A letter to dad from Ben

A Letter to My Father

I will always love you, dad.

There were times you made me want to scream. There were times – many, many times – that you made me want to pull my hair out, strand by strand by strand.

But I always loved you.

I always will.

I love you because of the way you loved me – completely, without conditions.

No matter what crazy, stupid thing I did, you kept loving me.

You loved me when I almost burned down the house in Newton with my 3rd-grade pals.

You loved me when you caught me smoking cigarettes in 8th grade.

You loved me when I was in high school and my girlfriend broke my heart. I couldn’t stop crying and wailing, and I turned the house into a living mauseleum. You loved me anyway.

In college, when I came home with long hair, clogs and an earring, you didn’t flinch, even though your embrace of Sigmund Freud had turned you into a bit of a homophobe in those days.

That was back in the early 1980s, around the same time I was struck with the peculiar idea that I should take to the stage, despite a modest endowment of acting talent.

That’s great, you told me. Do work that makes you happy. Do what your heart tells you to do.

You set a good example.

I’ve always respected your choice of work -- psychiatry -- even though I’m living proof that talk therapy doesn’t always work. You helped people who were grappling with loss and pain. It was a noble calling.

Your work was about emotions – and yours were larger than life.

You sang joyfully – if way off key. It’s hard to describe your singing style. Words fail me.

I’ll never forget you plucking on your banjo and howling away -- often before any of us had gotten out of bed. Even though you sometimes made us wish we had earplugs at the ready, it was fun to listen because you were enjoying yourself so much.

You took great pleasure in small things, a trait I’ve inherited from you, and I thank you for it. I’m very happy baking an apple pie or drinking a cup of coffee in a Hanoi cafe. You loved a crisp, clear, Minnesota day.

I remember coming home from college on vacations. You were always there to meet me at the airport. I was always happy to be home. We used to walk along the Mississippi River, on our way to the U of M faculty club for lunch. “It’s a beautiful Minnesota day,” you would say.

You took joy in other people – sometimes so much so that you embarassed the hell out of me, walking up to strangers in the museum or on the street and chatting them up as though you were old friends.

“See, Ben? It’s easy to meet girls,” you would say. “All you have to do is talk to them!”

For all the joy you found in life, you weren’t afraid to cry. Long before the sensitive man was in fashion, you were the ultimate sensitive man. I’ve always admired you for that.

Sometimes you lost control of your moods. They became too powerful to tame. It was a wild ride at the end. There were moments of joy. There was a lot of pain. It was difficult for you, difficult for your family, difficult for your friends.

You struggled through it, in your own remarkably stubborn way. Nobody was going to tell you what to do – even if they just happened to have a damned good idea! We would argue. Oh, how we would argue.

In your loneliest times – and there were too many at the end -- you were brave. You were always brave.

We didn’t always agree.

But I always loved you.

I always will.