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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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