Timeless Gifts from Parents to Treasure Forever
Adults easily look back and criticize their parents; I guess this has been in fashion ever since Freud. In some respects it's healthy for a person to assess his upbringing to see which elements of it he wishes to pass on to his own children, ways of parenting he would like to copy.
In my situation, I have done a lot of mental review of my childhood; part of this is from the fact that I cannot stop it; scenes from childhood sometimes come back unbidden and I have a really good memory. Part comes from my attempts at deciphering what the heck happened in the 1960s and 1970s when all the things that defined the "givens" of my world were assaulted by invisible forces reaching all the way into our family and grabbing hold of my oldest sister–the sister who taught me to read before I went to school, who introduced me to Tchaikovsky and Shakespeare, and who left my world to reside in a very strange and incomprehensible universe.
Though there have been occasions when I questioned whether there could have been anything my parents could have done differently, something that would have altered the outcome for my sister, I never thought that what happened was their responsibility. The turmoil of the time was so all-encompassing, so ubiquitous; I have to believe that an entire generation of parents was taken totally by surprise and were totally unprepared for what happened. I want to show you a peek of my parents in this column by including some of the numerous presents they bestowed upon me during my early years.
Over my lifetime, my father took several jobs. He fixed appliances, sold furniture, worked as a broadcast engineer at several local TV stations, door-to--door salesman, and house painter with his own company. Throughout all of these positions, he was known for his diligence and dependability; occasionally, he marketed Amway during the day while working the night shift as a broadcast engineer.
He took care of my little sister for half of the day; she was not in preschool or kindergarten at this time. One does not usually find in contract workers, but as a painter he was renowned for his thorough work, his care of his clients' furniture and belongings, his promptness, and his polite approach with them. He was not a natural salesman for example, so some tasks were more challenging than others; some were quite demanding, but he was not a complainer.
My mother likewise only worked outside the house until I started the first grade. Her secretarial work at GM was rather demanding; she got up early to make lunches for my three sisters, dad, and me then cooked dinner after arriving home; she also frequently worked at the sewing machine producing garments after dinner. She was away from home all day. I really have no idea how she accomplished all she did. She penned a personal letter by hand in each one of them, one end of our kitchen table filled with items she was in the process of baking and the other with Christmas cards, stamps, and addresses throughout the Christmas season. I do not recall her complaining about any of this.
Every Sunday we went to church, and I never questioned the veracity of my parents' religion. Every morning, following thanks for the food my mother made—she created something unique each morning for breakfast—which we all ate at the table—my father would read to us from a devotional book. Every morning my mother would be up early reading her Bible and praying; we frequently prayed for people we knew who were suffering illness or troubles. For many years, my father taught an adult Sunday School class; his pupils liked and respected him much. Before bed, my sister and I would sit in my parents' room even as teenagers, sharing our fears and worries with them and asking them to pray for us. Their life has always revolved first around their faith.
My mother made breakfast every morning, as I indicated, and we never ate the same dish two days running-through. Every day we had breakfast and supper as a family; there is nothing quite like that type of constancy, and nothing like dining together to let you know what is happening in the life of your family members.
Our meals were not always good; occasionally there was a lot of stress and other times painful events were addressed. Other times we joked together, talked about planned trips, current events, and forthcoming tests and school events. We came to know one another's tastes and preferences as well as our challenges and triumphs. I am appreciative of this gift of family mealtimes at a time when daily life sometimes seems quite fractured.
Before I started classes, I spent several hours with my mother. Usually singing or humming as she worked, I watched mom take care of our house, ironing, doing laundry, vacuuming, and cooking. She insisted we make our beds when we got up, taught us to do chores, kept our house neat and ordered, and never left the kitchen unkempt.
She was always quite patient to show us how to correctly measure brown sugar or wash the floor, to test us for knowledge or just listen to our problems; she never screamed at us. My mother and I used to frequently have lunch on the floor near the front door when I was young, enjoying the warm sunshine through the glass, and I recall waking up from my nap to find her watching the Loretta Young program or I Love Lucy as she ironed.
My father erected a swingset and teeter-totter for us in the rear yard and spent some time playing games with us—board games and outdoor activities like badminton, croquet, or Frisbee. He was the one who would whisk us out for ice cream, or to a movie, on demand. Every once and then we would all swim at a public pool; he taught me to swim and dive; it was a really great pleasure every now and then to swim late into the evening, as it started to get dark. We usually held cookouts in the back yard or at a local park. I have wonderful memories of sitting in his lap as he read me stories, fun and frosty memories of being pulled behind him on the sled, and one unique memory of being taken on a "tour" of Carlsbad Caverns by looking at slides he showed me and my sister while seated under the kitchen table with a blanket draped over it (for the appropriate cave-like effect.) You may also read this: Enhancing Children's Nature and Needs Awareness
My parents drove us on family vacations every summer. Whether camping in a national park, seeing relatives in Indiana, viewing the capitol of the country, or visiting Disneyland, each of us would help decide where we would travel that year. We drove along the California coast on Highway 1 one year, saw the large Redwood trees, got to play in the waves of both the southern and northern sections of the state, and One year, we attended the Tournament of Roses Parade and felt an earthquake. The year we watched Neil Armstrong take his first stride on the moon, we were staying in a magnificent old house in Galveston, Texas. We were somewhere in the Black Hills of South Dakota when my dad stopped the car to listen to Richard Nixon's resignation on the radio. We visited the Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone; we swam in frozen streams and hot springs, visited Williamsburg, Mount Vernon, Monticello, and the White House, and stood at the brink of Lover's Leap. Bears were up close and personal at least three times. We usually drove, hardly stayed in motels, and almost always ate outside. Sometimes, when I was young, I wished I could live my life over again so I could go back over the vacations.
I would want to add the gift of music last. My mother inquired if I would want lessons when she saw me selecting songs on the piano when I was quite small. I agreed I would, and loved piano lessons until I was roughly twelve; I was bored with practicing and hoped Jr. High School would offer more engaging events. My mother then brought up the idea of learning from a university professor, but she said I would have to try on him to find out whether he would accept me as a student. The challenge appealed to me no turn-off. Following the try-out, I was accepted and found a whole other universe of music available. Entering many contests, my tutor exposed me to some of the best music ever created, and I developed a passion of practicing just for the enjoyment of going through the songs.
My parents had to pay for all those lessons, listen to me practice for hours, get me to and from the classes, and usually go with me to contests. Scholarships and finally a degree in piano performance came from these lessons and contests. Although this degree would have been readily regarded as "useless," my parents encouraged me in seeking it. I put my playing off to focus on my family, then on teaching in a school. Thanks to my parents' investment, I can still read and perform some of the most beautiful and cherished music in the world even if I never became a professional performer and I have lost some of the facility I once had.
Like their generation, my parents are hard-working, honest, full of integrity and kindness. Neither attended college nor dreamed of enormous fortune or any form of recognition. Loving parents gave us everything they had—love of God, love of learning, loyalty to family, commitment to responsibility, patriotism, good humor, and a strong marriage. When we asked, they advised us; but never butted in. They went through life as it came, the happy times and the trying ones without grumbling. They inspired me to desire to create my own family and continue in their footsteps. The lives and the blessings these two people have bestowed upon me define me. Though the things they gave me have been passed on to my own five children and, I suppose will be passed on to theirs, there is never enough way I could ever thank them. Thank you, Mother and Daddy; for everything! Loving you.