Before Dad died, I spent about 20 years thinking about his eulogy in my head. I knew that he wanted me to do it. I knew that I would do it. By the time he died, I had three separate Sam Peckinpah references ready and I had to edit it down to one.
When we realized Mom's death was imminent, I expected my sister, Julie, would deliver the eulogy. She knew Mom best. But she inherited Mom's distaste for standing before a crowd as the center of attention.
Julie asked me to do it, but what to do? I thought about several approaches and settled on a letter to my 16-year-old self. Here it is.
Dear Dave,
As I write to you, I am 51 years old and I’m preparing to deliver the eulogy for our mother. I know, you’re doing the math right now and thinking you’ve figured out how much time you’ve got left with her.
Really, it’s less than that. All I’m gonna say is that you should consider donating to the Alzheimer’s Association now and then.
Before we get down to business, look around the house. Your sister is around there somewhere. We have to mention her because eventually you won’t be able to think of your mother without thinking of Julie, too. They will be very close. And I know you think Julie’s got it easy now, but she’s going to end up doing the hardest work, and for a long time.
Maybe Julie should be the one to give the eulogy. She knew Mom best. But she’s hurting now and it’s our job to step up. I’m just saying you should probably say something nice to our sister every now and then. She’ll make you proud, I promise.
OK, business. First things first. Emotions. You aren’t all that good at them. In fact the whole family isn’t really good at it. Our mother is at the heart of it. You can’t blame her, though. That grandfather you never ask her about? He didn’t just die young. He struggled with mental illness all his life. In 1966, he killed himself with a rifle in his own backyard. Our mother was never really the same.
Sure, you really wouldn’t know it at the surface level. She was a great mother and we had a good childhood. There was plenty of laughter and good times. But you also know how easy it is to be alone and in silence. Honest expressions of emotion aren’t really our strength.
I’m telling you this so that you can try to extend a little honest emotion to her every now and then. Before you’re in your thirties. Like now. Yeah, we’ve always been good at not saying the wrong thing. But you’re going to learn that failing to say the right thing at the right moment can be just as haunting.
You need to understand the gift she gave us. The love of language and the written word. We were weaned on Scarry and Suess and Silverstein. We were raised in the library. Our home was a library of its own. And she never proscribed anything. There was no censorship. If we could read it, we could read it. Reading is an education all its own, and the breadth of that education would change who we are.
It’s natural that you want to be like the old man. Hard-living and a worker and a warrior. You’ll get to do at least two out of three. But you need to recognize that your mother’s influence is at least half of your personality. You need to know that and thank her for it.
Our mother was her own force of nature. You’ll remember her laughter. You’ll remember her young, wearing a Luckenbach T-shirt, listening to Waylon sing “Bob Wills is Still the King.”. You’ll remember her mad as hell and cussing like a sailor. You’ll remember her as a worthy opponent at Trivial Pursuit. And you’ll remember her old, worried about her short future, but putting on a brave face for you and Julie’s benefit.
The pictures will help with the memories. There y’all are on the side of a mountain in Switzerland. She was tough. Posing for a photo during a hike along a creek. She was fun. The family photo at Leavenworth. She was … let’s face it, she was just about perfect. Dancing at your 30th birthday party in Luckenbach. She was OK with you being you. Dancing at your wedding. Hey, it’s gonna happen.
You’re going to try and catch up. You’re going to give her a DVD of a movie you made about her grandchildren … only to realize that your parents no longer know how to work the DVD player. You’re going to create a little book about her early life, only to finish it when she no longer recognizes such things. Maybe this time, we can try a little sooner.
She gave us another important gift. We have always been a wanderer. We’ve scared the bejeezus out of her time and again by wandering down the road, into the woods, across the neighborhood. Now you’re 16 and you’ve got a car. She knows what it means to you to be on your own. Pretty soon she’s going to accept it and let you go.
But that doesn’t mean you have to stay gone. You need to return a little more often, if just for a bit. You need to call every now and then. Because she loves you like only a mother could, and you love her, too. Even if both of you aren’t really great at saying so.
Let’s say it together: “I love you, mom.”
Trust me, someday you’ll wish you said it more.
And you’ll miss her.
That’s enough truth for now.
Maybe in my next letter, I’ll offer some advice on women and whiskey. Kid, we’re gonna have a LOT to talk about there.
Regards from the future,
Dave