Dear Dad-

I am thankful for the incredible stories you both shared and produced, and I am thankful that you gave me a fraction of the talent in which to keep them alive.

Happy Thanksgiving Trail Boss!

The Back Porch Makes Me Sad

There's a deck with an awning
A table and some chairs
And the barbecue where he used to stand

We've played cards there till morning
Good times were always there
Small fortunes spent to get the winning hand

But it's the place we mourned our dad.
The back porch makes me sad

It's winter now, and the grapes are gone
The leaves have taken over
But the memories of our laughter can still be heard

Days of drinking and soaking the sun
with family and friends and lovers
Where horseshoes and summer games occurred

But it's the place we mourned our dad
So the back porch makes me sad

Years of positive memories
Can so easily be replaced
As the spirit of the porch has been rewritten

For three days last spring
In silence we faced
A chair where he wouldn't be sitting

I sit there alone now and think of my dad.
And the back porch makes me sad

Lyrics for Memories and a Heavy Heart

A note to begin this therapeutic post-

I got introduced to this tune the minute I asked my dad what his favorite song was when I was just a wittle boy. It has been the soundtrack to many different memories over the years from camp outs, summer parties, lake houses or just plain watching him shuffle my mom across the kitchen floor. But the final memory will be forever etched as the last. I walked into an dimly lit sanctuary awash in candle light as if I were sent for. With dark shadows consuming the rear pews that day of his funeral I silently watched my dear friend and incredible musician Pam Delgado and her band mate Jerri preparing for their acoustic rendetion to be played at the service later that day.
His spirit was everywhere all at once, and I sat there in the rear pew, safely tucked away in the shadows, and allowed myself to cry for the first time since his passing. It was a good moment that bore physical pain, but one I will always cherish because people I love allowed my dad and I to have a quiet moment alone before a lifetime of rebuilding.

Thank you eternally Pam and Jerri! You are my portal!

(SITTIN' ON) THE DOCK OF THE BAY- written by Otis Redding and Steve Cropper- lyrics as recorded by Otis Redding December 7, 1967, just three days before his death in a plane crash outside Madison, Wisconsin- #1 for 4 weeks in 1968

Sittin' in the mornin' sun
I'll be sittin' when the evenin' come
Watching the ships roll in
And then I watch 'em roll away again, yeah I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooo, I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the 'Frisco bay'
Cause I've had nothing to live for
And look like nothin's gonna come my way
So I'm just gonna sit on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll awayOoo, I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
Look like nothing's gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can't do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I'll remain the same, yes
Sittin' here resting my bones
And this loneliness won't leave me alone
It's two thousand miles I roamed
Just to make this dock my home
Now, I'm just gonna sit at the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll awayOooo-wee, sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time!

Thank you Pam and Jeri, thank you Otis, thank you Dad!

I Miss.....

Every Wednesday morning our trash is picked up, so rightfully so, every Tuesday night I would roll the lumbering trash and recycle bins down the long driveway of the house and every Wednesday night I would roll the empty rumbling bins back to position for an approaching week of refuse.


The journey was not without it noise and on a course directly past the family room window where dad was logging his "chair" hours immersed in something stimulating like Cash Cab, or old Westerns.


I miss how every time (NOT every now and then), EVERY TIME I would return back to my spot on the adjacent couch he would breathlessly exclaim, "was that you? I thought it was a thunderstorm!".

Thing is, for a split second every week he really did believe that a rogue thunder cloud launched a siege on Danville Blvd in Alamo, until the second personal evaluation yielded the obvious trash night explanation.

I used to roll my eyes, and now I want it back!

A Tat Is Worth 1000 Words

Once in a very blue moon, dad would get us Tullis boys to collaborate on a little yard work bonding.

Keep in mind that this moon I speak of is as blue as a Caribbean Sea Shore, because, you see, we have very tight waistlines to protect in our household and yard work only agitates those well deserved pounds.

On this particular day, he happened to find a loop hole in our couch surfing activities on one of the hotter days of the year.

Shirts were shed with little to no shame (as we were working in the backyard and no real threat to passer-bys).

Joe had just recently gotten his stomach tattooed proudly with the family moniker, but not so recently that we had to stop what we were doing to admire the "Old English Script". We just forged forward raking, chopping, and sweating.

