Blogger's Note: I know, I know. A new chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story was due to come out this week. But, I had something else on my mind, and one thing I've learned is that when inspiration comes a-knockin' I should open the door.
As I announced on my Parenting with Lightsabers Facebook page (like it here), "Approaching 40" was my second most viewed feature since this blog's launch (a distant second to "Brookport"). And do you want to know a little secret? I almost didn't write it. I almost scrapped it. It seemed like a silly idea.
So, I sat it down (not too unlike the opening in that story). I started writing something else. And that something turned out to be total shit. So, I went back to the original idea, not necessarily because I thought it was a better idea; but, because it was a complete idea. And once I started writing it, that thing took over. What is that thing? Good question. Unfortunately, I don't know. I wish I did. I wish it would come back and visit more often. When it does visit, I don't have to do anything. I just let the thing take over.
Sometimes, I think the thing is being stupid. I try to push it back down, because I'm smarter than it is. I know what good writing is. I know what a good idea is. I know how to trim a setting from a colorless screen and paint it with a humorous anecdote, a dramatic flare, and a complicit story. With a stroke of dazzling characterization, I can twirl a lexicon of language with such tempo and cadence that a paragraph nearly becomes a verse and a story is almost a song.
And yet, sometimes, despite a perfect mesh of allegory and metaphor or a consummate implementation of astute vocabulary, the characters are still just mannequins with stiff poses and mechanical dialogue. The story is a chiseled representation of something that is quite meaningful, but lifeless and limp. I have published features with the best of intentions using this method. Some of them are halfway decent; none are great.
Adhering to a weekly schedule and a strict rotation system, I cannot always wait for the thing to arrive. I sometimes just ride with what I know; I sometimes just stick to the plan. But sometimes, sometimes, the thing shows up. It creeps not from my brain, but from my heart. Perhaps from my soul. It weaves its tendrils around my circulatory system and spirals down my arms, into my hands, and through my fingers. Its coffee-fueled tentacles stretch, retract for one last surge and RRRRAAAAWWWWWRRRRRRR!!!!!!! it comes alive.
And I fear that what I'm writing isn't ok. It isn't well-conditioned or suited for my audience or a measure of my aptitude. It is risky and revealing and shady. So I resist.
But nothing comes. I am useless at work and a robot at writing. So maybe if I give in, just a little, maybe... But there is no "just a little". There is only...
Sit your ass down. Shut the fuck up. Drink your coffee. I've got this...
Listening to: Bernard Fanning "Watch Over Me"
Hey, Dad,
I had a revelation today. I was driving to work, and I thought about you. It's that time of year, you know. And, I thought maybe I'd write you a letter. I thought maybe if I wrote you a letter, maybe you'd read it. Maybe. I mean who knows? Maybe you're watching me right now. I just thought that you should know what came to my brain. I have something I want to tell you. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's see, where should I start?
Well, I'm doing ok. I married a Polish girl. She keeps me in line. She's a hard worker, and she's got some spunk. I think you would've liked her. We have two kids together. She's a great mother! She and I have a plan to see the world. We've been to Greece and Egypt and Prague. I don't know where we'll be going next, but I know we'll be going together. And that's a great feeling. She has this endearing accent; I wish you could hear her talk.
I wish you could've been at our American wedding. Hell, I wish you could've been at our Polish wedding. You wouldn't believe it. There was an orchestra and rose petals that fell on us and we danced in a castle while a hundred people watched us. You would've liked her family. They are good, hard-working people. Like you were, from what I hear. But our American wedding was really special to me, too. I'm writing a story about it. Hell, I'm supposed to be working on it right now. I hope you can read it. I'm proud of it. I'll get back to it next week. But I wanted to write you a letter. There's something I've been wanting to tell you. Shit, I already said that. Hang on, I'm getting there...
We have two kids together. Roman and Amelia.
Roman likes to dance. You should see him. He'll watch a video of someone dancing on his ipad (that's like a miniature tv that can play whatever tv show that you're in the mood to watch). He'll mimic the moves and rewind it and learn everything step-by-step. He's pretty good to tell you the truth. He's a good kid, Dad. I know you would've had a blast with him. He has a soft heart and an observant eye. Nothing gets past him. When I'm too busy on my computer to play with him, I watch him from the corner of my eye. He tries to respect my space; he'll walk away with this blank expression. I think I'd rather see him cry. So, I'll put away what I'm doing and play with him. Even if it's only five minutes, I think it shows him that I love him. Did you do things like that to me? I was about Roman's age when you passed away. I wonder how Roman would take it if I didn't come home one night like that. The thought breaks my heart.
