A Note for Your Mirror

On May, 2006July, 2015 By Peter WatkinsIn 2006Leave a comment

Dear Will:

The other day I took my three kids to Cold Stone for some ice cream while my wife Dana was at her ballet class. The four of us—Luke (15), Bryn (11), Seth (7) and I sat at the table outside snarfing down our ice cream and working together on an ill-conceived crossword puzzle Bryn had to turn in at school the next day.

While we discussed the possible solutions to yet another poorly-written clue, a woman sat down at the table with us and asked to borrow my cell phone. She made a bizarre call, ostensibly informing her son that she was calling him on someone else’s phone and therefore would talk to him later. (Huh?) Then over the next several minutes she commented on my “incredible eyes,” asked if I go to church, and then finally, as I was heading to my car with my children, inquired whether or not I was married.

It was only then that I realized that this woman had been hitting on me.

My 15-year-old, of course, thought it was perhaps the funniest thing he had witnessed since kindergarten. He quite accurately pointed out that I am one of the least likely candidates for any woman’s attention: I’m bald, middle-aged, and travel with a pack of sniping children. I’ve been married for over 20 years. It has been so long since I considered the possibility that anyone might want to flirt with me that this moment seemed like something out of “The Twilight Zone” or “Candid Camera.” He and Bryn laughed and teased me about it all the way home. It was hilarious.

As we unloaded the car, however, I discovered that Seth was in tears. These weren’t the dry tears he has mastered as part of his daily tantrum routine. These were the big, plop-on-the-ground-and-form-puddles kind of tears, complete with the trembling shoulders and uneven breathing that can only be associated with genuine, heartfelt sadness. None of us had any idea what had put him in this state.

Fortunately, by now Dana had returned home, first to hear Luke and Bryn’s report on Dad’s unlikely encounter at Cold Stone, and then to give the kind of comfort to Seth of which only a mother is capable. She held him for a few minutes while he sobbed, telling him that, whenever he felt ready, she hoped he might tell her why he was so sad. So it was that when he composed himself a little, he disappeared into the study, where he wrote the following note:

“It’s what Dad and the others were talking about.
I want you as my mom and NO other!!!”

As you might suspect, once Dana read Seth’s little note she gathered him up once more to reassure him that she is the only mother he will ever have and that she and I would not want it any other way. It had not occurred to the rest of us that this incident had been anything but funny, but to Seth, even joking about some other woman with his dad—no matter how preposterous the notion might seem to just about anyone else—was no laughing matter at all.

What a nice reminder Seth gave us of the importance of a happy, stable home. Not that ours always is either happy or stable, mind you, but even so: Seth would clearly prefer the status quo to any other configuration one might devise. Would that every father had a copy of Seth’s note taped to his mirror to remind him that what kids need more than anything is a safe, familiar place to call home, a place in which they are surrounded by all of the people they love the most.

Hoping You’ll Remove the Cork

On April, 2006September, 2012 By Peter WatkinsIn 2006Leave a comment

Dear Will:

It was November, 2000. Bob Tucker was the bishop of the Orange 2^nd Ward and I was one of his counselors. At some point in some conversation during some meeting we started talking about you—or somebody like you—and before I knew it I had volunteered to write a letter every month or so to keep you and others like you in touch with the ward. You know—just in case.

It seems to me that originally there were 18 people on my list of pen pals. Now, more than five years and 60+ letters later, that list has grown to around 35. Over time, several have moved away. One passed away. A few of you have written back from time to time, and a couple have met me for lunch a time or two. One guy used to mail me multi-page rebuttals and another sent a one sentence note asking me to please buzz off. I’ve gotten the occasional phone call with a quick question or a request. But in most cases, I hear nothing at all. I always wonder how you are, what’s going on in your life, if there’s anything I can do to help you out. And I often wonder if you even bother to read my notes.

