Life and Chance

from Alexander McCall Smith's newest contribution to the 44 Scotland Street series, The Importance of Being Seven:

"It is salutary to remember how many of the features of our lives are not only not our own creation, but the result of events that took place even before we were born, sometimes several generations ago.  And this applies not only at an individual level, but at a collective one too:  what we are depends, to an extent, on where we are.  That one is born in Aberdeen, or Chicago, or Gdansk -- or wherever it is -- dictates one's culture and, to some extent, moulds one's outlook on life.  That is hardly a novel observation, but still bears reflection upon.

. . . when it comes to the family, how much more vivid is the impression that one's fate is formed by the actions of others.  Each one of us is a palimpsest on which our parents have written, and beneath their writing is the writing of their parents.  Thus is family pathology transmitted, and although behavioral geneticists may argue amongst themselves how genes determine behaviour, the rest of us have no difficulty in seeing familiar traits being passed on from parent to child to grandchild."


By the way, I recommend the 44 Scotland Street books, but they must be read in order.  The first one was not my favorite, but I became more entranced with each succeeding book.  Makes me want to go back to Edinburgh and look for these fictional characters, knowing they are not to be found.  I want to look, anyway.

Missing

Taking a quick emotional temperature this afternoon, I wondered, why this unease? Then it dawned on me: tonight Annie leaves. Shining, beautiful Annie. My baby. And she left with hugs and tears in her eyes and I held my own at bay until I closed the door.

So many mothering moments are forgotten, and yet others are so clear and present. I go to youtube and watch Billy Joel singing In the Middle of the Night -- the River of Dreams, and suddenly before me I see Maren and Annie dancing. Annie is a little wisp of a girl with curly blonde hair and a tentative smile upward to big sister -- Am I doing this right? She follows Maren precisely and even gets her torso to bend and her hands to move in just the same way. I am amazed. I see them both so clearly, yet the moment is nearly twenty years old.

On Monday, Maren and I were driving very near to Stirling Drive. I suggest we drive by Matt's and Jess's old house, for old times sake. No, Maren says, it will make me cry. So we don't go, but Maren cries anyway. Missing hurts. I don't like goodbyes.

I'm better at hellos.