Last week my daughter-in-law sent me a text, asking if I remember my mother being part of a program in Indiana, where high schoolers in the ’50s were tattooed with their blood type in case of a nuclear attack. She’d heard about it on a podcast.
No, I know my mom didn’t have any tattoos, but she did talk about growing up during the polio epidemic and how the public swimming pools were closed for a long time. Kids had to stay indoors to help prevent the spread. Later Mom became a supporter of the March of Dimes because of her experience.
Kendall wanted to know if my mom missed any school because of the quarantine. I didn’t think so but couldn’t tell Kendall for certain. And because my mom passed away in 2013, I couldn’t ask her about it.
Many times over the past seven years, I have been hit with a wave of something akin to but not quite regret. Maybe more of a longing and wistfulness that I didn’t ask her more when she was around to answer me. My memory is replete with stories about her childhood, as she had loving parents and fond memories of her upbringing. But she also didn’t keep a journal or diary, so what remains is my version of her stories.
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Dad (front left) and his mom and siblings |
While I may not remember or even know their life stories, I do remember plenty they passed along to me:
Go to church.
Fly the flag.
Read a book.
Feed the birds.
Help the elderly.
Take food to the sick.
Write your thank-you notes.
Mind your manners.
Thank God for what you have.
If you ask someone to an event, pay their way.
Invite a friend to church.
Listen more than you talk.
Clean the kitchen before going to bed.
Just because someone asks a question, doesn't mean you have to answer it.
If you put something in writing, know that anyone can read it.
Ask what you can do to help.
Don't discard something that can be mended or repaired.
I'm sure there are more truisms they passed along—in words and in deed—but these come to mind immediately when I think about how we were raised. My parents were Christians and patriots who, while they never served in the military, served their community, their church, and their family well. Our small house was always filled with children, friends, and the occasional passerby who needed a place to stay. They are missed, but hopefully they live on in us—their children, grandchildren, great-grands—and others who were loved like family.
