Karla Jynn
Karla Jynn
Karla Jynn is a 71-year-old emerging writer who left an insular religious community to discover an expansive world outside its confines. Formerly a self-taught mixed-media artist, she currently provides therapeutic support for clients and friends, and is a National Core Volunteer for Movement Voter Project.
Dos and Don’ts: My Hard-Earned List
I
“But what are we going to put on the death certificate?” demanded my dad, sixteen days before he died at age 95. This was a classic Hyland-Righter-Jynn move. Lack of a diagnosis beyond “bad brain hemorrhage” affronted him, leaving him helpless to control the looming outcome. He’d survived nearly three years of service as a WWII Seabee, reared five Boomer kids, and spent decades achieving every success he strove for. Why not dictate what came next?
At 6’3,” clean-shaven, with a booming voice and thick, prickly crew cut, my dad had no lack of self-assurance. Although slightly stooped, he still drove to the gym until his last six weeks of life. He wore peach, light blue, and pumpkin-colored suit coats, over polyester “Sansabelt” —no-belt-needed—slacks, and vibrant silk ties, several new ones each Christmas, that he rotated on a double-rack system inside his closet door. At weddings, he was the man dancing with all the wives whose husbands were too awkward to get out on the floor. In the 1950s, the moms up and down the first street we lived on called him “the Dreamboat of Orchard Lane,” because he took us kids to the grocery store on Saturday mornings.
While many feel grief at the coming loss of their father, my four siblings and I did not.
As Swedenborgians—members of a cerebral Christian sect emphasizing rigorous self-examination—we were raised in Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania, a tiny religious town where everything was meant to center on The Lord. Throughout our lives, Dad’s responses to us ignored the connections we sought, even when they were about God and religion. In my forties, while I was still devoted to our family-wide faith, I earnestly asked my parents, “Could we share our spiritual challenges with each other?”
Dad straightened and looked away, saying, “That’s too personal!”
Instead of listening and engaging, he loved to expand on his own boasts and concerns. When we kids became older adults, he started saying, “The door is always open for questions. Finances, our estate, anything!”
So we tried, asking, “Which of these funds is safest?” What’s your estate worth?”
His answers:
“My investment group loves my perspectives. You should come to a meeting!”
“Our lawyer is so thorough! We even have a file on our family relationships, and the rationale for all our decisions!”
“I just updated my legacy files. Everything’s in order!”
The “legacy” he constantly mentioned included a memory book about his accomplishments he not-so-subtly kept hinting we should make. He believed it was our duty to indulge his vision, and his right to micromanage its creation. But my siblings and I didn’t want to; he’d already pushed us to produce a lavish one for our mom that focused on him, too.
In the midst of planning the lavishly catered funeral reception for Mom, Dad brought it up again, in a family email: “My own legacy is a conversation for another time."
Seriously? While celebrating Mom? How many times will he say it?
By then, I’d learned to gently push back. I would channel a bit of his controlling energy, always honestly, just enough to keep him at bay. I emailed, My understanding is that a person’s legacy is created by loved ones who knew him well and know what he did while he was alive. The meaning and shape of your legacy will come from us after you’re gone. It’s more genuine and loving if we decide that on our own. You’ve done an amazing job of cataloging your achievements, and knowing you all these years is a wonderful source of information. I think we don't need to explore in advance what we'll remember about you. Let's just focus on our remaining time together!
I signed off lovingly and received no acknowledgement from him.
My pushback took other forms as well. In later years, before our obligatory Sunday-evening visits to Dad’s retirement complex, I’d conspire with my sisters via text, suggesting strategic re-direction of the conversation away from his swaggering.
At cocktail time, we entered his three-bedroom apartment through its private porch, and sat in sleek upholstered burnt-orange chairs, surrounded by Mom’s paintings of trips to Italy, Greece, and their condo in St. John. Dad, in his recliner, started with, “Bishop Jenner just called to consult me about a very confidential clergy matter.”
