What I Keep
What’s in a name? A name provides a sense of belonging, identity, and purpose. It is the past, the present, and the future of a family. It is everything.
People often inquire about the oddity of my name: two surnames, sans hyphen. While I’ve been married and divorced a couple of times, I retained neither of my ex-husbands’ names. After the last fiasco, I legally took both of my parents’ surnames as a permanent reminder of who I am, and of the people who brought me this far.
I owe an unending debt to my parents. It surfaces even in reminiscences of my simple childhood. When life seems uncertain and there is little to hang onto, these sepia-tinted memories are what I keep. I hold them in my heart and bring them out often, thumbing through each one like worn but beloved snapshots.
I didn’t have the good sense to appreciate my family as a child. Angst got the better of me in my teen years. Poor life choices happened to my young adulthood. But now, at midlife, nostalgia beckons me backward in time...to the 1970s, just outside of Boggstown. All the summers of my youth rush back when I feel the exquisiteness of newly-turned earth beneath my feet, when I rub pungent tomato foliage between my fingers just for the fragrance, and when suntan lotion wafts by on a coconut-perfumed zephyr.
The adult bogeyman of financial strife never troubled me back then. We were neither rich nor poor, but my parents labored each day to put food on the table, clothes on my back, and a roof over my head. They even made sure we went to Florida every year, so my sister and I could feel ocean breeze on our faces and sugary sand between our toes.
Living in the country required an agrarian vision, ingenuity, and a lot of work. I remember helping plant rows of corn, beans, and tomatoes in what must have been acres of garden. This sounds delightful, if you overlook muscle spasms and sweat bee stings behind your knees. Our place wasn’t a farm; but we had a cow or two and a few chickens, as well as cats, a dog, and a variety of exotic pets. Daddy kept honeybees, and for years we sold jars of their liquid gold.
Agricultural efforts aside, Daddy was a mechanic, logging extended hours at our family’s automotive repair shop. A bona fide genius, he once fashioned an emergency car part out of aluminum foil; it got my folks back home to Indiana from the Fort Hood Army base in Texas. There was absolutely nothing he couldn’t fix ─ which caused him great consternation when it came to me, his flawed and unfixable youngest girl.
He worked nearly around the clock; I heard his weary, disembodied voice but rarely saw him, except on weekends. Still, he always attended school events and took the time to help make science fair projects work properly. His presence never failed to make me feel safe; when he was in the hospital a few years ago, the only place that relieved my anxiety was a mechanic’s garage. I asked the guy working on my brakes if I could stay for a while, just for the comforting smell of engine oil and exhaust fumes.
On the other hand, Mama’s quiet industriousness and thrift made our brick ranch-style house a home. Memories of her nurturing care revisit me whenever crisp curtains blow in the breeze; when wind chimes make their metallic music on the porch; when the aroma of home-cooked food beckons from the kitchen; and when I breathe in the scents of carpet shampoo, freshly painted walls, and clean sheets dried in the sunshine.
As my first teacher, Mama taught me to read, and to memorize poetry and Bible verses long before Sunday school or public school teachers required it of me. Later, she was never too busy to sit with me and practice spelling words. Always endeavoring to introduce my sister and me to new experiences, she prepared a series of “international dinners” for which she drew up menus, complete with maps and interesting facts. She encouraged my affinity for the arts by letting me attend the symphony and visit museums with a neighbor.
An ideal Proverbs 31 woman, Mama sold insurance and also our garden bounty, often riding her bicycle nine miles to town to deliver it to the Standard grocery store. She made yogurt, grew sprouts, and ground her own wheat (for heaven’s sake). She wrote a soybean cookbook before edamame was a thing. Wearing a path from the garden to the kitchen, she froze vegetables all summer long and well into fall. I believe we were raising at least 80% of what we were eating.
Frankly, I didn’t see the point in working so hard. The return seemed slight for the investment required. I saw other families living differently and wondered why our life had to be so difficult. Now I see the value in honest labor and the satisfaction in a difficult job well done. Besides, all that gardening was excellent training for life: When things get complicated and the way ahead is unclear, sometimes all you can do is get on your knees in the dirt and pray.
Mama radiated joy in all circumstances and showed me that faith helps get you through bad times. Her example, seen each morning bent over her Bible, taught me to fight for my family in prayer. Daddy taught me that it’s often preferable to fix something old or broken than to throw it away and start over. From him, I learned that the most worthwhile things don’t come easily; that it’s rewarding to leave something better than it was when you found it; and that still waters run deep. From them both I inherited steadfastness of character in the face of cultural changes.
My parents taught me to treasure independent thought and individuality. But they also instilled in me a belief in things greater than ego and a faith in the unseen; and they demonstrated daily that such faith is only worthwhile if it’s lived out for the benefit of others. In a world that worships at the deceiving altar of self, I am grateful for that.
They gave me all they could, but cared enough to say no; and if I’d listened and obeyed every time, I wouldn’t have gotten into half the messes I ended up in. Now, as a parent myself, I realize that household rules aren’t fences keeping out all the fun; they are hedges of protection against the evil that resides within every human heart. Learning to follow them as children of responsible, caring parents doesn’t make us mindless sheep later ─ it produces accountable, self-disciplined adults. My parents sometimes expected better of me than I was willing to give; I used to think they were unreasonable. Yet even now, those ingrained expectations push me to strive for excellence when life itself is being unreasonable and I very much want to quit.
From my parents’ example, I learned that love cannot exist without sacrifice. My mother’s permanently disfigured right hand is a thing of extraordinary beauty because it shows how she has labored with her pen over business paperwork in later years in order to help support family members living under many different roofs. My father sustained back injuries and now has difficulty standing straight; but I recall with pride that the man our family still refers to as “Superman” once lifted transmissions singlehandedly to provide for us.
As an adult, when I heard stories of what my parents originally wanted out of life – and saw how very differently their lives turned out ─ I learned that duty to God, country, and family is more significant and fulfilling than chasing after personal interests or desires. I discovered that, while it’s worthwhile to have dreams, it’s also okay to let some of them go. In fact, it amounts to a very practical kind of contentment.
Trouble has come to me in my life and I have made more mistakes than I care to enumerate. Even so, my parents continue to support me; yet the truest gift that they gave me so many years ago was the knowledge that I live in their love, and that much-needed forgiveness has already been given. They never gave up on me, modeling God’s relentless pursuit of His children. And their unwavering love for me forged a holy connection between home and heart, creating a perfect union of memory and identity.