A star-studded list of Hollywood movers and shakers, social activists and political big shots took their seats next to us at Carroll O’Connor’s funeral.  And all my teenage daughter wanted to do was go to Venice Beach.

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June, 2001. My daughter, Erin, and I flew from Cincinnati to San Francisco for a visit with my family in Sausalito. We had planned to take a road trip down the coast from there. But before we got in the car, I received a call from my eldest sister.

“Jennifer, Carroll O’Connor died last night. His funeral is Tuesday at St. Paul’s. I am sure Nancy would like you to attend.”

Carroll and his wife, Nancy, were amongst my sister’s dearest friends. I had the pleasure of their company many times. Nancy was the salt of the earth. And Carroll was arguably the most recognized, loveable faces in television history. He lived in polar opposite to his racist, Republican, chauvinistic Archie Bunker character. I’d never met anyone as inclusive, or as big of a champion for women. So we would attend.

Off we went for our jaunt down the famous Highway 1. Erin’s first, my tenth. We hit the garden spots and Carmel, had lunch at Nepenthe, and stopped overnight at The Ragged Point Inn near Big Sur. The view from our room could only be described as something the gods made.

Around 7 pm, we sauntered into the dining room wearing jeans. A hostess sat us at a candlelit table overlooking the cliffs and presented us with a menu for a four-course meal from a five-star chef.

“Mama, this is tooo romantic,” my well-beyond-her-years, budding 15-year-old beauty giggled. “You should be here with Dad.” I said no way.  She is, and continues to be, the finest of company.

After a quick stop at Hearst Castle, we rolled into Beverly Hills. From Wilshire to Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, to Rodeo, Beverly, and Canon Drives, I gave Erin the movie star map personal tour. I even took her to see the austere homes of childhood friends who had famous parents. But not a single one interested her. Chock it up to her Midwest upbringing and down-to-earth nature.

Some moments in life are indelible. Carroll O’Connor’s funeral was one. It was held in my elementary school’s church, St. Paul the Apostle. I hadn’t been inside since my 8^th grade graduation, and as I walked through the doors, I welled up. It was just as I’d left it – soaring, impressive, and rich with simple, elegant architecture. Nothing had changed. Except me.

Despite a standing room only crowd, an usher led Erin and I to a pew near the front. The Cardinal and priests from many dioceses greeted Carroll’s coffin, and the music swelled. Mass began.

“How long is this going to last? I want to go to the beach,” Erin whispered as Martin Sheen walked past us and up to the pulpit. Well. I had promised.

“President Bartlett from the West Wing is about to speak,” I softly whispered back to her. He recited from Corinthians 13:4, love is patient, love is kind, and his melliferous tone resounded through hushed air. Rob Reiner spoke from the scriptures. No one gave a formal eulogy. Instead, a single violinist played a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Danny Boy.

Guests spilled out of the church, onto the steps and along the sidewalk to say their final goodbyes. We joined the crowd in the blazing California sun to see Carroll off. The casket passed by a row of small wood boxes on the ground. A man approached, opened them carefully, and released a dozen white doves into the Los Angeles skies.

Neither of us said a word as we walked arm in arm to the parking lot. A rarity.

Bathing suits and towels in the trunk, we got in the car and turned left toward Venice Beach.