Who Am I, and How Did I Get Here?

Rare Reflection on Origins and Motivation

William Sundwick

What is my earliest childhood memory? It’s hard to say. Experiences from early childhood can sometimes be counterfeit. But one that I identified years ago, when my parents were still alive to confirm its authenticity, is standing in our driveway on a warm summer day, looking at the sun glinting off a sparkling two-tone green 1950 Chevrolet.

Both Dad and Mom agreed, as the memory flashed unexpectedly into my consciousness, it must have been when we had just gotten a new car – right about the time of my third birthday. My mind’s eye saw not only the car, but the red brick house on one side, the side door to the kitchen, the green grass of the front yard. It was real to me. No photograph was found, and the family photo album was intact at that point. Why did it appear to me just then?

Had the memory been somehow implanted earlier by my parents? Or, was it truly experienced, suddenly disgorged from my subconscious? Does it matter?

Here to Please

Pleasing my mother and father was one of my most important goals in early self-awareness. I remember the emotional distress of that struggle (especially pleasing my father). I remember my mother being forced to “run interference” between my father and me from a very early age. I had no siblings.  A fils unique has a special burden since his parents’ entire legacy is embodied in him! Yet, he also has the advantage of a simple family structure to master. He is there to please his parents, full stop.

I don’t remember any pain in childhood. Anxiety, for sure. But, actual physical pain, no. If asked today, I’d say my childhood was a privileged and comfortable one. Yet, another early memory (vague compared to the car in the driveway) is my mother telling ME, age 4 or 5, that it was wrong of my father to spank me -- although I don’t remember the spanking.

As I grew older, loneliness became palpable. Another bit of collateral damage from singleton status? Again, it was emotional rather than physical pain. There was always a wall between me and my neighborhood and school friends, even between my cousins and me (three of them my age). The cousins had different parents -- and siblings. I retained no connections in adulthood with any childhood friends, and little with the cousins for that matter (except for polite Christmas cards).

As I progressed through school, the drive to please was seamlessly transferred from parents to teachers. I did well. My learning style seemed to favor logical discourse, more than analytical experiment. Sciences were okay, especially physics and astronomy, but math needed to stop before it got too abstract – no calculus for me. People did interest me, however, and studying their behavior was fun. I loved to draw, then write. Mostly, I drew cars but wrote about people.

There were conflicts. I believe I was bullied – but, do not remember details or assailants. Again, don’t remember pain, only anxiety. I relied on authority figures to protect me from bullies. It usually worked.

The Sundwicks and the Chambers

Extended family filled the void left from limited immediate family. The Sundwick clan, especially, was a powerful force. They came from Swedish-speaking Finland in the late nineteenth century, settling in Michigan’s Keeweenaw Peninsula – Houghton and Hancock, the UP “copper country.” My paternal grandfather was a piano tuner by trade, and violin maker by art. He sold his violins in the area, and several have been recovered by the family.  He had eight children -- my five aunts, my dad, Uncle Bob, and a third boy, David (who died in my childhood, never knew him well).

The Chambers family of Wisconsin, by contrast, was largely a mystery to me. My mother told me of her eleven siblings (yes!) and itinerate Methodist minister father (circuit riding?). But, she left her family when she married my dad. I’ve had no contact with any of the Chambers family, not in childhood, not in adulthood. One sister-in-law showed up only at Mom’s funeral in 2007. It was a very sad story. Why?

My mom and dad met during World War II in Detroit – the war industry (nee automobile) employing both. My father had an occupational deferment as an engineer. Mom felt she was “adopted” by the overbearing Sundwicks; did her own family even miss her? What dark stories lay under the surface?

The Sundwick family dynamics placed the two oldest sisters and my father as titular (but squabbling) family heads.  The younger siblings were always the “children” – this seems to have taken a toll on Uncle Bob, in particular.

Family hierarchies tend to last a lifetime. Four of the eight children died early, by my reckoning. One survives (she’s 95). My father’s two youngest sisters, especially, tended to portray Dad as a demi-god. He was revered, and fawned over, by both. Uncle Bob, on the other hand, was generally ignored – his contributions minimized. He died early of heart disease. His brother David had died even earlier, after crippling war injuries sustained in the Pacific. I knew him only as wheelchair-bound. But, it was cancer that killed him.

Flint

In 1953, when I was not yet six, we moved from Dearborn to Flint. We lived only a few blocks from Uncle Bob and his family of three kids. Flint seemed to me like “Sundwick City.” My mother wasn’t happy about it.

