Memory 24Mar2024

Why is it that we think and/or dream of people who played a relatively small role in our lives? Surely something sparked the memory, but I can rarely tell you what it was. I only know that my mind is a mess of memories now. And when I say "mess" I mean it like my Grandma did, i.e., a mess is a whole lot. Occasionally one of those memories asserts itself above the others, demanding to be remembered.

Today, for absolutely no good reason, I'm thinking about my second grade teacher, Sister Anne de Lourdes. I really liked her, in spite of her occasional temper tantrums in front of the class. Of course when she was good, she was very, very good as they say. Adults are fickle and unpredictable.  

I assume nuns get to pick their nun-names? If so, she chose Anne, the mother of Mary. Apparently there is a church dedicated to Anne within the Marian pilgrimage site of Lourdes. There are other churches and sites dedicated to Saint Anne elsewhere. Why would she choose the one at Lourdes? I've been doing a little research and I think I have the answer, which would be obvious if my mind wasn't so messy. She was a Sister of the Holy Cross, which was based in Notre Dame, Indiana (a suburb of South Bend). The priest who founded Notre Dame was Father Sorin.  “Fr. Sorin also wanted to make Notre Dame a pilgrimage place … honoring our Lady of Lourdes,”  So there you go. A mystery probably solved.

Eventually she left the convent and married a priest. 

Very cool habit, don't you think?
Sisters of the Holy Cross. The headpiece
was a pleated wonder.  

We remember what we lived

I was sitting at the breakfast table one Saturday morning with my mother and my brother, Freddie. I'm not sure of the year, but it would have been between 1965 and 1967. We were concerned because my father had not come home the night before.  We didn't know what to expect.

He busted in as we were eating breakfast, like a force of nature. It took my breath away. He pushed open the door and stumbled in to the kitchen, bruised and bleeding from his nose and ears.  It was quite an entrance.  My Mom took one look at him and said “I guess someone really worked you over good.”  He snarled back, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you!”  As he headed up stairs to sleep it off he ordered, “Go out and check the trunk for a body.”  

I am not kidding, this is exactly what he said.  My Mom and brother went out to check the car trunk.  There was nothing in it.  Dad had been in a barroom brawl the night before, helping the bar owner (a friend and neighbor) get rid of some thugs who were menacing the bar.  Dad suffered a concussion and had passed out in his parked car afterwards. He could not remember the outcome of the fight, but it must have been a doozy. 

No, he didn't go to the doctor.   

Life is so strange, sometimes it's best to laugh.

Keeping warm in the 1950s

In 1949, my parents moved out of my paternal grandparent’s house in South Bend, Indiana, where they had lived since my father returned from WWII. They moved to a post-World War II housing development for young veteran’s families on what were then the outskirts of the city’s west side, between the Studebaker and Bendix industrial complexes. South Bend was an industrial town back then, a company town, and these were two of the biggest employers. Our house was a small, 2 bedroom, wood-frame house with a breezeway connecting the house and the one car garage. As more children arrived, my parents eventually turned the breezeway into a third bedroom. 

We had a coal burning furnace throughout the 1950s. I'm relying on my memory here, which is always a crap shoot, but I remember it as large and imposing. In my mind's eye it is taller than my father. The furnace lived in the middle of the basement, and I could see the red hot coals when my parents fed it. We had cast iron pokers and shovels, and scoops my parents used to replenish the coal. 

There was a small room in the basement that we called the coal bin. Up at ground level there was an opening big enough for a coal chute door that was opened from the outside for the "coal man" to deliver the coal from a truck once a year. When that happened, it was loud, dirty, and disruptive of normal routine. Of course that was very exciting for young children! 

A world away now. Funny the things that come to mind as we age. 

 

A formative trip, 1961

My parents took the following pictures in 1961. The family was on the road, moving from South Bend, Indiana to Seattle, Washington where my father had taken a job as a tool and die maker at Boeing. The trip was 2,225 miles by station wagon. What an adventure it was for my parents and the five children jammed into that car! We stopped along the way at Yellowstone National Park, a memorable event.

I'm not sure where this was taken, but it might have been Wyoming.  

When we stayed at Yellowstone, the bears were pretty bold about eating from the cabin garbage cans.

On the road, we often stopped to take pictures of wildlife, like these Elk Moose calves drinking from a creek.  

And this one below showing a road that had been tunneled through a mountain.  

I was 10 years old when this trip was taken, but it remains vivid in my mind. In some ways that trip formed me. Coming from the corn belt, the flatlands, this was my introduction to the magnificence and natural beauty of the United States.  

This was the first time I saw my parents take pictures of landscapes and animals, and they were so excited about everything we saw. That made a strong impression on me. My childhood was transformed by this trip and this move. Although we ended up moving back to Northern Indiana only 3 years later, some changes were permanent.

Trees and Memory

Certain of my mother's grandparents came from Germany. Mom grew up in a home where German was still spoken. In later years, when Mom was especially frustrated, she would let loose with a heartfelt "Mein Gott im Himmel." Hearing my mother speak German gave me pause. It didn't happen often because she only remembered a few phrases her father used.  Now I only remember this one. 

