Early Years
"Having no definite values, one is nothing, insubstantial and devoid of character."
CHAPTER ONE
Early Years
Long before I entered the world, my family indulged in activities which germinated lasting memories in their minds, and though I do not personally recall such events, their existence often touched my life in some way. Had my ancestors lived differently over the course of time, the most insignificant alteration could have impeded my very life. Such is the delicate thread from which humanity is suspended and on which we depend to obtain, and retain life.
The two individuals to whom I am inextricably bound, are, of course, my parents. Through their childhood reflections, I have been able to meld history into my being, for their past is part of me.
I always loved older people, especially those who had not allowed themselves to become embittered by time and the changes it renders upon all living and inanimate things. Too often, old age is maligned, as if it is a communicable disease that, avoided or ignored, will never touch more than that which it has already claimed. Reacting thus, an individual gains nothing and loses the joy begotten of the remembrances related through wrinkled smiles and twinkling eyes. Older people have much to give; love, which like a fine wine, matures and is sweeter with age; reflections of the past that, unheard, will be buried and appreciated by no one; and the wisdom and tranquillity of character that comes with the acceptance of death and the ability to live.
Many times I hear the complaint that an older person is "set in his ways" and will yield to no fresh mode of thought. To me, this indicates that the older individual has an established ethical and moral code which evolved through a life-long struggle for inner peace. Predictability, under these conditions, is earned; each of life's problematic questions had been meticulously solved, carving daily the beliefs which became the man. Having no definitive values, one is nothing, insubstantial and devoid of character.
I cherish my father's childhood memories, and always listen with fascination when he tells and retells past events. Through his speech, I am able to grasp the bygone years and color the family portrait of which I was never an active part.
My father's father died before I was born and his mother shortly thereafter. John Emil and Hilda Isaacson; ancient names, they seemed to me, yet Dad's memory brought life to their photographs and instilled in me a wish that I could have known them as had my father. John Emil was a character; and insatiable tease who provoked the more serious Hilda: he made dandelion wine and tested it so frequently that it was entirely consumed before attaining an alcohol consistency. He ice-sailed on the Mississippi, showing little concern for the dangers of air holes and thin ice while traveling at a high rate of speed. He had learned to swim by being pushed off a river barge.