My mother turns 87 next week, and in her honor I want to share a story I wrote fifteen years ago.
Mom still can’t eat raisins.
Raisins, and whatever else the local Catholic church could spare, kept Mom and her seven siblings from starvation on a windswept North Dakota farm. When Mom’s father died at forty, her mother moved the family to a two-bedroom rental in town. The kids slept two or three to a bed. They got their clothes from the donation bin at the church, but this was during the Depression. Mom will tell you poverty isn’t as bad when everybody around you is just as poor.
Meanwhile, Dad was struggling. His mother had divorced his father, and she was prone to nervous breakdowns and hospitalization, so as an elementary-school kid, Dad was passed around among distant relatives. These people resented him, since this was a time when nobody had enough food for their own families. He lived in an orphanage for a while, and in the Civilian Conservation Corps as a teen. He grew up with no family.
In spite of their harsh beginnings, Mom and Dad carved out a life that included almost sixty years of marriage. They relied on themselves, and had a hard time accepting anything from others. They taught me to be tenacious, so on that long-ago spring day on their patio, I held out tickets for a Caribbean cruise, refusing to back down. Dad’s mouth set in a straight line. Mom looked pained, her face wrenched in my direction. My jaw clenched, knowing the likely outcome. Bill and I were determined, but so were they. Seconds passed.
Suddenly, Dad jumped up and pumped Bill’s hand. “By damn, son-in-law, I accept!”
I was excited, but a little worried. Could I spend a week with this bull-headed old man who had ruled the roost as I was growing up? He was a good dad in so many ways, but all through my childhood, he was sometimes violent, and subscribed to a scorched earth policy in winning any argument. As an adult, I felt I had moved on, told myself he’d been under a lot of strain as a young father with a big family, blah blah blah. So it was no longer an issue.
(Now that I read this, I sound codependent. Yeah. Okay.)
The first showdown came early. Dad gave Bill half the fare for a cabbie that had brought us to the ship from the airport in Puerto Rico. When Bill tried to wave him off, Dad got mad and paid the entire fare for all four of us. Later in our stateroom, Bill asked me for advice. I decided to appeal secretly to Mom.
The next day, on Barbados, Bill picked up four tickets for the Flower Forest, an exotic botanical garden. For one tense moment, Dad stared at us, his bushy silver eyebrows knit together. Then he grinned. “I got the message.” Grabbing Mom’s hand, they headed down the path into the forest.
The rest of the cruise was relaxed. We visited St. Lucia, Martinique, St. Vincent and St. Martin. We shopped, toured and feasted on exquisite meals, both on the islands and on the ship. I wanted to give Mom and Dad a nice vacation, something they couldn’t afford on their own. I guess I also wanted to show them something else: their urbane, sophisticated daughter. Well, that was pointless.
Mom and Dad enjoying lunch in a beach-side cafe on St. Lucia at Pigeon Point.
I began to see things differently during the cruise. Such as, without the baggage of my childhood, my Dad was just, in Bill’s words, “a sweet old guy.” From observing my parents, I realized where I got my gift for Olympic-grade worrying. And I realized that mutual disarmament is maybe the best gift family members can give each other as we age.
I had wondered if I could manage a week of togetherness with these people who raised me, against whom I had rebelled in my young adult years, and from whom I had been striving ever since to become independent.
I’d do it all again in a split second, just to see them strolling on powdery white sands under the swaying palms on a beach in Martinique, still holding hands after a half- century of hardship and happiness.
Epilogue: as you know, we lost Dad in July of 2008. I’m grateful he never had to see the Great Recession, after the kind of childhood he had. He apologized to me, in his own gruff way, a few years before he passed. “I’m sorry you had to carry that around all those years,” he said to my then-fifty-year-old self. I knew it was all he was capable of, and I was immensely grateful.
Mom now lives four blocks from me and in spite of health challenges is going strong. She’s a living lesson for how to live a good life in old age. We’re blessed, and I’m grateful.
Mom and Dad in Martinique
Vonnie
/ June 22, 2012Great story, Lynne. Thanks for sharing.
Debbie
/ June 22, 2012Aw, Lynne, this brings to mind the weekend I enjoyed with my folks as they celebrated a special anniversary in Indiana several years ago. You’re blessed to have had this experience, to have enjoyed your parents when you, too, were an adult. This post also reminds me that both our dads have been gone nearly four years now, and both our moms are keeping on keeping-on! We have little control over the events that occur in our lives, but we can face them with poise and grace. What a lovely memory you’ve shared here!
Pat
/ June 22, 2012Beautiful Lynne. Adored this heart felt tribute to your mom and dad’s story of love and resiliency. I will never eat another raisin again without thinking of your mom and all she endured in the Dakotas.
Kathy Shattuck
/ June 22, 2012A special story, and a special time for memories. Wish your mom a happy birthday for me.
sally
/ June 22, 2012Lovely memories, thank you
Lynne Spreen
/ June 22, 2012Dear Sally, Kathy, Deb, Pat, and Vonnie, your comments comfort me. We are all daughters, sometimes of difficult parents, but they did the best they could, sometimes after enduring so much themselves. Yet here we stand, complete and capable. I will wish Mom happy birthday from you, and thanks, sisters.
Kathleen Pooler (@KathyPooler)
/ June 22, 2012Oh ,Lynne, what a poignant story of a precious memory with your parents through pictures and words. Like Debbie said, we are all honoring the memories of our parents as a couple and cherishing the reality that our amazing Moms are still with us on this earth to keep making memories with. I feel so connected through your story. And you tell me you can’t (or maybe don’t want to) write memoir. This,my friend ,is a beautiful memoir snippet that will touch anyone who has the privilege of reading it. I’m off to tweet,Facebook and Google+ this treasure! Thank you for sharing.
Lynne Spreen
/ June 23, 2012No, thank you, Kathy. We are in this together, as you can see from so many comments here. Thanks for sharing it on your networks.
Terry Sprouse
/ June 23, 2012Thanks for sharing that. It gives me a warm feeling knowing that many of us share these same circumstances with elderly parents.
Lynne Spreen
/ June 23, 2012You too, Terry? How are you managing? Any tips?
isthisthemiddle
/ June 23, 2012Oh, wow. I’m blubbering a bit here, but as Terry said, it does let me know that it isn’t just me. Both my parents were kids of the Depression, but I’ve never gone hungry.
A lot of gruff dads came out of that era, but I am thankful Dad and I patched it up long before he left us last November. With 4 siblings scattered across the country, Mom lives 5 minutes from me. It can be hard, but would I have it any other way? No.
This post is a lovely tribute to both your parents. That generation– whew!
Lynne Spreen
/ June 23, 2012No, Melanie, it isn’t just you. So many of us look back with love but also with pain. Sometimes I see my dad as a young, whip-thin teenager in the army, (this is based on a pic of him in service at age 19), and in my imagination he’s trying to figure out how to apologize. How he finally did it? It’s everything to me. Best wishes.
Kathy Ortegon
/ June 28, 2012Lynne – Please wish your Mom a very blessed Birthday for me. I hope we are both as strong as Marie when we reach that pinnacle in our lives. As always, keep the blogs coming. Love, KO
Lynne Spreen
/ June 28, 2012Thanks, Sis. I was just thinking of you. We just got back from seeing the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – it was great. I recommend it. XOXO
ansuyo
/ June 29, 2012How wonderful!