Good morning, Dad.   

It’s amazing how quiet it is after they all leave the house, isn’t it?   I figured it would be a good time for us to talk.  Hard to believe that it’s been 25 years since we last spoke out loud.  Time flies when you’re living life.

Anyway, I’ve been trying to finish this assignment.  It’s a tough one. Plus, you know I’m a procrastinator.  I’m supposed to be writing something about metal.  I thought since you were a mechanical engineer, and with that patent law background, and all those inventions, you would know a lot about metal and all the things that it’s good for.  Maybe you’d like to help me with this assignment?  We never, ever did homework together, but there’s always a first time for everything. Right?

I already did the easy part. I walked around the house and filled a bowl with things, metal things, that were yours.  What?  Yes, I know it’s not all metal.  I stretched the definition a little, thought I’d be creative and blend metal with medal.  I know you’re not a rule stretcher when it comes to homework assignments, but I thought you’d appreciate the twist, thought it might appeal to your sense of irony.

Can I ask you some questions about what I chose? 

Let’s start with these keys. 

There’s this whole box full of them.  Why did you save them?  Are they still guarding forgotten secrets? You left us with a lot of unanswered questions.  I wonder if any of these keys could unlock them.  I don’t see many clues, though I do notice there are multiple duplicates.  No offense, but that’s so predictable.  Always the Boy Scout. Always prepared. 

Speaking of Boy Scouts, you may not like that I included this in my metal essay, but I thought it was probably something you were very proud of, kind of like a medal. 

I know you were an Eagle Scout, but I’m guessing you made this Pinewood Derby car well before you reached those ranks.  I’m running my fingers over the hand carved body and visualizing the young boy who would grow to be an inventor, a champion of the big dream. I imagine you knew this car would be a winner as you tediously streamlined the front end.  Did it meet your need for perfection?  Was it as fast as your imagination?  Did you let your dad help you work on it the way you finally convinced your own son to let you help?

That thought leads me to this. 

I have no idea why you were a licensed chauffeur in 1947.  It says Illinois, so I would guess you were living at home.  Was it a summer job?  The only summer job I remember you telling me about was when you were a Good Humor man.  Did they make you have a chauffeur’s license to drive around a truck full of ice cream bars?  I know you loved that job.  You told the story over and over about how the Good Humor company offered you a job as a manager and you almost took it instead of going on to law school.  Not surprising, I remember those amazing sundaes you used to fix yourself late at night.

Here’s another one I think you’re probably proud of, but it may make you shake your head again at my rule bending.  Most likely,  you remember me as a rule follower. This stretching and bending is a newly developed trait of mine, one I’m sure you’d blame on Mom.  Anyway, this carved image of you in your baseball uniform is one of my favorite treasures.  I can see the little pencil marks where you had carefully outlined your intentions.

You never talked much about your baseball glory days.  When I think of you and baseball, I mostly visualize you spending the summer glued to your transistor radio, listening to Harry Caray and the Cubs on WGN.   But, I found this newspaper article that says your high school team was state champs.

That’s you over on the left, the catcher, standing apart from the mountain of boy energy. Most adults who've tasted that kind of victory relive it over and over again.  Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?  Maybe you shared it with your son.  I’ll have to ask him if he knew.

What else? 

Here, look at all these metal buttons.   And here’s this one little bar and this eagle.

I wish I knew what they meant.  I know you were in the Navy.  Your flat feet kept you in the reserves instead of shipping overseas. Did you know Alice has flat feet, too?  I found these photographs that I'm guessing you must have taken when you were on duty. 

Looks like you made it as far as Mackinac Island and the New York City harbor.  How did you feel about not getting to join the big leagues?  I know you liked to win, to be part of the team, had a strong sense of right and wrong, a sense of honor from all those years in the Scouts.  Did you hate it that you got left at home?  Is that why you never told me about that time in your life?

I thought this old metal film canister might contain more photos from your Navy days.  Instead, when I unrolled the film I lost my breath for a moment.

In negative, I saw two small boys with fishing poles, a dozen proudly caught fish laid out in a row, a dog I have never seen, and a woman I never recognized the few times we ran into her.  And there you are, bent over cleaning the fish.  Who took that picture?  Rich?  John?  Your first wife?  It’s a life that we all knew about but one that rarely intersected our world, though I know it did yours.  Those are your sons.  How did it feel, the way things ended up with them?  I still think I see Rich every now and then, in the faces of strangers that pass me on the street.

I have a son of my own now.  You would love him, your gene pool runs thick in his veins.  I am often overwhelmed by the pieces of him that remind me so much of you.  Not really his looks, but his love of logic, his sense of humor, his need to tear things apart to see how they work and put things together to test their limits, his gift for math, his need to be right, his stubborn will, his unending kindness. 

Mom gave him your old drafting set for his birthday last year.  He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world.  He carefully touched each of the tools and spoke quietly to himself.  Maybe he was talking to you.  Did you hear him?  

The bowl is empty now.  No more met(d)al treasures.  I’m kind of sorry the assignment is over. It felt nice to sit with you this morning and share the silence.  Sorry about all the questions, I should have known to ask more when I had the chance.

I miss you, Dad, but I’m glad I have so many pieces of you to hold on to.