September 11, 2001

Time moves on. 

Buildings and memorials take shape,

The Freedom Tower takes shape, c. Aug. 2013

The National September 11 Memorial

Photo Credit: By Hakilon (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

But we never forget.

Photo credit: By briantschumacher (Brian Tofte-Schumacher) via Wikimedia Commons

Never.

Quote of the Day: Unexpected Memories Lingered Beneath Words

As I work my way back to semi-regular blogging, I'm going to share some of the quotes from books I've been reading ... some of the random things that have perked my interest, and persuaded me to keep using this forum to share things, family history, etc.

"Over the years, Aunt Ailis had tried to lure Finnegan into the world of computers, the lines of software code that she studied as if they would give her a key to the inner workings of the human brain, if not heart. Finnegan understood the satisfaction she derived from the act of coding, her ability to aim for and achieve something she already she knew she wanted -- but for Finnegan, his interest in people's stories was always the unexpected memories that lingered beneath the words, waiting to come out. As far as Finnegan could understand, the purpose of coding was to create a form of stable perfection, a series of commands that could reproduce every time exactly what was intended. The opposite of humans, who were interesting to Finnegan precisely because of the way their narrative changed, hid other meanings, shifted with time and perspective.

 So he reached out and took the stories in, knowing that they had nowhere else to go, unable to refuse safe haven to memories that otherwise would disappear unnoticed. And yet, at times, he was overwhelmed by the weight of other people's lives, the stack of notebooks that surrounded his bed.

"You could publish them," Aunt Ailis suggested. But Finnegan knew, somehow, that wasn't the answer. What he had experienced in the transfer of these stories was as intimate as touch, a table for two in a crowded restaurant. Still, he didn't know what to do with them, didn't know who he was without them.

...

And so he sat in his room, surrounded. ... He sat on his bed and picked up one notebook after another, reading."

~ From Erica Bauermeister's The Lost Art of Mixing, pages 231-232

Emphasis throughout my own.

September 11, 2001

 Never forgotten.

Home Sweet (Dreams) Home

Tonight I’ll go to sleep in my childhood bedroom, probably for one of the very last times.

I walked in, dropped my many bags and cares down, and just sighed deeply – inhaling the distinctive smell of "home" -- one that has welcomed me in since the summer of 1981. I can almost feel the house sighing with, and embracing, me. 

I’m so comfortable in this oddly shaped room, with its lack of right angles, its slanted creaking wooden floors, and nooks, crannies, dings and dents. There’s the wall where my bed was placed; where my brother and I used to tap out messages to each other in our own code. There are the four large windows where I looked out on my corner of the world, out over the treetops where I imagined I saw mythical creatures. Windows that let in fresh air and so much sun-, street-, and moonlight, so I could read after the official “light’s out.” There is the tiny closet, a vintage, period-appropriate feature of the house, which still managed to house a teenager’s growing wardrobe – 1980’s shoulder-pads and all. Over there is the corner where a bookshelf housed not only my burgeoning library, but where my childhood toys gave way to tokens from friends and high school beaus, and then, in turn, gave way college catalogs that helped shaped my future. 

These memories are overlaid by fading snapshots of other scenes. While my eyes take in the current neutral stripe of the wallpaper, I still can almost feel the roses of the vintage raised velvet pink and white pattern that faded to beige and disintegrated with age while I grew up. Another long blink replaces my remembered view of a utilitarian fold-out table with older memories of the hours spent at my childhood writing desk in one spot in the room, and then just as quickly flickers to other, later memories of my grandfather’s desk tucked behind the door -- my mother’s bill-paying spot. If I turn too fast, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see and hear the ghosts of childhood slumber parties just there, over there -- where now resides the fold-out couch I’m not-quite-looking forward to laying these “mature” bones down upon.

This lovely room, the largest of the bedrooms on the second floor, “straight ahead at the top of the stairs; don’t forget to duck” served so many functions. After my first two years of college, it began to house more of the family. One brother temporarily claimed it as his own, before he too was out of the house and on to new adventures. Then it served as my father’s office, as he needed a private sanctuary to counsel his flock and deal with all of the administrative work inherent in decades of church service. It was the gathering spot, above the football fray, for many a riotous Thanksgiving gathering, where women of many generations sat and gossiped. It became a guest room at holidays and breaks, Dad’s computer and computer-part equipment room, Mom’s storage room, a filing room, and my landing pad – always a safe haven to come home to – for any of its wandering former occupants.

