Family Context for the Boomer

The Oreo Generation

Long ago a promise was made here to attend to the Boomer experience; to reflect upon the relationship of this generation, a generation in or entering retirement, to the slice of population born before them, the younger generations that follow them, as well as the social and cultural reality in which they live.

The image of a sandwich has been used as metaphor for the experience of this generation in between. I prefer the image of the famed Oreo cookie. What is the experience of being the filler in this generational alignment while surrounded by a contextual  smorgasbord including technological revolution, economic shift, constant war, realities of aging, global warming, the ebola virus, etc., etc., etc.?

Why propose the image of the Oreo? The filler in an Oreo does not rest between two yielding slices of soft bread. The filler attempts to meld two unyielding firm and demanding cookies. In addition, its sweetness is to soften the more blunt flavor of chocolate striving to assert itself.

This is a vision of the Boomer reality experienced by many these days. Many are trying to be lovingly, responsibly and appropriately in relationship with the generation that came before us (parents and other older relatives or friends) and the generation which came from us, now our adult children. As in the Oreo cookie, we either take on or have cast upon us the task of supporting or holding together this generational mix. And like the cookie filler we are to be a sweet, pliable, and present and wise element of the structure.

Most recent posts touched upon the cause of world peace, issues in the Church, history, social commentary and more. However, the events of my personal life in last five months call me to ponder this Oreo phenomenon. As Boomer well into the last years of my life the experience of the Oreo filler is mine. The most recent episodes follow all too rapidly on the heels of placing my mother in an assisted living facility, supporting Hospice care for my father in his home, experiencing his death, selling the family home and dealing with the collections of their life time.

Future posts will tell the story in more detail. The story is presented at least in part as a cautionary tale for the Boomer and for the generations that surround them. But here I will merely post the remembrance/obituary piece I wrote two weeks ago upon the death of my mother's brother.

In Remembrance of Joseph Milazzo

Joseph Milazzo peacefully slipped away in the morning of October 3, 2014 at Putnam Ridge Nursing Home, Brewster, NY following a brief but serious illness. He was 82 years old. Following a physical collapse in Florida on July 20^th and hospitalization, he was moved to Brewster on August 13, 2014.

Joseph was born on December 1, 1931 in Brooklyn, NY.  His parents were Rosalia Galante and Frank Milazzo, both natives of Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily. He is survived by his older sister, Matilda Nimke, widow of Helmut Eric Nimke. Matilda now resides at Putnam Ridge Nursing Home. He also leaves his nieces Sister Hildegard Pleva, OSsR of Beacon, NY and Commander Rosalinda Hasselbacher, US Navy Nurse Corps Ret., of Shelton, CT as well as four grand-nephews Jonathan, Matthew and Andrew Pleva and Erich Hasselbacher, their spouses and five great-grand nieces and nephews.

It has been arranged with Halvey Funeral Home, 24 Willow St., Beacon, NY 12508, that the family will gather at the funeral home at 10:30am on Wednesday, October 8, 2014. At 11am there will be a brief prayer service at which Fr. Richard Smith, pastor of St. Joachim and St. John’s Parish in Beacon will preside. Immediately following we will proceed to St. John's Cemetery, 80-01 Metropolitan Ave., Middle Village, NY 11379) in Queens. Uncle Joe will be buried in the grave of his mother who died in 1932 at the age of 29 just three months after his birth. There is something very touching in this reunion of the two of them.

My Uncle and all his Brooklyn buddies who I remember from my growing up years are in many ways like characters from a Damon Runyon story but with a Sicilian/Brooklyn accent. My Uncle began life in the Depression with many strikes again him so he was not what I call a 'straight line kid.' Did not finish high school; went from one unskilled job to another; was drafted during the Korean War and served in Germany. He did get a GED and finally, through a friend of my parents, began a job working as an apprentice in the carpet trade. Slowly and with much hard work he rose through the Union ranks and became a skilled carpet mechanic with the ability to lay intricate designs in wall to wall carpeting. He would come home and talk about doing work for the likes of Claudette Colbert and Lena Horne. After his retirement he took on the pattern of a snow bird, living in Brooklyn during the late spring and summer months and returning to his condo in Margate, Florida to enjoy being on the beach with his many friends every day. He eventually took up permanent residence in Margate.

