60 Minutes: Sir Nicholas Winton "Saving the Children"

Yesterday we celebrated our independence. Flags were displayed proudly all across the country.  Fireworks filled the night sky with brilliant showers of color and light. Any yet, the horrors of war seem to haunt us, especially those from WWII.  The Hitler regime tried to do the unspeakable.

October 23, 2008 - Source: Chris Jackson/Getty Images Europe

All throughout history there are unsung hero's who lived amongst us. Here is a story of one man, a two week vacation, and lives saved from the concentration camps. Nicholas Winton went to Prague on a two week vacation. Nicholas saw that war was eminent. The adults felt that they were stuck in their country, but wanted a way out for the children. Winton set up operation to try to save as many children as he could. 

Afterwards life went on for Winton. He never told a soul what he did. It was something that he just didn't talk about. As an American,I wish that we could have stepped in and helped.  But the "powers that be" didn't feel it was crucial to help the poor unfortunates. This is an enlightening story of how one person can make a difference in so many lives. 

Gunslingers

Lester opened the door holding a shotgun underneath his arm. He saw that Charles and Steve were staring at him from the other side.  They were on a mission, especially Steve, the teenager.  The boy was mad and wanted to kill Lester.  “Steve wants to shoot you,” Charles said in a low voice as he stroked the handle of the gun he was holding.  “Yes, I do!” Steve shouted.  Lester just stood there, dumbfounded or maybe he was drunk.  They looked like two gunslingers at the O.K Corral with Billy the Kidd shouting from the sidelines. The two men stood in their place scrutinizing each other to see who was going to make the first move.

Steve lived with his mother in the apartment above Lester and his family.  Charles, my father, lived a block away on the same street.  Lester loved to tease people, especially his only daughter.  Often he would play tricks on her just to hear her scream and run for the comfort of her mother’s arms. Since Steve was nearly the same age as Lester’s daughter, he, too, received some of the same kind of teasing and lived within a few feet of Lester, which made it convenient for Lester when he was in one of those moods.

Steve frequently came down to our house to visit with my father, Charles; Steve, especially, wanted to see me, but if I wasn’t around he was content to chat with my parents. Over time he grew to love my parents and often confided in them.  My father spray painted cars on the side to make extra money.  Steve and my father worked out a deal to where Steve would work off his debt in exchange for a new paint job on his car.  Steve was always at our house for some reason or another.

Lester and my father were raised in the South. They spoke the same language and the two men understood each another.  Steve was a Yankee and a bit of a hyper one too. Lester and Steve had been arguing for several days.  I never knew what the argument was about but it must have been over something that Lester found to be entertaining. Steve was at the end of his rope.   

Steve and Lester had been arguing that morning. In heated anger, Steve marched to the corner looking for my father.  He found Charles in the garage.  “Can I borrow your gun?” Steve nearly shouted. “What for?” Charles asked.  “I want to shoot Lester,” he said speaking in a high pitched voice.  “So, can I borrow it?” He anxiously wanted to settle this feud with his neighbor and shooting him would be the only solution he could come up with in his young mind. It was all my father could do to keep from laughing at the boy. “I’ll walk down there with you and we’ll get this straightened out,” Charles said. “Just let me get my gun.”

Together they marched to Lester’s place. Bravely, my father walked down the street with his pistol at his side. It was a funny sight because Charles weighed 140 pounds wet and Steve was just as small. They looked like two Chihuahua’s barking at a German shepherd.  Neither of them was big enough to do much harm to anyone much less Lester. However, Steve was excited at the thought that he was going to finally get his justice.  They walked upon the porch and headed straight for the door.  Steve banged on the entry with all his might.  Slowly, Lester opened the door.  He stood there big and tall with a shotgun underneath his arm waiting for a response from his two visitors.

“Steve came down to the house and told me that he wants to shoot you,” Charles said to Lester. “He asked to borrow my gun.” Steve was anxious to get his hands on the pistol that Charles was holding.  Lester’s eyes went back and forth between their faces.  He had been drinking and had begun to feel the effects of it. After staring at them for what seemed like an eternity, Lester said, “I’m tired...I’m going to bed.” Then he turned around and closed the door behind him.  Bewildered, Charles and Steve looked at each other. Then they walked back down the street.  No one got killed that day, at least, not on Elm Street. 

The Drunken Makeover

He burst into the bar like a cowboy from a John Wayne movie. The man was furious and he had every reason to be. Unfortunately, his fury was directed at me. He came looking for the woman that he was talking to before he lost consciousness. Luckily, I was not there when he arrived. My brother snuck to the back of the bar and called me saying that it is best that I not ever return because the man was there looking for me. My brother was afraid that the man wanted to do me harm and Randall didn't want to fight him. 

