by Tim O'Brien
* * *
On Friday, June 20, 2031, please read Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.” I hope you will read this poem aloud, for you will hear the music of grief. As you wrap your tongues around the vowels of the poem, and as consonants ricochet off your teeth, take care to enunciate each syllable. Speak clearly and without inflection. Do not inject emotion into the poetry. Let the poetry inject emotion into you. Just as my father disappeared forever in 2004, so have I now disappeared, and it may help a little to utter aloud the last searing stanza from Bishop’s villanelle:
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
In some ways, this assignment resembles our many home school sessions back when you were young, but my purpose in this case is different. I do not aim to educate. I aim only to offer you the companionship of others who have endured what you are enduring.
* * *
In the years between 2033 and 2036, you will be in your early thirties, grown men whose lives are full of all the strains and stresses of a thing called work. (Right now, I realize, the word is unfamiliar to you.) Whatever you end up doing, whether it’s mind work or muscle work, I hope you will pursue it with the same grace, good humor, and patient focus that you once brought to the unicycle and to the hula hoop. As much as possible, make work play. If work stops being play, take a break or find new work.
Making this book for you has certainly been work, and I admit that at times it has been dispiriting, so much so that on several occasions I abandoned the effort entirely. The fun had vanished. But then . . . who knows why? . . . then the fun returned. For you, Timmy and Tad, I hope you stay in touch with those playful, adventurous qualities you brought to the basketball hoop and to the zipline in our backyard. Make your lives fun. Keep taking risks. Never abandon your openness to all that is new and untried and unexpected and mysterious. Hold tight to your who-gives-a-damn courtship of failure, your exuberance of spirit, your eagerness to climb trees in Switzerland and jump off docks in Connecticut.
Do not worry about accomplishment. Accomplishment will follow where playfulness takes you. Besides, you’ve already accomplished so much. You’ve delivered joy to a man who once believed there would be no more.
* * *
I have bequeathed to you, Timmy and Tad, a garageful of magic equipment, almost all of which came into your possession without instructions. If you decide to try your hand at mastering this stuff, I wish you lots of fun. Still, the odds are pretty good that one day you will stand awkwardly in the garage, not saying much, quietly surveying these glittery illusions with a blend of sadness and anxiety. One of you may finally murmur, “What do we do with all this stuff?” and the other will say, “Got me.” Embedded in the next moment or two will be an important lesson. Do not feel guilt—or at least laugh at your guilt—when you rent that U-Haul trailer and take a long drive out to the city dump. You’ve already been plenty magical for your father.
* * *
In a world that seems riddled by an impulse for acquisition, I hope you will devote a portion of your lives to the opposite: giving without getting. As a little boy, Timmy, you once packed a grocery bag with gifts for a homeless man on 15th Street. And Tad: you were once asked what your perfect day would be, to which you replied: “Just make everybody feel good, especially bunnies.”
And so, perhaps in the year 2038, please take the time to remember that these generous moments were among the happiest and most indelible of your dad’s life. Then do something similar. Give without getting. Make me shine.
* * *
Right now, at 5:22 a.m. on July 23, 2018, we are in Paris. Your mom and I are having our first sips of morning coffee while you boys sleep off the exertions of yesterday’s visit to the tomb of Napoleon, where you learned much more than you wanted to learn about the battle of Waterloo and the French army’s retreat from the outskirts of Moscow. Altogether, both of you were remarkably patient, though you were also bewildered by your dad’s fascination with a man who had been dead for a very long time. At one point, Timmy, you muttered something about the T-shirt I was wearing, which in large lettering bore the slogan “Make coffee, not war.” I tried to explain—unconvincingly, I’m afraid—that it’s possible to be transfixed by something you despise.
“Well,” you said, “Napoleon sure didn’t mind killing people. So why are we acting like we’re in Sunday school?”
I nodded. The place had a hushed, solemn, and distinctly reverential atmosphere. Granted, we were in a royal chapel, but it was a chapel wholly dedicated to the enshrinement of fallen people-killers. Not only was Napoleon entombed here, but so too were numerous other heroes of France, all military men, mostly career officers, none of whose lives suggested the least aversion to slaughtering human beings in the name of who knows what.
“It makes me a little sick,” you whispered to me, Timmy. “Why don’t they build a place like this for somebody nice?”
“Good idea,” I said. “Like Hugh Thompson.”
“Who?” you said.
The answer to this question is among my lesson plans for the coming years. In the year 2031, I want you to read about Hugh Thompson. Visit his grave in Lafayette, Louisiana, where you will find a modest plaque in the earth, and then ask yourself: Who is the greater man, Napoleon Bonaparte or Hugh C. Thompson Jr.?
