Debbie’s Christmas memoir
“He was my favorite uncle; but I was terrified of him.” Debbie began her story of Christmas past, when she was four years old.
Uncle Dave was a joker. His idea of great, teasing fun was taking the children’s toys and pretending he wasn’t going to give them back. Debbie’s brother and cousins thought this was hilarious, but she watched him carefully, fearing that he would someday forget to return the toys before leaving for home. Without anyone realizing it, Debbie became his little shadow, always keeping an wary eye on Uncle Dave.
When Debbie was four, the family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house a few days before Christmas. Uncle Dave slipped away from the group. Debbie was curious about where he could have gone. Just a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Santa Claus appeared in the living room. At least, all the other kids thought it was Santa. Debbie, however, cried out, “It’s Uncle Dave!”
She was whisked away by her mother who insisted Santa was in their house. “No, Mommy. It’s Uncle Dave. Can’t you see?” She was aghast that no one could tell it was obviously her uncle. What could be wrong with everyone?
Debbie was completely taken aback. Was Santa/Uncle Dave there to give them toys? Or was he there to take their toys? If Santa was in the house now, did that mean he wouldn’t come down the chimney on Christmas Eve? Was it really Uncle Dave who would come down the chimney? Or would it be the real Santa Claus?
Her four-year-old mind was whirling with possibilities as she hid behind the sofa. The fake Santa was calling her name! Her mom took her aside later and explained away her concerns. “Uncle Dave was only pretending to be Santa because the real Santa Claus was very busy. But, don’t tell the other children because we wouldn’t want to spoil their fun.” She accepted this explanation and agreed to keep the secret.
As the years went on, she learned that Uncle Dave was all about teasing and fun and loved her very much. Uncle Dave has a special place in Debbie’s memories and she grew up to appreciate his sense of fun.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Amelia's Memoir of the Pandemic of 1918
Amelia, at age 101, is chronologically the oldest person who has ever attended one of my memoir-writing workshops. She was born in 1909 and following is her memory of the devastating flu epidemic of 1918:
Amelia was nine years old in 1918. She was the middle sister of the three girls in her family. They lived in a rambling Victorian house on a quiet street in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Her mother was a fairly well-known vocalist and was in demand as an entertainer for local parties and church functions. Amelia and her sisters sang in a trio and appeared at such events also. Her father, Alfred, was the vice president of a local bank.
The American people were celebrating the end of the Great War that year, but there was another pending disaster that few recognized when it first appeared--the influenza pandemic of 1918. Doctors were baffled by the increasing number of patients being affected by this mysterious illness. In the end, roughly 25 percent of the American population became ill. Doctors thought it might be cholera or typhus at first. The exact number of deaths, both worldwide and in America, are unknown, because so many victims were misdiagnosed and there was no definitive test to prove the patient had this exact flu virus. Estimates of worldwide deaths range from 20 million to more than 100 million.
In peaceful Cedar Rapids, many of the townsfolk were stricken. The only member of Amelia's family to contract the illness was Alfred, her father. Although meetings and other social gatherings were canceled to avoid spreading of the illness, his position as an employee of the bank brought him into daily contact with many people. Since so many of the bank employees had taken ill, Alfred went into work, although he was feeling unwell, in order to serve the bank's customers.
Amelia remembers she and her sisters having giggling fits because their dad came home and was saying "strange and funny things." He was actually hallucinating from a high fever, but, of course, the little girls just thought his behavior was for their amusement. Their mother insisted on putting him to bed and, thankfully, was able to nurse him back to health.
Amelia only has a childhood vision of this trying moment of history. It is not in any history books and, until the H1N1 flue scare last year, was rarely mentioned. At the time, Amelia's family had no idea how close they had come to becoming one of the pandamic's sad statistics.
Amelia was nine years old in 1918. She was the middle sister of the three girls in her family. They lived in a rambling Victorian house on a quiet street in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Her mother was a fairly well-known vocalist and was in demand as an entertainer for local parties and church functions. Amelia and her sisters sang in a trio and appeared at such events also. Her father, Alfred, was the vice president of a local bank.
