A Letter of Apology

 A  Letter  of  Apology

Gary Joseph Lundgren

407 Golden Meadow Road

Portland, ME 04101

Hi Gary,

 I did an online People Search and found your name. I hope you remember me. I’m Richard “Richie” Grogan, and we went to Camp Apache twenty-five summers ago. I now attend an Alcohol Recovery Group, and this week our assignment is to write 

A Letter of Apology to someone we’ve wronged. Soon as I got this assignment, I thought of you, Gary Lundgren, from summer camp, and what I did to you when we were twelve years old. 

   You had this Pocket Watch that you hung on a nail near your bunk bed. You told the guys your Uncle Henry gave it to you when he retired from the railroad. You passed it around one night when we roasted marshmellows. It had Roman Numerals and a moon face with eyes that moved along with the hour hand. 

   I was a sad kid back then—overweight, lousy at sports and afraid of a flying softball. But you, Gary, you were different. You were thin and swift and clean and smart. You could hit home runs. You were a great shortstop. You could weave a lanyard. One night you showed the guys in our cabin how to search the sky and find the Big Dipper. One day in Crafts Shop you carved a Christian Cross from a cake of Ivory Soap. 

 Maybe you wonder why I remember all these things about you. It’s because I thought you were the happiest kid in the world, and

I envied the way you got along with all the guys. I used to believe that kids like you had been born with some magical ability that made life easy and happy. A guy who other kids liked to be around—easy-going, clever, and a good athlete.

 One Sunday was our Visiting Day, and my mother sat in the bleachers watching us play softball. When it was my turn at bat,

I struck out. I was so ashamed that I ran off the field fighting back my tears. I raced back to our cabin and put my face in my pillow and cried my eyes out. I cried because I felt like a loser, a screwed-up kid who could do nothing right, who felt like he belonged nowhere. A guy who’d get up to bat and then strike out, right in front of all the parents, right there in front of God. I was fat and clumsy and always confused. Always worried. Always sorry. Always one second too late for a flying softball. Then I saw your pocket watch hanging on a nail near your bed and I snatched it off the nail and buried it my locker. Now I’ll try to explain why I stole it. 

 So Gary, do you remember, when you were a little kid, those cereal boxes that had prizes inside? You opened your cereal and inside you found a plastic whistle. Or a ring. Or some little toy to reward you for eating your Wheaties or your Frosted Flakes. I’m trying to say that’s why I stole your pocket watch. Because that pocket watch was the Gary Lundgren Prize. The prize that made you Good, the prize that gave you your Perfect Life. I wanted to hurt you for getting such a great prize for being so popular when

I felt I got nothing. 

 I’ve never told this to a Living Soul. And I wonder if you find it in yourself to forgive me. I don’t say I deserve forgiveness, but the more I think about the stupid thing I did, the more shame I feel. Shame not just for stealing, but stealing for such a dishonorable reason. For all these twenty-five years, I’ve never admitted to myself why I stole your watch. Now that I’ve found you, now that I write you and try to apologize, I’m realizing how I felt about Life when I was twelve. The truth is, I stole your watch not because I struck out at bat, but because your pocket watch was a symbol to me of your Goodness, of the way you seemed to fit into life so easy and so happy. I stole your watch because I wanted to steal your Goodness, and that watch was the symbol of everything about you that I envied.

 I’ve thought of that summer day so many times, and of the sorry thing I did, especially whenever I drive by a softball field. I feel shame burning in my face right now, as if all the boys in our cabin were looking at me, suddenly aware of my shameful reason, their eyes scowling on me this very minute: Bobby Seitchik and Willy Frazier and Eddie Jenkins. And Randy Hoffmeister and Jerry Davis. And the twins, Julio and Alejandro Lopez. And even Marvin Alvin Egendorff who everybody made fun of. 

  Gary, I’m sorry. I was a real jerk to take your watch. I’d return it if

I could, but I dropped it that last day of summer camp, and it just stopped ticking. I picked it up off the floor, but the Moon Face had frozen. That was twenty-five years ago this summer. So the whole thing was a total waste. How stupid I feel now. How terribly ashamed. 

 I wonder, Gary, can I send you some money so you can buy a new pocket watch ? Maybe you have a boy yourself now. Maybe I could send you money to buy your boy his own pocket watch. How does that sound to you ? 

  I promised myself I’d mail this letter tonight, even though it’s raining hard, because if I wait till morning, I’ll lose my courage. I’m going to run out to the mailbox in the next ten minutes. If I want to be a healthy guy, I have to keep away from liquor. And if I want to be a better man, I have to clean up my past. 

  You can write me at Box 226, Erie PA, 16501. But only if you want to. 

                                                        Your friend, 

                                                        Richard  “Richie”  Grogan

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