I come now to the part of the letter I fear most. I do not intend to blame all my past actions on my condition. That wouldn’t be fair. I could have done something before now. I chose not to. I had control over the way I acted and I take full responsibility for the consequences. I just want to see if I can make it right. What I am trying to say is, if you’re up to trying again, I’d like to see if we can work things out. I feel so much better about the future. It’s not so empty.
I never thought I would be borrowing words from my father, for in my wildest dreams I never wanted to admit that we had anything remotely in common. I’d always looked at him as just a crazy old man. I’m realizing he wasn’t that crazy. He was a man struggling with life the best he could. How’s that different from me?
He wrote that he was not skilled in writing, but I can think of no better way to say what is lately becoming crystal clear:
“My existence will be utterly miserable if you are not standing by my side. I will shiver, for you are my warmth—I will be lonely, for you are my friend—I will feel lost, for you are my guide. Everything good in me, no matter how small, you discover. I long to see your smile in the morning, to feel your touch in the evening.”
I hope I am not too late. I will be anxiously awaiting your reply.
Love,
Bob
As Laura read the handwritten words, she was too overcome to stand. Grabbing the wall for support, she burst into tears.
“What’s the matter, Mom? What does it say?”
Hugging Emily tightly, Laura spoke through her tears, “It’s okay, babe, these are happy tears. Get your stuff packed. We’re going to get our life back.”
The wind outside was getting worse. While Emily finished packing, Laura tried again to schedule a flight at the airport. Because of high winds pushing ahead of the Pacific storm, the airlines had canceled all flights to San Diego. As a result, the remaining flights into Los Angeles and the surrounding area were overbooked. She grabbed the atlas and calculated the mileage. It would take ten hours. She would never sleep anyway. If she drove through the night, they could be there by morning.
She picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s number. His machine picked up. It didn’t feel right leaving her answer on his machine. She needed to give it in person. After throwing some things into her suitcase, she and Emily got in the car. Emily snuggled into her blankets in the backseat as Laura headed down the interstate in darkness.
When he noticed Laura’s number on the caller ID, Bob anxiously dialed her back. No one answered. He tried her cell number. No answer. Two hours later he tried again—still nothing. To pass the time, he picked up Harry’s book and began to read. Words he had once considered nonsense were now profound and meaningful. As he turned the pages, he stopped on poem twenty-four. He read it once, then carefully again.
To Grow, We’d Garden
When I was just a little boy,
Dad took me by the hand.
Let’s go work in the garden,
We’ll plant the fertile land.
We’d work together often,
Dad made certain I was there.
How could I help? I was so small,
He always seemed to care.
We stood together, side by side,
Example now rings true.
Thinking back, I learned of life,
From simple things we’d do.
We’d till—I learned that good preparation is vital.
We’d plant—I learned to sow hope.
We’d talk—I learned that I was loved.
We’d fertilize—I learned to give back, not just to take.
We’d water—I learned that, as plants need water, sunshineand soil, we also need balance in our lives.
We’d hoe—I learned that if it is not removed, evil can soonchoke out the good.
We’d watch—I learned patience.
We’d pray—I learned that everything in life is a blessing.
We’d thin—I learned that we all need space to expand and grow.
We’d prune—I learned that to grow the sweetest fruit, wesometimes need to be cut back.
We’d harvest—I learned that hard work can reap bounteous rewards.
We’d thank—I learned humility.
My dad is gone and now I’m grown,
I try to teach my son.
We spend time in the garden,
Toil beneath the shining sun.
In memory I bow my head,
And beg my own dad’s pardon.
I’m not like him and though I try,
I just can’t grow a garden.
It doesn’t really matter though,
As a dad I understand.
I’m not here to grow a garden,
My job’s to grow a man.
Of course. As Emily would say, Duh. The password was clever and yet so obvious. Harry had titled the poem “To Grow, We’d Garden.” It was a play on words that fit the poem’s ending perfectly. The contraction we’d was used throughout and in a poem on gardening could be read as weed. “To Grow (a) Weed Garden—very clever indeed,” Bob mused.
He flipped open his laptop, typed in the password “weed,” and opened the letter.
Dearest Emily,Of all the lessons in life, the one taught here is one of the most difficult to learn, that of forgiveness. I am not speaking of forgiving others but of forgiving one’s self.
I lived most of my life, Emily, full of pent-up bitterness and rage. The wounds were deep and festered for many years. They were self-inflicted wounds. Now, at the end of my time, I realize that she would have forgiven me. If Kathryn were here, she would put her loving arms around me and she would kiss me, and she would forgive me, and tell me it was okay.
Emily, in life you must face up to your actions, rectify yourmistakes the best you can, and then forgive yourself and move onward.