I quickly looked over at my sister Dana and asked, “Did you finish the quilt in time for Jordan’s birthday?” After Dana described the last steps of her stitching, our sister Jan jumped in to ask the youngest, Charlotte, “Did Lucas get that underwriting job he applied for?” Char answered in detail, and then Dad piped up, “I live streamed this morning’s wonderful sermon! I’m calling the pastor’s office tomorrow to get paper copies for you girls.” I turned to Char, smiling, and said, “We loved that documentary you recommended,” and Jan asked me for its name. While deflecting his bids to steer the conversation back to him, we sisters exchanged sly, appreciative glances.
Don’t spend decades trying in vain to connect. Do lose your illusions and develop coping strategies.
II
In the early years of his long, strong, energetic life, Dad sold violets to his neighbors, pedaled a Good Humor ice-cream bike, was a night watchman and top-selling Fuller Brush man, and brought his beautiful tenor voice to choirs and the Purdue Glee Club.
We had a 45 RPM when I was young, of Dad singing “That Lucky Old Sun,” the 1949 hit about the being who “has nothing to do but roll around heaven all day.” Until I went online to learn its release date, I thought “sun” was spelled with an “o,” meaning it was Jesus who goofs off while the rest of us toil and sweat.
Do question your assumptions.
After the war, with the good fortune of the G.I. bill, Dad earned a Master’s Degree in Arboriculture from Michigan State. In the spring of 1951, my tree-loving father finished his thesis—on utility poles. That smoothed the way for him to climb the ladder in an exceptionally-prosperous tree company. First he climbed literally, when trimming tree branches for 90 cents an hour; later he climbed figuratively, with a suit on, as a highly-prized executive.
Dad also played hard and successfully—surfing, skiing, sailing, dancing, becoming a wine connoisseur and licensed glider pilot. And he would have been a top-notch travel agent. For our church’s overseas group trips, he did the legwork and then some: itineraries, tickets, facts, packing, reminders, highlights, background, directions, museums, restaurants, and landmarks all came to participants’ attention at the speed of his impatience. He got the trip done right.
My older sister and I, the “Big Kids” of the family, went on trips to landmark places with Mom and Dad. The last three siblings, the “Litts,” born close together after a four-year gap, stayed home with a babysitter.
New York, 1961, when I was seven: Rockettes, skating, Russian Tea Room, samovars, Broadway, Empire State building, grabbing taxis. Williamsburg, 1962: matching new pink and blue seersucker shirtwaist dresses, smoky, low-ceilinged cabins, colonial costumes, meals at “appropriate” times and not before. DC: the White House, Capitol Hill, a UN tapestry whose threads could stretch four times around the equator, the historic Hay-Adams Hotel, clutching my red plastic purse. World’s Fair, 1965: the Unisphere, tired legs, being shamed for wanting snacks. We were always on time and on the run.
Dad loved magazines like Weeds, Trees, and Turf and Herbicide Weekly. He took us kids on walks and taught us about plants. “Sassafras is invasive,” he said, “so don’t let it into your yard. But do use its twigs as a toothbrush if you’re in the wilderness and forget yours; gently shred one end and scrub your teeth thoroughly.” Pyracantha, or firethorn, with its dense, gorgeously-orange groups of berries, climbed up the fieldstone chimney Dad built for our first house. Pointing to them he said, “Don’t eat these; the seeds are toxic.”
Do learn to recognize emotional toxicity.
We played in the yard while Dad did the mowing and trimming. I loved our front-garden mimosa, a weed tree blooming fluffy, bright pink fairy skirts that float on the air. But mimosas don’t last like other trees. The one that dressed the miniature woodland babies I made lives only in my memory.
Dad did good deeds in the world, like mentoring upcoming tree enthusiasts, co-founding and growing the International Society of Arboriculture, traveling countrywide to lecture, serving as mayor of our small town for 30 years, expanding the huge company he worked for, and giving landscaping and organizational expertise to our community’s church and school. Everyone admired him; the vibrant, generous attention he gave them was repaid with the kudos he craved.
At home, though, he was different.
He did good deeds for us too, providing well beyond the basics. But he was brisk, critical, dismissive, often chopping off our sentences before they had even formed.
