My father grew up in Kansas, the last child of eleven children. His oldest brother was 30 years older than him. His mother died when he was three, leaving him with an elderly, silent father. Like his father, my dad was a man of few words. He had that stoicism so common to people of the plains.

My mother was a middle child of 14 children. Her father was an itinerant farmer, minister, and teacher. Like my father’s family, mom’s endured the depression with a quiet fortitude. She was not as quiet as he was, but she was quiet.

 

Though only one of three children, I grew up the same. So, to a large extent, have my children. In person they can be very gabby about topics they are interested in, well, at least since they out grew their mono-syllabic teen years, but on the phone or while texting, they revert to their stoic western selves and become the quiet people that they/we are. Responses to long questions or explanations usually only elicit a “Cool” or “ok”.

 

I say all of this because today, for the first time I exchanged texts with my granddaughter. She has had a cell phone for a while for communicating with her parents, but I have, until today, never sent her a text. The last thing that I would want to do is be responsible for my granddaughter getting a call during class! Today, however, we were in-route to their house to visit, so I sent her a text, telling her where we had parked the RV for the evening, asking when school was out and suggesting that we take her and her brother to a local ice cream shop after school. I was excited and looking forward to seeing her and her brother. She replied that school was out at three. That was it. That was all she said. Now I recall the younger version of my granddaughter jumping up and down on the porch with glee when we drove up to their house. This was not the same child.  This was the stoic, quiet gene, enhanced by the approaching mono-syllibacy of teen hood child. Her mom, who had also received my text, replied that we could walk to the school and then take the kids on to get ice cream. She is a busy woman and so speaks to the point, as she sees it, and nothing else. Her brevity is inborn and inbred.

 It was a disappointing exchange, but I have to remind myself that we are, after all, quiet people at heart. Our communications are a community of small actions: preparing meals together, taking turns at driving, holding hands during concerts, bringing tea or coffee in. We can sit together and read on an early morning and it is enough.

 

All of that being said, I do not remember, if, in their final years, I ever told my parents I loved them. I believe that they knew it but, in my heart I know that knowledge by itself is not the same as hearing the words.

 

We are quiet people in our family, but some things need to be said.