I told you that Kathryn was taken but, Emily, her death was my fault. She left because of cruel words I spoke in a fit of anger. I pleaded with her to return. She was coming back to me when she was killed in an accident. Your father and your Aunt Michelle were not seriously hurt. Kathryn was taken. I have lived with torment every day of my life since, and now, so close to dying myself, I realize I was wrong to harbor such bitterness—she would have forgiven me.
Emily, there is no guarantee that life will be easy for anyone. We grow and learn by facing and overcoming challenges. You are here to prove yourself, to develop, and to conquer. There will be constant challenges that cause you to think, to make choices, to question. While you grow from these challenges, you will find there will be times when the day is over and you have come up short in both your actions and your intentions. Step back. Take a deep breath. Learn from your mistakes of today. Prepare the best you know how for tomorrow, and then live each day the very best you can. At the end of those days when you do come up short, my advice is to forgive yourself—forgive yourself and move on. It is how I wish I had lived my life.
I miss her, but I take comfort in the fact that she was coming back to me. I loved her with all my heart and she loved me. It is hard to explain, but I have a feeling that she will come for me soon. I look forward to being with her again.
I will miss you, Emily, but I will finally be happy. Remember me; remember your grandmother, Kathryn. We will be watching you—cheering you on.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
Bob read the words and shifted uneasily. In his mind, the words of Harry’s first letter echoed: “Life has a strange way of repeating itself.”
He grabbed the phone and dialed her number again. No answer. He hit a few more numbers and was instantly connected to information.
“Hi, I need a number for—let’s see—his name is Grant, Grant Midgley.”
He scribbled the number on the back of an envelope as it was repeated and then punched it into the phone. It rang just once before someone picked up.
“Grant Midgley.”
“Hi, this is Bob Whitney, Laura’s husban
d. Have you heard from Laura? I’m worried about her.”
“Oh, hi there. Um, yes, I talked to her earlier. She called me here at home, to let me know she wouldn’t be in for a few days. Said she had to take a quick trip to California to see you, work some things out. Didn’t you know she was coming?”
“Not exactly. Perhaps she wanted to surprise me. Do you know what time her flight left?”
“She was driving.” The words made Bob’s heart sink.
“Laura, driving in this weather?”
“I guess all the flights were booked. The storm caused a bunch of cancellations, but I didn’t think she was leaving until morning.”
“Okay, I’ll keep trying to reach her. Thanks for your time. If you do hear from her, would you give me a call?”
“Certainly.” Bob recited his number and hung up the phone.
He looked at the clock and then dialed her number again. “All circuits are busy, please try your call later.”
He screamed into the receiver to vent his frustration, as if the recorded voice could understand. While he paced theroom, he flipped on the TV to The Weather Channel. The announcer detailed the severity of the storm that was picking up force as it moved inland. “She was never good at driving in rain,” he mumbled as he clicked it off.
“Life has a strange way of repeating itself.” The echo was driving him crazy. He had sworn never to be like Harry. The similarities now had him terrified. If he lost Laura, as Harry lost Kathryn, how could he forgive himself? He’d live lonely, just as Harry had lived, and then he would die lonely, just like Harry. He walked around the room again, turned on the TV, and flipped the channels rapidly before throwing the remote across the room. He wanted to run on the beach, to release his anxieties, but outside the rain was violent, as the storm’s fury continued.
The window wipers were going full blast but it was still hard to see. Laura was not used to driving so long at one sitting, and in truth her eyes were beginning to burn. She thought about stopping to rest on several occasions, but the words of his letter surfaced in her mind. “. . . I will shiver, for you are my warmth—I will be lonely, for you are my friend—I will feel lost, for you are my guide. . . .”
No rain was going to keep their family apart now, she vowed. Not after all the storms that had been thrown at them over the last year. Kathryn came back and now, so would she.
Emily sat up as the thunder clapped.
“Mommy, are we going to be okay?”
“We’re going to be just fine, babe. Go back to sleep. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.” She tried to sound calm. Each time the thunder shattered the rhythmic sound of the wipers, she gripped the wheel tighter. She couldn’t let Emily know that she was terrified. He’d stayed up all night, and he looked terrible. He rested his head on the counter, drifting in and out of a light sleep. Lights from a police car began flashing through the window. He understood their meaning, and it made him want to sob. The rain was still pounding against the windows of the house. As he squinted through the downpour, Bob could see a uniformed officer step out of the car in his driveway and run toward the front door to avoid the torrent.
The doorbell rang. He trudged toward the door, his head starting to spin. What have I done? The officer pounded sternly. Bob turned the handle and pulled the door open slowly.
Standing under the porch, but still being soaked from the blowing rain, were Laura, Emily and Officer Wayne Potter of the CHP. Bob didn’t wait for an explanation. He hugged Laura tightly. Emily grabbed on to both of them as they stood crying and embracing each other.
Bob spoke first, “She didn’t make it back, Laura.”
“What?”
“Kathryn. She was killed on her way home.” She looked into his eyes and understood the depth of his panic.
