Tag Archives: fathers and sons

Dear Dad

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Dear Dad,

Today marks 40 years since you left the world far too soon. You were 55 and I was 15. I climbed to the summit of Indian Head Mountain in the Catskills today to honor you and our relationship, a relationship that continues to this day. It is not a given that death ends the relationship between father and son (or daughter).

You died on a Saturday afternoon and I remember the exact moment because I felt it, physically felt it. I thought about it during the climb today.

The hospital called that morning to tell Mommy you would not make it through the day. I remember being upset and angry with her for not being by your side. She said you were in a coma and wouldn’t know the difference anyway. In retrospect, I don’t think she had the ability to handle the moment. All I know is you should not have died alone, coma or no coma. Anyway, it was around 1:40 in the afternoon when me, Pascal and Bobby decided to walk into Nyack and buy some soda pop. It’s about a 20 minute walk. We were well on our way when all of a sudden the air went out of me. I stopped walking and leaned over, hands on my knees. I knew. I said, “He just died.” Bobby and Pascal looked at me and said, “No, Pete, he’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” We went to the store, bought our soda pop and walked home. I went into the kitchen and Mommy was at the counter preparing food. She turned and said, “Peter, it happened.” You had died. You time of death was 1:53.

The climb today was grueling, but I didn’t care. I was glad to be alive to do it. I summited around 12:40 and put one of your twigs on the summit. When I visit your grave I collect the small branches and twigs that fall from the Oak tree next to you. It dawned on me some years ago that by now your body is part of the soil and thus part of the tree so by having these twigs with me I have you with me. I leave one on every summit.

On the descent I thanked God for giving me an ample ass because when my feet slip out from under me on wet rock and I land on my butt it’s like falling into the arms of a loved one.

I miss you terribly, Daddy. I’d give up the rest of my life in a heartbeat to hug you one more time. In the meantime, I’m doing the best I can. I’m far from perfect as I’m sure you know. But one of the many things that was special about you was you never expected me to be perfect or wanted me to be perfect. All I had to do to be loved by you was be me, be Peter.

I hope we meet again. I hope there is something after this life and if there is, if it doesn’t include being with you again, I’m not interested.

I hope you are safe and happy and loved wherever you are.

Always you son love you his whole wide world,

Peter

Memoir Excerpt: The Boy

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I am born October 2, 1953 in the French Hospital in New York City. My mother was a single 20-year-old woman who seven days after my birth would, as the expression goes, surrender me for adoption to the Spence Chapin Agency. I was placed with a foster mother for a view weeks and then, when I was about five weeks old, I was adopted by Sanford and Virginia Kahrmann, then residing in a place called Shanks Village in Orangeburg New York.

My father worked at Bell Labs in New Jersey and taught English at Columbia University. He was a World War II Army veteran. Long after he died I would learn he was among those who liberated the people in the Dachau Concentration Camp. My mother was a Columbia graduate who had married and later divorced an RAF pilot she met while living in London during the war. She would later tell me that one of the reasons she divorced her first husband was he had no sense of humor. I remember wondering why she didn’t notice this until after the wedding.

My mother was 10 years my father’s junior. He was born in 1914, she in 1924. They’d met after the war when she was a student in one of his classes.

While I don’t remember the first time I saw the boy, he was there as long as I have memory. He was rarely around when my parents were there. I knew my father would love him, I was not so sure about my mother. I don’t know if my mother ever saw him. He was rarely around when she was.

I can’t tell you the first time I saw him because I don’t remember when that was. I knew I liked him and I knew he liked me, and for me, that’s all that mattered. I never told anyone about him because I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I never had to say anything to my father because I secretly believed my father saw him too, and anyway, there was never a need for words when it came to things like us . It was like that between me and my father. With the three of is, me, my Dad and the boy, it was like that too. The boy loved us and although we never said it out loud, we loved the boy.



Now it’s not like I could see him all the time. He’d just kind of show up. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him at first. I’d be doing something, playing in my tree house, listening to music, walking in the woods, and there he’d be. A lot of the time he was smiling at me. He always seemed gentle to me, very kind and gentle. I knew he was kinder and gentler than I was. It’s not that I thought I was terrible, well, maybe a little. The boy looked plenty strong, but I knew from the beginning I’d protect him with my life. I don’t know how I knew. I just did. I also knew he had answers to questions I wasn’t ready to ask yet, or hadn’t thought of yet. Maybe there were answers I wasn’t ready to know and the boy knew it. He was smart. We were both smart.

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