It was about 10 pm  on May 13, 2008.  I was bored and not ready to go to bed. The idea of “googling” myself occurred to me as I sat in front of the laptop.  Not much came up, my address, a copyright at the Library of Congress; boring, boring, boring…

Then I began thinking of my father again, a subject that hadn’t come up in a long time. I googled the name Bob Gentry.  I found nothing helpful.  The one thing I was convinced of about my father was that wherever he was, he was doing something with music. I had read online that a musician named Robert Reid had died recently, and I knew that he wasn’t my father, but the spelling of his name stuck in my head.  So I typed in the words “Bod Reid guitarist”. The website that appeared, www.bobreidmusic.com , made me suck in my breath sharply. The picture on the homepage was of a man smiling back at me whom I had never seen but who seemed familiar.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said to Cameron.  “Look at this picture.  Is this my imagination, or do I look like this man?”

“It’s not your imagination,” he said. “He has your smile.”

I began reading every page, including his bio.  He seemed so much like me, a teacher, a lover of music, concerned about world conditions.  Even his style of writing was similar to mine. Everything about him fit the description, except for the part about being East Indian. I called my mother and asked her to look at the site.   A few minutes later she called back.

“I can’t be sure,” she said.  “I could have mistaken ‘American Indian’ for ‘East indian’. I don’t remember his face, but I think I remember that hair. Rosie, I think this is him!”

His phone number was listed on the page, a California number. It was about 11:00.  Too late for a decent person to call.  I decided to call him in the morning, but in the meantime kept googling.

A video on Youtube came up under “Bob Reid War is a Racket”.  It was a stage performance of a song about peace, sung with tender feeling and conviction. I watched it with butterflies in my stomach, and even though the image was blurry, I felt strongly I knew this man. 

I finally went to bed but obviously didn’t sleep a wink.  I couldn’t decide what to do. “Just be prepared he may not want to meet you” played over and over in my head. I got an almost terminal case of the “whatifs”. What if he knew I was looking for him and had been running from me all these years?  What if he doesn’t answer or doesn’t return my call? What if it’s NOT him?

I decided I would wait until 8:00 to call.  In the meantime, I carefully scripted the message I would leave in case he didn’t answer. Deciding what to say was like catching a butterly; if I held it too tight, I could crush it, too loose and it could fly away. I knew from his website that he had inspired a lot of children, so I chose words that were cryptic enough to make him believe I was one of those children.

He didn’t answer, so breathlessly I left this message: “Hi, Mr. Reid. My name is Rosie Funk.  You are someone that has had a big impact on my life, and I was wondering if you are still doing performances, could I come see one? I also have some music you might like to hear. Please call me and let me know if the address on your website is the best one to send it to. Thank you.” And then I waited.

I agonized over whether the message sounded creepy.  He was a goodlooking guy. Did I sound desperate?Was my heavy breathing obvious? Would he think I was a stalker? What if he recognized my name and already knew who I was?

I had to stay busy to keep my mind off it, so I carried on business as usual that morning, going out to do my volunteer work.  I got home at about 12 and saw the light blinking on the answering machine.  He had called at 8:30.  I had left at 8:50. How had I missed the call?!

I called right back, and this time he answered. Unlike my answering machine message, I had not carefully planned this conversation. 

“By any chance, do you know who I am or why I want to talk to you?” I began.

“No,” he said, “Do I know you?”

“No. But I think you might have known my mother. Did you live in Portland, Oregon, in 1971?”

“Yes, I did. For a brief time.”

I started to hyperventilate. I couldn’t breathe, never mind talk. He waited patiently for me to calm down.

“It’s OK,” he said. “Take a minute.”

I began rushing through the story breathlessly, ending with “and I was that child.”

“Oh my god,” he said, and then we both fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have imagined this conversation all my life.  But now I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

But somehow we both managed to begin thinking of things to say, and the kindness in his words and voice made me keep talking, rambling, blathering.  Finally I got up the nerve to ask, “Would you be willing to meet face to face?”

“Anytime you want,” he answered. “Just say when.”

I made arrangements to come up to see him at his house near San Jose the next morning.

We stayed on the phone for about an hour and a half after that. While we were talking we emailed pictures of ourselves to eachother. When he got the first one of me, he gasped, “Oh my god, you look just like me.” If there was any doubt of our being related, it was erased by then.  We stayed on the phone for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean to take up all your time.”

His voice was soft and low. “Rosie,” he said gently. “I missed the first thirty-six years of your life.  What could be more important right at this minute than talking to my own daughter?”

It was almost too much.  I had called hoping only for kindness, maybe pity.  To be welcomed in this way was unexpected, disarming and, needless to say, exhilarating.

We hung up the phone, and a few minutes later it rang.

“Rosie,” a woman’s voice said. “This is your long lost grandmother. I’m calling to say, ‘Welcome to the family.’”

I was ecstatic, not just because this woman would no longer be a blank space on my medical records, but to think she wanted me as a granddaughter! Another unexpected bonus!

The rest of the day I spent making phone calls. Then the phone rang again, and it was my father again.

“I just like talking to you,” he said. And we talked for two more hours.

That night I spent in a state of confusion, trying to get ready for the trip but not accomplishing a thing.  What is the most logical thing to do after finding your long-lost father after 36 years? I found my real dad and then I ________?  So I painted my toenails (sheer pink, my favorite), not out of vanity but for the same reason I dialed 411 instead of 911 that time I thought my little brother broke his neck.  I don’t think well under pressure, definitely not the kind of person you want seated in the emergency row of a plane during a crisis.

Somehow I made it through the evening and for the second night slept not a wink. That night was the longest night of my life.
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