Letters to America

by Tom Blair

  But there was a problem. The problem was my dinner companion that evening. Somehow during the last few years I had silently shifted my focus from obtaining “the” objective to obtaining the “next” objective. I had unwittingly conspired with the devil to build myself an endless wheel, just like a hamster in a cage; and I had come to believe that my Gucci jogging shoes and Ferragamo sweats somehow made running on it twelve hours a day an exciting and rewarding life.

  NANANAWTUNU, 1679: What made the white man different, I wondered. Not much. They worked, they slept, they loved their children. But there was a difference. Their want was not a certainty. Their want was greater than whatever they possessed. A farmer with two cornfields wanted three. A settler with one cow wanted another. Their wants were the distance of their vision, not their reach. This caused a stirring, a discontentment, a willingness to sacrifice themselves and others to move closer to their wants. Wants that always outpaced them no matter how mightily they struggled.

  Before heading back to my hotel room at the Vista I strolled over to the bar. As I caressed an Irish coffee more reflection on my first years working at Bankers Life. I had been wrong. At Bankers Life I had mistaken contentment for boredom. I had given no value to balance. A balance among family, professional achievement, and financial security; a financial security that was a by-product, not the product of a company. A company that served its customers as well as possible … I owed Dad an apology.

  At 7 a.m. my phone in the hotel room rang, picked it up to hear Alice and the kids singing “Happy Birthday.” Best wakeup call ever. Some quick conversation with the kids; they were planning to take Alice and me to Old Angler’s for a birthday dinner. Damn, can I blow out forty-three candles in front of a restaurant full of patrons? Next Hank’s office called, he had a half hour slice of time mid-afternoon. Made some business phone calls and then took a walk through the lower part of Manhattan. I had never done this before. That’s not true. I had taken a lot of walks through Manhattan. But I was always rushing someplace, looking down at my watch. This day I wasn’t walking so much as wandering. I paused on my stroll and studied the bronze plaques on more than a few dark gray structures; two hundred years of history had been staring at me during the past few years. One plaque caught my eye; displayed on Trinity Church it described how George Washington had prayed within following his inauguration as our first president. I entered by a side door, lit a candle for Mother, then sat in a back pew and silently thanked God for my blessings.

  Had a leisurely lunch at a Battery Park deli. Likely the first leisurely lunch I ever had in Manhattan. Through the window I watched the young Wall Street clerks eating their bagged lunches on park benches; most probably on tight budgets, just like Alice and me when we first started out. Strolled back to the Vista and packed my bag. Down to the lobby and out to Liberty Street, three blocks east up to Pine, then the AIG building.

  One of Hank’s efficient assistants parked me in an anteroom; told me Hank was running late, he had Henry Kissinger in his office. I felt like I’d just received a reprieve from the governor; the delay gave me some time to consider my lines one more time. I was going to tell him I was leaving. I knew Hank. This would be a personal affront. Plus, I was one of the guys shoveling coal into their revenue boiler.

  Hank already knew something was up; visits with him were scheduled at least a week in advance. When I was ushered into his office no thirty seconds of pleasantries; I was direct. Told him all the right things: I would help with the transition, owed him a debt of gratitude, learned a lot. He didn’t care. Nobody left Hank of their own accord. He fired them. He told me I’d be getting a letter from their corporate counsel. But then something unexpected, after he said he was going to fire me, he asked how I was getting home. I told him the shuttle. He said he would have an assistant arrange for a helicopter to take me from Teterboro down to my home. The guy still liked me.

  In the limo over to Teterboro I called Alice. Told her I’d be home as promised for my birthday. Her voice was bubbly as always as she teased me about the birthday present the kids had chosen for me. Then some quick updates on the latest happenings in the family: Jennifer made cheerleader, Andrew received two college acceptance letters, and David thought he might make the varsity basketball team. I didn’t tell Alice I was retiring my briefcase. During dinner at Old Angler’s I would share with her and the kids what I knew would be most welcome news.

  A half hour later the helicopter was heading down the Hudson, taking a right after the Statue of Liberty. As we turned south I looked back at the tip of Manhattan, following Liberty Street past the World Trade Center. There it was, Hank’s temple. After a half hour Philadelphia rose in the haze to the left. Another half hour and we were over the western suburbs of Baltimore, then Frederick to the right, down over Route 270, the Potomac River on the horizon, an arcing turn into Round Hill, a slow hover over my property, my cobblestone helipad in front of us, down a few feet, down a few feet more, a slight jolt, and on the ground. Alice halfway between the helipad and our home, standing in the light of the evening sun. Big smile on her face, the smile she always had. Right behind stood Andrew, David, and Jennifer, all three with Cheshire Cat grins. All holding something behind their backs.

  I didn’t wait for the pilot; I opened the door and pulled my suitcase from the seat next to me and headed straight toward my family. Then in unison Alice and the kids pivoted so that I could see what they had been hiding behind their backs. Andrew, David, and Jennifer each held a tennis racket, Alice held two.

  This day the best birthday of my life … my new life.

  Tom

  Epilogue

  WHILE THE CHAPTERS THAT COMPRISE LETTERS TO AMERICA are America’s story, two chapters are also the author’s story.

  In the John chapter, John becomes best friends with Tom Lane, another member of an Army Special Brigade stationed in England, training for the invasion of Fortress Europe. In this chapter, in 1943 Tom Lane marries Hazel, a waitress at the Queens Hotel in Cheltenham, England; he does this after borrowing $100 from his sister Dorothy in the United States. During the invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944, John survives while his friend Tom Lane is killed. At the end of the war, before returning to America, John visits Hazel in Cheltenham. There he meets “little Tommy,” who was born two weeks after his father, Tom Lane, was killed at Omaha Beach. The author is “little Tommy,” his father, Tom Lane, and his mother, Hazel.

  “Little Tommy” was adopted when he was two years old by his father’s sister Dorothy (who lent her brother the $100) and her husband. His name was changed from Tom Lane to Tom Lane Blair, and he was raised in America … and became Tom, the main character in the Alice’s Husband chapter.

  As in the Alice’s Husband chapter, the author married Alice, had three children (Andrew, David, and Jennifer), started a company in the health-care industry, built a home in Round Hill, Maryland, with a helipad and a tennis court, sold his company to AIG, and realized in time that the priorities of his life were skewed: too much focus on the next heroic financial challenge versus savoring the moments.

  Also, as with the Tom in the Alice’s Husband chapter, the author took his family to Europe; while there the author, his wife, his three children, and his grandchildren traveled to All Saints Church in Cheltenham, England, where his father had been married sixty-two years before. There he and his wife Alice renewed their wedding vows on their fortieth wedding anniversary. But, unlike his father Tom Lane and his mother Hazel, who stood together in the church door in 1943 with no family present, on this day of renewing vows, Tom Lane’s son, three grandchildren, and twelve great-grandchildren stood in the very same church doorway.

  POST DEDICATION: To Alice, the love of my life.

 

 

 
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