My mom met Dave during the night shift at the 3M photo processing plant in West L.A. She was a film inspector and he ran the developing machines. The instant Dave laid eyes on her it was all over. It was a classic case of love at first sight. After every shift, he asked my mom out to breakfast, but because she was married, she always turned him down. Eventually, my mom was forced to leave her job because my father went on a serious bender and she had to get the situation under control. She finally kicked my father to the curb for good after he left my brother and me alone on the beach for hours while he passed the time getting sauced in a beachside bar. Enough was enough.

As soon as she returned to her job at 3M, Dave wasted no time asking her out. This time, she said yes. When they began dating, it created a bit of a stir at work. You see, my mother was drop dead gorgeous. Dave, on the other hand, was hardly an attractive man. The two of them together were kind of like beauty and the beast. My mother would later admit she thought Dave was one of the ugliest men she’d ever seen, but she knew he had a good heart and was a kind and gentle man, a genuinely good man.

My brother and I took an immediate liking to Dave. We especially liked his brand new, shiny blue Chevy Malibu. We spent a lot of time driving around L.A. in that car. I have vivid memories of us driving down PCH at sunset, KOST-FM soft rock playing on the radio, the ocean breeze in my hair, watching the big orange sun disk slip silently into the horizon. Sometimes, we’d cruise Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards and park at the drive-in at Tiny Naylor’s on Sunset and La Brea and watch the freak show pass by. (As a consequence of all that cruising around town, I developed a great love of driving, not to mention, an incredible sense of direction.)

In the middle of my second grade year, we moved to a sunny yellow house in the San Fernando Valley. I was finally going to have my own room! We were going to get a dog! My cousins with the tree house lived next door! In no time, we settled into our new home and we became a family, a real family. Unlike our father, Dave didn’t black out and pee behind the couch. Dave had a regular job and he came home every night in time for dinner. We played Monopoly and went to the movies at the Winnetka Drive-In on Saturday nights.

At first, my brother and I called him “Daddy” Dave, but Daddy Dave soon gave way to Daddy. And he was. Our Daddy. It never mattered to him that we weren’t his biological children. He was so proud of us, so proud to call us his own. We were his and he was ours. Even his parents happily entered into the grandparent role without missing a beat. During my emotionally turbulent teen years, there were times when I’d raise hell and fight with my parents and use the old, You’re not my real father! line on my dad. I never meant it, of course, but it was the one sure-fire way to inflict the most pain and suffering, but I always regretted it as soon as I said it.

My dad was a fairly quiet man. He usually let my mom do all the talking and he let her boss him around, and boy, did she boss him around. Dave, go get my lottery tickets. Dave, I’m out of cigarettes. Dave. Dave. Dave. And God forbid he should get it wrong. My mom would go on a diatribe that usually included the phrase: Stupid son of a bitch. Most of the time, he’d just sit there and take it. Why didn’t he fight back? Why didn’t he speak up for himself? Why didn’t he tell her to go fuck herself? I used to think he was weak, nothing but a doormat, and I didn’t have much respect for him growing up.

After I got married and moved away from my parents and got some perspective, I realized my dad wasn’t so much a doormat as he was a lover. My mom had some bat-shit crazy moments. She was absolutely awful to him sometimes. Petulant. Selfish. Controlling. Always picking at him. No matter. He loved my mom despite everything. My dad was undeniably, helplessly, profoundly, in love with my mother. Although I never once heard him verbalize it, he constantly demonstrated it. The man hardly ever had money in his pocket as my mom had total control of the finances. What little money he did have, he’d spend on her. He’d go out on an errand and return with a cup of coffee from Mc Donald’s, or some silly little bauble he’d picked up at the check out line from the drugstore. He’d leave her the occasional love note on the refrigerator dry erase board. He always made sure her gas tank was full. They’d go to Vegas several times a year, and while she’d head straight to the machines, he’d check in and carry the luggage to their room, like he was her personal butler. And he never complained. Ever.   

A simple man, my dad never aspired to greatness, or possessed worldly ambitions. He wasn’t interested in traversing the planet, in search of fortune and fame. He was an even keeled, low maintenance, drama free kind of guy. He had his family and that’s all he ever needed.  He was most content when everyone was home watching TV together, the dog lying at his feet and the cat curled into a ball on his lap.

*******

The last time everyone was together at home was when we celebrated my brother’s birthday in March of 2010. We gathered around my father’s bed and my brother blew out the candles on his cake. As usual, my dad didn’t say much, but he was alert and smiling and laughing and clearly happy we were there. The next day, he told my mom he was "in the clouds." A day or two later, he lapsed into a coma. It was amazing how quickly he deteriorated once he was comatose. My mom, my brother and I once again gathered around his bed and prayed. I sat with my dad the next afternoon and held his hand and told him how much I loved him and thanked him for being my dad. I knew he could hear me because he moaned ever so softly and I could feel him trying to squeeze my hand. He died a few nights later.

David Weinberg was born October 6, 1938. He’d be turning seventy-three if he were alive today. I miss him immensely. I miss his laugh and his goofiness. I miss the way he used to talk to our dogs. I miss our scenic drives in his Malibu and the way he reacted when opening his Christmas presents. I miss the moments he’d dance with my mom in the living room or sing to himself in the shower. Mostly, I miss being loved by him.

I love you, Daddy. Happy birthday.