He was only 15 years older than my sister and I so he was the young gay blade who taught us how to dance the cha-cha and how to let the man lead on the dance floor. When my sister went off to St. Vincent's Nursing School in Greenwich Village in 1968 it was an awful neighborhood and he knew that sooner or later she would be out and about in a threatening neighborhood and meeting with friends at the local hangouts. She recently shared that before she left for nursing school Uncle Joe said that if she ever had a problem or got into a fix she did not want to drag her parents into she just had to call him and he would be there. This was the type of presence he offered in the family.

He had a beautiful girl friend before he was drafted and kept to his death an album of all their pictures while dating. I believe he received a "Dear John letter" from her while he was in the Army and it broke his heart. He always had a woman in his life, women he could bring home, but he never married.

He worked very hard, enjoyed life, loved good food and had many friends. But he saved money and played the market. When he knew the market had gotten beyond him he placed his money in wise investments. So his generous gifts in life will be matched by bequests in death leaving a legacy which will enrich the lives of those he loved.

He was known as "Joey Blue Eyes". He was a generous friend, treated his ladies with dignity and respect as a gentleman. He loved his sister and her husband, my parents, and called them from Florida every Saturday. And he loved his nieces and their children.

After his collapse on July 20^th of this year, even in his dismay at his deteriorating condition in hospital and nursing home, he remained concerned about others and grateful for care. He was always inquiring as to what or where I had eaten and if I was a feeling comfortable in his condo and finding everything I needed.

We did everything we could for him but something else was winning the race and finally he just slipped away.

I see now that the act of writing has been the creation of a more intimate obituary than is usual. I share it with you to give a sense of the man.

There will not be a Mass because he was only a weddings and funerals type of church-goer. But he was good and loved by God and conquered many demons in his life, I am sure. And "now he knows." The prayers offered at the funeral home and cemetery will be as much for those he leaves behind as they are for him as his ‘awareness’ expands to all eternity.

Heidi and Matt's Wedding Slide Show

This free digital slideshow made with Smilebox   

The Feast of Mother Love

By Matilda Nimke - Pastel on Paper - After Original by Mary Cassatt

In another lifetime, I collected prints depicting mothers and children, particularly nursing mothers. For many years this assortment added warmth and meaning to the livingroom of our home. Then my mother, originally trained in fashion design and later a painter for her own pleasure, presented me with this copy of a Mary Cassatt pastel. It was a birthday gift intended for my collection of 'mothers'. It is a treasure. My mother is well but is no longer able to take pleasure in her art. The necessary planning and attentiveness to task is no longer within her range. I used to tell her, "Clean less and paint more." The walls of my parents' home display many of her works. My mother is with me still in life and also in her art.

My collection of 'mothers' served to remind me of the intensity of motherlove. The images idealized those moments of pure joy, of a mother's oneness with her child, of the act of intimate nurturing and of the miracle of life. At times there was a stark contrast between those warm images and the reality of raising three sons as a single parent. As I receive cards from my sons and grandsons honoring me on this holiday, I am brought back to those moments of high contrast; those moments of anger and frustration, of words that would have been better left unsaid. I want to ask forgiveness for those moments. I want to say, "I am sorry for the times I let you down or hurt you. I am sure those times have left a mark."

My only consolation is that just as mothers have the ability to forget the pain of childbirth, children seem to have the ability to put aside so many parental failures, to make allowances for lapses in loving and patience and understanding. And in adulthood seem to gain an appreciation for the big picture and find it in their hearts to forgive the human frailty of their parents. For this I am so very grateful.

May your day be blessed as you rejoice  

in the gift of motherhood,

privilege and responsibility without equal.

Let us be thankful too

for all who have mothered us.

Communique from the Sandwich Generation

Elder Parenting in All Directions

Blessings abound in my life; a contemplative vocation superimposed upon the experiences of family, marriage and career. At one time I thought I would never become a mother, that it was not possible for me. And then came three sons; the sheer gift of an adopted child and then the joyful bonus of two born to me. What miracles. Now there are two robust and happy grandsons to boot. Family also includes a sister, about to become a grandmother too, and my parents who still live in their own home without any help, paid or otherwise. Dad is 88 years old and Mom 85.

