It seems as if I didn’t really know my parents. Much of their backstory, as I know it, comes from my sisters or my aunts. I suppose I could use being the youngest of six, and the fact that there were six years between a sister and me, as the excuse for not knowing my parents better. But I’m thinking I just wasn’t paying much attention.

Much of what I know of them I’ve learned as an adult. For instance, just this past year, I questioned why we always rented a house, moving around from place to place, and never had our own home.  It turns out my dad, employed as an open hearth worker at Bethlehem Steel for his entire working life, was afraid of being laid off and not being able to make the mortgage payments I also never gave one single thought to the dangerous job my father held, working in the open hearth that melted molten pig iron at supremely high and dangerous temperatures.  It was frightening work. I regret never having talked to him about his willingness to take care of our family by doing work he feared.

My mom was a housewife. She didn’t know how to drive. I remember she was an active member of a card club, but I have no memories of her doing other “fun stuff” with friends. I don’t even know if she was happy with her life. Why don’t I know that?  My parents have been dead for over twenty years, so there will be some questions that remain unanswered.

I’m a better parent than I was a child. Of course there are things I would have done differently, but if asked, I would say with confidence that I’ve been a good mother. And the same goes for my parents. They did they best they could with what they knew at the time.

Life is short. Call a family member or two and tell them you love them. And ask them to tell you a family story.

To my readers:   What favorite story have you shared with your children or grandchildren about your family history?