Family Pictures

      I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future.

Alex Haley

I love looking at family pictures, reading expressions and speculating about what people are thinking. Below is a favorite family picture. Made in about 1948, this family, my family, are survivors of World War II. My brothers have witnessed brutality and deprivation. They look serious. My father, the optimist, looks relieved and confident in a better tomorrow. My mother is posing and looking as she should. I am missing. I would not make an entry into mortality until six years later. By then the boys would all be teenagers and the decision to emigrate is made. 

 These two parents created a large family with four children, fifteen grandchildren, thirty great-grandchildren, and eleven great-great grandchildren. We come together once a year at my brother's home in Utah. There are always people missing due to travel constraints and  scheduling. Before the evening gets away from us someone shouts "family pictures". Reluctantly the children leave the games and the pool. The older members, yikes, that's me, make their way over to the semi-circle. We all give our phones to the lucky photographer and she painstakingly, takes two pictures on five or six phones. 

   The pictures get posted on Facebook and everyone feels grateful. We did it one more year. This year I set up a family history game. I posted their names on a large wall. My cousin walked into the room and asked why only dead people were on the wall. I announced we were giving a prize for the person who could match loved hobbies and talents with the emeritus members. People forgot that Cousin Werner raised chinchillas, Tante Hanni made hats, and Cousin Norbert was a car fanatic. I felt happy that they were part of the celebration. They started us all and without them we would not exist. I believe they are still invested in the happiness and well-being of those on earth. I feel it deeply. I am convinced.

Wake-Up

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

When my Stake President, local church leader, asked me to teach Early Morning Seminary my sleeping until dawn ended. No longer would the natural light push me out of bed in the morning. My husband's alarm would become my wake-up call, as well as his. At first the alarm would shock me and leave me gripping the side of the bed in peril. My best dreams happen at 4:00am and always I would struggle to leave the story in my head and recognize the reality that I had six teenagers waiting for me at church in a very short while. 

As the years passed by my early rising became normal. I learned to navigate my house in the dark, stomach food by 5:00, and drive the dark streets of my town. My seminary teaching ended four years ago and lasted eight years. I am now an early morning person, by nature. My favorite time is 4:00am in May and June. The dawn chorus of birds makes me so, so happy. On weekends I allow myself to sleep longer, but I have this deeply ingrained habit. There is much to gain in an early life. Prayer and meditation is soothing and nurturing at that time of day. The dark draws me in and the silence invites me to listen more attentively. I have come far enough that the alarm doesn't need to be set. Conversely, an early bedtime is mandatory.

Mindful Monday- Drive By

“Love makes you see a place differently, just as you hold differently an object that belongs to someone you love. If you know one landscape well, you will look at all other landscapes differently. And if you learn to love one place, sometimes you can also learn to love another.” 

― Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

I drive by, now and then. This house was the beginning. It was a time of radical change. We moved from the city to an island. More a lark than determined decision, this island is where I have planted roots.

     Our first house sits on a bluff overlooking the water. With widely spaced eyes and a little top hat on the roof, the house has not changed much in all these years. Only two families have lived there since we did. My stay here was short and difficult.  When the tumult and confusion became overwhelming, I came to the swing on the back porch. The beauty saved me. As I invite the long ago moments to come back to my mind, I surrender to the truth that I have a home here on this rock. I never thought we would stay but here we are almost thirty years later.

Coming soon! 31 Days of Writing in October

Stories of Island Living

Five Siblings

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them."

- Desmond Tutu

 The number five always brings me to the children I birthed and labored with through their lives. I continue to labor alongside them as they find their place in this life and as they raise new little siblings to populate their own homes.
    I can't help but see them as little boys and girls. Even though only a fourth of their existence was spent in childhood they are imprinted on my soul as little ones. I was barely out of the "little ones" category when I started the journey as mother. These human beings made me grow up, over and over again.

    I remember how they all slept together in one bed even though we had bedrooms a plenty. They mothered each other and fought against each other more than I liked. I failed to understand that my love alone could not make them love each other more. Nothing makes me happier than when they orchestrate time together, even though I get miffed that it doesn't always include me.
   I always think I know them but then they reveal events that happened under my nose. I am appalled! Who was watching these children? Truth be told, they are not entirely mine. They were gifted to me by their Father and Mother who have the amazing capacity to see their whole potential, their whole being in the present, and who remember them in the past as beloved heavenly children.
  I am grateful. When they bestow their love on me I am moved to love them even more.

