Spoonfuls of sugar

You can read the first post about our trip to Germany HERE.

August 2, 2011 - Arrival in Germany

Frankfurt am Main / Hofheim / Laufdorf

We have arrived. The plane pulled in at 10:10 a.m. into Frankfurt am Main, one of the busiest international airports in Europe. We de-planed quickly and proceeded to have our passports stamped, and then followed all of the signs to Baggage Claims. John noticed that most signs were in both German and English. “I think I’m going to be just fine,” he announced. He was relieved, as he speaks no German, that language will not prove to be a barrier.

We met my Aunt Doris and Uncle Herbert shortly after rolling our baggage out Gate 5. When we saw their tiny Peugot 206 SW, we were somewhat concerned whether our full-size suitcases and carry-on luggage would fit, but with a little tilting, turning and stacking, we were on our way to our next destination, Hofheim. 

Left to right: Judy, Aunt Doris, John

Interestingly, most German towns and Länder (states) have a unique coat of arms. Below is the one for Hofheim.

Hofheim, a picturesque little suburb of Frankfurt with rolling hills and twisting streets, is where my aunt and uncle have two lovely friends named Angela and Harald. Technically speaking, Angela is my aunt's cousin. She and Harald are a lively, healthy couple in their 80s who became friends with my father on his previous three trips to Germany in 2003, 2006 and 2008. They were excited to meet us, and welcomed us with a handshake and a hug at the same time. For me it was immediate immersion in the German language. Angela speaks Hochdeutsch (High German), which is the typical German spoken and written in school, but Harald speaks a strong local dialect of German, which for the most part I was able to decipher. 

Left to right: Harald, Angela

We spent the better part of the afternoon with the couple, enjoying their hospitality and Angela’s marvelous culinary skills. To our surprise, Harald gifted us with an album filled with photos of my father's visits with them. Since my father passed away just this past July 6th, we found this to be an incredible kindness. 

Left to right: Angela, Aunt Doris, Harald, Dad

 

Harald, who is an avid photographer, mentioned that the last photo in the album is a recent one and that he was sure we would recognize it. Amusingly, he caught our plane in flight as it was approaching the airport in Frankfurt, which is about 12 kilometers (7.5 miles) south of Hofheim. Apparently his house is right beneath the flight path of trans-Atlantic flights like ours!

We ate a light afternoon Mittagessen (noon meal) that is typical for Germans, consisting of homemade soup and flavorful hard rolls. 

Left to right: Aunt Doris, Harald, Judy, John

Later it was time for Kaffeeklatsch (coffee break), when we sampled Angela’s marvelous home-baked treats, consisting of Berliner (jelly-filled doughnuts), Kaffeekuchen mit Kirschen (coffee cake with cherries), a Schokoladensahnenrolle (cream-filled chocolate roll), and delicate, chewy Florentine (also known as lace cookies) made with almonds, sugar and honey that melt in your mouth before you can swallow each bite.

Left to right: Judy, John, Angela. The Florentine cookies are in the center of the table.

 

We enjoyed very much our tour of their home, which was built in the early 1900s. I was surprised to hear that Angela and Harald maintain the beautiful landscaping pretty much themselves. Harald, who is a masterful wood worker, has made much of the cabinetry throughout the house. His tools are organized in a workroom that would be the envy of any professional. I suspect that much of the energy that Harald enjoys is the result of the fact that he swims 26 laps of a pool three or four times a week—an indoor pool, I might add, that he built with his own two hands.

On our way to my aunt and uncle's home in Laufdorf (which translates literally as "running village"), my Uncle Herbert stopped in front of an interesting restaurant featuring a nautical theme, which he was certain would interest John, a former U.S. Navy officer. At this point John and I were so sleepy from both food and our flight, that I am not sure either of us could tell you whether the restaurant was under construction or completed, but the photo below suggests the former.

After our visit, John and I weren’t sure we would have room for supper, but around 9:00 p.m. we did manage to squeeze it in. In Germany it is typical to eat a heavier meal around noon (similar to an American dinner, but smaller), and a smaller meal in the evening called Abendessen (larger than a typical American lunch). An afternoon coffee break with a slice of Kuchen (cake) is also common. We aren’t quite sure at this point how to enter what we eat into our WeightWatchers® log, but we figure that if we watch our portion sizes, we should be okay.

Leaving for Germany

This past August my husband and I journeyed to Germany, a trip that was 32 years in the planning. We visited for a month, staying with relatives from my father's side of the family. For the first two weeks, we resided with my uncle and aunt in south central Germany, while the remainder of our visit was in northern Germany with my cousin and his wife. Please feel free to join us as I re-live our travels in this and continuing posts.

