Archive for June, 2011

Daddy’s Little Girl

Saturday, June 18th, 2011

People would stare as we walked down the street. Not because he was famous but because he was different. He walked with a cane and a brace, tilting from side to side with each stride. Somehow he stayed upright. If someone stared too long, he might yell, “Whad’ya lookin’ at? It’s nothin’, it’s polio, I got it when it first came out!” Anyone else yelling at a stranger might come off as aggressive — he had a REALLY loud mouth — but Duke said it with a twinkle in his eye that set the person instantly at ease. It might even turn into a too-long stop-and-chat, but I was used to those.

I’d look up at him with pride and ownership. He was my daddy. Mine being the operative word. My mother told me the story many times. As a tiny preverbal baby, I had my arms thrown around my father’s neck, holding him as tight as I could, looking back at her with eyes that said, “He’s MINE.” As in, not hers. Her interpretation. Well, it was true.

Sometimes in late August or early September we’d go shopping for back-to-school clothes at Hank DeGoniff’s house. Hank’s “house” was a warehouse in seedy Hollywood. And unbeknownst to me at the time, DeGoniff wasn’t his family name. I wasn’t sure why Hank had clothes and winter coats for me along with lots of electronic equipment. But cash was handed over and I’d walk away with some new clothes. There wasn’t even a lot to choose from, but I wasn’t an overindulged child, so I was happy with what I got. I was in my twenties (maybe thirties) before I learned that Hank’s merchandise “fell of the back of a truck,” and goniff was Yiddish for thief.

I’m saying sorry right here and now to my dad (no longer with us), for the moment when, as a three-year old, I nearly had him arrested. We had gone to a movie and it was already quite late at night and I was tired. My mother went to fetch the car and my dad said, stay here with me — but I threw a bratty fit because I had wanted to go with my mom. I started to pout and walk away from him. He kept inching closer and insisting I stand near him. Remember, he was handicapped, not so easy to chase after a kid. And I’m in full brat mode, now not speaking to my father. A crowd began to form thinking he was a stranger trying to kidnap me. He was a LOT older and didn’t look like your regular 1950’s dad. He leaned on his cane to support himself and said to the people, “Don’t worry, this is my daughter, right?” as he looked to me for the confirmation he needed. When I didn’t respond they asked, “Is this your father?” and I said, folding my arms across my chest and facing away in emphatic defiance, “No!” More people gathered and someone urged that the police be called. At that moment, my mother drove up and my father said, “That’s her mother, my wife, she’s here to pick us up.” He pulled me in and we sped off. Not for one moment did he hold that against me. I think he secretly liked and identified with the part of me that was strong, insisting on getting my way. (more…)

What’s in a Name?

Sunday, June 12th, 2011

me and Harry Morton


I LOVE my name. I love Fredrica. I love Fredde Duke. I just love my name. A lot of people call me by my first AND last name, so they must love it too. Sometimes friends call me Duke or Dukie. I love that. My dad was Duke and sometimes Dukie.

But here is what I hate. Frankie. Hate it. Because clearly you were not listening. And the other reason is that there was this wicked little girl who was walking with her posse in my alley when I was also little — I was OLDER than her — and she looked at me and called me Frankie in this nasty voice that was unforgettable.

I shouldn’t take it personally because no one is saying Frankie instead of Fredde to be wicked. However, it still gets me edgy.

There is a girl that works at the market in town that has taken to calling me Frankie. At first I corrected her but it didn’t work, so now I have given up and respond to Frankie. She says, “Hi, Frankie,” and I say Hi back, usually whispering to myself as I walk away, “Oy, Frankie.”

I have a lot of old people that I like to call to check in on. I love almost all old people. But when I call — and sometimes months can go by — I say “Hi, it’s Fredde.” And they often respond, Hi, Betty.” Here is an actual conversation that took place with a friend of my dad’s named Harry Morton. It was months after my father died. I dial the number in Florida. Phone rings and Harry picks up. “Hi Harry, it’s Fredde.”

“Hi, Betty.”
I say louder this time, “No Harry, it’s FREDDE.”
He says, “Hi, BETTY.”
Again I go, “It’s FREDDE!” now screaming it.
He says, “Oh, hi, Fredde, how are you?”
I say, “Sad, Harry.”
He says, “Why are you fat?”
I say, “Harry, I’m SAD”.
Again, Harry says, “Why are you fat, Fredde?”
This time I yell, “I’m not FAT, Harry, I’m SAD!!!!!”

We try it one more time and then he says to me, “Talk to my wife Billie about being fat,” and he hands the phone to his wife.
I then went into great detail about how fat I was. Kidding. I said, “Billie, I’m not FAT, I’m sad because I miss my father.” And Billie says, “I’m sorry you’re sad, Frankie.”

Today, I had a whole different name given to me. I called a mother of a friend of mine. We talked for twenty minutes and at one point she called me Patty. I corrected her only once. But she continued calling me Patty for the rest of our conversation. So, now I guess I’m Patty Duke!” (more…)