Literrata: Seeking Robert Bruce Hamilton (again)

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Seeking Robert Bruce Hamilton (again)

In the process of trying to track down my first true love, Robert Bruce Hamilton, wondering if he's even on this earth, I can't find a thing on the internet. It's strange in this day and age, not to have some sort of an internet presence. We've been hunting for Sweet Old Bob for seven long years now. Dulcie, was his first girlfriend, both before, during, and after—me (yes, you read that right—I met him after they broke up, then he left me, for her). At least we think he was a serial monogamist. What can I say, it was Marin, during the 1970s. We have been shaking down any leads we can find. No luck. Trying to track Robert Bruce Hamilton or Bob Hamilton is impossible, as it's such a common name.

I never expected to become friends with Dulcie, but she found me via the internet, in August, 2012, from a blog post I wrote on SoB, and she felt compelled to tell me her side of the story. Kindred soul. Our correspondence fell away after a few months, but we finally met at the end of 2016. Since then, our friendship has evolved in other directions—other than Bob, that is. Then the question inevitably arises: is he still alive?

So we've joined forces. At this stage, it takes the two of us just to gather the basic information—like when Bob was born. She remembered his birth date, I remembered his parents' names and address. Talk about cooperative brain power.

In my formative years, as I was transitioning into adulthood, I lived with the man for nearly seven years. I never expected Bob to vanish off the face of the earth. Never to see him again. You don't tend to forget your first orgasm. He left a big footprint on both our hearts. More like crampons. And in our wombs too. Then he dropped us. I'd give my eye teeth for the personalized autographed Ken Kesey books, and letters he stole from me, along with my grandmother's Victorian postcards, and frames He was a thief of hearts, and of literary memorabilia.

Perhaps developing the seven-year jock itch, Bob just broke up with me out of the blue—no apparent reason, no preamble, no discussion. I came home from school one day and all my stuff was moved into the spare room, then into storage. That was his idea of "talking about feelings." He left me homeless—I was knocked up, and literally living in my VW Bug. For that atrocity, I will never forgive him.

But we traveled well together. We hiked the Sierra Nevadas, we ferried to the San Juan Islands, and to Vancouver Island every summer—we hitchhiked up to Prince Rupert, the Columbia Ice fields, and Banff—we slept in fields, county parks, and hotel doorways. We were looking for land to homestead in Grass Valley and Mendocino, but then Bob got a draft board notice, a recall, though he was a CO, so he was looking for an escape route. I loved Saltspring Island, Nanimo, Tofino, Uclulet—the west coast of Vancouver Island was like my home, Pt. Reyes. Places that almost became home.

Did I abandon art because I didn't have a voice to sustain me? Bob certainly didn't encourage me. When the chasm grew between us, I turned to something more portable—poetry—ironically, Bob dragged me to poetry readings. Gary Snyder, Alan Ginsberg, etc. But when I showed him my work, he said, "I don't know WTF you're talking about." I think in his world, men were the real artists—not women.

Bob starved me for love, so, in turn, I starved myself, I became anorexic. Towards the end of the relationship, I was living on soda crackers, wine and coffee. Not once did he ever reach out to me, contact me, or even try to make amends. My heart was sawn in two. I never knew what I did to deserve this, except for turning to poetry. Poetry was my mistress. He was a crippled man with a crippled heart. If he's dead, we could certainly blame his heart. But somehow in my bones, I feel he's still alive, somewhere.

I started obsessing about Bob about the time Dulcie contacted me in 2012, and it seems that both of us were wondering if he still walked this planet. Thanks to some super-sleuthing, we've found that Bob was still alive in 2014—via his father's obituary. We're so good, we're thinking of calling ourselves The Odd Bodices & Powerful Petticoats Detective Agency. We will get oor man, dead or alive.

We found: Robert Bruce Hamilton, June 7, 1949, that makes him 70. Lives in San Jose, married to Kerri. Nothing else on the internet that I can find.

Sister: Nancy Hamilton Mayo, b. ca. 1953 She's 66, Locations: Palo Alto, Fremont, CA. Relatives: Michael, Stuart Mayo. I took several searches to find her married name. No wonder I couldn't find her, her last name is misspelled: Hanmilton. Interesting, there's no reference to her own family, just her married name. Nancy was so lovely, and quite shy. Always kind, very much like her mother. I hope that she's had a happy life. I was so very fond of her.

Brother: Marc Douglas Hamilton, b. ca. 1956, that means he's about 63. When he lived with us in Cotati, I remember thinking the age gulf between us was enormous. But we were great friends. I drove him all over Sonoma County as he was interested in Zen Buddhism. Odyian, Green Gulch, Sonoma Mt. One morning we were in the kitchen, and out of the blue, he said something odd—that when Bob and I broke up, that we'd never see each other again. Prescience? Not if, but, when. My first inkling. I was the last to know. I hope that he found what he was looking for.

An internet search revealed that Marc lived in Moss Beach, CA, San Jose, CA, Half Moon Bay, CA, Fremont, CA, Sunnyvale, CA. We found an address: Moss Beach, Ca, courtesy of FastPeopleSearch. RELATIVES William Douglas Hamilton, Leeta E Hamilton, Emily L Hamilton, Joanne W Hamilton, Deborah Aimee Alotta. AKA D Aimee Alotta, Deborah A Valdez, Aimee Hamilton. Sounds like the right Marc. More names to track down.

When I supplied Bob's mother's name, Dulcie found a two-sentence obit: Leeta E Hamilton was born on October 27 1922. Leeta lived in Fremont, California 94536, USA. Leeta passed away on September 7 1995, at age 72. Nothing more. Aww, no! Then out of the blue, I remembered the address: 38531 Acacia, Fremont. I can't believe I actually remembered the address. What cobwebs shifted? So sad to hear of her passing. I would've loved to have seen her one more time.