August 1, 2011

Des Moines, Iowa to Frankfurt am Main, Germany

5:30 p.m. CST

John’s friend, John C., picked us up at 1:00 today, taking us to the airport in Des Moines. We took United Flight 6048, a United Express Economy flight that involved sitting in an airplane too small to accommodate carry-on luggage. Nervously, I watched my carry-on suitcase slide down the conveyor rollers from the boarding ramp to the plane, hoping that the suitcase containing my laptop would not crash to the ground. Later, though we were told that you could take only a handbag or small backpack with you to put under your seat, I noticed that other people who were nervous about their laptops pulled them out of their carry-on luggage and put them on their laps. I don’t blame them, and think I will do the same on the return journey.

We landed what felt like a half hour later in Chicago (but was really longer), and proceeded to our gate, where we were told that we still had about 20 minutes before our flight would begin boarding. We were invited to take advantage of the Red Carpet hospitality room, which is available to passengers like us who are flying Business Class. That is where I am writing now. It is so much more quiet here than at the gate, where many people waiting to board cannot even find a place to sit. Refreshments, other than alcohol, are free of charge. John and I had a cup of cool, refreshing water, shared a cup of dried fruits and nuts, and ate some fresh baby carrots. Nice! We took the time to leave David a voice mail message saying good bye, and to call John’s mom to let her know that we arrived okay in Chicago.

We just heard the loudspeaker announcement, letting us know that our flight is getting ready to board, so I will resume this narrative later.

10:00 p.m. CST

It is now 7:00 a.m. in Germany, but we are only about three hours into Flight 940 aboard a Boeing 747-400. I am taking the time to jot down a few impressions before I try to get some shuteye, since it will be about another five hours before we land in Germany, where it will be 10:00 a.m.

This is the first time that John and I have ever flown Business Class, and let me say that I would not hesitate to fly this way again on a trans-Atlantic or any lengthy flight. The seats themselves are a miracle—fully cushioned, wide, and adjustable. You can actually lay the seat down flat for sleeping and are provided with a pillow, blanket, bed socks and eye mask to keep out the light. Many of the passengers are already reclining after a wonderful dinner consisting of a center cut of smoked salmon loin, seasonal mixed baby greens, herbed Boursin® rotisserie chicken with a pomegranate glaze, along with stir-fried sugar snap peas and carrots, and a whole grain roll. Delicious! The steward welcomed us by name, and service is really excellent.

There are three columns of seats in Business Class, which occupies part of the upper tier of seating in the plane. You know those windows that you see close to the top of a Boeing 747? Well, that’s where we are. The Economy Class passengers are actually seated below us. When we boarded the plane, we entered one door of the plane, and Economy Class passengers entered another. From left to right, the first two passengers face the rear of the plane, the ones in the middle column (four seats across) face the nose of the plane, and the two far right seats face the tail. 

Each passenger has a personal viewing screen where you can watch a movie or select a television program, check out information about the plane’s itinerary, or listen to music. When the pilot makes an announcement, programming pauses, but beyond that you have uninterrupted time to spend with your personal entertainment system. I browsed through the various categories, but in the end decided that sleep would be more productive than seeking audiovisual leisure, since we will be spending an entire day with my Uncle Herbert and Aunt Doris before we can go to bed seven hours later than we would normally dive beneath the covers.

2:30 a.m. CST

I woke up about a quarter of an hour ago, feeling a bit gritty-eyed but otherwise okay. I guess I’m excited about getting our first day in Germany started. I can hear the stewards and stewardesses clinking silverware, plates and drinking glasses in preparation for breakfast; in fact, some people have already been served while I take a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom, washing my face, brushing my teeth and reapplying makeup. One of the items we were provided, when we boarded the plane, was a zipper pouch filled with personal care items, including a toothbrush and toothpaste. Breakfast, like dinner just a few hours ago, is excellent, consisting of a plate filled with fresh fruits, orange juice and a tasty croissant.

The plane will land in about 90 minutes, so we’re getting excited. John is more tired than I am, since he slept for only an hour and 15 minutes.

© 2011 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.

Spass muss sein!

My father, Joe, was 81 years old when he passed away this past July 6th after a prolonged battle with lung cancer. He left behind four children and six grandchildren, all spread through the U.S. in Wisconsin, Washington, Kentucky, Oregon, and Iowa—and a brother and many other relatives in Germany. He was preceded in death by my mother, Margarete, by my baby brother Michael, by his parents, and all of his siblings but one.

Joe grew up in Oberhausen-Sterkrade, Germany.

