Back to the Start

The day he graduated Julliard, I sat in the Hall and silently cried tears of joy. He was so sure, so confident. My little boy was all grown up. Warren was the only person who could make me think twice about my most ardent convictions. He could have done anything he put his mind to and done it with class and brilliance. That was Warren: more talent in his hand then I had in my body. All I ever wanted for him was happiness. And my last thought before I died was just how proud of him I was…I hope he knew the same. My name is Frank Neal and Warren Neal is my son.

There’s a picture of my father in my home. I remember the day it was taken, my seventh grade science fair. My experiment, a balloon rocket to prove propulsion stem activity. It was his idea. When I asked him why, he said “It’s the theory of thrust son, and thrust is exactly how you should start every day of your life!” In contrast, he once declined an offer to be a District Court judge, an appointment of fourteen years with a pension to follow, saying he could never sit anywhere for eight hours a day. That was the dichotomy of my father and I’ve been trying to figure him out ever since. I’m Gene Bonner’s son, Ben.

Her life was so wonderful: a standing reservation at the Ritz for high tea with Nora, black car service to Saks on the Main Line and two weeks at Canyon Ranch spa every winter. Jan was grounded, always grounded. I made sure of that. She had it all, a husband we loved like a son, a beautiful healthy daughter and enough wealth to want for nothing. But there was always something missing within her…a sadness. We rarely discussed it; she was always so outwardly strong. I’m Lea Pickett, Jan London’s mother