One of the common denominators that we all share is that we all have a story. In my Father’s Day sermon Sunday, I mentioned that not everyone emerges from childhood with their sense of self-esteem intact. By happenstance yesterday, a cousin reposted a blog that I wrote on Father’s Day in 2016.
Not surprisingly, it included the same theme. When it comes to fatherhood, there is not a one size fits all descriptor that works for everyone. Several years ago, an extended family member by marriage shared the story of recently going to her family’s reunion.
An uncle, who was the only surviving member of his family of origin, talked long into the night. He said to the few people who were still up: “I think it is important that you know the things I have to share. Once I’m gone, the information will be forever lost. Since I’m the only person who knows the things, I’m going to share them with you, it might be important for you to know…”
The things he had to share were eye opening. There were no stories of horse thieves who had been hung in the family’s history and the secrets kept by the uncle didn’t fall into the category of things that would vie for headlines in an expose’, but the things he had to share were helpful in having a better understanding of why people behave the way they do. Most folks have someone they’d describe as a little strange in their family tree. Since I can’t think of anyone in mine, I have a fear that it could be me.
In terms of family history, I’ve been around a long time. I only had three cousins who were older and one of them Is now on the other side of eternity. Fortunately, I do have one maternal aunt remaining from the original family of origin. Over the years, since my mother has been gone, I’ve frequently asked her questions about her childhood.
I never knew my maternal great grandparents on Grandpa’s side. They were on the other side of eternity when I was born. Somewhere along the way, I’ve gathered the impression that my grandpa’s father drove a Buick and smoked cigars. I really don’t know that for sure. Having a few oil related interests can make a dirt-poor farmer or rancher think they are on top of their game or perhaps a little better off than others.
Since the family cattle brand was my great grandmother’s initials, I have gathered from the few stories I’ve heard that she ruled the roost. Did I mention I try to steer clear of bossy women? By the way, I have a couple of branding irons from that period of time given to me by Grandpa.
Whenever extended family members gathered in her home for any event, the men were served lunch or dinner before anyone else. Actually, the men and the straw boss (aka – maternal great grandmother) ate before anyone else.
My maternal great grandmother didn’t participate in meal preparation. That was a task for her daughters-in-law who were privileged to be married to her sons. That role model is such a contrast to either of my grandmothers, that I can’t imagine that I would have enjoyed her company. Yet, apart from having a maternal great grandmother that was a little persnickety and placed an exaggerated sense of importance on her own kids over their spouses and grandchildren, I don’t think there are other secrets to share.
My post from 2016 that my cousin shared on Facebook yesterday included one of the stories that I’ve saved across the years. In Garrison Keillor’s book, We Are Still Married, he shares the story of the town’s baseball team. For lots of reasons, the team was named the Lake Wobegon Schroeders. Most of those reasons were the nine sons of E.J. Schroeder who were in the starting lineup.
Obviously, E. J. loved baseball. After all, isn’t baseball the All-American sport? Keillor writes:
“E. J. was ticked off if one of his boys hit a bad pitch. He’d spit and curse and rail at him. And if a son hit a home run, E. J. would say: ‘Blind man coulda hit that one. Your gramma coulda put wood on that one. If a guy couldn’t hit that one out, there’d be something wrong with him I’d say. Wind practically took that one out of here, didn’t even need to hit it much.’ – then he would lean over and spit.
“So, his sons could never please him, and if they did, he forgot about it. Once, in a game against Freeport, his oldest boy, Edwin Jim, Jr., turned and ran to the center-field fence to try and catch a long, long, long fly ball. He threw his glove forty feet into the air to snag the ball and caught the ball and glove. When he turned toward the dugout to see if his dad had seen it, E. J. was on his feet clapping, but when he saw the boy look at him, he immediately pretended he was swatting mosquitoes. That play was the third out of the inning. Jim, Jr. ran back to the bench and stood by his dad. E. J. sat chewing in silence and finally said: ‘I saw a man in Superior, Wisconsin, do that a long time ago. But he did it at night, and the ball was hit a lot harder.’”
Can you imagine growing up in a household like that? At a very real level, children need their parent’s blessing and sense of support. Across 45 years of child welfare related work, I’ve got stories I could share. Perhaps surprisingly, most of the stories I have to share have nothing to do with my work. They are grounded in observations and bits and pieces of life stories that people have shared with me in the context of personal relationships. They are stories from everyday life.
Interestingly, most people self-protectively choose not to share a lot, but when they do, it is simply because they cannot mask the pain of “never having gotten it right” from a parent’s perspective. Sometimes folks sharing their story continue to feel that somehow, they were responsible for their father’s lack of interest or involvement in their lives.
All My Best!
Don
Carpe Diem 