My father never talked much about his childhood. He had an alcoholic father who was abusive to both his wife and his children. His two older sisters fled the house as soon as they were old enough. My father stayed to take care of his younger brother. I didn't know any of this until my father died and my cousins told me the story. My father, who never laid a hand on me (not that I didn't deserve it on occasion), never said a word to me.
My mother's current condition is such that her memory is spotty. In recent months, she has told me some stories that may or may not be true.
I had an older cousin who could identify everyone in various old photographs, but he died before I could debrief him.
I do have a large box of materials, including letters that my parents exchanged while my father was stationed overseas during WWII. About fifteen years ago, I started reading one of my father's letters, but I found that it was far too personal and stopped reading it. I have thought about reading the letters to my mother, but they may be too painful for both of us. As yesterday's article highlighted, research into the past can bring both pain and joy, though I am still curious. |
