Chapter One “ The Man that Loved Me” A Memoir of a Father’s Love”

My dad was filled with pure love. And because he was, he expanded—curious, mysterious, and full of life. He loved deep conversations, the kind that stretched long into the midnight hours. He had three daughters, and he was the best girl dad anyone could ask for.

I was proud of my dad. It wasn’t just that he looked cool—he really, truly was.

When I think back, as far as my memory can reach, I remember the rabbits he used in his magic shows. Oh yes, did I mention? He was a magician. That was the beginning of my life with him—a world of wonder and imagination.

Growing up, I assumed that adulthood and responsibility would push him toward something more “practical” than YMCA magic shows. But he never gave it up. He performed magic his whole life.

I remember the rabbits, yes, but more than that, I remember the closet. It was under the basement stairs, and inside it lived a box of enchantment. That box held some of the best memories a little girl could have:

The magician’s hat—I loved how it popped open like it held secrets.

The silk handkerchiefs—colorful and endless.

The magic wand—oh, how I loved to twirl it, making wishes like spells.

But one thing in that box got me into trouble more than once: the magician’s handcuffs. I’d show them off to friends, even cousins. A few times my mother had to drive us to my dad’s print shop, where he would magically unlock us—every time.

He fascinated me. He fascinated everyone lucky enough to know that side of him.

It started, he’d tell me, on the bus rides to Detroit when he worked in the women’s shoe department at J.L. Hudson. He entertained fellow passengers with card tricks and sleight of hand. Later, he took his magic on a ship across the ocean, traveling alone to Italy—to marry his bride, my mother.

On that ship to Italy, he told me, he met so many people—and yes, they were fascinated by him. He had that magician’s way of moving about, like he was gliding in rhythm with something unseen. His hands were quicker than the eye, and when he pulled money from thin air, he said some of the older ladies would clutch their handbags a little tighter, with fear that he could remove the coins in their bags. He made memories with whoever he encountered, he always talked about sitting at the captain’s table, and yes, something about my dad kept people interested.

He laughed when he told that story, but even in the laughter, you could hear the magic. He left a legacy with moments like that—not just for strangers on a ship across the ocean, but for everyone: family, friends, children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren.

And yet, that was only a fraction of who he was.

I loved how he played his guitar—perched on the floor against the couch, barefoot, wearing a funky shirt with half the buttons undone. The guitar always sat soft in his hands, like an extension of him. A cigarette would dangle from his lips as he strummed gently, even with the television buzzing in the background. That was my dad.

Another piece of him lived through his cameras. He loved photography—not just snapping pictures but understanding the camera. He studied its functions and sought out the most interesting subjects.

And of course, we had to pose. A lot.

He could use a whole roll of film on a single butterfly. I remember one day so clearly—he spotted one fluttering through our backyard and sent me running to the corner store for more film.

Then there was the fire. It broke out in the field behind our house. While I panicked and called the fire department, he stood there with his camera in hand, still hoping for the perfect shot. He wasn’t too thrilled with me that day. But it became one of those stories we never forgot.