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O c t O b e r 2015 93 Words By Andrew McCarthy filephoto An Open Invitation M y father died this year. No one who knew us would have said we were close. He and my mother divorced thirty years ago shortly after I had left our New Jersey home to pursue my life. Not long after that he remarried suddenly and settled in a small coastal town in Maine to restart his own life. Good my brothers and I joked. That ought be enough distance for everyone. Over the next few decades my dad and I saw each other rarely. We spoke only occa- sionally. Yet when we did he always invited me up to Maine. An open invitation Pal he would shout into thephone.Itsglorioushere.Comeonup. I would demur and the strain of a scarred past and an unrealized present would rise up quickly. Rather than shine light on what was and wasnt there we rushed off the line and back to our individual lives. As my own children grew they began asking why they had never met GrandpaI could give them no reason good enough so one summer morning we set out for Thomaston. On that lone trip north we were received graciously if tentatively. My kids loved meeting their grandfather and his wife. I found it odd that scattered around his home were long-forgotten relics from my childhooda chair a small painting of a boat a bookcase. How had