Wild Hearts: A Tribute

I originally wrote this column in 2001 after the incident described in the story. It is the best tribute I could write for my father. He died today after a long illness and, though I will miss him terribly, I am so glad that he doesn't have to suffer any more. I love you, Dad, and I'll miss you. You made me a much better person than I would have been without you.

To John J. Valentine, 1917-2007

My friend Sam says he counts it a good thing to have a character for a father. If that is true I am abundantly blessed. My Dad, born with name Valentine in the heyday of silent screen romantic heroes and thus called Tino by his friends, can be cantankerous and contentious but is never boring. Now, at 82 and a widower, he lives in the Allegheny Highlands whose miles and miles of woodlands he hunted, fished and camped since boyhood.

Gloucester is not a town in which I can claim any special knowledge of the icy fear that knots your gut when a phone rings and a voice says, “they’re missing”.

For me it was a February morning - cold enough here but well below zero in Pennsylvania. “They” were my Dad and his 98 year old, nearly blind friend Clarence. Both of them grew up in the woods and have always loved it. One of their favorite past-times is driving the hundreds of miles of backcountry logging trails that thread their way through those rich timberlands.

Around three o’clock Dad bought a dozen donuts and headed for Clarence’s house. When he did not return home that evening my brother started making phone calls. By midnight the State Police, the area rescue units, friends, family and countless others with flashlights and pickup trucks were combing the Allegheny Forest.

It was a very long and fruitless night.

The helplessness that eats at you in endless hours of waiting is mind numbing. You need the comfort of familiar voices but you are afraid to tie up the telephone. Your mind becomes your enemy. An endless litany of “if onlys” plague you. If only I had stopped him, if only he had waited, if only, if only….

Minutes drag. Hours rush by. You try to steel yourself or find consolation. You think, “If he has to go let it be quick rather than his being hurt and hungry and freezing somewhere.” You try to force bravery and nobility on yourself - “it would be better for him to go in the dense beauty of the woods that he loved than in the cold sterility of a hospital ward.”

Comfort is hard to come by. But somewhere in the reckoning of all this a realization dawns. This is happening because he is who he is. His love of the beauty of his world is fierce and tenacious. He is true to the wildness in his heart.

A strange paradox perplexes us today. We long for passion, excitement and adventure. But we want it safe and definitely well insured. Movies filled with slaughter and devastation leave our senses stunned as we drive home in air-conditioned mini-vans. Amusement parks, adventure lands and flashing video games offer the illusion of thrills and chills. We are voracious for entertainment. Make it intense. Make it dazzling, bright and glitzy. But make it safe. Artificial environments and engineered entertainments allow us to buy a sense of having lived. We are besotted with cravings for fun. We call that life.

But for hearts with a taste for the depth and lushness of authentic life it is a sorry substitute. For those who savor the thrills of the soul, idle entertainment has little attraction. The wildness of the world beckons. And I cannot help but wonder if a life with depth and authenticity is possible without risk. Whether it is the risk of speaking our mind, baring our soul, following our bliss, or choosing to live life on our own terms - without regard for the safe and the sensible - is a safe life a life that honors the heart?

My story has a happy ending. I am lucky. Dad and Clarence returned home on their own - unaware of the ruckus their disappearance caused. They were driving down a steep grade when a wheel went in to a hole. Failing to dig it out they spent the night in the woods, running the heater just enough to keep from freezing, talking, wishing they hadn’t forgotten the donuts. Mid-morning two young hunters in a 4x4 came across them and pulled them out with a winch. They drove to Clarence’s house for hot baths and lots of hot coffee. They were embarrassed by the fuss.

“My God,” Dad said, “they act like I’ve never spent a night in the woods before.”

Days later, when he was rested and a little humbled by the rescue efforts, we talked. He talked about the still, quiet beauty of the frigid night. Stars as big as sparkling plums. Moonlight slipping round snow laden fir trees trailing sparkles across frosted branches. He spoke of the mysterious call of night birds. Of the fine fairy dust of snowflakes shimmering through the dark.

“I’m sorry I caused so much trouble,” he told me “There’s no way I can repay everyone. But, I have to tell you one thing; I never thought at my age I’d get to spend another winter night in the woods. It was just so beautiful.”

A heart that wild will never die.