Representing this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge, I bring you a German warning sign on the Alps at King Ludwigs Castle, in Bavaria. It basically tells us that trespassing is forbidden and that there is danger; the equivalent to “stay out”, “wrong way”!
This post could be the one that pushes me into either crazy territory or a relatable one. I’m supposed to be truthful and share who I am in this blog, so I’ll get on with it.
Do you believe in past lives? Whether your religion abides by this belief or not, it might have crossed your mind.
I wasn’t raised to believe that we were reborn but there is something in me that leads me to believe that maybe I’ve been here on earth before. I don’t know who I was or where I was born. I don’t even know when I was here or how many times. I know that there are things I’ve been drawn to since I was a child, and these feelings drew me despite the fact that my family never led me there.
I grew up Irish/German Catholic, in America and in the 80’s. I have had a subconscious fear of someone stealing my shoes since I was a child and I’ve been drawn to 30’s and 40’s music even before my peers went through a rap and bad pop phase. I have however, since the time I began school, had a fascination with the Holocaust. I’m not going to sit here and say this means anything, nor will I claim any actual connection to this time, but it’s a very odd feeling. I longed for Continue reading
This is my hand holding my Great-Grandmom’s hand.
By the time I was born, she was already 71. She had already lived a full life and had been retired. She’d be a widow a year later and I only knew her to be one. She would take me to bingo and we would play board games. She’d teach me things about cooking and tried to teach me to crochet. She was one of my favorite people and her hands always fascinated me, even the way she twiddled her thumbs.
Her hands had what she called “liver spots”, though most of us know them as age spots. She had been an avid gardener all of her adult life, so it was likely sun inspired damage. After she ate, I remember how she’d sweep her fingers over the table to gather any crumbs. Her fingers were strong and crooked and her fingernail and tips were oval. I just remember always thinking how unique they were. They weren’t thin and ladylike, though her movements were not harsh; they were the result of lifelong hard work.
I took this picture one morning when I sat alone with her before she passed. She was unable to speak, but she knew I was there as she squeezed my hand in response to my words. I knew I’d never forget her hands, but still I was afraid that I might. I haven’t forgotten, though it’s only been two and half years, but I like to know that I have a picture of one to remind me.
She would’ve been 100 this week. Happy birthday Grandmom.
There is a picture that has moved from basement to garage and back again, and from rowhome to rowhome in Philadelphia. It is a picture of a family, joined together in the family bakery in the late 1910’s. I first saw this picture as a child and it was thought to be lost for the years since. I’ve managed to scan it and take in the details amongst the water stains and torn paper. My great-great-grandmother is in the picture. It was taken in her sister and brother-in-law, Elizabeth and Michael’s bakery. My great-grandma is there too, as a little girl. More than just a photo, I recently learned it was a Baptism celebration for Elizabeth and Michael’s son, Nicholas.
I never met these bakery owners. But I know they are the reason my great-great-grandparents chose Philadelphia when leaving Europe. They made a home there and found employment doing odd jobs in the bakery.
More than finding dates and places of birth, I spend much of my time doing ancestry research, trying to put together a puzzle in my mind, trying to piece together what this person was like. What kind of struggles did they go through? What did they look like? I was able to recently find a picture of Elizabeth and Michael recently, along with some records and pieces that give me an idea of who they were. They came from Hungary, single, young and poor. Michael was tall with dark hair and “deep blue” eyes. He labelled himself a self-employed baker when he stepped on the shore of New York, at the age of 19. He came from Hungary but spoke German. Had several children, became a Naturalized citizen right off the ship, battled pneumonia in 1918 and had the highest appraised house on his block by the time he was 40. By this time he filled out his draft card for World War II, he was gray, but still slender and still baking. He spent the last sixteen years a widower. He lived to 93, the year before I was born. It makes the connection feel closer in the frame of time but there was a world of difference between our lives. When I look at the picture of he and his wife though, I can’t help but feel like they are characters. I like to think she was sassy. I like to give them a story. In a way, I wouldn’t be here today without them, distant relative or not.
I fell asleep with my computer last night. It was not quite romantic. I did wake up in the middle of the night, however, with a great idea for a topic. Supposedly. I noted it on my phone, but it was so vague; “Grateful for odd things”. Although, I am grateful for odd things, I think most people are. It’s the simple things in life that really make a difference. Although I don’t know what examples I may have had while I slept, I was able to coherently think of some of my own today.
And so, I give you, odd but significant things I am grateful for.
- My husband isn’t a video game addict. Hell, he doesn’t drink or gamble in excess or zone out into any sports on TV (that’s more me). He does watch cartoons, but not if we’re home together, because we have a lot in common and that is not one of them. Its not cartoons that bothers me, because I’ll watch Bugs Bunny or SpongeBob myself, but these cheesy Anime ones. He watches them in fast forward too, which leads me to believe that are just as enjoyable as I think they are. Regardless, I am grateful that he is unlike the many men I know our age who ignore the world around them, as they lose all reality to the outside world with controller in hand. So, thank you honey.
