I'm still here

Hi everyone or no one that follows my blog. I am wanting to get started again...to get some writing up. I have been inspired by my niece Lindsey. She just started a blog and I really loved what she wrote. SO. I am trying people - person - anyone to get with it and try to do some posts.

Check out my future

I saw this link on Amy's blog and thought I'd try it out. It's been a very long time since I've played this game. But I think I made out pretty good except for the amount of children. What can I say 21 is my favorite number. PS I really do love John Cusack!!! But is he better than Richard Gere - he was my first pick.

To see my results of this game - scroll down. I'm trying to rearrange things - but obviously I need help

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.

Perspectives

I don’t know if my thoughts are being influenced by this strange, cloudy, rainy weather we’ve been having lately, or if I’m still tiptoeing through the pages of the novel The Plague—which I’ve just finished. Sitting here I find myself thinking of perspectives and how they color and direct ones life—and one’s beliefs.

The Plague by Albert Camus is about suffering, death, and extreme isolation. It’s pretty deep for summer reading. So, when I began the book—to keep myself out of the critical reading mode—I set all metaphors aside. I’ll just read it. I told myself. Well I couldn’t stop myself from underlining and scratching out a few notes. But other than that, I let my mind wander…

And… strangely enough, I found myself remembering an essay one of my favorite professors wrote about his experiences when he moved to Utah from the east coast –upstate New York—I think. I was floored by his perspective of Utah’s sky. In the essay he talks about the clear, blue, skies of Utah. I love a clear blue sky. For me a cloudless day—when the sky is bright—signifies cheeriness, fun, optimism, a feeling of freedom. This perspective seems almost intrinsic to me. Without thinking a blue sky influences my mood, my thoughts and my feelings.

Interestingly, this professor does not feel the same way I do about clear blue skies – In his essay he talks about how a sky without clouds makes him feel claustrophobic. He grew up and probably had some of his greatest experiences in nature under an overcast sky. If I remember right, and I wish I had the essay right here---To him a gray sky is peaceful, comforting, inspiring, and beautiful. When he is cradled by gray clouds, he feels how I do under an azure umbrella.

Now as a disclaimer, I am not quoting his essay, but remembering my impressions and feelings when I read his essay. His thoughts on Utah and the reasons why he didn’t feel at home here or like it here really stayed with me. Perspectives matter. Ones point of view on something is defined by experiences both good and bad. One great thing is that we can all step out of our perspectives for a moment and look another view. Novels, or in this case an essay, are a great way to open our minds to other perspectives.