DECEMBER 2, 2022 – It was inevitable: becoming my parents. Though we boomers like to deny it, “becoming our parents” isn’t an isolated phenomenon. If you think otherwise, search YouTube for “Progressive commercials on becoming your parents.” Before you know it, you’ll watch and laugh so hard at half a dozen of the ads, you’ll think about sharing on FaceBook—but won’t for fear your kids would roll their eyes if they found out.
Today I experienced a “becoming my parents” moment. I was clearing snow that had drifted onto the driveway. The encroachment posed no practical problem, but the irregular line of the snow wasn’t pleasing to the eye. I felt an impulse to remove the small measure of snow to the edge of the concrete, especially for neighbors who might cast a glance up our driveway as they pass down the alley. But then I realized that I wanted clear demarcation for me.
As I strode around the house to address walkways in front, I pondered my “persnickety streak” regarding the snow line and realized it was in wholesale emulation of my dad, especially as he aged. He’d been a perfectionist his whole life, but I noticed that as he advanced further into old age, he focused more on the minutiae in his life and less on the “outside world.” I worried that my need to clear the snow back to the edge of the concrete signaled that I too, now, was in danger of a narrowing perspective. Throw in the health factor, I thought, and I could easily become unbecoming in my self-absorption.
Despite this self-appraisal, I cleared the sidewalks to the edge along each side—again, mostly for my benefit. In my younger years, having been preoccupied with a thousand more pressing matters, I would’ve been satisfied with a more basic clearing of snow off the walkways—enough to avoid a citation. I would’ve drawn the line at . . . shoveling a perfectly straight line along both sides of the sidewalk.
After shoveling, I went inside to do some writing. For background music, I chose my favorite “writing music” of late: Schubert’s piano impromptus. About 10 minutes into these remarkable gems, it dawned on me that at earlier stages of my life I never would’ve chosen these to accompany my writing. I would’ve selected “war horses” of piano and violin concerti repertoire or a big “B” Symphony. Never Schubert. Yet now I’d selected the composer whose music my dad so often had on the the old “Hi-Fi” or later, on the CD player, at home and cabin. In addition, as I now hear the impromptus, I realize that one in particular—No. 4 in A-flat Major, is what my mother so often played. I never knew she was playing Schubert or that it was one of his impromptus, let alone which one.
The more I listen to these masterpieces, the more I appreciate them. And now I understand why my parents did as well.
The twist, however, is that long before my current age my parents were devoted fans of Schubert’s music. As my newfound appreciation of the same music develops, I can aptly say, “I’ve become my parents when they were much younger than I.” From that perspective perhaps I can rejuvenate my outlook.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
1 Comment
Every time it snows a significant amount, I can hear Grandpa N’s voice telling me about his regularly scheduled trips outside to clear whatever snow had fallen on the driveway as to keep the amounts manageable.
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