I Did IT !!!

Wow! As you can see below, I have added the ever popular slide show to my blog. And no, I am not disclosing how long it took me to figure it out. (I don' really know how I did it)...and some of the pictures may appear twice???

So to explain this slide show entitled "Life in Cache Valley" I have to leave out all the memories/stories that are flooding to my mind and just talk about Sunday and our trip to Hyrum. My sister Carol lives in Hyrum with her husband Curt, and children Carly, Kyle, Krista, and Sam. Disclaimer #1: she also has a married daughter, Lindsey and Krista was not home on Sunday.

Carol moved to Hyrum from Farmington a little less than 2 years ago. Talk about the city mouse setting up home in the country - from suburbs to farmland. And let me tell you it is great. Carol and her family LOVE it there. I must say that it holds some appeal to me as well. Cache Valley is beautiful, quiet, and has a lot less traffic. Here is a little secret. I grew up in Logan - which is in Cache Valley, but I always considered myself a city girl. Logan was the big city - but ( and here is the secret) I always wanted to live on a farm and have horses. I don't know if I'll admit it if you ask - but there is a part of me that longs for the country life. Well, my sister has it and when she bought the goats she jumped in to that wonderful life style. I envy her getting up and feeding the goats as she gazes at the mountains from her backyard.

So its late and I have to go - my city life is screaming at me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I hope this slide show works tomorrow

A German World - An Introduction

My friend Colleen has inspired me to write some memories. I have to admit I wrote this memory a few months ago. In a way it is an introduction to other memories I hope to post about my childhood and my connection to my German roots. It is also an introduction to a book I am working on that is based upon my Granmother's (Omi's) life in communist Poland. I hope you enjoy it.

As a child I thought everyone in Utah was Mormon and everyone in the city of Bountiful, Utah was German. I arrived at this conclusion by thoughtful observation. My family lived in Logan—a good sixty miles from Bountiful. Every other Sunday we would pile into the car and set out to visit my mother’s parents—my grandparents, Opi and Omi. On the trip my sister and I would document each landmark. First we announced the beginning of Sardine Canyon; we screamed and jumped about as we passed the Indian School in Brigham City; finally the amusement park with its white roller coaster shouted to us that we were near our destination. After reaching this landmark we eagerly anticipated the jump into another world—a German world.

When I arrived, I experienced what most foreigners do when they find themselves in another culture. First, I did not understand the language. The guttural and harsh tones of the German language filled Omi’s house from the time we arrived until we left for home. I heard German when I went to church with my grandparents, when we visited Opi’s brother, and from the visitors who came to the house. It was obvious to me that everyone in Bountiful spoke German. In Omi’s little German home, I played German games, listened to German polkas, ate sauerkraut and sardines, and tiptoed around Opi. My mom told me that he was “tired from the war.” As a child I could sense something was hidden.

From an early age I knew a little about communism. I learned that my Opi had fought for the German Army, and that my Omi, along with my mother and her sister, had lived in a part of East Prussia that was taken over by the Russians. I knew that communism meant they had no freedom and that they were poor. I remember my mother and Omi talking about the secret police. They told me of people—who were pulled out of their homes and killed because they had been caught worshiping. For a long time I would not leave my parent’s side when we went to the German church. As a child I was afraid of the secret police.

In August of 1957 Omi, my mother Christa, and my aunt, Renate, arrived in New York. I picture them as they hurry through the streets. They look like war touched Europeans. Their clothing is bland and heavy. Their faces are stretched tight, lips in a firm line—they are a black and white portrait against a splash of color. I see them moving shyly through the bus station. They are trained to blend in. In my vision, I expect the military police to jump out and grab them.

After a six day bus ride across the country, they reached Bountiful, Utah. On August 8, 1957 my Omi, Emma Krisch was reunited with her husband, Wilhelm Krisch. They had been separated by war and by communism for a total of nineteen years. Omi had not seen her husband for fourteen years. For my mother and aunt, August 8^th was the day they met their father.

I draw power from my German family. Their stories are stepping stones that line my path. They are the branches I use to pull myself up when I’m drowning. Their experience with war, communism, suffering, abandonment, and loss are part of me.