Legacy

I feel like I’ve breathed this huge sigh of relief, that I’ve recaptured that belongingness and level of comfort that is afforded only by coming home, of being with people that you know at this level that is unparalleled really anywhere. It’s this feeling of knowing how to live with these people, of this lifelong history of a shared environment. There really is nothing like it. And I don’t know if I’m being sentimental because “absence makes the heart grow fonder” or if I’m just in one of those moods, but I was sitting in the living room listening to the speakers my dad just built; it was one of those moments that you never want to end. And I got to thinking a bit. So here’s my inheritance/legacy of greatness. (not quite the correct words for what I'm trying to express, but they'll work loosely)

My Dad
Sure he can get on my nerves and sure he has quirks that you have to adjust to and accept, but that’s characteristic of everyone. I got to thinking, however, that my husband’s got a lot to live up to. My dad’s a pretty amazing guy, who fits and molds this stereotype of a great dad and family man. He’s crafty and woodworks with the best of them—has built most of our furniture. He plays golf pretty much everyday and is good at that as well. He’s really into stereos and has this awesome quality system. He’s sporty—coached both me and my brother for years, still coaches, and still plays soccer and bball himself. AND he’s smart—a chemical engineer. And he’s curious about the world, always seeking to understand more things. He’s this great Christian, seeking to better understand God and that relationship. He does basic car mechanic-y stuff. He’s not overly sensitive and gushy, but he does care. And on top of all that, he’s an animal lover—a house is not a home without a dog. That’s quite the tall order there: good/smart job, woodworking, coaching kids sports teams, golf, man of God, car guy, and generally outgoing and personable. Yes indeedy, quite the stereotype there.

My Mom
My mom’s this all American great stereotypical mom. Home room mom, cooked and baked, kept a clean and orderly house while carting around the kids all day. She was that mom that made her kids lunch and would tuck a note in with the peanut butter sandwich just to say that she loves them. She organized sleepovers, let the neighborhood kids play in and around the house, laid back enough to let the kids be kids but also able to teach right from wrong. She organized birthday parties in the park and decorated Christmas cookies for the holidays and battled the snow to get to Grandma’s house by December 24th. She’s abundantly patient and loving, no matter what. She was there for the scraped knees and heartwrenching tears and ready with a snack after school to hear about how Johnny pushed Hunter and how Taylor’s tongue turned purple because of the KoolAid. And as I’ve gotten older, she’s become this ear and sage to whom I can turn about anything. She’s been able to mature and grow with us (my brother and I) as we grew up so as not to alienate or lock herself in this unreachable time lock. She’s adjusted to being an empty nester fairly well, finally being able to pick up her own interests that she’d set aside in order to raise her children. Now she’s in a knitting club, holds two part time jobs, reads, and gardens.

I grew up in a small town with a white picket fence. I had a family dog, a brother, and an allowance. We’d run around in the neighborhood with all the kids, playing games in any and all of our yards because it was safe to just roam the neighborhood. I baked with my mom, went to soccer practice with my dad, and we went to church on Sundays as a family. I was on the Bible quizzing team and made straight A’s in school without having to try. I wasn’t popular but I had friends; we weren’t rich but I never did without; and overall I was generally happy.

This is my legacy: for all you cynics out there, I just wanted to inform you that the stereotype exists, because I lived it… and I didn’t think that it was anything unusual. And as I stand at the crossroads in my life, looking back at the road behind me and the white picket fence, I can’t help but to get a little sad—for all the things that were and that will never be again; for all the things that I lived, without really understanding their significance; for all the ways that my life was perfect but I didn’t realize it at the time.

And I hope that this bit of intro- and retro-spection will be able to jumpstart that ability to live in the moment and cherish it for what it is and for what it will be, to better enjoy it as I live it and not only in reminiscence.

And in spite of all this, it feels so good to come home.

D*sire