A Man of Unconventional Integrity

The one-year anniversary of my father’s death was March 13th. To honor the memory of his life and passing, I’m reposting this.

Thank you to those who answered my note to read this.

This particular memorial piece about my father has been on my mind for 2 months. After Dad’s funeral was canceled due to the coronavirus, this idea came to mind during the drive back to Portland from Florida. The theme is difficult, and I’ve struggled to find a graceful place to start.

I’m sure a softer, more elegant segue is possible, yet I haven’t been able to figure one out. So this begins with the last authentic connection I had with my brother before he died.

As all of you know, Robert took his life in November 2012. What many of you may not know is that Robert had made a serious attempt with an overdose of pills that almost killed him in January 2010. The reason I mention that is because it’s part of this story.

In October 2012, Robert spent a week alone with Dad at the Rice Diet Center that had once been at Duke University. Going there had been Dad’s protocol whenever his blood sugar got too out of hand, and he needed to get it down and take off some weight. Although Robert also had issues with weight as he got older, this was an unusual move. Robert had struggled in his relationship with Dad for most of his life.

In November, I called Robert to talk to him about making an offer on my house, and asked him about that week with Dad. Robert said the Rice Diet was a special kind of hell before expressing pleasant surprise that the week with Dad had gone well, and that he had enjoyed spending one-on-one time with him.

There must be something about a severe diet restriction of eating only oatmeal, rice, and fruit, while taking out meat, wheat, dairy, fat, alcohol, and sugar that brings out all kinds of feelings. From what Robert told me, those two connected and went deep.

“You know, Mary, for all the therapy and meetings with doctors and psychiatrists, Dad asked me something about my overdose that week which nobody else did. I actually had to think about it before I could answer him.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Robert, before did what you did…taking those pills…what were you thinking?’”

“How many times has Dad thought about offing himself?” I blurted that out before I knew what I was saying.

For once, Robert didn’t tease me about lacking a filter.

“That was the first thing I thought as soon as he asked me that.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute.

“I hope he finds peace someday, Mary. I bet Dad never acted on it because he couldn’t do that to us.”

Robert was probably right, because he usually was about stuff like that.

“How did you answer his question?”

“I told him, ‘I think I just felt so lonely.’”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. He nodded, kind of like he understood.”

Photo by Loni Knehr

I don’t claim to get every word or sentence of a conversation from 7 ½ years ago exactly right. But this is close enough to the last real talk I had with Robert before he died less than 2 weeks later.

Some of you may be shocked that I would disclose something so personal. Please know that I gave this a lot of thought. I considered the personalities of Dad and Robert from various angles and how they would react to me sharing this. And my gut feeling tells me they would be okay with it.

Privacy had never been a top priority in how Dad and Robert approached life, and both of them were remarkably open people. I believe they’d even be supportive, especially knowing the why.

I chose to share that moment between Dad and Robert as it was confided to me because it indicates qualities my father possessed in great measure, which he received little credit for while he was alive – integrity and fortitude.

This is not the only story I could have shared that highlights Dad’s integrity, but it is the only one that immediately came to mind that didn’t hang somebody else out to dry. Dad would never have consented to me sharing anything like that.

This memorial is the 2nd of 3 pieces I’m working on to remember Dad and say good-bye in a way that honors him as he has deserved for a long time. The 1st and 3rd (not yet written) are intended for an audience of friends and family who knew my father, and loved him.

However, this piece is written for those who didn’t.

Besides Robert’s friends and mine, if you received a link to this, you were a part of the College Park/Winter Park/Country Club social group from my adolescence, and you happen to be one of my Facebook friends. It’s a short list – only 6 of you.

Some of your parents judged my father none too kindly, and in some cases, that judgment passed down to some of you. For the record, I don’t have an issue with anybody who didn’t see Dad in a favorable light. And if I did, that would make me a hypocrite.

For decades, a lot of people thought of Dad as an immoral-sonofabitch-who-didn’t-give-a-damn-about-anybody-but-himself. Unfortunately, my brothers and I were a part of that, and we treated Dad like shit for a long time.

