Family Routines and Rituals Reinforce Family Rules
BY ARLENE HARDER, MA, MFT
Learn how one of the most powerful ways families pass on their customs and beliefs to the next generation is through the rituals the reinforce family rules and bind the family as a unit.
PLEASE NOTE: This piece is part of three articles dealing with rituals, rules and myths of families. Since all three use my family of origin as an example, you may understand this better if you also read: What Are Your Family Rules? and What is Your Family Myth?
"Home" is any four walls that enclose the right person."
— Helen Rowland
In addition to unwritten, but powerful, rules, every family has rituals that reinforce the family rules and bind the family as a unit, demonstrating in concrete ways the structure of the family. Here are rituals I remember clearly from my family of origin. Did your family share any of them?
Ritual 1: Wait until your father gets home
Spanking was the usual method of punishment and it was almost always delivered by my father's strong hand or by a yardstick, several of which were broken in the delivery. Generally the consequence came quickly, with little explanation and seldom a chance for the defendant to explain him/herself or ask for mercy.
This is not to deny that our mother did not sometimes also spank us. For example, I remember once when she spanked all of us (except Art, who wasn't yet born) with an empty Quaker Oaks box for some infraction long forgotten. While the light box was inefficient in creating the sting that spankings were intended to create, Marycarol and I were clever enough to cry. When John's turn came, he laughed. Thanks to him, we then got a "real" spanking, which very possibly was delivered by my father when he got home from work, although that may only be my assumption since he was the primary disciplinarian.
Ritual 2: Spring cleaning
We tackled spring cleaning with all the elbow grease my mother could squeeze out of us. Windows were washed inside and out, cupboards emptied and scrubbed, rugs beaten, lace curtains stretched on wooden frames, and wallpaper cleaned with a funny smelling, very soft eraser. Naturally, I didn't look forward to this annual event with enthusiasm, yet there was something rewarding about seeing everything all clean and neat-and knowing we didn't need to do it again until the next year.
Ritual 3: You don't do dishes on your birthday!
There were two consistent rituals for birthdays. First, the "special person" didn't need to do any chores. None at all. All day! Second, something special was always planned, such as having a requested, entree for dinner at home or being allowed to invite a friend to lunch at a restaurant.
Ritual 4: Being sick can be fun, almost
Sick in bed? Then we always got warm blankets, special trays of food and juice, and lots of attention. Of course, one had to be genuinely ill, but the compensation was often worth it, for we got respite from the pressure to perform required of everyone who was well.
Ritual 5: Hand-delivered report card
We always hand-delivered our report cards to each parent. They would each look them over carefully, note the teacher's comments and, if we had any grade lower than an "A," inquire why we weren't doing well in that subject. We were sometimes praised a little for "all A's," but good grades were expected. It's no wonder, therefore, that we are all perfectionists to some degree.
Ritual 6: Religion means going to church
I must emphasize that my description of this ritual is purely my interpretation of how I experienced religious activities in our home. Despite numerous church activities, talk about religion, and prayer before meals, religion for me never quite got translated into a "spiritual" experience in our home. Religion meant the ritual of "going to church" every Sunday and Wednesdays during Lent. Later in life I realized my parents had deep faith and would have been extremely surprised to hear me speak of religion in the home as I have described it. But perhaps this was true of many children growing up in preacher's homes. Perhaps it is simply my peculiar way of viewing it.
Ritual 7: Visitors are coming, set the table
If guests came unexpectedly, my mother could always magically "whip up" something from what might seem to be an empty cupboard. On the other hand, invited guests were invariably treated to a well-planned meal, with more sauces, spices, and sweets than we ever had when guests weren't there. I learned from my mother that a good hostess must never let anyone leave the table hungry!
Ritual 8: Homemade ice cream is paddle-lickin' good
A favorite summertime treat was the vanilla ice cream which my parents delighted in preparing "the Fabian way." First, "the" recipe was carefully prepared. Then the ice and salt was packed with great care and we children got to take turns slowly cranking the handle, letting Dad finish when it was too hard for small arms to turn. Soon he would test for consistency, repack in the ice to harden "just a smidgen" more, and we children were allowed to lick the paddle in anticipation. Finally came the eating of a large bowl of marvelously cold, freshly made vanilla ice cream.
Even after Dad got adult-onset diabetes, he loved ice cream and home-made ice cream was a particular treat.
Ritual 9: The cod-liver-oil lineup
Wind and snow of Chicago winters were bad enough. What made things worse was the lack of sun and, thus, Vitamin D, which meant, so the experts claimed, that we needed cod-liver-oil. Thus every winter morning we children lined up in the pantry, waiting stiffly for a tablespoon of the most horrible tasting stuff I'd ever been forced to consume.