From inside the house the phone rang, and as multi-duty-dad was constantly ready for, dropped his rake and headed in. Joe and I silently plodded the land, heads down and determined to rejoin the lonely remote control upon completion.

After a while, Dad joined us back a the red hot dirt pile and joined us our silent pilgrimage to complete said task at hand.

Many, many moments had passed before any of us decided to stop and wipe the sweat from furrowed brow, and best believe that first person to stop was me.

As I caught a breath and stepped back from our chore, that's when I noticed his handy work.

Within seconds I was rolling on our dusty weed pile unable to compose myself from laughter.

In the short time he had been in the house, supposedly answering the phone, he had located a Bic ballpoint pin and (rather legibly mind you) scribed "TULLIS" across his own protruding belly. This feat would have been admirable enough, but the fact that he just silently returned to our work and waited for one of us to discover his newly acquired belly tat, absolutely sent Joe and I into hysterics.

I didn't even know until that day that ballpoint pins could write through sweat and hair. I have a hard enough time getting mine to write on paper.

He was a divine man!

Idle Hands Were Dads Workshop

My small experiment of getting this blog out to the masses to maximize the input is making some great progress.

This next diddy is thanks to our extended family the Swans, and Amanda in particular. She became the pioneer that has blazed the "toldarounthetable" link on this site and made me smile by sharing that my Dad was alive and well at dinner tables around the greater bay area and perhaps beyond, on this our first fathers day without him.

Thank you Mandy-May his voice never be silent!

While we were at my parents for fathers day today, as always your dads name came up.
I was telling my parents about your blog and my dad wanted to share a story that reminded him of Sam.
This is typed by me but recounted by my dad....

Sam and I belonged to a hunting club in Suisun. We went out to hunt one morning stopping by the clubhouse to check in with the club officials to find out what field we were assigned to for the morning.
An official of the club gave us our field number for the day,and told us no one could go out to their assigned fields until the morning fog had lifted. This was a standard safety procedure that we had dealt with many times before, so no big deal.
Usually the delay was 30-45 min at best. Besides a big screen TV, and vending machine, the clubhouse had a bulletin board where members would post items for sale such as guns, hunting equipment, dogs, and services.
As we stood around waiting for the fog to lift, I noticed Sam standing at the bulletin board reading the different index cards. Nothing was unusual as we all always checked the board, and today it helped pass the time.
But then I noticed Sam take a card down from the board, write something on it and tack it back up. As he walked past me to the coffee machine I asked him what he wrote on the card.
In his normal deadpan response he said ," I didn't write anything. "
My curiosity got the better of me so I went over to the board to check it out.
The original message read - " Help " In large Red letters, followed by- " on Feb 20th I was hunting in field 121 and I lost my hearing aide. If anyone who hunts in that field, and by chance comes across my lost hearing aide. Please call Fred at such and such number- Thank you ".

I then noticed what Sam had written under the thank you in large letters. "And Talk Really Loud"
This story always makes us laugh. Your family is always in our thoughts especially on days like today.

HAPPY FATHERS DAY DAD!

After authoring this blog for 3 months now, i began to find myself , dare I say, at a loss for words. That is to say that the stories were not coming as fast and furious as I had hoped.

As happens, inspiration finds itself in the most mysterious ways.

I was talking to my mom about potential ideas and she told me the the story which I will share next.
It is true that in the later part of life, our parents become our friends as opposed to just guiders. Our equals as opposed to superiors. However; I rapidly realized this dynamic needs room to bend when one of my moms stories had to do with "naked"!

YIKES MOM!

That's when inspiration struck. Some stories you just need to hear from other people.

So I sent an email out to 5 of Dads closest friends and Ray was the first to respond.
Funny thing is, without provocation, he told the same story as mom, but it was just a little easier to listen too.

Ray and I talked for a while and more stories started to surface. I am now half tank full instead of empty, and ready to receive more. And this on the day that we celebrate fathers! Happy Fathers Day Dad-without further ado, I bring you "Blinding Silence" as recounted by Ray Ferreira.

Blinding Silence by Ray Ferreira

You know your dad had a way of telling stories and jokes but sometimes it's what he didn't say that could shock you and make you laugh.