I’m ashamed of that. In many respects, I realize this wasn’t my fault. I was way too young to deal with those aspects of my parents’ marriage and divorce that should have stayed between them. As was Robert. Chances are excellent that some of your judgment about Dad came from us. I remember confiding – or venting, really – to some of you when I was a kid. And I know Robert did his fair share too.

The question asked of me about my father the most often throughout my life was: “How can you respect him?”

My answer? I respect my father from the depths of my soul.

I wouldn’t have said that until a little over 10 years ago.  

Dad is not an easy man to defend. He was pretty scandalous back in the day. His excesses were shocking, and as a husband, he put both Mom and Terry through the wringer. I’m not making excuses for his flaws. But I am saying his flaws were not the truth of who he was.

It’s a hard sell in some ways to present Dad as a man of substance and strong character. Dad did not live by the classical checklist of good behavior. Monogamy was not one of his virtues. Neither were abstinence, moderation, or equanimity. His vices and lesser moments were often in the spotlight, whereas his qualities were behind the scenes.

And that’s the kicker. Integrity comes in many forms and so many people don’t know that Dad was an awesome person who had his standards that he lived by because he held the best parts of himself inside, and did what he did without drawing attention to it.

Today is Robert’s birthday. I’m pretty sure he would have liked it if y’all would give your time to learn about some of Dad’s finer attributes. I know I would.

Tolerance:

Dad was one of the most accepting, live-and-let-live people I’ve ever known. He took people as they were, and was not one to judge and point fingers. He was also friends with gays (through Terry) and lesbians (through the bridge world) for decades.

About 15 years ago, a friend and I went to see Dad and Terry at their place in Lake Tahoe to go snowboarding and celebrate New Year’s. Friends of theirs, Hugh and Barbara Jones, were also going to be there.

My early attempts at coming out as bisexual/queer/gay had been often brushed off with “Oh Mary!” until my brothers started gossiping about it. Anyway, Jenn and I had been very close, but not as a couple. However, Dad didn’t know that because rumor had it otherwise.

When I talked to him about coming, Dad informed me that Hugh and Barbara would have the room with twin beds. When he pointed out that Jenn and I would be in the room with a double bed, he talked fast and stammered a lot like he always did when he was nervous.

That made me wonder, but whatever.

So Jenn and I went to Tahoe where Dad and Terry, and Hugh and Barbara thought we were a couple. That really wasn’t as awkward as it sounds. Except for a head-scratching moment here and there, like when Terry said she loved Jenn because she could see how much Jenn loved me – a good time was had by all, Jenn gave me some good pointers on riding my board, and later, I figured out what everybody had been thinking.

But the lasting impression that stayed with me was Dad’s immediate acceptance and support. Without saying a word, the message I received from him was “All good here. I just want you to be happy.”

That kind of puts him way ahead of his time, don’t you think?

Wisdom:

Dad was one of those who watched the goings on around him and kept his mouth shut. Really, that is a magnificently subtle act of wisdom in and of itself. God knows how many hassles and minefields he side-stepped because of that MO. But Dad never fought battles he knew he’d never win, and he tried to teach me to do the same.

But some lessons need to be learned the hard way. It hasn’t been until recently that I understood his reasons behind that.

By the way, when he did speak his mind about a person or a situation, Dad was seldom wrong. He pretty much called it every time. The first memorial piece I wrote tells those stories about Dad and his sage take on things. I’ll embed the link at the end of this for anybody who would like to keep reading and check it out.

Sensitivity:

Where do you think Robert got his sensitivity from?

Because of the nature of what’s expected of men of his generation and his life in business, this was not a side of Dad that was often seen. His presence was imposing, and I’ve lost count of all the times people have told me that my father intimidated or scared the hell out of them. That image was nothing more than an illusion.

The reality was that Dad was extremely shy, he struggled to connect emotionally, and his feelings were easily hurt. But he also hurt when he witnessed the suffering of others. One time, when we were out to lunch, he told me about an acquaintance who was terrified because his retirement did not last him the rest of his life. His wife had gotten ill and died, which ate up a lot of money, he was nearly out, and didn’t know what he was going to do.

“He said he retired with $2.5 million. You would think that’d be more than enough for anything that would come up, but it wasn’t.”

