Roots

I haven't blogged for quite some time. Just been busy, I suppose, though I don't know what with. But one of the things that has been occupying my mind lately is family roots, or, more defined, "from whence we come". Last month, had he lived, my dad would have reached the ripe old age of 99. Next year, obviously, the date of his birth will mark 100 years since he made his entrance into life in Chicago, Illinois. I guess that is what got me started thinking about family roots.

One thing, I imagine, is passed on from generation to generation is parents wishes that their children "do better" than they did. I know that it is true in the generations of my family at least. Parents want their children to succeed, have more money, realize greater fulfillment, have a nicer home, have more and better things, and generally, just reach greater heights than they themselves did. It seems natural. It seems like it should be. In my particular family, some of this has already occurred, and some in well on the way to happening.

My Grandfather and Grandmother Hughes had nothing much to speak of, from what I've heard. They lived in an Irish village in South Chicago, near the majority of my Grandmother's family. She never worked, which was pretty much the custom in those days, and my grandfather was mostly a laborer. Neither ever left Chicago.

My dad, the youngest of four, had a 6th grade education. He married my mom, a high school graduate, who came from a broken family, my maternal Grandfather having left my grandmother when my mother was a little girl.

While my brothers and I all received our high school diplomas, only the oldest of us went on to earn his college degree, though I did take some college course. My wife also did go to college, yet did not complete her studies either. Neither of her parents went to college either.

Through hard work, a driven personality, an incredibly supportive wife, and some luck, I was able to succeed in an industry far beyond what could have ever been expected considering my roots in a working class environment with no advanced education. We, though, had the foresight to realize that our children would need the benefit of college to achieve the goal of "doing better than their parents". So we made a pact of getting them through college. We provided the money and encouragement. They provided the hard work, and desire. We see now that they are on the way to that elusive goal.

However, if there is one thing I could tell them - or anyone, for that matter - it would be don't forget your family's roots. I did for a while. I started playing with the rich and famous and almost forgot about the difficult work put in by the generations before me in my family to allow me to reach the heights I did.

To think that my great great grandfather escaped Ireland in the Potato famine, leaving behind other members in his family to venture to a new world sometime in the 1840's would lead to what I have now is almost unbelievable. His son, for whom I'm named, eventually moved to Chicago from the East Coast, and began yet another new life there.
My grandfather Hughes, whom I only saw as an infant - and then my Grandmother Hughes, who died in early 1954, gave birth to my dad. My grandmother Hughes' death allowed my dad to make the move to California - when I was but 7 years old.

Moving to California was like heaven to my dad, whose experience with it previously had come as a Marine, going and coming from WWII. It enabled him and my mom to buy a home for the first time - the first one purchased by anyone in his family, ever. He was 44 years old at the time.

Years ago, long after my dad had passed, and my mother was gravely ill with cancer, I drove my kids past that home. The home I grew up in. I was trying to make a point about how far I/we had come. About roots. I don't think they got it. But I am hopeful that someday they will. I know in my youth, I was too busy trying to climb that ladder & grab that brass ring to stop to reflect on how far I'd come. It wasn't until I reached a certain age that it dawned on me. That little house I grew up in seemed to be the most beautiful thing in the world at the time. It was filled with the roots of the generations of family who had never owned a home before.

Old Fart Mike