Reflections On My Parents
Ask any son or daughter to write about their experiences with their parents, and each of
us could fill numerous chapters with memories that shift in tone and meaning as we
grow older. Parenthood is an evolving journey, and the experience of a family's oldest
child often differs greatly from that of the youngest. As the eldest of seven, my
memories of my parents feel fragmented—like distinct but disconnected chapters in a
book.
They were good parents in the ways that mattered most. We always had a roof over our
heads, food on the table, clothes to wear, and the certainty that if we were sick or hurt,
they would be there. I respect them deeply for their work ethic and their unwavering
dedication to keeping us safe and secure.
Yet, as the firstborn, my experience was shaped by the constant arrival of younger
siblings. In my earliest years, I wasn't quite sure where they came from—other than the
explanation that the stork had delivered them to the hospital. With each new addition,
my parents adjusted, stretching household space, finances, and energy to
accommodate another child. My relationship with them was different than that of my
youngest siblings. Time was a finite resource, and by necessity, I learned independence
early.
My father, a child of the Great Depression, carried the weight of a hard upbringing. His
father died when he was young, and by the age of 12 or 13, he was already working to
support his mother and four siblings. His formal education ended in the eighth grade,
and it wasn't until he joined the Army during World War II that he had the opportunity to
continue learning, training as a combat radio operator.
Despite the demands of raising a large family, he never stopped educating himself. I
remember him taking correspondence courses, earning his high school diploma by mail,
and studying electronics in his spare time. Over the years, his interests expanded—he
became an avid reader of classics and philosophy, and at one point, he developed a
fascination with hypnotism. He even practiced it on us kids. I can't say he ever truly put
me into a trance, but I found those moments oddly relaxing, a rare one-on-one
connection between us.
Time with him was limited. His work and personal pursuits—ham radio in my younger
years, community theater and organ playing after we moved off the farm—often took
precedence over family activities. I don't recall him attending my school events, but if I
was working on something, he would always offer encouragement. It wasn't until
adulthood that our relationship deepened. After I married, he took a genuine interest in
my work, whether I was trucking, flying, or in sales. We had long conversations, and he
occasionally offered advice—some of it quite wise. At times, I even sensed pride in his
voice, which startled me but was nonetheless appreciated.
As my career progressed, I was able to buy him some ham radio equipment, and that
hobby became a bridge between us. Though we lived over a thousand miles apart, we
communicated frequently over the airwaves, sharing technical discussions and family
updates through Morse code.
My mother was different. She met my father after the war while working as a teller at the
Brooklyn Naval Station bank, where he had temporarily been assigned. Their courtship
was brief. In those early years, they both worked—Dad as a short-order cook while
trying to land a government job in communications. Once he was hired by the Civil
Aeronautics Agency (the forerunner of the FAA), they moved to a remote outpost in
Virginia, where he worked shifts managing weather observations and aircraft
communications.
With Dad's erratic schedule, Mom was the constant presence in our daily lives. Her
focus was on ensuring we were raised as practicing Catholics and that we excelled in
school. Unlike Dad, she was deeply engaged with us. She read to us, taught us
phonics, and, when we got our first tiny television, sat on the floor watching shows with
us. Every night, she prayed with us before bed. Her discipline was verbal—Dad's, by
contrast, involved a switch or a paddle.
Mom ran the business of the family. She managed the budget, paid the bills, drove ten
miles to buy groceries, and handled doctor's appointments. In hindsight, she was
overworked—especially since, even on his days off, Dad often worked a second job.
As Catholics, birth control wasn't an option, and so the seven of us came in quick
succession. But as we got older and Dad received promotions, their lives became
slightly more structured. Mom took advantage of this by enrolling in law school, driving
60 miles each way to attend classes in Richmond. She never became a lawyer, but the
knowledge she gained helped her land well-paying jobs when the family later moved to
Pennsylvania.
During my high school years, my parents' primary focus was ensuring I graduated and
was accepted into college. They encouraged my studies in English and history, and they
attended at least one of my plays. But for the most part, I navigated my late teens
independently, working my own jobs and spending time away, even living in Montana for
a while. With such a large family, the traditional parent-child bonds that some might take
for granted weren't as strong in our household. Independence was instilled in us early,
by necessity.
Looking back, I realize how much cultural shifts shaped our family dynamics. The
Vietnam War and the societal upheavals of the era created deep divides, ones that, in
many ways, never fully healed. Those generational shifts influenced my own parenting
as well.
I would grade myself a B- as a parent. Like my father, I wasn't as involved in my
children's daily lives as I now believe I could have been. Fortunately, their mother
provided the consistency and encouragement that I lacked. My two sons have grown
into dedicated, attentive parents—actively involved in their children's lives, invested in
their education and interests. In many ways, their success as parents stands as a
testament to the lessons we all learned—sometimes through presence, and sometimes
through absence.
