My Grandparent's Memories
My paternal grandparents traveled to a port city in Sicily in the early 1900s. They got on a big boat and spent six hellish weeks traveling to a foreign land in the steerage compartment. My grandfather traveled alone and had $10 in his pocket and an address of his "sponsors", friends already living in the United States. My grandmother traveled with her mother, brother and several of her sisters a few years after my grandfather's 1907 trip.
They worked hard, learned to speak English, met, married, built a three-family house and by the start of the Great Depression in 1929, they already had eight children. My grandmother made clothes from burlap potato sacks and my grandfather grew figs, grapes, pears and more in his gardens.
When the United States entered World War II in 1941, my grandparents, over the next few years, allowed their oldest sons to join the military and serve their country. They made the greatest sacrifice a parent can make when their son, James Vincent Sardo, was killed in action on Okinawa in 1945. Despite that, my father and then his younger brother, both joined the Marines, even though they did not have to since the family had already lost a child.
My Parent's Memories
Born in 1928, my parents were babies at the start of the Great Depression. They knew what it was like to really go without. They took baths with their siblings to save on water. My mom's parents lived downtown so they could walk or take a bus everywhere they needed to go. They were coming of age by the time WWII broke out. They were teenagers when the first atomic bombs were dropped.
As a Marine, my Dad was serving on Guam in 1949 when he received a telegram stating that the body of his brother was finally being returned to the United States and he needed to be in Connecticut "by Saturday" to attend the funeral. So he got on a cargo plane to California, I think, then on a bus and finally a train and made it in time for the service. Shortly after that in 1950, my Dad was sent to Korea and was a member of the Chosin Few, a group of soldiers sent into northern Korea in the winter of 1950. Millions of Chinese spilled over the border into North Korea and killed many American soldiers. My father survived that but came home a changed man. His unselfish service to his country has cost him dearly given that today he suffers from dementia and who can say if what he saw and did at the Chosin Reservoir had anything to do with that?
My mom went to work right out of high school as a dental assistant in her uncle's office. She wanted to sing as a career, but my grandfather didn't want her to do that and wouldn't let her pursue it. Those were the days when children respected their parents, and good, bad or indifferent, didn't blame them for everything in life that ever happened to them. My mom eventually stayed at home, raising my brother and I. The time we all spent together was true quality time.
My Memories
Born in late 1958, I grew up in the turbulent 1960s, but my brother and I were clueless as to what was going on in the world. Our world consisted of our parents, grandparents and our friends. We played in our neighborhood as often as we could. Winter, spring, summer or fall, it didn't matter. We were outside. And as long as we could hear my mom call us for dinner, we knew we hadn't strayed too far from home. We walked to school. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. It didn't matter.
My brother put on puppet shows in our garage and charged our friends a quarter to come in and see the show. He made up games they could play and if they won, he gave them one of his toys as a prize. We sold Kool-Aid and Sno-Cones in front of our house and we kept all the money, even though my mom paid for everything. Life was safer then. It was simpler for kids then. And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Today's Memories
Kids today will remember the colorful plastic play equipment in their fenced in daycare centers. They will remember the strangers who are practically raising them while both parents work. It's not the fault of the parents. It's the world we have created. Once in grammar school, they'll remember their first cell phone and how many minutes they were allowed for texting. They'll remember they could have anything they wanted, probably because of their parents' guilt for all of those hours and days in daycare. They'll grow up too fast. They won't know what it means to go outside and play. They won't know the kids in their own neighborhoods. They won't have much quality time with their parents. How often have you seen a parent and child together, but the parent is on their cell phone?
They'll have memories of a recession, outsourcing, unemployment, and who knows what else? Will they know how to manage money? How old will they be before they realize that if they buy things with their own hard earned money, there's more satisfaction in that than having something handed to them?
I don't know the answers to any of these questions. I just know that I would rather be me than them...
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