My cousin, Claudia, has a wonderful blog up and running. It has provided my sister and me opportunities to remember stuff from our - very different - childhoods, catch up with a beloved family member, and just generally spend some time remembering all sorts of stuff.
It has been on my mind since my sister first pointed me to this post. My sister said it was "bittersweet", because of the ending. At first, I was so awed by it all - hearing these memories of events I remember differently, and far more vaguely, is a wonderful exercise. Also, I was very, very humbled by the view of the family in which I grew up. That, and the fact that my very cool oldest sister is very much the awesome human being she pretends she's not - well, it's nice to have that reinforced.
But, at the same time, yeah, it is bittersweet. My sister and I were chatting and we both agreed we were very lucky - ours was by and large a very happy home life growing up. Hearing that others looked in and saw . . .something . . . there that a focus on some of the bad parts might miss is a nice reminder that too close a focus on the crap can blind you to other virtues that you might not even realize are there. Our parents, I think, had far more patience than we realized at the time, were far more indulgent than they could really afford to be, or should have been, anyway. I do know that I have a lot of happy memories from growing up. We did a lot of laughing in my house, especially when we had family visit.
Not everyone is so lucky. I hear stories from people I work with, friends of mine from various times in my life, and I think, "How did they live like that?" I think we were, all five of us, incredibly lucky in many ways. This is not to downplay the bad stuff, but just to put it in some kind of overall context. It think the simple fact that the five of us are all still alive, living our very different lives with a certain amount of success is a testimony to the work my parents did raising us.
One more note on all this. Many years ago - it was actually Christmas, 1991 - I was visiting my folks with my woman friend of the time. My parents, my friend and I were sitting in the kitchen talking about thises and thats, and my Mom told me about a surprise visit she had the previous summer from an old friend of another sister of mine. This woman's name, Diane, was actually the first word I ever spoke. That summer, Diane's husband, with whom she had run away and married right after (or even during, I can't remember for sure) high school, had left her and their children for another woman. Diane had lived for years estranged from her family. Mom said during the visit that Diane had told her, my Mom, that she always thought my mother was so great, and she came to see her because that was who she thought of when she needed to "come home" in the wake of all her troubles. My Mom, who I have only ever seen get teary-eyed a couple times in my entire life, was all choked up when she was telling me this.
Ours wasn't a perfect home. Then again, there isn't such a thing, and I have no doubt my daughters will have "issues" when they are older. At the same time, I am inspired by reading Claudia's memories, and thinking about what Mom told me Diane said to her, to be a better father, to provide my kids with the kind of home other people will look upon with wonder, and maybe even a little envy. If I do even half as well as my parents did, I think I'll have done all right.
