On What Would Be

My father would be celebrating his 100th birthday today. Of course that has me thinking about time and life.

My Grampa & Gramma Gerbstadt would be 115 this year. Gramma Ada would be 130.

100.
Wrap your mind around that. Born the year after war broke out with Germany; a year and a half old when the United States entered the battle; three years old when the fighting ended and 6 when the treaties were all signed.

Dad was named for Woodrow Wilson, the 28th President. I don't remember now what his folks thought was so great about him. But I can guess. Wilson became President in 1913. Considered a Progressive Era president right behind Teddy Roosevelt, his politics helped those troubled by economic panics in the early 1900s. In modern terms we might call it bailouts. In those terms it was social reform. Wilson had done his very best to keep America out of the European conflict following the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. For one very good reason this may have been all there was to liking the man and naming the coming child, my father, for him. My father's mother was a German immigrant.

America had a burgeoning immigrant class with German enclaves being as populated as the Irish and Italian. American culture has been heavily influenced by the three cultures and by some accounts, nearly wiped out the influence of the "Old Money" families and their British ancestry. Almost all the beer in America was commercially produced by families of German descent after Prohibition. With Great Gramma Crocker being German and living in Northern Michigan among so many French and Welsh settlers, the European conflict must have been terrifying. The backlash that individuals received at the hands of friends and neighbors can only be imagined in this era of comparative wantonness. So the fact that Wilson was able to keep America out of the War and won his re-election campaign on such a platform must have made him something of a family hero.

When the Lusitania was sunk so was any hope of staying out of the foreign conflict. The Melting Pot was going to boil over and it was the German Immigrants who were scalded. The scars of hatred and abuse must run deep in many families. I was born when Dad was 54, fifty two years after the conflict ended and all I knew about the German that I come by so honestly was that Dad had "some" in his family. Norwegian, Welsh, English and French Canadian is how he identified himself when I had to do the genealogy homework. But there was more than a smidgen and no one talked about it. In the course of the second World War life was going to be a lot  worse for the German descended families in America so it is little wonder that the information just kept being under reported.

Besides being born in War time, Dad was born into an era of Progressive politics and social reform. If the socialist movement was going to come ashore in America this would have been a good time for it. Philanthropy, political reform, Anti-Trust Laws, Prohibition, Women's Rights, and the adoption of the scientific method in all areas of life blossomed in this age. Public health and education regulations compelled farm kids to be schooled and also may have hurt farms in the long run with mandates that would eventually lead to the dissolution of many generational farms of varying operational sizes. This was a mixed blessing for Dad since he was a farm kid.

Baseball was essentially adopted as a full fledged sport in 1900. By the time Dad was in school it was a past time and he was part of a small league just after high school.  Compulsory education took him off the farm and put him on an exploratory path. Economics being what they were however, he set his feet to making money downstate in one of the factories which the Progressive movement had improved. Efficiency, standardized work hours and safe environments made for attractive prospects. But the mechanization took jobs away from men in favor of machines which made competition a frenzied struggle.

Dad was born into a Era of mixed blessings with the ends of the spectrum weighted like a see-saw. He had a very persistent opinion that you are damned if you do and damned if you don't. On the one hand families needed help to recover from some of the fiscal shocks of the time which is good. But the tendency toward dependence on that assistance weakens the collective economy. Progressive Era politics developed the Food and Drug Acts to regulate quality to prevent abuses of public trust (snake oil salesmen and dairy skimmers) which is wonderful. But those same regulations could also hurt independent farmers. My Dad's favorite example is the homogenization of milk.

Cow's milk gets a head of foamy cream when it is harvested. The healthier the better the pasture the healthier the cow. The healthier the cow the thicker the cream. Farmers that used fertilizer and pesticides damaged the cream quality and production and so they would skim. All milk that came from the dairy would separate and the cream would float to the top. The skimmers would take the cream, cut it with water and shake it real well then add that back into the regular milk to bottle. One farmer has 100% whole milk with cream and sold it at that price and another one would sell 50-60% whole milk at the 100% whole milk price. Customers would complain and no one would get in trouble because they could blame the cow. When science finally caught up with the skimmers the solution was then to employ the homogenization process and grade milk half%, 2%, whole and.... surprise! Skim. This regulatory process also required all milk to have the cream removed and all dairy to be pasteurized. Both a blessing and a curse. If you truly had the better milk because your cows were happier you were punished for the other farmer's lazy practices. And raw milk, forget about it. Sell to your friends? Forget about it.

This is what dad was born into. In one hundred years he saw a lot of changes in the world. Women's voting rights, a second world war, a booming airline industry, Chuck Yaeger breaking the sound barrier, desegregation, wars all over the world, the space age, computer advancement and other technological advances that had he not seen them as they came along would have looked like magic to a kid from the early 1900s.

This is where dad was born. Like all of his siblings, he was delivered at home in the sick room just off the kitchen. When Gramma Lucy was done having kids it would become the pantry. He slept in blankets in the drawer of a dresser in that room for the first few months of his life. Nothing has much changed on the farm in 100 years. Since the 1950s the only thing that has been added to the farm is that white barn in the foreground and the paddock. Everything else is the same.

One hundred years ago someone figured out how to make money helping the average homeowner preserve their own hard work. The Ball Canning Company began to teach citizens about the canning process so that those home canners would not kill themselves with a poor product. And the mass production of their glass jars made them money hand over fist. 100 years ago, when my dad was born, his mother spent almost all of her Summer canning the goods that came from the family orchard and the huge kitchen garden which encompassed that paddock in the foreground. Dad grew up canning. He taught us how to can with the classic, clear jars. But one hundred years ago mason jars were colored.

For their anniversary Ball has released the original colors. I bought a set today. I don't can like dad did. I don't preserve like he taught me. I should say I haven't. But this year things are changing for me, Life is stabilizing again. And I can think on these things to make my life easier and money last longer. One thing that has not changed in 100 years, no matter what anyone promises you from a campaign platform, is that:

• You have to make things last
• You have to take care of yourself and have skills to survive the rough patches.
• You can't count on your government to give you independence when it offers help. 
• You can't count on others to help you when they are looking to you as the wise one, even if you are not that wise.
• You really can't count on others period. 
• Your money is always going to be worth less and less to you no matter how much you make. 

Making things last is what Ball's mason jars are all about. The not counting on others is probably not something that they would endorse. But when I look back at the jars and jars and jars of products we filled the basement with, Self Reliance and Preservation are the lessons that I learned from Canning Season. And they are things that I learned from Dad. I spent a long time trying to deny that. And I spent a long time waiting for the help that, in the end, I didn't need.

In Dad's 90 years he taught all of us kids the things that we needed to survive in this world. He saw a lot. And it has taken me the last 10 years since he has been gone to see that I have everything that I need to survive because he spent the time to teach. The kind of self reliance that canning provides is a kind of symbol not just to those farm kids who had to do everything they could to survive a hard Winter. But who had to survive a hard life. Canning has become something of a hobby industry. Victory Gardens are being legislated out of existence on the state level and on the local level by homeowners associations. But I still see these things as a symbol of self reliance, of making things last. 

St George and the Dragonet

When we were kids, our grandparents took us for the weekend about twice a month. We got there Friday night, had dinner and wound down with the hi-fi. That is Hi-Fi, short for high fidelity stereo. We first would listen to the Comedy Caravan and then the Entertainer which is the soundtrack for the 1971 movie The Sting.
The Comedy Caravan was a lot of fun for us when we were kids. My favorites were Andy Griffiths bits. And the bits from Stan Freberg. He had three skits on the record. My favorite one of all is St. George and the Dragonet.



Stan Freberg was 88 when he passed away today, It would not be the first time that I was surprised that he has just now died. I thought he passed a long time ago. Perhaps that is due to the fact that I have always been cognoscente of the fact that my parents and Grandparents were older enough to have babysat the Prophet Moses. And so I thought that everything that they liked was as old as dirt too. Though that did not apply to And Griffith since I was watching him as Matlock. So perhaps I should not have been quick to assume that Stan Freberg was already gone. Still.... Allan Sherman was kinda old too... so I guess you never really know.

One of the reasons that I loved this skit is because we were watching Dragnet reruns. The other reason that I love it so much is because it is actually really funny. And from the age of 6 I always associated the dragon with William Shatner. Listen and you will see why.

Reflecting Today... my cousin Michelle

My Pintrest boards have been filing up with lots of inspiration for the Boho/Shabby Chic lifestyle. I have to say, honestly, if I win the lottery the first thing that I am going to do is commission a Vardo. I don't know how I will use it, but I want it. While all of these images are flooding onto my board, I keep thinking of my cousin Michelle.