Ritual 10: Going to see the folks in Alpena
The scenery slowly changed from cities and farmland of southern Michigan to the rolling hills and tall pines of the north. Each point along the familiar route marked the distance from our destination, my father's home town of Alpena. We always knew, on these yearly visits, what we would find when we got there. This excited us more than anticipation of places unexplored. For Alpena represented stability, warmth, and connection with our past.
My father's family were solid, sturdy workers who had emigrated from Germany and settled within a block of one another in a small town of northern Michigan. I looked forward every year to the opportunity to renew my bond with them and with the simple lives they led.
Each person was very special in his or her own, quite ordinary ways. First there was my Great Grandmother Dammrose, who spoke little English and sat wrapped in several blankets, a mysterious link to the land the family would never see again. She was cared for by my Great Aunts Emma and Margaret, "spinsters" in the language of the day, who maintained the original homestead and prepared the best German-style meals anyone could want. Grandpa Gilbertson, my father's stepfather, lived across the street and always seemed to carry his pipe wherever he went. Even today, half a century later, when I suddenly smell the sweet aroma of Prince Albert tobacco, I am immediately carried back to the sights and sounds of his house.
Then there was Great Uncle John, a burly man with a full mustache, who ran the old-fashioned, ice cream parlor and cigar store next door, which always had to be visited for his special treats. When we cut through the back yard and stepped across the planks which lined the garden rows, we could enter the house of Great Uncle Fred, a hard working mason full of laughter, and Great Aunt Bert, a meticulous housewife. For a joke he sometimes put a sign on his bathroom when we came: "5 cents per person." Great Uncle Al and Great Aunt Annie live in the plain, sturdy house at the other side of the large garden. They were childless and welcomed us eagerly into their house, which was filled with knickknacks, old-fashioned furniture, and a basement of her canned goods, which always won first prize at the county fair. Then there were the other relatives who lived a little distance away, my father's sister, his stepsister and stepbrother, and their families. We made a point to spend some time with each of these people.
It was clear that these relatives had a special admiration for my father. Perhaps that was because he was a minister, college educated, and had had the ambition and courage to leave the home town. During the rest of the year our relatives never bothered to get together as a group, but while we were there someone would always plan a grand picnic with every single person invited. Listening to these special, unsophisticated people and sharing in the stories and laughter at these yearly ritual gatherings gave me a pleasure which was worth more than silver. For it created an unforgettable portrait of the roots out of which my father came.
Ritual 11: Christmas was on Christmas Eve
Christmas was really coming when my mother took us window shopping and to buy gifts in Marshal Fields department store. I don't think store windows today have one-tenth the magic which they had when I was a child. For then the windows had themes designed to capture the hearts of every child. There were lots of scenes about Santa Claus-all filled with mechanical elves making toy trains, painting dolls, and stuffing Santa's sleigh. Each window was part of a series and we would stare into each one, pausing as long as the cold, and my mother, would allow us to watch and absorb each detail. Then we hurried into Marshal Fields and I knew I would always find the store transformed from its ordinary elegant style (at least it was an elegant store in the eyes of a child). In the middle of the store was a very, very, very tall Christmas tree (the real kind, not one of plastic and wire) which was decorated with loads and loads of beautiful bulbs, ribbons, and lights. Carols could be heard throughout the store, sometimes with honest-to-goodness real carolers, and I would know that Christmas Eve could not be far away.
We followed the German tradition and celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve evening. First would come a delicious, special dinner — always ham with raisin sauce-served on a red tablecloth with red candles. Then we all went to the early evening church service and immediately returned home for the "best" part of the evening. That was the opening of the gifts, of course. But first we had to listen to my father tell the Christmas story again and my mother led us in singing carols, which were nice and traditional and usually too long. F-i-n-a-l-l-y we were allowed to open our gifts. And this is the part of the ritual which best exemplifies for me the quality of the "rightness" of a ritual. It has to do with the right way to open Christmas gifts.
We always opened the gifts one at a time. This was very important! For in this way each person could see what everyone else was given and could see their reaction to the gift and could also notice the reaction of the giver of the gift as it was being received. I assumed everyone did it that way until one Christmas spent with my new husband's family. We were all given a pile of presents Christmas morning, which in itself seemed the wrong time of day, and at some signal everyone began opening his or her gifts, not seeming to care about the others. It seemed terribly wrong and greedy and cold. (I was aware it didn't feel that way to his family, yet somehow it just felt "wrong.") Fortunately my husband was willing to have us continue my family's way of opening gifts, instead of his, in our home. So we still follow the tradition of "one at a time," although we open gifts on Christmas morning (his family's ritual) instead of Christmas Eve
© Copyright 2002, Arlene Harder, MA, MFT |
