In, 1982 when my after died, some of my relatives went through my father's ranch in Washington state. There in a study was a roll top desk In that desk was a middle drawer that was locked. After some effort, they they managed to open the drawer. But wait…let's take a look back.
*
Walter Scott Herndon, I had assumed, was the anti-social type. Even though he left when I was a year old, I didn't start thinking much about him until I was about nine. When I was fourteen, I somehow found my father's address. So I hid myself away and wrote a letter introducing myself and tried to impress him by telling him about my big decision to become a psychologist when I grew up. It seems so funny and sad now. I had always heard about my father's “creative genius”. My mother told me that men like him could not be good father's because the art would always come first. This was my mother's theory, and it made sense to me. It kept away any anger because he obviously had a higher calling. Ridiculous, I know. When I started thinking about who my father was and what he was like, this theory kept me from getting to the why of things. To me, it was as if I were sharing him with the rest of the world.
Later in life, I ran across people who had known my father, most of them worked alongside him in the movie business. One of these was Dom DeLuise. Just by chance, he was dropping off some thing at the back door of the Goodwill near my house. I had heard that he had worked with my father on a movie called “Hooper”. This was my chance. This would be the first time I had ever spoken to someone who knew my father besides my mother. I was pushing my infant daughter in the stroller and navigated my way toward his Roll Royce with the license plate “ILUV28”. He looked up and saw me and I nervously said hello.”Hey there!”, he said through an open, generous grin.
“I have a question for you.” I said. He took a step toward me as his grin fell away. “I was wondering if you knew my father....”
“You're Walter's daughter! You look just like him!”
The initial feeling of relief was dwarfed by the warmth coming from this large man. He smiled again but with sad eyes. Then he wrapped his arms around me. I cried. I felt it to be a hug, by proxy, from my father. Silly. I know. We talked for about and hour before he left me with the confirmation of my father's “genius” and how he didn't get along with Burt Reynolds for some reason.
My father was recognized in the motion picture and television industry as one of the top art directors and screenwriters. Among his notable accomplishments were production design and art direction for the films “Norma Rae”, “Hooper”, “Sounder”, and his last project, “A Soldier's Story”. As for television, he was best known for his work on the “Playhouse 90” drama series.
Movies
Television
Growing up, I didn't know about all that. I only knew that he was in the business “out there somewhere”. It turns out that he did have time to meet and know me. His girlfriend of four years even told me that he actually had the desire to connect with his kids, but that my mother had scared him to the point where he did not even dare try. Did he tell her that so he wouldn't look bad in her eyes? Who knows?
Loss takes many shapes. Sometimes it takes the shape of someone we knew well. It’s tangible and detailed, reflecting many of the specific things we miss about that person, such as their smell, the way they always sang off key, and the corny jokes they couldn’t stop telling. These are the intimate details we grieve when a loved one who occupied a particular space in our life dies.
But I didn’t know Walter Scott Herndon. Shortly after his death, his last movie “A Soldier's Story” was released. I remember going to the theater and trying to drink in all the visuals. He had been in charge of both the indoor and out outdoor sets, as well as all the lighting. Basically, he created a portion of the look of the film as he did in most of his films. I sat in the dark theater thinking that this is as close to him as I'll ever get. Seeing the results of his work at least helped me feel a connection to his thinking, his creating. I was grateful for that.
My grieving process may not be traditional. But is there such a thing? All I know is that I have less than a handful of photos of my father. And I didn't get those until a couple of years ago.
*
They finally got that drawer open. Inside was an envelope. The envelope was addressed to him. It was postmarked May, 1974.The return address was where I had lived at 14. This told me so much but so little at the same time. This adolescent letter that I had written to my father had been important enough for him to not only keep but to put in a drawer by itself and deem it important enough to lock the drawer. Yet the envelope was sealed. Evidently, he had not been able to bring himself to open it. Somehow this gives me comfort.
Happy Father's Day Walter Scott Herndon.
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