Sitting at our sleek childhood dinner table, napkin on the left under the fork, one of us would inevitably forget to unfold and place it onto our lap. Dad would point and say, “Please hand that to me,” signaling disapproval for our failure to use it. He’d even said it to Jan’s friend, who cringed and seemed bewildered.
One night at age 12, I rushed through the dinner dishes, eager to get to my second reading of To Kill a Mockingbird. As I headed for my room, I spied my overlooked “dessert” of freshly-sectioned grapefruit. Mom came toward me, frowning, and huffed, “You didn’t wipe the counters, Girlie! It’s your turn, and this is a shoddy job!”
I thought, “Who cares? Scout and Atticus are waiting!” Moving defiantly toward the door, I passed by Mom and sneered in her face. In a flash, Dad, who’d been standing next to the refrigerator, seized me with both hands and threw me onto the cold linoleum floor.
Stunned, I staggered to my feet, grabbed my dessert, and thundered up the stairs, stopping only to hurl the bowl onto our flagstone entryway. Ceramic, fruit, honey, and juice flew all over the coat closet, mail stack, and floor-to-ceiling picture windows. I fled to my room and slammed the door.
The next few days, I stayed as silent as possible around my parents. Mom seemed subdued. I never heard who cleaned up the grapefruit mess.
A week later, with huge bruises still on my hip and shoulder, Dad took me on an outing to Wanamaker’s for an expensive lavender “Villager” outfit I’d been pining for. The shopping trip was probably Mom’s suggestion. On the awkward drive there and back, I could sense Dad was trying to salve his conscience. He smiled more than usual, and asked me in an extra-hearty voice about sixth-grade square-dancing. Although answering him betrayed my shun-the-parents resolve, I didn’t know what else to do. Besides, I wanted the wool skirt and matching cardigan sweater I got.
Dad never said a word to me, then or in his ensuing 54 years, about that violent incident. He never asked me how I felt about it, or about anything else.
Do learn, before you hit 60, the ways in which prosperity, along with rigid, critical parents, can make it tricky to distinguish between the goods and the bads of your childhood.
III
When I was 38, Dad made time here and there in his busy schedule to come to our home up the street and bathe my fourth and youngest child. My siblings and I had long suspected Dad had a lover, but it wasn’t fully confirmed until I overheard him whispering into our landline. On each bathing occasion, he slipped downstairs and made a call. I felt conflicted. Did he come to see his grandson, or to talk with her?
I wish Dad hadn’t prided himself on being a major pillar of a religion whose monumental thrust is marriage and sex with one woman only for all eternity. For some, wanting a lover is understandable, and Dad was born way before polyamory was a thing. But his upright standing in the church, due to his expertise, fawning, and sizable donations, meant he never admitted to his cheating, not even in the one nerve-racking exchange we had when I was 47.
I picked up the phone to ask Dad if he’d come over for a confidential talk, but before I could dial, I had to set it down and drop on the couch to get my breath back. When Dad arrived, we stood eight feet apart in the living room, my mouth more parched than it's ever been. "Just a minute," I croaked, and went to the kitchen to gulp some water. When I came back, my throat seized as I gently said, “Pastor Blane told me someone came to him concerned about your closeness with Barbie Harder.”
Dad turned on me with controlled rage, ignoring what I said, and instead accused me with, “Mom has never recovered from that time you asked her not to stop in at your studio unannounced!” That was it. He pretended his unfaithfulness didn’t exist, and my mom always seemed to semi-pretend too. Dad even named his sailboat the “Hyland Fling.”
I didn’t fully clock until my mid-sixties that some people have warmth for their sweet, affectionate fathers. I wasn’t seen or known by mine. Not as a child. Not as a grownup.
Please don’t blame yourself for those warm parental relationships you never got to experience.
IV
My adult children saw and understood their grandfather’s narcissism, but they were also detached enough from its effects to enjoy him. And despite the difficulties, all of us wanted Dad to feel cared for in his final years. In the summer of 2020, on the evening before his 95th birthday, we scheduled a pandemic Zoom room with his five kids, in-laws, and 10 grandchildren, still expecting his can-do energy to live forever.
