Those who know me won’t be surprised to learn that I spent about six hours this past weekend watching "Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life." I’m something of a fan of the original series. My daughter would say that this is putting it mildly.
My brief review: kinda disappointing. There were great moments tucked into too many small bits. I feel like Amy Sherman-Palladino didn’t take the nine years from the end of the show to now into account. When we last left Rory, she was heading off to ride Obama’s campaign bus. Lorelai and Luke were getting back together. Paris was off to Harvard. And yet, enter 2016 and it’s like Sleepy Hollow, rather than Stars Hollow: nobody's evolved; it's all same old, same old. Lorelai and Luke are living together like it's 2008. Rory is floundering and sleeping with Logan, who is engaged to someone else. This is something a 23-year-old might do, but at 32? Paris runs a fertility clinic. I thought by now she would be ruling the world. Lane is working at her mom’s. What? It all stinks. And that ending. So 2007. Those last four words might have made sense back then, but now? Please.
The most satisfying story arc for me was Emily. She grew and changed. This probably has to do with Edward Herrmann dying and Amy Sherman-Palladino having to take into account that Richard Gilmore would not be physically present for the series. Go Emily!
Ok. ‘Nuff said. Like I said, there were still some great moments. The best, for me, was when Lorelai called Emily and told her about her most memorable time with her dad. I cried. No, let me correct that. I cried ugly. It was a moving story, and Lauren Graham told it perfectly. But I think I bawled because I was thinking about my dad, and how much I miss him. He died on April 22, 2011.
I was lucky enough to have a ton of wonderful times with my dad. When we were little, he worked during the week, but he went full-on parent during the weekend. On a typical Saturday, he’d pack my sister, brother and me into the car (a Chrysler), and after a brief stopover at the hospital where he’d check on patients, he’d let us have the run of a bookstore, mostly Duthie’s or Woodward’s. On Sundays, we’d head off on adventures. I remember Horseshoe Bay, before there was a ferry terminal. And the brunches at his aunties, where tables groaned with schmaltz and herring, bagels and cream cheese, and vodka. My dad told us stories, too. There was one about Chinese emperors and lychee fruit. To this day, I won’t each lychees. Sorry, Dad.
During the last few years of his life, my dad would come to our house for dinner three to four times a week. My mom spent much of the winter in Palm Springs, and I think he liked the company. He would sit on the couch with Fred, our dog, watch PBS News Hour, kvell at the grandchildren, talk, eat and go home. These dinners were quiet moments. Nothing much happened. Except that, in retrospect, everything did. It seems that the universe was giving me the chance to collect memories to store of my dad, and for this I will be forever grateful.
I miss my dad. Thank you, Gilmore Girls, for reminding me of that.