Edna’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Home of the Blues
Edna lived on Beale Street in Memphis, Tennessee, a street known for its bluesy rhythm. Memphis was a much smaller, more intimate place back then. She was one of five children, three girls and two boys. Her warmest memories are of growing up on Beale Street, especially at Christmas time.
She tells of Christmas as warm as a day in May, when she and all her siblings and cousins would laugh and play until Mama called them in for a huge dinner. The street was alive with families, music and joy. Her mama was an excellent cook and all of the aunts brought their specialty dishes as well. The long table was heaped with the dishes of the South, fried chicken and collard greens, candied yams and Hoppin’ John and other mouth-watering delights.
After returning from his arduous service in World War II, her father was disillusioned with the Jim Crow South. He was not happy with that status quo after risking his life for his country, and he moved his family north to a farm in Lockport, Illinois.
The city family became a country family. The adjustment was not easy. Rural Lockport was farm country with few amenities. There was no running water or electricity for a time on their farm and they all learned how to do chores quite foreign to their Memphis upbringing. And the winter weather—Oh my!
Breaking those close family ties made the move painful. Life in Illinois was a challenge. The memories of her years in Memphis, the Blues capitol, are some of Edna’s warmest moments.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Judith’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Meeting the Challenges
Judith is a small woman who looks as fragile as a china teacup. She has snow-white hair and walks slowly and deliberately, but without a cane. She lives in a senior building in Chicago and attends most of the exercise classes provided there, preferring those conducted in the swimming pool. Her voice is soft, forcing those who listen to lean in to hear her, but her story is compelling. She has a strong German accent, though she has been in the United States for many years.
Judith was a 16-year-old high school, living in Munich, when the Nazis took power. Her family is Jewish. Changes that rocked their world started to take place almost immediately. Judith was summarily dismissed from her high school. Her father, a physician, lost most, and later all, of his non-Jewish patients. Life had become inconvenient, but the family was not yet alarmed.
As the next few years passed, the doctor became convinced that he must get his family out of Germany. He made arrangements for a distant cousin in Chicago to sponsor Judith and she came to America by ship in 1938. She thinks the ship was the “Aquatania,” but that memory has faded.
Judith arrived in Chicago at age 18, alone and speaking no English. She had always enjoyed a comfortable, middle class lifestyle. Her cousins, whom she had never met, took her into their home and put her to work as a domestic servant, cooking, cleaning and taking care of their children. Judith was trying to save money to send home to her mother, so that she could leave the country also. The cousins kept most of Judith’s wages for “room and board” and she still managed to save a little each week. She got her mother out of Germany just one day before war was declared and the country was sealed off. Her father was arrested and they never found out what happened to him. She remembers him as a kind and generous man.
Judith and her mother set up housekeeping in a small rooming house. She joined the Army cadet nursing corps for the remainder of the war, received nurses training and served her new country here in America, nursing injured U.S. military men.
She met her husband, had two children and worked as a registered nurse throughout her married life. She speaks fondly of her beloved husband, her former neighbors, her two sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren and her days on the south side of Chicago where her favorite spot was always the neighborhood swimming pool.
This miniscule, white-haired hero with the bright blue eyes has quite a story to tell.
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Meeting the Challenges
Judith is a small woman who looks as fragile as a china teacup. She has snow-white hair and walks slowly and deliberately, but without a cane. She lives in a senior building in Chicago and attends most of the exercise classes provided there, preferring those conducted in the swimming pool. Her voice is soft, forcing those who listen to lean in to hear her, but her story is compelling. She has a strong German accent, though she has been in the United States for many years.
Judith was a 16-year-old high school, living in Munich, when the Nazis took power. Her family is Jewish. Changes that rocked their world started to take place almost immediately. Judith was summarily dismissed from her high school. Her father, a physician, lost most, and later all, of his non-Jewish patients. Life had become inconvenient, but the family was not yet alarmed.
As the next few years passed, the doctor became convinced that he must get his family out of Germany. He made arrangements for a distant cousin in Chicago to sponsor Judith and she came to America by ship in 1938. She thinks the ship was the “Aquatania,” but that memory has faded.
Judith arrived in Chicago at age 18, alone and speaking no English. She had always enjoyed a comfortable, middle class lifestyle. Her cousins, whom she had never met, took her into their home and put her to work as a domestic servant, cooking, cleaning and taking care of their children. Judith was trying to save money to send home to her mother, so that she could leave the country also. The cousins kept most of Judith’s wages for “room and board” and she still managed to save a little each week. She got her mother out of Germany just one day before war was declared and the country was sealed off. Her father was arrested and they never found out what happened to him. She remembers him as a kind and generous man.
Judith and her mother set up housekeeping in a small rooming house. She joined the Army cadet nursing corps for the remainder of the war, received nurses training and served her new country here in America, nursing injured U.S. military men.
She met her husband, had two children and worked as a registered nurse throughout her married life. She speaks fondly of her beloved husband, her former neighbors, her two sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren and her days on the south side of Chicago where her favorite spot was always the neighborhood swimming pool.
