Articles

	Letter to My Son Published in Buffalo Magazine You could call it Friedman's Comet. Just as my dad needed to express his love to me when I went off to college, here I am attempting to write down some of my feelings toward my son, as I try to get used to your quiet room, your missing wit at the dinner table, your muted drums in the basement. The orbit took 33 years. Actually, the letter I read in my bottom bunk 33 years ago was the only one Grandpa ever wrote me. I say that as a tribute, not a complaint. Just think how urgently Grandpa must have been wanting to reach out to me for him to do something so unnatural as to write a letter. That would be like me showing affection by tuning up your car. (Let's see, do I need any tools besides WD-40? Where's the hood release?) I wish I had saved Grandpa's letter. Half of it was apologies that he couldn't think of anything to write about. The letter was short, awkward, and precious. I remember Grandma's first letter to me, too. I should say I remember the first two words: "Dearest Norm." I felt as if I were a soldier in some far-off foxhole, poring over a letter from his young bride. In those days Grandma wasn't as demonstrative as she is now, so that "Dearest" meant a lot. Grandma reverted to "Dear" in every letter after that, as we all quickly became accustomed to being apart. But both my parents had found a way to reciprocate that surge of longing I felt those first few days at college. If I said I hope you're not experiencing even a drop of homesickness, that would be a lie. I'd have to wonder about our relationship if you forgot us this fast. But I also hope that any void you're feeling is bound up in an exciting swirl of emotions propelling you into the promise of these next four years. So how do I help you realize the immense potential in this first chapter of your life away from us? I suppose I could send you a highlight tape of my best sermonettes: Pick an objective to pursue with intensity. Use people's names when you greet them. Try life without MTV and ESPN. Of course, lately the advice has been decidedly practical: Don't study anywhere you can't concentrate. Remember to record every ATM withdrawal. Get enough sleep. Eat breakfast. And that old chestnut for all college freshmen — never wash your darks with your lights. But this message should be profound...memorable. After all, I have the advantage over my parents of the freshman experience. Besides, this is Friedman's Comet. Just once every 33 years does the flashing power of a father's love appear in the night sky, signaling celebration and concern for a son away at college. So I'll package my advice, as I often do, in a story about myself. When I went off to school, I'm not sure I had the wisdom to see it, but an apex of my life up to that point was the homerun I hit during the last week of Little League. I'm not saying that was profoundly important, because family, friends, values, and other aspects of my life clearly transcended one moment on a playing field. Yet for sheer achievement, nothing in my youth topped the thrill of that ball sailing over the centerfielder's head and onto the grass beyond the fence. As I circled the bases, I savored the culmination of three years of dreaming and giving my all to a goal. Unfortunately, although opportunity abounded all around me in college, no accomplishment paralleled that jubilant moment when I was 12 years old. That's why I'm rooting so hard for you right now — not necessarily with the expectation that you'll clobber the ball over the fence, but just in the hope that you'll throw yourself into the game with abandon. When I yearn to witness that exuberance for life that you're usually so careful to conceal at age 18, I remember you at 18 months. I used to scoop you up, plop you on my shoulders, and gallop up the knoll behind our townhouse. I held your legs while your soft hair danced, your arms flapped wildly, and you squealed with pleasure. Mom would laugh every time — responding to the disappearing sight of your bouncing, out-of-control body and the joyous fullness of our young family. As I scaled the crest, I couldn't see your beaming face above me, but I could feel your glee, your trust, and your love. Now I am hoisting you up once again. As before, I can't watch while you take in the world from this elevated vantage point, but I am excited about your suddenly enhanced perspective. I hope you'll take a good look at the horizon, Dan. It should be full of phenomenal possibilities. Somewhere in that view, you might even spot a comet.

  
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