A Photograph of Emotions

I was surprised to receive this photo in the mail the other day from a distant relative. My dad’s cousin, Marilyn, pictured three from the right in the front row sent it to me with a lovely note about recently receiving two copies of the photograph and thought I would like one. She mentioned that she wasn’t sure of the year, which led me, the youngest in the photo, to quickly try to figure out. 

My train of thought went something like this….my parents were still married, so it had to be before 1985, my brother looks the same as a photo I have seen many times over the years of him after an accident that happened in the early part of summer 1984, but his leg cast is off, my hairstyle matches that of my 4th grade school photo, taken later in 1984. Must be 1984! 

The train then switches tracks….wow, that would make me just a year older than my daughter is now and my son just a year older than my brother was. 

Next track….oh my G-d we are ALL in the same photograph! ALL meaning my mom, dad, brother, sister and I. This may very well be the only photo I have of us all; my mom was always the one taking photos and my dad was never quite fond of being in photos. 

The train, remaining on the same track veers…oh my G-d we are ALL smiling! Of course my parents aren’t next to each other, but we are ALL smiling! 

After analyzing this photo deeper it occurs to me that this one photo, possibly the only photo of the five of us shows my family just as it was/is. My sister, the firstborn, has her arm around my mom, touching her, laughing, showing how close the two of them have always been, friends. My brother, in the middle, just as in birth, is a balance between our parents, trying not to rock the boat. Then there’s me, the baby of the family, sitting on my dad’s lap, smiling, happy to be with him, happy he is there. 

Not only is a picture worth a thousand words, but many emotions as well. What a gift to have arrived in my mailbox, many miles and years away.

It’s the People not the Places

A few weeks ago I traveled from Wisconsin to Washington D.C. to meet my aunt from Florida destined for the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM). Together we were on a mission to fill in details of our family’s history. About a year ago I mentioned a desire to one day go to the USHMM, she suggested we go together, and from that point forward she pushed me to find a week that would work best for me to be away from my family, which I do very rarely.

So, on our last night there as we were walking it took me by surprise when she said something to the effect of, “Thanks for making this trip.” I, in turn, took no credit and thanked her for making me find a date on the calendar and then buy a plane ticket. Her response took me by such surprise I’ve been processing it every since. “That’s not what I mean. You talk to people. I don’t talk to people.”

It was then that I realized she was talking about the homeless (I assume) man who was quietly panhandling outside of a Smithsonian museum who I offered an afternoon snack of a small bag of fig newtons to; it was the Indian woman (I asked if she preferred Native American or Indian) we shared the newly open doll exhibit with at the Museum of American Indian Art with; the security guards/police in front of the Capitol I asked what the sculpture on top of the building was, knowing that it wasn’t really Mary Poppins as I had joked; the restaurant employees at the “politically posh” hotel on Capitol Hill we stayed at to find out what they did with the glutton’s amount of leftovers from the breakfast buffet that there were bound to be, they are brought down to the employee cafeteria. That’s what she was talking about, among others.

So, if you ask me about my trip to D.C. don’t expect me to tell you about the monuments and memorials I saw and visited, because I’m going to tell you about all the interesting people I met and shared moments with while I was there. Want to know the best part of my 5-mile run around The Mall? The woman I met at the Lincoln Memorial; well, that and the warm weather and sharing my run surrounded by so many other runners just two days after the Boston Marathon.

I talk to people wherever I go. Strangers we pass are people we are sharing moments in our lives with whether we like it or not.

When I stop and think about why I take the time to share a conversation with people who others may not I can only come up with two explanations. 1) I am my father’s daughter and 2) It’s just who I am. Over the weeks I have spent time thinking about this and all I keep coming back to is that some of the most memorable moments for me are short conversations I’ve shared with strangers who happen to be in the same place at the same time as me. I have learned great things from people whose names I do not know.

Looking back at high school and college I can confidently say I had a hundred or more acquaintances, but only had a small group of close friends. Strange considering that I can remember being the shy kid hiding behind her mother’s leg on the first day of preschool. I never went to camp until I was 12 because I was too shy and worried about making friends, and even then it was only day camp.

