When discussing the huge influence my family has had on my life, I really don't know where to start. I could easily write a book on the subject. I suppose it goes without saying that the primary influence on any child's life is their parents. Hopefully, without speaking in generalities or in hyperbole, I can make the case that this is true in my case. 

As a young boy, I guess I looked to my father as my role model. I think I still do for the most part, probably more now than ever. As I've gotten older, I can see all that he did to provide for my brother and I, all that he sacrificed and all that he shared. My dad developed polio at a young age, so he grew up an undersized, rather frail boy with a serious case of asthma. I know he's had numerous surgeries to stabilize his back and legs due to the polio. But when I was growing up, he never betrayed any sense of pain or discomfort. He'd always hit me fly balls or play basketball with me, even though I'm sure it wasn't comfortable for him. He always busted his ass to provide for the family. But he was always stern. He would quickly put me in line whenever I stepped out. He had a look of utter disappointment that was just crushing. He rarely ever yelled at my brother and I, but we knew we were in for some hell if we ever saw that look. 

Much like my dad, my mom had to deal with constant discomfort due to her Lupus. She also has a history of back trouble which has laid her up on several occasions. But she always found a way to be a constant, steady and loving influence in our lives. She was my scout master while in Cub Scouts, and for trying to corral that group of kids should have earned her a Noble Prize. She'd always come to my ball games, often keeping score. At home, she was the prototypical mother. She was the one we turned to whenever we needed nurturing, comfort or a damn good meal. 

If there was an downside to living in such a great home, it is that you don't want to leave. And this was the case many times throughout my life. In my early adolescence, I'd often stay at home with my folks rather than go out and hang with friends. That's not to say they were overly protective. They'd often push me into getting out of the house. But I never really saw any reason to, at least until high school.

My parents themselves came from drastically different backgrounds however. My dad's parents are probably some of the sweetest, most genuinely loving people I have ever met. Even after being married for more than 60 years, they still behave like newlyweds. My mom on the other hand had a much rougher go of it. Her father died when she was 11, leaving her with an exceptionally stern mother and four siblings sharing a small trailer on the outskirts of Las Vegas. 

What was remarkable was that her mother turned into such a softy by the time my brother and I were born. Maybe it was because we were her only grandchildren, but we never saw the cold, austere woman my mother so often spoke of. Instead, she was exceptionally sweet. 

Early in 1987, my mom's mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. My mother spent most of that summer in Vegas taking care of her. We'd move into my aunt's house for long stretches of time. Early in July of 87, she decided to go on vacation with her husband, so my family had the run of the place. I don't think my brother or myself really appreciated the gravity of the situation, at least I didn't. At all of 9 years old, I didn't realize that I was slowly watching someone die. I knew what cancer was, but for whatever reason, no matter how sick or frail she got, I didn't worry that I was spending my last days with my grandmother. I always thought she would just get well. 

I don't recall if my parents ever sat my brother and I down and explained the situation to us or not. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that she was not going to make it. By that point, the cancer had spread all over her body. All we could really do was make her final days as pleasant as possible. 

So, my brother and I would occupy ourselves the best we could, often by watching Cub's games on WGN. My dad would take us around Vegas, showing us the sights and taking us to my favorite place in all of Nevada: the Clark County Natural History Museum. 

One saturday I begged my dad to take me to the museum yet again. He obliged. As we were about to leave, my grandmother called me into her room. She was laid up in bed, looking frail and sickly. Her hair never really grew back after her chemo treatments. She asked me where we were going and I told her. She then dug out some money from her purse and gave it to me, saying with a smile, "I'm probably not going to be around for your birthday, so go get yourself something." I stood there for a moment, flabbergasted. I didn't know how to react. She laid there for a moment, smiling, then told me to get going and have a good time. 

After we went to the museum, my dad took me by Gemco or Target and I picked out a toy to buy with my grandma's money. As soon as we got back, she called me into her room again, and asked me to show her what I had gotten. I don't remember exactly what I got, but she was fascinated by it. It was probably the last joyful moment we shared together. 

My aunt returned shortly thereafter, so we went back up to Sacramento. All seemed well for a spell, then my mom flew back down to Vegas. Soon afterward, my dad called my brother and I at home. Our grandmother had died.   

When my mom used to tell me the horror stories of her youth, she'd always end them with, "...and I promised myself that I would never raise my own children that way." Thankfully for my brother and I, she held true to her promise. Yet, despite the scars of her own childhood, she never held any bitterness towards her own mother, especially during that summer. She gave everything of herself to care for her. 

And yet, it still didn't seem real to me. We flew back to Vegas a couple days later and drove directly to the viewing. I remember my grandmother was wearing a wig to cover her patchy hair. She was plastered with tan make up. She looked more like a wax statue than the woman I remembered. Everything was so unreal, as if that wasn't her lying there. 

And then I saw my mother cry. Up to that moment, I don't think I had seen my mother cry at all, not that summer, not ever. It took placing a rose into my grandmother's casket for my mother to finally break down and for me to realize the finality of everything. I couldn't try and comfort myself with fantasies of her suddenly waking up or being back at my aunt's house, waiting to tell us that it was all a joke. It was the end.