I love all of my cousins for a variety of reasons. I think Michelle stands out because she was always different and didn't really care what anyone thought of her choices, her style or opinions. She went with the flow.

Michelle babysat us for a few Summers. We were always barefoot. It was the early 70s so there weren't laws about having to wear your shoes in the car, or stores, or anywhere. And I remember the Summer that I learned the hard way why shoes are important: I split my big toe open on the running board of the Galaxy 500 while we were clamoring to get into the car so Michelle could take us to the beach. She didn't freak. She didn't call me names. She stuck my feet in the sink, hosed me down with Bactine and put a bandaid on it.

Mom, on the other hand, freaked. And forbade me to be barefoot ever because I could get ringworm, or some other thing. And she freaked out on Michelle for not paying attention. So Michelle and I conspired to more antics that would potentially damage either of us... but not permanently. Michelle was one of those people who challenged the rules, not because she was an anarchists at heart. But because some rules are far too limiting and keep us too safe, too comforable and don't challenge us to creativity or strength. When we are coddled overmuch we do not grow in any productive manner. We only grow in fearfulness.

And that is one of the things that I liked best about Michelle. She was fearless. At least she was to me. I was 4, 5, and 6 when she stayed with us for the Summers. She was exotic in her hippie maxi's with the long hair and big sunglasses. The staid housewives in polyester Carol Brady housewife attire looked at her askance. The uptight men in suits seemed in equal parts curious and appalled by her flamboyancy. We just didn't have many hippies in Traverse City. I guess. We certainly didn't have a lot of people who made alternative choices. And by alternative I mean there might have been 4 shades of nail polish that were acceptable back then, peach, pink, rose and red. And given the choice, Michelle always chose something other than those. Or no polish at all. Which unless you were a farm wife that was unacceptable as well. Ooooh...... danger on the rise!

But truly, I don't know much really about her life and choices back then. I just knew everyone worried about her until she was about 35. Much the same way that everyone worried about me. All I needed to know about Michelle was that she was encouraging, sympathetic, convivial and patient in explaining things to a child. Other than my grandparents, Michelle was the only one who ever explained anything.

She explained why she said no on the rare occasion that she did say no. She explained to me why the things that I was afraid of in my dreams needn't be scary. She explained how things were made (foodwise). She explained how nature cycles worked. And she explained adults to me. Nothing is more valuable to a kid than understanding how the adult mind works in the face of an adult episode of kid rage.

She explained that sometimes adults get mad because the things that we do scare them and they are too busy being scared to know that they are scaring us in turn. Sometimes adults get mad because they forget what it is like to be curious kids and they are too busy being addled adults. And yes, she explained what addled meant. Sometimes, she said, adults get angry because they don't have time to stop and pay attention to the things that kids want explained or to share. And sometimes adults get mad because they don't know the answers to our questions, because it makes them feel dumb. Most of which are silly reasons to get mad at a kid. But with an explanation life was a little easier to understand and navigate.

photo from C'est si Bon! La Joie de Vivre 

Michelle also had interesting friends. She had interesting ideas. And she liked to get out and do stuff instead of stay in the house. As I've been absorbing all the boho-design goodness and thinking about Michelle, I've come to realize that the friends that I have share one quality with her that I treasure the most. They are safe, or make me feel safe by fostering an understanding of the things that I don't know or reminding me of the things that I have forgotten. Not all of my friends share the gypsy aesthetic. But they foster understanding. In some sense all of my friends are teachers; though I doubt all of them would see themselves that way. In a safe environment I feel like I can do anything. I do not see my limitations as a stop sign. I see them as an inspiration to sneak around a roadblock or a fence.

Michelle was sneaky like that. Sometimes evading the rules, bending them and breaking them got her into trouble enough to warrant worry. But sometimes, more often than not I suspect, evading the rules gave her greater strength of character and a whole lot of perseverance. Rebellion is not without its problems. Rebellion is also not the problem that authority would make it out to be. Certainly it makes the figures of authority uneasy, fearing they will be toppled by a pitchfork wielding mob. But for the most part rebellion is how we learn who we are as individuals. Michelle took a lot of chances. She made a lot of bolder choices. Some of them worked. Some of them did not. As a result of the ones that did not work, her life was a bit harder than it had to be.

Similarly, as a result of some of my choices, my life is more difficult than it need be at the moment. But I am stronger than otherwise I would be. I have a mental and emotional strength that I had not thought possible. I might have a few edges that were not there before. But I am stronger. I know that nothing bad that happens is the end of my world. I might not like what happens. But I know that I can survive it. And.... getting back to those friends, I know who will be with me through everything in spirit if not in person.

Perhaps that is the best thing that Michelle taught me. How to really know who your friends are. They are the ones who caution you but encourage you to make your own choices; who cry with you when you make a wrong choice and will hand you the shovel so you can dig yourself out instead of playing keep away with it. It's the playing keep away that annoys me. It is not a friendly thing to do to dangle the tools of self help in front of someone. Real friends also do not defile your personal limits. If you are deathly afraid of spiders they will not dangle one in front of you. If you despise practical jokes they will not play one on you. Friends understand that your fears and limits trump their joy. Really, what kind of friend enjoys humor at your expense (except when of course it is a natural consequence of reality)? Friends don't take pleasure in your suffering. And those who derive the greatest joy from your discomfort can not be called friends.

Somehow, slowly through the years, I have regressed into the people pleasing mode and forgotten a large part of who I am. As I indulge in these Pintrest boards, a little voice says, "You might like this, but others will think it weird." In greater leaps than I imagined possible, the boldness returns, I see Michelle's smile and recall the fabulous patterns of her maxi dressed dappled in the shade of our large maples and I remember more and more what she inspired in me. Coupled with my Gramma's assertion that we are all made differently to make the world more interesting, I grow increasingly confident in my own direction. And I grow increasingly indifferent to other people's opinions.

I am told that there are many colorful characters in my cousin's branch of the family tree. I have found a few colorful characters in the Gerbstadt branch. The part of the tree from which I stem is rather dull by comparison with only Gramma and Michelle there. It would appear I am to be another colorful leaf in the tree.

Avoid Fail is Epic

Last night we went to an a cappella show at the local museum. It was small, and kinda low key but high lighted the voice groups associated with the local college. It was great. Dick Wallace hosts a program on the public radio station and was the evenings emcee.

Now I have rarely been to live concerts in any arena. This was probably the 6th one outside of school performances that we HAD to go to. So I never know what to expect. But it is a cappella..... Carmen San Diego and what not so it was going to be good right? It was. We were a bit early and walked through the display of a Hungarian printmaker's works and then toddled off to find seats.

One of the first groups up was the Sweet Adelines' a cappella division with one of my classmates, and my sister's best friend since second grade, Laura. She is a blast on facebook and has always been a chipper person since I've known her. It was fun to see her up there. As her group disembarked the stage she waved to a couple of people not too far from us. But alas, I was left to wonder who as the show continued.

Quado Pro Quo came up and killed me a little with some Bobby Vinton and Blue Velvet. A little snuggle and a lot of tears. I don't know why that song does it. It almost always does. The rest of the performances went off without much more emotion from me than a lot of admiration. Until the end, that is.

At intermission I saw the answer to the question and popped over to say hi to two other classmates. Tommy and his wife Jerilyn. Had a good catch up session and then the show went on as one would expect. The BF teased me a bit because I had gotten sucked into a performance. Their director was just very expressive and hypnotic with his conducting, which everyone else had done with a limited range. The song was called "sleep" and I nearly did.

At the end a 4 voice female barbershop group came on and did a couple of songs I didn't know. Then finished with a gut wrenching version of Dionne Warwick's "That's what friends are for."

It is a beautiful song in its own right. But for an entire high school in northern Michigan in 1985 the song bears a singular significance that 28 years later is not diminished for the majority of us. A classmate of considerable character, almost infamy, and great heart died. The majority of the school went in waves to his viewing and we all attended the funeral mass together as we would so many school masses of any given Friday. During some point in the mourning process, Dennis' life flashed before us in carefully chosen slides while this song played over the sound of many people crying.

Dennis had a reputation in the school from his earliest elementary days that was troubled and unflattering. In the mid 70 we didn't know how to deal with kids who were so different. I do not know all the details of his disorder and hazard to guess he fell in the autism spectrum. And our parents were not really good with information. Information is the key to making life easier as it leads to understanding. Without understanding, as you might well imagine, Dennis had a hard time feeling at home in our close knit school. When we were in 4th grade I was assigned to tutor him.

