A Letter to My Father

Today is Father's Day and my father has been deceased now for 30 years. He died when I was 27. Our relationship went from me thinking he was God to total war and finally to tiptoeing toward a pact for peace before he left this world.

The last time I saw him, he and Mom had come for the weekend to visit my husband and me. We walked down to the underground garage with them and kissed them both as they got in the car. Then we turned around and headed back to the apartment elevator.

I clearly remember thinking, "Turn around and look at him because you might not see him again." Immediately I told myself to quit being so dramatic, there was no reason I wouldn't see him. He was only 57 and in good health.

The next Saturday, we played in a poker tourney at Dave's brother's house and I won first place. I was so excited! We sent to sleep and at 6:30 in the morning the phone rang. I answered and the operator asked to speak to Dave. I handed the phone to my husband and he went white. Covering the phone, he turned to me with sad eyes and said, "Oh, Hon. I'm so sorry. Your father has died."

 I was 27.

We had recently begun to repair the relationship and heal, but there had not been enough time to enjoy our newly repaired, tentative feelings toward each other. There was not enough time for either of us to prove that love was still real.

Today I feel the need to send my father a letter. Today I feel my father needs me and, yeah, I need him.

To My Father,

 Dad, I want you to know that your were the best father a little girl could have ever had, bar none. The time you and mom spent with me, the places you took me to, the fun things we did far outnumber what most parents do. Some of the things I hated at the time, but now i have a love of classical music, thanks to you. While I don't practice organized religion (which somehow now that I am older I don't think would bother you as much as you pretended it would) I do have a belief in the spriritual and solid principles that I can reflect on when the going gets tough. When I became a teenager, civil war broke out between us and it continued through my early twenties. We were too different, too opinionated, and I know now you feared my turning into a young woman who appeared "sexy" and wanted to protect me. I'm glad that we had started to mend things by the time you died, too young, at the age I am now. 57. I was 27. I'm glad we said "i love you" more than once before you had to go. I wish you could have accepted my differences, but I know now it wasn't because you didn't love me, but because of your upbringing and some awful things that occurred in your life that you found it hard to be anyting but unwavering in the opinions that you held in order to stay strong. I miss you, Daddy, and now I understand, even if we stll wouldn't usually agree. It's all cool. And you know what? I know you miss talking to me, too.

Happy Father's Day, from your rebel artist daughter,

Carolyn Anne 

Caddy Rowland is a novelist and painter. Her social media links follow.

To find out about her novels (including The Gastien Series, a story that begins with a bohemian artist in France) visit http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005FW8BZE

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Losing a Mother

Last week we got the news that Dave's mother had suddenly passed away.  While unexpected on one hand, we also knew that she was in her 80's and had not been talking for several weeks.  That had happened before, though, and so it was not really cause for concern.

When I found out I waited for Dave to get home from work and then told him. Plans were made to find another sitter for Gideon and we got ready to leave the next afternoon.

Dave seemed fine.  He didn't cry and he didn't seem to be stressed.  What he did seem to be was relieved, and happy for his mother. She had not had an easy life.  In fact, most would say it was mostly unpleasant. He had grown up in a family that struggled constantly with money issues, moving from one house to the next, never knowing how long they would stay before the rent was raised or they got behind.

His mother, Mary, suffered from schizophrenia. She had been in and out of the mental hospital since Dave was about age 8.  That was the age he was when she tried to commit suicide.  Dave found her, with her arm blown off from the shotgun she had held to herself. Religion was the trigger that sent her down that path, and it would remain the trigger for future break downs.
Needless to say, Dave is not a big fan of organized religion.

She lived with a false arm, no money, and six children to care for. Her husband was an extremely hard working farm hand, with no hope for a better future. He worked as long as there was daylight, six days a week. Saturday nights he drank, and Sunday he rested. It may sound like he wasn't much of a man, but I am here to tell you that he was, and is to this day. Not many would have lasted in his position.  They would have abandoned the family, the wife, the job, or possibly all of them. Not him. He was a faithful, steady worker and strived to keep the family together even during Mary's stays at the state hospital. Most of us could learn a thing or two about perseverance from Dude.

Mary was intelligent, kind, and beautiful.  Yes, she had been quite a looker. She could also paint. Dude had been handsome and would sing on the back of a tractor on the main street of town. What a promising couple.  What a cruel hand was dealt to them. Their oldest got polio. Another was legally blind. The children kept coming, as the Catholic church forbade birth control. Even though they didn't go to church, that stuck in Mary's head. It would eventually drive her crazy.

Mary was always upbeat, though. She always joked, always cared, always was glad to see her children do well. She was one hell of a cook, and would not hesitate to get up at two in the morning if a boy came home late and wanted to eat.  She seemed to wake up the minute one of them arrived, ready to nurture them in the way she knew best.  Food.

Six kids...and not one of them turned out badly. No money, no real religion, a mentally ill mother and a father that drank. Social workers would tell you that the children should have been headed for trouble.  Should have been, but none ended up there.

That's because Dude and Mary had love.  Sometimes, love and persistence trump everything else. Sometime, just sometimes, life is kind to your children even if it wasn't so kind to you. I think Mary would have said that she would prefer her children to have a good life over her own. 

I bet Dude would say that, too.  He is 88 now, almost 89. Every day he picked up Mary at the nursing home and brought her back home for part of the day.  Toward the end, he was the one that prepared lunch for the two of them.

A few commented that Dave might be hiding his grief.  Others say it will hit later.  I don't know.  I think I know my husband better than anyone ever has. I know he will feel moments of sadness that he can't talk to his Mom again, but I am betting that he is honest when he says he is happy for her being finally released to peace.  I think he gets it better than most. Perhaps lack of organized religion has helped him see more clearly the beauty of life, and the beauty of death. Yes, perhaps that was Mary's final gift to him.