  

      Join me in October for 31 Days of Writing-

 Stories of Island Living

  Almost 30 years ago we decided to move to an island. Technically England is an island but our island is very small by comparison. 

 I have been writing with the Five Minute Friday Group for two years and I really enjoy the talented writers who share their work. Would you like to join? 






I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Eight Minute Memoir- Learning New Things

Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn't really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while. That's because they were able to connect experiences they've had and synthesize new things. 

Steve Jobs

Many say that you learn faster when you are young. I think, the young have less ability to connect experiences of learning new things. I learned to play the piano when I was a child. For more than a decade I practiced the skill of trying new things. Ingrained into my very soul is this creative process:

• This is awesome
• This is tricky
• This is hard
• I can't do this
• This might be okay
• This is awesome 

    When my daughter-in-law gave my son and I a pie making class for a gift I thought "this is awesome". Then when I was rolling out my dough I made the mistake of looking around. NEVER LOOK AROUND AT OTHERS WORK! It catapulted me into the "I can't do this phase." I might have stayed there but I know how the process works. I can synthesize this hard new skill into my past experiences. The pie tasted awesome but truthfully it looked "blah".

    If I can live through the "this is hard, I can't do this stage" learning new things is good. One would think that as we got older we would have fewer new things to learn but alas, it is not true. My aging body forces me to learn new maintenance skills everyday. 

    The name of my blog reinforces the truth that starting back on the floor again is a never ending cycle. A balance act of reviewing old skills and trying new makes life fresh every morning. 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Eight Minute Memoir- Camping

“How is it that one match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box of matches to start a campfire?” – Christy Whitehead

Our family has only one camping experience. It was in the early eighties when we owned a business called Commodity Computer Services. My husband went out early in the computer world to bring computer information to farmers in the Midwest. To aid his traveling side show, I called it, he purchased a red truck which had floor to ceiling carpet. He was to outfit it like a an office for clients to climb aboard and get the spiel. Before it got fancy my husband suggested we go camping behind Mt. Timpanogus with the kids in the empty, carpeted van. 

Camping with children wasn't our thing. My only experience was church girls camp. As a child from an immigrant family, who survived being refugees after WWII, we did not find camping in a tent appealing. My husband and I went because those four munchkins, above, thought it would be fun. To be honest, I can't remember much except being awake all night while we rolled around the truck. Oh, and I remember trying to keep my children from falling in the fire. 

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

       

Eight Minute Memoir- Hair

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record  memoir moments. If you don't write your story, who will?

Ninth grade graduation was the first time to go to the beauty salon. My mom always cut her own hair and so I made the appointment by myself. I wanted an up do with cascading ringlets down the back. As I left the salon I looked strange in jeans and the poofy hair. It made me look mature, like a woman, not a fifteen year old. 

               Hair was problematic for me in the later 60's. We all wanted hair like Cher, of Sonny and Cher, long, straight and no curl. My long hair had wave so I slept on horrible curlers to get the right look. Juice cans were just the right width. Pop the lid out of the end and wash them, of course, and instant curlers. However, there was a price to pay. No comfort allowed in the pursuit of fashion,
               The dress was an original Marta, my mother, and she used the prettiest lace on the sleeves. What would I say to this sweet fifteen year old. Don't listen to the social rules concerning your body. You are just right the way you are. And please, comfort is paramount in the years ahead.

Eight Minute Memoir- Decisions

Do We Stay In The Suburbs Or Move To An Island?

