A Letter to My Dad

My father felt a lot of regrets in his life. Maybe it was the way he was raised, or maybe he truly felt like he’d failed his kids by divorcing, remarrying, and losing touch for so many years. There was a period of nearly twenty years when he had moved from upstate New York to Florida, when I was working dead-end retail jobs and unable to afford either time off from work or the money to travel south to see him. We kept in touch by phone, but it wasn’t the same.

In the meantime, I had moved from New York myself, south to North Carolina following neurosurgery to remove a (thankfully benign!) brain tumor. I was closer to my dad in distance but still couldn’t afford to take even a single weekend off to travel. And then, through a series of fortuitous accidents, I was diagnosed as an adult with Autism Spectrum Disorder. I finally had the information I needed to change my life for the better and to pursue the education that would allow me to leave those soul-crushing, dead-end retail jobs behind for good.

Over the next few years, I saw my dad and stepmother a couple of times a year. And as his health deteriorated, and my stepmother passed suddenly, leaving him crushed and bewildered at being alone, I was able to revisit his past and my own in long dinner table conversations and days spent sitting by the pool in his Florida backyard. Dad and I spent “grownup time” together: visiting Homosassa Springs Wildlife Park and Weeki Wachi Springs mermaid shows; going grocery shopping and having dinner with his friends, couples who had also moved south from New York; and playing cribbage every afternoon on the lanai at four o'clock, then fixing dinner together and eating while watching the five o'clock news, followed by long reminiscences about Dad’s childhood and experiences in the Air Force during the Cold War, and playing board games until the primetime shows came on TV, shows like NCIS and Blue Bloods, which were his favorites.

Those are times I will always cherish, being able to spend time together as adults. But still, my father apologized regularly for not doing enough for me and my siblings, for not being entertaining or exciting enough, for leading such a quiet life and not being able to take me out to do exciting things (like Disney World). Gradually, he came to understand that as an adult on the Spectrum, I would never have been able to enjoy those things and that I was happiest just spending time with him.

When Dad’s health took a sudden turn and we knew his time on this planet was coming to an end for now, I spent a month with him over the winter holidays. But then I had to come home to care for my animals, and my sister and brother-in-law headed south to be with Dad. Four days before my dad passed away, I wrote him a letter to share some of the things that meant so much to me. He still was apologetic for not being the father he thought we wanted, which was untrue. It was his guilt that I needed to get past. Dad needed to know that as humans we each do the best we can, and that I cherished him as a father, who had given me exactly what I needed to succeed in my life. Autism may have made me find my path later than most, but Dad had given me the boots to walk that path, and the survival supplies to fill my figurative backpack.

I couldn’t be with him, so I wrote him a letter to tell him how he had impacted my life. My sister Catherine and her husband Michael were with him at the end; they read this letter together, and I was told later that there were tears all around. This might not mean much to you, dear reader, but you probably have your own - equally important to you - memories of your Dad to share. Think about doing it before any more time passes.

This is what I wrote to the man who was most important in my life.

***

Dear Daddy,

I’ve been thinking about the many wonderful conversations we’ve had in the past years around your dining table, when you shared so much about your childhood, family, time in the Air Force, and traveling to England and Spain. It makes me feel so close to you, as if the vivid stories you told brought me into those places and times with you. Those are gifts that live in my mind and heart. You inspired me to finally travel myself, to the UK and Scotland, and you were there every day when I called home, to be a rock I could rely on when I got scared or overwhelmed. And even when I was at home, feeling lonely or lost, knowing that you were just a few hours’ drive away helped to strengthen me, allowing me to face the challenges in my life.

The opportunities I’ve had to record our conversations have been a blessing, as well, so that when the grandkids and their grandkids begin to wonder what your life was like, I will be able to share your words and stories with them, in your own voice. That is a gift that our distant ancestors could never give us, or even your parents and grandparents. Invaluable!

In that vein, I’ve been thinking back on my own childhood, and the wonderful memories we built together, even though at the time you might not have realized it. We were just living day to day, but many things fill my heart and mind from time spent with you, both before and after the divorce. I know that you felt breaking up the family broke us all in some way, but that was not the case for me. Even at fifteen years old, I could see that you and Mom were miserable together, and would be happier, better people apart. And that was especially true for you when you met and fell in love with Maria, and then married her. Over twenty years together! And I know you loved each other madly. How could I not be happy for you?

But remembering back on my childhood, I want you to know what enormous gifts you gave me. Those memories are vivid and precious to me, even now that we have grown up and moved far away from that past life. I remember camping every summer for years on Sacandaga Reservoir, in the pop-up trailer. One summer, just as we arrived at the campsite, it was pouring rain. You and Mom were trying to set up camp while we kids were scrunched down beneath the picnic table, with the rain beating down on the wooden surface above us. It probably wasn’t much fun for you, but I loved the rain, so being there was a great thing. We had long, blissful days of adventuring and exploring, days that helped me learn to be independent and strong, not afraid of being alone (by choice!), as I would turn out to be for much of my life. The self-reliance and strength I gained from those summers in the woods have been indispensable to my life ever since.

I remember Christmases spent with Grandma Lang in the back half of the home she shared with her brother and sister-in-law, Uncle Lee and Aunt Viv, that little old house with the scary-steep stairs and the flowered curtain closing off the bathroom area upstairs. That terrifying framed oval photograph of Grandpa Lang in his World War I uniform, which I was afraid to be in the room alone with and would give anything to find now, but seems to have disappeared into someone's attic, never to be seen again!. I remember the footstools made out of juice cans—so homey!—that Grandma made with her community of lady friends from the Episcopal church in Schuylerville. And the many Thanksgivings we spent with her, the entire family crammed around the folding table and card table in her living room, pulled into one table by a long tablecloth and surrounded by a variety of mismatched chairs. And the tons of great food, turkey and fresh-baked rolls and cranberry sauce from the can, and especially her amazing mashed potatoes. No potatoes ever tasted so good! We always said it must have been the Thomson township well water, but I’m convinced it was being together with our family that made everything taste so good.

