SEVEN LETTERS MY FATHER NEVER MAILED
by Stuart Swersie
(circa 1970)

    The true test of a love-hate relationship lies with the ability to endure. It cannot be measured in years, but rather by the quality to survive the death of one of it's participants, and to maintain its intensity throughout the abyss of eternity.
    The ambivalent association of father and son, nurtured by the mysterious forces of heredity, consumed by petty misunderstandings, and expunged by a mutual inability to communicate, has left its insidious scars upon families throughout the centuries. Today it is often masked within the framework of simple terminology and accepted, together with it's traumatic consequences, with resignation, indifference, and even humor.
    In retrospect, and with heartfelt regret that I cannot take back the years, nor right the wrongs, I look through the dark tunnel of the past and contemplate what could have been. The reaching out, the touching, the quiet assurance and encouragement that was never there. The fear that often prevailed. And the love, too, that never surfaced. Or did I just not recognize it? The figure that stood high on the pedestal commanding, demanding, yielding to no man. A statue, a facade...devoid of obvious emotion, made of concrete and steel, insensitive to reason, inflexible. Each day just another entry in his ledger, to be buried faded and forgotten in the ashes of time.
    God damn it, Dad, if you couldn't bring yourself to say it, why the hell didn't you write it?

Dear Son,
    Today I touched a little toe and felt the helpless warmth of a small hand wrapped around my finger. You are not two days old yet, yet you are not at all a stranger to Mom and me. In a way, although I am seeing you close up for the first time, I know you well already. So many times I felt you twist, turn and jab at the wall of your mother's stomach. How we giggled with anticipation. Boy? Girl? It didn't matter (even though I offered a bonus for a boy.)
    There's much to do together, son. So many years to enjoy. Bicycles to fix, baseball glove pockets to oil and break in, tents to put up, hooks to be baited, driving lessons...sorry little man, if I seem to be rushing things but I'd really like to get started. You kept us waiting nine months and I've made 19 years of plans.
    I'll be back to see you later, son. Welcome to tomorrow, with my love.

                                                                                    Dad

Dear Son,
    Really sorry I couldn't be there today. I realize that the first day of school is a very important event but this sales meeting just couldn't be postponed. I know that someday you'll understand.
    Mom tells me that you couldn't wait to get into the classroom. You didn't even turn to say goodbye, just went right to it like a real pro. You left Mom standing at the curb with tears in her eyes worrying how you'd react alone to a strange situation (and feeling a million years old because her little boy was going to school now,) and you tore into the building like it was built especially for you.
    Good luck, tiger. You're off to a great start. Stick with it all the way and the world will be yours.

                                                                                   Dad

Son,
    This is in no way an apology. You deserved the beating and the "grounding" and probably a lot more. It wasn't so much the original infraction - lots of twelve year olds experiment with cigarettes. What disturbed me most and cut the deepest was that you lied.
    Son, we caught you. There was the smell of smoke on your clothes. Why you denied it is beyond me. Why didn't you just say yes, I tried a cigarette, instead of trying to lie your way out. Fear? Of what? Of your parents? Oh, we'd have been angry and probably have punished you to some degree. That's happened before. But we'd have respected your honesty. Now we can never be absolutely sure, can we?
    There's so much to learn in life, and so much pain in the learning. I hope this lesson is well remembered. No lies among us...ever. We are to each other all things and no mistrust should ever cloud this easy intimacy.
    One more point to ponder. When and if you again decide to stand your ground and swing back, be it at me or any other worthy opponent, never - and I repeat - never lead with your right.

