way. We threw a few pillows into the backseat, picked up some dinner (chicken and carrot cake) from the grocery store, and hopped on Interstate 95 to trek over to the only big screens in the great outdoors that I know of in the South Florida area.

The drive-in that we go to isn't of the nostalgic throwback feel that you might be envisioning. Actually, it's probably closer to something out of an inner city gang movie like Boyz In The Hood. Think rough. Still, for no particular reason, there's something about sitting under the stars with a sea of other cars, the hatch popped open, a breeze floating through the backseat, stretching out on my own comforter that makes me feel completely at ease.

Andrew thought we were going to get robbed.

When we arrived at The Ghetto Theatre, we followed the cones and signs directing us to the ticket booth, and a hispanic woman with sparkly eyeshadow (it looked like her eyelids were bedazzled shut) and Orphan Annie red hair motioned for us to roll down our window.

"Two for Julie & Julia, please."

"I'm sorry, that's not playing tonight."

"But I saw it on Fandango."

"I know, I know. We had it advertised everywhere. But they never sent it to us. There was some sort of mistake."

After some hemming and hawing we both settled on Funny People, the Adam Sandler and Seth Rogan flick about a comedian who becomes terminally ill. Andrew and I didn't know much more about the movie than the names of the two main stars, neither of whom we're huge fans of.

I'm not going to launch into a big movie review that will spoil the ending for you, but let me just say this: go see it. Really. Especially if this post resonated with you at all. It's such a fantastically told story of self realization and getting older. I was shocked at the level of acting out of both Adam Sandler and Seth Rogan, and the script was really smart.

If you do go see it, let me know what you think. Oh, and if you're going to the drive-in, LOCK THE DOORS.

Pearl Collects Rent

The Landlord from Will Ferrell

Say Anything: 3

"I'm much more myself. I'm comfortable with who I really am. It's very disappointing for people. I don't walk around all day thinking about romantic french poetry and writing songs. Actually, it's a very small part of my life." Robert Smith

Say Anything: 2

"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight." E.E. Cummings

Say Anything: 1

"Now in the reality I built for myself, what did I do? I took one tone. I gave the work order; I neutralized it by one tone. One of the reasons I originally started with black was to see the forms more clearly. Black seemed the strongest and clearest. But then somehow as I worked and worked and worked it pleased me. You see, one way about my thinking -- I didn't want it to be sculpture and I didn't want it to be painting... But -- the thing is that it's something beyond that we make. My work has never been black to me to begin with. I never think of it that way. I don't make sculpture and it isn't black and it isn't wood or anything, because I wanted something else. I wanted an essence." Louise Nevelson

Lease Agreements

With all of our vacancies, I've got contracts on my mind.

When writing a lease, these are a few extra things that I like to include in my agreement:

1. Please supply the name of your bank, account number, and social security number below*.
2. There will be a fee of $100, to be considered as additional rent**, for each returned check.
3. Lessee shall install and maintain hurricane shutters on the premises at all times a hurricane is in the box or shall be strictly liable for all windstorm damage to the premises.***
4. Lessee grants lessor a lien on any tax refund for any amounts due and owing.
5. The failure of Lessor to enforce any provision of this agreement or applicable law shall not act as a waiver of any future right to strictly enforce the same.
6. This lease constitutes the entire agreement between the parties hereto.
7. Lessor or Lessor's representative will provide 24 hours verbal notification when entering the residence. No notification is required when entering to maintain or repair property.*****
8. Pets are prohibited, unless approved by Lessor in writing.



9. Lessee authorizes Lessor to run a credit report and background check.
10. Lessees accept the premises in "as-is" condition as of this date. Lessor's obligation to maintain the Leased Premises is waived.

Although I could have many times, I've rarely enforced any of these. But it's still a good idea to protect yourself, you know?



*This is important since evicted tenants often change their bank and place of employment to avoid being tracked down.
**When posting a 3 day notice only rent, no other damages, can be listed as the amount due. Listing additional fees will cause the court to kick back your request.
***Help your tenants' put up their hurricane shutters. It's just the right thing to do.
*****Leaving a personal item, such as a piece of furniture, in the property will also grant you access to the residence automatically.

*I am not an attorney. For legal advice, please seek qualified legal counsel.*

Linked

I'm sure you've figured out that this is my first go at blogging. In fact, if you’ve stopped by a time or two over the last couple of weeks, you’ve probably picked up on a few other things, as well.

First, I rarely edit. What makes it onto these pages is usually pretty raw, in terms of thought, form, and composure. Second, unlike a lot of blogs written by women around my age, you won't hear a great deal about my family, save the new husband. I don't have a brood of rugrats under my feet, unless you count the four dogs, and my parents and siblings have played bit parts in my life over the last decade or so, at best. So besides the star players, which would be the houses, you get to hear way more about yours truly than you can possibly want to know.

