I’ve always considered writers extraordinary people. This is the main reason that it took me so long to actually call myself a writer. I am not extraordinary.
My life, overall, is unremarkable. My name will never land in history books, I’ll likely never win a Nobel Prize, and I will probably never make millions marketing my stories or essays to the world. Truth be told, most of us won’t.
I’ve come to understand, however, that the stories of ordinary people are gifts of extraordinary value.
You might ask why, and if you stay patient, I’ll be glad to tell you. I’ll also give warning now that this is a series. Hopefully, you’ll be back to read each part in full, and you’ll be as inspired by it as I have been by the stories of the ordinary people in my life.
As a child, I was not abused in any way. My parents were both alcoholics, but they were good-hearted people who truly loved me. If I experienced any sort of ill treatment from them at all, it was a neglect born of selfish addiction and carelessness. I can say that my parents were both good people, they were just crappy parents.
My mother was single when she gave birth to my sister in 1964, 10 1/2 years before I came along. She raised her alone for the first three years of her life, then, she left Los Angeles, California, her home of ten years, to return with my sister to her childhood home in Detroit, Michigan. At the time, both of my maternal grandparents were still living, so my sister had the benefit of grandparents who helped care for her and raise her.
My mother was drinking heavily by this time, so this homecoming was a great comfort for my sister. I wonder, though, if mom felt the same way. Mom had always had a strained relationship her mother, from what I understand, and in addition was a bit of a daddy’s girl. By the time she returned home from California, my grandmother was sick and dying and much of my grandfather’s time was given to caring for her. I wonder if it wasn’t quite different from what my mother had expected.
My grandmother preceded her husband in death. I’m not sure when she died, but my grandfather passed away in early 1973. Within weeks of the funeral, on the third day of March, my mother married my father. He was a sweet and charming man with a carefree ease that made him delightful to be around. He swept my mother off her feet and convinced her that he would right every wrong in her world. He also adored my sister (close to nine years old by this time) and treated her as any father would treat his own daughter.
My mother couldn’t help but be attracted to him. She was a serious individual with a tendency to carry the weight of all the world on her shoulders. In addition, she was suddenly no longer a singer mother. Finally, my sister would have a father, and I’m sure that was a big motivator for my mom, as my sister’s father had disappeared shortly after my mother announced her pregnancy.
Just over two years would pass before I came into the world. It was indeed a honeymoon period for my parents, and my sister enjoyed the new found sense of family. A day in October 1974 changed things dramatically for all three members of the newly formed clan: the announcement of my mother’s pregnancy. I had been made in Detroit, and would spend my early years there in the house in which my mother had been born. Roots – or not?
© Michele Benner 2012
