Quick sand at that.
I knew that when my mother took the plunge into alcoholism she became 'a stranger to the truth'. There was always an element of truth to her stories, but it was often small and well hidden.
A little while ago I discovered that this trait was not, as I had thought, a side effect to being an alcoholic.
We were always told that her only sibling, a brother, had died of an untreated melanoma. We were also told that he was a doctor, and that he should have known better. It was certainly implied, if not actually stated, that he died relatively young, unmarried and childless.
One of my brothers has started exploring the family tree. He discovered that Uncle Peter had in fact died (of a heart attack) a few years after my mother. He had four children. In a recent visit to the UK my brother met with them for the first time. And as an aside he was appalled at how like one of them was to mama. Not only in looks, but in gestures. I find that fascinating as I would have thought that gestures were learned rather than inherited behaviour. The small truth to Mama's tale is that her brother was indeed a doctor.
Our cousins did not know what had caused the estrangement - and all those who could have known are dead.
I dismissed it initially, as inconsequential and yet another of mama's antics. And it was only today in commenting on someone else's blog that I realised how bereft I am feeling.
My father was an intensely private man. To the point where secretive is probably a more accurate description. However, as a German Jew he probably had reasons not to want to dwell in the past. I know nothing whatsoever about his side of the family. And am a little afraid to look.
I had assumed that I did know some things about my mother, her family and her upbringing. And now discover that she was lying about her background - early and late. And now I don't know what to believe, and which of the family stories are mythical.
An unsettling feeling. Though I am not sure why.
I knew that when my mother took the plunge into alcoholism she became 'a stranger to the truth'. There was always an element of truth to her stories, but it was often small and well hidden.
A little while ago I discovered that this trait was not, as I had thought, a side effect to being an alcoholic.
We were always told that her only sibling, a brother, had died of an untreated melanoma. We were also told that he was a doctor, and that he should have known better. It was certainly implied, if not actually stated, that he died relatively young, unmarried and childless.
One of my brothers has started exploring the family tree. He discovered that Uncle Peter had in fact died (of a heart attack) a few years after my mother. He had four children. In a recent visit to the UK my brother met with them for the first time. And as an aside he was appalled at how like one of them was to mama. Not only in looks, but in gestures. I find that fascinating as I would have thought that gestures were learned rather than inherited behaviour. The small truth to Mama's tale is that her brother was indeed a doctor.
Our cousins did not know what had caused the estrangement - and all those who could have known are dead.
I dismissed it initially, as inconsequential and yet another of mama's antics. And it was only today in commenting on someone else's blog that I realised how bereft I am feeling.
My father was an intensely private man. To the point where secretive is probably a more accurate description. However, as a German Jew he probably had reasons not to want to dwell in the past. I know nothing whatsoever about his side of the family. And am a little afraid to look.
I had assumed that I did know some things about my mother, her family and her upbringing. And now discover that she was lying about her background - early and late. And now I don't know what to believe, and which of the family stories are mythical.
An unsettling feeling. Though I am not sure why.
