I cannot even remember him from my childhood other than my mother talking about “her brother.” I met him briefly in visits and got a sense of who he was when he came to see Mum as she lay dying. A quiet man with a sense of compassion and warmth. And that is it.

I’m digging up the one tape I shot of him during my last visit, when I interviewed him about his father, my grandfather. Once I make a copy for myself, I’ll send it over to his family.

So here, allow me to reminisce about our parents. Bob and Cynthia Mog.

Mum (Elsie Cynthia French) was born in Australia, meeting our father (Robert John Mog) – an American serviceman – in I believe 1947. They eloped on New Year’s Day 1948 and three children later moved to Stockton California.

He was a construction stiff – running gigantic shovels and backhoes. Never made it all the way through high school, having to quit early to support his family.

She had a teaching credential in Australia, which she updated when she moved to California…teaching for 36 plus years and getting her masters degree.

An unlikely couple. The oakie Okie and the schoolmarm.

But they were in love. And he was remarkable, despite his many flaws. Self-educated, he could discuss anything and had a love of classical music so strong he taught his girls early on how to dance both the polka and the waltz.

He was an inventor and built home-made go-karts and even a soaring carrier that traveled on string made from an Erection set that could send a can of beer from the kitchen to the living room. All three children benefited from his resourcefulness.

She tempered his sense of adventure with her own love of books and education. When we traveled, we always hit the museums first. When it came time to choose between steak or new clothes and books – we read books. We learned how to properly serve tea to guests (a surprise to many a construction worker who walked in hot and sweaty, to be greeted by two pigtailed girls balancing tea, cream, sugar, cookies and fine china).

We never truly realized how poor we were as youngsters. Construction camps. East Stockton. A tiny house in Lodi. A creaky old house in Groveland. Where ever we lived, we took our sense of self and family…singing together in the car on long trips and somehow holding up against some of the small town minds along the way.

Mum died of lymphoma in 1995. She fought til the end and won the thing that mattered to her most – a regathering of her family. Husband, children, and siblings.

Daddy followed in 2004 – his heart broken, wondering where his lovely bride had gone.

Two worlds came together when they met…resulting in three children. Dale, the youngest and only boy, is gone. Jeanie, the oldest, a flaming redhead and gifted musician, lives in Wyoming. And the middle child, a jack-of-all trades, is still in the old neighborhood entering retirement. The next generation ranges from adults to teens. May their lives be long and remarkable.

If you’re interested in a get-together with friends from the past, give me a shout at cyndyg@mac.com and I’ll let you know when and where it is. They arrive in the States on December 10 and will be in the Lodi area from December 20 through Janaury 1.

The minute they arrive we’re off to cut a tree (Alex has NEVER been able to do this) and decorate it Yank style. Larry and Susan Seiler have snow plans…and Steve and Sue Wasik have some good times planned at their place. Somehow we’ll fit it all in.

The Aussie Christmas is in the middle of summer…hot and dry. No reindeer, snow, trees. I seem to recall a tale from my youth that Santa flew around in a helicopter to drop off gifts. That ole guy is good at adapting. Enjoy the season and get in touch.