Having spent a lot of time with him, I still could tell you know more about him than I am able now. His learning was slow which angered and frustrated him. He could do more than his brain was letting him and he knew it. I was only a 9 year old kid with him and didn't know how to teach anything to anyone. I never felt like I was any help at all. I wouldn't do the work for him. And I didn't know how to help him absorb the information. I felt like I only frustrated him more because I didn't know what I could do for him. And I think that made things ten times worse for him. At some point he was sent to a far better school.

The school specialized in alternative teaching methods. It might have a Montessori element to it. I don't know. But he went and got the kinds of instruction that helped to unlock his brain from whatever prison it was born into, and let out his personality... the sweet, helpful and caring personality that was trapped under all the frustration. He did well enough to surpass us at some point. When I got into the high school which was buildings removed from the last school we shared I was a freshman and he was now a sophomore.

Admittedly, I avoided him for a solid few weeks when school started. I remembered the angry Dennis. And I was a little scared. The mental handicap was a small part of the issue. While I avoided him it was hard not to take note of the change in his personality. He was confident, kind, helpful and rather well liked by all of his classmates. At least by what I could see. There was a day when one of the teachers, Mrs. David, asked him to see if he could help another student make sense of the work they were doing on in their unit. He looked over the work while he stood along side her desk. If I didn't know better, I would have thought that he was an adult who had stepped out of one of those 1950's educational films, with the coke bottle glasses and the crew cut. He just had a professional look about him. He said it was no problem, took the assignment, made a note and half saluted as he walked away.

A few days after that Dennis called me. We published a yearly directory of students phone numbers and addresses since I could remember. I think the practice was abolished in 87 or 88. He called and we chatted. He said he was sorry that he was so mean in elementary school. I told him basically what I've told you guys. He described what it was like to be at Pathfinder where people knew what was wrong with him and could help him work around it if they couldn't cure it. We talked about what it was like to be a grade ahead of us and he cracked a joke.

It was a short conversation. We had many of them. Dennis was a weird kid. I was a weird kid. So it was nice to be able to talk about the things that were fascinating to each of us. As the school year progressed into Fall there was one conversation where he kept offering to come out to my grandparents to help rake leaves. I had the impression that he might have wanted to date.

To be honest. I didn't want to be Dennis' girlfriend in part because of the circumstance. It was a bitter pill for me to realize that I could be as shallow as anyone else. But I couldn't see it. And while we were able to talk, part of me always wondered when the other Dennis would show up, so more than talking would not have been possible. Beyond that.... I didn't like boys. I didn't like them the way the other girls kept acting like they liked them. I liked them because they had better toys (erector sets, chem labs, matchbox cars, legos and Death Stars etc...) and I liked them because they could go outside and get dirty and not worry about stains and holes and torn nails. I liked boys because we were alike in mindset and I couldn't stand the chatter than happens with girls.

But how do you explain that to someone when you don't fully understand that yourself?

Then there were the issues with family. There was no way my mom was going to let me date at 14. And when I did date it wasn't going to be to someone who didn't have money. And it wasn't going to be someone she could not control. Dennis had a strong family. As crazy and Italian opera as that sounds that is the way things were for me. How do you explain that without telling someone how crazy your own family is? I was as embarrassed by my mother's behavior as I was about my own looks and intellect at the time, as I was by Dennis' situation. How do you explain that without hurting someone's feelings? I know he understands all of this now. But as I type I can not think anything but what a horrible person I must be to be so frailly human. How do you explain that?

And how do you explain that you made up your mind that you would not ever date?

Two years later I would figure out what gay was, what lesbianism was and that the whole time I was growing up someone was taking bets on when I would come out. But I didn't know anything about anything except that I had to train myself not to want relationships so that being around people was easier. A decade later I would find out that there is a psychological phenomenon called asexuality which boiled in to its most essential description is a being uninterested in sex for the sake of sex or for human connection. I simply was not going to be capable of a fully adult relationship until well into my 30s. And it would only ever be with guys because for the most part.... I can't stand my own gender. But it would still take 20 years for me to figure that out.

But how do you explain something you don't know about?

I chose to blame it on my parents. The no dating until you are 16 would only put the question off for two years. But then things may have changed enough that revisiting the question might have yielded either a different set of results or some clarity.

I didn't have two years. Within a few days of the discussion Dennis had passed. A damaged chimney flue built up dangerous levels of gas in his basement bedroom and he died in his sleep. We came to school Monday morning to the news. It almost killed nearly everyone in his class to say goodbye. It almost killed me. The guilt was incredible. He never did officially ask me out, only talked the what if. And it was natural causes, or an act of God type of a situation, so it isn't like he took his own life. My head knew that. But my heart and that sadistic thing in my head that likes to blame me for everything and twist reality to make me hate being here myself knew something different. Shelly kept telling me that I didn't do anything wrong. That it was an accident. But I didn't want to believe that. Some days, even now, I don't want to believe that.

It's been 28 years since Dennis passed. 28 years since I was last in the Covell Funeral Home and felt the plush red carpet soften the footfalls of mourning visitors. 28 years since that song brought a school to tears. For 28 years I've avoided the song. I change the radio station or don't listen to the radio at all anymore. For 28 years I've been able to avoid the song successfully with only a few fails. Last night the Avoid Fail was Epic.

As soon as the last group left the stage the BF and I bolted. He to avoid traffic. Me to avoid the odd stares from people applying poor deduction skills to the anomaly of a woman crying her eyes out after a wonderfully less than dramatic performance. On the way out the door Laura's group was gathering for the receiving line. Laura gave me one of her big bear hugs and I remembered she was one of the first people to hug me at Dennis' funeral too. After we got back to my house I explained the whole sordid thing to my BF and got a wonderful amount of support.

It may have taken me a long time to figure out how I felt about boys, dating, human interaction period. But I am glad that when I did figure it out this one was there. Of course it helps that we have a common background. 25 years ago we were Seniors in the same school. He was 3 years after Dennis and while Dennis was never forgotten, he wasn't explained to the newbies either. I think in some way, his lost became a special gem that each person protected in memory the way many of us failed to in real life during the time that we had him. And that is perhaps why that song can kill so many of us each time we hear it.

And it will for the rest of our lives.

What I Did on My Christmas Vacation

I didn't really go on vacation. I had four scheduled days off because the tourism industry gets funny like that in the dead of Winter. With the weather being the way it has been, all polar vortex-y and junk, I was stuck away from home for those 4 days.

Stuck carries the connotation of inconvenience, annoyance, and being somewhere you do not want to be. Nothing, however, could have been further from the truth. While it is true that I had not planned to be away from home for more than one of those 4 days, I was in the perfect place for me. When I accepted the invitation to Christmas Eve dinner I had to cancel other plans. The warning was put out that this cancellation was a possibility because the place that I was going was somewhere that I had been asking to be for a very long time. And the person who issued the invitation was a complete and utter surprise to me and the fulfillment of another one of those "Ask and Ye Shall Receive" things I've been doing with the Universe.

Christmas Eve began with the traditional knots and nerves that usually came with all the Christmases Past. We've discussed how in the last three years the day after festivities' major barf-o-rama never materialized because I made the changes to make sure I had stress free holidays. So the pre-event symptoms were a shock. Though, I have to admit, not completely unexpected. After all, I was going to meet a guy that I had only recently met. We hit it off in a grand fashion. So I should not have been worried. Not at all. But I was. And the second that he met me at the door all the nerves disappeared.

I do not even remember when the last time was that I could feel so at ease with someone so quickly. As he is a Scorpio, I have vowed there will be no details of him until he is ready to grant sharing permission. I will only share the experiences.

He lives off the water in my dad's home town. So on an emotional level several things happened all at once. For one, that meant I had to make longer drives than I have been comfortable with since the hamstring incident. Honestly, I don't know why that has been the damper on my activities. I couldn't sit in the seat because  I tore myself a new ass along with the hammie; it's not like I was in a car accident and developed a logical phobia. But I've had a phobia anyway. This from a woman who drove over 1500 miles a week for work. For two, I haven't been in dad's home town since he died. And for three, I haven't gone to sleep with the Bay in my vision, or found myself waking to the light on the waves since grampa died in 1986.

