Letters

Dear Elli,

We've been going through Grandpa Gordon's stuff lately.  We're trying to get the house ready to sell, which let me tell you is a giant boatload of fun.  Good Lord in Heaven, this has been one hell of a year.  But as tough as it's been, there have also been so many reasons to smile.

I went through a box of his stuff the other night.  Papers and photos and things.  I wasn't expecting much excitement, but I could not have been more wrong.

You know this already, but for a lot of years during my childhood, my primary method of communicating with my dad was through letters.  Some of my most vivid memories of early childhood are of my mom making me sit down every week in the living room of our apartment to write a letter to my dad.  And she would help me read his letters to me.  I made cards for him.  I drew pictures.  I sent all my very best graded school papers to him.  And I wrote letters.  So many letters.  

And guess what I found in that box the other night?  That's right.  Letters.  He saved them.  For all these years, he kept my letters.  

I read them all.  My tales of hard fought soccer games in 1989, complaints about my annoying teacher, explaining to him that I was a big fan of Bill Clinton because my mom was voting for him on Election Day in 1992, and details regarding the daily maintenance requirements of my trumpet in 6th grade.  

I witnessed my writing evolve over the course of years.  From hilarious misspellings and grammatical errors in first grade to fairly coherent sentences a couple years later.  From printing to writing.  I demonstrated in one particular letter all the words I learned how to write in cursive that week at school.  And my first attempt at typing a letter (on an actual typewriter) was also in that box.  

There were graded school papers and projects and homemade greeting cards and even a report card from 5th grade where my teacher noted in bold script that I exhibited the behavior of "EXCESSIVE TALKING".  No wonder I complained about her.  I still remember her, and she really was a total asshole.  Although I'll admit, I still talk excessively.  She wasn't lying.

I had almost forgotten that I wrote to him a lot while I was in class during my adolescent years.  My mom didn't have to make me write letters anymore as I got older.  It became a habit.  A habit that I loved.  What middle school kid writes letters to their dad from school?  Me.  I did.  Because my dad was that important to me, even in 7th grade.  I shared my thoughts with him.  I shared my life with him.  Through letters.  

I started writing to you ten years ago, when you were two years old.  I never thought about why I chose to do this crazy blog full of letters to you.  It just seemed like a cool idea I pulled out of thin air, and I started doing it.  I've loved every minute of it.  

I'm a little slow sometimes, so I never made the connection until now.  Well, duh.  No shit, Sherlock.  I spent my entire childhood communicating this way.  With my dad.  My hero.  My heart.  

Then you came along.  My heart.  And here we are, more letters.  That was kind of a big epiphany for me.

I haven't smiled this big in a long time.  It's been a pretty amazing trip down memory lane this week.  And although I've never doubted it for a second, it still feels damn fine to be reminded of how much he loved me.  Seeing that he kept all those letters safe for over 20 years feels good.  It's kind of like catching him smiling at me when he thought I wasn't watching.  He did that a lot.  And I was always watching.

I really was his pride and joy.  You are mine.  And that's a pretty amazing feeling.

I love you.

Mom