I am one of the fortunate ‘sandwich generation’. From this position elder parenting is required in many directions and subject to varied definitions. I myself have become an elder. I am officially retired. It is a shock that I can ask for a senior citizen’s discount. In every group I find myself in the older cadre. Recently I met family members and friends I had not seen in many years. My, they had all become so old. Did that mean that I too had become old? It sure did.

My sons, now 37, 34 and 32 have also begun to enter the category of ‘elder’. At least they are no longer teenagers whose raging testosterone requires clear limits, specific expectations, and real consequences. I am still their parent, their mother; still called when the chips are down. But now it is mostly just to be listened to unless my opinions are very explicitly requested. In most circumstances, my thoughts in the matter are not required. But ‘elder’ or older, the increase in chronological age does not necessarily mean they are any wiser. I see lack of wisdom a mile down the road but am prudent enough not to describe the vision. This self-control, while to hard to come by, is absolute necessity. When friends announce the marriage plans of their children and ask advice for negotiating the merger, my standard response is, “Just keep your mouth shut.” Perhaps, in the Wisdom of God, such discipline comes more easily and naturally when one’s own diminishment is becoming evident and energy sags.

The philosophy of prudent non-involvement has kept my sons and the women in their lives in happy relationship to me. I admire the ability of these young women to adjust to the notion of a mother-in-law who is a nun in a cloistered monastery. Their acceptance elicits my respect. Cultivating respect for them and my sons as adults who are making independent decisions has demanded much self-discipline. My heart, on the other hand, has yet to learn its lessons. After all, these are my children; the babies I tenderly nursed and smothered with kisses; the kids I saw through chicken-pox, rushed to the emergency room or sat by their side after surgery; the teens I ferried from soccer game to scouts to religious education; the young men whose achievements reduced me to tears of gratitude and admiration. I still want so much for them and worry so much for them. To hold those sweet memories, along with the concerns and worries, silently in my heart is truly an ascetical practice. This is the condition to which the parents of adult children must surrender. The heart of a mother remains just that.

Grown children, their spouses and significant others make up one slice of bread in the elder parenting sandwich. That slice seems as straight forward and as anticipated as white bread. The other slice is prone to alarming alterations in appearance and texture every day. My parents, my elders for so many years and source of support and wisdom, are slowly moving in another direction.

My father was born in Germany. He came to the United States in 1928 when he was eight years old. He served in World War II and earned an engineering degree on the G.I. Bill while supporting a wife and two children. He is a craftsman and builder. Intellectually, he is a Renaissance man, an avid reader and raconteur. His resume boasts a long professional career of varied accomplishments and an active professional engineering license. He may be the oldest P.E. license holder in the state.

My mother is the daughter of Sicilian immigrants. At the age of eight, she became little mother to a three month old brother upon the death of their mother. She is an accomplished home maker. Trained in fashion design, her artistic talent has been devoted to creating pleasing delicate water color paintings for over forty years. No holiday would be complete without her delicate home made manicotti and fruit tortes. Today my mother’s short term memory is almost gone. Her former pursuits no longer hold any interest.

My sister and I have begun to feel that the tables have turned; that we are increasingly parenting our elders. The juxtaposition is not configured the same way every day or in every situation. A quality of diplomacy usually applied to international relations is required here. How much do you insist on helping? When do you say the driving license has to go? Must you be present at the next visit to the doctor? Do you have to make the next appointment? All superimposed on life-long parent child relationships bearing scars of ancient grief and old resentments kept tender by resilient memory. Now the deck is shifting as each new wave of reality breaks over the bow. The clock is ticking and we do not know when the alarm will sound.

Life is all about relationships. No one remains exactly the same from one day to another. We are subject to an infinite variety of mutations and permutations of character and personality, expression and physicality. It is all so very interesting and all so vexing. I have learned to expect that all things will change sooner or later, for the good or the bad. Challenge and opportunity for growth are always around the corner. But the greatest learning has been to appreciate the necessity of continuing, day after day, in total faithfulness, to go on loving, no matter what.