I had typed this big post and apparently I did not save it. Oh boy. Back to the drawing board!
My dad passed away recently. It is so surreal, because now both of my parents, as well as my stepparents, are gone. I have one brother. My parents were both only children. And we are immigrants from New Zealand and England. Any distant family members we have are somewhere unknown to us. It makes you feel sort of alone. Just one connection to my childhood – my brother. And we live, literally, 1000s of miles apart. We both have spouses and children, as well as grandchildren, but no immediate family members from our youth, other than each other.
My dad was 96 years old and he lived such an international life. He was born in LA but moved quickly to Canada because of the Great Depression. They then moved back to England, where both of my grandparents were born. He was raised among cousins and extended family while they lived in England. But my brick-mason-grandpa could not get steady work. So, they ended up traveling the world while my grandpa got various jobs, as their ship hit ports. They were literally all over the place. I have keepsakes my grandma collected from India, South Africa, Fiji, the Bahamas. So many ports-of-call. And she collected tea cups and saucers from every port, as well. They finally landed in New Zealand and settled there. My parents met when mom was 18 and my dad was 21. They wanted to marry but my grandparents insisted mom wait until she was 21. They were obedient to their parents’ wishes and in the meantime, they all built a house for my parents until the wedding. My paternal grandfather did the basic construction, my maternal grandfather did all the painting and interior, my dad did all the electrical, while a cousin of my mom did the plumbing. It took them almost the entire three years, working on the weekends. They married and moved into their home in 1951. Then my dad was offered a position with North American Aviation (which eventually incorporated into Boeing) and NASA to get a man on the moon. They arrived in Los Angeles via ship in late 1953. My paternal grandparents followed a year or so later. And then I was born in 1956, and my brother in 1958.
My parents, most especially my mom, love the Maori traditions. I have a carved piece like this my mom brought with her, as well as a porcelain Maori doll that is now almost 100 years old. My parents also had accents. As a kid, my neighbors would tease us that our mom would call us in and they would imitate how she said our names. She could not say a hard “r” to save her life! And when they first got here, she was refused service at the local meat market because the butcher told her she had to learn English. LOL So that began her love of soap operas! She practiced loosing her accent every day! My dad, being raised all over the place, had a sort of flat accent. In his later years, he lived in North Carolina and Texas. His accent was sometimes pretty funny. As he retreated into Dementia, his stories of life onboard these ships became more fantastical, as well as his British accent. He never sounded like a Kiwi.
And now I sit and look back in my mind at my childhood, and my heritage, and in so many ways, it was pretty bland. LOL. For example, my parents did not allow me to wear blue jeans to school in High School, at first. I had to fight for that. They wanted me in dresses every day. Southern California, Orange County, in the 70s – beachy, long hair, and jeans. Finally. My brother had long hair and wore a seashell around his neck on a leather band; I wore pooka (sp?) shells. My hair was down to my behind at one point. I loved flip-flops (we called them thongs back then) and tye-die shirts. I still do! We fit in, other than my parents did not grow up with the concept of Thanksgiving. If my mom hosted any holiday, it was leg of lamb on a spit on the kitchen counter, (above photo) with peas, mashed potatoes, rolls, and minced pie. My grandma hosted Thanksgiving most of the time, and she could cook a turkey! The tail was called “the parson’s nose” and she loved it. She made the best gravy, too. My mom was a simple cook and never excelled at it. My dad was not your bar-b-que dad. He preferred mom to cook. Some days it was an adventure. She loved to cook steaks. Broiled. And they were always gray. I grew up pouring Worcestershire Sauce on everything. It helped get the dried, over-cooked meat down! I did not learn about medium-rare until after I was married!!
My dad would come home every night and have a gin and tonic. It was always Tanqueray Gin. Always. He’d come home, drop off his keys and briefcase on the kitchen counter (annoying my mom) and then settle into his recliner in the family room, while mom finished dinner. It was a nightly routine. My parents had a typical 1950s marriage. He was the boss. She stayed home and kept an extremely clean house (something I hated and so I am not like that, but something my brother loved and is still like our mom) and always had all the laundry clean. Never piles of clothing, ever. Not a spec of dust, either. It was rigid and orderly. And then my brother and I hit puberty and high school! LOL! Things got a little wilder through those years – trust me. With strict, British-raised parents, we pushed every boundary and tried to cross every line they placed before us. I spent the majority of High School on restriction of some sort. Great memories! LOL!
Our parents lasted 27 and 1/2 years. Then dad chose to end their marriage. Our family dynamic was rocky until his death. My mom met and married a wonderful man. My kids considered him their grandpa and he loved us all fiercely, as much as he loved our mom. I thanked God for him. My dad married his secretary. They relocated out of state and from that point onward, I really did not see him often. In fact, when he died, I had not seen him in person in over 20 years. And so this reflection is rather weird. I mourn what I can never have. My kids never knew my dad. I only knew him through texts, phone calls, and the occasional card or gift. We did not have lives that intersected from about the year 2000 or so. In dealing with his death, I realized my mourning took place over 20 years ago. I am used to him being gone. I won’t ever talk to him again and I am sad for that. My kids and grandkids will never know him. I am sad for that. My legacy to my kids will not contain much from my dad. They did, however know his mother, my paternal grandmother. She lived with us until her death. They loved her so much. And my mom lived with us until her Alzheimer’s caused us to place her in an assisted living home. But we all still visited her at least weekly (we tried – even after she no longer knew us). I miss her because she was part of life in this house – we bought this house to accommodate her. But not my dad. I have lived in two states since I saw him last. And our last personal visit was strange and uncomfortable. He came to see us, but he did not stay with us. It was part of that rocky family dynamic that was begun in my 20s, when my parents divorced. And so I mourn all the “what-ifs” in life.
Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:31-32
I have been asked if I am angry about my parents, specifically my dad. And quite honestly, I am not. I’m not bitter, either. I hold no grudge or resentment towards my parents. After my dad passed, I prayed (and still do) nightly for his soul. He did the best he could with what he knew and how his life choices worked out. He was an only child. He really did not know how to deal with two kids, especially a girl. He made it known he wished I was a boy when I was born, but that he “loved me regardless.” He was a misogynist and a narcissist, to boot. And I only realized that through talking to my stepsister. She had him in her life for more than 30 years – longer than I ever did. Once she named it and defined it and showed me how it was how dad operated, a lot of my anger dissipated. Kind of like letting the air out of my balloon. I no longer worried about it. The problem was his point of view, not mine. And so I pray for him. I wanted him to find the peace he said he never found in this life. And for my mom, as well. They both longed for peace and love and happiness – they fought to find it. Mom was so happy in her second marriage and I quite often thought that she never belonged with my dad. I think dad just missed that opportunity at happiness and peace – he had glimpses of it, but he never experienced it long term. He told me he regretted leaving my mom without at least trying counseling. I often wish he would have tried because my life, and my legacy to my kids, would have been so very different. But life works out like it does! I have experienced the love, contentment, and peace my parents were searching for. I have God in my life. I have the love of an incredible man. I have the love of my sons, their wives, and their children. I have friends who fill my world with love. And I am rediscovering the love of my brother. God is good. It is all working out. (Everything works for those who love Him. Romans 8:28).
And now we move into our own “last days.” My brother and I have chatted about so many things. Breaking generational curses is among the things we hope we are doing. We are making amends to those we have hurt in this life, before it is too late. I am living every day in gratitude towards my loving God, my incredible husband, and the life we have built together. I cannot lean on what has gone before, but rather rejoice and work towards what is coming.
Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:13-14
kaiserswest 