  It was 1987 and the company we worked for sold out to a bigger entity. Our job was not needed so we were without work. The lease on our house was up. We had nowhere to live. After a few months of living with kind friends we had to make a decision. Would we stay in the suburbs or do something adventuresome, like move to an island? The positives were we had friends who already lived on one, yes there were a few to choose from, and they coaxed us to try it out. The rent was cheaper on this rural island. The schools seemed good; there was one elementary, one middle school and one high school. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

   The negatives were, it was ferry access only. Ferry fare was expensive for a family of seven. Ferry schedules determined when you could leave and when you could come home. Island living had less choices, two small stores, one small theater, everything closed down at 9:00 o'clock, and no Target. 
   We made a choice to try surround water effect. It was only a trial. I anticipated moving back to the mainland at some point. Jump ahead to now and it is almost thirty years later. This island has had a profound effect on my life. In fact I will be doing a 31 Days of Writing project in October to record "Stories of Island Living"

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Missing

Some things go missing out of neglect while others are missing because of great need.

    When Mark asked me to marry him he reached into his pocket and produced a jewelry case too big to be a ring. As I opened the lid I saw a delicate gold chain with a British Sovereign set in a gold ring. I admit I was just a tad bit disappointed. But I was marrying a non-conventional man. He explained that this coin was purchased years before and it was intended for the woman he would marry. I told my parents that I received a "ring around the collar."

   On our wedding day when the officiator asked him if he had a ring he produced a beautiful star sapphire surrounded with 12 small diamonds. I loved that ring, but somehow, somewhere, it disappeared in the first few years of our marriage. I remembered it was on the kitchen window sill while I did the dishes. I was bereft. I searched even asking Mark to take apart the kitchen drain.

   I still had the "ring around the collar". That phrase came from a laundry stain remover which claimed to remove those unsightly rings on the collar of shirts. Our business failed in the early nineteen eighties. We had no income for many months. My gold coin necklace paid the rent. My missing symbols of commitment are gone but my marriage is intact. There have been new rings and a new necklace. Things that go missing remind us to seek with the expectation of finding. What we find can be of more value than what we lost.

"Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it?
                                                                Luke 15:8

Eight Minute Memoir- Age Eight

                                Do you remember rick-rack?

    All women sewed. At least the women that lived around me. I can still feel the corduroy fabric of my dress and the contrasting rick-rack decoration. My doll often had a similar outfits. Wearing an apron was vital as washing in the the wringer washer was hard work. What I wore on Monday was Tuesday's outfit and if I was careful Wednesday's as well. The aprons were not plain but had piping around the waist and pockets. I was well dressed but not from the store which still seemed acceptable when I was eight. My mother fixed my hair and we had a plethora of bows, barrettes, and headbands. 

    I was a bit spoiled, being the only girl. But I had fears. I was terrified that one day I would be abandoned, left at the grocery store or forgotten at church. No real experience informed my fears yet their grip kept me always planning how to manage on my own. I longed for a sister to share my inner world. For a while I had my niece close by who became my playmate. She was patient with my bossiness.

    My grandmother died a few years later but when I was eight she often stayed overnight with us. I had to give her my room when she stayed and I slept on the couch. The living room faced an apartment house and I did not like looking in other people's windows. When I complained once about my grandmother taking my room she overheard. The next day she gave me five dollars to rent my room. I felt ashamed and sorry for my ungenerous spirit.
   By the time I was eight I could speak German and English. I was reading English and my mother was tutoring me in reading German. The vowel sounds confused me the most. While English had A, E, I, O, U, the German sounds were AH, Eea, Eee, O, Oooh. My little brain would switch the sounds depending on where I was reading. The second grade teacher asked my mother to stop teaching me German reading but she refused. It turned out fine in the end. There would always be a dicotomy between my German home life and the American world outside. But that remains for another story.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Birthdays

    Can you celebrate birthdays even after death?

    I have been thinking of my mother a great deal. It is one hundred and six years since she was born. A bracelet I inherited from her has been encircling my arm everyday. From the warmth of my arm and fingers smoothing over the engraved filigree the bracelet is more and more shiny. When your parents are dead their birthdays still stay etched in time. I like to think that they count the years since they came to earth up in heaven, still. 

   My cousin shared a sweet story about my mother with me this week. She met up with her at the 1953 Spring General Conference in Düsseldorf, Germany. My cousin Ruth showed my mother her brand new daughter, born just weeks before. Ruth was in her early twenties and this was her second child. My mother, her aunt, was forty-three and that day she confided in her niece that she was also pregnant. After twelve years, and three boys, she was going to have another baby in October. That was me. I like to think I was a really terrific surprise. 

