My paternal grandfather was an ox of a man. Even in his 80s, as his shoulders stooped, he stood over six feet tall. Family lore has it that, back in the days of the Model T, he once returned a ditched car to the roadway, first hoisting its front end, then the rear section, up and over the embankment. This is the same strength that stopped a period of physical abuse in the family. After my granddad had reached adulthood -- and a size that outmatched that of his father -- Granddad intervened as a younger brother was being beaten. Relying on every ounce of strength he had, Grandpa grabbed his father's flying fists, pulled them down to his sides, then in his booming voice announced, “there will be no more of this.” And, the violence ended.
When my grandfather began rearing a family of his own, he meted out discipline with greater restraint that his own father had, but he still relied on the solid values he had been brought up with. Hard work. Thrift. Patriotism. Faith. He and my grandmother had what it took to survive the Depression with three young boys. Life was rough and, in response, these people could not be soft. There were no beatings in this household, but no outward displays of affection either. And might was still the yardstick by which my grandfather measured his sons.
In a home that valued the physical strength needed to meet the demands of farm labor, Dad was at a disadvantage. He was a late-bloomer and as the smallest boy felt the sting of his father's disappointment. It was years before my father was allowed to take the reins of the horses and plow the fields. In the meantime, he served as his mother's helper in and around the home, a severe blow to his sense of pride. And Dad could only watch as an older brother received all of his father's acceptance.
Feeling slighted, my father vowed that he would do better by his children than his parents had done by him. When he had children, they would be treated fairly. There would be no favoritism.
My father was true to his word. Yet he was not a perfect parent either ... and, in their turn, my siblings resolved to do better -- to be better -- with their offspring.
In this way my family has slowly improved, each generation feeling compelled to give to the next what we ourselves needed but never received. And, all the while, passing down the best of what we've been given. Perhaps this is nature's way of insuring progress in the human race: by instilling in us an assurance that we can overcome the faults of the past.
The next generation of my family will, no doubt, determine what mistakes have been made this last time around. I hope they will forgive us, just as we forgive our parents. But, more importantly, I pray that, when these children begin their family lives, they will continue the tradition and feel that they can do better. Who knows ... maybe the next generation will finally get it right.
What practices should end in your family? What improvements can be made? Which traditions should endure?
I am not alone. I know this because so many of the stories I read across the blogosphere have parallels in my own life. The Idea Dude blog explains this phenomenon best in a post titled “
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