Born in Germany, Joe was only nine years old when World War II began. Like many children whose parents were concerned about their safety, he was sent south to the Alps until the worst conditions were past. There his adventurous spirit encouraged him to don his Lederhosen and climb high enough to pluck an Edelweiss flower that he pressed between the pages of his boyhood photo album. Naturally athletic, his favorite youth sports included soccer and hand ball.

Joe (left) and his friend clutch their Edelweiss flowers.

A thirst for new experiences caused Joe to board the S.S. Washington on June 22, 1951 from Hamburg, Germany to sail to the U.S. He was 21 years old when he arrived in New York on July 2^nd with only two suitcases and an eager smile on his face. His sponsor was his Uncle Joe in Elm Grove, Wisconsin.

He met the love of his life, Margarete, at a restaurant where she was waitressing. They married in 1954 at Camp Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where Joe served in the Sixth Armored Division. It was through his military service that he earned his U.S. citizenship. Joe felt a deep sense of patriotism for his adopted country. He was proud to be a Charter Contributor to The Statue of Liberty Ellis Island Foundation.

My parents, both from Germany, became naturalized American citizens.

Over time, Joe and Margarete discovered a mutual appreciation for classical music, ballroom dancing and singing, which they enjoyed at a German-American club called Harmonie. To some extent, these interests were an extension of Joe’s musical ability. As a teen, he and his friends formed a band in which he played the drums. During the early years of his marriage, he played an accordion. One Christmas when he was in his 70s, he bought himself an electronic keyboard, and for a while during his stay at The Courtyards at Luther Manor, he was a member of the bell choir.

Joe dances with his sister, Hedwig, during a visit to Germany.

Joe was fascinated with technology from the time he arrived in the U.S. to the day he died. In 1958 he began taking flying lessons for his commercial pilot license and flew Cessnas; he continued to fly during his retirement years. In his 60s, he began building his own two-seater plane, and when he was 70 years old, Joe bought himself his first computer and taught himself how to use it.

My brother, Mark, and I admire the plane our father flew.

His earliest jobs in the U.S. took advantage of his tool-and-die maker skills at Kearney & Trecker and at Globe-Union in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Following his military service he began attending Milwaukee School of Engineering, but left to seek full-time employment when Margarete became pregnant with their first child. Later, when his growing family moved to California, he supplemented his education with electrical engineering courses from Cerritos College.

Eventually Joe advanced to management positions at Weiser Lock in southern California, and S-B Manufacturing Company, General Stamping and Stoelting in Wisconsin. At S-B Manufacturing, where he was the plant manager, he often designed creative gifts for retiring employees made from Christmas tree stands and other items that the firm manufactured. 

Joe designed the standing figure from Christmas tree stands and screen door parts.

During the last years before retirement, Joe ran his own tool rental business. He also completed a Briggs & Stratton small engine repair course by correspondence, which enabled him to do lawn mower and snow blower repairs—in many cases free of charge for his neighbors. While residing at The Courtyards at Luther Manor, he worked in the wheelchair repair shop.

Around the house, Joe was the ultimate do-it-yourselfer. He installed ceiling fans and kitchen appliances such as the dishwasher, oven and stove, re-keyed locks, and added a three-season patio room to the house. Joe even created his own aquariums from scratch for goldfish he raised. He transferred the fish to a back yard pond he designed, and added a fountain.

My father always had a project on the backburner.

Joe liked to live his life according to what he called the three Ps—patience, perseverance, and participation. He employed all three qualities in youth leadership roles as he became involved in his children’s activities: Mark and Rick’s Cub Scouts, Rick’s Indian Guides, and Monica’s Indian Princesses. He took sailing lessons with Judy and Mark, and snowmobile safety classes with Rick and Monica. He taught all of the children how to play chess and Canasta during grade school, constructed a detailed 3-D castle with Mark, and helped Judy thread her first sewing machine. He came home from work to get Monica’s hand out of the kitchen mixing bowl, and taught Rick how to clean the first fish he caught. He played with a pet parakeet and tussled with the family dog. The entire family looked forward to Joe’s Sunday morning waffle-baking marathons.

Before my sister, Monica, was born, my father enjoyed couch time with (left to right) Mark, Rick and me.

My father snapped this photo of  his four children the first winter after we relocated to Wisconsin after living in southern California for 4-1/2 years (clockwise, beginning in the upper left corner): Judy, Mark, Rick and Monica.

My father kept Tony, one of a series of parakeets the family kept, in his workroom.

When I went to college, the family acquired Happy, a West Highland Scottish terrier.

Joe was proud of all his grandchildren, took pride in their academic and athletic achievements, and loved sharing stories about them with his visitors. He enjoyed playing with his grandchildren as they grew up.

Joe bicycles with his granddaughter, Kat.

