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Points of a better direction

Memories from way back when, to me are often like still photographs. Sometimes they’re like short movies of just a few frames, but the one I relate here is just a still picture, of a brief moment. I remember where I was, and what the moment entailed, but related happenings may be understood, but not necessarily actually remembered.

I go back to one of my earliest memories, back to when I was only the age of 4. I remember my age, because I was told that when we lived in that particular house in Minneapolis, I was 4 years old. That was 1931. The times of the Great Depression were tough. I believe, but don’t really remember that my father was working on a large project somewhere in Alaska. I guess in those days if one wanted a job one had to go where he had to go. That necessity eventually brought us to Gowanda in 1933 when the mental hospital, which is now a prison, was built.

This memory that has always seemed etched into my mind seems insignificant, but to me was very influential. I remember walking home from church with my mother on a Sunday. In her right hand she carried a container of Chop Suey she had just purchased for our dinner. Her left hand hung by her side with her index finger extended. I walked beside her, clasping that extended finger. It was my contact with comfort and reassurance. It was my guarantee that I was cared for and protected by an unfailing reality of protective love. She was my life, my Statue of Liberty, my Joan of Arc. I assume all of us who were raised by loving mothers have had like experiences, though they may not be as clearly remembered.

When we grow to adulthood we may feel that we should discard feelings of dependence and be confident within ourselves. I believe that to maintain their humanity, people must have a sense of humility to a superior influence. It is the illusion of the tyrant to see himself as either the right hand of God, or the king of the world, with no superior. This allows him to abuse humanity for whatever purpose crosses his confused mentality.

The maternal love that I felt flowing so generously down that finger to me has been a stabilizing godsend throughout my life. I often wonder how many mothers realize the lasting effects their most casual acts can have on their children. While there have been many times in my life that I have released my grip on it, the symbol of that finger has never released its offer and presence from me.

My dad was a very gentle man. He was deeply devout. He never drank, and never cursed, and was truly devoted to his family. Family outings were Sunday afternoon habits in summer. He was a big, strong, Swedish carpenter about 6-foot-1 with 220 pounds of muscle, and none of his three sons were stupid enough to incur his wrath, though we weren’t sure if he ever had any. I remember when I married we had to carry a large upright piano into the house that my new wife and I had bought. My brother and I (in our twenties) carried one end, while my dad (60) carried the low end, up the porch steps and into the house.

I guess all young people go through a time of asserting their own individuality, a kind of trying out of themselves. They may come through it much more successfully if they have been given the support and guidance of a loving mother and father. I’d like to say, in a more loving way than the expression generally incurs; they will do best if they have been “given the finger.”

Perhaps we can save mankind yet, if we replace the arrogant, upraised, middle finger, with a promising, forgiving, index finger. May God bless America.

Richard Westlund is a Collins resident. Send comments to editorial@observertoday.com

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