Feb. 12, 1958

Graduation is supposed to be a pretty happy time.

But for the father of one graduate in this town, matters aren’t too cheerful at the moment.

The man is of above-average income, and he and his wife have done their
level best to bring their boy up to the point where he’d be able to
face the world on his own with a little intelligence and responsibility.

But somewhere along the line, the father admitted to me yesterday, they
had failed. And when their son walked down the aisle of his high school
auditorium last week, the tears in his mother’s eyes weren’t tears of
pride.

They were of fear.

What actually happened in the last few years, neither of the parents
is exactly sure. All they know is that their boy has gone wrong and
that it’s reached a point today where verbal communication between
parents and child have ceased.

The man came to me yesterday to show me another attempt at a solution.
It was a letter–a letter which he planned to leave on the pillow of
his son’s bed last night on the off-chance that the boy would come to
home to sleep.

It read:

"Dear Son:

"It’s probably foolish of me to write you this note, but it’s the only way I can talk to you.

"Why did you lie to me this morning about that car? Has it reached the point where you can’t tell the truth?

"Son, this is very hard for me to say, but it looks as though you’re
going to begin your life as a man in prison. I’ve tried to warn you,
even paid your traffic fines to keep you out of jail, but it looks as
though it’s all been wasted time.

"Maybe you think we don’t love you. If that was true, why would we go through all this hell?

"You’re gradually pushing us right out of your life and we don’t know why.

"Is it because we haven’t told the police about the things you’ve
stolen from us? Is it because we haven’t told them about that ’57
Mercury you’re driving? Or the other cars?

"Sometimes I think you want to be caught, you want us to turn you in.

"And sometimes, I wish I had the courage to do it.

"Son, you still have a chance to do something about it, I think. I want
very much to talk it over with you. But only on one condition.

"You must be fair and honest with me.

"If you are, I’ll do everything in my power to help you make a man of yourself.

"Although sometimes we can’t understand you, we do love you.

"There’s nothing more I can do or say. The rest is up to you.

"All we ask is that you return just a little of our love and that you be happy 24 hours a day.

"We’re offering you this love out in the open, but if you keep up your
present pace, you’ll only be able to enjoy it during visiting hours.

"Think it over, son. You’re the man now. It’s your move."

The note was signed, "Love, Dad."

It’s a note, I’m afraid, not too dissimilar from the kind which many parents feel the need to write at one time or another.

But which few do.