* * *
I will miss you, my dear sons. I already miss you. And at some indefinite point in the indefinite future, I will no longer be capable of knowing how terribly much I am missing you. With this in mind, I ask that we sometimes revisit one another in the only meeting places that will be left to us, which will be in dream, in memory, and in the pages of a book such as this one. Most powerful, of course, are memory and dream, and these will take care of themselves. I am worried, though, about our rendezvous in books. As your father, I cannot and should not burden you with long reading lists for the years ahead; already I’ve gone too far in that regard. My invitation to meet inside books must be tempered by your individual tastes and enthusiasms, and the best I can promise is that, should you decide to visit, I will be waiting for you in the nooks and crannies of “One Art” and amid the mustard gas and illumination flares of “Dulce et Decorum Est.” If you open Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, and if you persevere to the end, you will witness firsthand the terror I have felt at the possibility of failing as your father. Likewise, while I certainly do not insist, I would be delighted if you were to spend a quiet hour or two with Ezra Pound’s “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.” (You will need a good dictionary and a pile of reference books.) Pay special attention to a few of my favorite lines:
These fought, in any case,
and some believing, pro domo, in any case . . .
Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later . . .
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some, pro patria, non “dulce” non “et decor” . . .
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.
Though Pound is writing here about the Great War, the shout of futile fury in these lines could as well have come from the lungs of your father.
It is hopeless, I’m afraid.
We will never run short of things to kill for. We will never run short of lies. We will never run short of dead-sure, beyond-a-doubt liars in public places. We will never run short of fair cheeks and fine bodies, gallant believers learning later, and we will never run short of gentle-
hearted Timmys and Tads who—fearing censure, fearing ridicule—join the parade of those who kill and die and cannot quite remember why. Was it falling dominoes?
It is hopeless. But pretend it is not.
* * *
And then there is the matter of my own books. I don’t know what to say to you about that. Neither you, Timmy, nor you, Tad, have so far expressed even passing curiosity about what is inside those books, which surprises me, but please know that I will not be hurt or angry if you choose never to read a word. (I will be puzzled.) In any case, I hope you’ve come to know how much I love stories, especially those that contain a miracle or two. And I wish I had time to write one more maybe book about a father and two sons who will always be together, no matter what. Improbable, for sure. But a very cool story, don’t you think?
59
Tad’s Literary Advice
Today I told Tad that my maybe book may soon be finished.
He was silent for a while.
“Well,” he said, “just put it in the homework bin and wish for an okay grade. That’s what I do. But make sure your teacher is in a super-good mood.”
60
One Last Lesson Plan
Dear Timmy and Tad,
On October 1, 2046, your dad’s one hundredth birthday, I hope you will take time to play a round of golf, just the two of you. If you dislike golf, please do it anyway. Walk. Don’t ride. Tad will get a kick out of telling golf jokes; Timmy will enjoy the autumn sunlight and the nineteenth hole. On that day in 2046, you will both be in your middle age, graying at the temples, doing God knows what with your lives, but I am confident you will have become the good men that your youth now promises. Tad—I hope you still have that devilish grin, that zany spin on the world, and I hope you’re still cuddling bunnies at age forty-one, if only in your imagination. Timmy—stay stubborn, stay earnest, and keep crying for your fellow man.
Between shots, reminisce a little. Chuckle about how your dad keeps meddling in your lives even after he’s gone.
Pretend I’m chuckling too.
Remember what you can.
Though it’s hard to imagine, you may both be fathers in the year 2046, and, if so, you will certainly feel for your children what I now feel for you, which is a mixture of bedazzled love and the sadness of knowing that fathers cannot always join their sons for a round of birthday golf. I smile, though, at the picture of you lecturing your own kids about getting to bed on time or cleaning up their messes; I smile, too, when I imagine you immersed in the hurly-burly of paying bills, shopping for groceries, mowing lawns, vacuuming carpets, overseeing homework, and making sure the steaks don’t burn. No wonder Peter Pan refused to grow up. In 2046, at the onset of your middle age, you will find yourselves worrying less about yourselves and more about those you love, your children in particular, and I am sure both of you will be doing your best in that regard, as I did, even if your best may only rarely be good enough.
Since October 1, 2046, will fall on a Monday, you may need to request a day off from work. Do so well in advance. (As kids, you had big problems with procrastination.) The good news is that on a Monday you will have the golf course pretty much to yourselves, no pressure to play quickly, and I hope you take pleasure in the October air and the feel of the earth beneath your feet and maybe one or two satisfying shots. On the twelfth hole, before you tee off, I ask that you recall a few lines from John Betjeman’s “Seaside Golf”:
How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear’d the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker’s back—
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.
Although your drives may be less than glorious, I hope you grin at each other as you make your way down the fairway toward those unplayable lies in the woods.
I hope you’re glad to be alive.
I hope you know your dad is happy that you are together today.
Although most of your youth will have been forgotten, and although your few memories of me will be jerky and inanimate, I’m also hopeful that this round of October golf will remind you of something powerful and irreducible, something independent of memory, like the smell of love, like the feel of an old man reading a book at midnight in a silent room.
