My mother died in 1977. My father died in 1996. I am parentless; an orphan. It's a very strange feeling, even though I'm 57 years old. It bothered me for quite a while, knowing that there was nobody alive who knew when I had the measles, or what sort of blankie I preferred.
Also, I am now totally responsible for passing on the lore of my family, and it all depends on my faulty memory. I never asked the right questions when my parents were alive. Now that I know the questions, there's nobody there with the answers.
The first point is silly; the second, much more serious. The only mothers in my immediate family, besides myself, are my daughters. All they know about their family, they know from me. Their father was estranged from his family, and is now estranged from his daughters. Oh, one visits him on major holidays, and takes her son, but neither of them is going to call and ask what Grandma Biggs' maiden name was (Cline), or how many cousins are in their extended family (a lot--SSS's father was the youngest of 11).
One of the reasons I'm writing so many memories into this blog is that my kids don't know the questions to ask, yet. My older daughter is slightly older than I was when my mother died. She is occupied with the here and now, juggling a boring job, college classes, and a growing boy. My younger daughter has a new baby and is preoccupied with getting some sleep.
My son barely knows when to check the dryer, but his father's family is very active, and he spends a lot of time with them, so he is very grounded and knows where he came from.
The girls have no clue. They never met my mother. The only met my father when they were very small. SSS's parents made their last visit when the girls were 6 and 2. It's as if they are in some sort of limbo, with no connections to the past.
I hate that, but it is so, and there is nothing I can do about it except to provide what little I can remember of my past in the form of this blog.