Oh wait, she also said "Ach du lieber" or something like that. Again, there were strong emotions involved. Maybe there's more. I should consult my memories. They are all there, somewhere.

I have written before about my mother decorating the tree. Her father put the tree up on Christmas Eve, after the children went to bed. Waking up to a shining tree was the ultimate magic of her Christmas morning. They used real candles, so Grandpa got up early to light them before waking his Katholisch horde.  

That's how it is with me and Christmas. I have my memories and I store my mother's, too. It seems I save some of her father's Christmas memories, as well.  I'm a computer hard drive. A storage unit. Mnemosyne, daughter of Heaven and Earth.  Mother of the Muses.

I would rather be Demeter so I could sleep all winter long.  

https://mythologysource.com/mnemosyne-greek-goddess/

  

Memorial Day 2018: My Uncle Joe

On Memorial Day 2018, I choose to honor my my maternal uncle, Joe. He was initially stationed at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii with the Army Air Corp. On the morning of 7 Dec 1941, he was walking back to the barracks after attending mass when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The heel of his shoe was hit by flying shrapnel, but Joe was not hurt. After Pearl Harbor, he was assigned to Canton Island, a South Pacific coral island, where he helped to operate one the first radar facilities.

Later, he received a transfer to Europe. While traveling from Hawaii to England, the B-17 he was in flew over Griffith, Indiana and “buzzed” his hometown. My mother said they had been expecting it, and everyone knew who it was. Joe, being short (about 5’8”), was a tail gunner flying bombing missions over Germany.

The first week in December, on his 13^th mission, his B-17 was shot down over the Black Forest. The crew parachuted to safety. All survived but the pilot. Joe hid in an abandoned farmhouse for 4 or 5 days. He melted snow to drink, and in one of the houses he found one egg, flour and sugar. His feet froze, and he wrapped them in old rags. He decided to try to make it back to the American line. He was dressed up as an old lady, and some German solders spotted him crossing a river.

I wonder if he stole the clothes? He was a beautiful young man, charming, and he spoke German. Perhaps he talked a kind older woman into giving him the disguise?  We never felt like we could ask him, he didn't like to talk about those days. Regardless, he was captured and imprisoned at a German prisoner of war camp until the end of the war.

War, of course, is Hell.  

Uncle Joe, Uncle Jerry, and Grandma (before he was captured)

Christmas baking

I have been baking for the holidays. You, too?

My father's family has been in the U.S. since 1714, so they are totally Americanized, with nary a trace of ethnicity.  However, they were from Kentucky and Tennessee, so there were regional Christmas treats on that side. My beloved paternal grandmother, for instance, always made divinity candy and peanut butter fudge.

My mother's side was both German and French, and her grandparents arrived in the U.S. about 1860. They moved to a German enclave in Northern Indiana, near Chicago.  My Mom was born in 1926, so she was raised in those traditions. Her mother made fancy Christmas cookies.  Mom also made fruitcake, but I think that was a 1950's housewife thing. Dad made chocolate fudge. We always made rolled cut-out cookies which we then frosted with many garish colors and loaded down with sprinkles. Yum.
I already made my usual fruitcake, which I've wrapped in bourbon soaked cheesecloth this year instead of brandy. 

Fruitcake

and I'm also making Hungarian kieflis. They are insanely thin rolled dough wrapped around walnut/confectioner's sugar/egg white mix.  Then shaped into a crescent.  When done and cool, they are dusted with more confectioner's sugar. Although I am not Hungarian, I grew up in a Hungarian parish, and everyone made them, my mother got her recipe from a neighbor.

Heavenly Kieflis

Next week, I'll make the cut-out butter cookies with my grandkids.  That's always fun.

Okay, make me say it, I'm going to make fudge, too. Even though it will push me right over the damn edge. I hope you are satisfied, Chilly Hollow, your fudge recipe is my downfall once again.  Don't tell me to eat less.  I can't.

For those of you who also celebrate a winter holiday, what are you baking or making? Not just Christmas, I'm interested in any winter holiday. Are they part of your family traditions?

Is it so wrong?

Sheesh, I can't believe we are really going to stage another relentlessly sunny Thanksgiving in flip flops and shorts. 

As the day approaches, I am finally going to admit I miss having Thanksgiving in the frozen north lands where it is weather appropriate for the season. No, I do not want to move back. I am done with white knuckle driving and shoveling snow. I just wish I could occasionally spend Thanksgiving  there, and see my old friends.

This is our 4th Thanksgiving in Florida. The first three years we ate like civilized people in the dining room. The first two we even used our good china. Last year, meh! Bring out the white Corning Ware. It's Florida casual, now. I may NEVER haul out that good china again.

In fact, this year we are having Thanksgiving out by the pool in the lanai. I am looking forward to it. It is the best  time of the year in Florida. However, I miss a cold-weather Thanksgiving in a house with a wood stove and lots of candles. I can't help it. That's what I am used to.

If we are giving thanks at this time of the year, then I am thankful for the life I have lived. It has been jam packed with both joy and sorrow, which is to say it has been quite full. As I get older I notice the quiet moments are often swarming with memories. I have to wonder, is it so wrong to yearn for the past?

Paying homage to my friend JE's Challah.  A powerful Thanksgiving memory.