Dad was shocked and clearly upset about this man’s predicament, someone who was not a close friend, somebody he knew casually.

Forthrightness:

Once I was an adult, Mom shared more with me about the last two weeks of their marriage before Dad moved out. At this point, both were ready to stop lying to themselves and talked long into the night, every night, after putting us to bed.

Mom said she wanted Dad home more and no more mistresses.

Dad said: “That’s the nature of the beast and I’m not going to change. Your choice is whether you can live with it or not.” He was never one to mince words.

Of course that was not the answer Mom wanted. But Dad gave her the truth and there’s something to be said for that.

Which brings me to…

Honesty:

And at his core, he was. When he wasn’t covering his ass in his personal life, Dad was as honest as they came.

Years ago, I was knee deep in conversation about our families with somebody from this social group. The flow of conversation took an unexpected turn when she asked me if Dad had ever been in the mafia. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?! The closest Dad ever came to being in the mafia was watching The Godfather too many times.”

“But how did he get in?” (making connections to do business in Florida)

“Bill Demetree. And they don’t get more pure or morally upright than him.”

Where business was concerned, Mrs. Demetree once told me that Mr. Demetree had always felt at ease in his dealings with my family. She said: “Bill always said: “I never have to worry about a thing whenever I do business with the Mahaffeys.’”

Is it so hard to believe doors would open readily for a man like this?

Drive:

In regards to that conversation, the woman I was talking to nodded, and we moved on to other subjects. There had been no malice or spite in her manner, only curiosity. I appreciate that she had been open with me like that.

But that stuck with me; and the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.

Although it’s possible her perception of Dad came solely from her imagination, I have always found that most of our opinions and beliefs are formed within the collective of which we are a part. I can’t help but wonder about the source where she came up with my father and the mafia.

It’s one thing to judge Dad for things he actually did. It’s another to strip him of the recognition for spectacular achievements that he earned legitimately. That is going way too far.

Carlton Towers Opening, St. Petersburg Times - Dad, Mom, Nana, Dado.

As ugly and acrimonious as my parents’ divorce had been, Mom always gave Dad credit for his work ethic, and the 20 hard years of working his butt off to build up the family company. So it never occurred to me that others wouldn’t.

Dad was a self-made man in the truest sense of that phrase. Nobody becomes that without intense drive, focus, the willingness to work hard, not to mention the gift of high intelligence.

Dad might have been crazy sometimes, but he was always brilliant. The Mahaffey Company would never have happened without him.

And last but not least…

Fortitude:

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of ‘fortitude’ is emotional endurance, the kind of strength that lasts over a long period of time. To be sure, I googled the definition and found “courage in pain or adversity.”

Not what I expected, but I don’t think one cancels out the other. To combine both, there is no denying that Dad showed courage in pain and adversity that he endured for about half his life.

Try to imagine what it would be like to go through life and not be seen for who you truly are. Try to imagine what it would be like to know that your reputation marks you as a piece of shit - and your kids believe it - all while knowing you are a better person. Try to imagine what it would be like to know there’s nothing you can do about it. If you tried to defend yourself, speak up with your side of the story, you’d know it would be ineffective and you’d only appear weak.

So what comes to mind? Think you can live with that? Dad did for over 40 years.

Robert was the first to acknowledge there was more to Dad than all the reasons he was so angry with him.

“I found out that Dad was far more honorable than any of us ever knew.”

Robert did not elaborate about what he meant by that, but I suspect he heard some stories after he went to work for the company. One thing is for certain, Dad never abandoned his kids. As unkindly as we treated him, he never closed the door on us.

Even if our opinions of him improved over time, a lot of damage had already been done. It’s impossible to get those years back with the original bonds intact. There was always distance between us and him. For somebody like Dad, who struggled to forge the connection he craved, that had to have been excruciating.

Kind of puts a different spin on the driving force behind his excesses and lesser moments, doesn’t it?

I don’t know if this will shift anybody’s opinion of my father for the better. But I’d like to think that maybe some kindness, compassion, and even respect would be inspired for this complicated man, this wounded soul, and multi-faceted human being who had been strong enough to live through his hell.