Water is a significant thing to me. I grew up with these waters permeating every aspect of life in my own home town. Dad was from up the Bay on one side and Grampa lived on the other while I grew up in the middle in a city at the delta of a sliver of a greater lake. We spent Christmas Eve at Grampa's house. The harrowing ride out the winding road along Old Mission peninsula, the darkened night lit by Christmas lights, a feast, egg nog and the debilitating & terrifying trip, backwards, down the drive way, aimed at the dark waters of the Bay. If the brakes failed we were in the water. Dark. Cold. Anything-could-be-lurking-in-those-inky-depths water. Then Christmas day we were home. And a day or so after that we were back at Gramma and Grampa's for an overnight.

The water is mesmerizing. I could stare at it for hours, watching wave forms & patterns. I scanned the currents in hopes that we had our own Champ or Nessie until I was about 12 and discovered science fiction. Then I started scanning the skies. Beyond being reminiscent of my childhood Christmases on the Bay, the deep connection to my Grandparents was rekindled. Not the whole German thing that I've been doing on other blogs (as well as here). The personal connection.

The Bay, with its steely grey blue color in Winter was calming. Things were slower at my grandparents house because that is just the way life is with the 70-somethings. But, as the back drop for a gorgeously trimmed tree which required concentration to see through the pine boughs, the bay was one of those things that encouraged a person to stop. To stare. Or to let go. Some how in most of those moments of reflection, one of my grand parents found me. A quite question asked opened a door for expression. As long as I was looking at the bay the turmoil inside of me stilled enough to be communicative and methodic in my answers instead of the hot chaotic mess that I was at home. I reflect my surroundings and the persons in them. And that was always the best atmosphere to reach the heart of me.

Besides their willingness to understand their frequently distraught grand daughter, the opportunities the Bay gave them to catch me when I was calm was their best advantage to helping me. The willingness is the key though. Most everyone gives up because the strength of the feelings that I feel and how deep everything goes is a daunting mountain to climb; or spelunk if I happen to be stuck in a cavernous maze of exquisite dwarven confusion in the heart of said mountain.

Any body of water will do that for me. But it is the Bay that connects me to my grand parents. And now in a way to a new friend with the potential to be someone more than I expected. During my four days I found myself drifting off into that calm state of peace that I haven't felt since my days in Marquette with another body of beautiful water. There were many opportunities for reflection. And I felt my grandparents more keenly than I have in many years. My gramma is never far from me. Grampa, grampa is another matter altogether. He's been a busy lad on the other side. Gone for nearly 27 years, this Christmas Eve was the first time that I have felt him near enough to me in spirit that I could have sworn that he was standing with me looking out the window.

Two week prior to Christmas I had a dream in which Gramma, mom and dad and a set of cousins were present. I normally dream Gramma and parent dreams. And normally dream the setting we were in. In a decade this is the first time that I was able to approach their house to find people in it. It's been empty and abandoned every time I have been there. I have care taken it in those dreams and lamented the lack of persons in the home, worried about them. In one dream a few years ago there was a message on the answering machine (that they did not have in their life time) from Gramma stating that they would be gone a little longer but that they would be back; that I should not worry. I closed up the house and went on again. That is how they usually go anyway.

But in this dream when my new friend and I went around back where the lawn chairs often were, Grampa was tramping across the yard toward the house and met us on the way. His voice boomed a grand "Hallloooo" and I got the sweeping swinging hug that I always missed out on because I wasn't as giddy? as some of the other grand kids. And there, sitting under the birch were mom and dad (who also are never in this dream scape) and a set of cousins who are alive. That was perplexing. I've never been so relieved to see my Grampa in all my life! I woke up from that dream, crying happy tears.

To find myself on the Bay two weeks after that dream with the kind of peace that comes of being still.... my Christmas was perfect.

A Food Geek Is Born

So there was a discussion about PBS shows we watched as kids at work. Then there was the weird random follow up conversations in random places which then lead me to thinking about the sources of my interests. Cooking came from my Grandparents to start with. I was taught beginning when I was 4. My first dish was scrambled eggs and I made a mess because Grampa made me nervous. And I got recipes and cookbooks for gifts periodically as I grew up. But then there was PBS.

At the same time I discovered Dr. Who, I found this man, Jeff Smith.



My first cooking teacher. Dad and I watched him every Saturday. I'd made a mention of him on Wordpress and it was recommended that I keep in mind links. So I found links. Which lead me to what amounts to an half season's worth of episodes which take me right back to being in high school.

If ever there is a time to recapture a little of the glory of those days, it is when you approach your period of mid life crisising so that you can maybe do things a little different than you did the first time. For instance, I hid who I was in high school. Lots of years an lots of advice later I am not hiding. And I am telling you guys to come out and be yourselves. Hiding is bad.

Let me tell you a story.

I hid my interest in food for a long time. Classmates were comfortable with me being an artist but not too comfortable with me being interested in as many "grown up" things as I was. So I didn't talk about the Frug (pronounced; froog). I'd been watching him since about 7th grade. And to show you how dedicated I was to hiding from my classmates, I declined invitations to go out, blaming a babysitting gig, so that I could stay home with my dad to cook. Dad decided that I should put this education to use. We would watch the Frug and then shop for the ingredients to make some of the meals I'd taken notes on. It took about 6-8 episodes to come up with the recipe that we figured we could afford to try.

In 12th grade my best friend started to threaten me with an education on cooking. I'd been cooking for the family for about 3 years at that point. About a year after high school she earnestly began to teach me to cook. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I already knew. So for the last 25 years she has taken credit for the work that this man did and for the patience that my father had in letting me have control of the kitchen on the weekends that I didn't work.

If you want to learn how to cook he is a good place to start. Information, humor, grace (there is no yelling) and context for everything that he talks about. Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart will break down the recipe and get the food on the table. But the Frug will get the food into your soul.

As the Frug ended his show, I shall end this post: I bid you peace.

 

 

Hoarder or collector?

I got called a hoarder the other day and I am not sure how I feel about it. It was meant as a tease but someone else called the name caller an ass. So maybe it wasn't a tease. So I got to thinking. What is the difference between hoarding and collecting?

I don't know the answer. I just wonder. It was said in the "dirty German" book that Germans are notorious collectors an have some of the weirdest obsessions. Geeks have a weird neurotic component to being a geek and that is to have a collection of things that they love. As tastes change some geeks will be able to part with things. Some geeks can not throw or give anything away. And I think that is where the hoarding is visibly manifest. Hoarders can not part with anything. So hoarding is actually a symptom of a deeper emotional problem and not a characteristic of a personality type? I think so.

My mom collected. My mom was messy. Was she a hoarder? Since no one's health was in danger form her collections and there wasn't garbage everywhere I would have to say if she was it was mild. But here's the thing. She was also the family archivist. And as such, she was obliged to keep the families traditions in tact. Our families "treasures" came in the form of hard fought objects gathered during the dark days of the depression, or things that came from Germany.

In some ways I am also the family archivist. When there is a question I am the first one asked. And if there is a question of "whatever happened to....." the answer will be "I have it. Are you ready to take it home now?" So a lot of the stuff that I have is in holding.

Now that is not to say that I don't have traditional geeky obsessions. I've said it before & I will wear my fan-pride proudly by saying again: I have every album Matthias Reim has made. And a few compilations from record company aggregators.

•  I almost have all of Castle's Nikki Heat books.
• Every season and movie of Stargate SG-1.
• Every Sherlock Holmes Jeremy Brett made.
• Every season of MacGyver
• I've had all the Dragonlance books. Twice.
• Nearly complete Sherilynn Kenyon Dark Hunter novel
• Every season of Frasier
• Every one of Stings albums except Mercury Rising.
• I collect art supplies in much the same way that I do books and movies. If I find a kind of ink I like I get a lot of the inks in the line. If I find a color I love I get it in as many varieties as I can. So I have a lot of art supplies.
• And rubber stamps.
• and quilting fabric.

But the  thing is. I use what I collect. It's just not out of the boxes because the storage situation in the house is a bit weird. And I am not sure where it all should go. Now there are quite a few things that will have to go. I know that. And I am ready for that. I just want everything done now and because it isn't I get overwhelmed.

The other part of this equation is the things that I collect. I like celebrating the seasons. We did this with school, I did it with daycare. And to some extent my mom made seasonal changes in the way that she decorated the house. Martha Stewart kinda made this a solid thing for me. It is a tradition that is hard for me to do without. But because I have done without it is hard for me to find the groove for it again. So I am trying to figure out if the mojo for home decorating and entertaining is going to kick in.

I am also surrounded by people who never embraced or indulged (I'm not sure which is the word) in these kinds of things. There were not everyday and holiday dishes in the families of some of the people that I am surrounded by. There was in our house. There were Summer dishes and Winter dishes. Cottage dishes and home dishes. It wasn't just for us. It was for the company that came.