Our son, David, and Opa enjoy a tender moment.

My sister, Monica  (next to my dad), visited my father last year with her daughters (left to right): Janelle, Bethany and Adrienne.

Margarete and Joe enjoy a visit from their Washington granddaughters (left to right), Kris and Kat.

Among the more recent highlights of his life was a cross-country RV trip he shared with his brother Herbert and sister-in-law Doris to visit all of his children and their families. He visited Herbert and Doris in Germany, and accompanied them on a trip to Rome, where he was part of the Pope’s audience. He attended the wedding of his niece Regina and husband Daniel in Germany, and not even a year ago danced with his granddaughter Adrienne at the Chicago wedding of grandson David and his wife Penny.

Granddaughter Adrienne dances with "Opa" at our son's wedding.

Volunteering was as natural to him as breathing. For 11 years, Joe delighted in teaching religious education to 7^th graders at St. Agnes Parish in Butler, Wisconsin. “They don’t know if they’re fish or fowl,” he used to say, “and I find that refreshing.” Because algebra and trigonometry were a daily part of his work day, it was easy for him to volunteer to tutor adults in math, which he did as part of an adult literacy project. He delivered meals for the local Aging and Disability Resource Center, and volunteered for the Wisconsin Nursing Home Ombudsman Program. For a while at Luther Manor, he ran the audio-visual equipment when the first-Friday-of-the-month Mass was broadcast throughout the residential community.

Joe is recognized for his service as Volunteer Ombudsman for the Wisconsin Nursing Home Ombudsman Program.

Joe fought a valiant battle against various forms of cancer during his lifetime, following four simple rules:

1. Eat when you’re hungry.
2. Sleep when you’re tired.
3. Always find time to laugh
4. Be hopeful. 

He had a prodigious store of jokes he liked to tell, and retained his sense of humor despite the challenges of his illness. “Spass muss sein” (you gotta have fun), he would tell everyone. Joe didn’t like to be rushed, so it was not unusual to hear him say, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He has crossed the Eternal Bridge now to be with his Father, where he will no doubt continue to tell jokes.

Joe returned to the Alps in recent years to visit boyhood haunts.

There and back again

It has been almost 2-1/2 months since my father passed away, and about 2-1/2 weeks since my husband and I returned from a month-long visit to Germany, where we visited my father's side of the family. We survived jet lag twice—and my back, suffering from a herniated disc, is on the mend, too. I guess you could say it's time for us to reestablish our regular routines, but we're not sure yet what normal means.

My father suffered from lung cancer that spread to his brain, and eventually to his bones. No one who has not had this disease can say he or she knows what this feels like, but just the same, my husband and I walked the journey with my father from the time he became unable to care for himself at home and had to move into assisted living, to the time he lost the ability to walk, sit, and speak to his loved ones. It took 18 months for him to gradually lose his independence and to learn how to accept help—and it took us just as long to learn how to provide that assistance appropriately. It was a journey for all of us, filled with many lessons. We learned about hope, trust and acceptance, and we are still learning.

In the mail today arrived a bereavement counseling newsletter with a new lesson. The newsletter discussed the importance of being able to differentiate between grief and mourning, and the necessity to mourn a loved one's loss in order to heal. Grief is defined, the mailing pointed out (according to Dr. Alan Wolfelt in his book, Healing Your Grieving Body: 100 Physical Practices for Mourners), as "a constellation of internal thoughts and feelings we have when someone loved dies. Grief is the weight in the chest, the churning in the gut, the unspeakable thoughts and feelings." John and I felt grief before my father died, to be honest. Before my father's last day ever arrived, we felt we were losing pieces of him until in the end, our roles were reversed; he was like an innocent child who didn't understand why things were so difficult, and we were like his parents, trying to provide comfort.

John and my father enjoy a quiet moment.

Dr. Wolfelt describes mourning, on the other hand, as "the outward expression of grief. Mourning is crying, journaling, creating artwork, talking to others about the death, telling the story, speaking the unspeakable." In other words, in order to heal, we must also mourn.

Our trip to Germany was a necessary part of our healing journey. Thirty-two years ago, when John and I first got married, we promised each other we would one day visit my father's side of the family. I had been to Germany before, both as a young child and as a teenager, but this was going to be the trip that created adult memories for both of us. And so it was. We visited with relatives who knew my father when he grew up during World War II Germany, and with others who met my father decades later, after he became a naturalized American citizen. All of us reminisced about old memories and shared new stories with each other. We shed tears, but we laughed as well, traveling "there and back again" as we helped each other to mourn, and thus to heal.

