A Convo Through Mail

Dad - Thought this was a fitting picture to send you this week.  This is the view from Domaine Carnero's winery in the heart of the Carnero's Appellation in the Napa Valley.  This was the first stop last year when I was visiting wine country.  This is also the place where Misty announced I would soon be an aunt!  I will be in Sonoma this Memorial Day weekend and plan to make this my first stop again to kick off the trip.  They are known for their sparkling wines and was founded by Champagne Tattinger and as you can see the view is beautiful!

Love you,

Des xxoo

A Convo Through Mail

Dad - Thought I would send you one of my favorite pictures I took outside of Paris 2 years ago.  This is the backyard of the Palace of Versailles, the Gardens.  It was a rainy day that afternoon, but you could still imagine Marie-Antoinette and her court roaming through the yard and playing in the water.  That day I took a golf cart and roamed throughout the gardens and tried to imagine life there.  So beautiful!  Love you - Des



ps, a huge shout out to Moo.com for making these beautiful postcards and being very customer friendly and priced well.  They do postcards to business cards and much more, check them out!

Matador de Toros

I had a hard time figuring out how to start this post.  I am still battling with the fact that my father was at one time a matador, the father that tucked me in bed night after night as a little girl.  After I hung up the phone with him, I felt the need to look up the definition:

Mat-a-dor [mat-uh-dawr] : noun
1. the principal bullfighter in a bullfight who passes the bull with a muleta, and then in  many countries, kills it with a sword thrust; a torero.

After reading it, I didn't get the answer I was looking for but then again, what exaclty am I trying to solve.  My own disbelief maybe, the idea that my dad could actually kill a living thing.  If you know my father at all, one of the biggest character traits that he has is his love for animals, his gentle nature with all things living.  So what would have provoked him in his early twenties to become a matador, to get into a ring and fight till death?  Maybe I needed to start from the beginning.

My brother and I always knew my father had an interesting past, especially as a perpetual bachelor growing up, however there were some things he kept hidden, quiet, left to stay buried.  Shane and I were snoopers, snooping to find bits and pieces of my father's stories.  This led us to many, many places some expected, some unexpected.  We did not expect to find a long, slim, slightly curved sword in a box taped up in the corner of the garage. There it was, hidden, sealed, forgotten but why?

My father since he was a young child aspired to be a bullfighter.  Something around the novelty of the sport and the torero excited him.   He recalls that by the time he got into his early twenties, he started writing to a popular instructor in Juarez, Mexico.  He needed a mentor who could properly train him and be a subalterno (student of the bullfighter) to learn everything he needed to become a matador himself.  He met him on the boarder of Arizona and Mexico to discuss not only my fathers interests but the dangers that go into the skill of bullfighting.  My father was determined to give this a shot eventhough the risks were high and death was always a factor, sometimes it was the the bull, other times it was the fighter.  As he trained it consisted mostly of leg work and various movements that help trick the bull and help the matador get control of the ring and the audience.  Not only was this a sport but a performing arts skill that was necessary to stay alive.  When my father's instructor felt he was ready to face a bull and make his first debut, he announced it to the city of Juarez. Of all the practicing my dad did, not once did he face a bull. Stepping into the ring, he only got one chance.  This was the moment, the ultimate test to prove he was a matador, an athlete, an artist and among all else, a survivor, to live to tell the story.

Dad made it through his first fight and did many more after, killing 6 bulls in total from Juarez to Mexico City. For my sake and my brothers, he gave up the sport, headed back to Arizona to enroll in college to live and work like everyone else.  He can though, look back and remember the days he was a Matador de toros (a killer of bulls), a hero, a survivor and a performer.  He can say he accomplished something not many men would ever dare do or survive to tell the story.  He did what Ernest Hemingway dreamed of achieving and often wrote about, but never had the determiniation or fearlessness to actaully step into a ring.  In that sense, my dad became a hero to me.

That sword is still in a box, packed somewhere in the garage in Arizona, but still often sparks tons of conversation, just like the picture attached.  It's not a past my dad likes to take us back to often, saddened by the bulls he did kill but he carries through knowing it was for the art of the sport.  As I look at my father, I find it hard to believe that he was once in a bullring as a matador killing bulls in Mexico but when I close my eyes, I can take myself there imagining what it must have been like.  The crowd is cheering, the wind is slightly blowing, dessert dust is in the air and the announcer introduces the fight.  My father is in his sequinced sliver uniform, standing tall, walks into the ring and bows to the audience while the bull is eagerly awaiting to be released, to charge at him.  As I picture this moment, I feel the rush and understand my father and his dream to be a matador, to escape the reality of everyday and enter into a world of survival, art and mystery, a place only few will ever know.  In that moment, my father became the matador I have read about, a piece of the puzzle that has helped make him who he is today and still the father I have always remembered.