I’m not a bar fly, actually, I am more like a church mouse because of all of the time I have spent at church.  I’ve taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, and worked on a church bus to name a few of the things that was of interest to me.  Yes, you can call me Miss Goody Two Shoes if you like, I’ll not deny it. So, why was I in a tavern you may ask?

My brother was a drummer in a country music band back then.  Often he would ask me to come to the place where the band was playing music so that I could witness his talent in action.  Oh, I “witnessed” it to a great extent when he lived at home. The house would vibrate from the drumming in the attic. As a sibling of a musician, one adjusts their noise tolerance in order to live peaceably.  Besides, Randall was the first to put his talent out in the public view so that others can enjoy it and I was very proud of him.  But I think my parents grew to regret buying him that first drum set when he would play the drums every weekend either in the house or in the garage.

I had no idea what to wear to a bar and I debated over donning a suit.  When I told my brother what I was thinking of wearing, he insisted that I put on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt.  “People don’t dress up to go to a bar,” he said. So, I decided to wear a low cut purple blouse along with my jeans, which was presentable enough. 

When I arrived, I looked around the dimly lit room for a familiar face. My brother was watching for me to arrive and then when I came through the door he showed me to the table where his girlfriend was sitting. We ordered drinks and chatted until the band began playing. I was too shy to dance and stayed firmly planted in my chair the entire evening.  The crowd was a bit rough acting for me and I felt safer sitting where my brother could keep me under his watchful eye. 

My brother, sorry for the poor quality photograph

About midway through the evening a man took notice of me. The man was tall, slender, with short brown hair and was nice looking.  He dragged a chair alongside of mine and sat down.  When the man started talking to me it was obvious that he was extremely drunk.  His speech was slurred and his arms and legs moved about in a sloppy like manner, as if he didn’t have much control of his extremities.  As he leaned over to speak to me his drink spilled over and ran down my leg and into my shoe. I jumped up and pushed my chair away from the drunkard and tried to wipe the beer off of my pants. I detest the smell of beer and bemoaned the fact that I will have to wash my clothes.  He apologized and began chatting again, although his chair stayed where he sat it in the beginning.  About 10 minutes later he passed out and his head fell backwards resting on the back of the chair.  My face was last one he saw that evening. 

A couple of women sitting behind me watched the whole ordeal. One of the women pulled out her makeup bag and began applying lipstick, blush and eye shadow to the man’s face. As I watched the women, I thought to myself that I would have never considered using my own personal products on someone who has been God knows where.  But that is the risk they wanted to take, not me. It grossed me out thinking about it. She told me that the man was a regular at the bar and was often inebriated before 9 o’clock. It was their intent to teach him a lesson.  The drunkard sat like a dead man as the women gave him a makeover.  I left shortly after because I didn't want him to wake up and I still be there. 

The drunkard sat in the chair until one of his friends threw him into the back of their pick-up truck and took him home.  When the man woke up the next morning and saw the makeup all over his face he was furious. Then he thought about me. He went back to the bar the next week looking for me.  My brother said that the man made a big commotion at the bar that night.  It was then that my brother decided that my bar hopping days were over, well, at least for that bar. I laughed. I really didn't like going there anyway.  

Dancing to my own beat

There was sensuous Arabesque music playing in the background as I watched. Her tiny torso was supported by perfectly formed hips; the ideal combination for a belly dancer.  My eyes followed the line in the middle of her back downward.  Her sumptuous hips moved in slow rhythmic lifts while her arms slithered up and down like a snake. I watched her with bated anticipation that my body would move like hers some day.  I instantly became envious because no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t get my body to move the way that the teacher’s did.  I look like a pumpkin.

I desperately needed my life to change directions. More than anything, I wanted and needed to meet new people. How does one move on after a divorce? I asked myself. My existence revolved around my husband and I didn’t know where to turn when he left. I felt like a non-person. I no longer had value because I didn’t have anyone to fuss over. My life needed validation.  

Many nights I came home and laid on the sofa until it was time for bed.  The energy to do anything physical or mental eluded me. I couldn’t concentrate on the words that I read, so, reading a book was out of the question. Often I would read a paragraph only to go back and read it again and again until I eventually gave up.

 

I took antidepressants for about six months. I didn’t like the way they made me feel.    The pills made me sleepy, lethargic, and dizzy. The constant battle with suicidal thoughts and wanting to kill my soon-to-be-ex-husband was exhausting. But what can I do to get out of this rut?

