I didn't know that I grew up poor until well after the fact, having been blessed with very resourceful parents. For most of my childhood, my father was a pastor serving in small churches in rural communities in Oregon and Idaho, and I don't ever remember a time when he wasn't doing other odd jobs to supplement the family income – grocery clerk, electrician, day laborer. My mother often worked outside the home as well, and in addition, she was a wonderful homemaker. She sewed clothes for us, gardened and canned the fruits of her labor, and was an extraordinary bargain hunter. My parents' deep faith and dedication to their congregations made them respected in the community, and people often expressed their appreciation with material and financial help in times of need. The combination of faith and resourcefulness meant that we always had our needs met, and often enough, would manage to squeeze out just a little bit for fun. And sometimes, what seemed like enough to get a little ahead turned out to be just what we needed to get by...
The signs of our own humble upbringing were there, but my parents went to great lengths, even sacrificial ones, to downplay them. Every year when school started in the fall, my parents bough us new clothes and school supplies. Christmas and birthdays, while never the extravaganzas of excess we expect today, always included enough presents, both from my parents and maternal grandparents, to ensure a happy day. We had wonderful family vacations, we went to the fair, we even occasionally went to see a movie. What I didn't see were the sacrifices my parents made – doing without luxuries that they might have wanted, even making their own necessities stretch further, to give us kids what we needed (and sometimes what we wanted, as well). As a child, I didn't recognize the significance of the multicolored thread I noticed on the inside of my father's suit jacket. But I understand now. Instead of buying a new suit to wear to church, he had had my mother mend his old one numerous times, the money that might have gone to a suit instead going to God only knows what – trumpet lessons? Cub Scout dues? Groceries? Just what I had because he went without, my father never revealed, and I'll never know.
I was reminded of all of this when I was called upon in an earlier writing assignment to submit a photograph and write about what it made me think of. The picture is from a year ago. In it I am standing in my grandparents' house in Southern California, holding my son who was at the time fifteen months old. On the wall behind us hang several pictures of my ancestors. In that picture, I could see myself making a connection with them as I held my own son. Seeing them recalled to me my own father and reminded me of what he had done; seeing my son reminded me that I now understand why he did it. As a parent, I would willingly, gladly make the same kind of sacrifices for my child.
My mom, like Brian, was a rural preacher's kid. Ministers in farm country eat well, but anything that takes cash had better not be needed right away, because you're at the mercy of the collection plate. My mom tells stories about farmers who saved the double-yolked eggs for the preacher's family. On at least one occasion, my grandfather couldn't afford a new pair of pants, so Gran painted his underwear with shoe polish to hide the holes.
My mom made some different sacrifices. She'd left school to get married, and when my dad left us, she had to take a job as a school secretary to pay the bills. Our allowance was calculated yearly, and paid when the tax refund came. The Salvation Army store in The Dalles was our first and biggest stop on shopping trips, and most of the games we had were missing pieces. But our house wasn't trashy, and we never went without food, and there were little luxuries here and there. An awful lot of our making it had to do with the fact that my mom was well-liked. Most people in Goldendale had known both her and my dad back in high school. The rancher next door to my grandmother sold us freezersful meat at cost. People in our church brought us veggies from their gardens. And the mechanic down the street was sweet on her (in an innocent sort of way) and made sure our car ran.
(One thing I'm especially proud of: after she remarried, she went back to college. Today she's got a PhD in education, which is a special kind of revenge. Did I mention that she was a school secretary? in the 70s? in a small town? and a single mother to boot? Yep, you got it. Today, the pin-headed principals who used to try to chase her around the desk all have to address her as "Doctor." Hah!)
I'm just as proud of my wife. She fled a bad home situation in a Geo Metro with three kids and whatever belongings they could pack around them. She drove that tin can from San Antonio to California, and then lived homeless for about half a year. The state put them up in a different motel every night until she was able to get a job and a place to live. Even after that, it wasn't unheard of for her to divide a meal up into three portions and pretend she wasn't hungry, if it was toward the end of the month.
Me? I've single-parented with three jobs, a mountain of debt, and no vehicle. My daughter didn't know how precarious our existence was; all she knew was that we had to walk home at night. I've been to the food bank a couple of times, but she didn't go with me.
We tend to think of being "taken for granted" as a bad thing, but with kids, it may be the best compliment you can get. Our kids don't have any idea, really, what-all we've had to do to raise them. If they don't, then we've done our jobs. They'll find out when it's their turn what it takes to be a parent.
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