the forbidden continent and lynyrd skynyrd

dear dad,

when my brother and i were growing up, there were very few rules in the house. in fact the only non-negotiable restrictions were:

1. no boys in my bedroom
2. dont go to africa

predictably, i wonder how you would react to my impending peace corps adventure. i recall our discussion circa 2001 about applying for a study abroad program in paris. your response started something like "why the hell?" but eventually softened to an understanding, acceptance, and even (maybe?) excitement.

what about a destination 2400 miles south?

in my minds eye, i imagine our discussion of mauritania, and the peace corps, and giardia and malaria and running water and and and... i replace france with mauritania, "why the hell" with a more forceful expletive, and "eventually softened" with... ? reluctantly resigned? furiously refused?

yesterday was fathers day and three days from now will be the 4th anniversary of your death. sandwiched between these two dates, i unrealistically ache for some sign of your approval. for some bit of wisdom you once offered that has become fortuitously relevant to my decision to serve in the corps.

expecting neither sign nor wisdom, ill muster my own courage, assume your blessing, and do my damndest to make you proud. and remember you howling to these lyrics over pots of early morning coffee:

boy, dont you worry... youll find yourself.
follow you heart and nothing else.
and you can do this if you try.
all i want for you my son,
is to be satisfied.

love, e louise