This miniscule, white-haired hero with the bright blue eyes has quite a story to tell.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Merilee’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Merilee journeyed with a group of volunteers to build a school in Uganda in Africa. The sponsors were part of a not-for-profit organization focusing on filling the needs of fellow citizens of the world in some of our planet’s poorest regions.
Merilee, at 23, was anxious to serve her fellow human beings by becoming a “human doing,” that is, someone who hears and responds to a call to action. She is a gutsy young woman willing to sacrifice a month of her time to live in less than optimal conditions in a land suffering the effects years of drought and war. She did not really know what to expect.
When her group of 17 volunteers arrived in the Ugandan village by bus, after a long and dusty ride, they were greeted effusively. The people of the village, dressed in bright colors, most of them barefoot, lined the dirt road leading into the conclave of huts. They were singing and chanting and their faces glowed with the most beautiful smiles.
As the group began their work the next day, they labored for hours in the hot African sun. The villagers worked right along side the American volunteers. Donated building materials were assembled and the walls began to grow as the days passed.
At night, the Americans were bused to a town almost two hours away on the bumpy roads to a small, unglamorous hotel with limited hot water and spotty electrical service. They quickly realized, after a few days, what a lucky and pampered society they came from back in the States.
After 23 days, the project was finished and the dedication ceremony took place under a blazing sun. The villagers were dressed in their best. They honored and thanked the volunteer group with singing and dancing and the awarding of a plaque for Merilee and her group to bring home. There was also a plaque installed on the school site with the name of the organization and the date of the building’s completion.
Merilee returned home with her fellow workers and had a deeper understanding of the human condition and what it meant to serve others. She never saw her surroundings in the same way again. Gratitude abounds in Merilee’s life.
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Merilee journeyed with a group of volunteers to build a school in Uganda in Africa. The sponsors were part of a not-for-profit organization focusing on filling the needs of fellow citizens of the world in some of our planet’s poorest regions.
Merilee, at 23, was anxious to serve her fellow human beings by becoming a “human doing,” that is, someone who hears and responds to a call to action. She is a gutsy young woman willing to sacrifice a month of her time to live in less than optimal conditions in a land suffering the effects years of drought and war. She did not really know what to expect.
When her group of 17 volunteers arrived in the Ugandan village by bus, after a long and dusty ride, they were greeted effusively. The people of the village, dressed in bright colors, most of them barefoot, lined the dirt road leading into the conclave of huts. They were singing and chanting and their faces glowed with the most beautiful smiles.
As the group began their work the next day, they labored for hours in the hot African sun. The villagers worked right along side the American volunteers. Donated building materials were assembled and the walls began to grow as the days passed.
At night, the Americans were bused to a town almost two hours away on the bumpy roads to a small, unglamorous hotel with limited hot water and spotty electrical service. They quickly realized, after a few days, what a lucky and pampered society they came from back in the States.
After 23 days, the project was finished and the dedication ceremony took place under a blazing sun. The villagers were dressed in their best. They honored and thanked the volunteer group with singing and dancing and the awarding of a plaque for Merilee and her group to bring home. There was also a plaque installed on the school site with the name of the organization and the date of the building’s completion.
Merilee returned home with her fellow workers and had a deeper understanding of the human condition and what it meant to serve others. She never saw her surroundings in the same way again. Gratitude abounds in Merilee’s life.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Victor's Memoir
Victor’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Victor is and has been a husband, a father, a son—but his very favorite role in life is “Grandpa.” When asked to bring in a photograph that tells a story, he brought in color photos of his three grandkids, now ages 15-19.
A few years ago, Victor reached retirement age and left his job at Lucent Technologies. Feeling bored, he tried joining his wife, Wanda, in the real estate business. He got his real estate license and began working, but quickly discovered it was definitely not for him.
As if on cue, another opportunity appeared. His daughter, the mother of his three grandchildren, was offered a wonderful job. She was torn, as many mothers are, at the thought of leaving her children, then 5, 7 and 9, in daycare or after school care.
Not many grandfathers would take this on, but Victor stepped up and volunteered to be the children’s full time babysitter. She accepted his offer.
Victor writes of these as being the most wonderful years of his life. He was a hands-on babysitter, helping with homework, supervising arts and crafts, serving as “teacher” when they played “school,” and as “husband” when the youngest, a little girl, wanted to play “house.” What would make most grandpas groan, Victor jumped into with both feet, eagerly becoming mentor and playmate to these three lucky children.
He wiped a few tears away when reading his story to the class. Those memories were obviously precious and touching to him. Victor remembers them with clarity and delight and I am sure his grandchildren feel a special closeness to this ordinary, yet extraordinary man.
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Victor is and has been a husband, a father, a son—but his very favorite role in life is “Grandpa.” When asked to bring in a photograph that tells a story, he brought in color photos of his three grandkids, now ages 15-19.
A few years ago, Victor reached retirement age and left his job at Lucent Technologies. Feeling bored, he tried joining his wife, Wanda, in the real estate business. He got his real estate license and began working, but quickly discovered it was definitely not for him.
