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05-20-2001, 08:27 PM
Healing Memories (http://www.msnbc.com/news/575578.asp)
A daughter reflects on her family’s complicated past and its difficult present
By Patti Davis
NEWSWEEK WEB EXCLUSIVE
May 18 - *Last Sunday, after spending most of the day at my parents’ house, I did what most writers do when we feel vague, undefined forces pushing in on us, turning us to clay. We stand in the center of the room, wondering what’s going on in that strange, turbulent country we somewhat confidently call our minds. And then we reach for pen and paper or computer and keyboard. We lunge for words. Language is the architecture of our lives. It’s how we make sense of things.
IT’S HARD being the friend of a writer, harder still being a family member. Sooner or later, you will end up in print. In the realm of family, I have, in the course of what is now a rather lengthy writing career used my words to wound, but later - hopefully - to heal.
Anyone who knows anything about the Reagan family knows that this mother-daughter dance has been a delicate, complicated affair. But last weekend, a velvety sun, warm and gold, flowed down through the trees on us as we sat outside and ate lunch from trays. The parrot from a neighbor’s house whistled the way construction workers whistle at women, and we laughed at the sound. My father smiled when our laughter folded around him. He was clothed in layers he would never have worn in younger days; my mother brought out two hats - one for herself and one for me, which she sent home with me at the end of the day - to shield us from the sun we used to bake under in long ago summers.
My mother pulled up memories from her past: My grade-school math teacher whom I had such a crush on; I deliberately flunked math so I could go to summer school with him. And the night my mother and I put my grandmother to bed after my grandfather’s funeral. "Do you think he’s dancing tonight?" my grandmother asked. Later in the afternoon, under the shade of arching trees beside a pool that no one swims in anymore, my mother said, "I’m not sure it’s good to have so many memories. It just makes you miss everything so much more." I told her that memories are the riches of a life. "Without them, you’d wonder what you did with your time," I said. But the truth is, I didn’t know what to tell her.
...
Click here to read more (http://www.msnbc.com/news/575578.asp)
A daughter reflects on her family’s complicated past and its difficult present
By Patti Davis
NEWSWEEK WEB EXCLUSIVE
May 18 - *Last Sunday, after spending most of the day at my parents’ house, I did what most writers do when we feel vague, undefined forces pushing in on us, turning us to clay. We stand in the center of the room, wondering what’s going on in that strange, turbulent country we somewhat confidently call our minds. And then we reach for pen and paper or computer and keyboard. We lunge for words. Language is the architecture of our lives. It’s how we make sense of things.
IT’S HARD being the friend of a writer, harder still being a family member. Sooner or later, you will end up in print. In the realm of family, I have, in the course of what is now a rather lengthy writing career used my words to wound, but later - hopefully - to heal.
Anyone who knows anything about the Reagan family knows that this mother-daughter dance has been a delicate, complicated affair. But last weekend, a velvety sun, warm and gold, flowed down through the trees on us as we sat outside and ate lunch from trays. The parrot from a neighbor’s house whistled the way construction workers whistle at women, and we laughed at the sound. My father smiled when our laughter folded around him. He was clothed in layers he would never have worn in younger days; my mother brought out two hats - one for herself and one for me, which she sent home with me at the end of the day - to shield us from the sun we used to bake under in long ago summers.
My mother pulled up memories from her past: My grade-school math teacher whom I had such a crush on; I deliberately flunked math so I could go to summer school with him. And the night my mother and I put my grandmother to bed after my grandfather’s funeral. "Do you think he’s dancing tonight?" my grandmother asked. Later in the afternoon, under the shade of arching trees beside a pool that no one swims in anymore, my mother said, "I’m not sure it’s good to have so many memories. It just makes you miss everything so much more." I told her that memories are the riches of a life. "Without them, you’d wonder what you did with your time," I said. But the truth is, I didn’t know what to tell her.
...
Click here to read more (http://www.msnbc.com/news/575578.asp)