An idyllic childhood

different definitions

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

This last weekend spent celebrating our dear friend Mike’s 70th birthday left me contemplating my childhood. I’ve followed other writers whose youth sounds idyllic, Stuart M. Perkins, for one. I love his stories about growing up in a large extended family including grandparents, aunts, uncles, and many cousins, homegrown food, passed down recipes cooked over a fire pit, fresh fruit straight off the vine, swimming in the local pond, and fireflies abound. Likely Stuart didn’t say all that, but it’s what I imagine when I read the posts about his childhood.

I knew none of these sweetnesses. I was an only child, and what family I did have was spread thin across the continental United States. As a young child, I had two grandmothers and one grandfather by marriage. I remember seeing them only a few times in my youth; I don’t recall affection, although from photos, I can see I received it, at least from one grandmother. I was too young to remember their embraces or even their personalities. I couldn’t tell you anything about my grandmothers besides what I’ve learned from others since then.

My father’s mother, Grandma Cook. My parents look so stressed in these photos. I on the other hand in the first photo look pretty excited about this strange new woman.

My Grandma Kuhn on my mother's side. She looks pretty loving and I look happy in her arms. I likely only saw her three times in my life.

My parents (both alcoholics) worked hard, providing me a nice home in a blue-collar neighborhood. I definitely have a number of unpleasant memories, but if I look at my childhood as a whole, it could have much worse. My parents did not drink during working hours, so in that respect they were reliable, although my father typically hit the Brisbane Inn on his way home.

I know my father drove under the influence, but I don’t think too often with me in the car. I do remember him sideswiping a parked car in our neighborhood. He was returning from his favorite drinking buddy’s home a few blocks away. A policeman showed up on our doorstep a few hours later. As my angry father headed toward the front door, my mother shoved him hard enough to drop him to the floor. He didn’t get up. She convinced the police officer to let her bring my father into the police station the following morning. Again, they were responsible. They kept their word, and my father turned himself in the next day to face hit and run charges.

They kept the details from me. They sheltered me the best they could. I was left only to be frightened by the cut on my father’s face the following day.

We didn’t go camping. We didn’t share lovely meals with our extended family. We did, however, spend pleasant hours in our backyard gardening, likely a reason I became a landscaper. Those days in the yard were a Godsend, quiet, with no drinking involved.

My dad showing off his plants.

As I piece together some of my favorite activities as an adult, I see the connections with my childhood. I gravitate toward recreating what I didn’t have and, in many cases continuing with the positives I took away from my childhood.

I grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood in San Bruno, CA. It seemed as if no one was rich or poor. There were children in every third house on the block, and we knew families throughout the neighborhood. My next-door neighbors, the Vinals, had four kids, and their mother, Lydia, was so sweet to me. I had friends up and down our block. We’d play kick the can for hours in the middle of the street until long after dark.

Halloween on our block.

We were constantly sneaking into the neighboring gulley, a wooded area where I’d surely have restricted my kids from visiting. But again, it was a different time. Our parents would tell us what time to be home. We were on our own. We’d head down to the gulley creek, find the local rope swing, and come home with poison oak… over and over again. We never tired of our gulley, which felt almost magical, where first kisses occurred, cigarette smoking was experimented with, and most importantly, we experienced our first taste of freedom.

Families harbored their personal difficulties in private. No one seemed to know about the police showing up at our door, or if they did, they never broached the subject. My friend’s father, five houses down, arrived home drunk one evening, drove his car into the garage door, set the drapes on fire, and took a hatchet to the furniture he had painstakingly built over the years. As the fire department put out the fire, most of the neighbors lined the street watching in horror, me included.

As kids, we never spoke again of that night. It seems our community shared a kindness, a pact to honor each other’s difficulties by not adding to them.

Even in high school, if feuding classmates scheduled a fight, the teachers were there before it started. And while high school groups were created (the parking lot gang, the cheerleaders, the drama group, etc.), one could wander into another group without fear of rejection. I actually made a choice in 9th grade to move from the parking lot gang to the cheerleading group. I remember no drama over the move. I was accepted, and I wasn’t a cheerleader.

This last weekend reuniting with a few of my oldest friends reminded me how fortunate I was to grow up in San Bruno.

What I missed out on in terms of enjoying that idyllic childhood of my imagination, I more than made up for growing up in our simple, peaceful community.

The mindset of my youth continues to course through the childhood friendships I’ve known and continue to enjoy. We raise a glass to each other, send support in times of trouble, celebrate each other’s good fortune, and feel grateful to have met one another.

Turns out, I was pretty fortunate after all.