Rich In Love

Growing up I would explain to others that my family was rich. They knew this was not true in a monetary sense. My mom was a nurse and dad was a probation officer. Together they had four children in less than five years and though they managed to take two weekly vacations a year there was not a lot of money left over for extras growing up. We were, however, rich in love.

How do I explain it? Our family was far from perfect. We fought. We had family meetings. We cried happy, mad and sad tears. As the fourth child and third daughter, I wore and received hand-me-downs. The oldest memory of a hand-me-down that I loved was my faded red “biggie” bike. It was a three-wheeled tricycle that I’m guessing I got for my third, fourth or fifth birthday. I loved it. It was slightly bigger than a traditional toddler’s tricycle, the size you would find in a kindergarten playground. I did not feel like I had missed out when I received that old bike. I remember mom and dad’s happiness as I jumped on it and began pedaling around our driveway on Wilson Avenue.

Growing up the color red must have had some significance. I remember the summer my mom bought us each a pair of summer sandals. Mine were red leather Salt-Water Sandals. I proudly wore them one hot summer day and put them in the green check-in swim bag. The only glitch was that I did not check the bag in with the lifeguards. Instead, I hung it inside the locker room. Later that afternoon when I went to get dressed, the sandals were missing, having been stolen some time earlier. I cried. Mom and dad held a firm stance on the fact that they would not be replaced. And though it was a difficult lesson to learn, I understood. Even that experience added to my rich life.

I slept in a room with my two sisters until my oldest sister was in junior or senior high school. My parents later added on a new master bedroom. Somehow even this fact did not bother me. I had many hours of wonderful make-believe games that included playing “house,” “school” and more. I (mostly) didn’t mind sharing my room though it did make me a bit of a neat freak. I wanted to keep my stuff separate from my sisters. This neatness lasted years later, that is, until I was married and became the mother of my own three children. I distinctly recall a turning point in my life as a neat-nick. I was starting to get upset about my messy house. I decided my children could look back at me as being a picky housekeeper or they could have fond memories filled with childhood inspiring craft projects or forts in our family room kept up for a day or two to be admired and enjoyed. I knew from being raised by parents who unknowingly chose memories over maintenance which route to choose. Mine was a rich inheritance.

Another thing my parents’ prioritized money spent was for our sporting activities. Over the years we settled upon football for my brother and synchronized swimming for my sisters and myself. Though we often only saw airports and swimming pools while we competed, we did travel all over the United States. Dad was frequently a driver and chaperone, sharing coffee with our swim coach for long drives throughout the night. At the swim meets he was a timer. When mom chaperoned with others, they improvised a kitchen and mastered crockpot spaghetti that fed 8-16 hungry teenaged girls. We had many adventures and loads of stories to tell when our family would all eagerly await to pick us up at the airport. Being a reflective family we would regale one another with our stories upon our return. Our stories added to our families’ fortune.

My brother’s love of football allowed us to travel to watch his games while he played for both his junior college and college teams. I’ll never forget chanting, “We beat the slot machines!” after his victory against a Nevada team. Great memories, even when it involved the car stopping in the middle of the freeway while traveling filled our love bank. It was scary having cars zoom past us until we could get help, not easily summoned pre-cell phones.

Dad’s love for adventure was a monetary priority too. Somehow my mom and the other wives allowed their husbands the luxury of traveling over Valentines’ weekend several years in a row to go skiing. Dad would return from his trip with four small velvet heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for us accompanied by a much larger version of the Valentine’s Day box for mom. And there was always a card for her too. It was always mushy and always sentimental despite dad’s macho bravado. He was a softie in matters of the heart.

I remember bringing friends over the years to my house for the first time. There were many whom lived in much more expensive homes up in the hills or across the Valley. They were pristinely painted and landscaped and decorated with stylish new furniture. There were newer and nicer cars parked in their driveways. Even so, as I walked friends through the front door and into our living room I always felt proud to bring them inside. I felt rich. Yes, I knew it wasn’t monetary, even then. But in matters of the heart, my family lived abundantly.