                                                                                    Think about it,
                                                                                    Dad

Hey Sport,
    I saw your face today as you were leaving the field at half-time. I hadn't seen a more dejected look on a young man's face in my life. And all because you dropped a football during a critical third down play in the first game of the season. I'm not minimizing the importance of what happened. You would have been a campus hero if you'd have held on to it. I only wonder if, in perspective, dropping the ball at that moment was all that important for the long haul. Unless, of course, you plan to go on dropping the balls the rest of your life. Your team did ultimately win, and you were part of the win. If not the most important part, at least important enough to help make the winning machine work.
    The way I look at it, in a school with 400 boys, only 45 can be on the football team. That makes you pretty special to begin with. As only 11 play offense, and you are one of the 11, it makes you kind of extra special, at least in this house. And figuring that you will hold on to more footballs than you will drop in the course of a season, no matter how critical the moment is, I can't see but that you're going to be a very vital part of that team.
    I never made the football team in my high school, and we had only 200 boys. So, today, I made the varsity rooting team - for my son.

                                                                                    Good luck,
                                                                                    Dad

Dear Son,
    A man's son is an extension of the man. Everything he never was is for his son to be. A father can open just so many doors and, hopefully, his son will choose the right one to go through into manhood.
    By my standards you did not make the right choice. You are turning your back to every opportunity available to you. You are taking nineteen years and tossing them frivolously away. You are shooting craps with your life.
    In this complex, competitive world you can't just toss away a college education to "see the world" in a broken down van. Too much is at stake. You were doing so well in your freshman year. What happened? Who gave you these crazy ideas? Why are you doing this? We had so much hope for you, your future. I don't understand. Mom is heart broken - I am disgusted. No, maybe only disappointed. Certainly confused.
    Please reconsider. Think of the manifestations of your impulsive actions. Talk to us...discuss it with Mom and me. Then, if you still reach the same conclusion, go - with our love, if not our approval. Call, write, come home to talk to us. Don't just take off...please.

                                                                                    All our love
                                                                                    Dad

Dear Children,
    A note from Arizona, one of too few in the last two years and now I am a father-in-law. Just like that. Simple, uncomplicated, innocent. Also very difficult to absorb from mere words on a paper.
    So many times Mom had pictured you and your bride walking proudly down the isle, tux, gown, bid reception, the works. Never did we imagine that we'd become in-laws through the mail. No pictures, no description of our new daughter-in-law, nothing. Just a letter.
    You say brazenly, that you have been living together for more than a year, and now that she's pregnant you have sanctified the relationship. Beautiful. Mom and I went together for a year too. I courted her, won her love, and married with the blessings of both families. We didn't have to sanctify anything. We loved each other, wanted to share a lifetime together, and we got married. No trial relationship, no experiments, no pregnancies. Just love, engagement and marriage. And I could support her. I had a good job. What can you offer that poor girl? Promises? A future? What kind? Living out of a van in a desert is no life for anybody, let along a pregnant 19 year old girl.
    It's all so different now, so hard to comprehend the reasons, the motivation, the irresponsibility. What happened to the orderliness of things?
    Come home, son. Bring her with you. Live here for a while. Go back to school. Build a life for yourself and your bride. We'll make a separate apartment for you upstairs. We'll baby-sit for your children. We'll do whatever we can to help you kids get a good start. If you need money, I'll send it. Just let me know.
    I write from the heart. We welcome you. your wife and out grandchild. Please think about it...and come home.

                                                                                    Dad

My Dear Son,
    I felt your presence here in the hospital today and wanted to respond to the touch of your hand. I couldn't - and I know that you understand. It was enough that I was aware...and happy that you came.
    Don't cry, son. Don't try and drown the emptiness of time in tears. We all have our destiny and you have followed yours. I have read the stories you have written. They're good, even great - and I now know why you had to go your way and not mine. Be proud of what is and have no regret for what was. We all make our life work in the way that suits us best. How could I have really known what was best for you?
    You are a man with a family now. A wilderness writer with a message. I wish I had more time to bask in the shadow of your glory...to boast a bit...to tell the world how proud I really am to be your father. And to hope, too, that you are proud to be my son. Thank you for "coming home."

                                                                                All my love,
                                                                                Dad