As if on cue, another opportunity appeared. His daughter, the mother of his three grandchildren, was offered a wonderful job. She was torn, as many mothers are, at the thought of leaving her children, then 5, 7 and 9, in daycare or after school care.
Not many grandfathers would take this on, but Victor stepped up and volunteered to be the children’s full time babysitter. She accepted his offer.
Victor writes of these as being the most wonderful years of his life. He was a hands-on babysitter, helping with homework, supervising arts and crafts, serving as “teacher” when they played “school,” and as “husband” when the youngest, a little girl, wanted to play “house.” What would make most grandpas groan, Victor jumped into with both feet, eagerly becoming mentor and playmate to these three lucky children.
He wiped a few tears away when reading his story to the class. Those memories were obviously precious and touching to him. Victor remembers them with clarity and delight and I am sure his grandchildren feel a special closeness to this ordinary, yet extraordinary man.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Breaking the Ice
John’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Breaking the Ice
Memories of cold weather and his boyhood friends came out in John’s memories of small town winter adventure. “Mom didn’t find out until much later,” John declared after he told us his terrifying tale of his “gang” and their winter escapades. John, or Blade, as he was known back then, grew up in Streator, Illinois in the 1940s.
As young daredevils will do, he and his friends used to go looking for some activity to stir the adrenaline and the blood in that sleepy, small town—especially in winter. His gang of friends included Shorty, Rib, Pony and Harry. They would gather at a pond near Shorty’s farm, bringing their ice skates for a game of hockey. They used tree limbs for hockey sticks, a flattened tin can for a puck, and their skates were the kind that clipped onto their sturdy work shoes.
As the game progressed, it became a bore and they decided to move to the center of the pond, smashing a hole in the ice and taking turns jumping over it. While this does not make a great deal of sense to most of us, the boys were enthralled by the heart-stopping challenge.
Logic tells us that if the ice is thin enough to smash a hole in it with a tree limb, it is probably pretty unstable to begin with! They heard a series of loud cracks and scrambled to the pond edge for safety. Harry went through the hole in the ice and the boys formed a chain held together with their hands and tree limb hockey sticks and managed to drag him to safety.
John (Blade) doesn’t remember what any of those boys told their parents that evening, but bets that it was a pretty far stretch of the truth. As he admitted freely, his mother didn’t learn the facts of that day’s near calamity until much, much later. Probably when he was too old to punish!
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Breaking the Ice
Memories of cold weather and his boyhood friends came out in John’s memories of small town winter adventure. “Mom didn’t find out until much later,” John declared after he told us his terrifying tale of his “gang” and their winter escapades. John, or Blade, as he was known back then, grew up in Streator, Illinois in the 1940s.
As young daredevils will do, he and his friends used to go looking for some activity to stir the adrenaline and the blood in that sleepy, small town—especially in winter. His gang of friends included Shorty, Rib, Pony and Harry. They would gather at a pond near Shorty’s farm, bringing their ice skates for a game of hockey. They used tree limbs for hockey sticks, a flattened tin can for a puck, and their skates were the kind that clipped onto their sturdy work shoes.
As the game progressed, it became a bore and they decided to move to the center of the pond, smashing a hole in the ice and taking turns jumping over it. While this does not make a great deal of sense to most of us, the boys were enthralled by the heart-stopping challenge.
Logic tells us that if the ice is thin enough to smash a hole in it with a tree limb, it is probably pretty unstable to begin with! They heard a series of loud cracks and scrambled to the pond edge for safety. Harry went through the hole in the ice and the boys formed a chain held together with their hands and tree limb hockey sticks and managed to drag him to safety.
John (Blade) doesn’t remember what any of those boys told their parents that evening, but bets that it was a pretty far stretch of the truth. As he admitted freely, his mother didn’t learn the facts of that day’s near calamity until much, much later. Probably when he was too old to punish!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Evolution of a Neighborhood
Sophie’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Evolution of a Neighborhood
Sophie was born in Hegewisch, a unique east side Chicago neighborhood which has a small town, community atmosphere. When Sophie lived there, the neighborhood was mostly made up of Polish immigrants and their succeeding generations.
Sophie was reluctant to write her stories at first, thinking she was being “boastful,” but her story is one of the rich history of a gritty, industrial neighborhood and the families and working people who lived there. Sophie lived in her family home for 70 years before moving into a senior apartment house to be closer to her grown children. She was born in that Hegewisch bungalow, went to school in the neighborhood, eventually married and the two generations lived together. Three children came along and were raised in the sturdy brick bungalow as well.
This was the heyday of the Chicago steel industry. Almost everyone in the area either worked for the mills or worked for a business supported by the mill workers. The air was thick with the noise of a heavy duty industry, as well as the haze of filthy air. Everyone had a good job. Work was plentiful, union contracts assured that the steelworkers made a good living. Multi-generations of families signed on at the mills right out of high school. The alderman fielded constant complaints about the noise and dust.