“Good job, Dad. Now move the cursor to the top right and click. That’s it! You did it.” After my ten minutes by phone with him, we could see Hyland, upright at his desk, smiling and pleased with the attention. Everyone beamed back at him, as we chatted, laughed, and gave him affirmations. We ended the gathering with a rousing, six-part, happy-early-birthday song.
The next day Dad suddenly had severe seizures, and his retirement-complex manager called the ambulance.
Don’t send a seizing 95-year-old to the hospital, if there’s any possible way to stay put and subdue his pain.
That eminent birthday would have been the perfect time for him to die. Instead, a mad carousel ride of uncertainties started that night and spun full-throttle for a month.
The only positive was that after retiring from his main career, Dad had been the highly-regarded interim CEO for the entire health system of the hospital he was rushed to. The current CEO called me to ask how he could help. He smoothed the way, since beds were scarce that pandemic summer. Dad was efficiently moved from ER, to ICU, to a regular room, and then to short-term rehab. I for once appreciated the silver lining of a dad who bragged for years about how much the administration loved him.
I was glad to be the point person for my siblings, even though I spent days and nights on high alert for the next medical update and the next dicey decision. I oversaw his treatment, begging doctors and nurses to honor his Advanced Directive: Avoid pointless attempts at prolonging life. But I couldn’t tell if hospital staff read or remembered it. Each conversation seemed to start at the beginning.
Don’t think a completed Advanced Directive makes end-of-life care clear-cut or easy.
Within four weeks, Dad was back at his apartment on palliative care, but what he really needed was hospice. Even though Jan and I had power of attorney, Dad himself, since he could still speak, had to give his approval. During the multiple approaches I made, his seizures brain sometimes claimed, “No one’s ever mentioned hospice.” Or, “I’ll consider it.” But an hour later, certain he could outlive death, he asserted, “Hospice is for cowards!” When it was beyond time for the nurse to finalize the papers, I slumped in relief that he agreed.
Don’t assume an obvious need for hospice makes hospice a shoo-in.
The refreshing aspect of Dad’s last few days of life was his humble sweetness. My third child, then age 37, arrived with his guitar at the bedside, leaned in and said, “Hey Papa, want to sing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ with me?”
Dad nodded, and from the porch beyond his open bedroom door, the six of us grouped there—sisters, another son, one niece and I—marveled at his clear, in-tune tenor, rising as strongly as it had back on that old 45 record, his harmony transcending near-death. The caregiver filmed that graceful moment, and the next day my lyric-soprano daughter out in Oregon sent us a split-screen video of herself singing a descant along with them. Three days later, on a bright morning, Dad stopped breathing, with Jan and Charlotte at his side.
V
I knew, contrary to the dominant narrative, not all deaths equal grief. The aftermath of Dad’s death felt wonderful, like the joyous first unburdening following a long bout of constipation. So much freedom! So much relief! Dad escaped without prolonged suffering, and we escaped suffering’s fallout. We had lovely calls with family near and far, and the giddy sense of never again having to manage those obligatory retirement-home visits. We appreciated the cremation provider who came exactly when agreed, rolled Dad’s body up in a sheet, and slid quickly out the porch door. No mess, no fanfare, and at a way more reasonable rate than the overblown funeral home Dad had used for Mom.
If your children have secretly rolled their eyes for years about the grand occasion they must arrange after you're dead, die during a pandemic.
We knew there’d be huge expectations from the church community and his business worlds, and none of us loved planning parties. But because of that bizarre year, the funeral allowed only immediate family members, spread several pews apart.
His admirers could livestream it on our cathedral’s website, and be moved to tears as I was by the soaring voices of my four kids. And the simple gathering after—what an unexpected delight! No show, little pretense, minimal cost. Family members ate pizza and drank beer and seltzer, chatting on our cousin’s spacious front porch. My siblings and I gleefully whispered to each other, “Zero speeches!”
