A Dixie Carpetbagger

Four years ago, I lost my dad, and musing over the anniversary the past few days got me thinking on why I’m so different from the rest of my generation.

I think the best explanation is that I was raised by an older family… my dad was born in 1937, his dad was born in 1916, his mom in 1919.  Mom was born in ’43, her mom in 1903, and her dad in 1891.

Most kids can’t remember the salient facts about World War II… my grandfather was exempt from the draft because he was too old.  He raised his four younger brothers and sisters after their parents died, then raised five kids plus two orphans in the community– in a 3 bedroom 0 bath house.

My paternal grandfather lost his father before he was a year old, and was raised by a stepfather that believed that “spare the rod, spoil the child” worked in reverse– “use the rod, improve the child.”  He narrowly missed fighting in WW2 (was on leave after basic when Hiroshima and Nagasaki were nuked), and went on to raise a family of nine kids.

I was raised by people who tamed this section of the country (my paternal grandmother was the child of an Indian mother and a trader father), worked the land, and raised families.  They didn’t complain, they saw sweat as a positive thing, and they hated sloth. They did things themselves– building roads, building houses, making their food, repairing things that broke– and helped others in need.

So, when I see people my age so mentally weak… it triggers something in me.  The other day after the ObamaCare vote, a guy my age called in to C-Span and said that his parents were happy that they could now carry him on their insurance because “they’re good parents… they don’t want me to die!”  I’ve never physically seen red… until I heard that.  I’m younger than this spoiled crotch-fruit, unemployed, and I provide my own insurance, my own vehicle and my own tuition.

Just think, people– an entire generation like this.  I’ve heard stories of the “me” generation, but I’m finally starting to believe them…