We changed up place settings to indicate that something special was coming. Every day dishes at Easter or Christmas were frowned upon. My mom used to say that treating a special occasion like an everyday thing made it cheap and pointless. Setting the table with linens, sparkling "fancy" dishes and the crystal serving bowls was a ritual that helped us put our heads around the fact that company was coming; we were supposed to behave better than we did every day and, especially the case with Christmas and Easter, there was something important going on that you needed to pay attention to.

Of course some people who neither could afford "fancy" settings nor learned the art of entertaining just call it fancy, putting on airs and snobbish. Then decide that you are acting like you are either better than you really are or that you are better than them.  Who sets the better table: Rachel Ray or Martha Stewart? Who needs a Martha Stewart Living photo shoot with each holiday meal?

Entertaining may have a bit of showing off in it. Without a doubt I tried very hard to meet my mother's expectations when she came to my house for dinner. And then I took a few steps beyond that. So I did compete with mom. We did the show-off show-down. In my heart I can honestly say with everyone else who has eaten at a well set table in my house, it was set especially for the occasion so that they felt appreciated. it isn't about the hard work that goes into planning a dinner, preparing the food and setting a table. It's about treating your friends and family like royalty.... or as close as you can get in your pay scale.

I learned, from a few sources, to appreciate entertaining as a gift of hospitality. Elevating an evening meal from the mundane to the magnificent redirects your attention, brings intent back to the activity. Without intent its just a boarding house scramble to pile food into your face and get away from everyone else as quick as possible. Setting a table closer to proper than paper plates or eating over the sink encourages people to linger. It also encourages better manners than the boarding house grab. Not always, but most of the time.

I do have a lot of stuff. I have a lot of stuff as a family vault. But I also have a lot of stuff because I see it as tools to creating a comfortable and comforting atmosphere. These days I am surrounded by people who are into minimalism for the sake of getting through the day faster and not for the sake of simplicity. To me it seems slap dash, unintentional and meaningless to do things that way. Yes, it would be easier to eat off of paper plates and not have things to dust. But when does the special come in?

I guess this all has me thinking because I felt a little judged. And I've felt a lot judged recently. It's a pretty even line of being accused of being "too good" for some and "not good enough" for others. This is a horrible place for someone like me who is a people pleaser trying to learn to take care of herself, who needs rituals to make life make sense. I am literally stuck in the middle. Of course on the subject of being fancy (anything not white is fancy) one could argue that the act of bringing the fancy dish to the potluck is judging those who aren't "fancy" as being not good enough.

And calling me a hoarder somehow makes that assumption of judgment better. I should not care so much what other people think of me. I should just do my own thing and let others do theirs and not worry so much what goes on in their heads. If only it would stay in their heads.

And I still don't know if I am a hoarder or just a collector.

The Recipe

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to my German Kitchen. Actually... welcome to my Grandfather's German Kitchen. I'm not sure where this recipe came from, not exactly, and I am not sure when it came from either. All I know is that my Grampa Armin had a bakerei in Hamburg and this was served there. His brother Emil migrated to Dearborn Michigan and began a bakery there. This was one of their offerings.

 

After the Gerbstadt Bakery was sold to the Kresges all I know of the recipe is that Grampa Alfred made it every year in the fall, let it mellow in the freezer and served it for the Winter Holidays. We had it every year along with the gingerbread men that he made from his own cookie cutter form and his plum cake. The last time Grampa made the recipe I was 14. He was too sick to make it when I was 15. While we had talked about him teaching me to bake these old family recipes, he was too tired from his illness to find the patience to teach a prancing horse to bake. When I was 16 he was gone and his recipes were gone.

 

It took a few years to settle things. I'd moved out on my own & started my own business. I did daycare and I wanted to do for them what my grandparents had done for me. When it got time to define our holiday traditions it was the recipe that I was drawn too again and again.

 

The recipe. THE recipe. On the Walton's it was for moonshine. For us, it was this. Holiday Loaf. Yeast cake. Whatever it is called for real no one knows. No one here anyway. The Baldwin sisters kept the recipe with the kind of guarded reverence that Catholics keep the Eucharist in the Tabernacle. As much as we all loved this, we took it and grampa for granted. We did not keep the recipe in reverence. It was buried in leaves of torn pages from magazines, from his cooking journal and other notes written in his own hand and... in German.

 

First step was to apply my high school German to translating. And then to struggle with the metric conversions. I still remember the day mom called me to tell me that she found a box of grampa's papers. I rushed out to get it. And then spent several days nose-to-table working it out. Then the shopping trip. Then the first trial.

 

The recipe is simple. The assembly is mostly simple. The feelings associated with it are complex.

 

My first attempts ballooned with yeast that rose too quickly, burst the thin pastry dough and oozed the sugary egg white onto the pans where it burned blacker than coal. The first was edible if somewhat over browned. It had the taste but not the look of Grampa's recipe. It took many tries. After a few attempts over the course of 3 or 4 years I set it aside. There was something that I did not understand about the mechanics of yeast, sugar, egg and flour in conjunction with humidity and room temperature. It would have to wait as life intervened.

 

When I lived in Marquette in a little apartment, over a store, around the corner from Angeli's Bakery I tried again. I practically lived next to a bakery. How could I not try again with the inspiration begat by the scent of an early Winter morning perfumed with warm yeast and cinnamon? This time it had the shape, the color, the texture that I remembered but it was too sweet. One of the steps consists of blending the nuts and sultanas in a mixture of cinnamon sugar. Too much sugar for the way that golden raisins are processed compared to the early parts of the 20th Century I guess. So I amended the next attempt. And it came out perfectly.

 

Coming back to Traverse City when my mom was ill brought me right back to the loss I felt when Gramma & Grampa were gone. I couldn't bake. Not for a long time anyway. Everything reminded me of them. They were my security when I was growing up a misplaced geek in a sea of athletes. And the recipe was my connection to those very special times of the year when we were all together. It is the time that Life has now decided will be my season of loss. Between the time that mom and dad died I might have made the recipe one more time. After dad died  I made it again.

 

Our Northern cousins invited us to Christmas, our first Christmas without dad. I made this to take because I knew that all of us, having lost our parents and the same special set of grandparents, treasured this rare treat as a connection to them. And I got it right. It was perfect. I still remember how Brian's face lit up when he saw the recipe sitting on the counter. "Is that Grampa's holiday cake?" Best compliment ever. Until someone else said it tastes just like Grampa made it.

 

Since dad has died, today was the first time that I have attempted the recipe. It was the first thing that I promised myself I would make once I had a real kitchen again. Obviously, if you read this post for any length of time you know I broke my own promise. It would seem when you are not yourself, you can not do what you love. So as it is with art it is with baking. It must be that way with anything that you love to do. You just can't do it when you aren't you.

 

Aldi got a shipment of sultanas in a few weeks ago at a price I have not seen in a long time. I snatched two boxes. They have been sitting here for a while reminding me with a cat's dead eye stare that something has to change. In the last few days I have found the energy to do normal "Me" things. Bed lamps unpacked for a good read, the pile of debris at the end of my bed finally is tamed and I sorted through some boxes in the basement. As you saw in the last post, holiday lights are up. So today, knowing that my housemate and I were having people over to play games, I made the recipe.

 

I think I am starting to get my groove back. I can even tell with the way that I am writing that things in my head and my heart are healing. It's only taken 5.5 years to get here.

 

 

If you want the recipe to make yourself it is here at my genealogy blog which I haven't done anything with in ages.

 

Erfreuen Sie!

 

 



Happy Birthday

 

 

 

Today, being the second of October, is Sting's birthday. I am listening to "The Last Ship" on Spotify right now. I've never not had money for a new Sting CD so thankfully there is Spotify for the foreseeable future. It's been 10 years since his last album of original tunes. And a lot has changed in those 10 years.

 

At once they seem to have been the longest decade of my life and the shortest. I measure my life in milestones more than in years. It seems, with the notable exception of Matthias Reim to hold my heart in time of heartache, Sting is the soundtrack underscoring those milestones. When I find myself inconsolable at points in which the losses in my life are so poignant there is always an album which lets me do my grieving and find the strength of hope to get through the hardest part of the process: the letting go and getting back to life. Most of that time, when I miss someone most, I return to Soul Cages.