Amelia likes to hear me play piano. Yeah, Dad, I play piano. I like to write and play piano. I don't think you and I would have had a lot in common. Anyway, she'll sit in my lap and listen to me sing. She'll yell out and slap the keys. She's too young to know anything, right? And yet she knows that the keys play music and that the buttons operate the percussion. She looks up at me when she knows I'm about to start singing. Just in the past week or so, she's really getting around in her walker. I'll sit her in it to get something out of the office; and, when I turn around, she'll be sitting there in the doorway behind me. I don't ever see or hear her move. She's just always behind me. It's kinda creepy, Dad. Can you see her? Maybe you can help me solve this mystery. She'll smile up at me with this gotchya grin. She looks just like me, Dad. I think she really likes me, too. She seems like she wants me to hold her when I walk by.
DJ is my oldest son. I named him after you, Dad. He's from my short, failed marriage many years ago. He'll be 18 next month. Kinda hard to believe. Harold Duane Edwards III. We call him DJ for Duane Junior. Everyone called you Butchie; everyone calls me Duane; and we call him DJ. Even though we're named after each other, it kinda gives us separate identities. The funny thing is if you lined us all up in a row you'd have three very different people. You were, from my understanding, into working on cars, hunting, fishing, and racing. I like music, writing, and art. DJ likes computers, anime, and video games. He and I have been having a hard time getting along lately. He's having a hard time at home; his life has been flipped upside down. His mother and step-father are going through a divorce. He's at a very critical moment of his life. College is just around the corner. I'm not trying to push him into any particular direction; I'm just trying to push him into action. I'm hoping he'll do something with his life. He doesn't live with me and doesn't seem to respect anything I have to say. I don't know how to influence him in a positive way. When I try to motivate him, he just gets upset with me. Maybe you could throw a little help my way? Not sure how much influence you have where you are, but anything would be appreciated.
Speaking of that.. I was wondering... Could we conduct a little experiment? I'm very conflicted in my beliefs, so I thought maybe, if you're capable, you could give me a little hint as to whether or not there is, indeed, life after death. Maybe you could do something that would tip the scales a little? Like write something in the steam of the bathroom mirror before I get out of the shower. Maybe write "Frodo Baggins", that way I'll know it's you and not someone else. Frodo was a halfling from Middle Earth called a Hobbit that has the One Ring which is the Dark Lord Sauron's.. oh, shit... nevermind. Just write "car".
Anyway, where were we?
Shawn is doing great. I think you and he would've gotten along very well. He's the mechanic. Hell, he's anything he puts his mind to. He just graduated from Murray State. He's some kind of computer programmer now. He has two boys: Wes and Will. They're good kids filled with the Edwards spirit and a penchant for mischief. You would have loved them. I think Shawn may have taken after you and I may have taken after Mom.
Speaking of Mom, she's doing ok. Well, when she's not being crazy. I think, after you died, she may have went a little bonkers. When we run into someone that remembers her when she was little, they always talk about how quiet she was as a kid. Well, she's anything but quiet now. She never quits talking. Ever. She suffers from some degree of anxiety or paranoia or something. I'm no psychologist, but I don't need to be to know that she's bat-ass crazy. She takes good care of her grandchildren, though. I don't think anyone could love them more than she does. Sometimes, in a rare moment of clarity, I think I see the woman that you fell in love with. In a brief moment of calmness, she'll do or say something totally uncharacteristic of the woman that I call mother. And, in that moment, I know that she must have something that still works in there. Like the way it did when you fell in love with her.
I recently wrote a story about traveling back in time where I toyed with the notion of changing the past if I could. I kept it light-hearted, so I didn't go to the night that you died. If I could go back in time, would I travel back to that cold, January night that claimed your life and insist that you not go to work? How different would everyone's life be if you hadn't died that night?
I suspect I would have been introduced to hunting and fishing and fixing cars. I might have been a very different person. But would I have been happy? One proud thing that I'll say about Shawn and I is that we're very self-taught. In a world filled with spoon-fed information and conformed lessons, we targeted and identified the things that we found interesting and claimed them. A mother with a sixth-grade education doesn't have a lot of influence on two hard-headed, rambunctious boys. If you had lived, would I have discovered my passion? Dad, I am a writer. It is at the core of everything that I know and love. Everything that I see and do is narrated in my head. It is filed as future text. I can't help but wonder if I would have discovered that if you would have lived. Don't get me wrong. I wish all the time that you would have lived to raise us, but I sometimes think there might have been pro's as well as con's.
You have left a legacy for us. During your short life, you made waves that are being felt all the way into the 21st century. I hear stories about you all the time. Just the other day, I ran into a lady at work that told me how you would always carry her books home from school. People have told me stories of how you would help them push their car after they ran out of gas in foot-deep snow.
