The Devil You Know, the Devil You Don't

 The Devils You Know, the Devils You Don't: We are All Such

 (Dating back to at least 12/22/17. Last draft in my 30 or so drafts as of 2.13.2019)

We are all somewhere between being gods and devils.

We arē̱̱ not all good or all evil-- really none of us living around here, on this spherical clumpy orb-- none of us are perfectly righteous or perfectly evil.

We are grey ones. All of us. None of us are all black or all white.

Some of us are a duller, opaque grey-- coalish, or bituminous and sooty.

Others are sparkly and shiny, of silver gossamer hues.

Some have minutes of one hue and hours of the other, or days of one pole and years of the other.

We all fall short of absolutes, usually. We are seldom perfectly whole in anything.

We are not absolutes in this life, we are finite and defined.

We know things, we know people, we know ourselves somewhat. We do not know all.

We know our parents, and some of us do not. And how well do we ever truly know them?

This is about that. Knowing your parents. And in this case, grandparents. Discovering, investigating, digging, in many ways simply speaking out loud to the questions of origin and self-identity.

Since my mother passed away going on four years ago, I wrote a few things in relation to her; her memory, her meaning, her life. Her to me, her only son. And perhaps it helps to explain her to others, and this is good to remember.

But this post is more about my father, who is still living, and more to the point, his fathers, who are long since dead and I never met them. But relatives and progeny remain.

He had three: his biological father, one. His adopted father, two. (who was his biological grandfather, Grandpa Clinch), and his step-father, three.

They were, the three, both gods and devils; they like all of us share the hues of grey. I only have stories and some records about them, indicating the virtues and vices, the viccissitudes and.

They were not Gods and Generals as Jeffrey Shaara writes so eloquently about in the time of the Civil War, one hundred plus years later. These gods and devils, mere civilian lieutenants and corporals, were born in the late 1800s or early 1900s, and ruled over their small fiefdoms of influence. But they left a legacy, in their own ways, ever growing: of my father, his step-siblings, his adopted siblings, all their progeny, all his children and step-children, our children making more grand and great children, and this is a part of who we are. Clinches. Smiths. Swiniarskis. Others, perhaps in the thousands now.

Some of the following will be based on speculation, some of the information requires more facts, more truth which many may know more of than me. So be it. Add to it, correct it.

Perhaps some of their lives, personalities, traits, have passed on through to my dad, certainly to his and my genes. We share the same fathers, grandfathers, genes, heritage, which includes some mysteries and provokes my thoughts. And this includes of course others, his daughters, their children, and on and on.̲

In one way the story begins with Frederick Smith and Francis Clinch, a young couple that may or may not have ever been a couple as most would think of it, in 1936. They lived in the same area north of Boston in the time of the Great Depression, they were both young adults, and I am not sure how well they knew each other, how long, how well fellow families knew of or befriended one another.

I have heard stories that range to some type of forceful or at minimum unintended pregnancy, to perhaps a romantic relationship that was not able to come to fruition, for various reasons.

Again, I have heard varying stories about this circumstance; I am not sure what to believe. A few people who have uttered their personal confidences to me about the matter have passed on, decades ago. Most of the people of that time have now passed, and my own father, although still alive and affected by it, was usually too young to know of the truth, but he thinks he knows enough. Perhaps.

I could still ask him, my dad. It is painful, in some ways, the memories and narratives re-created. But time heals some of the wounds of the past; maybe these speculations will not re-open them as inflictive sores but perhaps as a post surgery X-ray or MRI allows us to see the scar tissue and move on, as it were, in a healthier state of mind or soul. 

"Ahh, that is why I ached so, for so long!" Things of the past can trouble us long into the future.

I, as others, am glad that this whole scenario is in the past, and the figurative photographic negatives contain the hurt, no longer as wrenching in my heart, or the hearts of those involved. My brain can achieve the comprehension, long-suffering, endured hardship and peace of mind of it, like surviving a battle in a bloody campaign. We have survived, and now we will analyze the results of the struggles.

Personal struggles to figure out who we are.

THE END? (Re-read February 2019)