FROM MY FATHER...

(Note: Peter here! I was as surprised as you will be to hear back from my father! Well, truthfully, not my father himself but me, listening to his voice...) 

My dear Peter,

It's my turn to write. This may come as a surprise, but I have been reading your many letters over these past few months--though I have to note that time means nothing to me now!--and paying close attention. That I write to you from "another place" does not mean that I'm unable to respond to everything you have to say. Well, perhaps not everything, because you have said so much, and I have enjoyed the memories that your letters inspired. But some of the big questions, some of the main ideas.

First, then, a big thank you for the letters. I don't like to boast but since you yourself suggest it, I think I can take a little bit of credit for your writing skills. One of the good things--and there were many not so good!--that you learned from me. As I think you Americans say these days, you "tell it like it is"! Or maybe this dates me. I have always had trouble keeping up with your American idioms. But you do tell it all so well. Sometimes your letters left me feeling a bit weepy. Sometimes, remembering those times, I laughed out loud.

Now to more serious matters. I'm glad that you re-read the many letters I wrote to you over the years and that you came to a kinder view of my role as your father. And I'm glad you noticed how often I doubted myself in that role (and you're right, I did always love to act the part!) It's true that I was not always the father I would have wanted to be. 

To my mind, the really big question was the one about sending you away to school when you were still so young. Was that really for your sake, you asked, with your best interests in mind? Well, as you yourself will concede, you did get the very best education a young man could wish for, at least in the academic sense. But you make it clear that it came at a cost to you. You had an excellent brain, by the end of it--but you were cut off from your heart. You had learned to armor yourself--your words--for fear of being hurt.

I see this now, Peter. I really do. Your letters are clear about the pain you felt at that early age, being separated from your family. You felt "sent away", as though you were not wanted. As though you were not loved. And I have to confess that I found it hard to make a show of the love I felt for you and Flora. It was not the way I was brought up myself. (And you're right, I think, looking that far back, to suggest that my mother's early death left a mark on me). I think it was the same for Peggy. It was just not in the tradition of our generation. More's the pity, I see now. I admire the ability to love more openly as it was learned by your generation and passed on to your children. Hugs are important. I learned that from you!

Your words now have me examining my own heart, my own motivations. I did honestly believe you'd get a better education at those boarding schools than you would have done at the local schools in Aspley Guise and, later, Bedford. Was there some class consciousness that went into that decision? Yes. I'll admit it. There was a bit of just plain snobbery involved. But also some history: it's the path I followed as a youngster. It's what I knew best, and trusted.

The other part of that question leaves me more uncomfortable. How much was it selfishness on my part to send you far away from home to go to school? Honestly, my illness was a real consideration. The constant pain was real. (I was tickled by the way you turned my "psychosomatic" diagnosis back on me. You're probably right!) Did I want you gone to spare myself further irritation? I like to think not. Did I want you gone so as to have your mother to myself? Oh, God, I hope not. My reflex response is NO, I'd never do such a thing. But there's a tiny itch in the back of my mind that thinks there might be at least a small element of truth in what you are suggesting. 

I'm going to take a break here, Peter. I know there are other important questions to address but they will have to wait. As things stand now, I no longer have the energy of youth. I promise I'll write again when I find time the time--as though that were a problem in all eternity! I'll end for the time being with this thought: I may not have showed it in the ways I should have or in ways you would have wanted, but I truly, deeply loved my son. My daughter, too, equally; but I loved my son. I loved you as a child and loved you as you grew up and became a man. I loved you for your doubts (like mine!) and faults (like mine!) and loved you for your struggles. I was immeasurably proud of your successes. I believe you know this now. I wish you had known it from the start. Well, from start to finish. 

There's much more to say, but that's enough for now. I'll sign off as I always did--and meant it! 

Affectionately, 

Your Father