ROADMAPS

“The tale of someone's life begins before they are born.” 
― Michael Wood, Shakespeare

In many ways the paths and roads I have taken or made in my life are the result of the individual paths of my parents and the road they forged together. The same is true for each one of us. If you think about it, our lives are much like a road map where a dirt road intersects a state road; a state road a highway; and a highway an interstate. You can go from one to the other and back again. The road that is our life is not our own, neither are our stories – they began long before you or I were born and will continue long after we die. A closer examination of this road map will show the intricacies of how of our stories spin together and overlap to create a complex web of seemingly individual, yet shared, experiences and lessons. My parents are a great example of this concept and their story will help you understand who I am and the roads I have chosen to travel.

My parents were an unlikely pair and their story is fit for a fairy tale. My dad, a stubborn, rebellious, and misguided youth from the Bronx of New York, joined the Navy at 18 with the intent to die. While in boot camp, he befriended a country boy from Iowa who encouraged him to select a Midwestern girl to write from his collection of senior pictures. Dad selected my mom’s picture and the correspondence began. He took his leave to Iowa to meet the beautiful girl (my mom). Within moments of meeting face to face, a deep feeling of familiarity, that they knew each other from sometime before, swelled in both their hearts and minds. Thus; began their whirlwind romance, but it was not without shortcomings as their worlds collided.

In the Midwest and especially in farming communities, it is quite common for one to simply lift a finger while driving as a means of saying hello. My father, however, was unaware of such a custom, thought the people were giving him the bird, and proceeded to flip off the entire town. His vocabulary also proved to be a challenge. While eating Sunday dinner with my mom’s family, he said, “Please pass the ‘f-ing’ potatoes.” Followed by, “I’m so ‘f-ing’ sorry.” Silence, shock, and horror filled the room. My grandpa quickly spoke up and came to my dad’s rescue, “I understand son. I also served in the military.”

With some divine intervention, my mom’s parents gave their consent for her to wed. And so the small town girl married the big city boy at the young age of 19. They would live in Washington State, on the beaches of Hawaii, and in Connecticut while my dad served as a Navy diver on a submarine. They loved each other with a fierce, fiery passion, lived for the moment, and were always looking for a good time (this was 70’s – use your imagination). Two years into their marriage, they welcomed my oldest brother Bryan, who was truly a God-send as my parents were only going to raise dogs. With parenthood came responsibility, a longing for guidance on how to raise their child, and a thirst for knowledge.

While on patrol one night a few years later, a man provided such insight by sharing his testimony and his convictions about the gospel of Jesus Christ. My tough, rather uncouth dad was humbled as his heart was pierced with this man’s words. He accepted the challenge to read The Book of Mormon and to pray to know if it was true. With a stubborn determination to know for himself, Dad quit smoking cold turkey, stopped drinking and changed his “other” habits. In doing so, the questions that had plagued him since his youth and had been the cause of his beatings in parochial school, were finally answered. He experienced a mighty change of heart and prayed that his sweetheart would too. 

His heartfelt pleadings were heard and answered. My parents joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1976. My dad’s aunt, a Roman Catholic nun, said that any religion that could change Dad to the man he is today is a miracle from God. Two years later, following the birth of my brother Marc, my parents left the Navy life to settle in small town Iowa. My mom opened up her own beauty salon in our house and my dad worked various jobs. They welcomed another boy in 1979, my brother Neil.

My three brothers kept them busy – flooding the upstairs bathroom, ramming Matchbox cars into new drywall, and other crazy adventures that left my mom in tears and frustrated. A few years later, Mom was pregnant again and longing for a little girl. She had what she calls, “one of the most amazing dreams,” in which, I came to her, told her why I chose our family and what my purpose was in life. My mom awoke and stared out at the starry night sky for quite some time pondering on her dream. She eventually drifted back to sleep only to forget the details of what I had said, but with a sure knowledge that she was going to have a girl.

Eight days late, a whopping 10 lbs, and the cord wrapped around my neck, I made my entrance into this world during the Iowa vs. Indiana basketball game. Mom has always claimed that I was her angel after all those crazy boys. Unfortunately, my angelic nature had a slight defect – an ineffective esophageal sphincter which led to the nickname of “barfy baby.” I threw up each and every time I ate – all over mom in the middle of church service and even in my brother’s mouth following a game of airplane. Poor Marc!

I idolized my three older brothers. I spent my days chasing after their shadows, riding bikes, babysitting their tadpoles, cheering them on at wrestling tournaments, and spinning heroic tales about them. While other girls wore dresses trying to impress the boys, I sported a ponytail, my brother’s clothes (sorry Neil), my Air Jordan’s and consistently beat the boys in arm wrestling - not exactly the best approach to winning my crush over. Beyond that tomboy exterior, I loved to dance and help Mom in the shop, removing the rollers from the sweet old ladies’ hair.

We were not a “perfect family.” We made mistakes, we fought, and we didn’t always like each other, but love was expressed daily. My parents instructed us from the scriptures, took us to church on Sunday, and taught us to pray – although many of our family prayers began and ended in fits of laughter and disapproving looks from Mom. Traditions were important – big family dinners with extended family on Sundays and holidays, being singled out and celebrated on your birthday, and camping in a tent at the lake in the summer. A tradition that didn’t pan out was the cross country road trip in a maxi van to New York - driving 24 hours straight. Perhaps, because we ended up getting lost in the ghetto while my mom searched for a bathroom or the cost factor and my dad’s lack of patience. Mom and Dad worked hard to make ends meet, providing for our family and their three “honorary children” who lived with us throughout the years. They experienced seasons of unemployment, broken appliances, medical expenditures, and simultaneous teenage drivers. 

The road they forged together, laid the foundation for me and my brothers to write our own stories and choose our own paths and roads to follow. Our stories are each unique, although they share the same origination - they are our own and yet they're not . . .  Where did the foundation of your road begin – was it happy, sad, good, or bad?