In Defense of Family

Or maybe I should say in defense of my family. How can anyone assume their family is better than mine? Different, of course. Better?

There are so many kinds of family ties. Mary to her Montana roots, Carol to the Puget Sound area, Claire to her Irish Catholic school girl up-bringing, Lynn to her parents casting her horoscope when she was born. Me to the red dirt roads of Oklahoma. American all.

Red dirt roads, sandstone canyons, vines for swinging, trees for climbing, barns for exploring, fields for wandering, gardens for gathering, berries for picking, paths for walking, places to run, scream, fall, roll, dig, lay about or hide. A little rough and rangy. A little dirty and scratched. Unkempt, untidy, well fed and robust, not mannerly and correct. Just a little bit on the wild side.

I hear people talk about their family and their family growing up experiences so fondly. Nostalgically they recall it as a good life. The good memories of their parents when they were young and robust and healthy. They remember their childhood, their activities, their memories. Mary biked all summer, ice skated in the winter.

Mary talks about her parents and friends making special Christmas cookies early in the holiday season and then hiding sacks of them all over the house. They hid, and the children's job was to find all the secreted stashes, or as many as they could; Galette's, cooked on a cast iron devise.

Claire's mother would make strawberry jam in the summertime but it was off limits until the first snow fell. I can just imagine the joy and wonder of the first snowfall of Minnesota bringing out the joy of jam for Claire and her siblings.

No one's seems as poor as mine, but eventful. Family cabins in the woods, boats across the sound to camping islands. Bo talks about her childhood having no Earth/dirt in it, when she wanted to bury a dead bird all she could do was cover it with leaves. Stephanie's is full of boating memories. Tal's is full of Texas memories and Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Jane's is full of traveling cramped in a car from Texas to New York and back again. Mine is full of heat and dust.

Memories of forgiveness for misdeeds. I hear about Dad's in gardens, dad's drinking, dad's driving boats, losing kids. I hear about dad's infidelities, errant father's dallying on the side, or one too many cups, but all part of the single struggle to be a family. The landscape of family. Part of raising children, paying debts, making a living, to be a family. This is part of our DNA, our strength, our bond to the past and our link to the future.

No right or wrong, but dictated by elements, circumstances, the yearning and drive of fathers in a social world of life living. The motor and direction driven by fathers. The oil and comfort provided by mothers with the hand they had been dealt.

The skeletons of my friends lives are the same as mine. Only the flesh is different. We are born in a family surrounded by specific circumstances; mountains, plains, Puget Sound. We are surrounded by stories, memories; loving and otherwise. We continue with our progeny carrying our lives forward with stories and memories; loving and otherwise.

Climbing a sand dune, trips to Greer's Ferry, bass fishing at Tenkiller, converted bus, pow-wows, homemade kid wagon on the back of a bike, nervous nelly mothers, Southern California beaches, hiking tracks, all this belongs to our children. And Connor's will be different still.

What is the right way to raise a family? Culture, dynamics, siblings are all part of the mix. Always moving towards life -- light -- belonging -- caring -- loving.

Irish, German, Lithuanian heritage slowly ebbs away in America. My family came from the land. Our immigrant story is so distant as to not exist.

When I talk about my childhood poverty some people are disgusted. Poverty has become nasty somehow, socially unacceptable. It wasn't the poverty of Bangladesh, certainly not the opulence of a castle, it was just my life as lived growing up. I always loved Verla's quote, "Do you want me to tell you again how bad I had it growing up."

Can't spell -- genetics.
Red dirt road -- circumstances.

Family stories of romance, courtship, love, deaths, near death, hitchhiking to California, Jean mooning the camera because she didn't want her picture taken, Janice's arm pulled out of it's socket, Julia's anemia, guinea hen attack, Oink-Oink being bottle fed are our family stories.

I mentioned at breakfast with Claire and Mary that I was writing the blog about "family," and Mary posited the theory that summertime brings out strong family memories, ties, thoughts, nostalgia. She might be right. I have so many Forth of July memories that I won't even begin.

Now let's get this Jean's-Birthday-Family-Alaskan-Cruise-Circus rolling. We have memories to make here. My expectation is if I don't have a good time it will be my fault. I found the library in the ships schematics. Don't care about the casinos or nightclubs. I'm looking forward to people watching, a cup of coffee or two, gazing at the horizon. Food and water has it's appeal, good thing since we will be cruising the Pacific Ocean and it might involve some water.

Roger asked me if I had any cancer angst and I said NOPE, any cancer they can scrape off is fine with me. Can I call myself a cancer survivor now? Do I now have to wear a hat? When I went to get my haircut I told the gal my ugly skin wasn't infectious, it was biopsy, band-aid rash, and freezer burn. She said they taught her in school if it looks icky, don't touch it. As all my frozen pieces flake off I can't help but think who would have thought that frost bite would become a part of modern medicine.


Our own family lifeboat in a sea of family lifeboats, claiming supremacy because it is ours is tempting, but the truth lies elsewhere.