Well, today is a bit different. This post was written, then deleted, then rewritten, then edited intensely. Then it was scrapped entirely and started all over again. I wasn’t sure the subject matter was completely on point, but it seems impossible to let the day pass without some sort of recognition. And in a way, it may have much more to do with how this blog came to be than even I understand.

Today’s post is about one guy. Happy Birthday, Dad.
__________

A few years ago I ended up at a party downtown full of hedge fund managers and investment bankers. It was in a high-rise building off of the river with a crowd that, for the most part, had at least a decade or two on me. I didn’t know a single guest there except the person I’d tagged along with. He seemed to be the whale of the group -- the guy everyone wanted a few minutes with -- and before long I found myself flying solo by the refreshments checking out the impressive selection of over a dozen different chocolates and more types of cheeses than are necessary for any one get together.

I chatted it up with a few people; a guy recently engaged from Texas, a receptionist who was there on a date, an attorney who was a friend of the host. Just as I was about to make my obligatory check in and down a second glass of wine, I met him. My most interesting conversation of the evening, that is.

He couldn’t have been much taller than the five feet that I stand since I could look him directly in the eye without raising my head. He had the telling lack of lids and stick straight coal colored hair of my heritage. He was thin, and introduced himself like a well tailored resume, with the sort of confidence that his title carries. And he was a year older than me and also from the West County suburbs of Saint Louis.

Oh, really?

Yes, his family had immigrated there when he was a child, opening a dry cleaning shop near my hometown where he’d worked with them day and night, when he wasn’t in school, until he’d graduated and was accepted into Harvard where he went on to pursue his MBA. It eventually opened up the opportunity he took in Palm Beach, which is how he came to be at the same party as me.

I was enthralled, to say the least. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to know what China was like. I was completely captivated by his childhood of standing on street corners selling cigarettes to help feed his family. I wanted to know if it had been difficult for him to learn English or hard when he’d come to the States. I wanted to know what he thought of American politics and if he considered himself assimilated. I wanted to know if he’d thought about going to Asia again, if he’d take his children back if he had any, and if his family ever thought about visiting. For hours, he and I were holed up in a corner with me asking every personal question under the sun about what had brought him here, to this place in his life, literally and figuratively. He seemed to thrive on the attention, standing taller and spreading his arms widely as he spoke, and was all too happy to indulge me with his complete autobiography.

The truth is, though, that my fascination wasn’t with him at all, really. My interest had much more of a personal purpose than he realized. Actually, maybe even more than I realized, as well.

Near the end of our conversation I casually mentioned that my father was Dutch Chinese Indonesian and that my grandmother was Chinese Indonesian and my grandfather was Dutch Indonesian. Surprised by this revelation, probably because of my girl-next-door-looks, I might as well have told him that he was my long lost brother. Immediately, there was a bond. With his prodding, I slowly shared more. I told him of my father’s childhood home in Indonesia being invaded during World War II and how his family had been captured. My father was eight years old. For the next four and a half years he lived in a concentration camp with his younger siblings and his pregnant mother, who passed away during childbirth not long after being imprisoned. At one point, my father and his brother, Paul, became very sick from wading through diseased creek waters attempting to steal rice and soy sauce from the camp’s soldiers, in order to keep his brothers and sisters from starving to death. Luckily, a young Indonesian woman in the camp cared for him and Paul, and was able to nurse them back to health.

He would never forget her kindness.

At the end of the war, the camp was liberated, and the nurse took the motherless children to Amsterdam where they were eventually reunited with their father. My grandfather, overwhelmingly indebted to this young woman who had kept his children alive, expressed his immeasurable gratitude –- and he married the nurse. The family lived in Amsterdam and Enschede, where many of them continue to reside today. My father worked in the shipyards as a young man and was able to earn his fare to the United States, where he became a citizen. Years later, he met my much younger mother, and they had four children and thirteen years of marriage before they parted ways.

As I relayed this family history, I watched Mr. Harvard's face light up, and he chuckled as soon as I told him that I was Indonesian. He looked down with a grin and stirred the ice cubes in his drink. A few times he nodded knowingly.

“You wouldn’t have guessed it, huh?” I said, used to the same reaction in the past. “My mother is sort of a European mutt, mostly Swedish and Irish I think, so I can thank her for my skin tone and big eyes. It’s funny; I have one sister who has blonde hair and freckles and another who had the nickname in high school of Pocahontas for her jet black hair and dark tan.”

