Why I'm writing Notes to My Kids
It started when Sierra was in NICU. She was four and a half pounds at birth, frighteningly small and fragile. Her physical stature jolted me into parenthood. Seeing her lying in a plastic bed surrounded by tubes, wires, and machinery stirred up my deepest worries and innate caretaker.
I was reminded me that now is the only time that I can care for her. At some point, I'll be gone, along with everything I've learned.
I've had many chapters in my life, reinventing myself along the way. The common thread is an attempt to live a good life — or at least a better life than before. To become a better me.
This project, Notes to My Kids, is a collection of stories, lessons, and opinions about how to live a good life. I don't pretend to know the cosmic truths, or the singular path to a good life. But I know what has worked, and not worked, for me.
My mom's father, Wally Cluff, was a gruff man. Serious, didn't smile much, but occasionally showed a sweet side. He cared for his family. He was deeply self-conscious about not having gone to college. He pushed his son, Ron, to go to college but Ron never graduated. For all of Ron's challenges in his life, Wally blamed not going to college. In the end, Ron was more like Wally than he wanted.
In a rare moment of vulnerability, Wally shared with me that he fought in World War II as a young man. World War II was folklore to me, a story written in books but not experienced by anyone I knew. But Wally, not even old enough to drink, was a scout on the frontlines in Germany. The scout's job was to walk ahead of his platoon to see if the enemy was nearby. On one of his scouting trips, Wally's scouting partner was shot dead right next to him. His eyes teared up as he told me, and never spoke of it again.
My mom's mom, Della Cluff, lived with the knowledge of a difficult past. Her husband Wally was a bitter alcoholic, likely stemming from PTSD. She could be bitingly mean to cover up her fragility. She like to laugh and play card games, an important pastime in the Minnesota winter.
I visited her and Wally shortly before returning to college in 2006. I brought a video camera to document the trip — unfortunately I have no idea where that footage is now. One time I pointed the camera at her, pressed record, and asked:
"Do you have any regrets, Grandma?"
Her eyes welled up and she asked me to turn off the camera.
My grandfather, Liston Ames Witherill II, was my dad's dad. He grew up rich: his mom inherited a fortune from her father, earned in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He attended boarding school as a boy. That's what rich parents did because kids are bothersome. He attended Cal, and Harvard, and perhaps one or two other schools. There must be a story about why, but I don't know it.
He met a young woman named Carol, who was below his social class. She dressed loudly, and grew up with a mother nicknamed "The General" to describe her affect. Her mother would tie Carol and her siblings to a tree like dogs when she left the house.
Liston's mother's money, and the lifestyle it provided, was an important bond between them.
But Liston decided to dedicate himself to public service. He was a hospital administrator, at one point overseeing the Los Angeles hospital system's $500M budget — a figure in the billions in today's dollars. I don't know why he did this, but I wonder.
Time is fleeting. Between now and someday soon, we'll be out of time. There are stories and hard-won lessons to share, but the only time to do it is now.
If anyone in the world can benefit from what I know, it's my kids. What follows is a collection of stories, organized around important topics. Think of it as part instruction manual, part memoir, and part meditation.
And for my sake, I write this so you can remember me, in my own words, dedicated to you.
If you remember nothing else about me, remember this: I love you.