Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: Writing a Letter (handwritten correspondence) (10/21/10)
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TITLE: To Honeygirl | Previous Challenge Entry
By Charlotte Leonard
10/27/10 -
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This letter, note really, was written to me by my father and I discovered it when I was boxing up his meager belongings at the nursing home after he passed away. Dad suffered from Alzheimer's Disease and his last years were spent in a haze of confusion and delusion as his body and his mind slowly wasted away.
In his prime, my father was a courageous, hardworking man of honor. You could trust his word and take his handshake to the bank. During the Great Depression he had worked three jobs to provide for the family and no one ever heard him complain. He simply trusted the Lord and did whatever was necessary to keep food on the table and pay the bills. The kind of anonymous blue collar worker that kept on keepin' on. It was the sweat of their brows that fueled the destiny of this nation.
We lived an uncomplicated country life, thankful for what we had. Back in the 50's visiting neighbors was a prime source of entertainment. Folks then didn't sit around staring at some TV program, they told stories. Nobody told a story like my dad. Raised by German immigrants on the North Dakota plains, he had only four years of schooling; children were expected to pull their fair share of the heavy load on a dry-land farm. None of his stories reflected any bitterness or self pity. He would tell about the blizzards when the swirling snow was so dense his only hope of getting home was Prince, his saddle horse, who always seemed to be able to find the hay stored in the barn. My favorites were about his uncles, who had ditched all thought of becoming farmers and gone into a more lucrative line of work: bootlegging. He had a dozen tales of Uncle Cap and Uncle Barney staying one step ahead of the “Revenuers”.
In my father's stories the uppity government men in their pinstriped suites were always outsmarted, or out gunned, by these two farm boys. Their exploits were hilarious and I can still see him laughing and slapping his leg as he held his audience spellbound. Of course, Dad always said that you could ruin a good story by sticking too close to the truth.
I was his “Honeygirl”. He was my protector, my hero and my biggest cheerleader. I always knew I could count on him. He had my back.
It was devastating to see my big, handsome father fall prey to this cruel disease. The calloused hands that had worked so hard became limp and soft, unable to perform the simplest task. Dark thoughts began to slither their way into his mind, he became suspicious, fearful, and in the end he turned his anger toward me. I would run down the hallways of the nursing home with his shouted accusations echoing against the walls behind me. Other times he would be so influenced by the medication used to calm him that he wouldn't know I was there. Visiting him became more and more painful and I didn't go as often as I should have. The tears I shed at his passing were tears of loss, but also tears of relief.
So, it was a total surprise to find that letter, the last correspondence from my father. It is a mystery how he was able to write it, and only God knew how much I needed it. Folded once, it was hidden under his socks in the middle drawer of his dresser. Written with a quivering hand it simply read: To Honeygirl,Remember I love you. Dad.
Yes Daddy, I will.
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