It's quite an amazing feeling, sitting alone in a silent room, talking out loud to yourself just as you've done forever, and suddenly someone talks back. It rather throws into doubt the idea that one is actually alone. It makes me wonder how long you've been listening and if I've said anything embarrassing or picked my nose.
Did you know that you were a breech birth? Your head was still pointed north while your bum headed south. Quite a difficult delivery, from all accounts; I guess the world nearly lost your mother and your "father" at the same time. But your mum is built of sterner stuff -- she pulled through. My nurse friend (the one who sent me your picture) claims your mother reached down and yanked you out herself, but I suspect that's an exaggeration of sorts.
And that's how you got your name: your mother thought being named "Compass" might help you get your bearings and NOT approach life arse-first. That's the story Wilhelmina told the nurse, anyway. I know the real story, though. And since I promised to tell you if you asked (which you didn't, but at least you did respond, so I'll reward you for that), here it is:
When your mother was a girl, she got lost in an old, abandoned mine. She wandered around for ages, through all the tunnels, the batteries in her torch slowly going dim along with her hopes of survival. She knew the way out was roughly to the north, but she'd lost all sense of direction, so deep underground. Happily, she remembered a lesson from girl scouts. A needle rubbed on silk becomes magnetized. Find a puddle of water to float your needle in, and it becomes a compass. Your mother had a silk handkerchief in her pocket and a brooch on her coat. She broke the needle off the brooch, magnetized it, floated it, and found her way out. She swore she'd name her first-born child Compass if she lived.
This may also be an exaggeration of sorts.
Lost Letters: 3
Dear Compass,
Life is based on assumptions. This is my one-year birthday present for you, this piece of wisdom. Since I can only assume that your birthday is round this time, this minor ephiphany of mine seemed a proper birthday prezzie.
So here it is: life is almost entirely based on real -- often contradictory -- assumptions. I buy a house and furnish it to my tastes, assuming I'll be around to live in it. I buy life insurance assuming I won't. I invite my neighbors to my home, assuming they are my friends. I buy anti-theft security alarms assuming they aren't. I eat, I breathe, I sleep, I dream, assuming I'll live long enough to do all those things again. But one day I'll do all those things for the last time. I wonder if I'll know it's the last time?
I write letters to my daughter assuming she'll one day care.
So many assumptions, so few certainties in life. But I can offer you one certainty: you'll meet me someday and you'll know who I am. I know it's risking fate to say that this is certain, but I also know that some things are inevitable, inexorable.
So, daughter mine, until then,
yer ever-lovin
Pa
Life is based on assumptions. This is my one-year birthday present for you, this piece of wisdom. Since I can only assume that your birthday is round this time, this minor ephiphany of mine seemed a proper birthday prezzie.
So here it is: life is almost entirely based on real -- often contradictory -- assumptions. I buy a house and furnish it to my tastes, assuming I'll be around to live in it. I buy life insurance assuming I won't. I invite my neighbors to my home, assuming they are my friends. I buy anti-theft security alarms assuming they aren't. I eat, I breathe, I sleep, I dream, assuming I'll live long enough to do all those things again. But one day I'll do all those things for the last time. I wonder if I'll know it's the last time?
I write letters to my daughter assuming she'll one day care.
So many assumptions, so few certainties in life. But I can offer you one certainty: you'll meet me someday and you'll know who I am. I know it's risking fate to say that this is certain, but I also know that some things are inevitable, inexorable.
So, daughter mine, until then,
yer ever-lovin
Pa
Lost Letters: 2
Dear Compass,
(See, I told you I'd find out your name.)
Happy Valentine's Day. I would send you a large box of sweets, but I'm sure you'd never get it, so I'm sending you chocolate thoughts instead. You've been in the world for a whole month and a half, clever girl. How do you like it so far?
An obliging and shockingly underpaid nurse smuggled a picture to me. You looked pinched and red and richly cheesed off, but I'm sure in time you'll be beautiful. How could you not? You've been given a genetic headstart. Just don't rely on it to get you through life. Sometimes the most beautiful things end up with bugs, if they're not careful.
I'll bet you have no idea why you were given such an unusual name: Compass Rose. I know the story. I was there. I'll tell you sometime, but you'll have to ask. That's how I plan to assure myself of future conversation, by dangling carrots of information just in front of your wee button nose. I'm patient; I'll wait until you have some language. And an attention span.
Hugs to you then, little daughter. Do something horrible in a nappy, and I'll give you twenty quid.
yer ever-lovin'
Pa
(See, I told you I'd find out your name.)
Happy Valentine's Day. I would send you a large box of sweets, but I'm sure you'd never get it, so I'm sending you chocolate thoughts instead. You've been in the world for a whole month and a half, clever girl. How do you like it so far?