In my next post, I'll share with you some stories about the man who was my father . . . and in the future, after I go through the thousands of photos I took overseas, I'll share with you our trip to Germany. Come back soon!

Dad treats Judy and John to a harbor cruise on their 25th anniversary

Cold winters recall vivid memories

As far back as I can recall, February has always been the coldest month. This fact was reinforced on our most recent road trip to Milwaukee to visit my father, who lives in a care facility. It was the week after the Midwest was socked by blizzard-like conditions. On either side of the road, snow stretched and sparkled in the sunlight as far as the eye could see. The temperature, which dipped below zero, caused my husband to dread every refueling stop, where he had to take off his gloves to grip the cold metal of the gas pump nozzle. When he climbed back into the driver's seat, he blew on his hands to warm them up. Every time we walked across a parking lot, the crisp snow crunched beneath our feet.

February, the coldest month of the year, is also the time when we celebrate warmth—warm feelings for friends and family, that is. School children collect Valentines from classmates in decorated bags and boxes, opening up the envelopes and hoping there are treats to accompany the cards. I recall grade school parties celebrated at the end of the day, when one of the mothers brought home-baked pink-and-white frosted cupcakes. Mostly, however, I remember the time we took in class to make Valentines for our mothers . . . strange, however, that we didn't think to do the same for our fathers!

As young children, winter was not just a time for playing in the snow. Of course, we did plenty of that, too. My brother and I used to go ice skating when the creek froze, he with his hockey skates and me with my figure skates. I really did not skate well, but that was not the point. Clambering down the snowy bank to skate on the uneven ice, and making it through the chilly afternoon without complaint, was a rite of passage. After cavorting outdoors, my mother had hot chocolate waiting for us, with milk she warmed up in a pan. She stirred in spoonfuls of powdered chocolate, topping off the drink with marshmallows.

The snowman in our schoolyard was invariably so big that it took a group of older boys to roll and then stack the giant balls of snow. You could see the blades of grass poking up through the trampled snow because so much of it was invested in that snowman. A snow fort took an entire week to build, and once the snowballs started flying, the bodies weren't far behind. And there was nothing as wonderful as carving a slippery slide with booted feet on the snow-covered asphalt playground. You took a running start, and then slid as far as you could on what essentially became glare ice. It was miraculous that we did not end up with broken bones.

When I started second grade, my family relocated to southern California, but then returned to Wisconsin in time for sixth grade. It is odd to think about it now, but I don't remember much about those winters spent in California, possibly because one season seemed to blend into another. The first winter after we returned to the Midwest, I recall that my teacher allowed me to come in early from recess to warm up my hands at the sink, since I was not accustomed to the cold. "Use lukewarm water," she warned me, "otherwise you'll burn yourself."

I don’t know how many people can say they learned how to ride a two-wheeler in their basement during the winter, but I can remember tilting on my bicycle seat as I adjusted to my training wheels. I rode slowly on the concrete floor, circling around the metal pipe in the laundry room and skirting the edge of the cinder block walls. When it was too cold or dark to play outside (which was often), we played board games and spread out jigsaw puzzles on the floor, put on puppet shows for our parents, and played cards. Ours was the world of black-and-white television, when there were few programs for children. I can count on one hand the cartoons we regularly watched: Mighty Mouse, Popeye, Felix the Cat, Underdog, and Rocky & Bullwinkle. We occupied ourselves in other ways, building towers and houses with very plain Lego® bricks that could not hold a candle to today’s themed sets. We read stories about the children who lived on "What a Jolly Street" in 365 Bedtime Stories, and we colored endlessly in coloring books and on blank sheets of paper. My brother and I peopled our Lego® world with paper dolls, girls for me and boys for him.

I remember countless blizzards, growing up in Wisconsin, when schools closed. One time I had to walk home from school when it closed mid-day. My girlfriend and I stopped at a bridal shop to warm up, where the manager gave us dress bags to wear as head scarves, since we were foolish enough to show up at school with no hats or gloves. We drank coffee to warm ourselves up, even though I detested the stuff. Still do, as a matter of fact!

There was one junior high winter that I spent in Germany, staying with my aunt and uncle and studying at a Gymnasium (pronounced gim-NAH-zee-oom), the German equivalent of high school. I don't remember that the winter there was as cold as in Wisconsin, but I do recall visiting a cousin and sharing her bedroom that was so cold we slept with hot water bottles at our feet in the feather beds. In the morning, there was ice on the inside of the window. I’ll never forget how sick I was, either, when I returned home after my stay in Germany. My mother threw me a homecoming party without realizing I had the mumps, and later had to call all the guests to warn them that they could be next.

