How much do you know about your “real parents?”

Yes, I know. It may seem like a dumb question because your “real parents” raised you and you know quite a bit about them.

Or, do you?

Have you always taken for granted that you know all about your parents?

You lived with them for years. So you know all about them, right?

Maybe you know less about them than you think.

Renowned photographer Larry Sultan spent decades taking unposed photographs of his parents. By exploring through photographs who his parents were, he also had a personal exploration of his own childhood.

He blew many of the photos into poster size images that encouraged viewers to think about the subjects they were viewing. By combining the photographs with text, Larry Sultan became an important memoirist.

Those photographs became part of his groundbreaking memoir, “Pictures from Home.”

That, in turn became the basic of the play by Sharr White that made its way to Broadway and to the Florida Studio Theatre.

When I saw the play I found it to be so mesmerizing. I got so caught up in the action that I think I sometimes forgot to breathe.

That’s a lot to be said for a play with only three characters that explores a man’s efforts to get to know his parents.

Sultan wanted to know “his true parents,” not the ones that sat for posed photographs. He believed candid photographs were more revealing, much to the chagrin of his father who wanted to know why Larry only wanted unflattering photos.

Although Larry was married with a son of his own, he left his family twice a month for four days at a time, week after week to take photos of his parents.

In the play, his mother tells Larry his view of his parents will change with time. “Even when we are gone time will give you more understanding of your parents,” she said.

That resonated with me. I do believe time brings clarity and often softens our perspective of our parents.

Coincidentally, a week after I saw that show I found a column I wrote 10 years ago about my dad being my hero.

I mentioned how we were so close, spending so much time together. He told me stories about his life and listened attentively as I told him about my own life.

Dad took me everywhere he went, even when he went to the fire company to socialize with his buddies that kept buying me soda, chips and candy bars.

At night, when my mother worked as a waitress my dad and I sat together reading Field and Stream magazine for him and comic books for me.

I saw my dad as “the fun parent,” the one who was always with me.

As a kid I saw my mother as the one who was always cleaning the house then working as a waitress at night. We lived in a modest half double but when anyone came to visit they mentioned how nice our place was, how everything sparkled.

Did I give her credit for doing that?

No. All I did was think to myself that when I had kids I wasn’t going to spend all my time cleaning and working. I was going to spend my time with them.

Did I know how hard it must have been for her working all day then working night shift as a waitress?

Did I know that the mines weren’t working and my mother had to work as a waitress at night to buy food for her family.

No.

As a kid I never realized my mom was the hero in the house.

I’m ashamed to say it took me decades as an adult before I could understand and appreciate my remarkable mother.

It’s one thing to be “the fun parent” and quite another to work day and night to keep the household together.

How I wish I would have realized all that while my mom was still alive to hear the words of praise she deserved.

After my parents divorced, how it must have hurt her to hear nothing from me except praise for my dad, my hero.

I think that’s one reason why the part of the play that resonated with me was when the mother told her son he would gain clarity about his parents when they were gone.

Years after my stepfather died my sister Cindy still says she never got to know her father.

“I can’t remember a time when he told me anything about his life. How come he talked to you?” she asked me.

Simple. Because I asked. I’m 18 years older than Cindy so those years made a difference in how I viewed Ziggy.

I would sit at the table with my stepdad and ask him to tell me what it was like to work out of town on the railroad.

From my experience and perspective, a quiet guy who doesn’t talk much about himself has a harder time having his kids know their father.

In a perfect world kids would get to appreciate their parents before they passed away.

Erma Bombeck once wrote unheralded mothers shouldn’t fret because mothers become saints after they die.

Maybe their kids just gain clarity that comes with age.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.