The American people were celebrating the end of the Great War that year, but there was another pending disaster that few recognized when it first appeared--the influenza pandemic of 1918. Doctors were baffled by the increasing number of patients being affected by this mysterious illness. In the end, roughly 25 percent of the American population became ill. Doctors thought it might be cholera or typhus at first. The exact number of deaths, both worldwide and in America, are unknown, because so many victims were misdiagnosed and there was no definitive test to prove the patient had this exact flu virus. Estimates of worldwide deaths range from 20 million to more than 100 million.
In peaceful Cedar Rapids, many of the townsfolk were stricken. The only member of Amelia's family to contract the illness was Alfred, her father. Although meetings and other social gatherings were canceled to avoid spreading of the illness, his position as an employee of the bank brought him into daily contact with many people. Since so many of the bank employees had taken ill, Alfred went into work, although he was feeling unwell, in order to serve the bank's customers.
Amelia remembers she and her sisters having giggling fits because their dad came home and was saying "strange and funny things." He was actually hallucinating from a high fever, but, of course, the little girls just thought his behavior was for their amusement. Their mother insisted on putting him to bed and, thankfully, was able to nurse him back to health.
Amelia only has a childhood vision of this trying moment of history. It is not in any history books and, until the H1N1 flue scare last year, was rarely mentioned. At the time, Amelia's family had no idea how close they had come to becoming one of the pandamic's sad statistics.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Christine's High-Flying Memory
Christine's High Flying Memory
Christine was raised in a small town in northern Wisconsin where her father was the president of the town bank. She was an adventurous girl, a self-confessed tomboy and always interested in active sports. In 1935, the summer she was fifteen years old, her parents sent her to a two-week summer camp. Memories of these weeks include water sports and canoeing, hiking and nightly campfires. There was even an outdoor showing of a silent film projected onto the sideof a big, white barn.
One steamy July day, the girls at the camp were taken to a summer festival in the nearest town. There were bands playing, balloons, games and plenty of good food, but what intrigued Christine, the adventuress, was a barnstorming pilot in a fragile-looking plane who was offering airplane rides for 50 cents.
The other girls drew back in fright, having been warned by their parents that flying was a dangerous game and that their life insurance policies would not pay the claim if the insured was such a fool as to go up in an airplane. The 50 cent price was a major portion of Christine's budget for the week. She did have the money, however, and didn't hesitate very long before handing it over to the barnstormer.
Up they went in his little plane, flying over farms and fields, revealing a patchwork of squares like her grandmother's quilts. The panoramic view quite took Christine's breath away. She fell in love with flying that day.
She waited and hoped for a chance to get her own pilot's license, but World War II broke out a few years later and private planes for pleasure did not exist anymore. All aircraft, spare parts and rubber tires were commandeered for the war effort. After the war, she never had an opportunity to fulfill her piloting dream.
Christine loved to fly all during her long life and found it to be her favorite way to travel. There is still a tiny kernel of regret for not pursuing her airborne dreams. She loved revisiting the memory of her first High Flying Day.
Christine was raised in a small town in northern Wisconsin where her father was the president of the town bank. She was an adventurous girl, a self-confessed tomboy and always interested in active sports. In 1935, the summer she was fifteen years old, her parents sent her to a two-week summer camp. Memories of these weeks include water sports and canoeing, hiking and nightly campfires. There was even an outdoor showing of a silent film projected onto the sideof a big, white barn.
One steamy July day, the girls at the camp were taken to a summer festival in the nearest town. There were bands playing, balloons, games and plenty of good food, but what intrigued Christine, the adventuress, was a barnstorming pilot in a fragile-looking plane who was offering airplane rides for 50 cents.
The other girls drew back in fright, having been warned by their parents that flying was a dangerous game and that their life insurance policies would not pay the claim if the insured was such a fool as to go up in an airplane. The 50 cent price was a major portion of Christine's budget for the week. She did have the money, however, and didn't hesitate very long before handing it over to the barnstormer.
Up they went in his little plane, flying over farms and fields, revealing a patchwork of squares like her grandmother's quilts. The panoramic view quite took Christine's breath away. She fell in love with flying that day.
