A Bridge Across the Generations

I know from my own experience that it’s often a challenge for one generation to have meaningful conversations with another. I found it nearly impossible over the years to talk to my mother-in-law. She tried. She asked me questions that were designed to provide a basis for a conversation, but too often my only response was “huh” because they seemed so disconnected from my life. I didn’t mean to be unresponsive, it was just that I had no idea how to answer when she asked how someone in the family was doing. As far as I knew (having probably not talked to them in months), they were doing okay. End of conversation.

My own mother and I had a different set of conversational issues. I had many painful memories and experiences that made it hard to know what to say. I established the practice of calling her each Sunday morning after she moved in with my brother in Tulsa. Often it was hard to find subjects to discuss because her world was fairly limited and mine was so broad (particularly when I was traveling around the globe). We lived in two different worlds. But one place in which we could both connect was books.

My mother was a voracious reader. She always had a book. Books were all around me growing up. It wasn’t until I began to babysit and saw other homes that I realized this wasn’t always the case. There were homes in which no books were visible at all. I couldn’t imagine it.

My mother didn’t encourage me to read. She didn’t have to. Many many nights the last words I heard were, “Susan, turn out the light NOW.” I even followed the time honored tradition of taking a flashlight to bed to continue reading without being noticed. “Just one more chapter” was my mantra.

So in her last years, books became our bond. My mother knew which books were “trending” from reading the reviews in magazines and online. She was able to request these from the local library who delivered these and others to her retirement center. We became our own book club. I’d tell her about books we were reading in my local book club and she’d tell me about what she was reading. I’d read many of the ones she recommended and then we’d compare notes. She kept me current and we had a path for meaningful conversations. The last book that we shared I believe was The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman. I didn’t realize at the time that it would be important for me to remember. I wish I knew for sure. (Further research leads me to believe that the book was The Beautiful Mystery: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel by Louise Penny.)

Meanwhile, life moves on its own strange way. And that brings me to the next point. I believe I have a good conversational relationship with both my children, but even we have our barriers. Their world is not mine, and I often do not understand it. My world is also not theirs, and they do not understand it. Their worlds are full of moving on and creating things anew; mine is too often about death and illness. For them, the classic line, “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up” is a joke. For me, it’s not a joke.

But books have allowed us to cross those barriers just as it did with my own mother. My children recommend books to me and anxiously wait for my response. Their first words when we start a phone conversation are often, “Have you read it yet?” I get text messages that say, “Have you finished it? What did you think?” These books provide us with a platform to discuss subjects only tangentially connected to the story line such as sexism in the 60s, spousal abuse, moral and political issues, and our own past lives. Knowing the books that appeal to them (even the fluffy ones) gives me insight into their souls. Reading these books give us a bond that has nothing to do with biology. The words “Mom, you’ve GOT to read . . .” bring me more joy than they will ever know. Each discussion lets me learn more about them and lets them learn about me. Books have become our generational bridge.

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