Every February 6th, my parents celebrated their anniversary, usually at home. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember that my parents ever left us with a babysitter. When I was older, my mother worked first as a school crossing guard, then later directed traffic at a busy intersection in the "village." My father cut newspapers every evening for her, and layered them inside her boots for warmth. My mother was petite, just five feet and two inches tall, but she wouldn't let anyone tell her she couldn't shovel the snow on the driveway or chop the ice at the foot of it. She was strong-willed and ran the household on a strict schedule. On Saturdays, when we came home from evening Mass during the winter, my mother had a homemade navy bean soup waiting for us, along with hot, buttered hard rolls.

Those early winter family memories, frozen in time, eventually gave way to adult ones. I remember the time my friend from California boarded a Greyhound bus to visit me. She had never experienced snowfall, and couldn't wait to throw herself into the snow and spread her arms wide to make her first snow angel. She snapped photos of my neighbor, who was snow blowing his driveway, and gamely agreed to board a Badger Bus in tundra-like weather to visit the University of Wisconsin campus in Madison. I don't know know what we were thinking—with the wind chill, the temperature felt like a negative sixty-four degrees!

That was a typical Wisconsin winter, however. One time I visited my future in-laws in north central Wisconsin, and it was so cold that the oil in my car froze, preventing the engine from turning. John's father simply covered the car with a blanket like a baby, shifted the car into neutral and pushed it into his garage, plugging in the block heater to thaw things out.

When my husband and I married, he was a Naval officer who was stationed on the West coast. The first winter after we relocated back to the Midwest, it was apparent we didn't yet have our winter feet beneath us. My husband bought bottles of Pepsi and forgot he had stored them in his car trunk overnight. In the morning, of course—you guessed it—the fluid had frozen and expanded, and the bottles then exploded. What a mess! Our son was 3 years old at the time. What struck him most about winter was the abundance of wildlife; he would follow the tracks in the snow from the squirrels and chipmunks, rabbits and birds.

You wonder sometimes why anyone would live in a climate where the electrical lines can snap from the weight of ice or snow, where you can be without electricity or heat four days in a row. You wonder why anyone would move into a new house in the dead of winter. And you begin to think that people are mad when they drive their children to oratorical contests during a blizzard, or to show choir competitions 2-1/2 hours away when it's sleeting. But then there's the other side of winter, too, when you wake up late in the morning to discover that your neighbor has cleared your driveway of snow. Hoarfrost lines the tree branches with snow so beautiful it makes you race for your camera. There is nothing like sitting in front of the fireplace when it's snowing, curled up in an afghan with a book in your lap. Winter is a time to sit in front of the window and write long, newsy letters to family and friends, reflecting on the memories being created.

We created our own memories this trip, visiting my father in Wisconsin who is not well. His room overlooks the park where we children used to play, near the private airport where my father used to fly a Cessna. He cracks his window open, even in the cold, for a breath of fresh air and the chance to hear the sounds of winter. He is, after all, a Midwesterner.

© 2011 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.

The gift of discovery

If you were to ask me to name the best Christmas gift I ever received, I'm not sure I could answer that question. My husband, on the other hand, recalls a  powerful bazooka-type air gun that he and his brother found beneath their tree one winter. His arm draws back in joyful memory as he mimes the action of that once-upon-a-time toy. For me, however, the birthday and Christmas packages blur together, with no single gift standing out as better than another.

I do recall that I especially liked to receive books, and that books were familiar friends that greeted me nearly every Christmas. No doll or stuffed animal could compare to the power of the written word. Inevitably I played school with my “students”—an activity related, no doubt, to my love of reading. Reading, language, school, books—they all represented doorways to learning and discovery. That is still true today.

As an adult, I am excited each year when my husband gifts me with a copy of The Best American Short Stories and The Best American Essays. I am excited about reading a dictionary; when my husband and I visited Amelia Island a little over a year ago, I was delighted to discover a 42-year-old copy of The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology in a lovely two-story bookshop.When we first got married and dragged a U-Haul trailer from Wisconsin to Coronado, California, where my husband was stationed as a Weapons Officer aboard the U.S.S. Blue Ridge, books filled most of the trailer space—and the bookcase in our one-bedroom furnished apartment occupied most of the living room. Thirty years later, one bookcase has grown to fourteen, with more books and magazines spilling over into crates and baskets in every room.

In retrospect, perhaps the greatest gift that my parents gave me each Christmas holiday was a means to feed my curiosity about the world. Although I may not be able to journey to every corner on the earth (although my parents did send me to Germany for a few months during junior high to experience life across the proverbial pond), through the written word I can become acquainted with different cultures and languages, various traditions, beliefs and perspectives, and an amazing diversity in history and geography. I don't think you can put a price on the value of discovery . . . this, then, is the best Christmas gift I ever received.

