OPEN LETTER TO DAD

Image by Ben White

March 26,1891-January 5,1962

Hey, Dad – you’ve been outta here for 60 years; yet, you still are in my mind whenever the rough questions come around. 

You taught me MUCH, and if it weren’t for you, I’d be a Wimpy-Ass Mama’s Boy. When I was a stick of a kid, you taught me about the unforgiving world and how to watch my back for all the assholes walking around in it, about courage, and Manhood, and the stuff  that goes along with that – requirements I still doubt I can uphold, but in my limited capacity, acknowledge and say, Thanks!

Because of the lessons you taught me, which I was not aware of even when I was practicing them, I managed to set myself free from the loving lessons of the women of the family that would have entrapped me and do so with minimal hurt to them. Even minimal hurt can be too much at times, a necessary lesson they already knew, and in their knowing, taught the lesson of women you could not have taught.

You had 3 marriages, the second one to my Mother who hurt you deeply and sent you scurrying downstairs into the room off the garage you called the Rat Hole, feeling, I’m sure, the deserving Rat.

Your 3rd wife, whom I  grew to love very much, loved you and relieved you of your angst about yourself and your relationship with women.

And so, I wonder what you would have to say to me at 84, having been lover with many, loyal and faithful husband to one for 45 years, doting father to her daughter, head-over-heels loving grandfather, and widower who marks his birthday calendar with a ? in whom all accomplishments and failures conjoin to create this persona finding himself again untested. 

You would think I would have learned that the only test is how you meet circumstance or others when they come around, either because of their coming or your bringing even if the bringing is in your head.

I remain pupil to myself, as you taught me we always are. What would you say about the test I have brought upon myself to become reacquainted with one I met when I was 34 and she 19? She is 70 now. Our reacquaintance has been positive. She is coming out here for a few days.  Perhaps the results will be good.  Perhaps they will not.  Whatever they are, I both look forward to and dread the test that will be passed or failed. 

I do not know, Dad, what you would say to me, but I do know you would know what to say, and in your knowing, perhaps not say anything.

Perhaps is the operative word.

It is the definition we try to define, and so order it.

We should know better.

Perhaps that is what you would tell me.

But you didn’t have to, did you?

This letter is almost as long as the limited times we had together.  So, at 84, I say, thanks, Dad. I love you.

Now, PLEASE R.I.P. and Go Forward!