An open letter to my sister...and to my Dad.

I wrote this letter and emailed it to my sister a couple months ago. I chose not to post it here, but have changed my mind. Maybe you can relate to it on a personal level.

Kris:

I was going through a collection of old family photos today, photos that Mom gave me a while back. Photos that I have been scanning into the computer.

One of the things I noticed in the pictures was the difference between the three of us kids. There were shots of us individually as well as group pictures from baby days to teenage days. All of these photos were from the mid-60s and earlier, nothing real recent. You, Kris, are always smiling, making a face, soaking in the attention, mugging for the camera, enjoying the moment. Kim (our youngest sister) seems a little more serious, not quite sure of herself, maybe a little bored. And then there's me. I'm rarely smiling, especially in the teen years pictures. In fact, even as a child, I seem to be somewhere else...even angry at having my picture taken. These observations of mine are not something I didn't already know, or haven't thought about before. They are, though, a reminder of how we really don't change much over the years...or do we?

When someone in your life dies, or something inside of you dies...you do change. I think that both of these have happened to me in the last couple of years. My only true mentor in life died almost two years ago. A kind of reluctant mentor to me, from both mine and his perspective. Our father was indeed a hero of sorts to me. I always thought he was "The Man". My dad can beat up your dad kind of thing. Thinking back about my buddy's fathers...I know he could kick their asses! Our father's role as a mentor pretty much went away 17 years before his passed away, through no fault of his own. He had a debilitating stroke...’nuff said on that for the time being. What he provided to me as a mentor was an ear. He didn't always say very much, but I think we all knew he was listening when we came to him. Concerning myself and how I used that judicious mentoring he provided, it often fell on deaf ears...my ears. But, that's just kid stuff...none of us ever really "listen" to what parents have to say, even my kids. I just hope that they appreciate the fact that I listen to them and have anything to say. I hope that is worth something in the long run.

The "thing" inside of me that has died is more difficult to explain than the passing of a loved one or mentor. I feel that I have lost my "hope" at times. I've written about it, even recently. I've written about hope and dreams and self-confidence. The actual writing about those three things seems to help maintain a glimmer, a spark, a source of ignition waiting for some fuel. But it seems that just like the three essential elements of fire: heat, fuel, and air...I am missing something. I think that "thing" I am missing is still in me, I just can't find it any longer. The fuel is allusive to me right now. I may have indeed run out of gas. Not for life or the desire to go on living...but for the desire to pursue the things I dream about all the time. The things that I have dreamed about since I was little.

I know our dad wanted something different in his life. In fact, we all know that he hated the money-earning profession he had found himself in. It was just a job. He knew he had much more to offer his employers than he was given credit for. And that is where he and I were so similar. None of us often knew what he was thinking about at any given time, he was a very stoic, inward person when it came to expressing feelings. I'm relatively sure it was because he didn't feel comfortable complaining, especially about things that he may actually have control over...like his choice of profession. He kept those feelings inside. We both got discouraged easily. And, we both took things personally.

I hope that you, despite recent challenges in your life, have not lost that spark I see in your eyes in those old photos. Why you always seemed to be such a contradiction to our sister and myself, I may never know. I am quite confident it wasn't because you were adopted...because you weren't! You must have inherited some genes from a relative just like you. Genes that didn't assimilate into my being. This gene-donor relative was possibly a happy-go-lucky (female) tavern owner in England in the mid-1800s who was also the mayor of the town. She never married, but kept many suitors. She could drink any of her patrons under the table, and didn't hesitate throwing the recalcitrant ones out on their ears herself. She always had a dog, a sheep dog. And ran a livery stable behind the tavern where, being the humanitarian she was, offered shelter and a place to "sleep it off" to some patrons. As another side business, she built furniture. And she always painted until she died at the age of 99.

Maybe that's your distant legacy relative, maybe it isn't. If it was, she had an older brother and a younger sister. The sister got married to a wealthy Lord at a young age, and had children that all came to visit her in her old age. Though the younger sister lived the so-called "good life", she was never very happy or comfortable with it. Her older brother was married several times, traveled around the country quite a bit, and wrote many books about sailing ships, and safaris, and other adventures he never actually experienced himself. But, the books were wildly popular, providing him with the financial support to keep on writing. The brother died, alone, an alcoholic, after moving to New York to seek bigger fame and fortune...never realizing his dreams. He was never satisfied with where he was at the time.

Well, my advice to you sis? Keep trying to pick up that paint brush.

I guess one of the obvious differences between my Dad and me is that I manifest my creative urges and tendencies...in writing and photography. My father, Jim, did write me a long, detailed letter once while I was overseas in the Navy. He wrote it by hand on graph paper (one of the tools of his profession). It was very eloquent, well-composed, and somewhat philosophical in nature. I always wondered why he didn't write more. He had much to say...but often chose not to say anything.

I'm willing to bet that he writes every day now. And everyone around him can't wait for his next story!