The passing of Mother’s Day and the coming of Father’s Day has made me somewhat wistful and nostalgic. I’m at the time of life where both my parents have passed on. An only child, I have never had other close family members in my life. My life pretty much consisted of two grandmothers, one grandfather, my mom and my dad. There were aunts and uncles and cousins, but there isn’t much communication amongst those surviving, so I usually only see one or two of them at a funeral.
As these celebratory days pass, I realize that I am truly alone now. I still have my two sons, but I am their tie to their early life. I no longer have anyone who remembers what I was like as a child. No one who knows about my pets, my favorite classes, my tolerance of the piano lessons, and my shyness around older kids.
Perhaps it is a natural outgrowth of age, that we begin to look back and remember what our lives used to be like. My memories of my youth are now archived. There is no one left to say, “Oh, yes, I remember when you did that.” Memories, of course, can be inaccurate and they can disappear. No one left to correct the memories or to remember what I cannot.
When I was five, we took a vacation to California. It was my parents, my grandmother and her housekeeper, who was originally from Taos, New Mexico. I remember staring at the side of the car door. They didn’t have car seats back then, so I was tucked in the corner of the backseat, too small to see out the window unless someone put me on their lap. We stopped in Taos and I was introduced to several of the Pueblo children. One little boy had chocolate smeared all over his mouth and I was sad because I didn’t have any chocolate. We pressed on to California. In Newport, visiting a great aunt, my dad walked me to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. He got his shoes and the cuffs of his pants wet holding me so I could wade into the cold water. I loved it. Later in San Francisco, I had to use the bathroom, immediately. Dad drove around and around trying to find a gas station. He finally found one and Mom rushed me in. Surprise! I didn’t have to go any more. Mom never did tell Dad that I failed to perform.
My birthday cake was always chocolate with white whipped frosting. Dinner was always at my grandmother’s house, which was next door to us. Her housekeeper was an excellent cook, and made wonderful fried chicken and gravy. On other special occasions, she would make a graham cracker pie, which had a vanilla custardy filling topped with tons of meringue. All the time I was in school, my Mom would pick me up for lunch and we’d eat with my grandmother. Then Mom would drop me back at school and she’d return to work. There was a short-lived period when I was expected to eat a portion of everything that was served. Spinach, cooked cauliflower, asparagus, all appeared on my plate and I would attempt to win an Academy Award in displaying how sick these terrible vegetables made me. Mom would resort to telling me I would not go back to school until I had eaten everything, and I was cowed by the thought of being returned tardy to school and having everyone know it was over spinach. So I would eventually give in, after much crying and gagging. It was not pleasant for anyone, and the project was abandoned after about a month.
Christmas was a challenge. Since Dad had to open up the radio station, he would be gone by 5:30 on Christmas morning and the rule was that I could get my stocking, but not open any gifts under the tree until Dad came home. That was usually about 10 in the morning. You can imagine the anxious trips to the window to see if his car was pulling into the driveway yet. It always seemed to take forever for him to get home on Christmas.
My one grandmother was overly obsessed with me because I was the only grandchild, and I had arrived just three months before my grandfather died of a heart attack. I think she felt I was sent to be his replacement in her heart and she constantly spoiled me and worried about me and would sneak Ex-Lax to me, telling me it was chocolate, so I would be regular. She also sent me graham cracker pie and potato salad when I was away at college, so I wouldn’t be hungry. (I was only 50 miles away). My remaining grandfather, on the other hand, snuck me silver dollars. I was their only grandchild living in town, so I got some extra benefits from that side of the family as well. They were stricter grandparents. The grandchildren were expected to eat whatever was put on their plates and ask for permission to leave the table.
My childhood had fun moments and strange moments and embarrassing moments. And it seems sad to me that I no longer have anyone to share those memories with me. Perhaps it is harder for single children because the brother and sisters are not there into the later years. Once grandparents and parents are gone, there is only yourself left. So at Christmas and Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Thanksgiving, I become melancholy and miss those who were so important in my life. I sit and sift through my memories, alone.
