The Skipped Generation

Actually, my mothers choices in life taught me how not to live my life.

I don't mean to sound cruel. I came to understand my mother very well. Everything fell into place and I came to admire her honest way of living. I also came to understand how she became the person who lived in the house when I was a child.

My mother married my father when he was a youth of fifteen and she was sixteen. They traveled to a neighboring state and lied about their ages. My father took her to a friend's house and denied snowing where she was for several days. My mother didn't reassure her mother of her safety as the older woman frantically searched for her only "child".

Eloping in this silent manner must have seemed very exciting and daring. I believe my mother and my father tried to duplicate the drama throughout their years together. ( They divorced after forty eight years. )

Parenting is not dramatic. It is daily, mundane and very repetitive. It is not the life my mother found "free spiriting". Whenever my mother displeased someone she would describe herself as "a free spirit".

As for me I always wanted someone to be glad when I walked in the door of a room. I wanted someone to kiss my knee when I fell . I wanted a hug when a snake crossed my path when I was riding my tricycle. I wanted to be the apple of my mother's eye.

When I was seven years old, my mother bought the Eatwell Cafe. She then looked for someone to put me . My Aunt tried to care for me. However she needed a very ordered life for her own two children. I disturbed the calm waters. Also, I had long hair and it was very hard to comb before school time.

In the cafe years I was allowed to go to the movies after coming to the cafe by bus after school. I was allowed to go to two movies on Saturday. I could play paper dolls in the last booth. A cranky waitress would scoop up the paper dolls if a customer needed the booth.

I could grab a coca cola from the cooler anytime I wanted. A kind waitress named Cecelia tole me the soda would ruin my teeth. Cecelia would tell people I was a very good girl whenever she had to scoop up the paper dolls or wake me when I was sleeping in the booth.

One winter I had whooping cough. A coughing child does not fit into a cafe setting. I found myself alone in a hotel like room. I remember there was an alcove outside one window.

My aunt found me in the room and phoned my Grandmother Daisy who lived on a farm three hours away. In three hours, my grandmother arrived and whisked me away to the farm

I was allowed to sleep in the day bed downstairs. My grandmother removed her bulky hearing aid at night and didn't hear when I cried out. I had thought I saw a lion at the foot of the bed. ( a fever induced dream? )

My grandfather came to my day bed and sat with me until I fell back to sleep again. He was actually my step-grandfather as my Swedish grandfather had died two years before I was born. The caring man was always "grandpa" to me. The man had helped raise his widowed sister's nine children. He never had a child of his own.

The farm was like a warm quilt in my life. It had a yard swing with a wooden seat. I would try to reach the top leaves until called inside for supper. I was allowed to feed the chickens and gather the eggs.

My grandmother cooked for harvest crews too. I would watch in awe as she brought heaps of mashed potatoes and plates of fried chicken to the large table. Sometimes she would make bread pudding or blueberry pies.

When on the farm, I would take a school bus . I could visit another girl from the bus route on the week-ends. Her mother made the best and coldest kool-aid in the world. We grew older and read Nancy Drew books together. We snuck under a "cave" in the wood pile and discovered her other brother's magazine collection.

My grandmother wept when I nearly drowned in a road side ditch after heavy rains. The underside of the road had washed out and wasn't there when I tried to get back on the gravel road. I would slip under the water. The neighbor girl helped me to safety. My grandmother hugged her as she wept.

When I was twelve years old, my parents were moving to California . I remember not wanting to leave the farm dog named Duke or the yard swing with its own yard light. I ran around outside in the cold air hoping I would get sick and have to stay on the farm.

On the way to California I saw a shirt on a clothes line that was exactly like one worn by my best friend on the school bus. It brought a tear to my eye.

California, to me, wasn't a magical place where you met movie stars. I thought palm trees were ugly. I did like the orange juice place shaped like a real orange.

I basically did my home work and bided my time until summer arrived and I could return to my place of joy. The farm with its steps on the side porch. My Grandmother Daisy would have headed to those steps when she saw the dust from the car turning at the mail box corner.

Looking back through the years ( I will be eighty four this year ) , I can see clearly. I skipped a generation and found the lessons for my own parenting of my five children. I discovered the joy of all the daily, mundane and repetitive tasks of being a mother.