Over time, the air became cleaner and the noise abated. The steel industry was grinding to a halt and the mills eventually shut down forever, forcing Hegewisch to reinvent itself. The alderman wryly joked that the complaints about noise and pollution were replaced by complaints of unemployment. Yet the neighbors remained close and united.
Sophie was married by this time and had her three children. She cared for them and kept house during the day, but went to night school several evenings each week. It took her eight years to get a college degree, majoring in English. She got a good job downtown as an editor for a trade publication and was the major breadwinner for the family for 20 years. She is a widow now, still turning out great writing—now the stories are about her life!
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Evolution of a Neighborhood
Sophie was born in Hegewisch, a unique east side Chicago neighborhood which has a small town, community atmosphere. When Sophie lived there, the neighborhood was mostly made up of Polish immigrants and their succeeding generations.
Sophie was reluctant to write her stories at first, thinking she was being “boastful,” but her story is one of the rich history of a gritty, industrial neighborhood and the families and working people who lived there. Sophie lived in her family home for 70 years before moving into a senior apartment house to be closer to her grown children. She was born in that Hegewisch bungalow, went to school in the neighborhood, eventually married and the two generations lived together. Three children came along and were raised in the sturdy brick bungalow as well.
This was the heyday of the Chicago steel industry. Almost everyone in the area either worked for the mills or worked for a business supported by the mill workers. The air was thick with the noise of a heavy duty industry, as well as the haze of filthy air. Everyone had a good job. Work was plentiful, union contracts assured that the steelworkers made a good living. Multi-generations of families signed on at the mills right out of high school. The alderman fielded constant complaints about the noise and dust.
Over time, the air became cleaner and the noise abated. The steel industry was grinding to a halt and the mills eventually shut down forever, forcing Hegewisch to reinvent itself. The alderman wryly joked that the complaints about noise and pollution were replaced by complaints of unemployment. Yet the neighbors remained close and united.
Sophie was married by this time and had her three children. She cared for them and kept house during the day, but went to night school several evenings each week. It took her eight years to get a college degree, majoring in English. She got a good job downtown as an editor for a trade publication and was the major breadwinner for the family for 20 years. She is a widow now, still turning out great writing—now the stories are about her life!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Building a Dream, One Log at a Time
Carl and Annie's Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Building the Dream, One Log at a Time
How many of us can turn our life dreams into our life story?
Carl and Annie knew they wanted to build a log home in the wonderful, Wild West, far from town and the intensity of city life. No neighbors, no clocks, no schedules. Year after year, they loaded up their RV and headed toward the sunset searching for just the right location for their dream home.
They both worked hard at jobs that did not hold their hearts—he a maintenance engineer for the town they lived in and she an administrative assistant.
Finally, they came upon a piece of property that fulfilled their every wish. A little spot near Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, in the foothills, but rugged enough to satisfy their wilderness quest. They purchased it and began looking into log home plans.
The kit was ordered for their three-bedroom home with a large great room and massive stone fireplace. The truck delivered all the components for their new home, struggling up the gravel road to the building site. All the materials were there. Now all they had to do was to put them together!
Retirement still loomed a few years ahead for both of them, but they want to be ready when they are finally free to enjoy their wilderness years. The RV was provisioned with everything they might need for a few months away from civilization. Carl and Annie headed west, with their border collie, Herbie.
Knowing the nearest grocery or hardware store is more than 20 miles away, they tried to think of everything. They arrived at the building site and began clearing the land to lay the foundation for their new home. Using over a month of their accumulated vacation time, they got a good start on the cabin. They journaled the progress and took pictures each step of the way.
There were a few neighbors within a short distance, and Carl learned to appreciate their knowledge and help while Annie enjoyed getting advice on the wilderness existence from the local women. Even Herbie made great friends among the nearby dogs. One was part wolf!
When Carl and Annie attended the Lifestories workshop, the home was almost complete. It was early spring and they were each due to retire within a few months. They are ecstatically looking forward to the rest of their life’s journey together.
While most of us expect to enjoy the accoutrements of our modern world, Carl and Annie find peace and serenity with the simple pleasures of nature.
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Building the Dream, One Log at a Time
How many of us can turn our life dreams into our life story?
Carl and Annie knew they wanted to build a log home in the wonderful, Wild West, far from town and the intensity of city life. No neighbors, no clocks, no schedules. Year after year, they loaded up their RV and headed toward the sunset searching for just the right location for their dream home.
They both worked hard at jobs that did not hold their hearts—he a maintenance engineer for the town they lived in and she an administrative assistant.
Finally, they came upon a piece of property that fulfilled their every wish. A little spot near Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, in the foothills, but rugged enough to satisfy their wilderness quest. They purchased it and began looking into log home plans.
The kit was ordered for their three-bedroom home with a large great room and massive stone fireplace. The truck delivered all the components for their new home, struggling up the gravel road to the building site. All the materials were there. Now all they had to do was to put them together!
Retirement still loomed a few years ahead for both of them, but they want to be ready when they are finally free to enjoy their wilderness years. The RV was provisioned with everything they might need for a few months away from civilization. Carl and Annie headed west, with their border collie, Herbie.