That first pumpkin pie

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I've been thinking about how our family traditions have evolved. My husband, who is several generations removed from his European ancestry, brought to our marriage the assumption that you eat turkey, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and pumpkin pie for dinner, and also that the afternoon and evening are spent in front of the television set, eyes glued to a slippery football and hands glued to snacks. "Sounds like the American Dream to me," says John.

As a first-generation American whose parents were born in Germany, however, my family treated Thanksgiving very differently. First of all, Thanksgiving is known as Erntedankfest (a thankful celebration of a successful harvest) in Germany, and is not really a family holiday at all. It is typically celebrated at the end of September (when it is celebrated at all) with a church service, possibly a daytime procession ending with a coronation (Erntekrone, or harvest crown), and maybe a musical gathering at church, accompanied by dancing and food. There might also be a lantern procession (Laternenumzug), and perhaps another evening church service, followed by fireworks. Football? Sports? They pretty much don't enter into the picture.

The above picture of my paternal grandmother (visiting from Germany), my younger brother and I will give you an idea how Thanksgiving in my family was celebrated. We dressed in our Sunday best, and while the Thanksgiving Day parade marched on the black-and-white streets of Television Land, we piled into the family car to attend Mass at the local church. My mother, meanwhile, stayed home to prepare a noon dinner. We ate egg drop soup, turkey, dumplings and a vegetable. Instead of pumpkin pie, we had Jello or Kuchen (cake). No football games for us . . . we played board games when we were younger, and Canasta as we grew older. Midway through the afternoon, we took a Kaffeeklatsch break, which consisted of coffee and cake for my parents, and milk and cake for the children. And when evening came around, we all enjoyed open-faced sandwiches on thin, dark slices of Pumpernickelbrot.

When John and I first married and he learned that I had never baked a pie, in fact never ate pie at my parents' house on Thanksgiving or any other day, he volunteered his baking expertise. That first Thanksgiving (and his pumpkin pie) were memorable. He floured his rolling pin and shaped the dough for the pie crust, added a pumpkin filling and slid the pie tin into the oven. A little while later, however, instead of the sweet smell of a much-awaited dessert, the smoke alarm went off and the stink of burnt sugar wafted through the house. It turns out that John had unknowingly substituted powdered sugar for flour, with disastrous results. These days we buy our pumpkin pie at the local grocery store, mostly for John's sake, since I have still never baked a pie, and mostly, I don't eat it. So much for meshing customs from two families!

In the early years of our marriage, my husband enjoyed the typical Thanksgiving football fanfare, but apparently this is a game that is better appreciated when you watch it with someone who understands the rules. That wasn't and still isn't me. I certainly don't mind if John watches football, but I'm more likely to have my nose buried in a book while sitting in the same room. In a word, I'm not a very good cheerleader. As the years passed, John began seeking an afternoon Thanksgiving activity we both could enjoy. So, gradually, Thanksgiving afternoons instead became times when we played board games or watched movies. And in the evening, we enjoyed open-faced sandwiches on baked rolls.

To be sure, we spent our share of Thanksgivings at both of our parents' homes. When we lived too far away on the West coast to visit--and before our son was born--we celebrated with friends who were just as inept in the kitchen as we were. But as empty nesters today, we have gained a few cooking skills and can serve decent Thanksgiving fare to our son and his fiancee. We eat too much food, watch movies and play games, and eat some more. That eating part, at least, is like the typical American Thanksgiving. And it turns out that our son's fiancee likes pumpkin pie, so these days John is learning a new skill: how to share. "Sounds like the American Dream to me," I say.

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.  

The best Halloween ever

Fall has always been my favorite time of year, not because of Halloween, but because of the outdoor sights, sounds and smells of the season. The leaves cling to the branches in a kaleidoscope of colors—burnt orange, burgundy, gold and olive. When they waft to the earth, they create crisp piles through which young feet (or older ones!) like to shuffle. When you stroll around the block, you inhale the pungent chimney smoke rising into the air from the logs in your neighbors’ fireplaces. And if you’re lucky, you’ll also catch the deer at dusk, nibbling the sweet stems from summer’s remaining day lilies.

To me, Halloween marks the end of fall and hails the entrance of winter. Both here and in Wisconsin, where I grew up, Halloween is often so cold that you can see you breath mist as you traipse from door to door. Children wear long johns or sweat pants to keep their legs warm, hoping they won’t have to hide their costumes beneath coats or jackets. In our family, you went trick-or-treating when you were in kindergarten or first grade, and then you gave out treats at the door as you grew older. My brother Mark, like Peter Pan who did not want to grow up, had a rubber gorilla mask he donned one year while he attempted to scare our little visitors.

