Letters from the Heart

This letter, written to my father, gave me the chance to say “thank you.

TO MY FATHER, FOR ALL YOUR HELP AND LOVE

Dear Dad,

I never understood, when I was five or so and “helping” you with projects around the house, what you were doing. You were fixing a leak in the pipes, putting in a new light, building a dividing wall in the basement, that I knew. But I didn’t know what you were doing with me—that you were teaching me how to be an adult (which would probably come in handy as I got older). I also did not understand what I was doing: learning attitudes and skills that would aid me later in life. Mostly, I thought I was biding time, waiting for you to ask for a hammer or a screwdriver or pliers which I would then hand to you. But at least I was with you, in theory “working” together, and that was nice because you were my Dad.

Once, going out to play when Mom suggested I help you, I told her all I ever do is sit around and every once in a while hand you something. “But that’s a help,” she said. I opted to play instead. What I didn’t understand was how much more I was getting out of it. I was learning skills which would be useful fixing plumbing, tape recorders, and lamps all through school. I learned a systematic way of approaching problems to solve them (like reading directions only in frustration) after beginning in an orderly way known affectionately as “the dead-reckoning system,” following a step-by-step method I learned from you, a method which always works, often because the last step is “call an expert,” (which is often you).

I also learned an attitude, to respect but not be afraid of: toilets, sinks, cars, computers, radios, etc. If something’s not working, if it is ever going to work, someone is going to fix it. That someone may as well be me.

I wonder if it makes a debt, watching dads do that sort of thing. It certainly felt as if I were paying one off while I was pounding drywall nails into two-by-fours, anchoring screws into concrete walls, soldering pipes until they did not leak. Even moreso when I was done, (although I will never be done—“there’s always something” you said, and it’s been echoed by everyone else I know who has ever owned a house), but it seemed as if something had reached its conclusion, or come full circle, a completeness more abstract than the just-completed pastel-painted walls, but none the less real.

And I think you’ll be impressed when you do get here. When you are sitting in our basement office looking around at what was once a large, rectangular concrete box, like the inside of an orange crate without the oranges or packing materials, now more like a real home, one a family with actual people might live in, with furniture, toys, carpeting, painted walls, toys, and plumbing, and things everywhere, you’ll appreciate what’s been accomplished. Although you weren’t here supervising, or drilling or pounding nails, it’s obvious to me you are the major contributor for the improvements and deserve most of the credit.

The shower in the bathroom works now (the kids and I use it regularly) as does the lavatory and sink; the walls painted “heaven’s gate” blue, the mirrored oak cabinet mounted above the sink, electric outlets and lights brightening the room with a flick of the dark brown switch—a complete functioning room which didn’t exist before but which you brought into being through your thoughts and actions of long ago, and your recent encouragement, understanding and wisdom instantaneously available through the phone system and given so freely. So I thank you for all the wonderful improvements in our new house.

And I thank you for all the kind, thoughtful, caring love with which you guided me through the years, in this and so many other endeavors.

Thank you for always being there. I love you.

Your son,

David

Letters from the Heart

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