Like the time I met your parents and their friends in Angels Camp for the frog jumps. I rode my motorcycle and they drove.
Your parents were still newly weds at the time. After an enjoyable weekend they left before me and returned to their apartment in Castro Valley.
I notice that I had left my hair brush in your parents car and decided to stop by their apartment on the way home to get it.
It was in the middle of the afternoon and I saw their car in their parking space so I knew they were home. I approached the door, knocked and waited. I knocked again a little louder for I thought they didn't hear. I could hear someone coming to the door. Along side the door was a long rectangular window with a curtain.
Your dad didn't open the door instead moved the curtain slowly so I could see just his face. I said, "Sam, I left my hair brush in your car. Can I get it?".

Without saying a word he moved the curtain completely to one side and exposed his naked body and just stood there showing me his erection.
Normally in a situation like that, one would say Ray we are indisposed could you come by later? No, not your dad.

I said, "Sorry Sam I will come back later". I guess either way the results would be the same .

A Reptilian Thirst

For some reason where most of us would intuitively go to great lengths to hide some stories from our past, my father relished in the re-telling of stories that did defamation to his character and judgement. Better himself than others he would regale, and this is just one of those stories.

The weekend furlough seeped its way to the base at which my father was stationed in Louisiana. A full 48 hours off.
Promptly a houseboat was reserved and the festivities got under way deep bayou country.

Being the worldly men that they were, the gentlemen on board decided to try their hand at the local sport of frogging. Unsuspecting (I'm sure), much alcohol was consumed for the event that takes place late in the darkest hours of the back country.

Not really sure how they did, or even if they caught any, the inebriated crew was forced into the decision of going to bed-we also call it passing out.

Late in the night, a disoriented father awakens with what feels like a wool factory in full operation going on in his mouth. He needs water, and fast. But where was he? Slowly it starts to come back to him. A boat, oh yes a houseboat, in Louisiana, oh yes, furlough. And the water is...on the deck, oh yes in the cooler.
He stumbles past the cast bodies of his comrades and finds the cooler where much of the ice had melted. Lifts the lid and dunks his cup to full from the icy runoff. Brilliant. A thirst is quenched and off to bed a happy man goes minus the sweater in his mouth, but not before a re-fill to take back to bed.
In the morning he awakens to a half full glass bedside of the brightest red water one have ever seen, and again he begins to piece together the night.

He remembers that he and the boys actually did very well for their first time frogging, and after gutting them tossed them all haphazardly into the cooler on the deck.

OH SHIT!

He rips the lid open and confirms his fear. The Ice runoff that so recently provided much quenching was tainted with froggy guts and blood-no fresh water in site.

And to my dad, who could have swept that story under the rug and never mentioned it again, just couldn't wait to tell and re-tell that story for 25 years to come.

Why?

City Folk and Country Squires

This was one of my fathers favorite jokes to tell, and if you ever had a few minutes to lend, you would sit quietly and relish for the 7th, 8th, and 9th time.

A man decides he has had enough of the city life so he buys a piece of land way out in the middle of nowhere where he can relax and find peace.

Late one afternoon in the distance he sees a pick up truck rapidly approaching from miles in the distance.

A man steps out and introduces himself as his "next door neighbor" for the left by about 12 miles. He proceeds to say that he is throwing a party the following weekend and would be much obliged if the stranger would come by for a spell.

"I would love to, thanks." says the city transplant.

The neighbor turns on his heel and heads back to the truck, then abruptly stops and turns.
"Say mister, I gotta warn you. There's gonna be some drinkin and cursin at this party".

"No problem. I'm from the city, I can drink and curse with the best of them". replies our city slicker.

"Good then, see ya Saturday". Heads back and then stops again. "Hey mister, I gotta warn ya, there is probably gonna be some fightin at this party."

"Are you kidding me", says our excited city boy. "I'm from the city, fightin is a way of life. Don'tcha worry about a thing, I can handle my own".

"GREAT! See ya Saturday" Turns to leave and stops again. "O'Boy mister, I gotta warn ya, there is definatley gonna be some fuckin at this party".

"WOW, this party is going to be great. I'm from the city and fuckin is what we do", the over energized man retorts. "But hey mister, what should I wear to your party on Saturday?"

"Don't matter-it's just gonna be us".


