Clash of the Cultures--Part I

People like me are very used to being looked at funny.  It's not so much comfortable but, by the time I've passed my 48th birthday, it is quite expected.  I come from a patchwork kind of family and not one member of it has ever been considered run-of-the-mill.  Things have been going this way in my gene puddle for generations on both sides.  For instance, the most recent cultural version of oil-and-water would be my parents. 

My dad was born in Manhattan in 1920.  He was the son of a drunken tugboat captain and rum-runner (during the late, great days of Prohibition).  He was a street punk of the worst kind, had a big problem with authority, was afraid of nothing, took part in liberating two death camps during WW II, was the bravest and craziest man I have ever met, and told stories about his experiences that made you feel like you were there.  He was also brilliant.  My mother was born and raised in a small and countrified city in Pennsylvania by a widowed mother who was an amazing seamstress, a business owner, a fearless and heroic ball of fire wrapped in a busty little package under five feet tall.  My mother is similar in oh, so many ways, and for all the wild genetic input, has always been favored by most and respected by all. Also, she has always been a lady and one who still doesn't leave the house without lipstick.  My parents met in a bus station in New York City on September 2, 1946 and were married the following July.  I am not always positive they should have been allowed to reproduce--but for obvious reasons, I'm glad they did.

We were a family who stood out in Dallastown, PA; and that is a gross understatement.  Because my mother grew up in a different part of the county we were never treated as locals.  Because my dad was a big-mouthed New Yorker who didn't give a rat's patoot about what anybody thought, we were ostracized.  I think all of that would have been different if he had played the game and joined the rest of the town on Sunday mornings at Christ Lutheran Church on Main Street.  Nope.  Instead, when invited and told by Mr. Hoke that "anybody who's anybody in this town goes on up to the Lutheran church on Sunday mornings," my dad decided it would be more fun to call the poor old farmer on his snobbery.  He told Mr. Hoke flat out he "wouldn't worship with you Christian dogs," and proceeded to get on his knees and feign worship of Allah.  Lie.  We went to the regular old Protestant church my mom grew up in.

I think these crazy differences might have driven many young couples to divorce.  Not my folks.  They were in love until my dad drew his last breath on Earth and went home to Jesus.  It has not been easy to be the product of such dynamic polar opposites, but we children have benefitted in ways no one could have imagined.  Stay tuned for the next installment...