VI
On the day Dad died, a dear friend texted me, “I heard your dad graduated.” She and I have been close for decades, and though she believes in an afterlife, she knows I don’t. On my day dealing with death, her expression didn’t feel quite fair to me. I wished we could just resurrect the simple word died. Dad’s illness had underscored for me the need to face truths head-on, especially the painful, disturbing, immutable ones. The most certain event that will come for us all seemed diminished when referred to as “passing.” That side-stepping term reminded me of lesser things, like gas, exams, and salt.
Don’t euphemise death.
I understood people were trying to be compassionate, but “transitioned,” “expired,” and other cringey words implied they couldn’t stand to look straight at the most linear fact of life. A toxic cousin our otherwise-loving extended family has learned to avoid sent me an email. In it she expounded on parental “Second Death,” her “weeping sister,” and “dispositioning” of beloved property. She ended with, I am keeping you in my thoughts and sturdy, traditional prayers during this critical season. This process will end in time and I hope your holidays are as bright as can be expected. Trees grow new bark, shed their leaves regularly, different squirrel nests are revealed, the rain takes away most of that. You'll be OK.
You’ll be ok?!
We had coped with raves about Dad all our lives. These intensified after he died:
"Your dad was so wonderful! We miss him sorely!”
“You must be so sad!"
"Isn't it touching that he's in heaven, reunited with your mom?"
"It will never be the same without him!"
And from the wife of a former bishop, "Your dad was such a principled man!"
Yes, very true. But we kids knew his other side—self-centered, critical, intimidating, an adulterer.
Don’t assume you know how others feel, especially around death.
VII
Don’t name two of your children as estate co-executors. Especially don't designate clunky co-executorship after many years of $475-an-hour advice from an estate lawyer who should have known better.
Having co-executors means every document must be signed by both, giving twice the hassle and no benefit, particularly when one lives in Pennsylvania, and the other, my only brother, in Maryland. I immediately consulted with my siblings, and prepared quintuplicate forms for all to sign, making the logical one in Dad’s state—me—the single executor.
I spent endless time during the 14 months after Dad’s death slogging through estate tasks, although I earned $35 an hour and utmost appreciation from my siblings. Being the “executrix”—a superfluous, over-exxed word—meant I was keeper of Dad’s documents. One five-page letter from the estate lawyer about their vacation home outlined a vast number of options—not just the sensible ones. A substantial Vanguard IRA, tax-avoiding QPRT, co-tenancy in common, descendants per stirpes, minimum RMDs, liquidity analysis, PA Uniform Trust Code, Limited Liability Company for transferring title to an entity, shareholder agreements, basis step-up, depreciation deductions, and “freshening up” the will.
I’m no expert, but common sense told me the most acute skill Dad’s lawyer possessed was the stroking of Dad’s ego. We’d known Mr. Price (real name) since the mid-nineties. His smug grin, expansive conversational style, and bromance with our father had remained in place all these years.
Mr. Price also put terms like “avoid probate,” “back in the day,” “ain’t broke so why fix it,” and “good news” in quotation marks. I know I’m being picky here, but given his hourly rate, it seems warranted. In addition, Mom had a trust fund originally in her and Mr. Price’s names, which after she died remained in his name only. Years later, if the bank hadn't sent a letter to my dead parents’ retirement home, $25,000 would have reverted to the state.
Don’t spend more time bonding with your lawyer than you do with your children.
In 1991 Dad had transferred the paper copy of his utility-pole thesis onto a disk, and then again onto a thumb drive two decades later. No one read it, and when he was gone, all iterations were pitched. However, utility poles are a central endeavor of the crucial line-clearance industry, making sure that cross-country rights-of-way remain free of overgrown weeds and trees. Expertly-tended poles keep the electricity coming. I’m grateful for Dad’s contribution to that field, not only for the power lighting our house right now, but also for my prosperous upbringing.
I thank Dad for the $270,000 I inherited when he died. After the estate was probated, I scrutinized my own situation in relation to those less fortunate. Instead of hoarding extra money for myself, I contributed my share to courageous groups in our country who are working toward systemic equality.
Don’t overlook the fact that we’re all part of one human family.
