Good Work, Grit & Gratitude (eBook)

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Generation to Generation

Live Your Legacy but Lose the Luggage

March 2020 

Adrian

Visitation was not allowed. My eighty-six-year-old mother,
JoAnn, darted out of her apartment building, her mask covering her fully made-up face. Blue dishwashing gloves on her hands, she pushed her cart to retrieve the groceries and other essential items I had in my car and was bringing to her on a sweltering Monday afternoon. Since she was locked down, or “in prison” as she often said with a chuckle, I met Mom on grocery days and had twelve to fifteen minutes to see each other in person and chat as we sat on benches that were eight feet apart. 

On this day, my mom walked toward me with a faster stride than usual, indicating that she had something important to tell me. She had just finished watching a program on the “resident channel” in her apartment about the history of the Spanish flu in 1918. She had taken diligent notes and gave me a detailed recap of the program. It was meaningful, not only because we were currently living through a global pandemic but also because her mother—my grandmother Rebecca—lost her mother to the Spanish flu in 1918. 

Grandma Rebecca always cried when she spoke about her mother, which was not very often. She and her four sisters grew up in Atchison, Kansas, at the turn of the twentieth century. They lived a privileged life, their father making a good living in the scrap metal business. Both my grandmother and her mother fell ill to the Spanish flu early on during that pandemic. My grandmother survived, but her mother, who was in the next bedroom, died.

This strain of the Spanish flu first appeared in the United States in Fort Riley, Kansas. It was transported there by military men returning home from Europe and then made its way through Topeka and into Atchison. It wasn’t until I lived through the COVID-19 pandemic that I had a small idea of what my grandmother had endured so many years ago when her mother died. Why didn’t I ask her more questions? Why didn’t she and her sisters share more about that unprecedented time in their lives? Five sisters lost their mother in 1918 to a tragic virus, and they rarely spoke about it.

I am saddened by the magnitude of my grandma’s grief while she became a pseudo-mother to her younger sisters. Her responsibilities and emotional pain must have been huge, yet she always held her head high, charged forward with optimism, and had a strong faith. In my grandmother’s ninety-seven years, she endured a pandemic that claimed her mother, two depressions, two World Wars, and the usual ups and downs of life. Living through each challenge gave her the uncanny ability to adapt to a new normal. 

My Grandmother Rebecca was a member of the Lost Generation—those who came of age during World War I and often found themselves directionless survivors in the early postwar period. They tended to suppress their emotions and never shared their “dirty laundry.” Grandma raised six children, four of whom were part of the Greatest Generation born between 1921 and 1927. They became adults during the Great Depression and watched their parents lose their business, money, and hope. Her other two children, which included my mother, were part of the Silent Generation—one that, according to U.S. Census data, was smaller than preceding generations because the Great Depression and World War II resulted in fewer childbirths.

 My mother inherited her strong work ethic from her parents and older siblings who believed in the value of hard work and perseverance. Incredibly resourceful, they did what they had to do to survive. They didn’t have the luxury of asking themselves if they were happy or fulfilled in their jobs. They were just grateful to be employed and happy to wear hand-me-down clothing. They believed that with integrity, kindness, faith, and love, good would prevail.

When the COVID-19 pandemic began, the independent living facility where my mother lived went on lockdown. Every day around noon, I called to ask how she was doing, although I was sure nothing had changed since yesterday and not much would by tomorrow. My mother ate breakfast, washed the dishes, and read the paper—usually on her terrace. On those midday phone calls, we talked about how she planned to spend the rest of her day. Later, she headed downstairs for the dinner served by the facility, and she ate it alone. Weather permitting, she sat outside with a few friends for a quick chat before heading back to her apartment by 7:00 p.m. for another evening in isolation. But Mom never said she was lonely or bored. She always had an optimistic attitude.

A few weeks after the COVID lockdown, Mom heard some of us talking about the Zoom calls we were having for both work and social connections. She wanted to get in on the action. Her outdated computer wasn’t equipped for Zoom calls, so in my mother’s usual style—always determined to join the party—she called Dell, made friends with the customer support representative, and purchased the proper equipment to bring her old computer into the Zoom era. Within a few weeks, the accessories arrived and were installed. She joined us in the Zoom room, reconnecting at a time of difficult disconnection.

We can learn a lot from the generations before us—how they survived and thrived under the toughest conditions. Their wise words were often said in our households—“This, too, shall pass” and “One day at a time.” These philosophies have kept our families and country afloat even in our darkest days. 

In contrast, the narrative of the Baby Boomer generation is not so optimistic. It was the largest American generation, born between 1946 and 1964 when higher education was more obtainable, opportunity and independence were promoted, and sex, drugs, and rock and roll made their debut. The job market was strong, and suburban living expanded. Shopping malls were magnified, along with everything else—from large station wagons to platform shoes and long hair for both men and women. It was also a time of agitation for racial equity and women’s rights, as well as the assassination of a president and the horrors of the Vietnam War, which sparked protests and political disarray. Boomers have lived large, had a good time, taken a lot from the planet, and are now watching their children wrestle with the consequences. 

I grew up in Leawood, Kansas, a suburb of Kansas City, in a fantastic and wholesome Midwestern community. Although I have lived in Miami for almost forty years, I still like to refer to myself as “simple Midwestern folk.” Both of my parents worked very hard to give my brother and me opportunities they had not had. My father and his mother immigrated from the part of Russia now known as Ukraine. He was thirteen years old. Sponsored by an uncle who had immigrated a few years earlier and a national nonprofit agency, they were resettled in Kansas City, Missouri. 

Can you imagine fleeing a communist country and ending up smack dab in middle America where you can’t speak a word of English? Dad was placed in kindergarten to learn English. He quickly moved through elementary school until he was ready for his age-appropriate grade. He graduated with honors from both high school and college and then proceeded to work hard—really hard. I vividly remember my father as a traveling salesman, returning home usually on Thursday afternoons from his weekly journeys. I would run out of the house with open arms to greet him, often falling and skinning my knees on the gravel driveway. My mother applied mercurochrome, Band-Aids, and kisses, a routine that would likely take place the following week. Silly me.

My mother is an innate optimist, a consummate professional, and a lover of love, family, and humor. She has an inspiring ability to love deeply and laugh often. These are truly her favorite things, especially at this point in her life. My childhood was filled with lots of laughter, love, and faith. Lucky me. But there was also divorce, death, and many skinned knees. They all contributed to my strength, empathy, gratitude, and humor—what I came to call my Band-Aids for a skinned heart. 

At a young age I learned that life is not perfect and that everyone has some semblance of functionally dysfunctional baggage in their trunk. But my Midwestern foundation established my core values, for which I am forever grateful. Although I traded barbeques and sunflowers for stone crabs and palm trees, my husband, Kenny, and I raised our children with the same basic values we were raised with. Treat people how you want to be treated. Work hard. Help wherever you can, and move through the world with kindness and appreciation. 

I was a professional woman who became a professional parent. I was goal-oriented and organized, and I thought it was my job to instill in my children these values while also catering to their every need and want. No one demanded this of me; it was just what I did. I was always thrilled when my kids included me in their plans, especially in their teenage years. I thought they needed me, which they did. But at the same time, I needed them. They gave me an incredible sense of fulfillment and joy.

When our first child, Rachel, came into the world, she had a cry like a little lamb and a magnetic, toothless grin that grew into a smile for everyone. She was easy-peasy and moved through the day usually glued to my right hip. We were a duo, going everywhere together. We made friends through playgroups and a variety of classes. Rachel was a great listener—cautious, smart, and kind. She loved people, playtime, and going to...