Gets Me Every Time!

And The Usual For You Sir?

Ray and my father had been best friends since childhood. Now in the budding infancy of adulthood and careers Ray and my father were living together and starting to carve their niche. Ray worked at Oakland Airport in baggage and my father was putting his newly acquired real estate license to work with Red Carpet.
My dad came in the apartment one evening after work, very nervous about the prospect of having to fly the following week with the Vice President of his company to a convention somewhere out of state.
"Are you flying out of Oakland?" Ray inquired.
"Yeah, I have all the information right here." dad retorted.
"Man, Ill take care of everything, don't worry". And with that my dad didn't worry, he knew Ray would come through.

On the day of the flight, my father and the accompanying VP pulled up curbside to red carpet treatment (pardon the pun).
"Right this way Mr. Tullis. and " Nice to see you again Mr. Tullis, we are going to pre-board you and your guest this morning." From baggage handlers, to ticket personnel, to stewards, my dad was made out to be a king amongst men, and dad just went with the flow. (slightly fluffing up a little I'm sure).
As his boss and him settled in their seats, the pretty stewardess approached and set napkins if front of the gentlemen.
"What can I bring for you to drink this morning sir?" she asked the VP.
"A screwdriver please."
"And the usual for you Mr. Tullis?"
"Of course, that will be fine". My father confidently replied-he was on top of the world!
Moments later the attractive woman returned and set the screwdriver in front of the boss, and proceeded to hand my father a coloring book and packet of crayons.
"Enjoy the flight gentlemen, and very good to see you again Mr. Tullis."

Out the window, and right on cue, was Ray with an ear-to-ear grin waving enthusiastically at my dads window seat.

Chimps on Penguins

This post is so delightfully Sam Tullis, that it is not just saved in our computer, but a part of the desktop for easy access. This was forwarded to him by one of his email buddies and I believe that in a moment of clarity and neccesity, he channeled the computer know-how to get it on the desktop. This represents the only time I didn't help him do something as simple as copy and paste.

My thanks to Carrie for the reminder and suggestion that no matter what curve balls life may throw, this bit of Schick could make a beefeater smile!

Freudian Slip

So much of my fathers story telling was honed and present in his ability to tell a joke. The fact of the matter is that he could not only deliver a punchline, but he could tell a 15 minute joke and leave the listener riveted for the outcome, even if the recipient had heard the tale 20 times before (which was often the case). To be able to keep a repetitive joke fresh and exciting takes a special something not every person possesses.

This is one of my all time favorites:

A man walks into his office one day only to find his co-worker pouring a cup of morning coffee and talking about how he had the worst Freudian slip the other day.
"Freudian slip? Whats that?" the man asks.
"You know, when you mean to say one thing and you accidentally say something else. Like the other day I needed to fly to Pittsburgh. So I go to the ticket counter and the girl behind the desk has the most enormous breasts I've ever seen. I meant to say, I need 2 tickets to Pittsburgh, but instead I fumble, I need 2 pickets to tits burgh."
"OH!" says the man, "I had one of those Freudian slips the other day as well. I was sitting across the breakfast table from my wife, and I meant to say, Honey-please pass the salt, and out pops....You fucking bitch, you ruined my life!"

Thanks Dad, that one is timeless!

Bourbon Balls

This particular story is so appropriate to open with that it was a part of his eulogy. Here we begin to get a feel of the path that is to be created by this memorial blog, evoking thoughts of "I didn't expect that", or "What won't he say", but always the intended smile that comes with his parting message of...Congratulations, you have just been entertained by Sam Tullis.

It was Christmas in the early 1970's and immediately the image of tight sweaters, tight pants and over sized collars is imaginably clear . The Trowbridges are throwing a family get together for this group of young, freshly married 20 somethings. Best behavior abound, and conversation politely bounces between sports and career. Younger sister Jody begins to break out the ever popular Christmas dessert spread of cookies and brownies and something that she deems not worthy of the table, but must be hand passed-guest to guest.
Paying not much attention to the procession, My father is reached on the couch by a bent at the waist Jody holding a plate of donut hole shaped confections.
"Have you ever had Bourbon Balls before?" she asks him innocently.

"Probably-I drink a lot of Bourbon". He honestly replies