Grand Prize winner in the National Self-Published Book Awards sponsored by Writer's Digest!
When Kenny Kemp raised the door to his father's garage six months after his dad's death, he didn't expect to find gold. But what he did find there, buried in the overstuffed workbench drawers, secreted in the worn tool collection, and waiting patiently in a 30-year-old piece of green plywood, was worth more to him than any treasure he could have imagined. A son comes to know of the greatness of his father, a great man who didn't know he was.
Alta Films & Press
A memoir along the lines of "Tuesdays With Morrie." This book touches the heart and reaches the soul. A must for every father and every son.
I lied—Dad was not really a carpenter. He didn’t work in the trades at all. He was a pharmacist—an ordinary man with poor eyesight, gapped teeth, and no hearing in one ear; who struggled through high school, then flight school, then college, where Mom helped him with his trig homework.
By the time I became acquainted with him, he was a pharmacist at Grossmont Hospital in La Mesa, a San Diego suburb. When we’d visit him at work, there were always lots of interesting toys in his office—little goodies that drug salesmen would hand out (back in the days when the term “drug salesman” didn’t have such an ominous undertone): pads of note paper with the name of some new medication emblazoned on them in red italics, a huge two-toned capsule inscribed with the words “Chlor-Trimeton,” and pencils and rulers and so on, fascinating things for any five- year-old. I still have some of those goodies, and when I visit my mom, I see she still has drawers full of them, dusty archeological finds, faded in memory.
Mom’s tendency to keep everything has always been both a comfort and a consternation to me. She has enough white plastic Cool Whip containers to keep every leftover in southern California fresh. Readers’ Digests from the late ’40s. Butterick dress patterns from the ’60s. The memories in Mom’s house abound—most of them as warm and tasty as her butterflake rolls.
But there are some memories in that house I don’t want, and as I was driving south on Interstate 5 that day before Christmas, I knew this was a day I’d always remember—for good or bad. I hoped it would be a good memory, but I’m a realist. Today would be hard.
My father was dead.