She waited and hoped for a chance to get her own pilot's license, but World War II broke out a few years later and private planes for pleasure did not exist anymore. All aircraft, spare parts and rubber tires were commandeered for the war effort. After the war, she never had an opportunity to fulfill her piloting dream.
Christine loved to fly all during her long life and found it to be her favorite way to travel. There is still a tiny kernel of regret for not pursuing her airborne dreams. She loved revisiting the memory of her first High Flying Day.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Focus on the 50s and 60s
Focusing on the Mid-Century
And
Denny’s Life Memories
I recently did a Lifestories World Events Workshop that focused on the Civil Rights era of the 50s and 60s. While we had a good group discussion, our Illinois experience with this issue was limited. This group of 10 were all very young back then, but we all remembered being shocked and appalled at the level of vitriolic hatred expressed toward the black population as we watched on the evening news as innocent children our own age tried to attend school. Our group was all white and, at the time, we were individually blissfully unaware of the struggle for equal rights in the south. Thank goodness a strong group of leaders, most specifically Martin Luther King Jr., came along to raise our consciousness about this issue.
Denny’s story of the 60s was much more light-hearted. He recalled his first teaching assignment, right out of college. He was an English teacher in a Junior High School. He says he clearly remembers each of these, his first students, and could “call the roll” even today.
Two things were at the forefront of his students’ minds in the mid-60s. The boys were obsessed with the space race and many proclaimed their passion for becoming astronauts. They could name each of the astronauts and knew which flight they had gone on and what the outcome was.
The girls, on the other hand, had a less scientific obsession. Mainly—The Beatles. Denny claims they would use their cursive writing practice time by writing “John, Paul, George and Ringo” with appropriate flourishes over and over. The principal once walked unannounced into the classroom and Denny responded when asked what the students were up to, “Oh, they’re practicing their penmanship, sir.”
He finished his story by noting, “These students are all in their 50s now…seems impossible.”
And
Denny’s Life Memories
I recently did a Lifestories World Events Workshop that focused on the Civil Rights era of the 50s and 60s. While we had a good group discussion, our Illinois experience with this issue was limited. This group of 10 were all very young back then, but we all remembered being shocked and appalled at the level of vitriolic hatred expressed toward the black population as we watched on the evening news as innocent children our own age tried to attend school. Our group was all white and, at the time, we were individually blissfully unaware of the struggle for equal rights in the south. Thank goodness a strong group of leaders, most specifically Martin Luther King Jr., came along to raise our consciousness about this issue.
Denny’s story of the 60s was much more light-hearted. He recalled his first teaching assignment, right out of college. He was an English teacher in a Junior High School. He says he clearly remembers each of these, his first students, and could “call the roll” even today.
Two things were at the forefront of his students’ minds in the mid-60s. The boys were obsessed with the space race and many proclaimed their passion for becoming astronauts. They could name each of the astronauts and knew which flight they had gone on and what the outcome was.
The girls, on the other hand, had a less scientific obsession. Mainly—The Beatles. Denny claims they would use their cursive writing practice time by writing “John, Paul, George and Ringo” with appropriate flourishes over and over. The principal once walked unannounced into the classroom and Denny responded when asked what the students were up to, “Oh, they’re practicing their penmanship, sir.”
He finished his story by noting, “These students are all in their 50s now…seems impossible.”
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Doris’ Memoir
The Medicine Show
Doris is a professional saleswoman, now retired, who projects an image of complete competence. She worked for many years in the electronics industry, representing Zenith, Magnavox and other companies that have fallen by the wayside. She is twice widowed and lives in a neat and tidy manor home in suburban Chicago.
Her roots are in South Dakota and her early story doesn’t fit the image she projects today. Back in the 1930s, South Dakota was a wild, rural place. Even today its large cities are just small towns compared with more industrial parts of America.
Doris’ father and mother survived the depression by making and selling an elixir to heal all ills. Doris grew up in the wagon of a medicine show. Summers are short in South Dakota and the time for selling their product was limited. An old station wagon containing the family’s personal necessities and an inventory of the elixir was packed full every selling season.
