The Letter I Didn’t Write

Friday, January 4, 2008

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

The Letter I Didn’t Write

By J’AMY PACHECO

If you consider the quantity of words I produce on a monthly basis, it’s almost unimaginable that I might have regret about something I didn’t write. But I do.

On Christmas Eve, I lost my stepfather of nearly 30 years. While he’d suffered from complications of diabetes for years, nobody expected his death that night. He’d been at my home for a family holiday dinner the evening before, and when he left, I had not the slightest inkling it would be the last time I saw him.

His name was Phil. He came into our lives when I was barely a teenager – just in time to experience the pubescent hormonal mood swings for which I still apologize. To step in and raise another man’s children – especially when one was a marginally psychotic teenager – is the mark of an extraordinary man.

Phil’s life was not extraordinary. He spent four years in the military, and then worked as a police officer. For most of his adult life, however, he worked as a lineman for a utility company. It was this job he held when he met my mother through “Parents Without Partners” and asked her to marry him.

He was a gruff man with an enormous heart. He was a bear of a man whose friends nicknamed him “Packy,” short for pachyderm. But this big, macho guy also loved to cook, and was famous for his chicken fried steak and garlic bread.

When he wasn’t working or cooking, he was reading. He loved books – techno-thrillers, police stories, and especially books about World War II. He also loved cars, and almost always had some kind of automotive publication on hand.

When I was 18 and wished for a sports car, he assured me I could make it happen. I’ll never forget the day he showed up at my workplace with a brochure for a new MG Midget, a salesman’s business card with a quote on the back – and roses for everybody in the office.

I bought the car, and logged a lot of miles on the burgundy MG I named “Penelope.” Driving all over California with the top down was a liberating experience that I’ll never forget. If not for Phil, I never would have believed it was possible.

I don’t think I truly appreciated Phil until my 21st birthday, when I’d been gone from home for three years and my family went to Hawaii to visit a brother who was stationed there. Five of us toured the island of Oahu, and I remember being surprised by how funny my brothers, and Phil, could be.

We had many opportunities to laugh – like the night we followed my brother’s Army buddies’ advice to see a luau at a place called “Le Boom Boom Room.” You’d think the name would have tipped us off, but we found ourselves viewing a most non-traditional luau from front row seats. Just recalling that night – or hearing someone utter the odd curse word we made up in the rental car one day – is enough to make me smile today.

As Phil’s diabetes took over and he became less mobile, I started buying books for him. His eyes always lit up at the sight of shopping bags filled with books, and after a few moments of conversation, he’d bury his nose in a new volume. It was not unusual for him to get through an entire novel in just a day.

The last conversation we had was about books, and the dinner I’d served. I wish we’d discussed something more profound, but that night, I thought I had all the time in the world. I didn’t know it would be the last night of his life.

Phil requested cremation, and didn’t want any kind of service. My husband brought his ashes to my mother’s house in a polished wooden box, which was placed on a shelf among his beloved books. What remains of Phil is smaller and lighter than the bag of books I brought home to remember him by.

I don’t know how one measures the worth of a man’s life. Is it in the number of people who loved him? The depth of their sorrow? The regret they harbor for things left unsaid, or unwritten? If those things matter, Phil’s life was rich indeed.

I know he expected great things from me. I wish I’d written something substantial for him to read in his lifetime, or at least a letter telling him how much I appreciate all he did for our family. Many times, I expressed my gratitude verbally, but I always intended to give him something more permanent. I never quite got around to it.

Phil was a kind, generous, loving man who called my daughter “Little Bit” and who departed too soon, leaving behind a houseful of broken hearts. This spring, we’ll take his ashes to the forest where he requested they be scattered, and say our final good-byes.

I wish I’d written them sooner.