Yet, all my schooling from age six through high school graduation was in the public schools of that fine industrial city.  It was mostly my mother who kept the standards high – and she was class-conscious. She embarked upon a college education for herself, would become a high school English teacher upon completion of her degree in an early graduating class of U of M-Flint, 1960. She was an adult, part-time, student. We had hired help around the house (Thelma, our African-American housekeeper and Boyce Buckner, our African-American yard man). Mom was going to get that college degree! She loved English literature more than anything, but I remember a sociology discussion with Mom about the distinction between middle-middle and upper-middle class. She steadfastly maintained we were middle-middle class. I heard her, but as I look back, it really seems more like upper-middle – at least in that Flint environment. My father’s position in plant-level management, with an engineering degree, solidified our standing -- especially when Mom became a high school teacher. Our country club membership was a marker, too.

I needed to move on. The Flint public schools did nothing to encourage me to stay and contribute to the community. My high school guidance counselor, my teachers, my parents, those aunts, all understood – Flint was no place for anybody like me, the anointed one in the Sundwick family.

My dad always talked of job security, his chief concern – you won’t find it in industry, work for the government, he said. My mother felt that a mind was a terrible thing to waste. And, my friends all received those same messages. We all left. Apparently, that trend only accelerated over the ensuing decades. Flint is now the poorest city of its size in the U.S. Not surprising that it would be forgotten five years ago when planning water supply redirection.

Getting Out

The social milieu of Flint, Michigan in the 1960s was perhaps an extreme case of the opposite of what I sought. Any “Big City” was the draw. It would only be there, I imagined, that I would ever fit – among intellectuals, people who made a difference with their minds and words. Not so much their hands, feet, or backs.

My strategy would be to get established somewhere in the public sector (or academia), then build a life. Unfortunately, the prospect of an end to student deferment after my college graduation forced a decision during those peak Vietnam War years. I postponed graduate school.

I wasn’t drafted, however (high lottery number). By that time, I found myself working in a public library system in Tampa, Florida. It was close to my parents, who had left Flint when I went off to college. The story continues with my pursuit of graduate work in the library field, at the University of Maryland, called “Library and Information Science” in those days, now simply “Information Studies.” From there, I embarked on my father’s dream career, the federal government – at the Library of Congress.

As the anointed one in the family, I was obligated to become a parent.  I had two sons with my wife, and my new role as solid rock, playful pal, and guarantor of their safety, was activated in the experience of parenting.

Now that I’ve “gone the distance’ – the boys are men, self-sufficient (mostly) –retirement has become feasible. Some personal issues remain: how long do I have? What happens when wife retires? When to downsize? But, these are still beyond the horizon. As I ask myself, “does it matter?”, motivation does sag a bit, as I’ve accepted that the world is bigger than me and my family. My contribution to it may be relatively small. But, it keeps growing.

Grandparenthood has given me a slight burst of enthusiasm -- grandchildren do matter, after all. As I replay the rock, the playmate, the safety guarantor, roles yet again, I reflect on those origins. The family line continues.

My legacy could be teamwork. One son sees himself as the natural leader of a team, the other as a contributor to the team. What defines the team? Common bonds and purpose, I think. It’s not as hierarchical as the large family of three generations ago – much flatter organization chart!

I can enjoy that structure.

Who Thought that 35 Years would Be So Easy?

William Sundwick

Thirty-five years later, I’ll admit to having some trepidation about the future back then. I suspect my wife-to-be shared at least that much!

Winter, 1982-83. We were planning our January 15 wedding. Lots of thinking and work. We were about to embark on a great adventure. Our 1983 frame of reference was rather optimistic, considering what some were predicting. Still embroiled in the Cold War, but the West had the upper hand, still recovering from a recession, but a mild one by most standards. Anyway, we were not invested in Wall Street. Both my career and wife’s showed promise in the federal government. I was a full-time grad student, on sabbatical, seeking a career change (secretly). We had plans to start house shopping despite mortgage interest rates as high as 13 percent -- we each owned property, if only one-bedroom condos, in Arlington, VA.

But, we both knew we could handle increased responsibilities – after all, we were in our thirties! And,

the wedding and reception that cold, snowy January evening in DC went well, we thought. Our social obligations had been fulfilled. Our family and friends were all very supportive – they had confidence in us! That first night at the Tysons West Park Hotel came as a huge relief. The rest of our life was about to start.

