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Truths That Trickle Out
When I was a child, I lived in the same small community where my dad was raised. The people I called “Grandpa and Grandma” were not his real parents; I knew because we had different last names. Also, every year on Memorial Day, we’d visit the cemetery and put flowers on the graves of his actual mother and father. My dad was orphaned by age 8 and was lucky enough to be taken into the family of a young couple who were his relatives.
However, as the years went by, and my sisters and brothers and I grew into adults, some previously unspoken events were gradually made known to us, bit by bit. Once, I was recounting parts of this to a friend, and my (then) teenaged children asked if this tale was a book that I’d read. I replied, “No, it’s your family history.”
Back in 2005, I was searching for a shoeshine box for my husband. I know that it’s a nutty gift, but I found all his shoe polish, old rags, and brush in a nasty, zip lock bag. He would get it out and polish and buff his shoes on occasion. He was taught to take care of his shoes, his car, his clothes, all his belongings.
