For George’s 29th birthday that July, his
parents didn’t even bother to wish him Happy Birthday. I don’t think my in-laws
deliberately forgot their only son’s birthday. They had remembered it on
previous years, but to them, birthdays were something that children celebrated,
not adults. We were busy with settling in, and his birthday just didn’t loom
large on their personal horizon. At that time I saw it as proof that they
didn’t value George as a person. His father, in particular, was driving him
very hard to get all the work done around the farm that had long been neglected.
George worked 14-hour days, seven days a week. It seemed that they were taking
a lot and giving back very little.
But when I consider now whether they loved him, I
would have to say, yes, very much. However, they didn’t show it in ways that I
could recognize as a young woman who resented the long hours my husband spent
working at their command. It is only now, after many more years of living that
I can understand their love and concern.
And how does a parent express love? How does
anyone? I am very suspicious of the
easy, glib, “I love you.” It seems phony to me. I have a friend who says it all
the time, and I ask her, because she is a friend, “What do you mean by ‘love’?
Romantic love, family love, friend love, close-friend love, acquaintance love,
“Christian” love, “brotherly” love?” How many different kinds of love are
there, and when we say that phrase, to which one does it refer? Does frequency
of repetition mean it is more easily believed? Or does frequency of repetition dilute
the meaning? If I stop my teenage child from doing something, they “hate” me,
and they think I am a mean mother, may even doubt my real love, no matter how
much I say, “I love you.” Isn’t it,
after all, the steady, reliable presence, and constant care that declare love,
rather than short words that spin easily into thin air?
And when we were told “America: Love it or Leave
it,”—those words on banners and bumper stickers that helped drive us from
America—what exactly did those people mean by love? How do you love a country?
Does love mean that you do not criticize the country? Or does love mean that
you care enough to pay attention, to see what is wrong, and to try to change
it? And in these troubled times I ask,
don’t we express our love for our country by watching, listening, and caring
enough to express an opinion?
My parents didn’t express their love openly either,
but I didn’t doubt that they loved me—even my father who could be so very cold.
My mother was warm, but to say “I love you” to her children was just not part
of her repertoire. However, I felt her love in her concern for every aspect of
my life as I grew, and her willingness to watch me and sometimes guide me, as I
groped around in my teen years testing my skills, testing her patience. She
listened to me and allowed me room to express my feelings, and so I never felt
a need to rebel in any big way, but I did some stupid things, like get engaged
when I was seventeen. That was one time when she questioned me closely to make
sure I was not running from our unhappy home, but when I convinced her I was
genuinely in love and, already in college, intelligent enough to know what I
wanted, even at such a young age, she supported me. It is a mark of how
immature I was that I couldn’t recognize the logical flaws in my reasoning, and
it is a mark of how much she loved me that she didn’t either. I really believed
that I was old enough to handle the responsibility of marriage and a family,
because I really didn’t know what all that responsibility meant. She assumed a
far greater understanding than I possessed. I wasn’t mature enough for marriage
and family, but I was forced to acquire that maturity very quickly. And in the
end, it was good that I was settled when she died so soon afterwards, and that
I could provide a home for my sister. But, no matter how busy, or how poor, nor
how pieced-together the celebration, nor how simple the gift, my mother never,
ever forgot my birthday. And even though sometimes we had to improvise on cakes
and gifts, in Italy we were always sure to celebrate each birthday.
The story of our move to Italy starts
with "Arrival"
on the June 26, 2017 blog post.
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| My 25th birthday |
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| James taking off candles, Matthew smiling at the camera. |
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| Gabi: Mary's 25th birthday, September. |
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