Knowing the nearest grocery or hardware store is more than 20 miles away, they tried to think of everything. They arrived at the building site and began clearing the land to lay the foundation for their new home. Using over a month of their accumulated vacation time, they got a good start on the cabin. They journaled the progress and took pictures each step of the way.
There were a few neighbors within a short distance, and Carl learned to appreciate their knowledge and help while Annie enjoyed getting advice on the wilderness existence from the local women. Even Herbie made great friends among the nearby dogs. One was part wolf!
When Carl and Annie attended the Lifestories workshop, the home was almost complete. It was early spring and they were each due to retire within a few months. They are ecstatically looking forward to the rest of their life’s journey together.
While most of us expect to enjoy the accoutrements of our modern world, Carl and Annie find peace and serenity with the simple pleasures of nature.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Between Two Enemies
Beatrice’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Between Two Enemies
While we hear a lot about the wartime atrocities in Europe and a fair amount about those that took place in Asia, we seldom hear of the tribulations suffered in the country of Greece. Beatrice’s most horrific life memories occurred while she was a girl of 20, living in her home country of Greece at the foot of Mt. Olympus. A law school student, she was the oldest of four daughters. Her family suffered the invasion and occupation of the Italian army, one of the Axis powers, and then occupation by the German army. Occupiers in these circumstances are not kind or benevolent, but often cruel and violent, lording it over their captive populations.
Beatrice’s father was a lawyer in their community and did all he could behind the scenes to thwart the invaders and make life more difficult for them. One day he left the family home on horseback to go to work at his law office. He was captured by the Nazis and jailed.
His wife and daughters were frantic when they found out he was being held in a dark, damp cell, being interrogated by the Nazi captors and had to sleep on the cold cement floor. He was held for several days and then released, but he was broken in body and spirit. Shortly thereafter he contracted pneumonia and passed away within a few weeks of being released. His wife wore black the rest of her life.
After the war, Beatrice, her mother and sisters left the war-ravaged country of Greece for the United States where she finished her law degree and was a champion for justice her entire career.
She still gets choked up over this bit of life memory and expresses heartfelt gratitude for the privilege of living in America and raising her own family here.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Summer Camp
Cindy’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Summer Camp
A highlight of the summer in Sterling, Illinois, in the 1970s when Cindy was a young girl, was the week long stay at Harvest Summer Camp in a nearby state park area. Canoeing, swimming, hiking, camp fires and camp songs filled the week with memories. Starting as soon as summer vacation began, Cindy and her friends began speculating on which cabin they would be assigned to. Would they get a top bunk or a bottom bunk? Most important of all, how many cute boys would be staying at the boys’ camp on the other side of the property!
Cindy and the other campers earned their fee to summer camp by selling large cans of potato chips to friends and neighbors. These pint-sized potato chips peddlers blanketed the town of Sterling in the spring to try to earn their way to their magical week at camp.
One summer the nearby creek was running high and fast from recent rains. A few of the counselors and about ten of the girls decided to “run the rapids” of the fast-flowing creek in inflated inner tubes. They were having a marvelous time splashing and laughing when a frightening mud creature appeared out of the woods. This human-looking being was coated with mud from toe to tip of hair and growled and snarled with great menace. Screaming and crying, the girls, counselors included, scrambled for the opposite bank, terrified.
The mud creature began to laugh out loud. She was none other than their friend, Suzanne, who declined to go tubing with the group, but rolled and coated herself in mud to pull off this super-successful prank.
Cindy remembers that nobody was angry. They all had a good laugh. And that was the year she asked her parents if she could stay for TWO weeks.
Marvelous memories. Sweet moments to savor.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Carter's Memoir
Carter’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Life Along the River
Memories of life along the Mississippi River often include the devastating effects of frequent flooding.
Carter began writing his memoir of that time in his life and wasn’t quite sure where his writing would lead him. His work on his own life stories soon dovetailed into a 1940s history of the western Illinois county where he was raised on the family farm.
The town and surrounding area of Savannah, Illinois, was a close-knit community and it wasn’t possible to tell his own stories without making them part of local history and lore. His memoir turned out to be a local history of rugged people in an uncompromising environment. Events, both happy and challenging, and stories of his neighbors and his town during the era of his boyhood are included in Carter’s stories. He plans to donate the completed memoir to the local historical society when he is finished writing.
When Carter was just a boy of nine, a creek running through their property flooded out the fields after the crops had been planted. One early morning, Carter’s dad, uncle, older brother and he climbed into a flat-bottomed fishing boat to survey the damage. Their mission was to see if any of the crops for that season could be saved.
Even at his young age, Carter could feel the tension as they surveyed acre after acre of flooded out fields. On top of a small rise in the earth, his father spotted a small patch of earth with the young wheat plants waving their pale arms. It amounted to less than an acre of viable potential harvest. The rough and rugged spirit of the Midwest farmer was put into words as his father joked, “That’s it, boy. That’s all yours to cultivate through the season!”
Farming has its good moments and its disastrous ones. This memory of a man’s boyhood stands out in his mind as proof of the enduring, dogged determination of Midwest farmers along the Mississippi and its tributaries.
