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Dear Parents/Guardians,
In Spanish
class Mrs. Banchard was teaching a song, Mi Familia Grande
(My Big Family), to her fourth graders. After listing 1
father, 1 mother, 2 brothers, 3 sisters…6 uncles, 7 aunts, 8 boy
cousins, 9 girl cousins, a grandfather, a grandmother and pets
to fill in the pattern, in one big house, the song comes to its
punch line: “tengo un baño.” It could have been my
house.
I grew up
in a big old house with my mother and father, a sister and
brother, my father’s father, Grandpop Williams; my father’s
brother, Uncle Howell; my mother’s uncle, Uncle Chaz; our
un-sister, Mer (Mer’s mother died when she was young and her
father, who was a railroad engineer, left her with us until he
married again seven years later); and of course, Nana, who did
not live with us but was there every weekday, two English
Setters, hamsters, fish…and one bathroom. When I was in seventh
grade, the closet under the stairs was refitted with a toilet
and the world’s smallest sink. The bedrooms were small, while
the rooms on the first floor, two living rooms, a dining room
and a kitchen were big. There was an expectation that families
would use them together. We had one telephone connected to the
wall. If any adult was expecting a call, children were not
permitted to use the phone. When I was in second grade, the TV
arrived. It was put in our “den”; my siblings and I watched
whatever an adult wanted to see. Except Saturday mornings! Air
conditioning was available at the “movies.” The porch was the
next best option.
I
understand now that we were reasonably affluent. However, almost
everyone I knew, no matter what economic circumstances, lived in
multigenerational homes. There were surely stresses for the
adults, but the situation was great for children. Among other
things, there was always some adult who would give us ice cream
money (eight cents at the Purvin Dairy Store for a sugar cone).
Recently I
toured a show house on the Main Line of Philadelphia. It was
designed for a family of four. It had five bedrooms, seven
bathrooms, several dining areas, as well as formal, informal and
pool-side “great rooms.” Three of the bedrooms were suites.
The parent’s suite had a palatial bathroom, his-and her walk in
closets, and an immense “alcove” complete with a wet bar and
built-in coffee maker and microwave. Each of the children’s
rooms/suites had its own bathroom and an attached theme playroom
with media hook-up and, of course, plasma TV. It was entirely
possible for the parents and children to be in the house
together never to have to interact with each other.
And I
started to wonder, what was gained and what was lost? It seems
to me, more than anything, in a Philadelphia show home, patience
is lost. There is no need to wait for anything. Not for the
TV, not for the phone, not even for the bathroom. In that lumpy
old house in Wilkes-Barre, recently razed, adults modeled
civility and patience. They had to, if they were to continue to
live together. Children learned to wait. Immediate
gratification was not a remote possibility.
Life wasn’t
perfect. My brother and I fought, but we shared a room. My
sister and Mer had their own sibling-like issues, but over forty
years later, she and Mer are still good friends. Mer and her
children are still part of our extended family life.
Perhaps, as Mies Van der
Rohe is supposed to have said, “Less is more.”
Do
something with an extended family this summer and make your
children wait.
Sincerely,
C.R. Williams
Principal
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