My parents, Jerry and Sylvia Atkins, told countless stories about my relatives. Although my mother’s beloved parents died when I was very young, they were alive to me through numerous photographs, conversations, choices, and decisions that were shared with me.
My relatives were remembered through laughter and tears, with pride, delight and sometimes confusion, (Why didn’t Uncle J’s branch of the family ever show up for family events?)
Stories revealed their values, temperament and character. I was told “You have your grandma’s green eyes,” “walk with a hint of a skip, just like your grandpa,” and have a big laugh like “Uncle Eddie.” I cherished knowing these people were “mine” and I was a part of them.
My relatives were a natural part of our conversations. I knew their habits, favorite colors, the types of cars they drove, how they managed through The Great Depression and World War II. When Grandpa needed to work late in “The Shop,” everyone worked, ate and slept behind the store “until the job was done.”
Whether we were in the kitchen or tending their graves, I heard about who worked with whom, who loaned money to whom, and how those transactions affected their relationships. (Loaning money to a cousin to start a new business worked out. Holding money to ensure a widow would be taken care of after the war did not.)
In death as in life, I feel my parents’ presence every day—sensing their spirits and seeking their counsel. They are a part of me.
Dr. Dale Atkins is a psychologist, author, educator, media commentator, nature lover, and promoter of kindness. www.drdaleatkins.com
