We Raked Leaves When We Were Kids and Had the Blisters to Prove it

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a couple of suburban kids raking leaves the other day. Were these kids being punished for bad report cards or an infraction of house rules? Here in the 'burbs, we just don't see that many kids doing yard work. We see a few dads, the occasional mom, and lawn services.

I recalled a friend who jokingly called it “Johnson County child abuse” when she had two of her five children sharing the same bedroom. Did this leaf-raking task fall into that category, as well?

What I really wanted to know was, How on earth did these parents inspire their progeny to rake?

In our house, the offspring have always mysteriously disappeared or miraculously wanted to do their homework when there are dishes to be done, snow to be shoveled, leaves to be raked. We’ve actually paid one of our son's friends to do yard work for us. We have never been good at getting our children to do chores. It’s one of our failings as parents.

When I was a kid—OMG, did I just actually say “When I was a kid…?” If that sounds like I’ve turned into my mother (or father), I assure you (and myself) that I have not. How can I be sure? Because they were able to get us to help around the house, pitch in, do our part. It was an expectation that wasn’t optional. I was motivated by two things: a desire to please and fear. We set the table and cleaned the kitchen, kept our rooms picked up and…

…We raked leaves.

We had a big yard with lots of deciduous trees and our dad was a perfectionist. Weekends in the fall were all-hands-on-deck. Dad was methodical and precise and expected us to be, as well. There was a right way (and several wrong ways) to hold a rake. I’m still not sure where he came upon this knowledge and methodology since he was a city kid, born and bred on the island of Manhattan. He required short, even, punchy strokes to long, lazy drags. Work gloves were a must, but we got blisters anyway.

We didn’t bag leaves back then; we burned them. At least, we burned them until my dad got on an environmental kick. When we lived at 106 Oak Terrace, we burned on even-numbered days of the month. At 665 Pine Court, we burned on odd-numbered days. After building many equal-sized piles, the leaves would go into a special metal basket and set afire, crackling and bright when the weather was sunny and dry; smokey and smoldering on grey, damp days. I loved the smell almost as much as the scent of a campfire.

Today, with mulching lawnmowers and disappearing kids, leaf raking may be a lost art. I guess that’s why I was shocked to see those kids raking leaves the other day in their front yard. Maybe they were doing it for fun… collecting them in huge piles, jumping in and sending the leaves airborne before floating back to the earth.

Missing Baby Brings Out Best & Worst

We’ve got a missing baby in our city. Thanks to the Amber Alert system, folks know immediately these days when a child is snatched. Our local TV stations are on this pretty much 24/7, which is both a blessing and a curse. News crews are working their tails off to feed the curious and ravenous masses.

And a feeding frenzy it has become…

News of missing children brings out the best and the worst in people. On the upside, there is empathy, prayer and a willingness to lend a hand. Downside? Jumping to conclusions, finger pointing and criticizing the police and the parents. Somewhere in the middle is morbid curiosity and armchair theorizing.

Personally, I have spent some time in all three places. It is so easy to get drawn in to the drama—a mother’s tearful pleas, helicopter views of the search, a neighbor’s speculation and live blogs. Faceook and other interactive sites create a sense of community… disunity, too, as people’s opinions differ on who’s to blame. I’m guilty of throwing out a speculation or two myself. It’s all human nature, I suppose. And we don’t seem to learn our lesson. “Everyone” thought Casey Anthony was guilty of killing her daughter. Everyone, that is, except the jury.

I think so much of our news feels removed and out of our control. Even though they say “all politics is local,” I know I feel completely helpless, as well as removed, from what’s happening in Washington. I’m discouraged about the economy, but am powerless to fix it. And overseas? As dispirited as I feel about war in Afghanistan, genocide in the Sudan, famine in Somalia, tent cities in Haiti, the world seems to have “attention fatigue.” I think it’s due to the fact that we have no idea what we, individually, can do about any of it. Besides, most of us—and I include myself in this—don’t know enough about many of these world situations to participate in articulate discourse, let alone offer solutions.

Our local reporters—the folks we see on the air every morning and every night—bring baby snatchings into our living room and into our hearts. We’re drawn in and even asked to help.

What mom can’t look at little Lisa’s sobbing mother and not feel her heart breaking? No matter what really happened, or what truths are revealed, this is a woman who has been destroyed.

I admit I keep checking KMBC’s website for updates, flipping on the TV. The parents were even on ABC's Good Morning America today and I've seen stories in the Huffington Post and on CNN. I’ve allowed it to become a huge distraction. I don’t know what I expect to find out. I’m hoping and praying for the best, while semi-expecting the worst.

I don’t know what today will bring—when it comes to this missing child, or anything else for that matter. So I’m going to try to get on with my life, hug my loved ones, count my blessings, stop channeling my inner Nancy Grace and wait…

To Tell, or Not To Tell...

Ex-con, kitchen and craft maven Martha Stewart’s daughter, Alexis, has written a revealing book about growing up with her mommy dearest. Stewart says the book is all in fun, one big joke. Maybe. I’m sure Alexis will laugh all the way to the bank.

Remember what Frank McCourt said at the beginning of Angela’s Ashes?

“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.”

Authors have been telling tales about their upbringings since the dawn of the age. Readers love to get a glimpse inside the misery of others, especially if those others are celebs. But what about us regular folks? How much is okay to tell? I wrestle with this in my own writing because our stories are rarely only our stories. They almost always involve other people.

I don’t want to embarrass my parents or my children. Even more so, I don’t want to wound them. But telling my truths requires a certain amount of disclosure. Maybe it goes to motive. Many of us write because it’s cathartic and we absolute have to write to heal. Or because we earnestly believe our story could help someone else. Or because we want to get back at someone. Sometimes it’s all three. Augusten Burroughs comes to mind. He is brutally honest and wickedly funny and leaves it all out there about his mean, mad and neglectful parents.

Some people are disgusted by those of us who “air our dirty laundry,” while others say we’re brave. Two friends recently began blogging about some serious and personal issues—one parenting a transgender child, the other revealing years of suffering in silence as a battered woman. I think they are very courageous women. I admire their candor and their strength.

One of the finest examples of a memoir that tells a lot of damning, albeit hilarious, stories about growing up with mental illness, addiction and neglect is Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle. Walls makes you wish it weren’t too late to call Child Protective Services but, at the same time, it is absolutely clear that she loved her parents in spite of the havoc they wreaked. Christina Crawford? Not so much.

I wrestle with how much to say about alcoholism, depression, narcissism, dementia and whatever else molds our character in my writing. Sometimes the truth hurts. That is not my aim. I want love to filter through. Maybe writing is like parenting. It requires discipline and you have to be tough. But in the end, you want your kids (and the parents you write about) to know how much you love them.