FEBRUARY 18, 2025 – (Cont.) If Dad had shared any of Mother’s misgivings about my decision to gallivant around the world until the money ran out, he hadn’t let on. I think his acquiescence in my plans stemmed from a combination of his knowing I was determined to follow through on my ambitions and his secret regret that he’d not experienced a similar adventure in his youth (his acute hay fever had kept him out of the war). At any rate, he’d wished me well at the airport in Minneapolis.
His letter, I remember, dated exactly 44 years ago, had come as a surprise, given its arrival so soon after I’d left home. My surprise was soon dispelled, however, when I saw the reason for it: an enclosed letter from Sweden, which had arrived shortly after my departure from Minnesota. Dad was simply forwarding that letter—and responding to its contents.
For all his intellectual and artistic depth and refinement, Dad was also practical—always so. He could be impatient, too. He didn’t suffer fools kindly and had a penchant for pointing out the foolish behaviors of strangers. These less dignified traits were reflected in the letter that had doubled as a practical communication.
Dad also held to rigid political beliefs and had little understanding or tolerance of liberal ideas. Communism, of course, was to him a scourge of modern civilization. He possessed a visceral hatred of the Soviet Union and Red China and was a veritable hawk during the Viet Nam War. Although he never came out in favor of Curtis LeMay, the army air corps commander who devised the fire-bombing of Japanese cities during WW II and advocated use of nuclear weapons against North Viet Nam, I think Dad silently admired LeMay’s square jaw and tough talk. I was hardly surprised by Dad’s full-throated support of the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.
I remember arguing with him to the mat over our invasion of Iraq. He would not, could not hear any of my reasons for concluding that the invasion wasn’t justified and that it would bring disastrous consequences. “There’s no established connection between Saddam Hussein and the 9-11 attacks,” I said. “Moreover, the Administration has failed to prove that Hussein is sitting on an arsenal of WMD.”
Dad could only shout back that I was “just plain wrong.” I persisted, which triggered apoplectic anger on his part. He lit the fuse to what remained of his pitiful evidence and attenuated reasoning. “We had to do SOMETHING!” he said with a roar. His face was so red with anger, I thought he’d suffer a simultaneous mortal stroke and heart attack.
I was at once sorry I’d made Dad so angry and upset with myself for having waded into politics in what to that point had been a mundane conversation. I said nothing further. Politics was the one area where Dad’s dogmatic views caused his emotions to jump the rails. Once they did, there was no point to shoveling more coal into the steam engine firebox. In retrospect, his political stridency and frustrations with the way the world worked anticipated today’s divisiveness born of complexity and concomitant appeal of simplistic solutions. “We had to do SOMETHING!” was an admission that he had no evidence, no argument, no ground to stand on and not patience to study the issues in the cool light of day. This puzzled me, since few people had the attention span he possessed for reading history, studying problems, and solving quandaries. I shudder to think that if he were alive today, his habitual criticism of “big government” would translate to acceptance of President Musk, under the same rubric of frustration where Dad had parked his support of the invasion of Iraq.
Though occasionally I ponder Dad’s dogmatic politics, recollection of our debates didn’t cloud the memories that I visited during last week’s ride in the time machine. And just as when Dad was alive I could soon override my anger and disappointment with his politics, so now I can remember all that I cherished about Dad—and always will.
* * *
I began reading his letter dated February 19, 1981 . . .
Dear Eric,
The enclosed letter arrived today, so I opened it and read it. Too bad Monica will be here when you are away, but thought you’d like to write her.
I’d be happy to have her visit us if she wants to (she may not, since you won’t be home). [. . .] If it’s OK with you (and Mother), I would write her to invite her to spend a few days with us. We’d try to make her visit interesting.
[. . .]
* * *
The time machine datometer whirled back to June, 1979. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