A Convo Through Mail

When I last visited my dad a few weeks ago, I realized how excited he was to get the mail everyday.  This gave me an idea to send him a postcard once a week with a different picture and a story that goes with it.  Some would be of family, others would be of travel and a few of friends he has heard about but has never met.  I will mix it up and always send it on the same day of the week so he knows when to expect it. Each week I will post the postcard and message I sent to him to track for myself, my brother, friends, family and for others that I hope to inspire to encourage to reach out to loved ones.

This week to kickoff the start of the postcard conversation, I have sent my personal favorite, a picture of us taken 2 years ago at his home in Arizona:

Dad - Had to start my first postcard with my favorite picture of us as a family!  I love the action shot and it just reminds me how much fun we always have together.  Without the two of you, life would not be the same and I would not have an awesome brother (most of the time, lol).  Thanks for always keeping us together no matter where we lived throughout the years.

Love you,

Destiny
xxoo

ps, a huge shout out to Moo.com for making these beautiful postcards and being very customer friendly and price conscience.  They do postcards to business cards and much more, check them out!

A Start to the Story

I started this journey not knowing much about my father except that he loves the Doors, smoking, women, was a trained matador in Mexico, tried to publish a children's TV show, owned a Mexican restaurant, and designed the first casino cage in Atlantic City (known as the Thompson Cage) bumping arms with the mob.  Immediately, I knew there had to be more.  My brother and I have constantly asked for stories, but dad is not the type to divulge much in conversation.  We have learned through time how to master the art of pulling information.  My father is a very private man, so for him to open up is a difficult task but given his life, we can't help but want to know more.  One thing is for sure, my father is an exceptional man, one that has done many things in life, but none could be done without an influence of his parents.  My father was born in Phoenix, Arizona on January 6, 1943 to Quentin and Evelyn Ruby Thompson.  He has a brother Bill that is 8 years older than him that passed away, diagnosed with Alzheimer's, same as both my grandparents.

Grandpa was an interesting man, one that did not do well sitting around.  He was recruited into the war and became a builder during WWII, helping build bases for the military in Phoenix.  Once the war ended he met my grandmother (dad does not remember where but declares it was not in a bar, i asked several times) and decided to take the trade he learned and make it into a living.  He started a business called Thompson Construction and built homes in Scottsdale and Paradise Valley.  Grandpa Quentin became the man that people called to build their home, very very nice homes.  At the same time, they ran a Bulldog farm.  Sarge was dad's favorite, he would roam the streets and meet dad at school (he was 4 or 5 then) before the bell would ring.  Side note, if this does not tell you how different times have changed, I don't know what will - can you imagine your dog just roaming the streets with no worry??

The family eventually moved to Tempe due to business and space, dad was 4 or 5 then and the Bulldog farm ended, except a few came with, they were part of the family.  When I asked my dad, how he and his brother got along, my dad said "he was my hero".  I had to pause for a minute because my whole life, I have never understood their relationship.  I am 31 years old.  My dad has mentioned my uncle but only 4 or 5 times that I can recall, I maybe have met him once or twice.  I noted to myself that I need to dig into this at a later time, however I was excited to learn why my father looked at him this way.  Uncle Bill was an all state football and track player and got a scholarship to Arizona State for football.  Dad was in awe of him and wanted to follow in his footsteps.  To my dads credit, he did try to do just that.  He was an all-star baseball player, football player (half back freshman year), track player and even joined the tennis team junior year not knowing how to play but became the all-state tennis player by senior year.  My father, however will admit, his eyes were always on the ladies and was better intellectually even though he could keep up with sports.  Interesting fact however, my grandfather was the first person in Tempe to sponsor an "integrated" inner baseball league that dad played on.  This was a big deal for the city and as dad quoted "my dad didn't care if there where whites or blacks on the team, everyone deserved a chance to play and have fun".

At first glimpse, I am starting to understand my father and that he is my grandfathers son.  I am also understanding why my father is who he is and maybe why I am who I am.  As I was hanging up the phone tonight, dad laughed and said "it's a good thing you decided to start writing this stuff down, the book you gave me to do it in five years ago, yea...was never going to happen".