I remember one Christmas (or not-quite-but-almost Christmas) when Cathy, Jennifer, and I were all in Vassar Hospital to have our tonsils taken out, and the candy-stripers came around to give us Christmas crackers (paper tubes wrapped in red crepe paper with Christmas stickers on them) filled with candy, and a children's book for each of us. I remember the Christmas parties at IBM when all of the men brought their families, and all of the kids lined up to get a gift from Santa Claus. And I remember the Fourth of July fireworks at IBM, too, when the hillside was crowded with families sitting on blankets spread across the hillside, watching the show, and then trying to get out of the parking lot afterward in a huge stream of cars as we littler kids fell asleep in the back of the station wagon.

I remember going to the drive-in movies in that station wagon, dressed in our pajamas, to see Mary Poppins and Dr. Dolittle and Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. We would all fall asleep in sleeping bags in the back of the car about halfway through. And I remember watching The Wizard of Oz on TV every Easter season, with those horrifying flying monkeys, and The Sound of Music every Thanksgiving. I still can sing every word of the score to The Sound of Music, the movie version, at least. It still seems strange to me to hear a Broadway cast sing it, especially when they include songs that were cut from the movie. Only Julie Andrews can ever be Maria von Trapp!

And I have to thank you for my love of Broadway musicals. Growing up, the music I listened to was your albums of The Flower Drum Song, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma, The King and I, and others. I think the first album I ever bought for myself—at the age of thirteen—was Man of La Mancha. To this day, I know more Broadway show tunes than any other songs, and that’s the station I listen to in my car, especially on my trips to Florida to be with you. In my mind, you are Broadway, and I have to thank you for giving me this tremendous gift.

And I want to thank you for all of the wonderful things we’ve done together as adults when I started college and finally had the opportunity to travel to Florida to see you. You always apologized for not being able to get out and do much, but as always, it was the time I spent with you that meant the world to me. I loved the times we went to Homosassa Springs to see the manatees, the rides on the flat-bottomed metal boat along the serene creek, and walking around the park to see the animals. And the mermaids at Weeki Wachi were wonderful, sitting on the bleachers beside you watching the show, riding the glass-bottomed boat, and seeing the hundreds of manatees in the lagoon. Likewise going to Three Sisters Springs to see the manatees crowding into the springs to keep warm in the cold of winter. Truly awesome creatures, and an amazing experience!

And you turned this most un-mathematical girl into a cribbage player! Score! Somehow, through those afternoon card games, you taught me to count to fifteen, which is huge. Kudos! Maybe someday I’ll be courageous enough to play with Cathy and Michael…well, maybe. And you learned how to play Rummikub, and really made my brain cells burn as I tried to keep up with you. You certainly give me a run for my money!

I think the best thing, though, is just spending time in your home relaxing, and talking. It is a true gift to be able to get to know a parent as a person, and to discover all the things you experienced through our conversations together. The stories that you shared about helping your grandfather sort through the bales of trash at the paper mill in Thomson to find old coins and other metal bits to recycle, the story about riding home on your bike at dusk one evening and coming face-to-face with a bobcat on the old bridge, your accounts of training in New Mexico when you were in the Air Force and being warned about Soviet spies trying to compromise the airmen—and then meeting a Russian woman in a bar one night!—and how you scored better on your tests in atomic school than the majors and generals in your course, are experiences that I would never have known about, if not for those long talks. Thank you for that.

But above all else, I think, I owe to you my love of reading. Without reading, my life would not be complete, and I owe that to you. Throughout my childhood, there were always scads of books, piles of books, bookcases full of books, so that I could fulfill my immense need to populate my mind with characters and stories and other worlds. Without the books I read, I would have had no way of understanding this world, or of getting to know people. I remember frequent trips to the tiny Fishkill Plains Community Library, in that old gray wooden church with the creaking floors, and later to the new library, and then—when as a teenager I needed MORE books—to the Grinnell Library in Wappingers Falls and the Adriance Library in Poughkeepsie. You were always there to drive me to the library and help me to obtain the books I needed to encourage my imagination to grow. Without you, I would never have become a writer. I owe that to you, for sure, and the love of books you instilled in me.

And I remember how—when I was still a toddler—you would tuck me into bed at night and rub my back to relax me until I fell asleep. That is the most comforting memory I have. Whenever I get stressed or can’t sleep, I picture you sitting on the side of my bed and patting my back, and I always feel comforted. I wish I could be with you now, to comfort you, but I know that Cathy is much better at that than I am. Please know that I am here, loving you, and always grateful for all that you have given me throughout my life, of love, acceptance, and encouragement.

I love you with all my heart, and you are always with me.

***

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Author's Note: Until I began writing this tribute to my father, I hadn't realized how much my childhood experiences colored who I am today. It truly was the little things that made my life—as constrained as it was by being born autistic—a rich and valuable one. We were an unusual family, to be sure. With five kids and numerous pets, there was never quite enough money to go around, so we weren't the family that visited attractions like Disney World or the Grand Canyon. Our entertainment came from visiting historical homes throughout New York and New England, or camping as a family. We went to the library instead of a movie theater. And it was the simplicity of my childhood that made me the person I am today. I was blessed to have the opportunity to share that with my Dad before he passed. And I am blessed to share my memories here, with you.

I have no regrets.