My dad wears two hats. It started like this.
Tom Leonard and his father Stewart
“Tom, join me in the hot tub. Let’s talk,” said Dad. Pretty cool, I thought. Hot tubbin’ with dad. A father-son chat. Why not?
And, I was due for a raise. I’d worked at Dad’s store for months. He took me on when I quit college. Dad wasn’t pleased when I bailed out of school. But he swallowed hard and gave me a job. That worked for me. READ MORE
This is about a dad, a son, and a 1965 Impala SS. The story begins in 1964.
Mom, one of the dogs, and Dad’s 1965 Impala
Herb Younger saw her on the showroom floor. A 1965 Chevy Impala SS. Goldwood yellow. 396 cubic-inch engine. Chrome rims. Herb was in college, but couldn’t say no. He financed the car and worked to make payments. Life seemed complete. Herb needed no more.
Then he met Linda. They fell in love. They dated in Herb’s Impala SS. It took them everywhere, even the chapel to marry… and honeymoon to follow. When Herb accepted a teaching job across the country a year later, the couple drove Herb’s Impala SS over 2,000 miles without air conditioning. Packed in the back, all their worldly belongings plus two dogs and a parakeet named Harvey. READ MORE
So you want to be a writer. You’ve picked a tough trade. Many try. Few succeed. But you’ve got an edge. One hell of an edge.
Writer Joe Hill, son of Stephen King.
He’s the world’s best best-selling author. Fifty novels. Fifty-million sales. Stephen King is his name. Most would kill for that “in”. You lucked out. The King of Scream is your dad.
You’re a lucky guy — the son of the King. As an aspiring writer, what do you do to leverage Dad’s name?
A crazy move most would say. You change your name!
What happens? You struggle for years. You write. Submit. Rejection, day after day. You soldier on with your “art.” You try not to get down. You peck away in obscurity. Just like every other writing schmuck.
Then, your stuff starts to catch. On your own, you become a best-selling author. Award-winner. Genre-shaper. Critical darling … before anyone knew you were Stephen King’s son. READ MORE
My ‘no-eyelids’ dad
When I was a kid, Dad didn’t sleep. On weekdays, he’d leave each morning at 8, stay at the office all night, come home at first light, shower, shave, a quick plate of eggs, a hug for Mom, and back at it again.
It was Saturday morning. I munched Sugar Pops. Chubby ate eggs. “Dad,” I said, with a curious face, “On weekdays, why don’t you sleep?”
Chubby peered up from his plate, eyes double big-big.
He said,
“Didn’t Mom tell you? I was born without eyelids.”
I stared into Dad’s pupils. No eyelids? Yeah, right! READ MORE
October ’62. Cuba. Missiles. Blockade. Nuclear War? I am 14…old enough to know the mess we are in. A U.S. U-2 spy plane takes photographs of Soviet SS-5 land-based nuclear missiles 99 miles off our coast. Staged in Cuba, they are pointed at us.
Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko sternly warns the U.S., “Don’t attack Cuba.” To liven things up, Soviet warships head our way. Our military is at DEFCON 2, the highest ever. Newspapers, television, radio; conversations at work, school and play focus on nuclear war.
In class, our teacher graphically illustrates the effects of nuclear fallout. Day after day, we practice nuclear attack drills (essentially, we hide under our desks).
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Summer of ‘88. Flagstaff, AZ. Camping with Dad & Roseann. My name is Corey. I was 6. My brothers: Casey was 5. Brian at 9.
Casey, Corey, and Brian dressed for adventure
We begged and begged Dad, adventure this time! “Hunting,” we said, “We’re ready to die.” Older brother Brian carried the weapon of choice, a BB gun full. Also, our sack of dried peaches for fuel.
I sported a Rambo knife. Little brother Casey had plastic Chinese throwing stars and foam nunchuks affixed to his side. Dad carried my compass so we wouldn’t get lost. Camouflage, bandanas, and black face paint; off we marched into the woods.
Dad strolled down the trail as we darted around. We crunched in the leaves and hid behind trees. It was a blast. As we emerged from a ditch, I thought The trail’s not there! Dad sat on a stump, a few feet away. READ MORE
Nov 4, 1983. 5:32 p.m. Baby in distress. The hospital PA, “Respiratory therapist, stat.” Newborn in trouble. Mom rushed to surgery. Emergency C-section. Premature birth. Lungs limp. Not a breath.
My dad Bob and me, the newborn son, Blake, 1983
They “bagged” my head. APGAR score “1” – the lowest there is…unless you are dead. I was rushed to neo-natal intensive care at Dallas Methodist Hospital. Dad followed by car, afraid and alone, worried about his newborn son.
When I arrived the doctor didn’t mince words, “Mr. Glovitz, your newborn is the sickest one here.” Three pound newbies. Heart surgery. Brain injured kids. I was the worst…least likely to live.
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