  I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Games

                        A Game of Strategy and Skill

     Chinese checkers did not originate in China. It originated from the German game "Stern Halma" in 1892. Stern means star and refers to the layout of the board. My aunt Hanni was a master Halma player. She knew exactly what moves were required to win the game. I played with her often and always lost. Her fingers would pick up the marbles in the most agile way and hover slightly over the hole making me wonder if she was rethinking the move.     Obviously, it was the most fun to play the game with six players but most often my aunt and I played three colors each. In the middle of the game, when all the colors are moving in the middle of the board it is so visually confusing. 

   Later as the players bring their marbles into the opposing triangle the moves are easier to see but by then it is too late to win the game. One must be thinking three or more moves ahead. As a child I thought my aunt was so smart. I channel her spirit when I pull out the game to play with my grandchildren. Right now, I always win but soon I may have serious competition.

      I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt                        to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Small Things

          Small Things Can Connect Us To The Past

     My mother had very few things that came with her from Germany. Coming by ship gave us a limit to the poundage we could take. She did bring her feather beds which I find amusing. Sleeping accessories were different in the United States. We never used a top sheet because our feather beds had a cover. There were down feather beds for winter and damask comforters for summer. 

     I inherited the pictured bracelet. Mother wore it on Sundays along with a spritz of 4711 Cologne. I can't really tell if it was expensive, but is does need polishing now and then. Tiny, thin flowers with vines are etched into the metal and are worn smooth. When I wear the bracelet I feel dressed up. I was an adult before I realized that my mother was a wee bit vain. She was the only sister who got her hair cut short regularly. Actually, she cut it herself, as she removed the bristly rollers from her hair. She would hold the hair just pulled free from the roller and cut it just a tiny bit. I can see her before my eyes. Feeling the little gold thing on my arm makes that happen.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Adventure

                                    July 20, 1969

     While Neil Armstrong was walking on the moon, I was traveling through the Oregon desert on my own adventure. We took a potty break in the middle of the night and looked up at the bright orb of diffused light and thought we saw their footsteps. I was fifteen and traveling with my brother and sister-in-law to their home in Eugene. I was going to see the ocean for the first time.

   My brother enjoyed showing me around but a series of unfortunate events took some of his enthusiasm. I was very eager. While helping them make french toast I tossed a carton of eggs into the trash. Oops, they said put them back into the fridge. 

   Browsing for books one morning at the University Bookstore, I pushed a large, oversized book back onto the shelf, when suddenly the shelf started swaying. I desperately clawed at the falling shelf but to no avail. It hit a ashtray holder on the way down. Kneeling on the floor scooping up sand, I was politely asked to leave. I looked around and noticed my sister-in-law had vanished.

   In the parking lot of the park, where I would see the Pacific Ocean, I broke the car key in the trunk lock. My brother's face indicated that I might have ruined their trip. 
   I talked to a coast guard man at the Heceta Head Lighthouse and promptly fell in love. He was white washing the outside and volunteered to take us up into the prism  I asked my brother if we could get his address from the local coast guard office. He looked dismayed. Hmm......

     Needless to say, when they escorted me to the airport for my flight home, my brother mentioned to the flight attendant that I needed some watchful care. He winked at me and I wondered if I would survive the flight.

I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record some memoir moments.

Eight Minute Memoir- Billboards (and Signs)

   My daughter sent me this picture from Germany and I loved it. There it is. My name on a sign, in the country of my birth. There are four vowels in my name and they are lovely to roll around the tongue if you are familiar with the German vowel sounds. GAH-BREE- A- LEH, harder to say with an American tongue. My German mother loved to say my name. She had no idea that when we emigrated to the US no one would be able to say it the way she did.

   When I was a teenager Roman Gabriel was a famous football player. I used the pronunciation of his last name to identify myself because it was familiar. Along the way GA-BREE-ELLE became popular and I tried using that but it seemed wrong somehow. I say my name sometimes aloud, just to bring my mother back. She did say it with so much romance.

   I am joining Ann Dee Ellis and other writers in using a prompt to record some memoir moments.