After seven episodes of archaeological excavation, all the evidence is assembled: Dad's 1939 diary, million-mile certificate, 2019 recording, and handcrafted desk where this final episode is recorded. What emerges isn't the simple story of a gentle man who never complained, but something far more complex—a human being who learned to thrive despite repeated attempts to make him disappear. We discover Dad was a beloved, confident boy who learned strategic stepping back after military rejection and church exclusion. Instead of becoming bitter, he channeled each rejection into increased competence, becoming the safest driver on the road when told his body was unfit, creating beauty with his hands when his voice was unwelcome. The complete picture reveals a man operating on a frequency most people couldn't tune into—his love was constant but quiet, his strength was endurance rather than dominance. We explore his small rebellions (Hank Williams humming, hard candies in the car console) and his innovative love language where oil changes meant "I want you to be safe" and handcrafted furniture meant "I want to create something lasting for you." The final understanding: Dad was never absent or mysterious—he was speaking a language of love that required attention to understand, loving the world in his own particular way through lasting creation rather than temporary words.

Two teenage sisters sunbathing on the roof, completely absorbed in their own thoughts, until Dad grabs the garden hose and soaks them from the yard below—his mischievous chuckle giving him away completely. This episode excavates the surface layer: the memories of Dad as father, gentle antagonist, and loving presence. We explore his playful love language of physical humor—flicking Mom's ear while she read, pinching arms unexpectedly, grabbing toes during book reading. Through the dress shopping disaster at Boyd's department store where Dad put the dress on backwards, we see him completely out of his element but showing up anyway because presence mattered more than competence. The most treasured memories emerge: bedtime stories where his speech difficulties became simply the unique sound of father's love, and the tender moment when he carried young Jenny through snow to meet a newborn calf named "Knobby"—teaching her that differences could be interesting rather than shameful. We discover Dad's hidden frequency of love: quiet but constant, physical rather than verbal, practical rather than demonstrative. But the episode also explores his limitations—his conflict avoidance sometimes failed when intervention was needed. The surface findings reveal that Dad wasn't unseen by choice—he'd learned to express himself in ways that felt safe after a lifetime of rejection.

Twenty-five thousand hours. Twelve and a half years of full-time work behind the wheel with perfect performance. Dad's 1975 Million Mile Club certificate represents something profound—proof of worth that couldn't be mocked or dismissed, achievement measured not in words but in miles. This episode excavates the work layer where Dad wasn't the rejected 4-F or mocked churchgoer, but a man whose competence spoke so loudly nobody questioned his worth. In the trucking brotherhood, Dad found unqualified respect based purely on merit—for the first time in his life, being different didn't matter, only being good at what you did. But his truest voice emerged in his woodworking shop, crafting benches, chairs, and desks gifted to family members, expressing love through lasting creation when words felt insufficient. We discover Dad's small rebellions: humming prohibited Hank Williams songs, playing harmonica alone in his bedroom, keeping hard candies scattered in his car console. Through Saturday sauna gatherings with lifelong friends and his retirement work transporting people with Down syndrome, we see how Dad found communities that appreciated him exactly as he was. This layer reveals a master craftsman who built his reputation mile by mile, project by project, proving his extraordinary worth through reliability and skill.

After sixty years of marriage, Dad still teases Mom in their 2019 recording—but even his humor has learned to stay small and safe. This episode excavates the marriage stratum where Dad found love and companionship, but also where the final pieces of his authentic voice disappeared. We discover that their early marriage had shouting matches and Dad fighting back, but somewhere along the way he learned that peace was more valuable than being heard. Through drive-through interactions where Mom speaks for him and family dynamics where she manages while he provides, we see how love can both sustain and silence. Dad's father wasn't Laestadian—he came to faith through marriage and social expectation, which explains why he never pressured Jenny about leaving the church while Mom applied all the religious pressure. We explore Dad's unique love language: building birdhouses for Mom's birdwatching, shooting squirrels that raided her bird feeders, cleaning his plate with homemade bread while she kept the cookie jar full. But we also discover Dad hadn't lost his voice entirely—he was a master storyteller at the family dinner table and had authority on road trips. He'd simply learned to compartmentalize his voice, saving stories for his kids, authority for driving, and teasing for safe moments with Mom.

The beloved boy from the 1939 diary didn't choose to disappear—the world taught him it was the only way to survive. In 1942, fifteen-year-old Roy watches his brothers prepare for military service while his cleft palate and flat feet earn him a 4-F classification: medically unfit. Three generations of Skoog men had proved their American worth through military service, but Roy breaks the family tradition. This rejection cuts deep, but it's just the beginning. At church—the one place where his loving family, adoring classmates, and respectful coworkers could communicate with him perfectly—certain men choose to make his speech impediment a source of entertainment. Dad gets excluded from leadership roles not because he can't communicate, but because these men choose not to listen. This episode excavates how rejection accumulates like sediment, teaching a naturally confident, charismatic child that his voice is a liability. We see how Dad learns survival strategies: prove worth through work instead of words, lead through example instead of speech, be useful without being noticeable. The farm becomes his refuge where animals don't judge, work becomes his language of worth, and that famous reliability transforms from personality trait to survival strategy.

