Missed Conversations with Mom and Dad

It’s not that I didn’t have the time over the years. It just didn’t occur to me until too late.

There have been so many questions after my parents died; questions about their earlier years, about their parents, about growing up in the 1920s and 1930s. Unhappily, these questions, once past their termination dates, will never be answered. I should have learned more and should have said:

Mom, tell me about…

• Living with six sisters and a brother
• Going to grade school in the country
• Being in that house between Elwood and Wilmington on the old Route 66
• Your mom and dad
• Your cousins, uncles, and aunts
• Dating my dad and other men
• Eloping at the age of 18
• Chores you had to do
• Being told as a youngster that you were responsible for your baby sister
• Living on Roundhouse Street in Braidwood
• Living with dad through the years

Dad, I’d like to know about:

• Growing up on the farm with two older sisters and a younger brother
• Going to school in the country
• Chores you had to do
• Your mom and dad
• Your grandmother Klover and the grandfather you never knew
• The story of your mom dying during the birth of your young sister, Margaret
• Being in the house after your mom died
• At age ten, retrieving your younger brother after being taken away
• Grandpa Kennedy after his wife died
• Going across the Midwest working on farms to send money home
• Working on the pipeline in Oklahoma
• Your first truck
• First time you met my mother

It wasn’t as though I had no time to ask these questions. Although I was in my 20s and 30s and busy with family and jobs, there should have been time to ask these questions. Why did I fail to do so?

The simple answer is, “It never even occurred to me.” And that is a shame. Interestingly enough, similar questions were asked of me, now in my 80s, that my own grandkids, upon request, asked of me. Had I not asked the grandkids to do so, would they have thought of raising these questions? Perhaps yes, because of our age differences and my remorse at not asking my own parents.

Thinking back on the times when I was younger, mom and dad didn’t initiate many stories of their own younger years. I often wonder why they didn’t. It could be that I just wasn’t listening or didn’t seem interested at the time. Or their stories would spark painful emotions and/or feelings of guilt or shame for them. 

I totally understand private, not-to-be-told stories that we all harbor. My journals reveal another side of me that might needlessly harm others if made public. On the other hand, by writing my blogs I express thoughts that I wouldn’t verbalize.  That is the way my mother expressed her unspoken feelings – by writing her poetry. 

We always were aware of how kind and soft dad could be. But his own childhood denied and shielded him from the harshness of death and poverty. It was only in his last days did he start to tell me about his work on farms outside of Illinois.

Part of their reticence may have been caused the way they were raised. I cannot imagine that either household would have engendered warmth and joy. It was a struggle time in the country while they were growing up, and their parents were more concerned about putting food on the table and clothes on their backs. As a result, neither mom nor dad were comfortable in physically showing affection.

The lesson I learned as a parent is to initiate conversations and stories with my kids and grandkids about my own history while resurrecting memories of my ancestors as best I can. Family legacies are to be valued and transmitted to give meaning for our existence on this planet.