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the exotic and dangerous. Enjoy!
Life Along the River
Memories of life along the Mississippi River often include the devastating effects of frequent flooding.
Carter began writing his memoir of that time in his life and wasn’t quite sure where his writing would lead him. His work on his own life stories soon dovetailed into a 1940s history of the western Illinois county where he was raised on the family farm.
The town and surrounding area of Savannah, Illinois, was a close-knit community and it wasn’t possible to tell his own stories without making them part of local history and lore. His memoir turned out to be a local history of rugged people in an uncompromising environment. Events, both happy and challenging, and stories of his neighbors and his town during the era of his boyhood are included in Carter’s stories. He plans to donate the completed memoir to the local historical society when he is finished writing.
When Carter was just a boy of nine, a creek running through their property flooded out the fields after the crops had been planted. One early morning, Carter’s dad, uncle, older brother and he climbed into a flat-bottomed fishing boat to survey the damage. Their mission was to see if any of the crops for that season could be saved.
Even at his young age, Carter could feel the tension as they surveyed acre after acre of flooded out fields. On top of a small rise in the earth, his father spotted a small patch of earth with the young wheat plants waving their pale arms. It amounted to less than an acre of viable potential harvest. The rough and rugged spirit of the Midwest farmer was put into words as his father joked, “That’s it, boy. That’s all yours to cultivate through the season!”
Farming has its good moments and its disastrous ones. This memory of a man’s boyhood stands out in his mind as proof of the enduring, dogged determination of Midwest farmers along the Mississippi and its tributaries.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Imogene’s Memoir
By Rosanne Gulisano
I blog about snippets and snapshots of the memoirs and life stories of everyday folks attending my Lifestories workshops. I have changed the names, but the stories are the real thing, from the plain and simple to the sinister and dangerous. Enjoy!
Building a Fortune, Again
Imogene is one of four children of an immigrant Jewish mother and an immigrant Italian father—quite a volatile combination! She is 96 years old, looks perfectly groomed and put together and is sharp as the proverbial tack. Imogene loves to reminisce about growing up in Rogers Park, a north side Chicago neighborhood, in her lively household of parents and siblings.
Dad was a presser at Hart, Shaffner and Marx men’s clothing factory, a menial job with not much pay. Tears come to Imogene’s eyes whenever she speaks of him as he was a wise and witty man, the spirit of her family.
Her mom was a much more assertive person. Not satisfied with the meager income of her husband, she would knock on doors in apartment buildings in the neighborhood until she found the owner's apartment. She would make an offer to buy the building and, if accepted, would put come up a small down payment and move her family in. She had a knack for design and would enlist the aid of the family to glamorize and fix up the building and sell it at a tidy profit. The family moved often, the children often had to change schools, although many of the buildings were in the same neighborhood. They did this without complaint. This was the way things were in their family and that was that. They all worked hard to make the business a success.
Imogene’s mom made quite a fortune in this way, but lost it all in the Great Depression in the early 30s. Undaunted, she picked up the pieces of her shattered finances and began again, amassing still another tidy fortune.
Imogene is an avid reader with a practical, optimistic attitude. Back in 1952, a revolutionary book called The Power of Positive Thinking by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, revolutionized her world and became a great bestseller. She calls it her “life changing book.”
Imogene is lucky. She is brimming with good health and energy. Her mind is sharp and she enjoys life. She is definitely a believer in positive thinking and puts it into practice every day of her long life. Her warm memories inspire us all.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Leave a Legacy
It’s about more than just the money. Our legacy to our future generations is about what is on the inside. What combination of genes and outside influences made us who we are today? What messages and reflections do we want to make known to those who follow?
Many of us are concerned, in this economic turmoil, about what will be left in the investment accounts by the end of our lives. We may have pictured ourselves leaving a nice financial legacy so “the kids” could have it a little easier than we did. This is a wonderful intention and I am all for it! But the money is not your only legacy.
Gift them with your wisdom and with your accumulated knowledge. Let them know about challenges in life and how you dealt with them. Tell them about dreams and aspirations and whether or not you attained. What twists and bends in the road did you encounter that strengthened your character and empowered you? What missteps did you make that could be avoided in the future? Let them know that it is okay to make a mistake along the way, as long as you learn from it.
Each of us is the product of traits, opinions, genes and physical and emotional attributes passed along for generations. Wouldn’t you love to have had this information about your own grandparents and great-grandparents to see how they may have shaped the person you are today? It’s possible that you have some of the personality traits of a long-forgotten forebear, but since you have no record of their thoughts and feelings, awareness of the connection is lost. George Santayana famously said, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
All of this, and much more, can be left behind in your written memoir—your personal story.
It’s about more than just the money. Our legacy to our future generations is about what is on the inside. What combination of genes and outside influences made us who we are today? What messages and reflections do we want to make known to those who follow?
Many of us are concerned, in this economic turmoil, about what will be left in the investment accounts by the end of our lives. We may have pictured ourselves leaving a nice financial legacy so “the kids” could have it a little easier than we did. This is a wonderful intention and I am all for it! But the money is not your only legacy.