I haven’t been a christian for a long time, but I remember it clearly stated in the bible to not judge, and this is why. Human understanding is too meager for anybody to qualify for that job.

At the end of the road, we all need redemption.

Dad wasn’t only a better man than anybody knew. He was extraordinary.

If you’ve come this far, thank you so much for your time and attention. If you feel so moved, please share this with others and pass it on.

Peace.

Here is “Nuggets of Wisdom From My Father” if you’d like to read it.

The Most Precious Gift From My Father

Today is my father’s birthday.

 

Dad passed away on Friday the 13th in March of this year.

 

I’ve been meaning to write this piece for months. I wrote 2 other pieces about him after he died. The 2nd was the most grueling and most cathartic. I thought this piece would come easily afterwards.

 

It probably would have if I had gotten on it immediately.

 

But I took a week to decompress. In that time, George Floyd was killed by the police, and all hell broke loose.

 

Suddenly, I was very uncomfortable, and even ashamed, to write this piece honoring the man who had gave me the freedom I’ve enjoyed for all of my adult life – especially when confronted with the harsh reality of a race of people for whom freedom has always been a more limited resource.

 

Today, that feels a little different. Tomorrow is a crucial election, and freedom, as Americans have always known it, is on the line.

 

Most people who would find an interest in this piece would likely disagree with that opinion, or they would agree from the opposite point-of-view to mine. The strangest irony is that Dad would have been one of them.

 

But this piece is not about politics, the pandemic, civil unrest, or Black Lives Matter. I give my nod to the historical importance of what is going on in this country at this time, because regardless of what side one is on, everybody is terrified of what is here and now, and what lies ahead.

 

This piece is about my father, and that precious gift of freedom I mentioned. Time to segue.

 

It started with my choice of college.

 

As with many other stories I’ve already shared, this one about my father also involves my mother.

 

I don’t know where this inspiration came from. Perhaps singing John Denver songs every summer at camp, where his reverence for all things Colorado and the Rocky Mountain High sunk its claws into my unconscious.

 

All I know is one day when I started to think about college, and where I wanted to go, “Colorado” popped into my mind.

 

Suddenly, I wanted to go to college in a state I had never been so bad it hurt.

 

Mom was livid, and we fought about this for the next 3 years.

 

Mom thought I should go to a small southern women’s college – maybe even her alma mater – or Indiana University. My oldest brother, Jimmy, had been a big man on campus during his time there, and I would have had “an easy 4 years,” as she put it.

 

But I didn’t give a damn. I wanted Colorado and the fights continued.

 

I was stubborn, but Mom was relentless. She wore me out enough that I started to cave by the summer before my senior year of high school.

 

I started to doubt myself, and the dream of Colorado started to fade. I started to wonder if maybe I wouldn’t have a better time in Indiana.

 

As I mentioned in an earlier piece, Robert and I lived with Dad and Terry during the summers when Mom worked in North Carolina.

 

One evening, Dad and I were alone and he asked me something about college.

 

Dad knew that Mom and I had been battling it out over this. But after the divorce, Dad kept a respectful distance from Mom’s mothering. At least, he did most of the time. He sure as hell didn’t that night.

 

I don’t remember exactly what I said. I think I hemmed and hawed that maybe I should go to Indiana.

 

“GOD DAMMIT!”

 

I think Dad even slammed his arm against the sofa. I was so stunned I couldn’t move, and wondered what the hell I had just said to get in trouble.

 

“No, you’re not!”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t want to go to Indiana! You want to go to Colorado.”

 

“But Mom says-”

 

“I don’t care what your mother says!”

 

I sat there with my mouth hanging open as Dad bellowed that when he was my age, he fought with Dado about where he wanted to go to school. Dado wanted Dad to go to Notre Dame. Dad wanted to go to Tulane in New Orleans.

 

By some miracle, Dad won and went to Tulane. 

 

“This isn’t your mother’s decision,” he ranted, jabbing one finger in the arm of the sofa to emphasize his point. “It’s your education. She’s not paying for your college. I am! So if you want to go to Colorado, that’s where you go!”

 

And I did. The University of Colorado, Boulder is my alma mater.