- My Aunt recently brought to my attention that I should be happy for my chubby cheeks. “Look at Sally Field.”, she says, “She’s got fat and cologen in her face because of her cheeks and she’ll never look hallowed out.” Of course, she continued with things what sounded like back-handed compliments, but I realized she was right. Not only will my cheeks be beneficial as I age, they give my friends great humor. My cheeks were (ok, are) big enough that when I smile, they push up my eyes quite a bit. Although I’m of Irish/German descent, they often claim I’m in fact Asian. This doesn’t bother me because it is not offensive, but simply odd. Regardless, I’m grateful to you, chubby cheeks.
- I’ve always been on the thin or appropriate weight for my height. I also have a stomach that is very picky. I hate that. But, it is the reason that I don’t eat unhealthy or unnatural things. Thus, I keep my figure. I think it’s a good idea to turn every annoying negative into a positive. It also saves us money because we don’t buy take-out very often, so well done finicky stomach!
- I’m just shy of 5’9, but I have small feet. Sometimes I am as small as a 7 shoe, but mainly 7 ½. I feel gangly as it is; have long legs, long arms and a long torso, so this makes me feel that I’m petite in some way. And I’m grateful for that. Although, I do believe it aids in my klutziness. We are convinced that my feet are not big enough to keep me sturdy, which is why I topple. This is not medically or scientifically based, but it seems good enough of a reason to me.
I am grateful for so many “real” things, and some of these are really just silly. But I imagine one day, if these all didn’t collide (cue time travel music); I could look like a skeleton droopy face with big feet, obese and married to a World of Warcraft addict. Ah, but now everything will be perfect.
This is probably my most bizarre post. Bear with me, it’s been a long week.
I visited an old friend last weekend and she was asking what my husband and I were up to, and if we had any future plans. I told her that depending on what happens with my career, we wouldn’t be opposed to moving to Europe or some authentically historic American town, but we’ll see what happens. She said how she could never do that, just pick up and leave, but it’s something that we have grown accustom to and maybe it’s slightly hereditary.
I’m an avid ancestry enthusiast. Every key member to my family tree, at least going back a few generations, had the same defining quality; the ability to be fearless and never look back. This to me is a quality because I admire their courage and ambition, to pick up from their place of birth and independently find a new home in a new state, country, continent, etc. And they did it alone. They all did.
This is a blessing and a curse because combined; these adventurous ancestors gave me life. Had they not, I don’t want to say “ran away”, but rather “looked for better opportunities”, I wouldn’t exist. It’s a curse because, as a researcher, it’s very difficult to track them. I run into possible distant connections and it appears my ancestor was always the black sheep who left and never wrote home. There never seems to be hostility or a tragic story that I’m aware of based on family stories, they were just ok being independent.
That being said, I began frequently re-establishing myself early and being the “new kid” by changing schools throughout my youth. Not by my choice, but my parents, due to transportation, tuition, educational factors and eventually a move just before high school. I settled in well for the most part at each place and sought my own adventure to California after graduation. I never truly felt like I fit in anywhere. Though I did find myself back in New Jersey a few years ago, close to family and old friends, I really don’t feel that I have a home. The town I grew up in until I was 13 would probably be the closest thing to a “home” feeling but most of the people who lived there are gone or have passed away. If you remember, I was friendly with the elderly people. Sure I had friends that were my age, but they’ve since grown and moved too.
Today we live in a town close by, which feels like a neighborhood that people grew up in, finished school, started to grow their own family and then moved back in. There is a sense of community, but not for me. I am friendly with people here, but my roots weren’t here. I think it is why I find the idea of moving anywhere that feels comfortable, so appealing, because I don’t need to stay anywhere out of obligation. No one else in my family has.
My husband and I are the same way. Having grown up in Iowa, and then joined the military, it caused his zip code to change more than a few times. We come from heritages that we didn’t technically belong to. My family has strong Irish and German tradition, but I don’t necessarily belong there. My family for generations lived in Philadelphia and I was even born there, but then became the first to be raised in the suburbs of New Jersey. Although it’s only minutes away, I didn’t grow up in a row home with a corner candy store or play baseball on the asphalt, so I can’t claim that as home either. I grew up in a house where people had their own space and minded their business. They were people looking to remove themselves from city culture; maybe culture altogether. I don’t want to come off as ungrateful, I’ve had a fortune life with loving parents, but the circumstances have just left me feeling a little lost as an adult.
We aren’t tied to anywhere and maybe we’re not quite sure where home is yet. I suppose we’ll have to find it together and make it that way ourselves. We can be the “new kids” together.