On the thirteenth green, before putting, remember that dropping a small white ball into a hole is not the point of putting, no more than the point of writing stories is to earn a million dollars. The point is to strike an honest putt. And as you later address the ball on the fourteenth tee, remember that the point is not perfection, not outcome, but rather a relaxed awareness of your ball’s brief passage, and your own brief passage, through time and space. In fact, now that I think about it, the point of golf is not golf at all, no more than the point of life is life. We are not bacteria. If the purpose of life were life, the human race may as well devolve into ragweed and be done with it. And so my lesson plan for October 1, 2046, has little to do with clubs and balls. It has much to do with reflection, quietude, and just being brothers on an autumn day. Therefore, as you approach the dangerous water hazard surrounding the fourteenth green, try to remember that no matter how bad your next shots may be, only the ball will drown.
Have fun. Chat about your kids. Commiserate. You’ll have plenty of material.
For both of you in your middle age, it’s likely that certain regrets will have accumulated, and I hope you won’t be afraid to talk about those regrets while you’re heading up the next fairway or two. In my own case, if I could be with you in 2046, I would surely express some heartache and contrition involving my father, Bill O’Brien, wishing I had known him better, wishing I had asked more questions, wishing we had played a last round of golf before his death, wishing I had slung my arms around him and pressed my face against his and squeezed a son’s immense love into his muscles and bones.
After the golf, have a beer together.
Look at a few photographs.
Forgive what needs forgiving, laugh at what needs laughing, and then go home.
I loved you,
Dad
Acknowledgments
A shout of thanks to those who have contributed, knowingly or otherwise, to the making of this maybe book, among them Alex Vernon, David Krause, Bruce Nichols, Larry Cooper, Les Ramirez, Erik Hansen, Aaron Matthews, Ross Feeler, Robert (Buddy) Wolf, Bill Shapiro, Ivy Givens, Wyatt Prunty, Edward Miller, David Schmidt, Lucas Frank, Lynn Novick, Ken Burns, and the bewitching cast of our living room magic shows. To Tad and Timmy O’Brien: thank you for lending me your lives, which I now return to you. And to Meredith O’Brien: you insisted on children, you led with kindness and intelligence, you delivered peace and joy.
Notes on Sources
Chapter 11, “Home School”
In this chapter—and later, throughout these pages—I refer to 3 million Vietnamese dying as a consequence of the American war in Vietnam. The death toll is approximate and represents a compromise among several estimates. The Vietnamese government, in a 2008 publication, states that about 3.3 million Vietnamese died in total: 1.1 million in the North Vietnamese Army and the National Liberation Front, 250,000 dead and missing in the Army of South Vietnam, and 2 million civilian dead. The New York Times estimates that a total of “more than” 2.5 million Vietnamese died. The BMJ (British Medical Journal) cites a 2002–2003 World Health Organization survey in its estimate that 3.8 million Vietnamese suffered “violent war deaths” from 1955 to 2002; a 1991 study ordered by World Bank president Robert S. McNamara estimates that 2.36 million Vietnamese civilians and military personnel died from 1960 to 1975. It is unclear if these estimates include casualties incurred during the war’s spillover into Laos and Cambodia. In some cases, it is unclear if the estimates include the Vietnamese military struggle against the French prior to the direct involvement by American troops. The most common estimate appears to be a total of 3 million, which is the number cited in the Florentine Films
documentary The Vietnam War, first aired in 2017 on PBS. My thanks to Dartmouth University history professor Edward G. Miller and to Florentine Films researcher David Schmidt, both of whom provided generous assistance with this murky and disputed statistical issue. As Professor Miller pointed out in a January 6, 2017, email: “The numbers are all over the place. The three million figure is probably the most commonly cited, but that doesn’t mean it’s the most likely to be true.” Similarly, David Schmidt stated in an email of the same date, “The only precisely accurate statistic for war dead is the American total, because each name has been individually counted.” Finally, the Vietnamese government reports that 300,000 North Vietnamese and NLF soldiers are categorized as missing in action. Since more than forty years have passed since the war’s conclusion, those 300,000 missing should probably be included in any realistic death toll. Among the sources I relied on were Philip Shenon, New York Times, April 23, 1995; Joseph R. Gregory, New York Times, October 4, 2013; Mike Ives, New York Times, December 24, 2015; “History of the Anti-American Resistance to Save the Nation,” vol. 8, National Politics Publishing House, a 2008 Vietnamese government publication; Charles Hirschman, Samuel Preston, and Vu Manh Loi, “Vietnamese Casualties During the American War: A New Estimate,” Population and Development Review 21, no. 4, December 1995; Robert S. McNamara, “The Post–Cold War World: Implications for Military Expenditure in Developing Countries,” Proceedings of the World Bank Annual Conference on Development Economics (International Bank for Reconstruction and Development, 1991), pp. 95–122; “Fifty Years of Violent War Deaths . . . ,” BMJ (British Medical Journal), June 26, 2008, https://www.bmj.com/content/336/7659/1482.
