In Memory

Of A Significant Life

(The following letter from Janice R. Manz to her deceased father-in-law, Leonard Manz, has been received for publication.

Dear Dad,

The phone rang in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke instantly while your son barely stirred. He has never tolerated a phone in the bedroom. In theory, he can always wait for bad news and when that dreaded sound penetrates the night darkness, chances are, it can’t be good.

As I told you during our last phone conversation, Bowie is now off to university, leaving Abigail to endure her aging parents by herself. With so many absent bodies to consider, nothing less then utter fear catapulted my head from the pillow. As I quickly slipped down from the heights of our four-poster, my unwilling feet touched the floor, and my legs, moving as if imbedded with lead, shuffled me along while the phone continued to echo in the distant foyer. In those few interminable seconds, my heart raced, as the list of possible catastrophes videoed across my mind’s eye. I was inordinately conscious of my hand in slow motion reaching for the receiver, suspecting that once I held it to my ear, life would be somehow altered.

“Hi Mom” came the familiar tone of Amy’s voice, which I immediately registered as not hysterical, providing a split second of relief. “I’ve got bad news, as I know you must realize, since I’m calling you at this hour.”

“Yes” was all I could muster as I held my breathe.

“It’s Grampa, Mom. He has been in a car accident.” Your granddaughter is a brilliant communicator, Dad, and knows just how to be in charge of the conversation. She gave me all the details as quickly as my brain could absorb them, leaving little chance for my far-reaching imagination to kick into overdrive. I hung up the phone. No more guess work. Our ten grandchildren were fine, Eric’s plane had not gone down and everyone on this side of the pond, I could check off as safe in their respective beds. You had some broken bones but were being treated at the hospital. Okay…time to awaken your sleeping offspring. I was not going to wait this one out alone.

After the last call came at 4:30 am, Russ and I crawled back into the comfort of our bed, withered and torn by the reality that you were gone from us. The sketchy drips and drabs of information as they trickled in, had kept us on a roller coaster ride between hope and despair. Then the finality of it all, when after walking the tightrope of emotions through the hours of tears, anger, and eventual numbness, we reached the other side of the platform from which the safety net beneath, suddenly had a hole in it.

The weeks have passed. Your service, we were told, was praiseworthy and crowded. You were beloved, Dad, by so many. You were a fine example of the proverbial pillar of a community, always ready to help, to serve, to do “the right thing.” And we all took pride for being counted amongst your extensive family.

But as the days go by, the little things are what cause my heart to break at the thought that I will not in this life see you again. And what would I do if I was successful in striking up a bargain with God that He might give me just one more day, even one more hour to tell you what knowing you meant to me?

First to mind, I would tell you how much I loved your hands, the hypnotic manner in which they danced over the keys and could make even the poorest of instruments sound like music from paradise, and how it delights me when I glimpse hints of their elegance in the sturdy hands of your son, thickened by years of labour. I would tell you that no matter how old I got, I loved that you never stopped retying my trainers, mumbling away about how ineffective I was at the task, or how you insisted on holding my hand when we walked over the bridge into Montrose, so I would not be blown over by the wind coming across the harbour. I loved the way you wanted me to be your partner at pinochle and the way you were always the first to help me clean up the kitchen after dinner. I loved how you always watched and waited for me to get home from the Scottish market, guarding the laundry line in case of the usual midday shower. I loved the way you so graciously stayed with the children so Russ and I could be alone on our anniversary and how every morning you got up early to make the coffee and collect hot, fresh bread for the kids, from the bakery down the close.

The list is endless, Dad. God knows in His perfect wisdom that it would take more than an hour or a day for me to enumerate all the little things for which your life counted so far beyond the obvious. And I would, no doubt, need to spend even more time asking you to forgive me for all the moments of regret that also come to mind. I would tell you how sorry I was that I didn’t send you more pictures of the children or that we didn’t always take the time from our busy lives to attend family functions while we were yet able. I’m sorry that I gave up trying to find the short bread recipe that equaled the memory of your grandmothers’, and that I stopped sending you my column in the Review, knowing how much you enjoyed it. I’m sorry that I was impatient when you were surly, rather than recognizing that you had your own share of disappointments and that your life was also inclusive of shattered plans and unanswered dreams, which you just never allowed to overtake the blessings. I’m sorry for every way I frustrated you, and for mistakenly believing that your love and attention would always be no more than a phone call away.

You told me that you prayed for me every day. Today my prayer will be that the words of my heart will somehow find their way to heaven’s gate, and one day, when I follow you on the journey you have yourself just completed, it will be your own beautiful hand that will once again reach out and lead me over the bridge… into eternity.

Yours forever,

Janice

Montrose, United Kingdom                                       October 26, 2004