One Hundred Years of Walter - A Tribute to My Father

The fifth commandment says, "Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long..."

I had decided to compile a scrap book of my father's life as his 100th year approached. He passed in 1998 at age 82. Good intentions aside, when work, summer travel and painting my marred walls got in the way of finishing dad's life story,  this scripture spurred me on - perhaps out of selfish gain, but hopefully out of a desire to celebrate my dear father's life.

Where does one begin? Four-score years is a long time. Several eras encompassed the life of this English/Dutch-German man named Walter Ira Allen, born August 10, 1915.

Sherman Alden Allen was an English professor who married Herta (Bertha) Schenk.  They had Ralph first, then "Valtar" as his Dutch-German mother would call him, an accent my dad told me embarrassed him immensely. .

Walter in perambulator, Ralph and Herta Schenk-Allen-1916

A new job took the family to Worcester, Mass., where Walter spent his childhood and early adulthood.

Sylvan Street - 1921 - A new sled!

After high school he traveled to London and served in Ethiopia as a WWII  ambulance driver. On his return, he briefly attended Clark University, then headed to Hollywood seeking fame. He landed a few small parts while driving a taxi as his day job.

1943 Hollywood head shot

 A mutual friend introduced him to my mother, Isabel  MacDuffie and they married in 1949, settling in Hollywood, where my two brothers, Christopher, Peter and I were born.

Hollywood, 1951 - First son, Christopher.

My father was unique and interesting person, always wanting to stir things up, whether it be at the bank, market or restaurant with his joking comments and antics - a practice he held from young adulthood. He saw "No Trespassing" signs as an invitation to trespass. Here, on a 1930's trip to London, he sat in a stranger's car and had a friend take his photo, book and cane in hand.

Later, when my mom worked at Disneyland, he wandered through a door and ended up on a bridge overlooking the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, passengers laughing at this real pirate mannequin.

 My father held strong opinions about politics, of which he was quite outspoken. The volume was often high in our household, (his middle name, 'Ira' means 'wrath') but I was never afraid of his yelling. He lived out loud, kissed my mother often and loved us dearly.

 Ever involved in city and state politics, he campaigned for Barry Goldwater, warded off communists like many conservatives of the day. He was adamantly against television, so we were raised as TV illiterates. My brothers designed and built things, I played piano.

He would take the family for long walks around Balboa Island and Laguna Beach bluffs or for Sunday drives to Pacific Palisades and places at night unbeknownst to me,  where all  I can remember is clear cold air, starry black skies, the smell of campfires and steaming, nearly-burn-your-tongue hot chocolate for all. We'd come home and he'd heat up smooth rocks in the bathroom sink full of hot water to put at the bottom of our sheets, warming up our cold feet.

Poetry and short stories occupied his free time, self-publishing several poetry books which  I've come to appreciate over time. He bounced from job to job, sometimes leaving us with very little - a result of the absence of a honed skill or degree. Yet he was articulate and self - educated. I can still see him  reading in bed; books like Alexander Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, Foxe's Book of Martyrs and Edmond Burke. He sang and played the piano.We lived in a modest house in Stanton, California and could see the Disneyland fireworks every summer's night from our driveway.

Forest Lawn - 1949 Wedding

When my parents' nest emptied out, they  moved to south Orange County into a new neighborhood until Alzheimer's struck. My mom cared for him as much as she could. We moved him from home to home, until he eventually refused food and passed  from the disease's advanced stage in 1998.

My father gave me the gift of himself. Something as simple as holding my hand on a walk to the grocery store, his giant dad hand enveloping my small little girl fingers. The strong sense of security and love that brought me still fills my heart today.

We went rock hopping in the Silverado Canyon creek, walking in the rain on the Huntington Beach pier, and wave watching at the Wedge. There was little money for vacations, but I never felt deprived of adventure. One New Year's morning, we jumped in the car  to see the Rose Parade in Pasadena, back when you didn't have to camp out for two days just to get a curbside spot. Or we'd hit the Hollywood bowl for Easter sunrise service or camp and hike in Yosemite. One rare day as an adult, we sat in the living room and he told me stories of living in the Middle east, adventures that made him the mysterious, daring and fascinating person he was.

That was my father. Sure, he had his faults. But today, I honor him and and remember him as a good father.

Happy Hundredth Birthday, Dad!

Miss you.