“Way back in the 20th
century, when people led private lives and wrote personal letters and messages
meant only for the eyes of the recipients…an open letter carried some weight.”
Linton Weeks
An Open Letter…About Open Letters
“A letter is
an intimate thing; a whisper between two souls in a noisy world.”
Susan Marie
poet and author
The
Open Letter, as literary form, remains something of a contradiction and mystery,
a throwback to an earlier time of artful writing and rhetoric. Under the guise
of an intimate exchange, the open letter is actually intended to be read by a
wide and public audience. When done well, it speaks at once to private lives
and universal themes. Its roots go back to the Bible (e.g. the Apostle Paul's Letters to Timothy, Titus and Philemon) and it shows itself today in the form of countless blogs and social
media posts of virtually anyone with an internet connection.
An open letter can express political
anger and social angst about anyone and anything. It can also speak plainly of
the most personal feelings of love (or yes, animosity) toward a mother, father,
sibling or spouse.
To that end, my father, Clarence Stolt,
penned such an open letter in February of 1963 while riding on a train back to
his hometown in Wisconsin the day after his father died. It first appeared as a
published piece in a church bulletin and shortly thereafter in the monthly
newsletter for the Veterans Administration’s Milwaukee home office where he was
employed his entire life.
Yes, I am clearly and unabashedly
biased here, and indeed I have shared this letter publicly before, but there is
something about its homespun eloquence that still draws me into that rolling
railroad car fifty-plus years after my father wrote them. But more than that, I
offer it here as a prime example, not to be forgotten, of the timeless art of the Open Letter.
An Open Letter to My Dad
The phone seemed to jingle a little more nervously than usual
when Carol called at the office and said you had slept away peacefully.
It wasn't unexpected. We both put up a bold front in our last
visit at the St. Paul V.A. Hospital 10 days ago, but inwardly we knew. You made it clear that 85 was a lengthy life
and you had no regrets in leaving.
I boarded the Hiawatha train the following day and found the
quiet of a streamliner rolling northward an ideal place for reminiscing. You had a full life, Dad. Coming over from
Sweden in rugged pioneer tradition and starting a new life in northwestern
Wisconsin was no easy task. But it sure
developed your initiative, independence and, best of all, the good old virtue
of common sense which more than compensated for your meager schooling. Never gave it much thought before but your
working years must have been in excess of 60 years. I don't think you were idle a day until you
reached 75. With limited means you saw
that we three kids went to college, which is a splendid tribute to both you and
Mother. Remarkably good health blessed
your life until that pesky hip accident. This, coupled with Mother's passing,
dulled your zest for living a little, but you kept such thoughts pretty much to
yourself.
Two old photographs come to mind. The faded confirmation photo in which your
eyes speak sheer devilment, and that picture of you in your Spanish-American
war uniform displays a physique few servicemen boast today. Not much fighting in that conflict, but those
training camp conditions you mentioned on occasion didn't make me a bit
envious. Incidentally, I'm told you were
the last of the Spanish-American vets in Pierce County.
By golly we had some great times together. Those fishing trips on the St. Croix
river: (remember the time I cast your
new rod into the depths of the Mississippi?); those leisurely car trips along
Lake Pepin where as a youngster you did some commercial fishing; those trips to
the Minnesota State Fair. Oh yes, there
were many more – the pheasant we snitched out of season; and how you enjoyed
coming to Milwaukee to see the Braves perform.
Never could figure where you got the stamina to sit through those
laborious doubleheaders.
Our Christmas gathering last December left the most pleasant
memories. You were feeling exceptionally
chipper and I was amused by your comment that Kent Francis, my youngest, really
warmed up to you on this visit. I know
how happy you were two years ago when he came along to carry on the family
name. Kent is a dynamic chap, a little
too mischievous at times; I'm sure he takes after his "Gwam Pa."
Truthfully, Dad, I never heard anyone say a harsh word about
you and my memory isn't good enough to recall all the compliments concerning
the love, respect and help you gave your fellow man. Typically, you never bothered to mention to
me your recent generous gift to the local church. You are certainly worthy of the Lord's
promise: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard…the things which God hath
prepared for those that love Him."
Thanks for everything, Dad. I know you are having a marvelous
time now, and deservedly so (though I'd like to know how you explained about
that pheasant incident). I won't say goodbye – just so long for a spell.
Sincerely,
Clarence
