Purple haze
Chicken and waffles
Finally hungry for dinner after a ridonkulously amazing brunch at Brown Sugar Kitchen in Oakland. 
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Never too late for the beach
Nice weekend at the WA coast in Long Beach.
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Put a bird on it
My version of “put a bird on it”. I don’t think I waited long enough. 
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Dad
The first time my dad said “I love you” to me on the phone will stick
with me forever. It had been a few years since moving to Seattle and
neither of us had that thing that makes it easy to just pick up the
phone to call a friend or loved one and make conversation. In person, we share that quality that allows people to feel at ease
with us. Our phone calls usually led to stifled conversations about
the weather, that aikido thing I did, how well work is going, or
doctors appointments. The conversations that veered toward
relationships and marriage and children and ultimately the heartfelt
“I love you”, are ones that I can remember and I know I was loved by
the guy I call “Dad”. My dad was a joker and a storyteller. He was someone everyone knew and
said hi to. He was a fixture in the small blue-collar town in New
Jersey, where he owned his restaurant for 40 years. He would walk
around the restaurant and start conversations, remember who and what
happened with customers, whether they were 3x per weekers or
once-a-monthers. It’s why last year at his funeral, the mayor of the
town offered and provided a police escort for the funeral procession.
And why employees who couldn’t make it to the funeral stood outside
and cried while the Hearst drove by one last time for him to say
goodbye to one of his proudest accomplishments. It’s been a year now since his passing and I found the mourning to be
missing sorrow. It’s hard to feel sorrow when I can still feel his
spirit is strong with us. I know he’d want to be noticed, loved,
appreciated, and even missed a little, but I also know that he would
want us to live our own lives to the fullest, and so I try. I don’t know that I’ll ever understand how he was able to survive and
live with the experiences of his life: leaving a wife and family in
Ukraine as a young man unwilling to fight for the Nazis, surviving
WWII Europe one day at a time to eventually live to see the end of the
war, learning of a son he could not go back to, and making it to the
US with nothing but some dignity and his willingness to work hard.
What I do know and understand is that he enjoyed life to the fullest.
He loved working, building things, and fixing things. He loved his
accomplishments. He loved being with his family and friends. And with 55 years, a war, and a different language separating us,
while frustrating conversations about the same things were more common
than not, the words “I love you,” spoken from the heart and through
the telephone, carry with them the most simple and clear message of
all: love who you are and be proud of the person you are. Dad, thanks for teaching me about being a man. Thanks for teaching me
generosity. Thanks for teaching me how to love unconditionally. I’m
proud of who I am and who I am becoming. I hope someday I can find the words to tell his story more eloquently.
For today, I’ll remember his love for family, food, and friends. I
raise my glass to you, dad. Thanks for showing me part of the way. Stanley Rawrysz
Jan 10, 1922 - Aug 2, 2010
with me forever. It had been a few years since moving to Seattle and
neither of us had that thing that makes it easy to just pick up the
phone to call a friend or loved one and make conversation. In person, we share that quality that allows people to feel at ease
with us. Our phone calls usually led to stifled conversations about
the weather, that aikido thing I did, how well work is going, or
doctors appointments. The conversations that veered toward
relationships and marriage and children and ultimately the heartfelt
“I love you”, are ones that I can remember and I know I was loved by
the guy I call “Dad”. My dad was a joker and a storyteller. He was someone everyone knew and
said hi to. He was a fixture in the small blue-collar town in New
Jersey, where he owned his restaurant for 40 years. He would walk
around the restaurant and start conversations, remember who and what
happened with customers, whether they were 3x per weekers or
once-a-monthers. It’s why last year at his funeral, the mayor of the
town offered and provided a police escort for the funeral procession.
And why employees who couldn’t make it to the funeral stood outside
and cried while the Hearst drove by one last time for him to say
goodbye to one of his proudest accomplishments. It’s been a year now since his passing and I found the mourning to be
missing sorrow. It’s hard to feel sorrow when I can still feel his
spirit is strong with us. I know he’d want to be noticed, loved,
appreciated, and even missed a little, but I also know that he would
want us to live our own lives to the fullest, and so I try. I don’t know that I’ll ever understand how he was able to survive and
live with the experiences of his life: leaving a wife and family in
Ukraine as a young man unwilling to fight for the Nazis, surviving
WWII Europe one day at a time to eventually live to see the end of the
war, learning of a son he could not go back to, and making it to the
US with nothing but some dignity and his willingness to work hard.
What I do know and understand is that he enjoyed life to the fullest.
He loved working, building things, and fixing things. He loved his
accomplishments. He loved being with his family and friends. And with 55 years, a war, and a different language separating us,
while frustrating conversations about the same things were more common
than not, the words “I love you,” spoken from the heart and through
the telephone, carry with them the most simple and clear message of
all: love who you are and be proud of the person you are. Dad, thanks for teaching me about being a man. Thanks for teaching me
generosity. Thanks for teaching me how to love unconditionally. I’m
proud of who I am and who I am becoming. I hope someday I can find the words to tell his story more eloquently.
For today, I’ll remember his love for family, food, and friends. I
raise my glass to you, dad. Thanks for showing me part of the way. Stanley Rawrysz
Jan 10, 1922 - Aug 2, 2010
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