Dear Daniel:
By the time you read this, your graduation ceremony will be over. You and 500 or so of your friends have reached the first big intersection on that road we call life.
Congratulations.
As I watched you sit at the Ford Center last Thursday, I couldn’t help but remember your childhood. Granted, you are not my son, but instead, you’re the son of my closest friend. And, therefore, you are family.
You were only 3 months old with I met your father. We both went to work for the Oklahoma Legislature and both found ourselves stuffed into this tiny office with no windows and very little space. Your dad had been there, maybe two days, at the most, when he told me he was going to be taking several weeks off.
I wasn’t too happy about that. I’d started a week before he did and I didn’t understand why he was so special. I remember cussing him and pretty much acting like schmuck.
Later, when he returned, he told me how his newborn son had to have heart surgery and that’s why he wasn’t at work. He felt guilty about not being there and was afraid I wouldn’t understand.
Yeah, I felt like an ass for a long time.
But your dad forgave me.
Over the next few years a deep, mutual friendship developed. Over the course of many late evenings, lunch and the daily grind, your dad became my best friend. And, I like to think I did the same for him.
You were just a few years old when I watched your dad fall apart. He’d been angry and upset for several weeks, but no one could seem to figure out why. You guys lived nearby, then, so I grabbed a six pack of beer and called your dad. He met me in the park. We found an empty picnic table and began to talk.
I thought he was mad at me. Others thought he was mad at them.
He wasn’t.
He was anguishing over a decision about you. Since your foot had never developed properly, the doctors recommended that your parents have it amputated. Your dad carried all that around for weeks until he was about ready to explode. And there, on that warm sunny afternoon, he did.
I knew how deeply he loved you. But I didn’t know the depth of his anguish until almost 20 years later, when I would pour my heart out to him about my son and the surgery he needed. We talked for a long time that day, and polished off more that one six pack. We laughed, we cried, we cussed and we questioned God — together.
But when we went home, both of us felt better.
Daniel, I’ve stood on the sidelines and watched many of the events of your life. We’d told jokes, laughed and carved pumpkins.
I remember when you were fitted for your prosthesis. You were scared and sad and were sure the other kids would make fun of you. But your Dad and I quickly promoted you to head pirate, convinced you that a true pirate needed a wooden leg (even though yours was a composite mixture it didn’t matter, you didn’t know the difference at the time) dried your tears and told you to try and smile.
You were right — some of the other kids were mean and they did make fun of you.
But you stood tall.
I still laugh when I recall you father phoning me and asking me if I would stop by to talk to you. On that visit, I became your “older brother who lived real far away and who’d just gotten out of prison and who was real, real mean.” The other kids believed it and, even though the threat was implied, the scowl and the “leave my little brother alone look” worked pretty well.
I loved that role. And I’ll always remember how, after our summit meeting with the playground bullies, you took my hand and held tight, as we walked back to your house. Daniel, it’s not everyone who has the courage to confront a bully.
But you did. You didn’t back down even though you were frightened.
It wasn’t long after that, your dad would tell me, over lunch, that you re-named your stuffed teddy bear Scott. Even today, when I think about that, I get a lump in my throat. You were there when my first marriage fell apart. And you stood and smiled when I re-married.
Daniel, you’ve grown up into a fine young man. Your courage is incredible. Your compassion obvious and your sense of humor infectious.
You are my hero.
Over the past couple of years, I watched you try out for and make the football team. You never gave up. And you succeeded. Sure, you have had struggles, but who doesn’t? But you, unlike so many others, didn’t stop. You kept trying.
Know that I’m very proud of you.
Sure, the world may seem like a strange place and you may want to believe that it’s only full of pain and misery. Don’t. Because even though there are problems, there also is beauty — but you’ll have to seek it. Enjoy looking.
It’s an old tradition to give students advice when they graduate — and most of it’s useless. Because the best advice on living is, simply, to do it.
So, as you take this next step in your life, I hope your encounter all sorts of different people. Take the time to learn from them. Remember, everyone has a story. And a smart man will take the time to listen. Go. Travel. See the world.
But come home once in a while and see your folks. You’re still their little boy.
And you’ll always be my friend.
Again, congratulations on your graduation. You’ve worked hard, you stood your ground and you made it. And that, my friend, is the mark of a good man.
Sincerely,
M. Scott
Former associate pirate, brother from prison and chief pumpkin carver.
By the time you read this, your graduation ceremony will be over. You and 500 or so of your friends have reached the first big intersection on that road we call life.
Congratulations.
As I watched you sit at the Ford Center last Thursday, I couldn’t help but remember your childhood. Granted, you are not my son, but instead, you’re the son of my closest friend. And, therefore, you are family.