Gift them with your wisdom and with your accumulated knowledge. Let them know about challenges in life and how you dealt with them. Tell them about dreams and aspirations and whether or not you attained. What twists and bends in the road did you encounter that strengthened your character and empowered you? What missteps did you make that could be avoided in the future? Let them know that it is okay to make a mistake along the way, as long as you learn from it.
Each of us is the product of traits, opinions, genes and physical and emotional attributes passed along for generations. Wouldn’t you love to have had this information about your own grandparents and great-grandparents to see how they may have shaped the person you are today? It’s possible that you have some of the personality traits of a long-forgotten forebear, but since you have no record of their thoughts and feelings, awareness of the connection is lost. George Santayana famously said, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
All of this, and much more, can be left behind in your written memoir—your personal story.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Memories of Martha
I’ll Have What She’s Having
Memories of Martha
I have a friend who is 100 years old. I mean a real friend—someone you chat with; someone who keeps up with me and with many others. I received a birthday card from her just last week. She never forgets a birthday. She apologized that it might be a day late blaming “old age” for not checking her calendar in time! (By the way, the card was on time.)
I first met Martha when she was 70 and I was but a young mother with two small kids. We sang together for 20 years in a women’s chorus of 100+ members. Martha was known as the “White Tornado,” with her stark white hair and boundless energy. Her spirited brown eyes and cackling laughter were other trademarks. She didn’t tell anyone her age back then and was mighty upset when that information first leaked out when she was about 80. After she found out what a celebrity her accumulated years made her, she reveled in the attention!
Our chorus traveled together throughout the United States and there was plenty of late night camaraderie. After performing or competing, the chorus members would gather, some staying later into the night. A certain number of cocktails were consumed. Not enough to make us un-ladylike, but they were consumed, nevertheless. This was also back in the days when everyone seemed to smoke (yes—even this group of singers). Martha was not ordinarily a smoker, but would keep cigarettes in a tin band-aid can from one chorus event to the next to keep her supply of smokes fresh from month to month. Sometimes we would escort her back to her room when she over-tippled so that no one would be able to gossip about her.
I often drove the car pool when the chorus performed throughout the metro area. Martha and others would drive to my house and I would chauffer from there to our performance destination. My innocent husband once asked, “What time do you think you’ll be home?” and Martha, not missing a beat, told him, “If you see tire tracks in the morning newspaper then you’ll know she was out late!”
She sang with the chorus until the age of 90, when it finally became too much for her. Every year the retired chorus members throw a birthday party for our friend. It gives us an excuse to get together and share memories, as well as to pay tribute to Martha with the funniest, and raciest, cards we can find. She still has that cackling laugh.
Eventually she sold her little home and moved to an assisted living facility where she is still keeping the staff on their toes and making people laugh. When I visit her there and we take a walk, it’s actually difficult to keep up with her as she speeds down the halls on her walker!
Widowed at a fairly young age, Martha never had children, but she has more visitors than most of the residents. They include a number of young people she used to babysit for in her old neighborhood who are now adults and come often to visit, plenty of nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and those she has quietly helped along the way—for her interests were many and varied.
My friend turns 100 this summer and her birthday bash will be grand. She finally admits to being content to stay in her comfortable suite and not going out very much, but I know she will be looking forward to this event—and so will all her friends. God bless you, sister-in-song—and many more happy birthdays.
Memories of Martha
I have a friend who is 100 years old. I mean a real friend—someone you chat with; someone who keeps up with me and with many others. I received a birthday card from her just last week. She never forgets a birthday. She apologized that it might be a day late blaming “old age” for not checking her calendar in time! (By the way, the card was on time.)
I first met Martha when she was 70 and I was but a young mother with two small kids. We sang together for 20 years in a women’s chorus of 100+ members. Martha was known as the “White Tornado,” with her stark white hair and boundless energy. Her spirited brown eyes and cackling laughter were other trademarks. She didn’t tell anyone her age back then and was mighty upset when that information first leaked out when she was about 80. After she found out what a celebrity her accumulated years made her, she reveled in the attention!
Our chorus traveled together throughout the United States and there was plenty of late night camaraderie. After performing or competing, the chorus members would gather, some staying later into the night. A certain number of cocktails were consumed. Not enough to make us un-ladylike, but they were consumed, nevertheless. This was also back in the days when everyone seemed to smoke (yes—even this group of singers). Martha was not ordinarily a smoker, but would keep cigarettes in a tin band-aid can from one chorus event to the next to keep her supply of smokes fresh from month to month. Sometimes we would escort her back to her room when she over-tippled so that no one would be able to gossip about her.
I often drove the car pool when the chorus performed throughout the metro area. Martha and others would drive to my house and I would chauffer from there to our performance destination. My innocent husband once asked, “What time do you think you’ll be home?” and Martha, not missing a beat, told him, “If you see tire tracks in the morning newspaper then you’ll know she was out late!”
