...and that offended mother,

I offended my mother in May 1999. How do I know that? Well, I’ve been keeping my daily journal for a long, long time. Gives me a chance to go back and review my life. And my moods. And my encounters.

Anyway, mother and I chatted well into the night. We talked about how she was raised. And how she respected her mother’s side of the family. Much more so than her father’s side of the family.

Nevertheless, there was no doubt that she idolized her father.

But I tried to poke holes in the reverence she had for her dad by suggesting that maybe he had some shortcomings. And I gave some examples on which I won’t enumerate here.

But the significance is this sort of provoked mother. And she castigated me a bit. For not really understanding what it was like growing up in the 1920s. Because there were things that families didn’t talk about. That they were still locked in sort of Victorian times.

But I think mother missed my point. Which was that maybe her family lacked intimacy. And that is still the bugaboo with many, many families in modern times. That they really don’t get to know each other. They never get to know their intimate sides.

Anyway, if I was critical of mother’s father, it was for never really getting to know his one and only daughter. And her travails. He never really communicated with his daughter. One-on-one. Father to daughter. And that’s a shame.

Mother gives her father credit for being a good provider. For making ends meet. By working two jobs. Maybe even working himself to death.

And I let it be known that he and the entire family might have been better off if he worked less at hard labor. And worked more at hard communication. Talking to his daughter. On an intimate basis.

Mother said he didn’t have time for that. Well, I suggested that he didn’t have his priorities straight…and that offended mother. –Jim Broede