Brookings resident Carl Kline is an ordained clergyman, part-time teacher and occasional blogger.

There are some events in childhood that become memorable. We may remember them as either positive or negative. Whichever way they impacted us, the learnings they brought took root in our behavior, and may well be evident even in our senior years. As I recollect my own early experiences, it makes me wonder about parenting traditions. How do habits, attitudes and values get passed on from one generation to another?

I recall many of my formative experiences taking place in Randolph, New York, when I was just becoming school age. My mother was the primary person doing child care, as was typical in those days. She was a caring and sympathetic person, always available with a hug or kind words for a hurt or crying child. Except: when I rode my tricycle at top speeds, to show off in front of my sister’s friends, wrecked and fell off, skinned the side of my face and an arm and leg. When I went crying to my mother (as my sister told her I was showing off), the usual sympathy was absent. Instead, a rather severe exterior and no tenderness suggested maybe I had done something wrong. Was it “no showing off” (a good life lesson)?

Compare that experience to one a little later in my life, when I was big enough to ride a small bicycle (but not necessarily well). My school was only a few blocks away but I was enjoying biking. Perhaps I was half asleep or not paying attention, but on that particular morning I crashed. Once more there was the usual skinned flesh and hurt pride. I went home to my mother. She was consoling, helped wash away the dirt and medicate the scrapes, but then it was clear; I was still going to school. I wanted to stay home and continue to be comforted, all day if necessary. I wanted to mire in my misery. She wanted me to put aside my pride, allow my injuries to be evident, and attend school as usual. She wanted me to pack up my hurt and get back to work (a good life lesson). Of course, I went back to school, at her insistence.

My father was the disciplinarian in the family, as was typical in those days. He was an advocate of “spare the rod and spoil the child.” We lived in a home with a coal fired furnace. We also disposed of paper waste there, which was my job. One evening after dinner the neighborhood boys were having a softball game in the empty lot near our house. I was asked to empty the waste paper before I left, which I did. No sooner had I gotten on the playing field when my father called me home. With a swift smack on my butt, he sent me to the basement to pick up the scraps of paper I dropped on the floor. Sometimes I wonder if that experience shaped my propensity to pursue things to completion, not leaving any piece out of place, on the floor or hanging in the air.

We ate our evening meal together as a family at the dinner table in the dining room, as was typical in those days. It was often my responsibility to help set the table. The fork went on the left side, knife and spoon on the right. Water glass or coffee cup was placed above the plate on the right. Father said grace, or asked one of us kids to do it. When the meal was over, I helped clear the table and helped with dishes, usually drying and putting things away. There was something about cleanliness and orderliness that infiltrated my consciousness, as these tasks occurred day after day after day. That inclination still holds.

One other meal habit was formative. You cleaned your plate. Nothing was left (because “children in China were going hungry,” you know). Once, I refused. There was a vegetable I didn’t like. My task was to sit at the table till I ate it. Maybe I lasted 15 minutes before I reluctantly tried to swallow it quickly, gagged, pretended to be sickened by it. Then I got to wash and dry my own dishes and put them away. Nowadays, I always clean my plate.

My father always planted tomatoes in Randolph. There was something special about going in the backyard, picking a red ripe tomato from the garden, and preparing it for your sandwich. Some 70 years later, I can’t think of anything better for my lunch. Old habits die hard.

Little boy and little girl lessons can be formative. Parenting can instill habits and behaviors that can last a lifetime. Would that we could slow down our own adult lifestyles, spend more time with our children and grandchildren, and help give them a grounding that will enable them to survive the challenges that lie ahead. They will obviously need the skill of picking themselves up off the ground, from the Hurricane Helenes and her climate companions, and although wounded in body, in spirit intact, allowing them to forge ahead into the future.