“I did make it back, Bob. I did make it back.”
They embraced again as the officer shifted his weight.
“Look folks, I’m glad you’re all just one big happy family, but it’s raining something fierce out here and the lady’s car ain’t gonna get out of the ditch by itself. Now, you want me to call a tow truck or not?”
“I ran off the road a few miles up. I fell asleep. I made him bring us here before calling for a tow truck. I’m sorry.”
“Let the car drown,” Bob answered. “Let it drown.”
HARRY ’S BOOK HAD BEEN PLACED ON THE BACKSEAT. THEYwould read it on the way.
Of the twenty-six poems, they’d solved less than half. The rest would come. There were secrets left to discover.
Bob drove the U-Haul through the cemetery gate, stopping near the south side. He stepped down, and then helped Laura and Emily out of the cab. Hand in hand, they walked to Harry’s and Kathryn’s graves to say good-bye. They stood quietly next to the small granite markers that lay side by side.
Bob contemplated the changes that had occurred in his life—the lessons Harry had taught him.
Laura quietly thanked Harry for helping to give back her life.
Emily missed playing checkers.
After they each paid their silent tributes, Bob reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter, and handed it to Emily. It was her idea; she knew what to do. She looked so content and happy as she bent over and placed the envelope containing Harry’s last letter to Kathryn on the headstone. It lay face up for all to read. While the envelope had yellowed with age, the address still read “Kathryn Whitney, Heaven.” Underneath, however, new words had been written. The words “Return to Sender—No such address”—so cruelly stamped by the post office—had been crossed out. Just below and in her best handwriting, Emily had penciled in new words, words of hope and love. The envelope now read “Kathryn Whitney—Heaven. Hand-Delivered.”
After she had positioned the letter in place, Laura spoke, “He’ll take it to her now, babe, he knows the way.” Emily beamed.
Sensing that Bob needed to be alone, Laura took Emily by the hand and headed toward the van. Bob waited until they were distant. He still had difficulty expressing his emotions. He thought back to the letter that affected him the most— the one that meant the most. He spoke softly.
“I fell out of the tree Dad, just like when I was four, and then again when I was twelve. This time, though, I was thirty-six. I needed to thank you in person, Dad, for catching me, for not letting me hit the ground. I still don’t quite understand how you knew, but you were there to stop my fall. Thanks, Dad.”
He walked peacefully to the van. As he climbed inside, he noticed the sun reflecting off of Emily’s brown hair. Her voice was vibrant as she spoke.
“So, how long does it take to get to San Diego?”
Harry Wright wrote poems to his wife and family his entire life. A few years before his death, he compiled these poems into a book, which he presented as a gift of love to his children and grandchildren—so they would remember him for the good times. That book of poems and the hidden wisdom it contains inspiredLetters for Emily.
The irony is that it was not until well after his death that his book of poems began to rekindle memories of the true man, the man who loved life and cherished family—instead of the sick, frightened old man that he had become in those final years. Like Harry Whitney, he suffered the symptoms of aging. It also became apparent in those very late years that he struggled with mental illness; a condition he probably had most of his adult life.
I would encourage the reader to seek out the writings and letters of his or her own parents, grandparents, or other loved ones. Perhaps, in this search, hidden wisdom will be discovered as well. It may be, in reading forgotten words, in remembering their lives, their sacrifices, that their frailties will wash away, their strengths will surface, and they will be remembered fondly. It is a wish that everyone should be granted.
Here’s to you, Grandpa—you loved life, you loved your family, and you dearly loved your lifelong sweetheart who preceded you in death. You truly were “Handsome Harry, King of the Cowboys.”
MY TREASURES
The
poets tell of lands afar,
Of treasures rich and rare,
Of beautied waters deep and blue
Of mounts beyond compare.
I’ve heard them sing of stately shrines,
Of flowers, trees so tall,
They make you stand in awe bound thought
To wonder at it all.
The trees and vales, the crystal streams
Seem they so far away,
And all the beauty of the world
To hear the rhymer say.
If I could just a poet be,
I wouldn’t have to roam
To find the precious things of life,
They’re safe within my home.
“Happiness Is A Child’s Love”
My heart is filled with ecstasy
Because a child shows love for me;
Which makes my soul with jub’lance ring
Expressively, with joy I sing.
This love has opened wide my eyes
And now in depth can visualize
The beauty of the world about
Exhilarant, I want to shout.
My heart is filled with ecstasy
Because a child has love for me.
The magic of this child’s pure love
Makes all the world like heaven above
Enshrined in spiritual majesty
With grandeur, in what ’ere I see.
The golden glow of setting sun;
Peace, when daily work is done;
And nature’s creatures all about
Portray friendliness, there is no doubt.
My heart is filled with ecstasy
Because this child has love for me.
Through her I understand why He,
Letters For Emily Page 17