The house is essentially empty now. The furniture that remains does so that the building is not totally vacant. (Or, in the instance of this massive fold-out couch, because it was so difficult to get it in, that it’s someone else’s problem to get out.) But it’s not really empty.

Throughout the house, but most especially in this room where I spent so many formative years, if I close my eyes and listen closely – I can hear the walls, windows, boards, and beams creaking back an echo of all the love and laughter and antics of my family and our friends. This place is a part of us, of who we were, of who we became, of who we are still becoming. We may have left, but in a sense, we will still remain. I know this place will always have a piece of my heart, even though I didn’t live here nearly as long as my parents. Despite that, our time here left an imprint – on us, and on the soul of the building. 

Although I've other trips back here since my parents moved away and we've waited for the next chapter to begin for this heritage house, this weekend is probably the last time I’ll sleep under its roof– and sleep in “my” bedroom. Despite the bittersweet poignancy of this realization, I know I’ll sleep safe and sound, and have sweet dreams, because …

Here?

This place?

There’s just no place like home.

September 11, 2001

Never Forgotten

Driving and Spring Cleaning down Memory Lane

As I get older, it seems that time and my memories are starting to play tricks on me. Time seems to be speeding up, while I am slowing down. Just as I’m ready to think about the past, my memories are starting to recede. Trying to remember dates from my personal timeline is difficult. You know that saying on the rearview mirror: “Objects may be closer than they appear?” Well, I never was good with driving in reverse.

For the last few years, as Easter approaches I remember the very difficult holiday weekend we spent in Utah, with all the events leading up to and surrounding Grandma Roa’s funeral. It does strangely appropriate that this important family event happened around Easter – with all its symbolism of rebirth and resurrection.

Since I couldn’t remember the exact date, I spent part of this past Easter weekend sorting through and organizing the piles of letters and materials from my grandmothers. I found the obituary and funeral home program relating to Grandma Roa and verified that it was only six years ago.

On the one hand, I thought it was fewer years than that, and on the other, it does seem longer. Perhaps because so many things have happened to me and to the family since then?

I do think there was something poignant in Grandma passing on Easter weekend. LDS/Mormons do not have the pageantry around Easter like some faiths, but we do but great stock in what the holiday is all about: sacrifice, remission of sins, resurrection, and reuniting after periods of separation. The emphasis for us in on Easter Sunday, not bunnies, candy, eggs, or 40 days of something followed by a Fat Weekday.

As for this “gray sheep,” I worshiped this past weekend with and in Nature, and with a personal spring-cleaning ritual, bringing me closer to the Spirit of Elijah.

Although it may seem like forever to those of use here on this plane, I do believe that we’ll have a chance to see our loved ones again. Now that I’ve been rereading all of the letters and advice from my grandmas, I have more questions for them now than I did growing up. Between being young and busy, too reticent to dig too deeply into family histories, and falsely believing that there “would be time for that later,” I missed too many opportunities to find out things. I look forward to having the opportunity to talk freely with my grandmothers Ollie and Roa, hug my grandfathers Jack and June, and meet my great+ grandparents, not to mention my great-aunt Rachel, and to finally meet my namesake.

I hope you’ll bear with me over the next year or so, as I post various recollections of my grandmothers, their letters to me, some of my letters to them, and ponderings on their passings. Hopefully this will be a jumping off point for other family members to chime in and fill in more of the family history.

Won't you walk with me a while?

Where have these been all my life?

As I type this, many layers of multi-colored notes on the back of my left hand are still visible.

Library

Bills

4:23 4:32 4:49 [train times]

Laundry

I admit it. I'm one of those people who write memos and lists on the back of their hands. I never had much luck with writing lists down on post-its or on scraps of paper, because inevitably I would lose them between one second and the next. I'd forget what groceries I needed, what other errand I needed to run, or who I needed to call.

Years ago I figured out that if I wrote the note on my hand, I was less likely to loose it. My artful decorations have elicited many a comment from teachers and parental units, mostly along the lines of "are you cheating? or "you're going to get skin cancer!" [Dad, I promise. The next time I go and see the dermatologist, I'll add it to the list (on my hand) of things to talk to them about.]

In the meantime, I'm glad to know that someone has finally invented a neater, non-toxic, and water soluble way for me to list things on my skin. Click here to order from amazon.com.

