Sometimes it's hard being your parent's child. I'm speaking for myself...I'm sure it's a total delight for my children. I guess just being the age I am, I hear a lot of friends talking about things going on with their parents. And it gets a person thinking about growing up as their parents child.
Looking back, the seasons are really different. When I was little, I just loved being with my parents....well, most of the time. I was painfully shy...painful like "please don't speak to me, please don't speak to me" kind of shy. My parents, on the other hand....not so much! My dad was a pastor when I was growing up. He is outgoing, has never really met a stranger, and is comfortable asking the most bizarre questions. He would literally give you the shirt off his back. If someone came to the church and they were hungry, needed gas in their car, needed clothes...he would bring them to our house. We didn't have a food pantry at our church, or a benevolence fund. He was just the hands and feet of Jesus. I can't tell you how many times we had total strangers at our table for lunch or dinner. And then my mom would pack them a bag full of sandwiches and whatever else we had to take with them. If their kids didn't have shoes, she'd scour our closets to find something that would work. My dad would drive the car to the gas station and fill it up for them . One time while we had a transient gentleman at our house for dinner, my dad left and took my brother to his baseball game. My mom was teaching piano lessons in the next room, and I was assigned to clean up the dishes (I was going into the 3rd grade). While I was unplugging the electric skillet (which apparently had a loose wire) I was electrocuted....the kind where the current runs in your body and you can't let go of it. And just fyi...you do kind of feel like the cartoons where they fly up in the air. Anyway...so we have a homeless gentlemen in the next room. I'm screaming and attached to the electrical cord, my mom runs in and knocks me loose from the current, and I have burns on my arm and neck as well as an entrance wound on my hand. I'm just guessing we either drove that poor man to drink or sobered him up...not sure which one. I spent a night in the hospital and a few weeks getting burn dressings changed daily at the doctor's office. But if you ever wonder if I've had a short in my brain, now you know it's entirely possible.
ANYWAY....that was a taste of my childhood. Then the teen years came. And I'd just like to say, that if my children ever think I'm embarrassing, they should have lived with Marybelle and Leslie back in the 70's. My mom...let's just say she had her own sense of style. It can best be described as LOUD. And that description suits just about everything about my mom. She was a loud talker, a loud laugher (which is not a bad thing....rather endearing actually), a loud dresser, and a loud yeller (should you ever make her mad, which my brother did a lot). Now, anyone who knew my mom knows she was a large woman, but it never kept her from wearing gold lame pants or anything else she took a fancy to. She was a "light flipper". Some of you know what I mean. When you come home from a date, and you are parked in the car in the driveway...she would flip the porch light to let you know it was time to come in. I can hear you..."how embarrassing". Well, not so much, when you consider her new approach to light flipping when we moved to Oklahoma. We had a one-story house then...so she would step onto the front porch...in her nightgown...with nothing else on...into the bright light of the front porch....and point her finger at us in the car to let me know it was time to come in. Honestly, she only had to do it once (per boyfriend) and then after that, they slowed down at the cul-de-sac and gave me a gentle shove. I liked to refer to that as "Marybelle birth control".
And my dad, God love him! He grew up on a farm in Nebraska during the depression. They didn't move into a house with indoor plumbing until after my dad graduated college...in 1956. So...he has a little bit different mindset about somethings. He's always been a recycler, since before it was cool. He picks up cans, but don't think for a minute he puts them in a recycle bin on the curb each week. He still takes them to sell. After we moved to Oklahoma, the end of my junior year in high school, no one really knew my dad. I decided to keep it that way for as long as possible. BECAUSE...I might be with a friend in a car and pass my dad on the street. He would be the guy riding the woman's bike...from like the 1930's...that weighed approximately 50 pounds and had a HUGE basket on the handlebars. AND he would be wearing his favorite coat, the old brown corduroy coat with most of the buttons missing and the pockets hanging off. He'd top that with his favorite pair of Nebraska sweat pants...bright red with NEBRASKA down each leg (did I mention we were in Oklahoma). If that weren't enough, he'd wear his favorite warm hat....the one that kids made as a fundraiser many years before. It was alternating pieces of blue and gold fake fur with a big tassle on top. And he'd fill the basket of the bike with pop and beer cans that he would find along the roadside. He looked like a homeless person. So, if my friends were driving me home, we'd get to the house and I'd jump out, say goodbye and pray that they drove off before my dad pulled into the driveway and introduced himself. As years go by, I have found his little oddities a lot more loveable. But as a teenager, Leslie and Marybelle were quite a pair!
Now, all these years later, my mom is gone. She passed away 2 1/2 years ago. And my sweet dad has been diagnosed with Alzheimers. Joe's mom passed away less than 5 weeks after my mom. And his dad is very sharp, despite lots of heart problems. Among my closest friends, a few have lost a parent, several have parents battling cancer, and a few are getting to enjoy this season with parents who are relatively healthy. I can look back and appreciate many of the things my parents taught me by example when I was a child. Because of them, our door is always open. We love to have people in our home, share a meal, laugh, pray, fellowship. I love having a driveway full of kids and a garage with bikes, scooters, easels and balls strung all over the place. It blesses me to share our blessings with others. I love to pass along the kids clothes, take a meal to a friend, send a note of encouragement...all things my parents did. It's funny what you learn being your parent's child.
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