When I was twelve years old, my father began taking me to work with him during my school vacations. He was an orthopedic shoemaker, having apprenticed in Italy and continued with his trade after arriving in Canada.
After a number of years working at Sunnybrook Hospital as well as with some independent employers, he started his own business, producing custom-made shoes and doing repairs as well. It was at my father’s second place of business that I learned some practical transferable skills such as replacing heels and soles, sewing, shoe shining and serving customers.
During one of those summers, a reporter from a local newspaper came in to request an interview for a series about local retailers. So my father was interviewed while I tended to the front counter, not really knowing what was being said, and truthfully, not caring much either.
Sometime later when the article was published—and it wasn’t much longer than a few paragraphs—I remember being fascinated with the revelations in it about my father, aspects of his life that I had known nothing about. For example, he had been a prisoner of war in World War II. Of course, I began to ask him all kinds of questions related to this experience, and was mesmerized by his stories of prison life and how lucky he, unlike many of his friends, had been to survive.
This is my first recollection of realizing how fascinating it was to hear “life stories” about the people we love, and what we can learn not only from those stories, but also from the individuals telling the stories. And so, I began listening more closely to the tales that both my mother and father were recounting. It occurred to me even back then: wouldn’t it be great if these stories were recorded, if for no other reason than to have a deeper understanding of the people we love.
Many years have passed since that time and I now have two beautiful children of my own, a boy of 14 and a girl, 12. I realized a few years ago that I wanted them to understand how I felt about a number of issues, and that since I might not always be in a position to have these conversations with them I should record my thoughts in some way. My stories are nothing compared to what my parents shared with me. Unlike my mother and father and many other immigrants, I did not have to leave my family behind and cross an ocean, leave a culture, a language, a way of being and the comfort that comes from living in your own land. Yet I still have memories to share.
I was also inspired by the book The Bridges of Madison County and by the movie of the same name with actors Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep. Two children return to their family home after their mother passed away to find she had kept a journal, through which they discover that she had hidden secrets and unrealized passions. In reading the journal, the children come to a much different understanding of this individual who was their mother and who they did not know as well as they thought they did.
I’m not very good at keeping a journal. However, I find that on occasion there is an event, a family get-together, a life lesson, or some hardship overcome that causes me to reflect, and to want to share something with my son and daughter. So I began to write “Letters to My Children,” thinking that at some point, during the winter of my life perhaps, and quite possibly after I was gone, they would read all my accumulated writing.
I wrote my first in October 2001. These letters are not that long, a page, sometimes a page and a half, and I have not written many so far. But I know that I will be writing a lot more.
I don’t have a set time, pattern, agenda or number of subjects. Nothing is set. I simply write on anything that is of interest to me and that I think might provide a perspective for my children to consider. I wrote about a church sermon that we listened to while vacationing in Florida that I thought was outstanding and thought-provoking. I wrote on my children “graduating” from the day care they attended. I wrote on the impact of 9/11 and what it means to the world from my perspective. And I wrote about the talks we have as a family while jarring tomatoes or making sausages.
I don’t feel any particular need to write once a week, once a month or once a year. I just write when an event or subject interests me. I go with the flow.
My kids are involved in many activities, and I often find myself driving them here or there. We are in the car together for periods of time and you’d think there would be time to really talk, but we are always rushing around and I guess I don’t want to start a conversation I can’t finish.
Sometimes an opening unexpectedly presents itself. Last year, I took my son to have his yearly physical. He was done sooner than we had expected, and realizing that he was in no hurry to get back to school, I suggested that we grab a hot chocolate and a bagel at the coffee shop down the street. We sat by the window, the sun pouring in, and began talking about my father, who passed away last year, and how we both missed him. My son and I then went on to speak about his aspirations for grade eight, the girls he liked, the teachers he didn’t like, his goals in tennis. We talked for about an hour with no agenda. When we left, his parting comment to me was, “You know me better than I thought you did, Dad.” That spontaneous conversation was worth far more than the price of a hot chocolate and bagel.
When I first began writing these letters, I always assumed that I would leave them for my son and daughter to read after I was gone. Someone recently surprised me by asking why I would choose to wait; perhaps it would be a better idea to give the letters to them while I am still around. This question intrigues me. Would these letters have a different meaning for my children now than when they are older? Should they have the opportunity to read them now … as well as later?
I haven’t decided what path to take, but I do know that I will continue to write, even as I continue to look for those too-rare, hot-chocolate-and-bagel opportunities.
Writing, I believe, is a way of reflecting on life and having a conversation with your self, as well as with the reader. There will never be enough time for me to talk to my children about all the things that matter to me and that I feel they should know or think about. So I write these personal letters with the hope that by reading them they’ll come to a better understanding of the thoughts and values that reflect my thinking and behaviour—an understanding of me, their father. I write also hoping that my letters will prompt the kind of reflection that will help my children to better know themselves.
By the time they read these letters, if they already understand some of what I plan to share, perhaps I’ve been more successful as a parent than I imagine. I certainly hope so.
About Frank Soriano: I have been happily married for 18 years and am the father of two children. Currently I am employed as a Manager, Learning and Performance, for the Workplace Safety and Insurance Board of Ontario. When not working, I spend time with my wife and children at home, or at our family cottage, a special place on the shores of Georgian Bay.