I was thinking about my parents the other day, both of them gone now for more than thirty years. My adolescent separation from my Family of Origin was an awkward and often painful one. To put it simply, I was something of a teenage jerk.
That’s not an unusual transition, from what I have learned since then, but not something to be proud of, either. C’est la vie entre parents et infants.*
Here’s a photo of them taken in 1938. I would be born a year later. If they could have looked ahead sixteen years, maybe they would have left me at the hospital. It may be fortunate for me that they could not see the future. But … I digress.
Eleanor and Joe were people who in a better time might have gone on to college and professional schools, but were unable to get beyond basic economic survival. And then I came along as their firstborn, and babies are not load-lighteners.
Today I was listening through my headphones as I trundled around the track at the gym. (In the summertime I prefer exercising outdoors but the ambient temperatures today were in the 90s which is where I absolutely positively wilt.) Anyway, up comes this Springsteen song in a version I hadn’t heard before. The introductory patter could almost be the story of my mom and dad … but let’s let Bruce tell it.
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*I do this annoying schtick of inserting a bit of French from time to time for two reasons. One is to wake up the reader who may be dozing off. The other is to boast that I had a minor in French at university in 1957.
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Becoming a father was easy, the whole “birds and bees” setup that Nature has built into the system took care of that. It was in those long years afterward where there were opportunities for happy glory and for mud-spattered failures. I’m not certain what the glory:mud ratio was for me but I’m pretty sure it could have been improved upon.
When it became my turn to be a parent, I had quite reasonably resolved not to make the same mistakes that I thought my own parents had made. Unfortunately I came up with an entire set of new ones of my own. It was my creative side at work.
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On the CNN website was an article about a film from 1983. Title: The Day After. Subject: aftermath of nuclear war.
Perhaps it was the recent rattling of the nuclear sabers by Mr. Putin that prompted the film’s review at this time, I don’t know.
But it intrigued Robin and I so we searched and found the movie on YouTube. It is very well done and one of the grimmest movies you’ll ever click “Play” on. It is not about the powerful players who sent the missiles back and forth but about ordinary terrified Kansas folk trying to hold together shattered lives that no longer could be held together.
The Day After was filmed 39 years after Hiroshima. It is now 41 years since the movie was released. Foolishly I had believed that the M.A.D.* years had been put safely to bed but it turns out they were only reading under the covers with a flashlight.
* Mutually Assured Destruction
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Usually I take Father’s Day as the inspiration for a major rant, but I’m going to tone it down this year. This particular “day” is no worse or better than all the other artificial ceremonial days or weeks or months. Most of them have been co-opted by commercial interests of various sorts. My modest list of examples might include:
- Christmas: celebrating the birthday of God by playing Jingle Bell Rock ad nauseam while shopping in full panic mode
- Black Music History Month: okay, this month we will play some blues, jazz, rock, gospel, and soul music. Wait … we do that all year … every year … why not just lay back and be cool about it? How much non-classical music is not black, I wonder?
- Memorial Day: turned it into a three-day weekend so the barbecue grills get a real good workout
- Father’s and Mother’s Days: how much better to acknowledge their contributions, if you want to, in some non-obligatory manner at some non-obligatory time. A simple Love Ya, Mom next Saturday might do the trick
- Halloween: hmmmm … I think we probably do this one just right
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From the fine movie “Smoke Signals.”
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Little Home In The Valley 
I remember watching The Day After. At the time, we all felt pretty certain it would happen sooner or later. Not very happy viewing.
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that’s a real nice picture of mom and dad.
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They were good looking people. What happened to us?
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