“No, no, I see it a little. That’s not why I was laughing, though. It’s the way you are. Your personality is, well, very Indonesian,” he said. I had no idea what that meant. I had never met any other Indonesians besides my father’s family and friends. He noticed my puzzled look and tried to explain. “You see, I knew a lot of Indonesians in China. It’s a different culture. They are… how do you say the word? They are very full of life. Very alive. Vocal. Colorful. Passionate.” He tipped his glass toward me. “That’s the word. You are full of passion.”
__________

“Kell, you are a carbon copy of me. A carbon copy. You are just like me. You are my blood.”

I wish I could say that I remember playing ball with my dad in the backyard or that he and I went to a Father Daughter Dance together. Sometimes I’m a bit nostalgic that he never met any of my dates in high school or read me to sleep as a child. But we didn’t have that kind of relationship. It would be easy to blame it on the divorce or the fact that he was a workaholic, but honestly, I’m not sure that the disconnect was that simple.

What I do remember about my dad is that he was one of the hardest working survivors I’ve ever known. The stories he told me as a little girl weren’t fairytales, they were nightmares of a prison camp that warned me of a world that I couldn’t even imagine outside of our relatively cushy suburban lifestyle. He told me of a place and time that is difficult to envision but unfortunately too possible, one that he refused to relive when I became an adult and encouraged him to record his memories. (It was easier to share them with me when I was young enough to consider Twinkies sought after cuisine.) I also remember when I was around five years old or so and told him that I wanted to become a waitress when I grew up. He shook his head and said, "Electrical engineer." I remember that he ate duck eggs and painted the tree trunks in our front yard white. He wore cheap brown sandals and drank a lot of coffee. These are my memories of my father.

Sometimes lately when I’m reminiscing, I think of that conversation at the hedge fund party, and I wonder what these memories add up to and if they link us together at all. I think about the way that the guy at the party looked at me with a sense of familiarity, a sort of knowing, after I’d told him about my dad. And sometimes I swear that I can almost hear my father speaking to me. Saying the only words he repeated again and again throughout my life, “Kell, you are a carbon copy of me. A carbon copy. You are just like me. You are my blood.” Kell, you are a carbon copy of me. A carbon copy. You are just like me. You are my blood. Those are the words that, for some reason, I always immediately dismissed.

My father passed away this year on New Year’s Day. Our relationship hadn’t grown much over my adulthood, and even though I knew it was coming, I wasn’t by his side when he died. As harsh as it might sound, I guess I never felt that we had much in common past some DNA and a few social and historical threads still winding throughout our lives. Mourning his death has been an odd process.

Since he’s died, I’ve slowly begun to realize how much of him I’ve come to mirror in my adult life, and I don’t quite know what to make of it. Although I’m certain I must have, I can’t actually remember spending an entire day with him –- not once in my life -– and, yet, I somehow manage to relive his presence all the time through traits I’ve spent most of my twenties denying. Until somewhat recently, I had turned into the father I remember who left in the morning before dawn, never came home from work in time for dinner, and lived off of coffee and stark television news. There are other parallels, too. When I’m asked where I learned to paint or draw, and I have to explain that I have no idea -- that one day I simply picked up a brush and the results poured from me as naturally as if I’d been doing it my entire life and beyond, that I couldn’t even control what was on the canvas, and that I was secretly amazed and even pleased at the images –- that all I know is my father painted every Sunday until he was bedridden from chemotherapy. I got chills when I discovered, only after his death, that he and I shared such similar professional beginnings; he started as a draftsman when he came to this country, working on construction documents for an architect, until he was later picked up for a career with the airlines. Or how about the fact that he lived in the United States for over half a century yet lacked a basic command of the English language, while after five years of French classes I still forget how to properly ask ‘Ou sont les toilettes?’ And how do you explain that he would get up every day and run, well into his seventies, a love of mine that I’ll probably never part with as long as I am physically able?

How can these links be possible with someone I felt I hardly knew?

In the end, I’m not sure what still connects us, and I’m not certain what kept us apart, either. I think that there was too much distance, between my father and I for either of us to span. Our relationship divide was greater than a cultural or generation gap. To a certain degree, it was one of choice. Exactly what the choices were, when they had been made, and who took a stance in what way, I don’t know. I’m not sure those are things that I’ll ever be clear on.
__________

Every now and again, but less and less as I get older, I’ll meet with a contractor, tenant, banker or someone who’s curious about my situation and how I came to buy and renovate properties at such a young age. One gentleman, not too long ago, said as we were finishing up our meeting, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’ve got a lot of chutzpah.” And when he was done tallying notes on his clipboard he asked, “You Italian?”

“No,” I said, reviewing his prices slowly. I looked up. “Indonesian.” And then, after thinking about it for a moment, “Just like my father.”