 

 

Soul Cages got me through Dad's sickness and passing. It is difficult to describe all those feelings. Anyone who has lost someone knows them... knows them well. Anyone who has been there knows there is little that can be said to make it better. The Hallmark­­™ card to hold all the sentiments for those occasions would be as tall as the Statue of Liberty and still not be able to convey the support a grieving person needs. Or desires. In fact the grieving person usually doesn't know what would help until the help arrives. Cue Sting.

His father passed and Soul Cages was his process  to deal with it. You don't just miss the person in the flesh from the moment of passing. You miss the whole thing: the times that you shared and the times that you blew off. There are things that our fathers tell us that we do not heed when they are with us that we cannot then ask them to repeat once they are gone. You grieve for that. Then you feel the guilt. Here's the thing though, you also miss yourself.

Soul Cages looks at what life was like growing up in Newcastle, especially "All This Time" which is one of my favorites in his entire body of work. When a parent passes you miss those times that you remember fondly, pictures play in your mind like a fading 16mm film. You miss the places you were when you were there. You miss your hometown and the way it was while you were growing up. You miss the vision of yourself when you see those films in your mind. Looking through old books in rainy weather is torture; and much needed. In less than two weeks I will mark the 8th year of my father's passing. Soul Cages came to me a year before he passes, it paved the way for the process to come. I bought it the same year that Sacred Love came out, the same day it came out.

When my father did pass two weeks after his 90th birthday I remembered the CD, the liner notes Sting wrote. For a month I only listened to Soul Cages. I planned the funeral with the director alone. I made mistakes that alienated my cousins on my father's side. I gathered the pictures for the memorial alone. I talked to the doctors about his condition and was the only one of the three of us to know that he was not coming back. I stood alone in the hospital room with no one to hold onto. I survived those horrible moments with Sting's dulcet voice in my head... singing me through the breaths that I would have to take to make it downstairs to my car without upsetting the whole hospital. My brother wailed onto his wife's shoulder while my sister was on the plane to get here. The German patient, bless his heart, calmly ordered his meal from the bed next door.

Everything changes when you lose the last of your parents. If you haven't prepared yourself very well you lose your entire self. As prepared as I was I lost a good chunk of who I was and what I thought my life would be. In the process of settling his affairs I lost a lot of the security that we expect to have out of life. And having lost that I lost my faith in myself. I never really realized how tied into my father my own thoughts of my self identity were. Thanks Freud, but it isn't about sexual maturity (which I know because my "type" is completely different from my dad. My dad actually influences whom I gravitate toward in the realm of spiritual assistance~ Sting. My dad is mostly Welsh.) In many ways, Mr. Sumner and my dad are a lot a like. Mr. Sumner was a milkman and my dad a farmer and neither of them understood the artistic drive in Sting and me. But by the end, they both gave blessings for each of us to be what we wanted. I can not say if this is the case with Sting, but I still feel that even with the blessing to go forth and create art I am somehow disappointing Dad. For the first time in my life, and lasting these last 8 years, I have considered being something other than an artist.

That would be like considering being something other than human. Oh I would love to be a Time Lord. But I am human: frailly, blessedly and incontrovertibly human. And I shall need a hefty dose of Sacred Love to help me find myself as I have always imagined myself to be and to be what my Dad blessed in his last conversation with me. But I am not ready for that just yet. If I were I would not have been so eager to distract myself with Matthias Reim these last 4 years. So as I listen to The Last Ship, I find the sequel to Soul Cages that I was looking for.

I wish that I had the liner notes that come with the CD. But alas.... not until I have some money to go get the CD. And that brings me to the reason that I am writing about Dad and Sting today. It being Sting's birthday, and that birthday falling smack in the middle of the Season of Loss™, there is no better day to think about who I still have in my life and how thankful that I am for them. Especially Sting.

 

 

Sting,

 Happy Birthday.

I am so thankful for you, for your art, for your willingness to put your heart, soul,

experience into song to share with the rest of us. I do not know how I would have

gotten through so many of my life's experiences without your words

to comfort or convict and pointing the way under the Dog Star.

Thank you.

 

 

 

I owe someone else a birthday greeting. It is hard to write this one though because I feel so much empathy for him and one of the things that he struggles with... I wasn't really expecting to get that involved with that particular greeting. But I am an Aquarius and I am waking up from a long spiritual slumber so it probably should surprise none of us that I'm more involved than I should be. 

Mother Necessity, where would we be?

When, I wonder is a crazy idea a good idea? One can look at Martha Stewart and Paula Dean's stories and say those crazy ideas were good ideas. Necessity, ever the mother of invention, caused them to find the thing in themselves that was worth the investment of time and patience, to get out and tell the world why the world needed them. Necessity bore multimillion dollar businesses from talent that already existed.

I am in the cradle of necessity now. What will the Mother invent? I have a resource that I have not tapped. I can produce samples, distribute them to local outlets and see what happens. Is it the right way to go? I do not feel so self conscious about this resource because it does not come from me like my art does. My art is me and I can not tell anyone that they NEED my art. Wanting art is one thing. Needing it is another. Fulfilling need is what business is about. So that is where I am going to go. My resource is from the family archives, it is full of rich tradition and has been absent for years... decades really.

My contribution is in the marketing, packaging and promoting. I can bring this old bit from the ancestors into the present.

And as with all endeavors since my first, I am scared out of my mind that I will fail. But I have something no one in this town has and I have the local connections to make it really special. I just have to be willing to put myself out there. But in truth, I am putting my grandpa out there.

11 22 2010
I am still scared. And I think that this is a crazy idea. But if no one ever tried anything crazy we wouldn't have planes, trains, autos and space shuttles. Am I ever going to be a multi million dollar entrepreneur with this idea? Maybe. Right now I'd jsut settle for being able to pay the bills and not sleep in my car.

Gotta go back in time

Wilw is absolutely right about time travel.

You tube has turned out to be a better resource for recreating a mix tape that an exchange student made for me in high school. Messalina went back to Austria and within a few weeks sent me a great package. Sadly I was an idiot and didn't respond quickly enough... that whole empathic stay connected longer than others thing again. The package had a tape in it with over three hours of music recorded from a radio station. All German all the time.

I wore the tape out learning the lyrics and trying to memorize the artists that went with the music. It was the background to a lot of my homework sessions, some of my fiction writing sessions. But mostly, especially after Grampa died, it was my meditation. I'd lay in front of my east facing window at night, in the moonlight with the head phones on and listen. Peter Alexander's "Schwarzes Gold" is the most like "grampa style" German music. It recalls a nationalist feeling like Edleweiss does for Austria. But it is romanticized and a little country. While not a ragtime melody, it brings to mind the era of the Sting. I don't know why I always thought that. Perhaps my German wasn't good enough to imagine it was different or more than a song about working for oil. Today I find, if the You tube poster is accurate, it was done in 1979. And my German still isn't very good.

I can, even while present and writing in 2010, feel and see myself on the blue carpet in my room. Right now, in 1987, it is a mid-afternoon in July. My feet are on the wood trim of the bottom of the window sill while my back is on one of Gramma's floral sheets. The sheet is a cool barrier between me and my carpet. The sun is on the other side of the house but the air coming in the open window is "varmish" and the sun still bright.
"Ohne leiber. Ohne Leiber.... Herzt uber Kopf. Hertz uber Kopf! ...ein fam einsen Keit" while I am reading a story from Marion Zimmer Bradley. "Mists of Avalon" that Carol Bliss lent me. While I am lost in this song I look at the cover of a woman on horseback, traveling across a misty moor, braided head hung in contemplation or grief. I can't tell which.
I an smell warm grass on the slight breeze. I miss Grampa, hit the rewind button to go back to the strings on Hertz uber Kopf, and tears start to drip down by my ear lobe. After a while I can feel them pool around the earphones. The cushiony part is getting wet and irritating. Instead of finishing the book I've decided to consciously listen to the music. This song over and over until the pain starts to ease. Then I listen to the rest of the tape.

The tape self destructed in 1989. After such use and abuse the cassette player spit out several feet of brown shiny tape and the cassette was useless. I still have it. And I have the cassette holder somewhere in storage. In 2010 I can still sing along with most of the things that I have found on Youtube. I've got ten songs of the whole tape. All four of Roland Kaiser's songs, two of Herbert Groenemeyer, the beep beep song from the Spider Murphy gang...

