An incident when I was maybe 10 years old started this line of thought. My mother, sister, and I often visited my mother’s family and took dinner with them on Sundays. Grandma Shumpert was always old and walked like she endured pain in her hips. Living with her were two unmarried daughters and an unmarried son, all of them complex if not inscrutable characters.
It’s only come to my attention years after the fact that we four children had different experiences in our family. Each of us had unique relationships with our parents. It’s almost as if we developed in different worlds. Perhaps I’ve suppressed some memories that have been coming back to me. In particular, the time David ran away from home. I’d never seen my mother so distraught.
The thought at the bottom of all this rambling is that I hope I haven’t made some of the mistakes my parents made. In particular, I hope I didn’t mistake criticism for discipline.