Mom told me that you were born without a pallet (the roof of your mouth). She said it made you sound like you were talking through plastic. She told me once that you came home from work really upset because your co-workers were making fun of the way you talked. For some reason, I found this story to be the most endearing. I can relate to that. She said that you always were saying how you were going to get that fixed one day, so that people wouldn't make fun of you in front of your kids. Well, Dad, I can honestly say, I wouldn't have cared. I am a really nervous person; I am a worry wart. I think if I had been perfectly normal, then I wouldn't be the person that I am. I wouldn't feel this need to be nice, this desire to be liked. I think it's our imperfections that gave us our personalities. This brings me to one of my points. I always get the pudding.
What's the pudding? Well, it's the dessert part of the meal. It's the "nice" stuff. The "sweet" stuff. When people tell me "Butchie" stories, I always get the pudding. Dad, I want to know the real you. I am your son. I'd like to know. What do I mean? Well...
Did you ever smoke pot? Did you ever have a threesome? Did you ever fuck a fat chick or a midget? Did you ever get drunk and make an ass of yourself? Hell, you were alive in the sixties. I know there's some good stories out there. Why can't I hear those?
Sometimes, Shawn and I talk about the person you might have been. We think you might have been some gear-headed redneck. We have seen your drag racing trophies (I'm glad Mom kept those); we have seen pictures of you holding a fishing pole or a gun or riding a motorcycle. But I know there was more to you than that. I suspect you were actually a soft-hearted, intelligent man.
One of my few remaining memories of you was of us laying on the living room floor, arguing over what to watch on tv. I wanted "Gilligan's Island"; you wanted "The Little Rascals". I started crying, so you took off one of your dirty socks and rubbed it in my face. And then you gave in and let me watch "Gilligan's Island". Wanna know something? I know you probably regret not learning this in your lifetime. Gilligan never got off the island. I thought for sure he would have, but he didn't.
So..let me get to the point of this letter.. let me get to my revelation...
I was driving across the Brookport Bridge the other day. Dad, this winter has been one cold bitch. I heard it compared to the winter of 1978 on the news last night. The year you died. I found myself, once again, pondering what happened, how it happened, how you must have felt.
It's been 36 years, and yet, still to this day, when someone mentions my father I feel a catch in my breath. It's a discomfort that is difficult to describe. I don't know how to feel about you. Mom had told me that you had drowned until I got older. I suppose that's easier than explaining what hypothermia is. I suppose that's kinder than saying that you froze to death.
The word "Dad" feels so foreign to me. I wonder if that's what I'm supposed to call you. Should I say "Father" or "Butchie"? When I tell people about you, I always feel like I'm doing it wrong.
Mom said you always boasted about how well you could swim. She said that you said that you'd never wear a life jacket, because you didn't need one. And yet, that cold January night 36 years ago, they pulled you out of the Ohio River wearing one. So, you knew...
When the shit hit the fan, you grabbed a life jacket. When you couldn't hold on to anything else and you touched that freezing cold water for the first time, did you know that that was it? Did it hit so cold and so hard that hope just iced up like your blood and crumbled into the water? I spent my whole selfish life recreating that night in my head. Selfish because I always imagined you splashing and screaming for help and struggling to breath when that mother fucking thief crept up behind you and slit your throat.
Dad, I work on a casino riverboat. I walk across the parking lot in the middle of the coldest winter night. The wind slides across the open water and picks up the cold in its chilly arms and cruelly throws it on me. I know how much colder it is near the water than it is anywhere else. I look at the water and imagine how long a person might last floating in it. I decide that it wouldn't be for long.
I have children about the age that Shawn and I were when you died that night. I am enduring a winter that is being compared to that winter. And, I add another piece to the puzzle.
You had another thought that night, didn't you?
Because, when it's that cold, hope doesn't hang around for long, does it? I wonder if it was ever even there. You didn't spend your last breaths wasting them on salvation, did you? Of course you didn't. How do I know this? Because I am your son. In a way, I am you. And that's not what I would have done.
Whatever lingering hope or despair that might have been mumbling their last whispers was surpassed by your trumpeting desire to say I LOVE YOU one last time. What you were screaming, whether verbally or otherwise, is that you wished that you would have hugged longer, that you would have said more. And that your last words would have been "I love you".
That's what I would have wanted.
I heard it the other day on the bridge. And that's why I'm writing you this letter.
I just wanted to say, "we hear you, Dad." Relax. We knew it, anyway. You left us well. Thanks to social security, we never hurt for money. Thanks to your family, we always had a hand to hold. Thanks to your love, we always had a dream to chase. We have children to carry on your legacy and your name.
And that's it. Just wanted to say that I heard you. Everything's good. I'm good; Shawn's good; Mom's good; our children are good. In fact, I just may be at the peak of happiness right now.
Rest easy.
Your son,
Duane
P.S. Just thought I'd give you a heads up, I'm going to be sending a dog your way soon.
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