I suppose I could have put the list on my palm or the inside of my arm, but if it's not in my line of sight, I'd forget it then too. Maybe I need to add some ginko to the shopping list? (and it has NOTHING to do with age, thank you very much!)

Retro Ramblings

In my “memory boxes,” I found a copy of one the articles I had written for my high school newspaper. I had forgotten I was even part of the paper staff during my senior year, which isn’t completely surprising; I had about 13 extra curricular activities that year. Long before I had written about May-itis, I had written about schoolitis and senioritis.

Students succumb to boredom
Humor by [Auntie Nettie]

How many of you have been cursed with the droopy-eyed blues? Does your teacher have monotone voice syndrome? Do you find yourself gradually drifting off into another world during most of your classes? If you have answered “yes” to any of these questions, then you suffer from schoolitis boredusperpetualis, more commonly known as “boredom.” The most common symptom of schoolitis is seen as napping through important lectures and class discussion. Doctors, parents, and teachers have found that schoolitis only lasts from the hours of 8:00 a.m. until approximately 1:55 p.m. excluding the passing times [time between classes], lunch, and assorted study halls.

Students in the twelfth grade are afflicted with a mutant strain of this illness, known as senioritis gradualis. Students with this illness suffer from symptoms such as I-don’t-care attitude, flippant remarks, late nights doing absolutely nothing, teasing and molesting underclassmen noticeable is the ancient rite of “Freshmen Initiation” which originated with the first high school), and a frenzy of trying to fill out college applications the day before the deadline. The severity of each case varies from person to person, and doctors have yet to find one twelfth grader in America that does not suffer from this ailment.

When asked about her feelings on senioritis and schoolitis, {anonymous senior} could not be reached for comment. It seems she was visiting La La Land and the only semblance of a reply was a faint “ZZZZZZZZ.”

Quite often a student’s environment is conducive to schoolitis. Droning voices, overheated rooms, lack of interest, lack of sleep, and a comfortable position are all factors that students mention when asked what makes them sleep in class.

When asked if she ever suffered from schoolitis and why, {another anonymous senior} said, “Yes, last year there was one class I always slept in. I think it was because my body got used to always sleeping at that time.” Another American student struck down by this dread disease.

There seem to be many different ways to hide the fact that you suffer from schoolitis. Girls with long hair report that they hide their face (especially the eye region) in their hair and their teachers never know the difference. Boys report that they try and sit at the back of the classroom to escape detection. Hats, hiding-the-face-in-the-hand routine, slouching and the ever subtle head-on-the-desk-hide-behind-your-neighbor-and-wake-me-up-when-the-bell-rings technique are all the most commonly reported methods that students use.

Sometimes the teachers take pity on their classes, and they show a filmstrip. What American high school student has not cheered when presented with this “holiday?” (Seriously, who watches those things? After all, who really pays attention to 20-year-old filmstrips on ancient history?) Obviously, looking at some of the grades in classes where filmstrips and videotapes are shown exclusively, not many people are awake during this given “naptime.”

Have you ever looked around your classroom and noticed that you are the ONLY person besides your teacher still awake? Congratulations!! You are not cursed with this disease.

If you have the cure to schoolitis boredusperpetualis, please contact the nurse as soon as possible. It seems that there has been an outbreak of the illness and more and more cases of page face (a very curious side ailment where the imprint of the page that the student has slept on is seen on the face) are being reported and the nurse is getting desperate. Please rush to the health center as quickly as possible. It seems that I too have just come down with schoolitis and am faced with the question of whether to “ZZZ” or not to “ZZZZ … zzz …z.”

Thanksgiving Throw-out on Memory Lane

Part of my Thanksgiving jaunt included the "forced" purging of many boxes of belongings from my parents’ attic. My folks are slowly winnowing down the mass accumulation of five people who spent almost 30 years in a post-Victorian American four-square. Our “stuff” is crammed into every nook and cranny of that house. Now that my parents are retired empty-nesters, they are thinking ahead to when they down-size and relocate to warmer climes nearer their grandchildren. While a good deal of my furniture and quite a few trunks remain in the basement and the garage, I am making pace with the five-year cleaning plan that is underway. Somehow my brothers are spared this process. I think it is because they are thousands of miles away, and don’t seem to care as much about their “stuff.”