Each generation reflects on its past, evaluating what to carry forward and what to leave
behind. As I look back on my parents' lives, I see their strengths, their struggles, and the
weight of the choices they made. And, like any child grown older, I continue to see them
in new light.
us could fill numerous chapters with memories that shift in tone and meaning as we
grow older. Parenthood is an evolving journey, and the experience of a family's oldest
child often differs greatly from that of the youngest. As the eldest of seven, my
memories of my parents feel fragmented—like distinct but disconnected chapters in a
book.
They were good parents in the ways that mattered most. We always had a roof over our
heads, food on the table, clothes to wear, and the certainty that if we were sick or hurt,
they would be there. I respect them deeply for their work ethic and their unwavering
dedication to keeping us safe and secure.
Yet, as the firstborn, my experience was shaped by the constant arrival of younger
siblings. In my earliest years, I wasn't quite sure where they came from—other than the
explanation that the stork had delivered them to the hospital. With each new addition,
my parents adjusted, stretching household space, finances, and energy to
accommodate another child. My relationship with them was different than that of my
youngest siblings. Time was a finite resource, and by necessity, I learned independence
early.
My father, a child of the Great Depression, carried the weight of a hard upbringing. His
father died when he was young, and by the age of 12 or 13, he was already working to
support his mother and four siblings. His formal education ended in the eighth grade,
and it wasn't until he joined the Army during World War II that he had the opportunity to
continue learning, training as a combat radio operator.
Despite the demands of raising a large family, he never stopped educating himself. I
remember him taking correspondence courses, earning his high school diploma by mail,
and studying electronics in his spare time. Over the years, his interests expanded—he
became an avid reader of classics and philosophy, and at one point, he developed a
fascination with hypnotism. He even practiced it on us kids. I can't say he ever truly put
me into a trance, but I found those moments oddly relaxing, a rare one-on-one
connection between us.
Time with him was limited. His work and personal pursuits—ham radio in my younger
years, community theater and organ playing after we moved off the farm—often took
precedence over family activities. I don't recall him attending my school events, but if I
was working on something, he would always offer encouragement. It wasn't until
adulthood that our relationship deepened. After I married, he took a genuine interest in
my work, whether I was trucking, flying, or in sales. We had long conversations, and he
occasionally offered advice—some of it quite wise. At times, I even sensed pride in his
voice, which startled me but was nonetheless appreciated.
As my career progressed, I was able to buy him some ham radio equipment, and that
hobby became a bridge between us. Though we lived over a thousand miles apart, we
communicated frequently over the airwaves, sharing technical discussions and family
updates through Morse code.
My mother was different. She met my father after the war while working as a teller at the
Brooklyn Naval Station bank, where he had temporarily been assigned. Their courtship
was brief. In those early years, they both worked—Dad as a short-order cook while
trying to land a government job in communications. Once he was hired by the Civil
Aeronautics Agency (the forerunner of the FAA), they moved to a remote outpost in
Virginia, where he worked shifts managing weather observations and aircraft
communications.
With Dad's erratic schedule, Mom was the constant presence in our daily lives. Her
focus was on ensuring we were raised as practicing Catholics and that we excelled in
school. Unlike Dad, she was deeply engaged with us. She read to us, taught us
phonics, and, when we got our first tiny television, sat on the floor watching shows with
us. Every night, she prayed with us before bed. Her discipline was verbal—Dad's, by
contrast, involved a switch or a paddle.
Mom ran the business of the family. She managed the budget, paid the bills, drove ten
miles to buy groceries, and handled doctor's appointments. In hindsight, she was
overworked—especially since, even on his days off, Dad often worked a second job.
As Catholics, birth control wasn't an option, and so the seven of us came in quick
succession. But as we got older and Dad received promotions, their lives became
slightly more structured. Mom took advantage of this by enrolling in law school, driving
60 miles each way to attend classes in Richmond. She never became a lawyer, but the
knowledge she gained helped her land well-paying jobs when the family later moved to
Pennsylvania.
During my high school years, my parents' primary focus was ensuring I graduated and
was accepted into college. They encouraged my studies in English and history, and they
attended at least one of my plays. But for the most part, I navigated my late teens
independently, working my own jobs and spending time away, even living in Montana for
a while. With such a large family, the traditional parent-child bonds that some might take
for granted weren't as strong in our household. Independence was instilled in us early,
by necessity.
Looking back, I realize how much cultural shifts shaped our family dynamics. The
Vietnam War and the societal upheavals of the era created deep divides, ones that, in
many ways, never fully healed. Those generational shifts influenced my own parenting
as well.
I would grade myself a B- as a parent. Like my father, I wasn't as involved in my
children's daily lives as I now believe I could have been. Fortunately, their mother
provided the consistency and encouragement that I lacked. My two sons have grown
into dedicated, attentive parents—actively involved in their children's lives, invested in
their education and interests. In many ways, their success as parents stands as a
testament to the lessons we all learned—sometimes through presence, and sometimes
through absence.
Each generation reflects on its past, evaluating what to carry forward and what to leave
behind. As I look back on my parents' lives, I see their strengths, their struggles, and the
weight of the choices they made. And, like any child grown older, I continue to see them
in new light.
-KyleKillen
Well stated and so much I never knew. Thank you for sharing. So glad you and Grandpa found HAM radio to connect through. What a gift.
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