Every Generation Blames the One Before

“Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years”

In middle school, we had a writing assignment based on “The Living Years.”

It was surely one of those times in which I wrote something that made a difference. It happens every now and then, and maybe more so in those 5th-8th grade years. I could identify greatly with the main character in the song, writing about his father passing away and all he didn’t get to tell him in the living years. It’s incredibly bold and beautiful to assign teenagers to write about what that song means to them. I remember my friend Jessi exploding into tears that same year, and maybe around that same time, because she had left the house in a huffy, hormonal fight with her mom that morning and was worried about the last words she said to her. The office let her call her mom and apologize and her mom was cool and matter-of-fact about it, probably because she had once been a huffy, hormonal early teen. (Both Jessi and her mom are both still well and on speaking terms to this day). I’ve had a lot of losses, and usually said “I love you” last.

Whether I was young or older. Whether or not it made a difference (I believe it does).

Believe it or not, I had to do a second essay on this song: “The Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics. I don’t remember if it was that same year, a year later, or even during high school or college. I do remember I more called it in than wrote with passion (sadly something I do here as well when it’s all too much to decipher and bear), but still got an A. I’ll always wonder if I earned that A, or if it was just that the subject matter was too deep to grade lower than an A. Or maybe even my calling it in is powerful enough when I’m talking about something I feel strongly about, which is something I hope happens here too. That’s why I adore you regular readers of mine.

You get it. You see the highs and lows and creamy middles, don’t you?

I know I told you about the road trip to New York to see my mom’s friends, Chris and Ricky, when I was 16. One of the things I loved about meeting Chris was her honest and sometimes foul languaged way of speaking to me. Like I was an adult. Like I mattered. I still remember her calling her car door some colorful names. She had a colleague, a fellow teacher, come over during that trip and he was going through some stuff. He was 26 at the time, which I thought was SO old, even though it was only ten years older than I was. I’m not sure what he was going through and maybe she told me. It was probably relationship troubles or maybe job and friend troubles, or working to balance it all out. “He’s going through,” she told me, “..what we call the horseshit years. It’s totally a lot of confusion and choices and adult stuff that hits you at once.”

Now I can dig that. I think I used to take in information like that and think, “Maybe it won’t go that way for me.” Or, “That’s a long time from now.” And I definitely have lived my own life on my own timeline and I have definitely gone through my own “horseshit years” although I think they were more from disillusionment, anxiety, and an occasional existential crisis and the way that turns my world to black. I don’t experience life the way others do, but I imagine no one really does. Most or many of us grapple with existence and questions and WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? Some people don’t because they live life more simply. Either because they don’t have the capacity to open up their minds more, or maybe they do but like to keep it firmly shut, or half shut. And I can understand that too. Lord knows I have spent many nights fighting away the night demons with fluffy & light magazines and TV shows. I can see it both ways. 100 ways.

That’s what I always do. Try to see a different point of view. Maybe it will stick.

And that’s what I do. Sometimes I hide behind a questionnaire or a trip recap here. Sometimes that IS the most important thing to say, or to remember. To read back one day. And at other times, my brain or heart are firmly shut or half shut for the day or the week (or more) and it’s easier to have a built-in thing to write about. That’s why I miss Finish the Sentence Friday – because it made me write. Lately I’m untethered, without a writing prompt, a trip, or even a birth story (or birth mix) to write about. And maybe that is the most raw and powerful thing. These living years, in these living months, weeks, and days. I have nothing to do except feel out the themes and commonalities of the week, and write – not when my heart desires – but with a break in the action. The interruptions to feed a baby/usher a dog out into the rain are ridiculous.

So two days ago, my mother-in-law came over, because I get very overwhelmed lately with summer’s heat and craziness. And I want to have people over to help with my work and kids. This was a good week because I had two mothers-in-law over, and a friend too. I have to tell you – the things I got done. Like, what a concept to have people come over and help. I had a video shoot for a phone meant for people 65+, because it’s an easy-to-use phone with a large screen (although I’ve seen people only a little older than me need reading glasses) and it has access to emergency and health services easily. Now I don’t really think either of my mothers-in-law need this phone, as both have iPhones and use them just fine but they are 65+ and they are family so it was a no-brainer to use them for the shoot. My readers/followers know who my real family is – I couldn’t use a neighbor! It was fun, not least of all because they don’t really need these phones.

Besides, not even a 26-year-old in his horseshit years could keep up with my family.

These next three photos are before the rain, caught in the rain, and after the rain:

We’ve seen a lot of rain, and a lot of post-rain gorgeousness.

And that’s my gift, I think. Trying to keep up with it all. Trying to see different points of view. Sometimes I even half-succeed. This is the gift of the now. These summer days mixed with heat and sweat and grief and joy. These really are the living years. Maybe they’re much worse than the horseshit years, as I realize that my assignment as a member of the “sandwich generation” isn’t really that fun. I far preferred when we had four generations at once, and I was the lower creme of the double-stuffed sandwich cookie. Maybe these are the “Apeshit Years” with their heat and sweat and grief and joy, and the scattered ridiculousness of each and every day, and the gift we are given to experience it all together. Even with fading eyes and aching knees. Even with MY fading eyes and my almost aching knees. I’m not there, but I’m/it’s all rolling along.

Horseshit Years. Apeshit years. Whatever you want to call them, they’re the Living Years.

“So don’t yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don’t give up, and don’t give in
You may just be okay
“