Starts with K

When my siblings and I get together – a rare occasion, at best, in our far-flung family – our conversations are predictable.

At 63, I am the youngest of the four, which pleases me when what I call “the organ recital” begins.

It includes any variety of aches and ailments, from knee replacements to biopsies to something … mysterious that is going on with my oldest brother’s eyes.

From there, the talk inevitably turns to our mother, who could charitably be called “quite a character.”

She was interesting. She served in the U.S. Navy; her uniform and some other gear are displayed in the National Cryptologic Museum in Ft. Meade, Md., thanks to her service as a codebreaker during World War II.

Before enlisting in the Navy, she owned and drove an Indian motorcycle – and was furious when her mother sold it while she was serving in Washington, D.C., so she took flying lessons.

She didn’t marry until she was 25, practically ancient in the 1940s; her first child wasn’t born until she was 32.

She and her husband owned a successful well-drilling business in my hometown; she was 38, had a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old and was pregnant with my sister when her husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack.

Mom – or Irish, as she was known – ran the business on her own after his death, a woman in a decidedly man’s world.

She was later married to my father, a raging alcoholic, for 16 years before she divorced him.

She was, in a word, tough. In another word, distant.

But, much like the story you’ll read about Wayne Klinkhammer in this edition of the Steele County Times, she was different in public.

You’ll forgive me and my siblings for mocking her frugality, because she was also frugal with her affection.

You’ll forgive our overuse of salt, because when she learned she had high blood pressure, she removed every grain of salt from the house, and policed our use of it away from home. I disliked many foods: Eggs, potatoes, meat, until that glorious day when I had unrestricted use of the shaker.

There are plenty of other examples, but you get the point.

Though I realize there are exceptions, I firmly believe parents do the best they can. In the case of my mom and Wayne Klinkhammer, they are most certainly the products of their times – and, obviously, of their own parents.

There were few warm fuzzies, and even fewer words of praise. Crying was a sign of weakness. There was no discussion of feelings, and certainly no confronting people who may have caused you some kind of harm.

We didn’t hear “I love you” much; I don’t know if I ever heard an apology.

And so it went, until we became parents ourselves.

That’s when we picked through our lives, finding what was good and discarding what was not.

I am a much different mother than Irish was, though sometimes when I open my mouth, my mom comes out. I’ve heard her in my siblings’ voices, as well.

I am no-nonsense, as she was, but if someone wants to hug me – and even when they don’t – I’m all about giving them a good squeeze. I tell at least three people a day that I love them.

We are flawed beings; we know becoming a parent doesn’t erase that.

What we do know is, when we know better, we do better.

I think Irish and Wayne are nodding in agreement.