We all know the moral conundrum- is it a crime for a starving man to steal bread? I learned how many ways that applies today.
I did not especially enjoy growing up, either at school or at home. After my father died, my mother became rather more violent, temperamental and verbally violent than she had been. She was never interested in 'home-making' skills. She was very messy, and tended to be unaware of that messiness while readily confessing to it. She made delicious apple pie (I know, I know, Mom's apple pie, but in this case it's really true), but was otherwise uninterested in cooking. She saw it as her duty to provide a nourishing and balanced meal, but had no interest in cooking as creation and 'art'.
Meals generally consisted of some sort of meat item- chicken breasts, hamburgers, pork chops, some steak- broiled on 'high' until flames on occasion spouted out of the open oven door. The favorite starch was frozen french fries, thrown into a pan of smoking hot oil at arm's length with her eyes closed to avoid the volcano of grease spatters which erupted from the pan. Vegetables, in true '60s-'70s fashion, were frozen and then boiled. I did not see a fresh vegetable until my first year of medical school.
While all this was nutritious, it was not much fun. There was a great deal of histrionics, screaming and cursing during meal prep time, even though that was usually 15 minutes. I think my preference for creating oriental dishes involving chopping and prep is a reaction to meals assembled in a hurry and at high volume. But we all learn about our parents eventually, some later than others. Me, later than others.
My wife and son are at a boy scout activity this evening, and I came home at 6:30, to be the cook for myself and my daughter. I had bought a small steak for this night, since they are easy to cook, and my daughter wanted frozen waffle fries. I have made my own french fries, hand cut, for years, and have not looked upon a frozen potato product. But time was short this evening, and both of us were hungry. I read the package, heated the oil, and while pan broiling the steak, sliced in two, I fried the potatoes, which took all of 5 minutes. The carrots we had raw, dipped in ranch dressing.
My father died when he was 46, my mother 47, and I 13. My mother went from working part time with two earners, to supporting two children in private schools, and ultimately Ivy League universities, providing us meals, clothes and the ordinary psychiatric level encouragement that all parents must give teens. The day my father died she was earning 15,000.00 yearly. Three years later, she made 45,000.00, and then 60,000.00, more than enough to do all she intended to do. She worked part time at three different jobs to do this.
And now I understand dinner time. I know why she made 15 minute dinners. I know why she was tired. I know why she wanted a few minutes to sit with coffee and a cigarette before cooking. Because I felt it myself tonight. I wanted to give my daughter a quality meal, and I wanted to do it quickly.
I did not yell or curse or shout at my daughter to get out of the kitchen. But then I did not live the emotional agony she lived. She never saw her father after age 5. She was thrown out a second story window and spent a year learning how to walk. She was violently abused by her uncles. The only man she ever loved got sick, went crazy for a couple of years, required dialysis at home, and then died young and horribly.
I am quite sure, as I have been on other occasions, that I would not have done as well if I were in the same position. Now I understand one more part of her behavior and choices. It is OK for the emotionally starving to steal those moments they can have. It is OK for dinner to be 15 minutes and frozen.
And now, she is 87, blind, demented, and living in an assisted living center. All her friends are dead. All her family are dead, except for me and my sister. Soon all her life and times will vanish away, the only legacy being her children, and what we pass on to our children. I am especially glad that some of her brilliance has passed to my children, and that I have shown them how she made cinnamon toast.
And I hope a merciful God will forgive me my adolescent harshness in judging her for doing the best she could.
Ted
I did not especially enjoy growing up, either at school or at home. After my father died, my mother became rather more violent, temperamental and verbally violent than she had been. She was never interested in 'home-making' skills. She was very messy, and tended to be unaware of that messiness while readily confessing to it. She made delicious apple pie (I know, I know, Mom's apple pie, but in this case it's really true), but was otherwise uninterested in cooking. She saw it as her duty to provide a nourishing and balanced meal, but had no interest in cooking as creation and 'art'.
Meals generally consisted of some sort of meat item- chicken breasts, hamburgers, pork chops, some steak- broiled on 'high' until flames on occasion spouted out of the open oven door. The favorite starch was frozen french fries, thrown into a pan of smoking hot oil at arm's length with her eyes closed to avoid the volcano of grease spatters which erupted from the pan. Vegetables, in true '60s-'70s fashion, were frozen and then boiled. I did not see a fresh vegetable until my first year of medical school.
