
The Valedictorian’s Story
I could go on for days about Mom and all she meant to me. I’d say the most indelible impression she made was in cultivating our family narrative and instilling in us all a sense that our own lives were unfolding stories, intertwined together, as part of a larger whole. We belonged.
My entry into the family narrative began on April 20, 1967, in Waukegan, Illinois. A band of tornados made its way across the Midwest, touching down in Chicagoland just as I arrived. With word of tornadoes hitting our neighborhood and fearing the worst for my brothers and sisters, Dad raced home from the hospital. Story goes, he burst in to find all four kids huddled safe and sound in the basement—14-year-old brother Dave had grabbed his siblings, games and snacks, and rushed them all downstairs as tornado warnings sounded. (It’s amazing how many of big brother Dave’s stories go like that, Dave, always doing the right thing. Brother Doug’s stories … not so much.)
In a J.R.R. Martin sense, I was storm-born. Thankfully, the only local damage reported of my birth-storm was to some farm equipment that was … relocated.
For my thinking, the greatest gift our parents gave us was their example. My brothers, sisters, and I, all learned what unconditional love was by experiencing it. We got to see what it looked like in their marriage, in parenting, and in family. Growing up, I looked forward to having the same love, marriage, and family Mom and Dad did. I think it was true for all five of us, as we all have, in turn, married and raised our families much like Mom and Dad did … each adding our own chapters to the larger family narrative, and are now watching the next generation of our family carrying the narrative forward.
[An attempt at the family tree as of this post: Mom and Dad have five children, three daughters-in-law and two sons-in-law (almost 200 years of combined marriage experience between us), twenty-four grandchildren, nineteen grand ‘in-laws’, forty-four great-grandchildren. And as I’m typing this, we’ve just learned a first great-great-grand is on the way.]
The story lives on. Nothing would make Mom happier.
My kids know all the old growing-up-Shaw stories, and they know Shari’s and my stories, and we have our family’s growing-up stories. Today, our girls are all adding their family’s stories to the whole. Into the fourth generation now, it’s an amazing gift Mom left us. And I think we all have a sense that this is Mom’s legacy. When Mom died, our girls all got tattoos that read, “Love always, Grandma XOXO” in Mom’s handwriting.
Phyllis’ legacy is our story.
I could say a lot more about the importance of story in my life—I do make my living as a storyteller—but for now, I’ll get back to my story.
Which brings us to Bruce Springsteen.
To be continued …

