Understanding, Tears, and Forgiveness

Wow... almost a year since I last wrote a blog entry.  Too much has happened.  I won't go into all of that, but there is one thing that I want to write down before I forget it all.  When you come down to the end of your life, I think that things affect you differently.  Understanding becomes very important.  It is to me, anyway.  So when this bit of understanding hit me, it hit me hard.

I have been struggling with some health issues, and was pushing myself in my chores today.  But when I had reached the limit of what I could do, I sat down to see if I could find a movie to watch.  Scrolling through the program guide, I found Seabiscuit.  Before you think, "oh she's going to talk about the pony she never got", no, this isn't about the pony.  It's about my parents, my grandparents, and the Great Depression.

The movie showed how the Depression affected people, specifically, working class people.  I came from a working class family.  My grandparents (all of them) lived near the U. S. Steel South Works in South Chicago.  They lived just a few blocks from each other.  They breathed that sulfur-filled air on a daily basis.  They worked at whatever jobs they could get.  My Dzia Dzia worked at the South Works all his life.  My Busia worked at American Specialties.  I tried to track the company down, but have come up empty.  My mother's mother was a homemaker, and my mother's father was a chicken dresser.  In this space, I would like to note that my mother's father ran around on his wife, my grandmother.  In fact, he would work at his chicken-dressing job, and then go to see his girlfriend, who was the only grandmother that I knew on that side.  Her name was Josephine Krause.  My maternal grandmother passed away at the age of 42, from a cerebral hemorrhage.  Two weeks later, my maternal grandfather married his girlfriend and left his eight (8) children to fend for themselves.  My mother was 11 at the time.  My mother was born in 1932, and my father in 1931.

It was 1942 when my mother's mother died, and families were recovering from the Great Depression, but it struck me how horrible the times were, and how they had to live.  I found my eyes welling up with tears while telling this story to my husband of 34 years.  And with the tears came understanding.  My mother was always tough on me.  I never considered her the loving mother that others have described their mothers to be.  There was always another child that needed her attention.  Someone was sicker than me, someone had more hurts to be healed, and someone always got praised more than I did.  It was expected that I would become nothing other than a wife and mother.  And although that in itself is an admirable ambition, I wanted more for myself.  Now I'm 62, and with my failing heart, I will never be able to do the things I dreamed of doing.  That is a tragedy.

The good thing is that I was able to go to college and get my degree in Physical Therapy.  I started college at the age of 55, in 2010, after my elder brother passed away.  I finished at the age of 59, and was able to do the job for three (3) years.  Three years.  Three years for all that time in school.  I guess I should be proud that I was able to do it.  Lord knows, I drove my husband and sons crazy with my caseload, but they were supportive of my efforts and wouldn't let me quit, even when I really wanted to.  Thank you for that.

So here I am, with a degree I can't use... but I had a dream that I wanted to explore.  It was to make certain that my family recipes didn't die with me.  My idea was to have a little concession stand for fairs and festivals during retirement.  The idea evolved into a food truck, and it is now operational.  We have been up and running since the end of July 2017.  It is still evolving and will continue to.  And then I look back at where I came from... my grandparents never had their own business.  Neither did my parents.  But I do.  It includes the recipes that I was handed from my Busia, and they are the backbone of what we do on the "trolley".  I am thankful that I was able to learn the lessons that I came to this plane for this time.  I know I am leaving it a better place.  And I forgive my parents for wronging me all those times.  The tears washed it all away.  Thank you for the lessons.

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta

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