She sang with the chorus until the age of 90, when it finally became too much for her. Every year the retired chorus members throw a birthday party for our friend. It gives us an excuse to get together and share memories, as well as to pay tribute to Martha with the funniest, and raciest, cards we can find. She still has that cackling laugh.
Eventually she sold her little home and moved to an assisted living facility where she is still keeping the staff on their toes and making people laugh. When I visit her there and we take a walk, it’s actually difficult to keep up with her as she speeds down the halls on her walker!
Widowed at a fairly young age, Martha never had children, but she has more visitors than most of the residents. They include a number of young people she used to babysit for in her old neighborhood who are now adults and come often to visit, plenty of nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and those she has quietly helped along the way—for her interests were many and varied.
My friend turns 100 this summer and her birthday bash will be grand. She finally admits to being content to stay in her comfortable suite and not going out very much, but I know she will be looking forward to this event—and so will all her friends. God bless you, sister-in-song—and many more happy birthdays.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
How to Save Your Life
I’m here to save your life, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, no, not in the usual sense with health or nutrition advice, but in another very real way. By writing down the stories of your life, you will not be forgotten in a generation or two. Your stories will live on and be a source of wisdom, advice or entertainment so all who come after you may know you as the vital, lively person that you are.
What can you give your family that:
Doesn’t come in a box
They won’t see advertised on TV
Won’t be exchanged for a different size or color
Will last for generations to come
Means more than anything you’ve ever given them before
The answer, of course, is THE GIFT OF YOURSELF.
How much do you know about your grandparents or great-grandparents? About the way they lived and worked? About the choices they made? About the day-to-day details of their lives? Well—don’t you think future generations will be just as curious about YOU?
We can all come up with great excuses NOT to do this story writing. Everyone’s life is unique and is fascinating reading for his or her own descendants. The average daily lives of a few generations ago include the little details that make a historical novel juicy and engrossing reading.
Didn’t you ever wish you had asked your parents more questions? Now it may be too late. Why do we regret missing that opportunity with our parents and grandparents and yet think our own stories aren’t just as important to our kids and grandkids? Don’t wait a day longer to begin your own story.
A memoir can be the story of a day or single incident in your life, a period of time, or an entire lifetime. It doesn’t have to be written in any sort of order. That can come later.
Just find the time and make the committment to leave this precious legacy for your family.
Monday, April 20, 2009
What Happened to Our Life?
These days it’s challenging to go toward the light and not to drift toward the dark side. Uncertainty and fear close in when you least expect them. So many people thought they had life by the tail and could swing it any way they chose. Oh, there were those things we could never claim control over—illness, accidents, other unforeseen events, but retirement? College funds? Extras for a few luxuries? Those were a slam dunk. Nothing to worry about. All planned for and taken care of. We grew complacent, even arrogant about the future, sneering a bit at those in our acquaintance who weren’t prepared. Then there was always our limitless credit to fall back on. High limit credit cards; lots of home equity.
September, it seems, is now a month to be wary of. In 2001, our world changed with the Al Qaeda attack. In 2008, our world was shaken again. With alarming speed, our financial security was threatened, investments wiped out, home values plummeted, jobs were lost. Many of us faced bankruptcy, foreclosure and the real possibility of having to live in a tent city! Our secure world turned into a fragile facade and crumbled with one strong gust of evil wind.
Today’s youthful college and high school graduates have limited jobs opportunities after graduation. The up-and-coming workers are fighting to hold on to their positions, foregoing raises and bonuses that were part of their expected income. They are stressed over the possibility of losing their jobs in the next round of cuts and lay-offs. Workers planning to retire and live on hard-won and well thought out investments are holding off on launching themselves into retirement. And those already retired and living on investment income? They awake fearfully each morning wondering what blow the stock market can rain down on them that day. Rather than leaving a financial legacy for their families, they wonder if they will outlive the resources they have garnered and will have to depend on those children for help or apply for government assistance.
Overnight, it seems we went from beautiful sunlight to feeling our way in the dark. What the heck happened?
September, it seems, is now a month to be wary of. In 2001, our world changed with the Al Qaeda attack. In 2008, our world was shaken again. With alarming speed, our financial security was threatened, investments wiped out, home values plummeted, jobs were lost. Many of us faced bankruptcy, foreclosure and the real possibility of having to live in a tent city! Our secure world turned into a fragile facade and crumbled with one strong gust of evil wind.
Today’s youthful college and high school graduates have limited jobs opportunities after graduation. The up-and-coming workers are fighting to hold on to their positions, foregoing raises and bonuses that were part of their expected income. They are stressed over the possibility of losing their jobs in the next round of cuts and lay-offs. Workers planning to retire and live on hard-won and well thought out investments are holding off on launching themselves into retirement. And those already retired and living on investment income? They awake fearfully each morning wondering what blow the stock market can rain down on them that day. Rather than leaving a financial legacy for their families, they wonder if they will outlive the resources they have garnered and will have to depend on those children for help or apply for government assistance.
Overnight, it seems we went from beautiful sunlight to feeling our way in the dark. What the heck happened?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
