February 8, 2008

Dear Parents,

This is a short story. It is true. I remember almost every detail perfectly, and I think you will get the point.

I was twelve that summer. My friend Perry had invited me to spend a week or so with him and his family at their summer home on Vinalhaven, an island off the coast of Maine. A ferry out of Rockland Harbor that brought the daily supply of summer people, groceries, and other goods that supported the year-round population. There was much more adventure in taking my friend’s family’s small inboard across 40 minutes of choppy waters than riding the diesel belching ferry. On this day, Perry and I begged the caretaker of the summer cottage to take us with him when he went to pick up Perry’s dad who was coming up from New York City for his two-week vacation.

We docked in Rockland  well before Perry’s father was due arrive so Clyde could purchase supplies at the local grocery and hardware stores. It was now late afternoon. Perry and I were restless as only twelve year olds can be when hanging around waiting for an adult. We had helped Clyde pack away the supplies and sat in the boat, bobbing up and down on the incoming tide, waiting for Perry’s father.

I must say I do not remember whether in those days a train ran to Rockland, Maine or whether Perry’s dad had driven. We spotted him at the far end of the wharf, looking bedraggled in his wrinkled, lawyer-gray suit. His tie was undone, his hair mussed, and his face lined with fatigue. Clyde went forward to greet him and carry his suitcase. Perry and I ran forward, too. Perry gave a perfunctory hug to his dad and I a well-practiced handshake. And then we began pestering Perry’s father to walk back into town with us and buy us an ice cream for the long ride back to Vinalhaven. Without answering, Perry’s dad walked toward the boat, stepped purposely down into it, and sat in what was his rightful place. The salt air and the prospect of vacation seemed to revive him. “Alright, Clyde, let’s get started.”

“Dad, Dad, can’t we get an ice cream before we go? Please! Come on, Dad!”

I was thinking it would not be such a bad idea to get an ice cream. Perry’s father could certainly let us do that. After all, the ice cream store was less than a few hundred yards away, just around the corner on Main Street. I was sure he would relent. He was always the most comfortable and easy going of fathers. This nicest of all men sat up a little straighter, looked at Perry and me, and then said in a tone that supplied the power to resonate for years, “The answer is no. Clyde, start the engine. I want to go home and see my wife.”

Perry and I were silent for most of the trip. I did not feel so much rebuffed as instructed as to what my place as a child was to be in the world of adults and in this family. I trust you as parents hear the message and read the lesson just as clearly as I did 53 years ago and still do today.

Respectfully,

C. Dary Dunham
Head of School