- I wrote this piece toward the end of January / 09. Special thanks to Pauline, as it was through her encouragement specifically, that I submitted this to, two separate publications for consideration. As of this posting, I've heard nothing back. While I openly admit the contentious nature of the piece, and that some specific readers may take offense, I encourage you to see the experience in it. We will each respond differently to an event, and therefore each of us will certainly have a different story to report, this is mine, seen, felt, & witnessed, at the time of Dad's passing, an impressionable 17 yr. old boy ...
Something Special
For me, it was a book cover. Most wouldn't think much of a book cover, but for me there was little thinking involved. When Dad passed away, some scrambled for his gold chains, others argued over his wedding ring or his family ring. Still others wanted his birthstone ring or his ivory cribbage board. I wanted nothing. It wasn't for spite, or malice, anger nor bitterness, as time put distance from the event; I could imagine no material thing that would comfort me. The memories, painful or joyous, were all I could embrace.
Those very memories led me to the doors of sobriety, and it was here that I remembered his book covers. How many he made, I will probably never know. They were mostly for "Big Books", but I can remember Father Herm's; it was hand crafted for that huge book on the altar. I remember some, much smaller, he'd made for friends' "O.D.A.A.T.'s", that daily meditation, pocket book. Still, the memories of his busy hands, and those memories his friends took the time to share with me, were enough.
Then came the day when mom left all of those boxes with us. She mentioned that no one had opened them in years, and told us to give away anything we didn't want. We've yet to give away anything! To paint a picture for others, I've often referred to the scene in the movie, "Raiders of the Lost Ark", where we witness the opening of the ark; it felt very much like that as Sara and I peered down into the box we'd just opened. There were handfuls of pictures, older than I am now, reams of writing, and papers full with doodles and sketches.
As if all of this weren't enough, I'm certain that I felt Dad nudge my shoulder to keep looking. "Slow down", Sara cautioned. There, on the bottom, lay all of his art supplies, all of his leather working tools, and, most breathtaking of all, as I looked forward to my fifth year in sobriety, I pulled from the box, the very, hand tooled, stained and finished, leather book cover my father had made for himself.
No, these boxes contained no gold, no ivory, no stones signifying the month of one's birth. Mostly, they held old doodles, art supplies, pictures, newspaper clippings, old posters, and magazines. We viewed thoughts and pondering, delivered from head, to hand, and then to paper. We found old textbooks and passports, "Love Notes" from Reg to Deanna, and letters he'd written to us. I'd lost him at seventeen, and it would be almost fourteen years till I found him again, in a bunch of old boxes, and when I did, he gave me a book cover.
S. Gaudette
01 / 29 / 09
For me, it was a book cover. Most wouldn't think much of a book cover, but for me there was little thinking involved. When Dad passed away, some scrambled for his gold chains, others argued over his wedding ring or his family ring. Still others wanted his birthstone ring or his ivory cribbage board. I wanted nothing. It wasn't for spite, or malice, anger nor bitterness, as time put distance from the event; I could imagine no material thing that would comfort me. The memories, painful or joyous, were all I could embrace.
Those very memories led me to the doors of sobriety, and it was here that I remembered his book covers. How many he made, I will probably never know. They were mostly for "Big Books", but I can remember Father Herm's; it was hand crafted for that huge book on the altar. I remember some, much smaller, he'd made for friends' "O.D.A.A.T.'s", that daily meditation, pocket book. Still, the memories of his busy hands, and those memories his friends took the time to share with me, were enough.
Then came the day when mom left all of those boxes with us. She mentioned that no one had opened them in years, and told us to give away anything we didn't want. We've yet to give away anything! To paint a picture for others, I've often referred to the scene in the movie, "Raiders of the Lost Ark", where we witness the opening of the ark; it felt very much like that as Sara and I peered down into the box we'd just opened. There were handfuls of pictures, older than I am now, reams of writing, and papers full with doodles and sketches.
As if all of this weren't enough, I'm certain that I felt Dad nudge my shoulder to keep looking. "Slow down", Sara cautioned. There, on the bottom, lay all of his art supplies, all of his leather working tools, and, most breathtaking of all, as I looked forward to my fifth year in sobriety, I pulled from the box, the very, hand tooled, stained and finished, leather book cover my father had made for himself.
No, these boxes contained no gold, no ivory, no stones signifying the month of one's birth. Mostly, they held old doodles, art supplies, pictures, newspaper clippings, old posters, and magazines. We viewed thoughts and pondering, delivered from head, to hand, and then to paper. We found old textbooks and passports, "Love Notes" from Reg to Deanna, and letters he'd written to us. I'd lost him at seventeen, and it would be almost fourteen years till I found him again, in a bunch of old boxes, and when I did, he gave me a book cover.
S. Gaudette
01 / 29 / 09
- each of us has those moments that define us in ways, we maybe don't even appreciate until much later. While I report this experience as accurately as I can, I can tell you that this moment, in my life, affected me in a way I did not fully appreciate for quite some time. It wasn't until I was well into my 7'th, 8'th, and 10'th years that I began to fully appreciate what my father passed on, and how this work of his hands, would stand as constant reminder of the task at hand, a job I take more seriously then mere words can express. Through drunken, criminal behaviour, I sought to be a husband, father, & a positive member of society. Given the opportunity, I failed miserably. Today, Clean, & Sober, I aspire to nothing less, yet I hope to share my sincere appreciation for the second chance I have, and those that have gone before, laying the foundation for me ...
- Love, S.
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