One day I was looking through the Fun Times booklet that the Community Center sends through the mail.  I noticed that belly dance classes were being offered.  I always wanted to learn how to dance like those exotic women from the East. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself seductively contort my body in sensuously wanton movements. I was thrilled at the thought of it. Besides, the exercise will do me good and maybe help to raise my spirit out of the funk that I was in. So, I enrolled in the class.

We met on Wednesday evenings at 5:30.  I had to rush straight from work to get there and sometimes I was late.  As I walked through the door, I noticed that there were all kinds of shapes, sizes, and ages of women in the class, which was a relief to me. I never tried dancing before, well, not in a class setting. As a girl I would dance around my room while no one was watching and never ventured out lest someone would see me and make fun.

The teacher was a young woman in her early twenties.  Her pale white porcelain face was framed with thick fawn colored hair. She wore a small bolero top to accentuate her breasts, and tight low cut black pants that drew attention to her generous hips. Her bare midriff exposed a tiny waist that Scarlett O’Hara would be envious of. She was sexy and I wanted to be.

The first night of class I arrived in my work clothes. I pulled off my shoes and socks. We began stretching every muscle of our bodies before we danced.   Then we learned the most important thing for a belly dancer. We had to learn to dance with soft knees. Otherwise there would be trouble for the lower regions of our body.  “With knees bent, arms out, chest up, lift your right hip,” the teacher said, “Next, raise the left hip. Now, walk forward and do a hip lift on each side while you are walking.” Our eyes were focused on the backside of the teacher for guidance. With arms extended and toes pointed, I strutted my stuff across the gym floor and felt like a beauty queen. The only thing that was missing was a long flowing veil. 

I was slow at learning the moves. There were times that I would be off dancing by myself while the class moved to the other side of the gym. I really didn’t care.  I was having fun and making new friends. 

By the summer, a few of the ladies from class decided to put together a troupe for the new dancers and then perform at a Halloween show they have every autumn.  We practiced at Barbara’s house for nearly two months until we had the routine down pat.   Each week I forgot the routine and then had to re-learn it all over again.  I was still having memory issues.  But I pressed on until I was able to keep the dance steps in my head.   

Then we had to work on our costumes. Barbara was the seamstress and she coordinated our wardrobe. We decided on gold lame genii pants with wide legs and elastic at the ankles, they reminded me of MC Hammer in the video, You can’t touch this. There were gold bras to match with a bolero top and a black sheer skirt placed on top of the pants.  I looked like a pumpkin in my outfit. My belly is much too large to be seen in front of a group of people. When I noticed that the audience was mostly women, I quickly got over my fear of over exposure.

The night of the performance I was very nervous.  It is one thing to dance in a small room at someone’s home. But to make a mistake in front of an audience is a whole different ballgame. I practiced nearly every night when I got home until I could do the routine without having to look at my cheat sheet. Our routine lasted only two minutes, which seemed like an hour to me.  I made a small mistake at the very beginning and quickly got back in line with the other dancers. I sailed through like a ship on calm seas the rest of the performance.  As soon as I was backstage I covered myself up, never to expose myself again. I often dreamt of going forward with my dancing career, but who really wants to see a middle aged pumpkin dance?

A Hair Raising Story

It is said that hair can be our crowning glory. Why does hair have to be so much of who we are?  It begins at birth when a child is born with an enormous amount and it is declared “Look at the hair on that kid.”  I’ve seen hair that was grey, brown, black, blonde, and even pink. Some hair is straight, curly, coarse, fine, thick or thin. Some religions cover their hair for modesty and others are not so strict. My mother told me that I complained about my hair as a child and I even used a swear word when I tried to comb it.  Now that I am past 50, it is thinner than ever before with spots of exposed skin peaking through and to be honest it’s distressing.  However, I find the lost hair somehow growing in places that I never expected. 

me at 12 years old

I’ve always had “thick hair” envy.  Women would walk past me with manes so thick they couldn’t find a band large enough to encompass their pony tail.   I would look at their hair longingly and bemoan my thin hair fate then reach upwards to touch mine and was always disappointed.  The hair clips in the store were too big for my meager locks and would drop to the floor as soon as I fastened the clasp.  My thin, fine tresses lay limply around my face and on humid days it was matted to my scalp.  Of course, I had to have a cowlick into the mix as well.  My bangs never lay flat no matter how hard I tried.  

I’ve used gel for lift, perms to perform miracles, and enough hairspray to finance the manufacturer’s trip abroad for a year and yet I kept trying to find help for my deficit.  

