It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.
My story begins in a small apartment on the top floor of a tree lined street in Minneapolis Minnesota in the middle of June in the very early days of a marriage between two people… very much in love, not destined to be together longer than ten years, but whose love lives on sixty years later in the hearts of there children and will continue many more lifetimes in the lives of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Love multiplies faster than anger can destroy. This story will demonstrate how.
I’m the oldest of their four and a product of all they did right in this world! I plan to tell their story and my own, and space permitting… and it will… not constrained by paper and pen, but only my heart and mind and imagination! ~ I will tell it!
I am a happy, healthy member of the Baby Boomer generation. A survivor of the crowd that was my growing up. My friends and I were raised in a noisy, busy time with firm rules, lots of freedom and lots and lots of us! Over 900 kids in our graduating class in High School. We didn’t have time for political correctness. We were to busy trying to make it across campus to our next class through the crowd. Forget it if we decided to try to grab a drag on a cigarette in the bathroom on the way!
Rumor had it, one poor kid got push through the glass door at the front of the school between classes! Let’s hope that was folklore!
Still, we enjoyed great pep rallies, winning sports teams, an awesome dance line, great teachers, a super college prep education and plenty of fun. I went to school in a suburb of Minneapolis called Edina.
Even though divorced…my dad made sure we had a great education. My mom made sure our home was a fun place to live.
Sound too good to be true? Okay, that’s fair. I was sad my parents weren’t together… no matter how well they did for us. It was the 60s and 70s turbulent times for our country. But our lives were fairly insular. Protected and happy. We had a lot of friends. A great dog. Parents who fought when they were married, but were very good friends and calm divorced. I loved and liked them both.
I think, looking back that I SUFFERED from depression in my High School years. I was sick a lot… but with rather non-descript ailments. I used to stay at my grandparents in there Edina apartment and have my Grandma wait on me. Seeking some pampering no doubt. When home, I took on a lot of responsibility as the oldest… for keeping my brothers in line and encouraging the making of dinner, etc. My mom cooked…but I remember getting hungry waiting for her to get started. She loved to read and write down her thoughts, strewing her stuff on the kitchen table. Why didn’t I just make dinner? I remember finally learning. My sister was a terrific baker too! But, Mom loved to cook too and did most meals, just without the urgency a husband provides!
So, I was possibly a bit depressed… compelling me to refuge in my grandparents home. Probably just hormones! I really don’t know. Maybe more will surface as I tell my story…