November 1, 1975. I was sitting on my bike seat with my feet touching the ground. Just sitting there deciding what to do next. The bike was a red Schwinn 5-speed Stingray. The gear shift sat on the crossbar with a big black “5” on it. I was probably leaning back on the banana seat, spinning the sissy bars around when all of a sudden I looked up and saw my dad drive the Volvo down Las Positas toward the stop light at State Street.

My heart leaped! It wasn’t often that I just saw my dad away from home without knowing I was going to see him. I raced down the path, across the TG & Y parking lot, keeping my eyes on his car as he turned left on State. I was a few cars behind him, riding the wrong direction on the sidewalk, and saw him turn left on Broadmoor Plaza. I knew that street was a dead end so I was sure that I would catch him!

What a thrill it would be to see him! How happy he would be to see me! I wondered where he was going? I was about 100 yards behind him when his brakes lights went on as he neared the cul-de-sac. Then it hit me: he was moving out. I had been pedaling pretty hard so as I glided closer and closer to him I realized that it hadn’t been such a good idea to follow him. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a thrill to see him. Maybe he wouldn’t be happy to see me.

As my bike came within feet of the Volvo he was just stepping out of it. He looked at me and his face sank. He most definitely did NOT want me to see him moving out.

“Oh, hi dear.” Big sigh. “I didn’t want you to be a part of my moving out”.

“It’s ok, dad. I can help you!”.

I don’t remember pedaling back that day but I am pretty sure my vision was impaired by the tears I had held in while I helped him carry boxes up the stairs into his apartment.