While all this was nutritious, it was not much fun. There was a great deal of histrionics, screaming and cursing during meal prep time, even though that was usually 15 minutes. I think my preference for creating oriental dishes involving chopping and prep is a reaction to meals assembled in a hurry and at high volume. But we all learn about our parents eventually, some later than others. Me, later than others.
My wife and son are at a boy scout activity this evening, and I came home at 6:30, to be the cook for myself and my daughter. I had bought a small steak for this night, since they are easy to cook, and my daughter wanted frozen waffle fries. I have made my own french fries, hand cut, for years, and have not looked upon a frozen potato product. But time was short this evening, and both of us were hungry. I read the package, heated the oil, and while pan broiling the steak, sliced in two, I fried the potatoes, which took all of 5 minutes. The carrots we had raw, dipped in ranch dressing.
My father died when he was 46, my mother 47, and I 13. My mother went from working part time with two earners, to supporting two children in private schools, and ultimately Ivy League universities, providing us meals, clothes and the ordinary psychiatric level encouragement that all parents must give teens. The day my father died she was earning 15,000.00 yearly. Three years later, she made 45,000.00, and then 60,000.00, more than enough to do all she intended to do. She worked part time at three different jobs to do this.
And now I understand dinner time. I know why she made 15 minute dinners. I know why she was tired. I know why she wanted a few minutes to sit with coffee and a cigarette before cooking. Because I felt it myself tonight. I wanted to give my daughter a quality meal, and I wanted to do it quickly.
I did not yell or curse or shout at my daughter to get out of the kitchen. But then I did not live the emotional agony she lived. She never saw her father after age 5. She was thrown out a second story window and spent a year learning how to walk. She was violently abused by her uncles. The only man she ever loved got sick, went crazy for a couple of years, required dialysis at home, and then died young and horribly.
I am quite sure, as I have been on other occasions, that I would not have done as well if I were in the same position. Now I understand one more part of her behavior and choices. It is OK for the emotionally starving to steal those moments they can have. It is OK for dinner to be 15 minutes and frozen.
And now, she is 87, blind, demented, and living in an assisted living center. All her friends are dead. All her family are dead, except for me and my sister. Soon all her life and times will vanish away, the only legacy being her children, and what we pass on to our children. I am especially glad that some of her brilliance has passed to my children, and that I have shown them how she made cinnamon toast.
And I hope a merciful God will forgive me my adolescent harshness in judging her for doing the best she could.
Ted
It is amazing how much we inherit from our parents other than looks. There are so many things about me that are just like my mother. Little habits and traits. I'll be doing something or saying something and my children will say"You are just like Nanny". Not bad things just things some people find annoying. My mother is the type of person when you go to her house be prepared to leave with something! Anything from oranges to toilet paper. She would give coffee to the garbage men in the winter and orange juice in the summer. She also is very messy and unorganized. I am not. So some things I try very hard not to do like her but some things like caring for people and putting my family first I don't mind. Now that she is getting older and starting to decline mentally and healthwise I appreciate anything about her and take the good with the bad. I also try very hard to have the patience of a saint when I take her shopping. I understand more about how hard her life was and the tragidies she endured(too long to get into) and how she held things together for her children. She had 8 of us! I have tremendous respect for her. So I guess there are some things about her I am proud to be. Elizabeth
ReplyDeleteIt really is true that until we put ourselves in someone's shoes it is too easy to look down on their actions or viewpoints, isn't it? How many times have children gone through a rebellious phase, dismissed their parents as foolish or weak, gone on to become parents themselves, then realized that their parents weren't so stupid or inept after all? That seems to be a pattern that we can see going back as far as recorded history goes...I still remember how C. Everett Koop responded to condescending remarks about his views on abortion. He simply replied, "If you had led my life, you would understand." Indeed.
ReplyDeleteAs Joe South sang four decades ago, "If I could be you and you could be me for just one hour
If we could find a way to get inside each other's mind
If you could see you through my eyes instead of your ego
I believe you'd be surprised to see that you'd been blind
Walk a mile in my shoes, walk a mile in my shoes
Yeah, before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes
This was a very moving blog, Ted.
David Graham