What a trip. Those were good Summers. Good friends. Great grandparents. Thank God I can safely go back in time this way.

la Bohemne

I've said before that I think I can trace Gramma Ada's people to the western rim of the Carpathian mountains, which, compared to Tepes' roost, is a series of speed bumps parted by swiftly flowing rivers headed for the North Sea. My mom used to call me a Bohemian when I displeased her, "Just like your gramma Ada." But when it came to the heritage homework at the beginning of each school year, Gramma Ada was Bavarian. And, as it turns out Bavaria, Bohemia, East Germany, Hungaria and some part of Czechoslovakia have all claimed a particular piece of geography at one time or the other. This oft claimed land is where the Lords of Lauenstein put down roots and rebellions while fomenting their own brand of religious and republican resistance. This land, I suspect, is the genesis of my wild Bohemian heart. The draw of it, all these generations later, must be the tie that binds me to Gramma Ada.
I am constructing a costume for this Halloween. I have only one place to wear it that I know of, the Psychic Fair at Higher Self. But I think that I will wear the basic blouse often... especially as I loose weight. I am in the process of gathering materials for the embellishments. I spent the last two days in the bead aisles at our BB craft stores. The gypsy in me started drooling when she gotto Michael's. And when I reached out for something that was remarkably like the German/Bavarian silverwork from the 1500's in my History of Jewelery book, Gramma Ada stood next to me.
I know that sounds weird. I did not see, hear or touch her. Nor did I smell any weird floral essense as is commonly described. What it was was a presence, silent but aching with the desire to tell me her stories. How do I know it was Gramma Ada? With each piece I was drawn to that is outside of the style I normally choose for myself I felt connected. And the piece brought images to my mind from so far back in the 1900's that I could not possibly have been told about them by my mom. The impression my empathic little sefl had was the start of a story that began with, "I had something like this as a girl." or "My Aunt so and so used to wear _________ like this." I sensed an appreciation for a color and texture of fabric, for a place in the woods, a shop along the riverside in Hamburg or Hannover [fachwerk is a dead give away that you're in a German town]. I also had the impression that a finished piece in her mind was being held up to me for my approval.
In the eeriest part of this spiritual connectivity experience to date, I did to myself what I've done to my brother. I made a statement to myself, spoken with abslute sureity regarding the decision process. One of the product lines is composed of keepsake pendants. These are constructed like the epoxy pieces Lynne Perrella and Tim Holtz make. The metal plate has a narrow bevel like a picture frame, a piece of ephemera is cut to shape and placed on the bottom then a resin is used to fill in the piece. Anything can be "preserved under glass" like this and it makes an attractive cabachon that is less expensive and more believeably attained than a cab of semi precious stone would be. The aisle was full of eye candy. My hands reached for all sorts of things. Then my inner voice, the one that talks to me from Nieve's perspective, said "You need to have a story for each piece. Be selective. Be sure you can tell the story that goes with it." I put a beautiful but uninspired piece back on its hanger. My voice then said, "You've been all over the world," I was looking at a decidedly Middle Eastern/Turkish (not Ottoman) piece of scroll work, "Yes, you've been here [Islamic world]. You've been everywhere." I reached for Asian pieces, began to collect charms of bizzarre creatures; griffin, chinese dragon, seahorse & thought back to the St. George lion I found at JoAnns. And as I moved form one intriguing piece to the other, I felt the voice start to tell a story. Well it wnate to tell a story but I couldn't stand still long enough.
I had so many ideas running through my head of how Iwould present each piece in the costume. My type A mind was trying to make its image of me in costume picture perfect and flattering rather than organic. And just as I was virtually trying on piece after layered piece, rejecting one and replacing it, the voice and Gramma Ada chastized me with the same word. "Organic. A gypsy doesn't plan her look. She wears her collection." I have to look like I've been collecting for a while now. Ridiculous, I thought. This is the most farcical conversation I have had to date. So I left with my parts to construct the belt and went to Aroma's to do some research.
The first site I landed on was for Gypsies around the world to connect that offered advice on how to gather and present a renfaire gypsy costume authentically. And that site said this much: if I want brocades I'd better have a damn good reason for having expensive material in any amount because your guild will chew your arse. And on another site, one I will book mark, the author said that ephemera and jewelery is gathered, scraps and bits get attached because the gypsy has no where to store her possessions other than on her person. For those of you keeping score at home, VIMH 2 : Me 0. Gotta love those stats.

make a new plan Stan

I will have to unlock all of my latent mutant powers to work out this situation. I have three weeks to move and no where near the cash to make a permanent move elsewhere, as planned. Bro feels that the house won't sell at all with my makeshift kitchen. It won't, I know that. But I also know that an empty house for as long as it will be on the market isn't good either.
Oh well. He's back to the whole sell everything because having it in storage is heart sickening and expensive. Well duh. Kinda like being with out a permanent address is heart sickening. And yet, when I explained again the series of unfortunate circumstances that put me in this position there was no "Oops."
He took and sold dad's plow before the house sold. He killed my trade deal that was getting the lawn mowed and would have gotten the driveway plowed, thus forcing me to spend almost 400.00 mo on plowing fees. But I'm an idiot. Of course he is now sugar coating everything. So the only one who thinks I'm an idiot is me. Wonder how that happened.
Kidding, I know how that happened. And I am an idiot. I am an idiot for believing that the people who were programmed by my mother are capable of behaving contrary to their programming. It serves neither my brother or my sister to rise above their program limits. They aren't computers. They are capable. They just choose not to. And I am not very good at reprogramming anyone but me. And even then it is a patch job. Sometimes its enough. Sometimes not.
It's just so frustrating. He says he'll help me move my stuff. But he broke two chairs and a love seat last time. And I only have so many pieces of my grandparents left for him to break. I know, I should be doing something other than blogging about it. But I have to be to work in a few minutes and I've only slept for about 5 hours.
So now that I have a great project to submit to Somerset started, I am upending everything again. Damn.
And because I can't end a blog on a curse... fill in this blank with whatever you feel appropriate. _______________.

Family celebrations

My mother used to tell me of her childhood Christmases with a wistful tone that seemed to sugest she really hated growing up; that her adulthood never really manifested to her satisfaction. She grew up in Detroit, Dearborn. And this is what she told me.

They didn't really have Christmas within the family. Gramma and Grampa had an open house every year the fourth week of December. Preparaions started in October. Grampa would make his famous yeast cake which he called a Holiday Roll. It was a golden raisin strudel dusted with powdered sugar. he made it in October because it had to sit in the freezer for a few months to properly mellow. When he got out the creamy ceramic bowl with the blue and pink stripe on it, mom knew they were entering the busy season.
After Thanksgiving, she and Aunt Anne would start making ornaments for the tree: teassel animals, acorn people and little boats of milkweed pods with colorful paper flags. They would gather greens to make garlands and buntings so that by the time the tree was brought in a week before the open house, the house already an antiseptic pine smell. During this time Gramma made several more trips to the butcher and grocer. She made mince pies and rum cakes that would also cure for several weeks in the freezer. They made jellies and spreads from pale pears, red raspberries, dark elderberries, black currants and firm orange pumpkins. Then the baking would begin. There were tarts, muffins, pies and cookies. Dozens of cookies. And candy: during the Thanksgiving holiday they hosted a taffy pull and made candies with their friends in the neighborhood. They made nut brittles, sea foam and toffee.
Mom mostly talked about Gramma and the baking. Somewhere in the middle of all the prep she'd start singing in German. And she'd sing and sing and sing until most people would have been hoarse. When it was time to make cookies, Grampa would appear in the kitchen. Springerle, gingerbread or Lebkuchen, and sugar cookies. Grampa bent and soldered the cookie cutters himself. I don't kow what shapes he made but I know why they didn't buy them: no money. Mom was born the day the market crashed in 29. Grampa made the cutters from the washed tins of the canned products gramma bought. He understood the cookie dough better than gramma. Gramma and mom couldn't work a lot of doughs. Their hands were always too warm and the dough would start to rise before they were done kneading it. It never had time to rest. Springerle, I have since found out, is a cookie that can not stand to be even the slightest bit "poofy".
Before she knew it, it would be time to decorate for the open house. Candles in the windows, the ornaments on the trees and then Gramma would bring out the glass bulbs that "came over from germany". Now the way that mom would tell the story had me believeing that Gramma brought them with her from Germany when she came in 27. But I have seen these honored bulbs listed in antigues magazines. Krebs is a German company. But the designs were manufactured in germany for the Kresge Corporation. Kresge as in Kresge Market as in K-Mart. No one other than gramma as allowed to hang them. Once the tree was lit then they would open a present. Then the next day they would set up the huge buffet tables and begin the task of polishing the silver. At the end of that day they opened another present. On day three there was more polishing, setting out china, pulling out things to begin to thaw and dressing the birds for the oven. And another present.
And each day was like this for a week until the doors were thrown open for the open house. Gramma's was the place to be in the neighborhood. She glittered like a christmas tree under her costume jewelery in the warmth of companionship. Grampa's booming voice vibrated above the din of clanking silverware when he laughed. And then it was time to clean up. The reward for the house being in order then next day was to open the jackpot of presents and have hot chocolate in front of the fire. Grampa had studied chemistry in Germany and came here as a druggist. He would mix up a concoction of chemicals, soak some small twigs in the mizture and when they were dry, he would drop them into the fire to punctuate the story he told. He cast a spell over mom and Aunt Anne with hot pink, blue, lime green and violet colored flames as each bundle of twigs caught.
I don't know what story he told the girls. It could have been the Christmas story. It could have been the Maccabean Victory that gives us Channukah... I'll never know now. What I do know is that Gramma Ada was Jewish and her traditions were buried under a Christian disguise; which from the last post you know I believe to be a disguise of a different color.