 

Maybe there really is something about that Rocky Mountain High. Because going to school in Colorado from the end of my teens to my early 20’s changed the entire course of my life.

 

The west is very different from the south. Because of the idyllic, adventurous way of life of skiing, mountaineering, road trips, rafting, and rock climbing, students came from all over the country and the world to be there.

 

The realm of possibility was heady, and like nothing I had ever experienced.

 

I wasn’t even 6 months into my freshman year before everything I wanted out of life changed. There were far too many things to do, places to go, adventures to be had to be satisfied with the conventional and old-fashioned desires I came there with.

 

But I didn’t know any of this on that night when I was an awkward and insecure 17-year old who couldn’t own my right to want what I wanted. All I felt was that ecstatic relief of knowing that somebody had my back. And the joy of knowing I’d go to school in Colorado.

 

As young as I was, I didn’t understand the significance of Dad’s support.

 

But Dad certainly did. I remember how intense he was that night. He was genuinely worked up and even upset on my behalf.  He knew how precious and fleeting those years were, and that I only had that one chance to go to the college of my choice.

 

My life is very different than I thought it would be when I went to the college of my choice all those years ago. Some of my dreams came true. Most of them didn’t. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

I’ve enjoyed more freedom in my life than most people I know. That doesn’t happen without a very strong pair of wings. When Dad supported me in my choice of school, he handed me those wings to fly with.

 

And I’m embarrassed to say that I did not recognize that until after he died.

 

Today is not just Dad’s birthday. It’s also the second day of Dia de los Muertos, what the Catholics call All Souls Day.

 

The Aztecs believed that in those precious 2 days after Halloween, the veil between the living and the dead lifts and our departed can be with us. I haven’t celebrated this since the year Mom died.

 

So tonight I will have the altar ready, with some photos, candles, and feast with my Dad - steak, a baked potato, a heavy red wine, a bottle of Dom, as well as Dad’s favorite snack – Ritz crackers with Peter Pan peanut butter.

 

It’s the least I can do to express my eternal gratitude for something I never thanked him for when he was alive.

 

If the Aztecs are right, he’ll be able to receive my thanks.

Nuggets of Wisdom From My Father

One of my favorite memories of Dad was at my cousin’s wedding.

Tag was the first to get married in our generation of the family. Aunt Ann and Uncle Bill (divorced by this time, but united as Mother and Father of the Groom) went all out.

Tag’s wedding was in an old, cavernous cathedral in Indianapolis. Majestic, with stained glass windows and soaring ceilings, the wedding was elegant and stately.

I was going through a camera-crazy phase. I had a flat, horizontal, Kodak Instamatic with a flash that blinded and stunned. That camera was small, but mighty. And I took pictures of everything.

This was only my second wedding. I didn’t know taking pictures in the middle of a dignified wedding ceremony was not the thing to do because nobody had told me.

So I stood up from the pew right before Tag and JoJo were about to recite their vows, aimed my camera for the altar, and bam!

I sat down next to Dad, who immediately started laughing, and covered his face with his hand in an attempt to hide it.

It didn’t work.

Even though Dad had mastered the art of the near-silent snigger, his quaking shoulders gave him away.

Aunt Ann and Uncle Bill turned around and gave me the look and glared at Dad, who kept laughing.

In fact, Dad didn’t stop laughing for the rest of the ceremony.

Another father would have scolded, reprimanded, or at least corrected their kid for the social gaffe, but not him.

This was not the only time Dad handled something in an unexpected manner.

In high school, I started the unfortunate habit of smoking.

Of course, I got caught.

Robert and I lived with Dad and Terry during the summers while we were in high school when Mom worked in North Carolina. In an attempt to hide my new bad habit, I flushed the cigarette nubs – or thought I did.

Terry saw the bloated butts in my bathroom toilet, and asked me about them. She made it clear she wasn’t big on keeping secrets from Dad, and would tell him.

I was smoking in his boat right before that dreaded conversation.

The boat was a great place to smoke on the sly. The dock was at the end of the backyard, with a shelter over it, and far enough from the house that I could see whoever was coming before they got a good look at me.