Just a few hours after having the conversation that started this all we learned the history of the Old Post Office from the security guard working at the x-ray machine, who happened to be a retired military man, after I gave him a sample from Ben & Jerry’s. Following that encounter we talked so comfortably with a family from the Boston area while waiting for our tour bus that the tour guide didn’t split us between two busses because he thought we were all traveling together.

It’s a small world and I most enjoy discovering this by making the connections through talking to people. Besides, after all the scary things that have happened in our country since September 11^th wouldn’t you like to know about the person sitting next to you on the plane or standing in line waiting for the big event to happen? 

The Power of Personal Accounts of History

I think it was when I began working in the domestic violence field that I learned and experienced the impact of hearing a survivor share his/her story firsthand.

I’ve had the honor on a few occasions to hear Holocaust survivors speak. I wish I had kept track of whom I’ve heard but unfortunately, if they did not have a book to sell, I didn’t write their name down anywhere permanent and for this I regret. Pieces of their stories remain with me and I wish I had their name alongside.

I’ve heard Gerda Weismann Klein, Peter Feigl and others speak and today I had the honor to hear Sam Harris speak. After hearing a Holocaust survivor speak I always rush to the line of where they are signing books, shaking hands and meeting the audience. Some people’s first instinct is to show their camera and ask for a photo. Others thank them for sharing their story. I always say the same words; often in between tears that I have yet to learn how to stop from coming. “Thank you for speaking for those who are unable to speak for themselves.” I then go on to tell them that they are speaking for my family; my grandmother’s brother and sister and her children.

Each time my body shakes, I take slow, deep breaths and I feel the power of meeting someone that makes me feel closer to the relatives I never met because of Hitler. I feel even closer to them than I did when my grandmother was alive. I never heard my grandmother speak of her siblings who were left behind in Poland when she emigrated in 1928 at the age of 11. I think her pain was too much to speak about her only sister, with whom I do know she was close with.

If the survivor is from Poland I feel an extra connection, as if have met my Polish relatives. There is no way to know if Sam Harris’ parents knew my great aunt and great uncle or their children I don’t have names for. But as Sam Harris, age 77, hugged me I was overcome with the emotion of hugging a long lost relative. It’s as if the spirits of 6 million Jews are surrounding the survivors who speak on their behalf.

And in the end I always feel hope. Hope that miracles do take place in the middle of unthinkable atrocities. After all, none of the survivors I’ve heard speak have attributed their survival to anything but a miracle or two.

Running and What it Means to Me

Two weeks ago I participated in the Sandy Hook Run for the Families virtually. I sent in my donation, agreed to run 3.1 miles and should receive a t-shirt soon. Previous posts go into further detail so I will spare you here, and will provide more details on how amazing the run turned out in another post.

Prior to the run a local radio deejay got word on what I was doing and asked to interview me on the radio. I knew I was not interested in doing that, but had to dig inside myself to put into words why not and here is part of my reply to him:

For me this is just me going out for my weekend run and asking friends (and friends of friends I suppose) to join me. Every runner runs for a purpose. Some runs are to reach goals, some are to prove to ourselves that we can, indeed, go farther, or tackle a new challenge. This run just happens to be for the families in Sandy Hook. This wonderful country of ours gets smaller with tragedy and so on March 23, I, and others, will simply be going out for a run that is purposely for the children whose lives were lost too soon, many of them the same age as our own children.

And it’s true, every day I run for a reason.

I’ve been doing a lot of genealogy research lately, with a focus this past year being on my grandmother’s sister, husband, children and my grandmother’s brother who were living in Poland at the time of the Holocaust who undoubtedly were killed as a result of Hitler’s prejudice. Just recently I have found new answers. In a little more than a week I will be leaving for what I am continually referring to as a once in a lifetime trip to DC to meet up with my aunt. I am hoping for laughter, a bit of sightseeing, but the purpose of the trip is to spend two days (at least) at the United States Holocaust Museum. I’ve wanted to go for many years, and always envisioned it to be a solo trip as part of a family vacation. Planning the trip with my mom’s sister and hopefully finding more answers about our family’s history makes the idea of going alone no longer an option nor desire.