What mom had always said was that the glass ornaments and the cookie tradition in the family were more about German pride than religious example. The glass blowing tradition comes from the area where I have traced my roots- Thuringia and Bavaria, having close proximity to Czech glass blowers. It may even have been taught to the Northern Germans by Czech refugees at its inception. For what ever reason, Germans embraced Christmas with a fervor befitting religious conversion. It would seem odd on the surface. But then the pagan heart can find freedom in celebration while superficially serving Roman masters. As for the Jewish parts... the week of presents is reminiscent of Channukah. The candles lit in the windows each night share similarities. But I fear the German pride of excellent craftsmanship outshone all else during the winter holidays. Passover probably belonged to Gramma while Grampa revelled at Christmas.
I wish I knew more about these things on a personal level. The stories and the trees we had as I was a child have certainly informed my selections for ornamentation. I love the blown glass ornaments. The fruit especially, some of the flowers too. Some of them look so real... like the sugared fruits on which they were modelled. The tear drop shapes and glass icicles are also among my favorites. And there is a difference between the German bulbs and others. Even now with manufacturing secrets seemingly shared across borders... the German bulbs are distinctive... better.
The only thing I don't put on my tree is the tinsel. I can't stand picking it up forever and a day after the tree comes down. And My tree always has more lights than the saftey limits on the box. I can't stand a tree with dark patches. The whole season is a celebration of light. And that I think is the point in all the celebrations: lighting a dark season and remembering that the darkness won't last forever.
I need this reminder more this year than any other. But I won't have a tree for my new menorah ornament because there just isn't time for it when you live like a pioneer and you are a single woman with a job outside the home. Now I know what marriage is really for. And in some way I resent the need for it even more than I usually do. But that is definately a post for another day. I am going to go and shamelessly blend a bunch more holiday traditions...

Season's blessings to you.

so speaking of family

I have found the coolest stuff through Ancestry.com. First of all, the Library has a subscription so I can get the cool stuff I couldn't afford before. I found the manifest from Grampa's arrival at Elsi Island, a photo of the ship that brought him, Great Grampa's first name. And... I found that Gerbstadt was a city state name given to a family that rose to noble ranks, giving them the privilege of a coat of arms. I almost have the Wappenbuch translation completed. I am hung up on a few things that are colloquialisms or compound words which don't have the same meaning in this age as they did then.
This is very cool and exciting. It may be time to create a new blog. Oh... Lauenstein also has two crests. The one that looks like the emblem on a communion wafer i knew about. the other I didn't. It turns out the Lauenstein's came out of the Gerbstadts becoming nobles. At least if I have translated this correctly.
yes, geek has to learn about heraldry now. Fortunately I have always been fascinated by armour and pennants and such.

little things mean alot

However they should never mean everything.

I've known this for a while, especially in connection with my mom. But there are times when the hard reality is so blatant that it must be acknowledged. So in the spirit of soul-baring I shall relate to you an example in which I fail a critical tactical throw that my Grampa endorsed: challenge authority.
My mother was beautiful in her twenties and thirties. She was a bit gangly as a youth but grew into a beautiful woman. I don't know when that changed but when I was in school, she was compared to a Hag which I could not disagree with. Part of her personal identity was a ring that she always wore, almost in place of her wedding band. She definitely showed it more deference than her wedding band. Anyway, the story she tells is that she got the ring as a Sweet 16 gift from Grampa and Gramma Ada. It fit perfectly at 16. It was her way to measure something which to this day I am not clear on. It was either her weight or her attractiveness.
The ring is stamped 9-10K pounds sterling. No matter how one views it the silver settings form a backwards "S". In the bowls of the S are two amethysts of an oval cut. The center is set with 9 diamonds. it is a size 5.5 or 6. When I noticed it as a young girl and thought that if being a girl meant you could were pretty things like that then I might not mind being a girl. I mentioned one day that I would like a similar ring. I might have been 12.
My mother's response was to tell me the about how special she felt to have received such a gift. This ring meant more to her than it probably should have. But I took the story for what she said it was. It was one of the last expensive things Grampa bought for mom. At 16 she was a woman and the ring was her adulthood present. I suspect it was Grampa and Gramma's way of getting a bat mitzvah gift in without exposing themselves. Anyway, it was mom's symbol of womanhood and femininity. So when I noticed it and tried to connect with her through the ring she laughed me off. I was fairly persistent for two years. Finally, in front of my sleepover friends who loved the ring as well, she made me try it on. Then she mocked me that it wouldn't fit. I was 14 and it wouldn't go passed the first knuckle on my index finger, let alone fit the ring finger. She told me that when I was small enough to wear it I could have it but that she would be dead before that would ever happen.
She was right. As I type this it is on my sinister index finger, hung up on the first knuckle. She has been dead for 13 years. Today I went to a jeweler and tried to sell it for cash. It is worth 20.00. 19.11 to be exact. But 20.00. The two large purple stones are synthetic Alexandrite. The 9 small white chips are white sapphires not totaling even a .25 karat. It is sterling. My mother spent so much time focusing on its monetary value with a secondary influence on her sentiments that all these years I have seen it as a measure of my own worth. It was her way of reminding me I was "Too fat to be attractive to anyone."; "Too ugly to waste time and money teaching me about makeup and buying current clothes"; and that I was the most irresponsible person in the world because I could not refrain from reaching into the candy dish. [SIDEBAR: she bought the crystal candy dish after I decided to be careful about food choices. She bought it with a lid so she could hear the pinging from the crystal pieces meeting. After I gave up on trying to lose weight she didn't keep the dish full anymore. I have to admit... she challenged my inner Holmes. It became a game to get the candy without getting caught. I am more a lab rat than Brain. Poit!]
Then when we tried to negotiate my class ring she reneged on her agreement so I never got a ring. Her logic was that I was just going to keep growing and the ring wouldn't fit after a year anyway. So she didn't waste her money again.
So today, after learning that there was no more value in her measure-ring than there is in any of the semi precious stone rings I have bought on my own... I was able to see things so much more clearly. In accepting my mother's assertions for facts and her facts being as erroneous as her ability to know good yard sale junk from regular yard sale junk (none of what she termed "valuable antiques" have had much value at all) I have held beliefs about myself that are in error as well.
It is just a cheap ring. Her initial feelings connected to it are important as they were from a place of love and esteem. But what the ring symbolizes for me is as cheap a sentiment as the materials that compose the ring. And here is my point. Just because our parents say something doesn't make it true. Just because our friends tell us something does not make it true. I valued my mom as a parents whose love I strove to attain so she had a great deal of influence in my self image. I held a great deal of stock in the Liar's opinions because she had been my best friend for a long time; and on the surface, she seemed to contradict mom's obvious manipulations. As persons of value and trust they were able to do much damage. So, my Friends, I say that we have to question.
In having the truth from the jeweler about the Ring's real value I have the tools to fight what voices of hers remain in my head. Nay, those voices are already gone. I have the concrete proof that we take from the previous generation all of their garbage if we do not question. And, in my case, not just that those are horrible things to say to child of any age. But that the real crime is that I allowed myself to be enslaved for so long. Had I taken this to a jeweler sooner, she could not have affected me for so long. I do of course take it as a good sign that not only have I confronted the pain of the past through contacts among my classmates, but now have this to finally silence my mom. I consider this an auspicious sign inasmuch as I was finally ready to confront issues head on. This gives me some strength to confront other issues, my brother and sister and my own inner critic. There is a small version of me that sounds so much like mom that I have been thinking it was her. It isn't. It's mini me, trying to be the adult her mother exemplifies. it's time to put that little girl in a chair and give her a good talking to.