A Little Ancient History
When I was a little girl, my dad was my hero. He slayed wasps and bees and fended off scary dogs, he could fix anything, and his round belly was the perfect place for a nap. (My mother took the "exhausted toddler sacked out on dad's tummy" pictures to prove it.)
When I was a teenager, I decided my beloved father was a fossil (he was 17 years older than my mom and closer to a grandpa to me in age than a dad) and he decided I was lacking in anything resembling common sense. We stopped chatting as often and when we did, we often disagreed (he was a Republican). But I still wrote him bad poetry on his birthday and Christmas and he still wrote me notes. Lots and lots of notes. Thank the universe my teenage self had the good sense to save them, sensing deep down that maybe Dad wouldn't be around as long as anyone would wish. I never imagined he'd die when I was 19.
It was too soon, but at least I still have his letters. Sometimes I pick them up and read a few just to feel close to him again. By this point I can make it through three or four before I get too emotional and have to put them away.
Today I was cleaning out the garage and daydreaming about my two new characters (who I can't wait to start writing about in a few weeks) when I found this. As a woman who writes about teens and cares about them very deeply, this letter felt like something I should share.
A letter from my Dad:
Dear Stacey,
I think my talent for journalism exceeds my ability as a preacher so I decided to bore you with a little ancient history.
In 1948, there were thirty one members of my junior high school class. Charles S. took Alice C. to a Truman night club to dance. The legal drinking age at the time was seldom enforced back in those days. Charles drove his 1939 Chevrolet into the Lake City bridge and killed Alice. Alice was seventeen; an attractive bright blue-eyed blonde who always made the honor roll. We were surprised that she even dated Charles.
A year later Morris K. drove his car underneath a tractor trailer and decapitated himself. He had also been at a Truman night club. Morris and I were close friends in our pre-teen years and stayed all night at each others homes on several occasions.
The next to go was Doyle C. He was returning from an Osceola night club and rolled his car on a curve about one half mile from his home near Caraway. John M, my best friend, was next. John had also been to Osceola. He decided to take a short cut home and tried to drive across a section of flooded road and his car drowned out. He got out of the car and walked to an abandoned house. On the way he fell and got wet. It was a cold night in December. He lay down to sleep and died of exposure.
One person out of every eight in my class was killed in alcohol related accidents before they celebrated their twenty-third birthday.
This is what scares me and your mother. The same things could have happened to both of us. When we were young and believed we were indestructible and would live forever.
We believe you are more mature than we were at sixteen but most of my high school class felt the same way about Alice Cook. Alice died forty five years ago and her family still misses her.
Your Daddy and Mommy love you. We expect you to take care of yourself and be around to lay flowers on my grave when I go at a hundred and eight.
Dad
The stats for my class weren't as bad, but we lost our share. Three friends of mine died in alcohol related deaths. One was my pom squad captain and the sunniest girl in the world. One was a girl I did theater with when I was a kid and who had the best sense of humor. Neither one made it to eighteen and it's a damned shame.
I don't mean to bum you all out or even tell you not to drink underage (I'm many things, but I try my best not to be a hypocrite). I'm just saying: take care of yourself. Make smart choices. Take care of your friends. And if you're a mom or dad, take a minute to write your teen a note or talk to them about drinking and driving. It might make a difference. Or at least give them something nice to read when they're older and smarter and cleaning out the garage and finally realizing how smart and sweet a parent you were.
Peaceful weekend,
Stacey
When I was a teenager, I decided my beloved father was a fossil (he was 17 years older than my mom and closer to a grandpa to me in age than a dad) and he decided I was lacking in anything resembling common sense. We stopped chatting as often and when we did, we often disagreed (he was a Republican). But I still wrote him bad poetry on his birthday and Christmas and he still wrote me notes. Lots and lots of notes. Thank the universe my teenage self had the good sense to save them, sensing deep down that maybe Dad wouldn't be around as long as anyone would wish. I never imagined he'd die when I was 19.
It was too soon, but at least I still have his letters. Sometimes I pick them up and read a few just to feel close to him again. By this point I can make it through three or four before I get too emotional and have to put them away.
Today I was cleaning out the garage and daydreaming about my two new characters (who I can't wait to start writing about in a few weeks) when I found this. As a woman who writes about teens and cares about them very deeply, this letter felt like something I should share.
A letter from my Dad:
Dear Stacey,
I think my talent for journalism exceeds my ability as a preacher so I decided to bore you with a little ancient history.
In 1948, there were thirty one members of my junior high school class. Charles S. took Alice C. to a Truman night club to dance. The legal drinking age at the time was seldom enforced back in those days. Charles drove his 1939 Chevrolet into the Lake City bridge and killed Alice. Alice was seventeen; an attractive bright blue-eyed blonde who always made the honor roll. We were surprised that she even dated Charles.
A year later Morris K. drove his car underneath a tractor trailer and decapitated himself. He had also been at a Truman night club. Morris and I were close friends in our pre-teen years and stayed all night at each others homes on several occasions.
The next to go was Doyle C. He was returning from an Osceola night club and rolled his car on a curve about one half mile from his home near Caraway. John M, my best friend, was next. John had also been to Osceola. He decided to take a short cut home and tried to drive across a section of flooded road and his car drowned out. He got out of the car and walked to an abandoned house. On the way he fell and got wet. It was a cold night in December. He lay down to sleep and died of exposure.
One person out of every eight in my class was killed in alcohol related accidents before they celebrated their twenty-third birthday.
This is what scares me and your mother. The same things could have happened to both of us. When we were young and believed we were indestructible and would live forever.
We believe you are more mature than we were at sixteen but most of my high school class felt the same way about Alice Cook. Alice died forty five years ago and her family still misses her.
Your Daddy and Mommy love you. We expect you to take care of yourself and be around to lay flowers on my grave when I go at a hundred and eight.
Dad
The stats for my class weren't as bad, but we lost our share. Three friends of mine died in alcohol related deaths. One was my pom squad captain and the sunniest girl in the world. One was a girl I did theater with when I was a kid and who had the best sense of humor. Neither one made it to eighteen and it's a damned shame.
I don't mean to bum you all out or even tell you not to drink underage (I'm many things, but I try my best not to be a hypocrite). I'm just saying: take care of yourself. Make smart choices. Take care of your friends. And if you're a mom or dad, take a minute to write your teen a note or talk to them about drinking and driving. It might make a difference. Or at least give them something nice to read when they're older and smarter and cleaning out the garage and finally realizing how smart and sweet a parent you were.
Peaceful weekend,
Stacey