Tomorrow is Holocaust Remembrance Day and “Today I ran for all those who were killed during the Holocaust and dreamed of running away to freedom.”

Running, to me, isn't about being fast, it's just about being able to have the freedom and physical health to run.

Thanksgiving as My Favorite Holiday

The other day, my status on Facebook read, “Just like my mom, Thanksgiving has become my favorite holiday, must be a grown up thing.” Someone responded by posting, “It's my favorite holiday too! ... it's all about when you're old enough to realize that the time with family is the real gift.”

After reading that, I realized Thanksgiving means something different for me. Yes, there’s the obvious, no gifts, just food, thankfulness, and family. Several years ago I made an executive decision for my then newly growing family that we would only travel for Thanksgiving or Christmas. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made for my family. Although I prefer not to travel on the busiest day of the year (the day before Thanksgiving) I welcome family and friends to come eat with us any year.

In my family, Thanksgiving was traditionally “my mom’s holiday”. Although it was almost always spent with her after my parents were divorced it wasn’t rich in tradition, other than the foods. The year after my mom died (the second Thanksgiving without her), I invited my dad, brother, sister and niece to come celebrate with us. To my surprise my dad took me up on the offer, only I didn’t find this out until the morning he arrived. It was an unprecedented Thanksgiving and although it was wonderfully picturesque I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a once in a family experience.

Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday because of the traditions I have created or those that have spontaneously developed with my own, small family of four. Early Thanksgiving morning I put the turkey in the oven and all, or some of us (on the rare occasion we have family visiting) spend a few mere hours delivering meals for our Community Thanksgiving to those who are homebound, and sometimes alone for the holiday. We have been doing this since my kids were young and I absolutely love this part of the day. This year we’ve added a twist. As my daughter’s first year as a girl scout (Daisy) we collected donations as part of her cookie sales (and added a few ourselves) so that we can give each family we deliver a meal to a box of girl scout cookies as well.

After delivering we enjoy our own Thanksgiving meal at home. I’m on the side that Thanksgiving dinner should be served at dinner time but we end up eating between 1:00 – 3:00 regardless. Our centerpiece is a branch we have newly collected and each year we add a paper leaf with our name, the year, and what we are thankful for to hang from our tree of thanks.

For the past several years we have enjoyed a hike up the bluff after eating and last year we went to see The Muppet Movie. There may be another movie this year, but one thing I’m sure of is that between my husband and football-crazed 8 ½ year old there will be football on our TV.

And those are just our traditions for Thanksgiving day, they continue onto the next day as well, and no they do not include shopping.

This year I’m even thinking of serving Snoopy’s Thanksgiving feast of buttered toast and popcorn sometime during the day.

However you are celebrating and whatever your traditions are I wish you a wonderful, relaxing and thankful Thanksgiving holiday. May the servings of bickering, guilt, and regret be small.

Little House on the Prairie

A few years ago; well, maybe only one since I don’t have the kind of brain that remembers that sort of thing, I learned how wonderful audio books (free from the library nonetheless) are for long car trips. Back in June the very weekend school ended we headed on a 3-hour ride to Green Bay with the first Little House audio book in our CD player. The reader is phenomenal at expressing the words that Laura Ingalls wilder so descriptively put on paper. There is also a fiddler player to bring Pa’s music to our ears.

We were so hooked on the book that we spent the next three months listening to the other eight books in the series. We listened while we drove to swim lessons, baseball/t-ball, tennis, soccer, the pool, a few more longer rides and sometimes even as we sat in our driveway after coming home from a drive, our ears glued to the speakers. It amazed me how much time we spent in the van just driving around town. It was also a relief to not have to find something on the radio to listen to.

