The Silence: Gratitude letter #1

This is a weird thing for me to do, I guess. And it isn't an original idea; it comes from Irvin Yalom who suggests writing gratitude letters to people who have been important in your life as a way of confirming "rippling"--the idea that our ideas and actions live on in others, sometimes for generations (even though, as Yalom believes, we don't otherwise live on. I have never been sure what I feel on the subject of "afterlife").

So this is my gratitude letter to my Dad, who died in 1974. Because the photo was included with pix Dad brought home from the Pacific, I assume this is a picture of him piloting his C-46 during WWII. Underexposed (man would I like to get my hands on the lost negative to see if there's anything else in it), it's a fitting image, I think, for what follows.

I thank you for coming to me and saying that you were proud of me for showing my emotions when I was 12 and I bawled like a baby as our train pulled away from Glacier National Park, leaving my brother Andy behind to his summer job as a tour bus driver. I was feeling silly and a little scared about being so emotional, and you made me feel like I was a normal for missing someone and caring so much.

I thank you for showing me the "worms"* on your forehead as often as I asked to see them, which seemed to be through most of every cocktail/crossword hour for about a year when I was around 10. Although you were meticulous about your appearance, you were never overly sensitive about your age or your weight or your baldness. You would so much rather that I laugh, even if at your expense, than waste time wishing after something that was gone, like smooth, young skin.
(*Worms were the super-prominent furrows on Dad's forehead whenever he raised his eyebrows. I have inherited them. )

I thank you for taking me up in your plane a lot. Period. That was fun. And every night after we flew I would fall asleep remembering the "floaty" feeling of hitting thermals. I loved that.

I thank you for pulling Mom aside on the day I got my driver's license and insisting that the two of you had to let me drive. (Mom didn't ever want me to drive. She finally quit complaining about five years ago.) You stood up for me against--sorry, but it's true--the most powerful person in my life at the time.

I thank you for letting me adopt that last kitten even though you made me name it "Dick Butkus."

I thank you for coming into my room and listening to my records with me. Music was everything when I was 16, and you were willing to share, including The Crusaders and--ick--Loggins and Messina.

I thank you for telling me--on your deathbed no less--never to let a boy hurt my feelings deeply; however, I didn't listen. In fact, I screwed up on that one. But everything worked out quite well in the end. You would love your only son-in-law, Steve. He is wonderful to me and he is a fantastic father. Not to mention all he has done to care for your wife.

I thank you for telling me I might "have to go to IUPUI and be damn proud of it." I did, and you were right. I got a second undergrad degree--a BFA from Herron, which I finished just four years ago--and it is one the accomplishments of which I am most proud. My tassel hangs on the painting wall in my studio.

I thank you for always being right and never, ever, ever saying you were sorry--even though that's a really stupid way to go about life.
When you died the pastor came and asked each member of our family to tell him something very special we remembered about you--and then he worked each of our memories into your eulogy--all except for my memory of you, because I said, "Dad was always right." I was recalling your exasperating, iron-willed stubbornness, which was awesome--practically god-like, though completely counterproductive in your personal relationships. Of course, I didn't say all that to the pastor; I just told him you were always right, or maybe I said you were never wrong. This surely presented the pastor with a dilemma, because of course, only God can always be always right..(.but after you died, we all had serious doubts about that too). Still, I never heard you admit to being wrong about anything and I never heard you once say you were sorry to me, even when you should have been downright ashamed of your behavior. You, you...you ill-tempered....dude (can you tell by my admirable restraint that I'm writing a gratitude letter?)

Appropriately enough, I inherited these troublesome attitudes, but in time I actually overcame them, and when I did, you grew up inside of me even though you were gone. I now know in my heart that of course you knew were wrong--even if you would, apparently, rather die than admit it--and of course, you were also sorry. And I'll bet if you could have it all back you might even say so. So I forgive you because you were just human, and I have learned to say to my children when I am wrong and say that I am sorry, though I can still be imperfect about admitting such things to Steve.

I thank you for your silence. It's the hardest thing about losing someone--you are no longer here--and you never will be again--to answer my questions. The living mourn, cling, get scared, get angry, and most insidious of all we try to rationalize our loss: in my case, "Dad could not have stood the failure of his business," (which occurred at the same time as your death at age 51), or so I used to tell myself. Bullshit! That gives you no credit for being able to change or meet life's challenges. The tragedy is that you will never have the chance to respond to anything in the ever after--happy or not--and that we can never know what you might have done, or how you would have loved your grandchildren, or a million other things. On the subject of you there is only memory and silence, and that's the fragility of us all. So my response has been to live with as much intent as I can, and leave as few of my own big questions unanswered as possible. The silence that you belong to--the silence that I have lived with longest and which is the thing I know best about you--has become the yardstick by which I measure my life.