Former publisher Jerry Robinson wrote an open letter of apology his 11 year old son. From time to time the Westside Weekly will run old columns from Jerry’s archive. This one is from 1967.

DEAR SCOTT,

It is very early in the morning and I am writing this letter to you and pinning it to your pillow because I do not want to wake you. You’re only 11 and you need lots of sleep. In fact, I could use a little myself. And that is what I want to talk to you about.

Last night, when you suggested that you would like to sleep outside on the deck because it was so hot and muggy but you’d like me to do it too, it sounded like a fair idea.

And when you offered to blow up an air mattress for me, that was the clincher. How could I turn down such sacrifice?

I’ll have to admit that the night air was refreshingly cool. At least at first. And as I slid into the sleeping bag I was filled with high hopes.

I don’t think it was altogether fair of you not to tell me that you had used my sleeping bag as a blanket at your beach party the other night. The sand I was able to shake out and I am surprised you didn’t hear me, although you did drop off to sleep pretty fast.

The marshmallows were something else again. My knees are still stuck together.

I should not, of course, have taken your advice and slept without a shirt. It works all right for you because you can scrunch all the way down into your bag. I’m a little longer than you and I must have looked like heaven for every mosquito in South King County. The top half of my torso is all red.

I’ll admit I did drop off for probably 15 minutes until the big orange neighbor cat decided to use the space under the deck for a rumble with four or five others, including two you keep around. I tried to ignore them for about 10 minutes but when they refused to go away I knew it was no use.

In my hurry to get out of the sleeping bag, My pajama string got caught in the zipper and it stuck about halfway open. I worked on that for a while and gave up. 

Dragging the bag behind me I went to the end of the deck and fired the only thing I could find, the outdoor barbecue. Why it didn’t wake you is beyond me for it sure dispatched those cats. It’s ruined, of course, but there was no choice We needed a new one anyway.

By this time I was fully awake and knew it was hopeless to try to sleep so I laid on my riddled back and looked for familiar stars. I found the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, North Star, Venus and the Milky Way. I thought you’d be interested to know that they were all still in the right positions after the barbecue hit the concrete. 

That game got a little tiresome after I ran out of stars so I decided to read. As you know, I love to read in bed but it is difficult by starlight so I dragged the sleeping bag (it was still caught on my pajama cord) into the kitchen, got an extension cord, walked back out through the living room and picked up a table lamp and a copy of Outdoor Life and snuggled down again beside you. 

At first things worked out quite well, The upper part of my body was pretty cold and the lower half was roasting but I was enjoying the magazine until the moths showed up. Light attracts moths. I hate moths. They always want to fly up my nose.

Son, this is when I gave up. I don’t want to disappoint you but I didn’t sleep outside all night like I promised. I chickened out. 

The thought of my own bedroom with foam mattress, marshmallow-free sheets and screened windows was too much.

I know you will awaken and find my sleeping bag empty and assume I went to work early. I don’t want to deceive  you. I’m a failure as a sleeper-outer and it is best you know it now.

Love, Dad.