What I want to say, before any grey advice, is simply “thank you.” Thank you for coming to live in our house. You have added beyond measure to your mother and me. And since our life was already rich before you came, that is saying plenty. I wish to communicate to you a deep and abiding hello. I love you more deeply than our culture or my hang-ups have ever permitted me to say. So I say it now, for you and the whole world to know: thank you for being, you precious, incredible, beautiful, crazy bums.
Now I advise. Remember you are free. Though I’ve tried to affirm all kinds of determinism to get myself off the hook for the occasional mess I’ve made of things—it won’t wash. You are partly free at least, therefore partly responsible for the person you become. You are artists working on your own creation: Sculpt, paint, dance, write, think, sing greatly. Express yourself, yes, but deeply. Avoid the shallows, the trivialities, and the mendacity that will suck out your soul if you leave it unguarded long. A beautiful world yes, but it stinks with sin.
Two. You will undergo someday, unless you fake it or dehumanize yourself, pain deeper than you believe is possible to experience. You will bear unspeakable grief. I hope you endure and I commend to you during those periods long walks, cursing, planting tulip bulbs, Bach, and holding close all night to someone who gives a damn.
Three. In my book, orthodoxy is a synonym for stupidity, fear and self-righteousness. But beware lest the liberalism in which you have been nurtured become a synonym for self-congratulation, vacuity and lack of passion.
Four. My mother had the good sense to ask my brother and me to carry my father’s body to his grave. I hope you keep that tradition going. At the memorial service don’t let anybody in the church until they put their right hand on the Bible (King James Version) and swear “I solemnly promise to join in all six hymns and to sing louder than I have ever sung before.” By God, that congregation is going to sing.
Five. Please, no heavy feeling of obligation toward your mother or me. You have been pure gift in our lives. For God’s sake—I think you are both overly conscientious—don’t ever try to win one for the Gipper. If you lose you’ll feel embarrassed; if you win you’ll get superstitious. Do, if you want, someday, maybe, if you’re so inclined and have the time, go ahead, yes—plant a wild plum tree for the old man.
