Rough Waters

I was born into the ever-widening generation gap.  The 1960’s were a tumultuous decade, so it made sense that I was born on September 11.  I slipped away from my mother’s broken heart, and out into the world, pretty close to the middle of the action.

How quickly events in a day can be soured; the cake forgotten, a birthday now a death-day.  The icy cold, frothing river had overturned my father’s canoe.  His head hit a rock, and the frigid waters claimed his young life.  Family and friends gathered around the grief-stricken, pregnant widow.  She was not alone, but I can imagine how alone she felt during that time.  I believe I knew her grief inside the womb.  Surely, the beating of her heart changed rhythm as she sobbed out her shock.  Mom was strong in faith, though, and before too long she pulled herself together and carried on, thanking the rescue-workers, and the many other people who sent their condolences, in a letter to the newspaper.  Everyone followed her example of fortitude, and five months later I was born.  On 9-1-1.

My mother brought me home to a middle class neighborhood in a small suburb of Syracuse, New York.  The house was a traditional Cape style, with a center front door that opened to face a stairway, the dining room on the right, and living room on the left.  It was a modest home, decorated in the latest colors of brown and turquoise.  Two of my three sisters were still living at home.  One was 19 years old, and the other was 3 years old.  My eldest sister was married with two children.  I’m not sure what my one brother, at 23, was doing.  There was a generation gap in my own family, as well.

I do not have memories of the first three years of my life.  Impressions flit through my mind; sipping cambric tea out of fancy big-girl cups, feeling my head rest against a comforting shoulder, the bubble of laughter rising up.  The bubbles float away before I can catch them, but I can imagine, while looking at a rare picture of myself, that the little girl’s bright eyes and happy smile indicate that she was loved and content.  

My mother started out as a 1930’s housewife.  Her first child was born in 1938.  She stayed home and took care of her first set of children in a little Victorian “gingerbread” town called Round Lake.   My father worked in heavy military on radar, so he was never called to military services.  He had several patents in that area and became one of a few engineers without a degree at that time.  He was also an air-raid warden, and would run out of the house when the siren blew.   My mother would turn off all the lights and draw the blinds.  My older siblings would sit on the window seat peeking out to watch all the street activity.   

My parents raised their first three children in a way typical of the times – with lots of fun, and plenty of discipline.   Mom took a nap before Dad came home from work.  Showered, her makeup applied, and dinner on the stove, she welcomed him home with lipstick and a hot meal.  After dinner, any misbehavior by the children during the day was addressed and handled, making sure not to “spare the rod and spoil the child.”  The kids were brought to church and taught biblical truth.  Mom sang in the church choir.  She loved the arts, whether it was working on embroidery, pottery, or writing in her journal.  In 1953 the Billy Graham crusade was in Syracuse for an entire month.  Mom went as often as she could, and brought my eldest sister with her.

Our father was full of adventure.  He had a can-do attitude about everything from home maintenance to auto mechanics.  Outdoor recreation was a passion.  He loved to camp and the family summered on the shores of Lake Ontario.  My mother would stay with the children at the campground during the week while he worked, and then he would join them on the weekends.  In the spring, he was among the first to load his canoe onto the car top.  In the summer months he could be found in the woods hiking, or out on the lake swimming or sailing.  When winter rolled around he laced up his skates, or strapped on his skis to meet his buddies for the day.  Skiing backwards with a large movie camera on his shoulder, he captured images of his friends as they skied through the trees toward him. 

My eldest sister was married to a wonderful man by the time she was 18 years old.  Her husband worked with my father at General Electric.   She produced grandson number one just 10 months later.  I suspect my parents thought their own family was quite complete, and I can picture them doting on this first born son of the next generation.  However, both mother and daughter became pregnant again.  Two baby girls were born, 4 months apart, one at the very tail end of the 1950s, the other, my sister, born at the start of the divisive new decade.  The two families spent a lot of time together.  They attended the same Methodist church.  Mother and daughter sang in the choir together.  Being only 20 years apart in age, their friend groups mostly overlapped.

On April 20, 1963, the ice had just broken on the lakes and the rivers were flowing fast.  It was my mother’s 40th birthday.  My father, and his canoe club, were out on their first run of the season.  My mother and the two sisters living at home were getting ready for her birthday party.  I was floating around happily in my mother’s womb.  My eldest sister was frosting a birthday cake at her own house, preparing to bring it to the party, when the telephone rang.  It was the State Police.

My sister’s husband had answered the telephone call from the State Police and received the news of the drowning.  He was the one to break the news; first to his wife, and then to her mother.   His father-in-law was so young.  So alive.  So vibrant.  And now swept away by the raging river waters.  He must have stuttered out questions in his shock.  “But he was a strong swimmer.”  “He always wore a life jacket.”   “It’s his wife’s 40th birthday.”  “She is pregnant.”  “This can’t be happening.”  But it was happening.  It had happened.  And so, turning to his wife, who, by now must have known the news was not good, he might have gently placed the phone upon its cradle and gathered her in a hug that would need to last for decades.  

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