IN THE summer of 2015, two years after Dad died, I moved his entire eighteen-hundred-pound archive to a storage unit at the edge of town. His material had occupied a large area in my house, and I needed the space. I needed my mind back, too.
In the weeks after his death, people often asked what I’d say to him if given the chance, what I wished I’d said before he died. Nothing ever came to mind. But in the past year a single private query has risen again and again: Why didn’t you visit me? It’s hard to predict his response. He’d get angry, using wrath to deflect a subject he didn’t like. No matter what answer he might have given, I already knew the reason. It wasn’t due to pressing deadlines, economic difficulties, or because he didn’t love me. It wasn’t personal. He never called on my siblings, went on vacations, or visited his mother in the hospital. The truth was glaringly simple—he wasn’t capable. He couldn’t leave a world he’d carefully constructed, over which he controlled every facet. Such a journey would have exposed the fragility of his omnipotence.
It was left to me to visit him posthumously. I’m glad I did, although the effort took a toll on me. If I’d known the difficulty, I wouldn’t have embarked on the project, but once I began, I felt obligated to carry it through. At a certain point I realized that I was searching, but I didn’t know for what. The more I delved, the more I discovered similarities between my father and me, a result that left me dismayed.
Buried in a letter from a porn customer in Europe was surprising information. The man thanked Dad for the gift of my first book, Kentucky Straight, and complimented my father on the obvious pride he took in my accomplishments. I reread the sentences several times. It was difficult to comprehend that Dad had considered my work good enough to mail to a stranger. He’d never said anything to me about the book. Perhaps learning of my father’s pride was what I’d been seeking all along.
Examining Dad’s papers brought up hundreds of memories. Most were sad, and I tried to think of good ones. The year before Dad started working from home, he spent a Saturday afternoon with me. He transformed two empty cardboard boxes into castles, one for him and one for me. He cut drawbridges in the front and made a crenellated rampart on the top. We placed plastic soldiers in key positions to defend our kings. Shallow bowls of water served as moats. Using fingernail clippers for catapults, we launched cigarette butts at each other’s castle. The goal was to knock down enemy soldiers. Dad sat on the floor across from me, complimenting my good shots, giving me tips on how to load the catapult. His imagination made the game tremendous fun. I felt important in his company, the object of his intense focus and attention. We set up the soldiers and knocked them down again and again, laughing together.
Dad began working at home and we didn’t play the game anymore. As the house became his castle, I spent more time outside. My finest hours were roaming the woods. I liked being alone, but I was happiest with the pack of boys from our hill, sets of brothers on foot and battered bicycles. I don’t recall particular events, only the sense of friendship and loyalty, laughter and acceptance. There were no boundaries. Everyone knew us. We could go anywhere. Nothing could hurt us but the land itself. We had each other. We were free. We were happy.
Acknowledgments
For financial assistance during the writing of this book I am grateful to the Lannan Foundation and the Mississippi Arts Commission.
For other assistance, I thank Beth Ann Fennelly, Scott Temple, Allen Steele, Richard Perez, Earl Kemp, Piers Anthony, Joe and Gay Haldeman, Bob Guccione, Jr., Kathryn York, Nicole Aragi, Peter Borland, Duvall Osteen, Faron Henderson, Randy Henderson, Sonny Henderson, Jodie Offutt, Rita Offutt, Jane Offutt Burns, Jeff Offutt, Scotty Offutt Hyde, Melissa Offutt, Sam Offutt, James Offutt, and Melissa Allee Ginsburg.