They would go out on the road, stopping in small towns and putting on what is commonly known as a “medicine show.” Doris mother would sing and do a little tap dancing. Entertainment was hard to come by in those towns and the locals would come out to see whatever entertainer chose to grace their town with a bit of music and charm. Doris’ dad played a concertina as accompaniment. When she grew a little older, at the age of five, Doris would join in the dancing and charm the town population.
Then her dad would take over and give his sales pitch about the magic elixir guaranteed to cure just about any ailment that might strike the farmers or their families. Doris remembers seeing solemn native Americans, wrapped in Indian garb, silent and watching. Often men in cowboy attire would be part of their audience. This was, after all, just a few years after the period of the Wild West.
Doris doesn’t remember what the recipe was for the magic elixir, or even what the main ingredient was. Did it work? She really doesn’t know that either. But the medicine show and her father’s sales talent allowed her small family to survive the greatest economic period of hardship the country has ever known.
The Medicine Show
Doris is a professional saleswoman, now retired, who projects an image of complete competence. She worked for many years in the electronics industry, representing Zenith, Magnavox and other companies that have fallen by the wayside. She is twice widowed and lives in a neat and tidy manor home in suburban Chicago.
Her roots are in South Dakota and her early story doesn’t fit the image she projects today. Back in the 1930s, South Dakota was a wild, rural place. Even today its large cities are just small towns compared with more industrial parts of America.
Doris’ father and mother survived the depression by making and selling an elixir to heal all ills. Doris grew up in the wagon of a medicine show. Summers are short in South Dakota and the time for selling their product was limited. An old station wagon containing the family’s personal necessities and an inventory of the elixir was packed full every selling season.
They would go out on the road, stopping in small towns and putting on what is commonly known as a “medicine show.” Doris mother would sing and do a little tap dancing. Entertainment was hard to come by in those towns and the locals would come out to see whatever entertainer chose to grace their town with a bit of music and charm. Doris’ dad played a concertina as accompaniment. When she grew a little older, at the age of five, Doris would join in the dancing and charm the town population.
Then her dad would take over and give his sales pitch about the magic elixir guaranteed to cure just about any ailment that might strike the farmers or their families. Doris remembers seeing solemn native Americans, wrapped in Indian garb, silent and watching. Often men in cowboy attire would be part of their audience. This was, after all, just a few years after the period of the Wild West.
Doris doesn’t remember what the recipe was for the magic elixir, or even what the main ingredient was. Did it work? She really doesn’t know that either. But the medicine show and her father’s sales talent allowed her small family to survive the greatest economic period of hardship the country has ever known.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Nobody's Mother
Jackie's Story
Nobody’s Mother
Jackie is somebody’s aunt, but nobody’s mother. She has had the joy of sticky, lollipop-lips kisses and squeeze-your-breath-away hugs with dimpled fingers clutching her neck. These pleasures were only borrowed from her brother and his wife, but she savors them as hers alone.
She is not an elderly widow, but an elderly spinster. That is a word that still evokes powerful connotations of being unwanted and rejected, but Jackie was neither. Her lost love died in a long-ago war. She never sought another.
Jackie lives in an apartment building with a lot of ladies and men who shuffle along with walkers and canes and have gray hair and bad hearing. They sometimes forget one another’s names. She is 91 years old and you only make her acquaintance for a few minutes before you find out she is a proud Italian-American. She needs no cane or walker and strides along, ramrod straight, with no assistance. Her hair is white blonde, her makeup, impeccable.
On this day, she sings “Happy Birthday” to a friend and asks if the cake has cannolli filling. She wears bright colors and exquisite vintage jewelry. For forty of her working years she served customers at a Chicago Michigan Avenue jewelry store and is a jewelry expert.
When the birthday song is done and the cake consumed, she shares a hug and some tears with the birthday girl, who is 92. Perhaps they are aware in that moment, without speaking about it, that their future birthday celebrations are limited.
Later today her nephew will pick her up in his car and bring her home for Sunday dinner. He will share his home and his family with her. I am very sure he has fond memories of one who loved him just as his mother did. Now his chldren, another generation with sticky lips and dimpled fingers, know the love of their Aunt Jackie.
