Don't Tell Me About Your Lifestyle

Kathleen and Jim with Cheryll, 1970.

Most of my memories of my cousin Kathleen revolve around the small, private war she fought against her parents and the other older adults in our family. As a baby boomer, I think she was the first of our generation to experience what it was like to have different life expectations than our parents.

It cannot have been easy growing up in a family of steadfast, unchanging Christian values against the backdrop of one of the most tumultuous periods in American history. There must have been times when she felt caught between a rock and a hard place. Her friends had so many things--color televisions, life-size dolls, closets full of store-bought clothes--while she (and the rest of us) had only black-and-white screens, rag dolls and home-sewn jumpers. It didn't help that our family had no money or that illness and circumstance demanded frugality from all of us. She could have become bitter about our lack but instead she became inventive and inspired--a crusading Auntie Mame of our very own who led us on a seemingly never-ending series of adventures.

Perhaps it is a little ironic that, perceiving a lack of "fun" in our lives that Kathleen introduced us to freedoms and activities that are unavailable to kids today. I saw my first drive-in movie (Live and Let Die) with my sisters Susan and Donna, cousins Becky and Colleen along with Kathleen, her husband Jim and daughter Cheryll. Eight people in one car must have been bad enough but Kathleen (surely silently screaming "Live! Live!") made sure each of us was liberally supplied with popcorn, candy and soda. I shudder today to recall that Jim calmly allowed a few of us to watch the adventures of James Bond while perched on the roof of his beloved, fire-engine red Charger.

Jim was always Kathleen's silent partner in crime (which, incidentally, is a shame because he happens to be wickedly funny). With his help, Kathleen simultaneously horrified our parents and delighted us by giving us our first lessons in driving (I was 12), taking us bowling (rented shoes!) and making that most pernicious of childhood dangers--candy--freely available (tooth decay!).

Strangely enough, Kathleen and my father were cohorts of a sort. Both regarded "bored" as a four-letter word, and both constantly pointed to the myriad of activities available to us that could be undertaken without parents. Fireworks, for example, were best watched from the roof (although they did require a certain hushed secrecy and ready access to a ladder). If a parent absolutely had to be present, then he or she was expected to chauffeur us from one suburban display to the next, chasing the bright explosions across the county until we were too tired to "ooh," ah" and "oh."

However, whereas Dad had a tendency to counsel caution for fear of inevitable lifechanging ínjury, Kathleen urged abandon for the sake of joy. Challenged by authority, her response was a call to arms, "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!" and she preached a message of curiosity, exploration and wonder. Thanks in large part to her, my cousins and I share a love of laughter, board games and good chocolate. Hers is a legacy I fondly remember.

So much of what we experienced as kids has been lost over the years. There were times when we could roam literally for miles on foot without causing our parents any concern. We could chat with people we hardly knew or didn't know at all without fear of being compromised in any way. We could build houses in alien trees, cavort with strange dogs and ignite ill-gained cherry bombs without any adult supervision whatsoever. The world is a darker place today with a dearth of open spaces and a surplus of fear. It's not safe for children any more, and we have to accept that. At least that's the way it seems until I hear those immortal words in my head: "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!"