History

Grandpa Joseph and Grandma Marie.

Wedding photo. 

I didn't know Joe, he died when I was, I think, four.  He was born in 1882. Grandma was born in 1892. My grandma was a strong, purposeful woman who was actually kind under all that stern. They were both children of immigrants.

This is my great-grandmother on the paternal side.

I found this photo, both of them actually, when I cleared out my mother's house. I didn't know my father's side of the family to speak of. What I know is my grandmother was an only child. She had been married and divorced at the time she married my grandfather. He had been married, was a widower with three children. They, together, had four sons. Her family and his family had been in America seemingly forever. I did a family tree on Ancestry years ago. At the time I stopped, the grandfather's people were in Maine, 1760s. Her people were in Boston during the same time period. Both families were of English descent. His more hardscrabble, hers prosperous.

I've been doing some thinking on family over a couple of years. I grew up without extended family, other than grandma. My mother had a personality disorder which eventually drove most away. Aunts, uncles and cousins I never knew. Some I knew for awhile, until they were suddenly gone. I heard viscous things about all of them throughout my life and as a child believed her. Of course, I didn't understand what she was, even well into adulthood I tried to make sense of her and I tried so hard to find some kind of decency in her. There was none to be found. By the time I realized this fully, I had spent a lifetime catering to her meanness. I was not an abused child dealing with the results of that abuse. I was an abused child who went into adulthood continuing to be demeaned. My brother left the family 30 years ago. I thought he was awful. Turns out he was the sane one.

I have never been a communal person, which under the circumstances makes sense. I have always been wary. I also formed a front that definitely conveyed the message "mess with me at your own risk". I have found since my mother died, I've been changing. I'm happier, much more easy going. She has been slowly but steadily leaving my consciousness. I don't dream of her screaming in my face anymore, not for a couple of years. It's refreshing knowing that I am losing the definition of myself she created. Even at this age, I am healing. 

I don't have a family and there isn't anything I can do about that. I have my son, that is a good thing, but no one else, other than Mark. Which is another good thing. I'm getting corny, but I've realized I'm sort of like the half dead bush that suddenly starts budding out again. For anyone else who recognizes my life in themselves;  It's not too late if you allow yourself to let go. It sure does feel better.

SJ and RW

As We Were Called

Sandra and Robert