Nobody’s Mother
Jackie is somebody’s aunt, but nobody’s mother. She has had the joy of sticky, lollipop-lips kisses and squeeze-your-breath-away hugs with dimpled fingers clutching her neck. These pleasures were only borrowed from her brother and his wife, but she savors them as hers alone.
She is not an elderly widow, but an elderly spinster. That is a word that still evokes powerful connotations of being unwanted and rejected, but Jackie was neither. Her lost love died in a long-ago war. She never sought another.
Jackie lives in an apartment building with a lot of ladies and men who shuffle along with walkers and canes and have gray hair and bad hearing. They sometimes forget one another’s names. She is 91 years old and you only make her acquaintance for a few minutes before you find out she is a proud Italian-American. She needs no cane or walker and strides along, ramrod straight, with no assistance. Her hair is white blonde, her makeup, impeccable.
On this day, she sings “Happy Birthday” to a friend and asks if the cake has cannolli filling. She wears bright colors and exquisite vintage jewelry. For forty of her working years she served customers at a Chicago Michigan Avenue jewelry store and is a jewelry expert.
When the birthday song is done and the cake consumed, she shares a hug and some tears with the birthday girl, who is 92. Perhaps they are aware in that moment, without speaking about it, that their future birthday celebrations are limited.
Later today her nephew will pick her up in his car and bring her home for Sunday dinner. He will share his home and his family with her. I am very sure he has fond memories of one who loved him just as his mother did. Now his chldren, another generation with sticky lips and dimpled fingers, know the love of their Aunt Jackie.
Monday, February 22, 2010
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!
Lester’s War Memoir
After long months of training and getting used to the tropical climate of the South Pacific, the men in Lester’s airborne unit were both anxious and tense about getting into action. The division sailed for Leyte in the Philippines in October, 1944, to engage the Japanese. Tension and fear were common emotions, but Lester remembers an incident where he very nearly lost his life.
Often putting ashore was as dangerous as hand-to-hand combat. As the unit was making for shore off the coast of Luzon in amphibious vehicles called “ducks,” their vehicle was under fire, struck and damaged. The driver steered towards a swift running river to avoid further harm. The sump pump couldn’t keep up with the rising water in the boat. They stuffed rags in the bullet holes, but it was still necessary to abandon the duck and swim for shore. The men were weighted down by a carbine, a pack, helmet and heavy combat boots. The waves were over Lester’s head and the current from the river was pushing them back out to sea. After dumping his pack and helmet, Lester swam for his life and managed to crawl up on shore, thankful to be alive.
War movies and novels do not even come close to describing the conditions, from terror to tedium, that are part of a combat soldier’s life. In the Philippine Islands in 1944, Lester and his fellow soldiers endured months of heat, rain, humidity and endless mud, marked by sporadic, but intense, encounters with the enemy. Doing their job and coming home to a safe America kept these men going through trying times.
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!
Lester’s War Memoir
After long months of training and getting used to the tropical climate of the South Pacific, the men in Lester’s airborne unit were both anxious and tense about getting into action. The division sailed for Leyte in the Philippines in October, 1944, to engage the Japanese. Tension and fear were common emotions, but Lester remembers an incident where he very nearly lost his life.
Often putting ashore was as dangerous as hand-to-hand combat. As the unit was making for shore off the coast of Luzon in amphibious vehicles called “ducks,” their vehicle was under fire, struck and damaged. The driver steered towards a swift running river to avoid further harm. The sump pump couldn’t keep up with the rising water in the boat. They stuffed rags in the bullet holes, but it was still necessary to abandon the duck and swim for shore. The men were weighted down by a carbine, a pack, helmet and heavy combat boots. The waves were over Lester’s head and the current from the river was pushing them back out to sea. After dumping his pack and helmet, Lester swam for his life and managed to crawl up on shore, thankful to be alive.
War movies and novels do not even come close to describing the conditions, from terror to tedium, that are part of a combat soldier’s life. In the Philippine Islands in 1944, Lester and his fellow soldiers endured months of heat, rain, humidity and endless mud, marked by sporadic, but intense, encounters with the enemy. Doing their job and coming home to a safe America kept these men going through trying times.
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