An Open Letter to My Father

I began this blog to find comfort through writing while facing my own life-and-death situation.  Now, I find myself writing once again to deal with a different type of mortality.

Dear Daddy,

Every father is the apple of his daughter’s eye, and this daughter is no different.  I’ve put you on a pedestal my entire life because I thought you deserved to be there – a shining example of how to live. Now you’re ill and we’ve been told that the Lord might take you soon, although only He knows when. As I sit here by your bedside watching you sleep, with only the hum of the oxygen tank breaking the silence, memories flood my thoughts. When I was in college, you persuaded me to pursue writing. I am certain that this encouragement changed the course of my life, not only career wise, but also because of the fulfillment writing has given me. It has been a constant, and I have you to thank for motivating me to open that gift. So it’s only fitting that I now use the written word to share my feelings with you.

There are so many things you have brought to my life for which I will always be grateful, and I don’t know how to begin to thank you.  Some of my earliest memories are of summers in Atlantic City, where you would take us to the boardwalk (I clearly remember Mr. Peanut outside the Planters’ store) and concerts at the Steel Pier; once we even dared to go into Madame Tussauds Wax Museum – spooky! Family road trips weren’t limited to the beach – we went to a variety of locations from Canada to Georgia, mostly in the comfort of our powder blue Rambler stationwagon. We used to play a game on those vacations. When we would be finished sightseeing for the day, you would ask me how to get back to the hotel. You still talk proudly about my sense of direction. I’m sure those early car trips are why I am at my happiest being behind the wheel on the open road. One memory I will always cherish is when we were both much older and just the two of us took a weeklong road trip to the Outer Banks. We discovered lighthouses, shipwrecks, the “lost colony,” and lots of Stonewall Jackson sites along the way, and, although you were about 90, the pilot in you reacted like a giddy child when we got to Kitty Hawk.

You made sure that church played a big part in our family’s life. When I was little, you would pay me 50 cents if I could tell you what the sermon was about after service; I remember actually making notes on the bulletin – perhaps a precursor to my career as a journalist! Singing in the choir, attending youth group, and going to potluck suppers are memories that are firmly planted in my mind. I can still smell the aroma of your spaghetti sauce as you cooked gallons of it in the church kitchen. You made sure that we still attended those events when Mom got sick and it was just us. You wouldn’t have time to cook anything when you got home from work so you would go to Martin’s to buy cole slaw and put it in a casserole to take.

I know those days were rough on you, yet you did your best to try to keep my life as normal as possible, attending my plays and pageants, helping me to pick out gowns for school dances, chauffeuring me to concerts (which were usually a couple hours away), and grilling hamburgers and hot dogs at a high school graduation party you hosted under our carport. Of course, I was not the perfect teenager and college student – there is no doubt that I was the cause of grey sprouting in your black hair. You used those times to teach me valuable lessons, which I have never forgotten.

Once I graduated from college, you told me what I did was up to me and that your job was complete. But it wasn’t really finished, because to this day I hear your voice echo in my head when I make decisions. I remember shortly after I left home for my first apartment, I had a pretty bad car accident, almost going through the windshield; the resulting scar became a facial characteristic that has diminished over time, but the memory has not. As I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room to get stitched up, I was determined to be a big girl and handle the situation by myself. Then I turned to see you walking toward me. Because of the small town in which we lived, you had already found out about the accident. You never asked any questions, though; you just made sure I was OK and took me home so you could monitor my concussion. You also never asked questions when I chose to leave that small town – you just packed the U-Haul and moved me to New York, where I would end up staying and raising a family.

As you got older, you began having a lot of trouble with your knees, at times being unable to walk without being in a great deal of pain. However, when my wedding day came along, you not only proudly walked me down the aisle, but also danced with me to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” Whenever I hear that song, I still remember you dancing with me and singing to me with tears in your eyes: “And when Irish eyes are smiling, sure, they steal your heart away.” You were a wonderful grandfather to Maggie and Stephen. Although you were in your ‘80s by then, you did your best to talk and play with them. And when my marriage fell apart, you were there to help me sort through some difficult decisions and pick up the pieces.

You have been fascinating to watch, as you have not let one minute of your life go to waste, and I’ve been fortunate to ride on the coattails of your adventures.  I remember tape recording you some 30 years ago as you recited the stories with which I grew up – stories about getting struck by lightning, how you got eyeglasses, a stove exploding in a one-room schoolhouse, working on your family farm, and remaining calm as your plane stalled in mid-air. I transcribed all these true tales, which have become one of my greatest treasures. In fact, you have done more in the past 10 years than many people do their entire lives: celebrating your 93^rd birthday with a parachute jump, getting your pilot’s license again after a 50-year break, buying your own plane, and receiving numerous accolades for your achievements and service to the community. Just last month, I was honored to accompany you to Washington, D.C., to see you receive the U.S. Congressional Gold Medal for your work in the Civil Air Patrol during World War II.

You have instilled in me that sense of adventure, as well as a strong work ethic,  independent personality (which some would call stubborness!), and a “roll with the punches” attitude. Most of all, you have given me the gift of a strong faith, on which I will surely rely in the coming weeks and months. I’ve been so blessed to have you in my life for as long as I have and you have seemed so invincible that it will be difficult to grasp when you’re not here. However, you would tell me that you are ready to be called Home and that I shouldn’t worry because “if you’re still worrying, you haven’t really turned everything over to the Lord.” I keep telling myself that you have had 102 great years and a few bad weeks.

I have lived my adult life in a way which I hope has made you proud and will continue to live by the example you taught me so that I may, hopefully, serve as a role model for others the way you have been for me. I hope you will have the chance to read this or have me read it to you. For now, however, I’ll say “thank you” from the bottom of my heart and close the same way you end all your phone calls to me:  “I love you.  God bless and best wishes. Bye-bye.”

All My Love,

Ann

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