Before Roy Skoog became the quiet truck driver who rarely spoke, he was the most popular boy in his 1939 school diary—asking girls for autographs, inspiring predictions of success and being told he "gives the girls a chance." But to understand this confident child, we must dig even deeper to uncover the tragedy that shaped his understanding of love and loss. At age seven, Roy witnessed his beloved Aunt Lydia die in a horrific fire after she'd spent months holding his family together while his father fought tuberculosis. This episode excavates the deepest archaeological layer: how a boy learned that good people suffer terribly, that acts of service express lasting love, and that the proper response to witnessing pain is increased tenderness, not hardness. Through fragile diary pages filled with "forget-me-not" messages from adoring classmates and a teacher's prophecy about his character, we discover that Dad was loved first, celebrated before he was silenced, seen as special before he learned to step back. The evidence is clear: everything that came after—the silence, the stepping back, the careful self-concealment—was learned behavior.

What can a 1937 autograph book reveal about a man who spent his life in silence? In this season premiere, Jenny begins an archaeological dig through her father's artifacts, discovering that the "quiet" truck driver she knew was once the most beloved boy in his rural Minnesota school. Using his handwritten diary, million-mile driving certificate, and handcrafted furniture as evidence, she starts to uncover what happened to transform a confident, charismatic child into a man who learned to love sideways. This isn't just grief processing—it's detective work, piecing together the complete picture of a person who lived underneath a carefully constructed identity. Episode 1 sets up the excavation site and reveals the central mystery: When did Dad learn to disappear, and why?

In this final episode, I talk about my mom's final voicemail and life since her funeral. For months, I found myself reaching for my phone on Mondays and Thursdays, the days we usually spoke. The absence of her calls created a negative space in my routine where her voice had been. I would catch myself thinking, "I should tell Mom about this," before remembering she was gone. 

In the end, what remains when everything else falls away is the actual love we managed to create together, day by day, call by call, reaching across all the silences between us.

Thank you for joining me on this journey through "The Silence Between Hello." If you'd like to learn more about my work or connect with me, you can find me at jennyskoog.com or on Substack! The soundtrack for this podcast is called “The Way The Wind Blows” and was produced by Simon Jomphe Lepine. Special thanks to my husband James for his sound editing, encouragement, and inspiration throughout this project, and our pup Frankie, who snuggled in with emotional support.

In November 2019, three years before Mom died, I recorded a conversation with both of my parents at their kitchen table in Minnesota. It captures something different than the voicemails - the rhythm of their sixty-year marriage, my father's quiet presence, the ordinary moments that make up a family. Mom’s sense of responsibility for others' well-being was central to her worldview. It shaped how she mothered, how she participated at church, and how she approached marriage. Love, for her, was bound up with duty, with putting others first, with being perpetually available and attentive to needs.

The first time I heard mom forget who she was calling, I panicked. The woman who had dialed my number countless times over decades suddenly wasn't sure who was on the other end of the line. Or rather, who would be listening to her message later. I'd been noticing small changes in her memory since around 2017. Mom wasn't just forgetting details; she was losing the thread of her own actions, her own intentions.

In our family, physical affection wasn't common. I don't remember hugging my parents as a child. The standard greeting between church members was a handshake accompanied by the phrase "God's Peace." When I left the faith, the mutual greeting stopped, which created an awkward vacuum in familial interactions.In addition to new traditions like bear hugs in place of handshakes, my long-distance relationship with Mom required careful navigation. Calls every Monday and Thursday. Flowers. Handmade aprons. Gym sneakers. Saying "I love you," and hearing those rare words repeated back to me. All of it felt foreign at first, almost transgressive. But over time, it became our new ritual, replacing what had been lost with something more honest for both of us.

I've spent much of my adult life running from the limitations of small-town life. I fled to big cities, sought education, built a career. Mom's voicemails remind me that there's wisdom in the slow life. The constancy of her check-ins—her way of maintaining connection across our separate geographies—became the thread that kept us tethered through the years. Not the shared faith we once had, not the physical proximity of family, but these moments of reaching across distance to say, simply: I'm still here. I still care where you are. I still want to know how you're doing.

How do you tell someone you love that their deepest conviction—the organizing principle of their entire life—is something you no longer believe? At some point, I realized that I needed to disappear into the crowds of the world and begin my life. Start again. Maybe for the first time.

We often don't recognize the value of everyday communications until they're gone. These voicemails - mundane, repetitive, sometimes frustrating - have become precious artifacts of a complicated love.

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