During the late 60’s and 70’s I wore my hair long and parted in the middle. Not such an attractive style for everyone.  Then there were those awful school pictures that were taken year after year.  My hair was either oily, flat, or the photographer didn’t know where my best side was.  There is something about hair that makes one want to burn all of their school pictures.

As the years began to add up my hair gradually became shorter until I decided to take the plunge. When I was 21 I decided to have my hair cut short.  I was working at the shoe store then and made an appointment with a stylist before work one day.  Afterwards, I went to the Health Food Store down the street from work and I saw my boss shopping.  “Hello Alice,” I said, but she didn’t recognize me.  “I’m Jeannie,” I insisted. Many of the regular customers that came into the shoe store didn’t recognize me either that day. In the evening when I came through the kitchen door my father saw me for the first time.  Dad was sitting in his favorite chair with his black framed glasses perched low on his nose while he was reading the morning paper. As he looked up at me over his glasses his jaw dropped.  It took him a few minutes to let the drastic change in the length of my hair adjust in his mind.   He never said a word.

me at 21 years old

A few weeks later, I rode along with my parents to a store.  My mother went inside while my father and I waited in the car.  My father watched me in the backseat through the rear view mirror. He turned around and looked at me very closely.  “You look good with your hair like that,” he said, “You really do.”  My dad never complimented me before regarding my appearance.  I was thrilled and thanked him shyly. I pondered his words for many years to come.  From then on I kept my hair short because my father approved and he never wasted words when they were unnecessary.

I should be thankful for the amount that I have.  My situation could be worse.  The cause of my hair loss is due to female patterned baldness, per a dermatologist’s diagnosis, which has greatly affected my perception of old age.  I didn’t come into this world bald and I expect the same amount of hair on my head when I leave. Oh please?! 

Not Looking Back

When I walked through the kitchen door at 9:30 that morning my father burst out laughing. I was not amused.  My father was standing on the sidewalk outside of the kitchen window with his friend Brock from work when he noticed that I had come home early that day. I secretly had a crush on my father’s friend and I didn’t want him to witness my humiliation.  My toes hurt and I desperately needed to take off my shoes.

“What happened?” Mom asked.  “I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I quit.” I responded in a defeated tone. “You should see what those women look like that work there. They were awful.”

 “You’re not made to work in a factory,” my father said while he and Brock were still laughing outside at my expense. 

I am girlie, even for a girl. My free time was spent reading poetry and romance novels imagining my own Mr. Darcy or John Thornton waltzing up to my door and sweeping me away.  I dreamt of wearing those beautiful costumes from times past and living the genteel life. My head was in the clouds, far from the reality of life.  For as long as I can remember, I always wore skirts and dresses because I wanted to look like a Jane Austen character.  Wearing them made me feel feminine and I did it for religious reasons too.  I could count on one hand the slacks that were included in my wardrobe.

Me at the shoe store with handmade clowns from a customer

I graduated from high school in January of 1978 when I was 17 years old and began working at a small discount shoe store on Broadway called The 350 Shop. The store was owned by Alice Meadows, who was nearly 60 when I came on board.  I was the only full time employee and another girl came in for a couple of hours after school. 

Me at the shoe store

My beginning wage was $2.50 an hour and my take home pay was less than $100.00 a week, but for a teenager I felt rich and this money enabled me to buy clothes and those precious books that I spent endless hours reading.

Alice Meadows and Me 

My contact with the public was nearly non-existent before working at the shoe store and nothing could prepare me for how people really are in life. The clientele ranged from nuns to drag queens, and Disco Harry, a local celebrity, came to the store quit often, even though we only sold women’s shoes. People can be scary, even women.  I watched in horror as hefty females with puffed feet and toes like sausages tried to cram their oversized extremity into shoes that were much too small for them.  Many men and women that came into the store had rough features, were loud or threatening and their manners were brutish, I was terrified of those people.  My parents were country folk and my mother’s outbreaks were mild compared to what I witnessed at the store.  After enduring the public for a few years, I wanted to do something else with my life.  

Ed Meadows (Alice' husband) and me

I began applying at a lot of company’s around town.  My father worked at Fruehauf Corporation on the city’s south side and he liked it very much. Maybe, I would like working at a factory as well, I thought to myself. I was told about a company in New Haven called Bennett’s, which was a clothing factory and I went there to fill out an application.   It was 1983 and I was on vacation from the shoe store for two weeks when someone from the company called me about a position.  I decided to try it out since I didn’t have to give up the shoe store job and I had two weeks to see if I would like working in a factory environment.

