A Father's Day column from 1994: Questions that can't be answered
Me and Dad on our property in the Town of Nashville, 1961.
Photo by Olive Glasgow.
In late 1993-early 1994, I wrote three columns about my dad, Gorden Flannery, that were published in The Post-Crescent newspaper in Appleton-Fox Cities, Wisconsin.
The first column, published September 30, 1993, discussed the day on which he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. My brother Luke and I were with him as he was urged to seek surgery at the VA hospital in Milwaukee.
The second column, published April 3, 1994, explored the final four days of the Old Man's life, on a hospital bed at home. He died March 24, 1994, roughly six months after his diagnosis.
The final column in the trilogy, repurposed below, was published June 11, 1994, as a Father's Day letter to Dad. I remember writing it while fighting off tears in managing editor Bill Knutson's office, the glass-walled hub of our newsroom in those days.
I wanted to help anyone else in my situation. Someone with a too-distant relationship with a dad or a mom. Someone who had time to make a difference.
I hope it was received in that spirit, and that a torn relationship was patched for good.
To all my fellow dads, I hope you have the Father's Day you deserve.
________________________________________________________________
Dear Dad:
Father’s
Day is a week from tomorrow, and this is the first year you won’t be here for
it.
That’s not
to say we shared a lot of warm fuzzy moments on Father’s Day, or any other day.
We didn’t.
And it’s not to say that I gave you a lot of wonderful Father’s Day presents that you cherished until you died on March 25. I didn’t. For the past couple of years, I didn’t even send you a card. Maybe you noticed. You had done some things that made me upset, and made me feel spiteful.
Today, I can’t remember what those things were, but they must have been pretty important. I showed you, huh? No I didn’t.
I feel
badly about that. I think you did, too.
I feel
badly that we never made an effort to know each other better. We tolerated each
other, mostly. You did your thing, I did mine, and if we ever crossed paths,
that was OK. If the paths didn’t cross, that was all right, too.
I feel badly that we didn’t try very hard. And now, it’s too late.
I’ve written about you before in this space, you know, but neither was a particularly upbeat piece. Sadly, neither is this.
I wasn’t
sure if I should write this letter. But for the past couple months, a few key
questions have been rolling around in my mind: What’s left to say? Who would be
interested? What good would come from it?
Eventually,
the answers found the questions:
What’s
left to say? A lot. No, nothing that will erase the past 37 years, and nothing
that even should erase them. But yes, a lot that speaks to a relationship
between a father and a son and maybe a lot that will spark other fathers and
their kids to try a little harder.
Who would
be interested? Maybe anybody who has parents, or anybody who is a parent.
What good
would come from it? I don’t know, Dad. I don’t pretend to think about what I
write will heal all wounds for all people. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t
try to help, in my way.
If this
letter to you makes just a few people reassess their relationship with their
father, maybe that’s good enough.
You did
things that none of us understood, you know.
Your five
children had six weddings, but you attended only one. Why?
You
attended only one of our high school graduations, and that was mine. Why? Was it a
surprise?
 |
| Gorden and Thelma at their 50th anniversary party in Argonne, 1992. He came in his car, she got a ride with one of their kids. |
When a
grandchild was married or was graduated, or when an in-law was buried, you
stayed home while Mom got a ride with one of the kids. Why?
You took
the answers to those questions with you.
Like you,
Dad, I’ve got a lot more questions. Also like you, I’m not asking soon enough.
And also
like you, Dad, I’m pretty much a realist. What’s done is done. Live with your decisions,
I say. For the most part, that works.
We came to
grips with each other in the last six months of your life. I feel good about
that, and I know you did, too.
But, damn
it, there was a sense of urgency to those heart-to-heart talks in the hospital,
a now-or-never feeling that, in retrospect, makes me regret a lot of missed
opportunities through the years.
I said, "I love you'' more in your last six months than I ever did before. That’s
not right, is it? Waiting until the last minute.
You died
knowing that I always loved you, that I respected you and that I appreciated
everything you did for me.
I just
wish you had known it sooner.
Love,
Dan