Anyway, I remember Dad had his leg in a cast that evening. He’d broken his ankle and then made the injury worse when he had rushed across an airport because he was always late to catch a plane.

As soon as I saw him hobbling down the yard, I tossed my lit cigarette in the water.

Dad raised his brows and didn’t bother making his way to the dock.

“So I hear you started smoking.”

I nodded, my stomach in knots, and wondered how long I would be grounded.

“How much are you smoking per day?”

“I don’t know. Maybe half a pack.”

I didn’t think that was unusual at the time, but damn! That was a helluva lot of smoking for somebody who had started a few months before.

Mom, Dad, and Terry were all smokers. But Dad was the one who wasn’t addicted.

He could smoke Lucky Strike non-filters like a dragon – usually when he was stressed out. But then he’d just stop as if he’d grown bored of it.

“You know, Mary, smoking is a terrible habit and I wish you hadn’t started. But when I was your age, I was allowed to smoke in front of my parents and my teachers. So, if you’re going to smoke, smoke. Don’t sneak around and hide it.”

To Dad’s credit, he kept a straight face and didn’t laugh at the look on mine. I was so floored I couldn’t say a word.

Mom was displeased when she heard because she saw it as giving permission, which made smoking too easy for me.

She had a point.

I did smoke openly from then on until I quit almost 20 years ago, yet I still disagreed with her because I thought it was awesome. I more strongly disagree with Mom now because I know Dad’s approach was not just awesome, but even kind of brilliant.

The choice to smoke was one of my first adult decisions; and even if it was a bad decision, it was mine to make. By stepping aside, Dad settled the responsibility of that choice on me.

Not to mention that sneaking around is degrading. When has that ever motivated anybody to change an unhealthy habit into a wholesome one?

But back to that moment when I was a 16-year-old in a boat, stunned with the realization that I was not in any trouble.

Yeah, I didn’t see that coming.

I guess it’s true what I’ve always heard that we never fully recognize and appreciate the gifts somebody imparted to us until after they’re gone.

Growing up with Dad as my dad was definitely an unusual experience. Jim Mahaffey was not a conventional man by the stretch of even the most vivid imagination, especially considering the time and place he came from.

In many respects, he was light years ahead of his time. His nuggets of wisdom were singular, and I’m fairly certain I could have only learned these particular life lessons from him.

It shouldn’t surprise anybody that one of those wisdom nuggets had to do with money – particularly around lending money.

Over 20 years ago, I worked as a bartender in New Orleans, on Bourbon Street, for the last of the “old-time” families who used to run the French Quarter.

The reward for that job had more to do with the experience of the colorful, crazy characters I worked with. Where money was concerned, I would have made 3 times as much for nearly half the hours at any other bar in the French Quarter.

That bartending gig was the hardest job I ever had, as well as the most demanding and draining. It consumed 50-70 hours of my blood, sweat, and tears every week.

When a “friend,” (not somebody I worked with) had some crisis and asked for a loan of close to a $1000 – the last $1000 I would earn before the miserably hot and slow months of summer – my gut and one of my co-workers said this was a bad idea, but I lent her the money anyway.

It did not end well, and I had no way to get that hard-earned money back.

I was pissed off and bitter about that. And embarrassed.

On my next visit to Florida, I bitched incessantly. Dad listened patiently while I dumped my whines, snivels, and other grievances.

“You never lend money, Mary. Either you give it or you don’t.”

“I didn’t give her the money! That’s-”

He cut me off.

“That’s my point. If somebody asks for a loan, you don’t lend them the money, you give it to them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It would if you’d listen. If you think of every ‘loan’ as a gift, first you have to consider whether you can afford to be so generous. Whenever you lend money, most of the time you won’t get it back. So let it go. Obsessing about it will only make you miserable and crazy.”

Best. Advice. Ever.

That was not the last time I was confronted with somebody asking for a loan here and there. But that perspective transformed how I handled it.

And for the record, I have been paid back almost every time – usually after I had completely forgotten about my gift to them which had been their loan from me.

I did not receive this next wisdom nugget from Dad readily or easily. In fact, I resisted this thing that he lectured me about for most of my life.

Dad had always been a man with a plan. And he asked me about mine pretty much every time I talked to him.