Bob's mother was lovely. She never knew what to make of me, and was painfully lacking in any self-confidence. So was I. Leeta grew up in Petaluma with Lloyd Bridges. So we had Lloyd, and the North Bay in common. She told us stories of picking prunes during the summers. I wonder what her maiden name was. Every search has turned up a dead end. Bob despised his father and disliked his mother for letting Douglas walk all over her.

Douglas's mother, who lived in Oxnard, was another lovely lady. I wish I could remember her name. A closet Bohemian, she was a friend of Diego Rivera's, and once showed us a maquette of his. She met Krishnamurti who lived in Ojai. Bob took me there, but we didn't find Krishnamurti. I still have a small etched glass gold Victorian toiletry box she gave me. There was a mystery hidden within the folds of the blue silk shawl she kept in her cedar chest. Hidden Judaism in the most WASPish of families, there was a menorah in the closet. Somewhere i found that her husband was Dalmatian, and what else? Scottish—hence the last name. Or maybe she was Dalmatian. The story is lost forever. Bob's father blamed us for her heart attack. He was that kind of man. Hard to believe his mother was so loving. Otherwise it was Duke of Argyle, and Selkirk all the way.

When I looked up Bob's father Douglas Hamilton. It suddenly popped into my head that his full name was William Douglas Hamilton. Sure enough, we found:

William Douglas Hamilton, April 8, 1923 – July 26, 2014. Resident of Fremont. Obituary published in East Bay Times on Aug. 1, 2014.
Doug Hamilton passed peacefully at home on Sat., July 26, at the age of 91. He was born in Oakland, raised in Southern California, but called Grass Valley and Fremont home. He will be greatly missed by family and friends who experienced his passion for sailing and hiking, his excitement over continually learning, and his love of gardening and staying active. He was a horticulturalist with the UC Extension Service for 31 years and worked with 4-H programs, vineyards in the Livermore and Santa Clara valleys, and issues relating to trees in the many parks of the Bay Area. He loved his family dearly and is survived by his sons Robert and Marc, and his daughter Nancy, their spouses and three grandchildren. A Memorial Service will be held at Saint James' Episcopal Church, 37051 Cabrillo Terrace (at Thornton), Fremont, on Sat., Aug. 9 at 3:00pm.

I'm not so sure that he loved his children dearly, certainly not Bob. The animosity between them was palpable. Who writes these obituaries? We also found wife #2. I did NOT see that one coming. But Leeta died in 1998, and Doug wasn't exactly the domestic type. Doug did like to camp, and sailing was his passion. We used to camp at Fallen Leaf Lake, and Crystal Cove, Tahoe, every summer. I guess he kept the bear boat in Alameda. I hope he was kinder, and more loving to his second wife.

Joanne Hamilton Sept 8, 1926 - March 22, 2011 Resident of Fremont Joanne passed away peacefully at the age of 84 from Alzheimers disease. Loving wife of Doug Hamilton. Always cheerful, thoughtful of others, very generous to the needy. Loved hiking, traveling and sailing with Doug. Survived by 3 sisters and felt close to Michael, Mary and David, her children. She lived and was loved by her grandchildren, Marisa, Tessa, Graham and Kate. Funeral services will be on Sunday, April 17 at 2:00pm at St. James Episcopal Church, 37051 Cabrillo Terrace in Fremont. Published in East Bay Times on Mar. 31, 2011

I found a listing for the house. Photos sparking memory. I was only there a few dozen times. Obligatory birthdays and holidays. We never stayed long. Bob was always champing to leave. You could see it broke Leeta's heart, the shattered bonds. And truth be known, after three days, I was climbing the walls. I was so inexperienced, I could see no way to ease thier burden.

I don't think his parents approved of me. I was so painfully shy. So was Leeta. But I hated Fremont. Such a sleepy, dullminded place. Douglas was always in his mute, rote mode, and shy, retiring Leeta was trying to fill the social void. Dinner conversations were always forced. Sweet Old Bob learned the silent treatment from his father, an excellent student, he doled it out accordingly.

There's a painting in the living room, of thistles done in brown tones, Leeta painted them to go with the other painting of the thistles, done in blues and greens in the dining room. A nod to Douglas's Scottish roots. Wife number two, Joanna, made few changes. I used to sleep in that living room so I knew it well. Remembering when the mockingbird fell down the chimney. Or trying to be so quiet while making love on the couch. Did we ever fool anyone? We lived together for years, and yet they made us sleep apart because we weren't planning on getting married in the near future.

I have few photos from those days. Bob kept my photos. Leeta Hamilton photo

I didn't realize the Hamiltons were Episcopalian. Makes sense now. We never went to church for Christmas, there were no outward signs of Christianity. Holidays were mandatory. And awkward. They never met my granny. Sadly. She would've eased their angst. Even if she was Catholic.

I remember the family dog, a schnauzer named Star. He was a very busy bad dog, and something of an embarrassment to the family—like Bob. He loved to steal knickers, and eat nylons, as if trying to swallow the essence of the women of the house. Then, on our prandial walks around the block after dinner, the poor dog attempted to shit them out. Douglas would surreptitiously step on the toe of the nylon as it exited, and then Star would run off, the nylon unwinding from his butt like a bungie cord on a zip line. It was as if that incorrigible dog channeled residual familial aggression and bottled up emotions that manifested itself into the odd guilty pleasure. A good thing he wasn't a thief of hearts.