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"A Visit From The Old Man" -
Randy Burns
June 16, 2002

I simply wasn't the son he'd expected. At an early age I understood that.

Your son would be an extension of yourself and that was all there was to it. Needless to say, he was greatly disappointed. I wasn't the son he wanted. Back then, it was easy for a father to expect at least a semi-self reflection in the behavior of his son. It was a different world in those days, and that was a normal thing to expect. Hell, when I was a child, a young man, and throughout my adult life, when he was in one room of the house I was in another. Things were better in the other room, for both of us.

Turning sixteen, my parents asked me if I wanted to go to Military Academy in Gainesville Georgia. I jumped at the chance to be in the "other room" for an extended period of time. So, come September, I got on a train in Old Saybrook Connecticut, and a day later arrived in pre-civil rights Georgia. I have to stop this story here, though it remains an incredible experience, it's meant for another time. I will say this about it. Until that period in my life, I though my old man would always be the model for "what not to be."

A few years later, I came back up to Connecticut to finish my last year of High School. But I'd found real music in Military Academy, as strange as that sounds, so I was performing each weekend in New Haven at the Exit Coffee House. The "Exit" had been waiting for me. I met people that helped me understand the truth about the world around me. It was not what I'd been told all my life.

Soon I decided to hit the road, for during that time it was still a viable option, open to any artist, singer, or traveler. Now, I'll stop this story as well. I had to give you just a short basic history, before I explain the "Visit" from my old man.

During his entire life, we never had one conversation back and forth, naturally. Whenever we did talk there were unwritten rules. I had to refrain from speaking openly and honestly, or the conversation would end abruptly. Stopped, derailed by any sprinkle of opinion that he would have no part of. I wasn't trying to sell him the thoughts I had, he didn't want to hear them. My dad was a tough guy, old school. "Your country, right or wrong, your country." That was my father, and the father for many of us back then.

His favorite saying was "Fight the Good Fight." Okay, okay, that was fine. However, if it came to that, I knew we'd wind up in opposite forces.

So my old man died of cancer about eight years ago. I went down to see him through the final week. I had to leave after seven days, when he was deep inside his final coma. My cab was outside, waiting patiently to take me to the airport.

I entered his room to say the real goodbye. He lay there motionless. Rosary Beads my Aunt Agnes had given to him as a child were loosely wrapped around his fingers. Too late to be prayed upon. I remembered him saying that he never cried when his father died. He told me this several times. Never.

I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Goodbye dad. I took myself from the room and went back downstairs, said goodbye to my sisters and mother, and a few moments later I was on my way to the airport alone in the cab. Well, the son of a bitch made it through his life without having to talk to me. No communication lost. He died at one the next morning.

This last experience happened only yesterday. Everything above has been written to help explain the significance of this occurrence. I had a bad situation at work just the day before. I was still furiously insulted by a false accusation made about me, to which I had been held accountable. Nothing had been resolved. Now, on this, my day off, I decided to take the matter into my own hands. I called the top legal attorney for the corporation that owns our company. To make this short, we had a good talk, and he assured me that I had nothing to worry about. Of course, some of the directors back at my company were not in love with me, but that concern does not register in my book of ethical behavior.

I was at home, rinsing and stacking dishes in the dishwasher, when I thought about my father always using that phrase, "Fight the Good Fight." I was smiling while I was remembering, as the water ran over my hands.

Then, from behind me came his voice. "I'm proud of you." It was spoken clearly, and it was definitely the voice of my father. A freezing chill was on my back. I turned quickly to see what wasn't there. I had to be sure. I stopped what I was doing. I'd heard far too many spiritual stories from people who were full of shit. I'd never had one. I didn't believe in them at all.

My eyes filled with tears and I was soon crying. "I'm Proud of You," he'd said, and it was sincere. I walked outside to the deck and sat on the stairs facing the back yard. My dogs, Grace and Dutch, came over to join me. I was still crying. My father was present in the kitchen when he said those words, and I felt him there like you can feel the rain. He came through to me, for me, and for the first time since he died, I cried for him. I didn't know where he was, so I looked at the sky and said goodbye to him. "Goodbye Dad, thank you." No matter what was avoided by him, or both of us, my father came back for me.

I'm absolutely sure he was there in the kitchen behind me. My old man. He stayed long enough to see his own son cry for him. ~

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