Roots

Last week Karis and I went on vacation to my parents' home. I must say that it is so wonderful to be able to drive a mere 5 hours and find myself sitting in their living room chatting away. That is a luxury I have not had since leaving for college 10 years ago. We all remarked how nice it is to live so close to each other. Our time was wonderful, filled with deep conversation, shopping, beaching, and plenty of baby relishing. I would say that Karis bonded for the first time with my parents and my sister, and it was such a wonderful thing to watch some of the most dear people in my life get to know each other!

No matter how well I think I know my parents, the people who saw me come into this world, raised me, and made countless decisions on my behalf for so many years, I amazed at the things I still find out about them. I guess in some ways the tables have turned. For years they poured into my life and knew me, and now I find myself so curious about these two individuals. I wonder who they are, and what are the experiences in their lives that have shaped them--whether it be their childhood or the years that I was living in my childlike, self-absorbed world, not paying the least bit of attention to them as individuals. Now that I have my own child and the generations are multiplying, I find myself curious...who do I come from?

Sitting around the dinner table the first night I got home, my Dad settled into his chair after a hard day's work. As conversation developed he began sharing stories of his childhood filled with the adventures, or misadventures rather, of him and his twin brother. He recounted story after story of pranks, outings, travel, and memories that gave me a flavor of what his childhood was like. I was captivated by the details. The next morning he offered to make some of his infamous rolls for breakfast. I call them infamous because my siblings and I would both look forward to and dread these "biscuit-ish, scone-esque" creations when we were kids. We looked forward to them because it was fresh, hot bread coming straight from the oven. The dread was because they were a bit of a gamble...Dad never used a recipe but simply grabbed whatever was available and struck his fancy that day. Most of the time they tasted good. We always joked that regardless of taste, the nutritional value was so superior and the density so great we were sure someone could survive on a deserted island with those and water alone.

As I was saying, we sat down the next morning around the table and I asked something I have never thought to ask: where did my father learn to make bread? He began to tell me how his Oma (German for grandma) was a great cook and baker. As a little boy he would crawl under the table where she sat rolling out dough for noodles (most likely for that night's goulash or beef stroganoff or some such other German/Hungarian fare). As she worked with the noodles, some of the dough would hang off the table, and my father's little hands would grab the leftovers. I love picturing my Dad as a little boy eyeing the scraps, positioning himself in the right place, and scoring the unwanted bits. It was his Oma's skills with flour, yeast, and water that trained my father in his baking skills. These stories help color in some of the missing shades of his life story in my mind.

I also got to know more about my mother. Born and raised in Cuba, my mother's childhood was full of experiences that were unique, lively, and quite un-American. I had the rare privilege of visiting Cuba in 1998 and became acquainted with the land and people that my mother came from. During my visit home last week, my mother took Karis and I to beautiful nearby Sanibel Island. With its white sandy beaches, light blue waters, and quaint lighthouse, we fully enjoyed our visit. As we sat there munching on our seafood salad sandwich and watching the family of dolphins lazily swim by, I remarked to my mom how much the beach seems to mean to her. Her response was immediate and passionate. She began to tell me stories of annual summer trips from her inland hometown in Cuba to the coastal towns where she and her parents would stay for a month long visit. Her days were spent running, swimming, and playing under the Cuban sun. In the afternoon, they would gather for games with the other vacationers. Good food and music were plentiful. For her, the beach is more than a great place to visit. There is something healing, soulful about the beach. She drinks it in. So, for me, there is no one I would rather go to the beach with than this woman, my mom.