Thank You, Playboy, My Childhood is Missing

You may think this an odd title for a Valentine's Day entry. It actually has nothing to do with the holiday - it's following my expressive flow.

Here's the scoop. My dad is a photographer. Originally born in Illinois, he grew up in a small town, and he knew it, and he had to get out. He lied about his age and joined the U.S. Navy at 17. Being a creative guy, he became the ship's photographer. He loved travelling, and his experience voyaging the world by boat shaped our family.

I think my mom was "WOW'ED" by his worldliness and artistry, not his looks. Because when they met in Chicago after my dad was released (is that what it's called?), this guy was an absolute phenomenon to her. He was an artist, he loved jazz, and he read the New York Times. An interersting species for a girl from the suburbs of Minnesota who was completely unfamiliar with any of these things.

Here's the thing: when they married, my mother refused to have photographs taken of the wedding. HELLO! the photographer has no photos of his one and only marriage.

And thus the trend began. Soon after my parents tied the knot, my dad accepted an offer to work as a photographer for Playboy Magazine. My parents moved near San Francisco, and gave birth to my brother, The Prodigal Son ("Your brother has come... and your father [in this case, my mother] has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound").

This was the hayday of Playboy. It was never spoken about, but in those 5 years he worked for Playboy, I think the family life took the back seat. Our family photo albums, sparse and few as they are, are riddled in my younger years with glimpses of natural beauties traipsing through wooded groves naked. Like I said, this was the hayday of Playboy, after all.

Now, you may be interested to know that in the '70's Playboy did actually have articles as well as photos. In fact, my dad was mostly responsible for the portraits of the highlighted individuals in the articles. Much to his chagrin. For example, he took pictures of Ron Kovic, the key character of the movie "Born on the 4th of July." And Ron Kovic is a real guy - I met him in a coffee shop when I was just back from living in France, 23 years old. When I told my parents I met him, my dad said "watch out." He was right; Ron, a VietNam vet, invited me several times to visit his "artist's cottage" to view his sculptures. But I refused, and I dirgress.

By the time I was 5, my dad had left Playboy and started working as an advertising photographer. As the second child, constantly curious about my parents' devotion to me, I started looking for confirmation in my baby book and in family photo albums that I was as loved and adored as I should be. There was not much evidence that I was their daughter. In fact, by the time I was 8, I was convinced I was adopted (which is funny now, because I look exactly like my mom).

My brother recently got married, and now he and his wife have a son. The first grandchild. Enter Prodigal Son II. Don't get me wrong, I love having a nephew. But I still have a hard time not being the center of attention. I still have a hard time acknowledging the fact that my baby book is virtually empty. This may be the "youngest child" syndrome, but I blame it on Playboy. After all, my dad rarely memorializes family events. The camera is only for work.

Yesterday my mom and I had a "girl day" and we walked 5 mi. on Blackie's Pasture in Tiburon, then went to Mill Valley to a gallery opening of some dead dude who my dad photographed for a Playboy article back in the 70's. He is now famous and some of his larger ridiculous art is worth $40,000. Apparently, when my dad was shooting photos of this artist at work for the magazine, he was scribbling out a samll piece. The piece was finished before my dad was done shooting, so he turned it over and started writing a story on the back about being photographed. At the end of the shoot, he gave the piece of artwork to my dad. My dad framed and kept it; now it is wortth, with my dad's original photo from Playboy, about $1,500.00.

Anyway, Happy Valentines Day to my mom and dad, who, even though they never photographed it, have loved me absolutely unconditionally for 32 years. And Happy 35th birthday my dear brother - may you take as many pictures of your 2nd child as you do your first. And Happy Valentine's Day to Cade, my one and only true love first nephew!!!!!