Vexed
A rather content Bob Van Wagenen with his catch near the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge, October, 2007.
I admit it. I’m angry.
It’s been bubbling up and subsiding for some time. The best way I can explain it is akin to the second stage of grief.
Writ large, my life has been void of grief. I was fortunate beyond what I deserved to have four living grandparents until my late twenties. Now that it’s a year since Grandpa Bob passed, I feel that overwhelming longing for that loving, paternal, joyous gaze of his. I am eternally grateful for the years of memories; may they never fade into dimming corners of my neurological library. Graciously, I have two living grandparents who are set to meet my youngest child this January.
I’m not currently angry about our national politics. At present, I’m not angrily grieving my late grandparents, or experiencing a burn in my chest for a high school friendship lost, or the tug in my conscience to have closer ties with some of my more distant godchildren. All of those things get their respective emotional bandwidth.
No. I’m angry, and grieving, for what I perceive as a lost world. This world existed in my childhood, but I fear it’s gone.
The older I get, the more my nostalgia increases for my original hometown of Kingston, New York. Nestled between the Catskills and the mighty Hudson River, it oozes deep, rich, American history. Not to mention, nearly 400 years of Van Wagenen history is buried there. For now, it lives on.
A nasty yet delightful combination of things trigger some long dampened emotions - classical hymns in the evenings with the allure of the approaching holidays, the taste of coffee and my wife’s apple pie, a recent visit with my parents, cutting up firewood, seeing internet shorts about New York pizza, the Yankees in the postseason, etc. Binging on 9/11 interviews probably stirred something up, too.
After we moved to Pennsylvania before my sixth grade school year, I tried my best to distance myself from New York and simply become a hardcore Pennsylvanian. I loved watching Jerome Bettis and Troy Polamalu destroy the enemies of the Steelers and Andrew McCutchen coming into his own with the Pirates. We moved to the Poconos for all good reasons, but as a kid, I took things farther than needed in my head. I had to leave the dust of the former for the excellence of the newer. I claimed to be from Pennsylvania instead of my birth state.
The funny thing is, despite my absolute love of the second half of my childhood and into my college years being a Pennsylvanian, I can’t help but notice how “I’m originally from New York” has solidly crept back into my lexicon. I’ve dropped the embarrassment that never should have been there. I want my children to know from where and from whom they are. This is invaluable.
Now, back to the anger. I am angry because through politics, shifting values, and predominantly a societal loss of faith in the Triune God, I sense the land of my youth is a very different landscape than just a few decades ago. I’m angry I don’t feel secure with the notion of my family moving there.
I have daydreamed about returning to my roots with my wife and children. I’m fairly certain I could secure a job in Albany or thereabouts like my father. Alas, what worldly possessions I would have gladly relinquished to purchase the tiny home on Lisa Lane that my grandfather built in 1960? A growing new generation of Van Wagenens could potentially do great things there.
A simple drive around town within the last year or two showed us the shifting sands of culture in painful form - our nation’s flag flies, but banners of insidious cultural creep fly just as frequently. Anecdotes from family confirm the nature of the current culture around town. Of course, there are wonderful people in pockets - but I hesitate to move my family to an over-taxed, over-regulated, largely pagan place devoid of the rich, fertile soil in which I desire to plant my children. I fear it’s a losing battle for the soul of that town.
I’ve dipped my toes into the waters of stage three a time or two - can we make the “pros” list outweigh the “cons?” Is it really so bad up there? Perhaps I’m only depressed, or even grown to accept the apparent realities of the situation?
Maybe I just miss how good I had it as a kid. I hope I can foster an equally fulfilling childhood for my own kids. For now, their roots are in Georgia.
-MJVW