The state of the world (primarily the United States) troubles me greatly, and I have felt paralyzed of late. My writing has dropped to near zero and I reflect and plan and promise and pause, only to end the day having written nothing at all.

So today I have a few minutes, and I have again vowed to accomplish something that will further my writing goal. And that is writing about my past to escape the present.

I just returned from a few days with my daughter. She had a business trip to Los Angeles, and I stepped in to grandkid sit. My Texas grandies are nine, nine and seven. They are high energy boys. Inevitably they get naughty, and in many, many ways they remind me of my California cousins. My California cousins were younger than me by a few years. Theirs was a single mom, Hano, who worked like a dog to provide for her family. I woke in the middle of the night and found their mom on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. The boys at that time chewed tobacco, and there was a spittoon on the floor that they didn’t even try to hit. It was disgusting and I was appalled that their mother would have to clean up their mess.

They poked and prodded each other, made each other cry. They would make their own mother so frustrated. She called my dad for advice and counsel.

As to whether my dad helped them, I doubt it, but he did give them a couple of his famous lectures, which is the reason I started this story. Lectures…

Not only do my three grandies remind me of my cousins, my daughter reminds me of my dad. She can hold court at the dinner table lecturing her boys on any number of topics–mostly about being good, knowing right from wrong, making good decisions, trying hard, not fighting, being cooperative… the list is endless.

And like my siblings and me, my grandies sit and listen to their mom. She is, like my dad, strict. They don’t talk back, sometimes they try to defend themselves, but mostly they listen, likely afraid that interrupting will only make the lecture last longer.

I remember many family dinners when my dad would rant for what seemed like forever. He probably did so because he thought his words were falling on the proverbial deaf ears, but I don’t think they were. I do recall, speaking only for myself, a lot of internal self-talk. But rarely did I verbalize any of that self-talk. And I never recall my older siblings talking back–ever.

Usually the lectures would be incited because of something one of us did or didn’t do, or it was something someone unrelated to us did or didn’t do. As I think about it, it may have been something that happened to him during the day and he would use it as the premise of his rant. My mother never said a word one way or another–she might have been subjected to the rant as much as we kids.

At some point Dad would run out of words, or maybe just get tired, and we would drift away from the dinner table. We would have eaten through the talking to, and the girls would clear the table and wash dishes.

Was it bad? Did I learn anything? Did it make a difference? Is it hereditary?

My cousins turned out OK. Their lives aren’t like mine, but no one’s life is like anyone else’s. But they are now in their late 60s and they have never been to prison, so I think that’s a good thing.

My siblings and I grew up, had families, none of us have been convicted of a crime (that I am aware of). I wish I could hear my dad’s lectures in my head today–I can’t. But I can FEEL the lectures–sitting at the dinner table, head down, shoveling food into my mouth, thinking of rebuttals, but never voicing them. Internalizing the words my father spoke without understanding or consciously thinking about them.

So as my daughter lectures her boys on telling the truth, being good in school, being kind, recognizing right and wrong, I relive what my childhood was like, hearing the words fall over me, shaping my life, my values, my choices.

It isn’t bad. We learn stuff. It makes a difference. It must be hereditary.