You were only 3 months old with I met your father. We both went to work for the Oklahoma Legislature and both found ourselves stuffed into this tiny office with no windows and very little space. Your dad had been there, maybe two days, at the most, when he told me he was going to be taking several weeks off.
I wasn’t too happy about that. I’d started a week before he did and I didn’t understand why he was so special. I remember cussing him and pretty much acting like schmuck.
Later, when he returned, he told me how his newborn son had to have heart surgery and that’s why he wasn’t at work. He felt guilty about not being there and was afraid I wouldn’t understand.
Yeah, I felt like an ass for a long time.
But your dad forgave me.
Over the next few years a deep, mutual friendship developed. Over the course of many late evenings, lunch and the daily grind, your dad became my best friend. And, I like to think I did the same for him.
You were just a few years old when I watched your dad fall apart. He’d been angry and upset for several weeks, but no one could seem to figure out why. You guys lived nearby, then, so I grabbed a six pack of beer and called your dad. He met me in the park. We found an empty picnic table and began to talk.
I thought he was mad at me. Others thought he was mad at them.
He wasn’t.
He was anguishing over a decision about you. Since your foot had never developed properly, the doctors recommended that your parents have it amputated. Your dad carried all that around for weeks until he was about ready to explode. And there, on that warm sunny afternoon, he did.
I knew how deeply he loved you. But I didn’t know the depth of his anguish until almost 20 years later, when I would pour my heart out to him about my son and the surgery he needed. We talked for a long time that day, and polished off more that one six pack. We laughed, we cried, we cussed and we questioned God — together.
But when we went home, both of us felt better.
Daniel, I’ve stood on the sidelines and watched many of the events of your life. We’d told jokes, laughed and carved pumpkins.
I remember when you were fitted for your prosthesis. You were scared and sad and were sure the other kids would make fun of you. But your Dad and I quickly promoted you to head pirate, convinced you that a true pirate needed a wooden leg (even though yours was a composite mixture it didn’t matter, you didn’t know the difference at the time) dried your tears and told you to try and smile.
You were right — some of the other kids were mean and they did make fun of you.
But you stood tall.
I still laugh when I recall you father phoning me and asking me if I would stop by to talk to you. On that visit, I became your “older brother who lived real far away and who’d just gotten out of prison and who was real, real mean.” The other kids believed it and, even though the threat was implied, the scowl and the “leave my little brother alone look” worked pretty well.
I loved that role. And I’ll always remember how, after our summit meeting with the playground bullies, you took my hand and held tight, as we walked back to your house. Daniel, it’s not everyone who has the courage to confront a bully.
But you did. You didn’t back down even though you were frightened.
It wasn’t long after that, your dad would tell me, over lunch, that you re-named your stuffed teddy bear Scott. Even today, when I think about that, I get a lump in my throat. You were there when my first marriage fell apart. And you stood and smiled when I re-married.
Daniel, you’ve grown up into a fine young man. Your courage is incredible. Your compassion obvious and your sense of humor infectious.
You are my hero.
Over the past couple of years, I watched you try out for and make the football team. You never gave up. And you succeeded. Sure, you have had struggles, but who doesn’t? But you, unlike so many others, didn’t stop. You kept trying.
Know that I’m very proud of you.
Sure, the world may seem like a strange place and you may want to believe that it’s only full of pain and misery. Don’t. Because even though there are problems, there also is beauty — but you’ll have to seek it. Enjoy looking.
It’s an old tradition to give students advice when they graduate — and most of it’s useless. Because the best advice on living is, simply, to do it.
So, as you take this next step in your life, I hope your encounter all sorts of different people. Take the time to learn from them. Remember, everyone has a story. And a smart man will take the time to listen. Go. Travel. See the world.
But come home once in a while and see your folks. You’re still their little boy.
And you’ll always be my friend.
Again, congratulations on your graduation. You’ve worked hard, you stood your ground and you made it. And that, my friend, is the mark of a good man.
Sincerely,
M. Scott
Former associate pirate, brother from prison and chief pumpkin carver.
Comments
All I can say after reading this story (with liquid love for my nephew rolling down my cheeks)is BRAVO. What a well written wonderful article you have created, my friend. Your writing is superb. What tops even that is your memories of Daniel's life and your relationship with Daniel and Tim put to pen in such a compassionant and honest way. I suppose essentially those are synonomous terms. BRAVO again!
I want to personally thank you for being such a blessing to my family. I'd love to see you again after all these years since we first met. Perhaps one day that might be possible. I certainly hope so. You are a man with whom I can relate, for you have the heart of a poet. As I'm sure you've known for many years, life itself can give us the words to write. We merely just copy them down.
God Bless You, Scott.
Sincerely, Kirk Allen