A Father's Return Through the Mail
My father reentered my life unexpectedly through the postal service. During the summer when I turned fourteen, I arrived home to find a typewritten letter waiting on my bedspread. My dad had enrolled in a drug treatment program, and as part of his rehabilitation, he was required to write to his family about his experiences and offer apologies where needed. Apologies were indeed necessary.
The Disappearance and Reconnection
My father had vanished five or six years earlier, following a custody battle and subsequent failure to pay child support. In the intervening years, we had relocated, my mother had remarried, and she had given birth to a second child. My few memories of him were fragmented: a swimming pool that irritated my eyes, beloved animals, and an unpleasant skin rash I contracted during an unannounced trip to Hawaii.
In that initial letter, he detailed his addiction and its devastating consequences on his life. He explained that when challenges arose, he felt incapable of coping, leading him to remain dependent on substances. Having completed a twenty-eight-day rehabilitation program, he intended to stay in Monterey, California—a city that had historically provided him solace since his time at Fort Ord at age eighteen.
He concluded the letter with poignant words: "There will be a new twist to what I do, how I do it and who I choose to do it with. I am feeling stronger every day, but I didn't get sick in one day and I don't think I'll get well in one month either. Would like to hear from you. Hope you understand."
The Beginning of a Correspondence
At fourteen, I did not fully comprehend his situation. However, I had a father who wanted to hear from me, so I responded. Thus began a correspondence that lasted for seventeen years. His letters filled the void left during my first fourteen years. Each typewritten page, every piece of personal stationery bearing his left-handed script, helped mend the gaps in my heart with something resembling love.
When I started writing for my high school newspaper and sent him clippings, my father—an aspiring writer himself—overflowed with praise. At sixteen, he wrote: "I enjoyed your articles and I think you show great promise." At seventeen, a note arrived stating: "Another excellent piece! You have found your calling. I am impressed." When I was nearly eighteen, he shared that the joy of writing had eluded him, and he was striving to rediscover the simple pleasure of putting words on paper. "I consider you a writer," he declared on thin vellum paper, "and any suggestions you might care to share on this or other subjects would be most welcome."
He regarded me as a writer. More importantly, he truly saw me.
Support Through Education and Beyond
When my high school graduation coincided with my mother's second divorce, funds for college tuition were scarce. My father, who had finally begun repaying child support, offered to send the money directly to me. This generosity made college attainable, ultimately allowing me to become the first in my family to earn a higher education degree.
At nineteen, he purchased my first car, a used 1981 Honda Prelude. He outlined the terms in another letter: "If you are going to drink, you may not drive under any circumstances. Wearing the Dad hat is still awkward and I am falling all over myself, please try and understand. I love you and respect you, all I want to know is how we can continue to improve our relationship." Every letter ended identically: Much love, Dad.
I used the car to commute to school and work, fulfilling requirements for my journalism major—a choice heavily influenced by my father. When I once considered switching to psychology, citing a desire to help people, he countered that my writing talent was a unique gift that could assist many. Since he was financing my education, journalism remained my path.
Guidance and Encouragement
When my social life in college led to average or below-average grades, a letter promptly arrived, reminding me of my purpose. "If being average is OK with you at this point, you might as well french fry your hair and get over to Burger King! No one ever set out to be average!" he wrote. "The world has become an average planet and has just about sealed its fate with average people doing average work. We need excellence and we need it from you. It will take people like you—young people with original ideas—to take charge."
My grades improved, albeit modestly. During and after college, I frequently drove the Prelude from Los Angeles to his home in Monterey. We stayed up late watching movies with his wife Karen, and after she retired, Dad and I spent hours by the fireplace discussing the world, writing, and life. Insights he withheld in person often arrived by mail.
One letter revealed: "It's 2 a.m. and I feel like running. I don't mean jogging either. Sometimes, I just want to cut and run. That was my pattern. It didn't matter if things were going well or poorly, the feeling would come over me and splitting was the only thing I could think of. I've simply run out of places to run so now I'm running in place."
Another read: "I'm wrapped in the summer fog. It's wet and heavy and is holding me inside and away from the beach and pool. Possibly, I'll be able to write today. This is the way it always begins."
Professional Pride and Personal Struggles
After college, I worked as an advertising copywriter, earning $26,000 annually writing jingles. Yet, from my father's letters, one might think I had won a Pulitzer. "I want you to know that I am proud of you and pleased that you are becoming what I've only dreamed of becoming, a writer," he wrote. "At least one of us is going to make it." I knew writing commercials was not extraordinary, but his words made me feel valued.
Like many in their twenties, I questioned government, policy, and the world. He offered thoughts on all topics. He rescued me from a toxic relationship in person, but for nearly everything else, he advised via snail mail and later email. "I know you are afraid," he wrote, "which is not entirely a bad thing. A little reservation, concern, awareness and appreciation of the subtleties can add to your grace of movement and decision-making abilities. Go with your strength—writing, observing, making sense of disorder and assisting others by this very talent."
He added: "In your search for something positive, look in the corners. The true leaders are often anonymous. You have inherited a mixed bag of blessings and bombs. Pick your spot, dig in and make your mark."
The Final Chapter
By the time he met my now-husband, my father was battling severe depression, yet he emerged briefly to express joy at my choice. At fifty-seven, he faced financial struggles and attempted professional reinvention. During our last Christmas together in December 2000, he hand-delivered what would be his final letter. He wrote about discovering musician Eva Cassidy and how she reminded him of unforgettable moments—like hearing a bat crack, tasting fresh crab, or seeing a shooting star. He hoped she would inspire me, illustrating how the arts possess transformative power.
Six months later, my father died by suicide. After his passing, many inquired if he had left a note. None was found initially, but then I recalled: he had left forty-eight notes. Twenty-two years later, those letters keep him vividly alive in my heart, my life, and the lives of my two children. If I ever forget his love for the Dodgers, Hunter S. Thompson, or Miles Davis, or his passion for ocean swimming and curiosity, I simply retrieve the yellow file containing forty-eight priceless pages. His words bring him back to me, time and again.