On previous visits I have spent hours shredding paystubs from college, shaking my head over the paltry wages that were my work-study financial aid. Copious binders of college notes, handouts, and papers also went in the shredder. College textbooks were donated to the library. Childhood toys were passed on to needy kids. My maid of horror … er… honor bridesmaids dresses went off to Goodwill to amuse future bargain hunters. (Sorry gals, I never did manage to wear those taffeta creations again, no matter how hard you tried to be nice.) I thought I had made good progress, so I was befuddled as to what the heck was in eight to ten boxes Mom had earmarked for me to go through this time.

Under the light of one dim bulb and in the shivering cold of an un-insulated attic, I quickly managed to edit down more of my past. This time I discarded the remainder of my college papers and notes. I found a file with paystubs from my first “real” job, where I learned that if "you have time to lean, you have time to clean." I winnowed three crates of piano/choral music down to one. More books were earmarked for donation, along with various ceramic figurines and stuffed animals. I was ruthless. Peter Walsh would have been so proud of me.

I didn’t really slow down, however, until I found two small battered cardboard boxes. These were the real “memory boxes,” ones that had been hidden away in the dark recesses of the attic. Creased into the masking tape and peppered throughout the papers were cinders from two chimney fires that have threatened the house over the years. I had discovered a treasure trove from my high school years. In addition to my SAT paperwork, Soviet-era rubles and Communist-paraphernalia from my trip to the U.S.S.R., I found my high school diploma and various letter pins--like the one for the National Honor Society. (How did I forget that I belonged to the National Honor Society?) I also found those Broadway Playbills from the trip to Les Miz and Phantom, along with the choral arrangements, mentioned here. Seriously. Look!

(I wonder how much I can get for them on eBay?)

Some of the scariest finds in that archaeological dig were the junior high school yearbooks and all of the photos of the 1980s hair. Those incriminating documents will be locked away and only shown to those implicated on those pages with me, and you know who you are. What really amused me were those inscriptions that my classmates wrote in those yearbooks. You know those inscriptions; the “Have a great Summer!” or “You’re a great friend” notes? The ones to me went more like:

• “Stay the same over the summer (strange!)”;
• “{Auntie Nettie} You are a very strange! But nice friend.”;
• “Hi {Auntie Nettie} You’re a little weird. Only kidding.” [I don't think she was!];
• and “I will miss your stupid ‘smart’ remarks.”

Apparently, even in junior high school I was known for my odd sense of humor. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I brought those boxes and a few more home with me to New York. I’ll be going through them bit by bit, and suspect that they’ll be a source for many a blog entry in the upcoming months.

Stay tuned for more trips down memory lane.

It's not really about the fruitcake!

In the rush of the hollydazes some of the important things can be forgotten in the mad rush to get everything done. Things like remembering those people that aren't here anymore and the traditions and recipes that they passed down. To that end, I'm posting my maternal grandmother's fruitcake recipe.

Now, don't groan. It's not that kind of fruitcake. It's not cakey. It's more like candy, crunchy, chewy, tooth-rotting, filling-busting fruitcake, with nuts, candied fruit, and a whole parcel of South Beach Diet No-No's.

Plus, it's not really about the fruitcake. It is more about the family traditions -- of having the fruitcake around at the holidays, of the family trips to No. Carolina to the farm, where time would literally stand stilll, to other cultures, and branches of the family tree. The pecans for the recipe would come from the tree in the yard, and would be painfully shucked by the whole family. (That's another story, about Thanksgiving.) Many of us wouldn't eat the fruitcake for years, well, because it was fruitcake. It wasn't until last year, when she wasn't with us anymore when we all realized we had to have "Grandma Jones' fruitcake." Seeing Mom and Dad struggle to make it just added another layer to the memories -- of nutty people cooking, of brothers and sisters squabbling over the last piece, of Grandmas playing with their grandchildren, and Christmas spirit.

Enjoy the holidays.


*************************
Grandma Jones' UNCOOKED FRUIT CAKE
3/4 Cup Milk
1 Pound Marshmallows
3 Cups Pecans
1/2 Teaspoon Salt
1 Pound Graham Crackers
1 Pound Seedless Raisins
1 Pound Mixed Candied Fruit

Mix the crushed Graham Crackers, Raisins, Candied Fruit, Pecans, and Salt in a large container.

Melt Marshmallows in milk over medium heat or in the top of a double boiler. Stir until the Marshmallows are melted.

Pour this mixture over the dry ingredients and mix together well. (Using your hands is OK!)

When mixed, press together into a slightly buttered plate or pan in whatever shape is desired.
****************************************************************************************