An Open Letter To My Dad

In honor of Father's Day I thought I would post a letter written by my father, Clarence Stolt, in 1963 after the passing of his father.

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