I Am a Child of Wonderful Parents

I am from what the media calls a traditional family. My brother, sister and I grew up in a loving and humble household with both of our biological parents. Our wonderful biological parents. 

According to the Washington Times, families consisting of a married couple with children under age 18--traditional families--have not been in the majority since 1967, but we never knew that.

Mom & Dad, back in the day

Giant bonus points for the fact that my parents are open-minded and all-inclusive. We mixed it up with every type of person, every type of family unit. We hosted foreign exchange students from various countries. When kids weren't getting along with their own parents, they’d crash with us until the storm blew over. Our house was the holiday go-to place for people who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Our doors were open to anyone at any time.  My parents always had food, jokes, an empathetic ear, a warm make-shift bed or a funny story to share with whomever needed it. We never gave any thought to differences, to privilege, to haves and have-nots. We were blissfully unaware.

I don't mean to give the impression that it was all Ozzy and Harriet at our house, it wasn't. My siblings and I gave my parents plenty of trouble growing up. We're all strong-minded, opinionated and curious. It couldn't have been easy for them. Still, they doled out the right amount of discipline mixed with respect and love. We always knew they were in charge.     

Mom & Dad now

It’s only when I went away to college that I realized how different my parents were, that we were in the minority. We still are; my mom and dad recently celebrated their 62st anniversary. 

My brother and sister are both happily married with families of their own, doing their part to keep the traditional family going. 

Even though we've scattered, we take every opportunity to congregate as a family unit. We do it out of love and also out of fun. We genuinely have fun together. Loud, raucous, unrestrained fun. Those of you who know us *in real life* could probably tell some tales! 

Yep, I am a child of wonderful parents.

________________________

This post is in participation with the Group Blogging Experience, and this week’s prompt is children and/or parent(s).  If you want to blog with us, go to the GBE2 Facebook page and request to join the group. Everyone is welcome.

The Bittersweet Vacation

Today is the last day of our annual beach vacation. It’s a once-per-year tradition that I cherish. My extended family is a riot and we don’t spend enough time together.

The reason it’s been a bittersweet vacation is because my mom’s sister—my sweet Aunt Dot—passed away during the week. Mom would not leave Aunt Dot’s side so she didn’t start the vacation with us, which seemed odd. Our annual family congregation is the high-water mark of Mom’s year; she says she’s never happier than when all her chickens are under one roof.

It was weird, being at the beach trying to have fun while Aunt Dot was suffering and Mom was with her. Yet Mom insisted we continue with the annual pilgrimage. She insisted we come to the beach and make merry. She didn’t want to let anyone down, especially her grand-kids, so we came without her.

After 2 days, Aunt Dot died. My brother, my sister and I made the car ride from the beach to her funeral. Anticipating this possibility, we had tucked funeral clothes into our bags, right next to our bathing suits and beach towels.

The drive to the funeral is the only time I can remember being alone with my siblings, just the 3 of us, as adults. It was a special time, which added to the complexity of contradicting emotions.

Once we arrived at Aunt Dot and Uncle Jerry’s house, we were greeted by distant relatives that we only see at weddings and funerals. I know that’s fairly typical of big families but it would be nice to see them more often.

After the funeral, visitation and family gathering, the sibs and I made a late night road trip back to the beach. Mom and Dad joined us the next day, so by Wednesday we were all together.

I’m waxing nostalgic because that’s how I feel. It was a wonderful and sad and hilarious and frenetic and heartwarming and heartbreaking week.

We’re already planning next year.   

Girls Raised in the South = G.R.I.T.S.

Maybe you've heard of grits the food (delicious!) but do you know about the GRITS acronym? Girls Raised in the South. That's me.

I'm from the south; born in North Carolina and now living on the coast of South Carolina. My rich and random life's journey has taken me all around the world. I've lived in many places and seen many things. Now I'm back to my roots. I'm southern born and southern bred. I'm one of the true GRITS, baby.

One of my life adventures found me and my thick southern accent <bad grammar on purpose> living in New York City and working in midtown Manhattan. I loved it. The Pakistani street vendor had a crush on me and my bagel was ready every morning when I arrived at Grand Central Station off of the 8:05 train - the Hudson River Express. (Wait, maybe it wasn't a crush... maybe he felt sorry for me, or protective of me? Maybe the sound of my voice made him laugh? Who knows. At least I got my bagel).

When I placed my order in a restaurant, a hush would fall over the crowd. Sometimes I heard giggles, snickers. I always got special attention; not many folks sounded like me up there.

Locals either thought my southern accent was charming (in a cartoonish way) or ridiculous.

Regardless of the subcategory they put me in, my accent placed me squarely in the dull category. Dull as in slow, not all there, not on the ball, not quick-minded. I won't go so far as to say I was considered dumb but, well, people had a big reaction to the sound of my dulcet tones.

Upon first meetings, (after recovering from the accent), the person would often slow their speech to match the pace of mine. As if my drawl made me hear slow! And think slow! It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. The condescension. No kidding, some people would talk to me as if I was an 8-year-old. But that was okay. I had a big job and used their low expectations to my advantage.

Did I mention how much I loved it up north? If used wisely, being underestimated can be a powerful tool.

Yep, that's how GRITS roll. Dumb like a fox.

True Friends

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

And so we were. Stupid may be harsh, but we sure were silly with each other.

A few weeks ago my oldest (um, length of time we've known each other...) friend preformed a one-woman show in front of thousands. She's a pro, in fact we met in the theater department in college (Appalachian State University - go Mountaineers) and continue a lifelong friendship. The night was big for her, and several old friends traveled to see the show and offer support. It was a blast, she wowed the audience. In addition to the joy of hearing Starr sing, I got to see a handful of friends I have not seen in over 20 years (don't bother doing the math, we're old).

Starr, my singing friend, earns a nice living with her voice. She has a second home at the beach near my house. As things work out sometimes, she is at her beach house this week. Another friend from the ASU theatre department came through town with her husband last night. The first time I've seen Kim since college was at Starr's show. Now I had an opportunity to see her (and her wonderful husband, she picked a good one) again in less than a month. Happily, we managed a dinner together. It was hilarious. And heartwarming. True friendship is when you can pick back up, right where you left off, no matter how much time has passed. 

I am blessed with true friends.