My Father Taught Me How To Write: Thanks on Fathers Day

My father taught me how to write.  He was a writer, a poet, and a storyteller and I realized this at a very young age.  I always thought this was special about him.  His bedtime stories to my sisters, brothers, and I primed our imaginations and continued as our dreams through til morning.  We became characters in his epic poetry and tears turned to giggles with his silly limericks.  Letters to the editor expressing his strong opinions about community affairs were read by a large audience while his very personal letters to friends and family were beautiful and meaningful.  His writing was full of endless imagination, sincere thoughts and feelings, and passionate opinions - and that is what he taught me writing is.  It's honesty and it's bravery.

"spinning a yarn"

His writing was only a part of who he was.  He was also a career Naval officer, graduated from the Academy, and spent much of the Cold War in a submarine "somewhere" in the North Atlantic.  In the meantime, he had six children and a wife moving from station to station along the eastern US coast.  I can't help but wonder that he spent many hours writing and thinking and imagining and worrying and sorting out all the things that were most important to him while he was away from us.  My mom said his letters helped her keep going when her life was incredibly difficult without him home.  And his homecomings were beyond joyful with his stories of adventures in European ports and the treasures he brought home for us.  These times continued to fuel our own imaginations and define our own lives.

Dad home on leave 1962

So when my father retired from the Navy and returned home to his family, he must have had to make the most incredible transition while still maintaining his sanity.  To go from his role in keeping the world safe from destruction and maintaining a balance of power, to, well, he basically had the same role . . . only with his children.  I think we were perplexing to him, especially my sisters and I.  He would often just randomly say, "girls . . . ", shake his head, and walk away, while at other unavoidable times, he would clearly, strongly redefine for us the center of household power, therefore keeping us safe from destruction.  I wonder if he missed the Cold War.

Dad (far left) somewhere in the North Atlantic

Our dining room table became a center for family time.  It was a place where we all got to know each other, really.  Dinner time became hours of passionate discussion that sometimes included yelling - that's ok, it was productive yelling - sometimes tears, productive tears . . . fist slamming, "I'm leaving!", humbling - all good.  My father was the moderator, inquisitor, devil's advocate, the traditional conservative amid the gradually evolving liberal, idealistic, knee-jerk reactionary household (including my mother because she went back to college . . . poor dad.).  He forced us to think about and articulate what we honestly thought, to come to a conclusion, to take a stand.  The "audience" (any of the rest of us) was pretty critical, or just safely quiet.  We look back on all this experience with . . . love and fondness (humor), and respect.  I look back on this as my preparation to becoming a writer.

Dinner Table 1987

The dining room table also offered quiet, peaceful moments - morning coffee and weekend "breakfast" made by dad, afternoon crossword puzzles, late night cookie baking, one-on-ones.  Like the one-on-one I had with my father on the morning of my high school graduation.

I had been struggling for several days writing a speech for my graduation ceremony.  Because of my participation in student government, I had been chosen to give a speech on a topic of my choosing.  I knew I had to address the fight between the teachers' union and the school board that was still not resolved after three years.  I had to.  It was like the 800 lb gorilla in the room - many students barely acknowledged it, even though it became a major distraction and intrusion on our entire high school career.  But in this final moment, I was panicking, unsure, ready to throw in the towel.  I lost confidence and direction, I lost courage.

I emerged from my bedroom after being up all night and sat at the table with my father.  I put my head in my hands and sort of sobbed for a while thinking that it was at least better there than in my room, like maybe it offered some possibilities for a way out.  I looked up at my dad after settling a bit.  He looked just a little uncomfortable, and my face went back into my hands for more sobbing.  When I settled again I slowly lifted my face with my hands still attached, and he said,

"uh...so...what's up?..."

Immediately I went out of control with sobs and half words and snorts and whining and moaning and "I - I - I just - uh - uh - uh --- I don't know -- what -- to -- write - uh, uh, uh . . . uh?"

Ex-ha-ha-ha-hale.

Finally, my father spoke.  Very simply.  He said, "Well, um, just write what you think, and just write what you feel, eh?"

Smart. Like he thumped me on the forehead with the heel of his hand, Duh?  I was liberated.

So,

My speech followed two of my classmates who tearfully spoke about life-long friendship and sad good-byes and happy, happy happiness and memories, and love and peace, not wanting to leave. . . ugh.  My friend, Richard, who was sitting next to me had to nudge me out of my chair to get me to the podium.  Complete silence as I began to speak:

"...educational system in North Stonington...inconsistency among teachers...apathetic attitudes and lack of pride...student body...lack of understanding...townspeople...

(YIKES!)

...enlightening and emotional experience...both sides...solutions...talk about our future and not our past..."

My father clapped the loudest.  It was so wonderfully controversial.  People loved me and hated me.  I was on my way.  Thanks dad.

Dad 1984
Happy Fathers Day