Tonight we celebrated finishing the last book about a week ago and checked out the 90-minute Pilot episode/movie of the television show Little House on the Prairie. I’d almost forgotten how adorable Melissa Gilbert was, I blame Dancing With the Stars for that.

Next weekend we will conclude our Little House summer by driving an hour and a half north to the town where Laura Ingalls Wilder was born; Pepin, WI and the site of her first book Little House in the Big Woods. The first weekend after Labor Day every year the town holds “Laura Days”. The festival lasts Saturday and Sunday, but we will only be able to go on Sunday. Maybe another year I will run in the 10K race on Saturday morning and earn a shirt with my daughter’s name on it, but if we are to go any year this is the year.

If we were to finish these books with enough time to drive to De Smet, SD; about 7 hours away, before school starts on Tuesday I think I’d be at the library looking for audio books to listen to on the drive west. We’ll leave that for another summer; hoping my kids will still be as captivated by her life as I am.

www.lauradays.org

Who is Family?

Who is Family?

This entry includes my thoughts about what makes up a family that have jumbled and bounced around in my brain for years. I am writing with honesty and have no intentions to offend anyone. I’m not sure if when you are done reading this you will be confused, be able to relate to me, or just shake your head. Whatever you are feeling I thank you for reading this with an open mind and for not judging me based on the ramblings of this entry.

What makes someone a part of your family? Is it limited to those who you are blood related to? I think not. After all, those who are adopted or who adopt would strongly disagree. But adoptive families aside. If families are made up people whom you share memories with and love you for who you are, those who love you unconditionally, those who best understand you I would have to strongly disagree.

For me, I am fortunate to have some relatives who I would choose to be my family, those who I would choose to be friends with even if we didn’t meet through birth. There are also others who live their life and think so differently than me I am convinced that if we didn’t share DNA our paths would never cross.

Then there are loved ones we meet through marriage whose senses of humors, political views, and upbringings are so different than our own we wonder how their children grew up to be the perfect partner for us and parent to our children.

I have friends who have been promoted to the “better than family” status because we care about each other and love each other’s children as if they were “family”, but without the obligation, therefore choosing to be there for each other when we need help and support.

I have friends who are sisters and brothers, uncles and grandparents to my children. And I have known them no more than twelve of my thirty-six and a half years at best.

There are friends I can talk to about anything, who will listen with their heart and I have family who I can’t carry on a meaningful conversation with.

I have family whose kids I’ve never met or them mine. I have friends whose kids I only get to see once a year, but know they will be a part of my life because their moms are my “sisters”.

I have friends who send my children gifts and family who don’t even call on their birthdays.

I have family who keep secrets from each other and friends who I share nearly everything with.

I have family who are terrible listeners and friends who listen sincerely.

I have friends who I wish I could buy plane tickets for to come visit me, and family who I haven’t visited in years and have no plans to see.

I have family I choose to live several states away from and friends who I wish on a daily basis lived closer.

I have friends who I don’t talk with for months or over a year, but pick up right where we left off when we do speak or see each other. And family who I speak to regularly but have nothing to talk about.

I have family who I find no humor in and friends who I am guaranteed to laugh until I cry with during each and every visit, whether it’s weekly or yearly.

I have family who will never read this blog because it does not interest them, or they “don’t read” or maybe because they’re not interested in me and I have friends who “subscribe” to it.

I have a cousin who is more like a sister and a sister who is more like a distant cousin.

I am thankful for the people who are actively in my life and know that those who are not, my friends would say are missing out.

Most importantly, I own the fact that I choose between who is a part of my life and who is apart from my life. I am in awe of myself and the strength I have developed to make this decision, basing on my personal happiness, and my well-being, both emotionally and physically. I also know that in a relationship it takes both people to want to include each other. Surrounding myself with sincerely positive and respectful people who have similar lifestyles adds such peace to my life, I recommend it to everyone!

It is sometimes difficult to write with pure honesty not knowing exactly all who read my blog, but these thoughts have been screaming to get out of my head.