I enjoy the opportunity to correspond with you. I feel almost as if I have my own monthly column to muse about whatever strikes me as interesting or amusing, without the burden of a persnickety editor or a looming deadline. And I can’t begin to tell you how excited I feel when I get a response. It’s like I’ve stuck a message in a bottle and someone actually—finally—removed the cork.

The other day, for example, I got a call from a woman who lives in south Orange County. I did not know her nor had I ever heard of her. Her surname was unfamiliar to me. She was asking for my help in obtaining some assistance from the other members of our ward on behalf of her son. To be honest, as she spoke I thought to myself: “Um, why is she calling me?”

It was only later in the call that I discovered—to my great delight—that this woman is related to one of you. I cannot begin to describe for you the excitement with which I took on the task of helping this new friend and her son. It was an honor, and what’s more, I felt it was a confirmation that writing these letters is worth it. I would say, in fact, that if that were the only communication I got as a result of my 60-some notes, that one phone call was compensation enough. More than enough.

I bring this up because I want to remind you (or inform you) that I really am here to lend a hand if you can use me. Please don’t hesitate to call or send me an email—or mail me a rebuttal, if you feel so moved. Whether it is with a request or a simple hello or an update on your life, I would really love to hear from you some time. But if not, no big deal. I write these letters without expectation, and I hope that you read them without a sense of obligation. And even if I never hear from you at all, I will continue to write, every month or so. You know—just in case.

It Gives One Pause and a Little Tug

On March, 2006September, 2012 By Peter WatkinsIn 20061 Comment

Dear Will:

Earlier this month my father turned 83. My mother’s 80^th birthday is in about 10 days. So imagine my excitement when they told me they had decided to take a trip to Turkey. Their plane left this morning.

My parents enjoy traveling, but Turkey was never really on their list. However, when my sister’s husband, who works for the military, found himself assigned to a military base there, my parents’ vacation priorities shifted. Flying to Turkey is the sort of thing that parents do, apparently, especially when there are a passel of grandkids involved. Even when you’re in your eighties.

As you well know, that bond between parent and child is a strong one, not typically muted by passing years. Consider, for instance, that my sister Susan was born over 40 years ago. She has long since “left the nest.” Meanwhile my parents are really beginning to show their age, having fought battles with cancer and strokes and even a couple of knee replacement surgeries. Given those facts, it’s not hard to construct a pretty good case against this trip. Believe me, I tried. But even though my father acknowledged that this trip probably wasn’t the best idea, they would not be dissuaded. Their course was set and their cause was clear: One of their babies—and that baby’s babies—couldn’t make it home for holidays (much less Sunday dinners), and they didn’t want to wait any longer to hug and hold each one of them and admire the refrigerator art of a my sister’s five children.

That tug of affection across generations is an eternal verity, a manifestation of the ineffable bond linking son to father to grandfather and on. Even before the days of Christ, Malachi spoke of the hearts of fathers turning to their children, and the hearts of children turning to their fathers. It is that selfsame spirit which leads the curious to embark on a passionate search for ancestors, the resulting family tree branching back into history a dozen generations or more. It’s an amazing phenomenon.

I’ve had all of this on my mind lately, and not just because my elderly parents are traveling half-way across the world when they might be better off sitting on the sofa and watching the NCAA Tournament (my Bruins are in the Final Four!) You see, just last week I received via email an electronic copy of my wife’s genealogy and discovered that someone, by some means, has traced her heritage back into the 1500s. That’s over 400 years worth of family foliage, a staggering amount of research and a humbling glimpse of one’s past. As I stared at the screen of my computer I was in awe:

Christopher Worrilow – Born, 1579, Haughton, Staffordshire, England; died in 1605 [so young!], a year or so after his son John was born. He and his wife Margery died on the same day.

Wouldn’t you love to know how they died, and who raised little John, and the answers to half a dozen other questions? I don’t even know where to begin such an inquiry, but I do know this: The Internet has now made it possible even for a hack like me to tinker with family history. (You should check out familysearch.org—wow!) At any rate, it does give one pause—and a little tug—as eternal forces compel us to try to pull together our families across continents and cultures and many generations.