In any event, our family’s Halloween nights were for the very young. When I was 16 years old and announced to my parents that I wanted to host a costume party, I think everyone was ready for a change. My friend Pat, a talented artist, volunteered to design paper wall decorations and helped me hang them. My mother and I planned the menu and set a festive table, and my father and brother set up an acoustic system for a haunted house in the basement. Crepe paper streamers and spider webs were hung everywhere, along with lanterns. Everyone brainstormed activities. And, of course, we purchased prizes for all the guests.

When the big day arrived, everyone was appropriately dressed. There was Donna as Mr. Donut, Debbie the Barefoot Nurse, Pat the Rat, Bev the Washer Woman, Nancy the Pumpkin, Serenella the Indian, Luwanna and Teri as the Black and Pink Panthers, Sue the Farmer, Donna the Belle, and Marcia as Mickey Mouse. I guess I was the Queen of Hearts; regretfully I have no photos of myself, since I was the photographer. Before long, the foosball and checker tournaments were in full swing. In the darkened laundry room, my friends and I sat in a circle and joined hands for a mock séance, giggling nervously when pre-recorded shrieks and spooky sounds were piped into the space. I recall at least one silly skit that was performed. We played Pin the Bone On the Skeleton, bobbed for apples, and generally made fools of ourselves.

 

Today I wonder if the Halloween of 1972 is so memorable because it differed so greatly from most other trick-or-treat nights, or simply because it was so much fun to plan together as a family. That year, however, it was the best Halloween ever!

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved. 

First stitches, first steps

My first Simplicity half-apron and gray kettle cloth jumper are decades behind me, but I still recall many of the items on Miss Banovich’s 7th grade sewing supplies list: seam ripper, seam gauge, measuring tape, pins, fabric scissors, sewing machine needles, thread, and a couple of clear plastic bobbins. Interestingly, it was my father—not my mother—who helped me collect these items. In fact, I still have my first sewing basket, a rather humble-looking box in gold-flecked white vinyl that dates back to the 1970s.

My mother, whose brief foray into sewing included a set of unevenly cut yellow curtains that she hoped no one would remember, did not enjoy sewing. She was horrified, in fact, when she returned to Germany to visit her mother, and those curtains were hung in a window in her honor. With relief, she passed on to me the darning egg in her sewing basket to mend my father’s socks, along with a stack of trousers that needed to be shortened for the summer. She was my sewing cheerleader, but it was my father with whom I held discussions about how to thread our Sears Kenmore sewing machine.  These days my father wishes he knew what happened to that old Kenmore, but I think it’s likely my mother gave it away when I went to college and bought my own Brother machine. She is no longer with us, so I guess that will remain her little secret.

The garments I sewed and the events of those early years are connected like buttons sewn on a sweater. My boyfriend (who became my husband) was a midshipman at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, so every winter and spring during college, I sewed a floor-length gown for the Navy R.O.T.C. balls we attended together. Likewise, I made some of the dresses I wore as a sales clerk while working at Gimbels Department Store during college. And when John and I married, I made my own bridal gown and veil.

In the early years of our marriage, we lived in southern California, where John was stationed as a Naval Weapons Officer. When we moved to the West coast, the sewing machine and cabinet—and all of my fabrics and notions—occupied a significant portion of the space in the U-Haul we rented, along with my numerous books. Eight years later, when our son was born, a Pfaff sewing machine had replaced the Brother, and I sewed many of David’s play clothes.

Today my sewing machine no longer occupies a corner of a bedroom or living room, but sits in its own dedicated space: a sewing room. Of course, that’s not the only place in our home where I create—John says that wherever you find horizontal surfaces is where you'll find my work—but it is nice to have a home base, of sorts! My sewing room is where my Pfaff Creative 7530 sewing machine resides, inside a solid oak Parsons cabinet.

This is also where I write. I love my Mission-style writing desk.

The closet holds quilting rulers and templates, specialty sewing tools, interfacing and stabilizers, and boxes of sewing supplies.Fabric is another story . . . no space in this room!

Along one wall is Dolly (my dress form), who wears a half-finished apron. I like to “dial her down” so that I can imagine what I might look like if I lost some weight!

In a corner of the room stands a chest of drawers for needlework supplies. Next to it is a small couch where I like to do hand sewing, or browse through how-to publications.

Projects are always spilling out of my sewing room into other rooms because my working space is no bigger than a child’s small nursery. Still, this is where many of my Etsy products are created. In short, it’s a cozy place to ponder, poke at fabrics, and produce!

© 2009 Judy Nolan. All rights reserved.