“So…Mary, what’s your plan?”

“Do you have a plan? Well you need a plan, so get with it.”

“This isn’t going to work, Mary. So. What. Is. Your. Plan?”

These were a few of the variations on the same question and my usual reply was a long and drawn out “Daaadddd…” with an eye roll.

I was all for living in the moment. Plans were rigid, and the killer of spontaneity. So I took Dad’s fixation on “having a plan” as a rain on my parade.

Until the night he shared more insight. This was about 7 years ago. Dad was in the hospital and he asked me what my plan was yet again.

“Don’t have one, Dad. Just living.”

“That’s too bad. A Jesuit priest taught me about how crucial it was to have a plan when I was in high school. He said if I always had a plan, I’d be way ahead of 97% of the guys out there.”

“Why?”

“Because most people don’t have one.”

He paused.

“That old Jesuit was right. I’ve met so many of my goals because of that advice. A plan gives you a path to follow and something to work towards.”

“Well, what if you change your mind?”

Dad shrugged.

“That’s okay. Go ahead and change your mind. And come up with a new plan.”

“Oh.”

That shut me up because Dad’s achievements in his lifetime are mind-boggling.

And he always had a plan.

Dad, born James Watson Mahaffey on Day of the Dead - November 2, 1936, took his last breath at 4:10 in the morning on Friday the 13th, March, 2020.

His funeral was supposed to be on March 23rd, but this was also when the coronavirus picked up momentum, and Dad’s memorial was one of many events that got canceled.

At the time, the tentative plan was a postponement of 2-3 months. However, this has shaped up to be such a mess that it could go on much longer than that.

 An indefinite period is a long time to wait to say good-bye, and the limbo of not having a send-off is pretty awful to contemplate.

So, in the meantime, I’ll make use of the internet and my blog in this time of coronavirus to remember Dad in some of his moments of unique glory to wish him safe passage to a place where he can finally rest in peace.

God knows he earned it.

My Ideal Reader Profile

Reader profile? Most promotional emails for writers are bulls**t, but I just received one from a publicist who specializes in indie authors about creating a reader profile to increase book sales and find my audience – or my “true fans.” She referred to specifics that go beyond the basics, that go beyond “women who have hopes and dreams.’

That got my attention. In the mistakes I’ve made in the last 4 ½ years (this does not include the mistakes I made in the decade before that), some things became crystal clear – especially who my audience was NOT.

I discovered my audience was not who I thought they would be. My audience does not comprise upper-middle class women between the ages of 18-40 who have enjoyed the privilege of fairly stable lives with occasional bumps, wobbles, and unexpected twists in the road. That’s not to say that people in that group did not or could not enjoy my work because many of them have; I’m merely saying they didn’t connect deeply with it.

Technically, my genre is fantasy. But that is not the deciding factor in who is likely to love my work.

Loss has been the defining characteristic of my audience. I was surprised to learn that. Over time, I have found the readers who understood the character of Ella Bandita and who resonated with the stories about her were people who had suffered a lot. Gender, age, education, those didn’t matter so much. I’m not talking about mourning over the death of beloved family members of friends, but the kind of pain that involves the loss of self, parts of yourself, or who you thought you always were.

Have your illusions been destroyed?

Have your dreams been lost or even stolen?

Have you had no choice but to reinvent yourself?

In a nutshell, has Life kicked your ass?

Anybody who has answered yes to any of these questions – and likes to read – is a likely member of my natural audience. Given that Ella Bandita was born from the dark side of my soul, who else would make up my “true fans” but those who were also intimately acquainted with their shadows? My natural audience is made up of individuals who have had to work hard to find their place in this world. They are those who have gone through the hell and come out intact.

This is not to say that somebody who has enjoyed a steady, stable life without trauma wouldn’t like or love my work. Grief comes to us through all kinds of paths. There are many ways to be broken open, and the most avid lovers of books are those who need to escape the unhappiness of their own lives. 

I don’t know if there’s a Reddit thread for this or a Facebook group, but I’d be curious how a publicist would handle a reader profile like this one. I doubt that is what this publicist had in mind. Maybe she could tackle it.