When I was small, he told me many things. One that I remember is:
"You'll have all the boys after you in a few years."
Well he was wrong, but then, that's kinda okay with me.
He also said:
"One day you'll be ashamed to be seen with us."
Not yet. Maybe one day. The brother sometimes is, though more toward my mother. But big dad, never. My friends think my parents are cool. Hell, I advertise. Guess what? My dad's an inventor. Guess what? He built his own custom-designed tandem recumbent bicycle. And a hang-glider. He can pretty much do anything. He welds, he designs electronic circuit-boards, he rummages around in industrial waste bins and brings the spoils home to his shed for whatever dark purpose he has assigned to his upcoming weekend. He has his own blog which is part of a small ring of diverse and quirky friends - unlike my own (the address of which I have still not shared with anyone except ma femme).
My mother sells herself, really. It's the humble force of her personality that suctions onto people's hearts. She's a brilliant woman and a great achiever, creative and innovative in the fifty-odd fields she's traversed in her lifetime. But it's her love that overpowers us. She didn't realise she wanted to be a parent til her thirties, but it's hard to believe this when I consider the amount of thought she put into the raising of us. She has encouraged our natural abilities and shown us that the smallest person can make a difference in the world. She has a powerful talent for drawing out the best in people, and I swear I don't see her this way purely because she's Mum. She works in age-care, and the greatest pleasure of her existence is discovering new facets of a person, buried but not lost beneath the crust of dementia that has overtaken them.
As someone who dreams of an artistic career, I have despaired of my stable upbringing. But I think I need to review this theory. Does an artist require a tumultuous childhood? Does an artist have to suffer to create? Not everyone was molested. Not everyone has witnessed a murder or grown up in a traveling gypsy van or lost part of their leg in a tussle with a bloodthirsty stray. A lot of people grew up just like I did. And good art reflects life, does it not? The sweetest note is the ring of truth, so I'm told.
Maybe I still have a chance.
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