The next morning, off we drove into the fresh snow in my Dodge Omni. Front wheel drive was a novelty for me then, made me think I had a “snow car.” We headed for Virginia hunt country -- out west on US 50. Middleburg was only an hour away, even in the snow. We had two nights reserved at the historic Red Fox Inn.

It seemed an ideal romantic honeymoon getaway, especially since neither of us were in position to travel very far – and, the weather. But, on the second day, my bride got sick. It must have been a stomach virus. Not very romantic! On the third day, heading home, I got the same virus. Equally

unromantic.

Thus ended our honeymoon in Virginia hunt country. But our life together began, nevertheless. The first year we lived in my condo in Fairlington Villages, while I was still a grad student. I was a kept man. In 1984, we bought the house where we still live, in a North Arlington neighborhood largely intact from its original development in the 1940s through 1970s. Brick colonials like ours characterized the “old” part of the neighborhood, split-foyers and split-levels characterized the 1950s and 1960s, A-frames on slabs the 1970s. The East Falls Church Metro station was on schedule to open the following year, but its effect on real estate values still lay in the future -- and, only a nine-block walk from our house!

The house seemed huge in 1984, compared to our one-bedroom condos. Eight (tiny) rooms! In it, two sons would grow up – the first born in 1985, his brother in 1988.  I had returned to my old job in January 1984, writing off the investment in a second M.S. degree as a risk whose reward remained to be seen (embedding IT professionals within organization charts was an emerging fashion, but not so much in the federal government). My wife continued to support me – so it seemed -- with her higher salary.

For the next 30 years it would be all about the kids. Through toddlerhood, preschool, school years, sports, academics, college applications, college success, career choice. Finding mates! Even a grandchild in 2015. Although we needed more space, we built on only when the oldest was entering his senior year in high school, and then again when the youngest was in college. Our financial circumstances had prevented action sooner, easing only as we approached empty nesthood. Within a year after the youngest graduated from college we became true empty nesters. Both sons live in the area, but in their own housing.

Finally, it was time to consider retirement, at least for me. By 2015, I would cut the cord from my long-time employer (The Library of Congress). Stalwart wife has not (same agency). But, I was no longer a kept man! Fortunate in so many ways, I should seek a tone of humility, but can’t resist a bit of self-satisfaction in my “golden years.”

Thirty-five years is a long time. It is half of my life. It’s time to think about things – have I given as much as I’ve received? And, who could be an impartial judge, anyway? Surely, we’ve “gone the distance” by now. We both know where we’ve been, and can look clear-eyed at where we are. The future will take care of itself. The kids are never done, of course, but any further development for them is going to be up to them! Do we have a name for this place we’re at? Bliss? Resolution? Harvest? Whatever we call it, I’d say the reward is palpable.

Well, the time came this year for the great return. I made reservations for an anniversary stay at the Red Fox Inn back in Middleburg. It is still there, looking much as it did 35 years ago. The same antique furniture (it could be different antique furniture, I wouldn’t remember).

The flat screen HD TVs were new, but the hunt country fare on the menu at the Red Fox Tavern looked very familiar – but heavy for my current taste. The selection of Virginia wines, and
complimentary gourmet chocolates in the room, were intended to promote local Loudoun County businesses.

No snow this time around, but it was cold. We managed the drive out US 50 in the same hour that it took in 1983. This time, we made it on our Chevy Volt’s battery charge -- no gas used until return trip! The view along the route has changed, however. Loudoun County is not the same as it was 35 years ago. One doesn’t leave suburban development now until Aldie, still a quaint 19^th century rural village, but with a large banner across its only commercial buildings proclaiming the project to “Save historic Aldie!” Middleburg, too, maintains a similar ambience. 

Although the Red Fox Inn and Tavern has an image to preserve, some of the other local businesses show more panache, like the Julien Café and Sandwicherie with its Help Wanted sign out front advertising “Norwegians Only Apply!” -- echoing the latest Washington buzz. Visiting and wine tasting at Cana Vineyards in Aldie reminded me of a similar experience at a Temecula, CA winery two years ago. Both were relatively new businesses (Cana only five years old).

The view from the wine tasting room to the hills beyond had the same feel, except the Temecula hills were higher.

This time nobody got sick. We returned home to continue our anniversary celebration with Monday dinner at our traditional anniversary haunt – the Panjshir Afghan restaurant in Falls Church, in a new location since last year.

Wife began her work week refreshed, and we both awakened to a 35-year job well done. We are the better for it. And, I’m confident, the world is a better place, too.