From the Head of the Table | San Francisco, CA

San Francisco has always felt like home—to me, to my grandfather, my grandmother and to many in our family. A city of beauty, complexity, and belonging. He spent most of his life there. It was one of his favorite places in the world. Filming in his city, in the place he called home, felt different. More personal. More intimate. A return to his roots—and mine. His voice was the loudest in my head that week.

Leading up to the shoot, I could feel the weight building. Not just the logistics of production, but the emotional choreography of holding space—for my family, for our memories, for the parts of this story that still sting, stir, or swell. Everyone has their own relationship to grief, to legacy, to Phil. I carried the responsibility of threading it all together with care, trying to anticipate each person's comfort, pace, and willingness to share. What unfolded was unforgettable.

Before filming, we gathered around my grandparents' dining room table—the same table where I spent countless Friday nights for Shabbat dinners, Passovers, Chanukahs, and birthdays as a kid. The room hasn’t changed much. The air was thick with memory and nostalgia. As my parents, uncle, aunt, and Mr. Bass took their places, I instinctively offered my uncle the head of the table—Phil's eldest. But he chose to stand.

And so, I sat down—in my grandfather's seat.

The head of the table. His place.

Phil & family around the dinner table, Thanksgiving 2017

I had never sat there before—not that I can remember, and certainly not during a moment this significant. That chair belonged to him. Always. The storyteller. The toast-giver. The conductor. The protector. I could see him there, as clearly as ever. And now, I was in his seat—surrounded by his children—slipping between presence and memory. What followed wasn’t captured on camera. But it might have been the most powerful moment of the entire journey.

Not all of my family feels comfortable being filmed, and I fully respect that. But from where I sat, I was able to witness something sacred. Everyone opened up—honestly and tenderly. My dad, who loved Phil for over 40 years. My mother, aunt, and uncle, raised by him and my grandmother. Mr. Bass, who took every call, day or night, listening and asking the kind of questions that helped my grandfather dig deeper. Each person at that table had a different version of Phil. Each story held its own light and shadow. And somehow, we were all learning something new. About what it meant to be raised by someone who went to war, came home changed, and had to learn how to be a civilian again—a husband, a father, a man rebuilding a life after being Goldie—and after letting go of a dream to live a life in music, a dream that quietly died somewhere between duty, injury, and survival.

The conversation shifted something. It softened the room. It clicked something into place. Maybe this project isn’t just about preserving history. Maybe it’s about healing it, too. About creating space for conversations that never had the chance to happen. About seeing each other—and him—more fully. As I sat in his seat, I found myself looking at everyone as his kids. Even my dad. Time folded in on itself. The past and the present sat together at the table. What we captured on camera was beautiful. But what we shared off camera? That was sacred.

My aunt Robin—brave, gracious, and carrying so many beautiful memories—shared her experience of growing up as Phil Graham's daughter. Her voice added a new layer to everything we had gathered from veterans and service members. It was such a gift to witness her being interviewed, and then to sit beside her as we were filmed together. Unexpected stories surfaced. Many emotions rose. Being in that house again, in those rooms where we’d shared so many family moments, it was like time tripped and reset—everything changed, and yet somehow, nothing had.

We also filmed with Ron Kaufman, a dear friend and longtime neighbor of my grandfather. He raised his family on the same street, never knowing Phil was a war veteran—until he read the book in 2015. Moved by what he uncovered, he shared the story with his own family, who then passed it along to Mr. Kim Bass. That quiet ripple of discovery is what ultimately set this entire documentary—and future film—in motion.

Mr. Kaufman welcomed us into his San Francisco home, where every window framed a view, every wall held art, and every story wove time together with tenderness. He spoke of the years their families spent side by side—his children and Phil’s children growing up together—and of the lunches he and my grandfather shared later in life, once the truth of Goldie had finally surfaced.

One powerful moment during this trip took place at San Francisco City Hall, where in 1948, my grandfather legally changed his name from Philip M. Goldstein to Philip M. Graham. It was more than a name change. It was a turning point. A break from a version of himself too closely tied to pain—and to being easily identified as Jewish in a world that hadn’t been kind about it. “Graham,” from his mother’s side, was a quiet nod to where he came from. Keeping his initials, PMG, preserved a sense of continuity. But more than anything, it was an act of love and resilience. A way to protect his future family. A chance to choose his path forward—and to build a life on his own terms.

And finally, we visited the cemetery where my grandfather and grandmother are laid to rest. It was our last stop as a team, and though I don’t feel his spirit there, standing in his partial presence—closing the loop of this San Francisco shoot beside him—felt beautifully full-circle.

Spiritually, I feel him everywhere. But that moment grounded me. We had come home. We had sat in his seat. We had spoken his name. And we had listened—to him, and to each other.

This was just one chapter. But it shifted something permanent.

Because next, we leave the comfort of home and trace his footsteps across Europe—through the skies he once flew, and into landscapes shaped by war, loss, and survival. The places we’re heading hold memories he never fully shared.

And now, it’s time to see them for myself.

What comes next will be heavier. But I carry him with me.

And I’m ready to listen in a whole new way.

Onward!,
Lauren