An obliging and shockingly underpaid nurse smuggled a picture to me. You looked pinched and red and richly cheesed off, but I'm sure in time you'll be beautiful. How could you not? You've been given a genetic headstart. Just don't rely on it to get you through life. Sometimes the most beautiful things end up with bugs, if they're not careful.
I'll bet you have no idea why you were given such an unusual name: Compass Rose. I know the story. I was there. I'll tell you sometime, but you'll have to ask. That's how I plan to assure myself of future conversation, by dangling carrots of information just in front of your wee button nose. I'm patient; I'll wait until you have some language. And an attention span.
Hugs to you then, little daughter. Do something horrible in a nappy, and I'll give you twenty quid.
yer ever-lovin'
Pa
Lost Letters: 1
Dear Child,
Welcome to the world! Sorry if this letter is late or premature -- or if you were, since preemies run through my pieces of your genetic jigsaw puzzle.
Willem, your incubator, is hiding from me and won't talk to me, so the exact date of your birth was/is/will be a bit of a mystery. Fortunately, money is the world's greatest detective. Money can find you under rocks, it can locate you in the dank hole of a cave, zero in on you in a crowd. And I have money. She can bury you in small town Central Illinois (or so rumor has it), but money can dig you up. It may be slow -- you may be as much as a month old, your eyes open for 30 days and closed for 30 nights before I know for sure you've arrived, but before your 31st morning breaks, I'll know your name.
This morning I posted your mother a dragonfly to celebrate your birth. There's nothing special about it -- nothing valuable -- but it's wee and fragile like you, and it'll freak your mother out.
I'll write again soon. Breathe deeply, if you're out here with us. But if you're still in there, I'll give you 20 quid to kick her in the spleen.
Love from your
Dad
Welcome to the world! Sorry if this letter is late or premature -- or if you were, since preemies run through my pieces of your genetic jigsaw puzzle.
Willem, your incubator, is hiding from me and won't talk to me, so the exact date of your birth was/is/will be a bit of a mystery. Fortunately, money is the world's greatest detective. Money can find you under rocks, it can locate you in the dank hole of a cave, zero in on you in a crowd. And I have money. She can bury you in small town Central Illinois (or so rumor has it), but money can dig you up. It may be slow -- you may be as much as a month old, your eyes open for 30 days and closed for 30 nights before I know for sure you've arrived, but before your 31st morning breaks, I'll know your name.
This morning I posted your mother a dragonfly to celebrate your birth. There's nothing special about it -- nothing valuable -- but it's wee and fragile like you, and it'll freak your mother out.
I'll write again soon. Breathe deeply, if you're out here with us. But if you're still in there, I'll give you 20 quid to kick her in the spleen.
Love from your
Dad
Lost Letters: Introduction
Dear Compass,
Before I left England for here (and where 'here' is is for me to know and your mother to fret over), I had a quick rummage round and found a box of letters I'd written to you but never mailed. They date back to around the time of your birth and run up nearly to the present. With some sizeable gaps, I'll admit. I would claim the gaps are the result of despair over ever finding you again, but more accurately I got lazy. It's difficult to keep writing without hope of response -- rather like talking to God, I suppose. I keep sending my pleas and prayers out into the ether, and they keep being ignored or at least unanswered. So I offer you this virgin sacrifice: the unread letters, father to daughter, of the past 39 years.
Before I left England for here (and where 'here' is is for me to know and your mother to fret over), I had a quick rummage round and found a box of letters I'd written to you but never mailed. They date back to around the time of your birth and run up nearly to the present. With some sizeable gaps, I'll admit. I would claim the gaps are the result of despair over ever finding you again, but more accurately I got lazy. It's difficult to keep writing without hope of response -- rather like talking to God, I suppose. I keep sending my pleas and prayers out into the ether, and they keep being ignored or at least unanswered. So I offer you this virgin sacrifice: the unread letters, father to daughter, of the past 39 years.
Open Letter to a Long Lost Daughter
Dear Compass Jones,
Where are you?
If you’re reading this, then you likely know – or think you know – the whole story. No doubt Ethan and your mother have been filling your ears and head with their versions of the ‘truth.’ But I can assure you that at least half of what you’ve been told is, at best, of dubious accuracy. Consider the source, after all. How many lies has Mom told you? I realize that you have no more reason to believe me than her, but think on this: as yet, I haven’t told you a single lie. So please, daughter, reply to this and let’s begin a long overdue conversation.
Your doting
Dad
My Side of the Story
Every story has two sides, and I'd like to tell you mine if you'd like to hear it. You should know the whole story. Leave me a comment. Anonymous if you like. But I'd love to contact you.
Cheers,
Dad
Cheers,
Dad
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