To Henry, On The Eve Of My 30th Birthday
Hey Chief.
Well, it's been about nine years since the last time I had the chance to say that to you. When you left, I was in my last semester of college. I was just about to go out into the world, to have real experiences like the ones you used to share with me, or the ones that I would hear about you from Mom-Mom, or my mom and dad, or Paul. And it's long overdue, I think, that I drop you a line and share some of my thoughts with you. Because what you shared sure meant a lot to me.
There's the short version, because I'm sure you want to know the basics. I graduated college about 3 months after I last saw you, and since then you could say I've moved around a bit. I started working in New York as a graphic designer, and then all of a sudden the world changed and I found myself working on the internet in California. Then, before you knew it, I was travelling the world with my work -- going to Asia, Australia, Europe -- and I went ahead and moved to Europe. Then I quit that job, and now I'm about to move to France to learn how to be a chef. Maybe you knew all of that already, but I wanted you to hear it from me because I've been such a bear about writing.
The longer version is much more interesting, and maybe I'll get into it all when I get to see you in person, whenever that is. There are some great little stories I think you'd appreciate, and some others that might frighten you a little bit. But I think it's a bit demanding to ask you to read through my whole life's story in my first letter in nine years, so I'll save it for later.
What's really on my mind is that more and more often lately, I've been finding myself wanting to talk to you, to have you there, to ask you questions and get your advice. I've been seeing and hearing things I thought you would appreciate, or at least be interested in. I've had personal crises I've wanted you there to help with. In short, I've been thinking about you a lot.
I mean, none of this stuff I've wanted to share is really life-or-death stuff. You always told me not to ever have anything to regret, and while I have to say I think that's a little unrealistic, I'd say I've managed to steer clear of major regret thus far. It's just everyday stuff that I'd like to run by my go-to guy.
To put it in terms you'd best relate to, imagine Jack is on the 18th fairway Sunday at Augusta, about to hit his approach, and his caddy split on him. Some kind of family emergency. Jack is a solid guy, and he pretty much knows what club to hit. He probably can do it himself and not do all that bad a job. But I bet you he wishes he could run that by his caddy, just to be sure. Don't you think?
I wonder what you'd think of the decisions I made to get to where I am now. You made the practical decision to give up your career as a musician and go into a lucrative career in real estate. I've made the opposite decision, to go from a lucrative career in computers into a creative career as a chef. And as I've had plenty of time to mull that decision over recently, I can't help but think how perfect a person you would be to give me a little bit of guidance, the benefit of your experience.
I wonder if you'd like my friends. I think you would, because I keep seeing you in them. I see you in my best friend Scott, in the way he plays king of the house but really knows who's boss, and in the way he accepts me regardless of what kind of ass I make of myself. I see you a lot in my friend Manolo, who clings to his guitar much the way I imagine you'd have clung to your saxophone, and who has the same light in his eye as you when he puts a record on the turntable (although I figure his are a little less scratched-up than yours are). I see you in the way many of my friends are so generous they would give you the shirt off their backs without flinching.
I keep hearing music I think you would like, too. It seems you left just as my musical taste was starting to converge with yours. I'll find myself on the highway, listening to a Lou Donaldson CD, wondering if you heard it before and what you thought. Or listening to Sam Butera at jazzfest, where I possibly feel closer to you than anywhere else, because I know how much you would love that.
I remember when I was little and we used to call you while you were down in Florida. My heart always skipped a beat as the phone was ringing because I was worried that you wouldn't be there. It would be worse if I hadn't spoken to you in a week or more. And now that week has become nine years, and I still keep finding myself reaching for the phone to dial your number, to hear your voice. And even though I appreciated it so much then, I think that now I would appreciate it so much more.
Flying over Sydney Harbour. Driving over the peak of the Swiss Alps. On a beach in the Baleares. Riding the tube in London. Working on my swing at the driving range at The Fountains. Or driving past Surprise Lake in the Watchung Reservation. Cooking dinner with mom and dad, Paul and Diana, and Jill. Walking up the Champs Elysees. Taking off from Hong Kong.
We did a few of those things together, maybe I'd be surprised to find out that you did some of the others too -- but I only didn't get to hear that story when you were here. I know far too little about what your life was like at my age to really say for sure, and I sure wish I had you around to ask.
Maybe -- and maybe this is the most trite realization I could possibly have, but maybe still -- the reason I'm missing you is because you are there with me and I just don't know it or I'm not sure. Maybe you planted the seed in me that made me want to do the things I've done, that are leading me down the path I'm following now. Maybe Bob Dylan was right, that I see you in the sky above, in the tall grass, and the ones I love. Maybe.
But you're gone, and I guess that maybe is the only ball in the fairway, so to speak. All I have for a caddy is an imprint of you on my brain, from 21 years of experience. An imprint cast in memories of Lion Country Safari, visiting day at summer camp, your face outside in the balmy air at the end of a Florida jetway, and the last round of the U.S. Open before dinner on Father's day. Of Wigder's Chevrolet, the grill room at Green Brook, Anthony's Groves, Ocean Drive, Worth Avenue, and every dead end street in Mountainside. Of going to the spring for fresh water. Of Michigan and Ottawa and London, a road trip from Florida to New Jersey, Cadillacs, Sammy Davis and Louis Armstrong.
On my better days, and even on some of my worse ones, I like to think that you're proud of me, of what I'm making of my life. That you'd want to talk to me not just because I'm your grandson and you love me but because you'd find it interesting. I like to think it because I have the luxury to think it, and because frankly I'd be shattered if it weren't the case. So if after all of this, you're of another mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd lie to me -- just because I'm your grandson and you love me.
Because I love you, Pop, and I miss you, and the only thing I'd really want for my 30th birthday is to have you to share it with.
So if you happen to be in Dublin on November 3rd, and I really really hope you are, drop me a line. I'll pick up a couple of Romeo y Julietas and tell you all about Tiger Woods and everything else that's happened over the past nine years. I've even been working at getting the technique down for Mom-Mom's chicken, and I'll bet you haven't had that in a while.
If you can't make it, though, don't worry. I'll keep an eye out for you wherever I am, because you're never far from my thoughts, and you're never far from my heart.
Love,
Andy