Dear Dad,
I write this letter to you 41 years after you died in 1983. I think about my life with you up until then and am filled with gratitude for the father you were for me.
Converse Crowell, son of Virgil Lloyd Crowell and Della Evelyn Convers born March 12, 1938 in Turlock, California. Died March 11, 1983 in Napa, California.
The Sting
One of my earliest memories of you was when I was about 3 years old. You were mowing the lawn while I watched you from the porch of our house in Lincoln, California. As you pushed the lawnmower back and forth trimming our carpet of green fescue, a bee crawled into my sandal.
I felt the sting, a pain that I hadn’t felt before. Tears flooded my eyes as I let out a great scream that expressed the pain and the surprise of it all. Both you and Mom came running. You explained what happened as you mixed dirt and water to make a mud paste. You spread the mud on the spot where I’d been stung. Mom supplied me with a lollypop which along with the mud and how you cared for me that day made it all better.
Birthdays
All your birthdays from 1963 on were shared with Laura. She was born on your 25th birthday. I had always believed that Laura was your favorite. I’m not sure why. You two just seemed to understand each other. Ever since I had my sons and each one brought me joy in a unique way, I realized I was probably wrong about favoritism.
Little Hands
I remember what it felt like to hold your hand when I was little. That connection of love equaled safety and self-confidence to me. I think about how it once felt for my little hand to be in yours when I’ve held my granddaughters’ hands. I hold their hands as often as I can.
High up
I was about 6 years old when I became too big to be picked up and held. I was sad that I could no longer feel how it felt to see the world from high up in your arms. My granddaughters love being held now. I will hold them high up in my arms for as long as I can and ask the universe to slow down time a bit.
Dancing
During my 2nd grade school year, I somehow found my way into 1960s-era dancing moves. It was probably from watching American Bandstand. I remember conquering or at least under the 7-year-old based delusion that I had conquered The Jerk and The Twist. I took my newfound belief that I had mastered the dancing world to school one day. I shared with my friend Cathy how good a dancer I had become. She told me to show her. I did and she promptly told me she could dance better than me. I was crushed. Why hadn’t she shared in my joy? Sure, I was bragging but I was just so pleased with myself!
Dad, when you picked me up from school that day on the drive home, I told you about what Cathy had said. You told me I should have told her to prove it. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of that. I was sure that you were the smartest man to ever live.
Divorce
While I was between 6 and 8 years old, and later when I was between 9 and 11 years old, you and Mom argued relentlessly. I felt like I was holding on desperately to the mast of a sailboat in the middle of the ocean during a violent storm when those rage-filled episodes occurred.
Even though your two divorces from each other brought relief from the arguing, it broke my heart each time you left. Besides Laura’s death and your death, losing you being a part of my daily life under the same roof was one of my biggest sorrows.
Woodworking
When I was about 13 years old and with you in the garage during one of my weekend visits, you showed me how to build a small shadow box. We worked on it together for most of the weekend. I will always remember cutting the wood, gluing the pieces together, staining it, and going to the hardware store to buy a piece of glass to add to the front. That time together, and the opportunity to share in woodworking, something you loved to do, made me so happy. I felt loved and important to you. I hold it amongst my fondest memories growing up.
Haircuts
I can still hear your laugh. It makes me smile today just thinking about it. I loved your humor too. You always said you needed to lower your ears when you would go to get your hair cut. In the late 1970s, I urged you not to cut your hair too short. Hair was being worn longer then, I explained. You just laughed. I’m so glad you didn’t listen to me.
Gift
On the occasion of my 21st birthday, I announced to you that I wanted you to send me flowers. I instructed you to do it yourself and not have my stepmom do it. Buying gifts was her department. She was good at it and knew what to buy. I wanted you to buy it. I wanted to know what it would feel like to get a gift personally from you. I envisioned a nice mixed arrangement of flowers delivered to my job at Bank of America.
I cannot describe how it felt when the huge arrangement of 21 red roses arrived with the card you had signed yourself. I truly underestimated how loved it would make me feel. The large bowl that it came in has been stored on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet ever since. It was the last gift I would ever receive from you.
Padlock
When I was 22 years old, I broke up with my boyfriend of about 6 years. I was moving out of the house he and I lived in and back in with you. You drove me to the house to pick up my things at an agreed-upon time when the ex-boyfriend would not be there. We loaded up boxes into the back of Betsy, your blue Chevy pickup. When I realized some things were missing, I went to the garage and looked through the window. Ex-Boyfriend had used a padlock to lock up things that belonged to me that he apparently and mistakenly thought belonged to him.
In about 30 seconds, however, you assessed the situation, then pulled the garage door over to one side far enough to open it despite the padlock. We gathered my belongings and never looked back. You were my hero. I had lost my confidence and felt so alone as I went through that break-up. Because of you, I knew that I was going to be okay. You weren’t going to let the likes of him mess with me. I knew that I was not alone. Thank you for that.
Grief
Life for me became a bit chaotic after Laura’s death, followed by the break-up. My attempt to numb the pain with late nights, parties that got in the way of my sensibility and just plain stupid decisions must have been terrifying for you. I became the storm and you must have been holding on tightly to the mast of the boat.
You too were in deep mourning for Laura. The car holding her and 5 of her friends that ended up in an accident was due to some of the same behaviors I was engaging in. I am sorry for the night I didn’t come home until the next morning. I’m sorry for how it must have terrified you. I never wanted you to have to wonder if you were going to experience the night your daughter died in the hospital again.
Cancer
When you became sick with Cancer, I didn’t know how fast it would take you. It was devastating, painful, and beyond comprehension for me. You fought so hard, but your life ended.
Dad, I have never stopped missing you. I needed you in my life. Sometimes it was so hard to bear. Over time, the grief has changed but has never gone away. Thank you for being the kind of father a girl needed. Your love gave me the capacity to build a family with my husband. I look into the faces that resemble yours, your descendants, and know that you live on in them.
With Love Always,
Robin
Robin, your writing is so eloquent and being able to express your feelings for your father and the memories of him and your grief and how you came to terms with it, is truly special. Reading your letter to your father has helped me appreciate my relationship with my dad. Thank you
Thank you, such a beautiful letter, straight from the heart.
I really need to find the words to do something like this, write a letter to the man I called dad my whole life, even though I am now considered an NPE, dad was my dad until he passed , just a couple weeks after my 22nd birthday, in 1988 (April fools Day no less). He still is my dad to this day, and that will never change in my heart.
I don’t know if he knew I wasn’t his, but he raised me on his own with my three older sisters (mom left him while pregnant with me, we visited her weekly, usually on a Sunday).
I mourned him for decades and love him whole heartedly for all that he was to me then and still is, even though he isn’t physically here.
You have given me some ideas and I appreciate that. No one seems to understand what it’s like to be in my shoes, finding out I’m not his, and I definitely think this might help myself emotionally and maybe help others to understand how I feel.
Thank you, again, for sharing your beautiful letter to your dad!! I hope mine will be just as beautiful when it is finished.