VIII
Dad always told us he culled his files every first of the month, but when Dana and Char purged his office, there were still stacks of them: for being mayor; running Borough Council; advising bishops and pastors; thirty-plus years of tax returns; appreciations and commendations; letters and cards; printed emails; and lists of dates, times, and amounts of his and Mom’s medications, number of hours slept, what they ate, and how well it came out the other end.
They also found carefully-chronicled quibbles with that lover of 33 years, the most recent one five months before his death.
Dad noted on the margins of emails that his lover had said, “If you have an itch, go find someone, but don’t tell me.” Apparently, when Dad did get with another girlfriend, the longtime one told him, “It’s over. You cheated and lied.” Dad pointed out, “We’ve cheated and lied to our spouses for more than 30 years. This is the same thing.”
Don’t keep yucky documents in your desk drawers.
One lawyer email I found, from 2007, recorded that Dad told him, “Karla and her husband are separated, but she has declined to discuss it with us.” I was floored. I’d gone overboard in my attempts to get my parents to accept some of the complexities, including a meeting with my husband, parents, and all my siblings, numerous talks with just me, Dad, and Mom, and some in which my sisters, too, tried coaxing them to understand life doesn’t always go the way you think it should. I’d known my parents had confided to a beloved cousin that year, “We think Karla might be mentally ill.”
My cousin, who deeply sees me, replied, “She’s the sanest, most grounded person I know.”
Do foster authentic, vulnerable relationships with those you can trust.
IX
These words are a kind of legacy piece, although too late for Dad to manage or curate. But what do they reveal? According to novelist Peter Grainger, "If you don't know your strengths and weaknesses after 55 years on earth, you haven't been making the best use of your time.” I'm 16 years beyond that, and still have many questions. What would be the case if I hadn’t started examining myself early on, in the light of what my dad was like? Which of Dad’s negative traits still live in me, and have I subdued them sufficiently?
I’ve endured intense emotional processes with the help of my adult children. I listened to them and learned, especially when it hurt. I believed their feelings, felt thankful they pushed me, and let my deepest ego-being receive feedback about the pain I caused them. I’ve put myself through the wringer, squeezing out like flattened fabric that must be shaken and flapped in the sun till I remember I’m good enough.
For a recent birthday, one said, “I’m so grateful to have a mom who’s worked super hard to grow and change. Hardly anyone I know has that kind of parent.” Another messaged, “One of my favorite things is coming over to hang out and talk with you.” My kids and I laugh at ourselves, often with each other. When someone makes a misstep, we address it thoughtfully. In difficult times, they seek me out for insight or emotional support.
My siblings, children, and I only ever mention the word “legacy” as a joke. All of us know that the heart of what matters is how we treat each other.
Do learn to be humble, especially if you have kids.
Unlike my father, I work hard at wrangling my personal defects. I efface myself when I should, receive critiques, assign myself ameliorative action steps when needed, with follow-up, and fiercely examine how to be a better human. But those concerns highlight a chronic dilemma: The flip side of the growth they imply is they’re all about me—the person who fears being as self-absorbed as her dad.
One question now is: Can I stop badgering myself with questions about whether I’ve grown enough? I wish I had a me who could gently probe this with the intimate attention I give my counseling clients and loved ones. To be honest, conscious, and self-responsible is my aim. But given my heritage, I still fear that quest could be tinged with some kind of inside-out narcissism.
Ultimately, I need to give myself a break. Instead of fretting, maybe I could savor the healthy generational changes I’ve created. When I was 69, my oldest son nudged me for months until I agreed to get my first-ever gym membership. Now I go twice a week. He said, smiling, “You’ll live to be over a hundred!”
Like my dad, I’m strong, thorough, tenacious, and detailed, but with such a different focus. My evolution over the last 20 years comes from my love of tuning in to others in crucial ways Dad could not. I’m glad his life steered me to such a different path.
Do cherish unexpected, hard-won growth.
After decades of healing myself away from a polarized relationship with the me who alternately felt superior (loveable but hateful), or inferior (hateful but loveable), I occasionally come to simple, hard-won, matter-of-fact self-acceptance.
A radical place, but one that makes being alive much more lovely and calm.