An open letter . . .

An open letter to my father’s widow:

The man you knew and loved is a different man than we, his children, remember. We don’t remember happy times spent with him. What we do remember:

We remember one or two car rides. It was a white car, and he always drove fast.

We remember watching it drive away shortly after we got into it. We spent lots of time with Grandma and Grandpa Nyberg in the big white house playing with the Cinderella carriage in the room with so many windows looking over the street.

We remember days at a small trailer with a mother who was always tired from working.

We remember weekend mornings at Grandma King’s house. She would get a pad of paper and a pen, and take our orders for breakfast. And she would REALLY make three different things for breakfast.

We remember Christmas with Grandpa and Grandma Nyberg. All dressed up in matching dresses and a suit for Robbie which Grandma Nyberg took us to the store to buy.

We remember Robbie getting a fancy racetrack for Christmas.

We remember sitting at the soda fountain at Grandpa Nybergs' Rexall drugstore. Wondering at the marvels of how that sweet tasting soda was mixed together, and digging a straw out of a vintage straw holder to put in our fashionable soda glass. And grandpa gave us all the cherries we wanted in our drinks.

We remember Debbie Koski, and her brother Jan. She was our babysitter when we lived in Michigan. Sometimes, I remember her more than my own mother. Debbie would pin-curl Virginia Koski’s hair, (her mom), while she cooked grilled cheese and soup for us eat.

We remember Grandma Nyberg taking us to the cottage at Indian Lake, where Becky and I slept in a room with pictures of Pinkie and Little Boy Blue hanging over our heads.

We remember vacation bible school classes at a big building on Indian Lake, where we made arts and crafts, and swam. Grandma proudly hung my driftwood mobile from the eave of the cottage cause something that pretty had to be shared with whom ever came to visit.

We remember the green canoe, by the dock, and Grandpa Nyberg, taking us for an afternoon ride on the smooth waters of Indian Lake while the sun set.

And we remember getting back in that white car so we could go home to mom, and later to mom and our new dad, and everything that was familiar to us.

And as the years rolled along, there were opportunities missed by a man who would 40 years later, want to reconnect with us. A man who waited until he was dying to decide to we were important enough to call. A man who really never asked how we were, or how our children were, but instead, told us about how great his life was. This man never celebrated his life with us; so with his passing, it’s really hard to want to mourn for him. We have few memories of him.

Some memories not mentioned, though painful for us, are not to be shared with you. You loved him. It is my respect for you as his wife, to not leave you with any bad memories of the man you loved.

He was lucky to have found someone who loved him as you obviously did. Please, try not to be bitter towards us. We understand your pain. However, he shared so very little of his life with us, that we want nothing of this man to remember him by. And we will leave you cherish your good memories of the man who claimed to be our father.