It was July and extremely hot. When I woke up at 5 a.m. for work it was already 80 degrees. The expected high for the day was near 100. When I arrived at the factory I was surprised to see that only women worked there. Someone brought me to my station, which was a steam press. A large blower attached to the ceiling was the only cooling and heating element in the building. It was extremely hot inside even though it was early morning. The blower was operating at full blast but didn’t make a difference in the sweltering factory. Sewing machines were scattered all over the floor with a pile of fabric next to each machine.  I was shown how to use the press and noticed that my station had three piles of fabric pieces beside it.  Observing the height of the piles alarmed me.  I was starting a job already behind, which put me in a panic mode.  I had to wear pants with closed toe shoes.  By the time of the first break, I was drenched in sweat.  My clothing clung to my body as if I had stepped out of a pool of water and my perfectly coiffed hair lay flat on my head. Sweat poured down my back and legs which ran like a stream to my socks.  I was miserably hot and sticky.

I looked around the factory as I pressed the fabric.  The women looked hard and unfeminine.  One woman stood out from the rest.  She was probably in her 50’s and looked old to one who is only 23.  Her brown hair was braided and wrapped around her head. I couldn’t tell what era here clothing was from, I think maybe she was an old hippy from the 70’s, at least her outfit was.  She was wearing patterned pants with a smock top.   Then I glanced around at the other women working around me and they were wearing tattered jeans and old worn out tee shirts.  It was then that I had an epiphany of my future and it scared me.  I don’t want to look like those women, I told myself. If I stay here then I will definitely end up resembling them and I am not about to go down that road.

When I came home, I headed straight for the shower.  I put on a blouse and a skirt, my favorite attire and thought about my next move.  My family asked about my first day while we were eating dinner. I mumbled that work was okay. That evening I went to bed early, exhausted from the work and the heat had taken its toll on me. 

The next morning was a repeat of the day before.  The sun was high in the sky and was beating down upon my small place of the earth at the early hour of 5 a.m.  I drove to work, dreading the day.   

Upon arriving at the factory, I went directly to my station.  I tried to prepare myself for working in the immense heat, but I couldn’t do it.  I was miserable.  The sweat began pouring as soon as I started operating the press. My toes were hurting because my shoes were too short.  It didn’t take me long before I convinced myself that I wasn’t going to like working at the factory.  I just couldn’t see myself there.  When the first break came at 9:15, I told my boss that I wanted to go home and will not be coming back. She offered to let me sew together garments at one of the machines.  Then the vision of the woman that I wanted to avoid resembling when I was middle-aged crossed my mind.  I grabbed my lunch and purse then headed towards my car.  When I turned the key in the ignition, I felt a sense of relief, and then I put the car in gear, not ever looking back. 

Memories of Christmas

When the nights are long and the air is cold a little jingle begins to play in the air. The snow begins to fly and we snuggle inside our homes for warmth.  It is then that my mind goes back in time to when life was innocent and the best time of year was Christmas.  There was a tree in the corner with gifts all around and the lights twinkled as they nestled in the branches.  The anticipation of gifts is all that a child thinks about, especially me.   

 

My parents were not big on celebrations and they definitely didn’t get excited like my brother, sister, and I did.  We always opened our gifts after supper on Christmas Eve and on Christmas day we had a big dinner.  The dinners were not the normal ham or whatever is supposed to be traditional for the holiday.  We would have BBQ ribs with whatever sounded good to Mom that day.  The rest of the holiday we lounged around and enjoyed having the day off. 

When my brother and I were about three feet tall, nothing really got past us.  If something was hidden in a low place we were definitely going to find it.  In the mid 60’s, when fire engine pedal cars were all the rage, we “found” our Christmas present in a hall closet.   For some reason Mom thought that if she buried the pedal car beneath some blankets we would not find it.  One day when my parents were still in bed, my brother and I decided to uncover the pedal car and take it for a spin.  We rode in it up and down the hallway.  Mom heard all of the noise and got up to find out what was going on.  “Hey Mom, look at what we found”, I said. She was not amused.  I really don’t remember what happened after that. More than likely she made us put it back in the closet until Christmas.

 

Observing all of those presents piled high all around the tree was so thrilling when I was a girl.  I remember that there was one particular present that I just had to know what it was.  Each night while no one was looking, I would pick up the package, shake it, and then put it back down.  Eventually, my fingers gently made their way to the taped edge.  Maybe the tape will give way without mom noticing that I have been picking at it.  The tape never budged and the more I toyed with it the worse it looked. Curiosity got the best of me and I poked a hole in the paper.  I brought the package up close to my eye and I still couldn’t figure out what the present was.  So, I buried it in the back and decided to wait until Christmas to see what it was; Besides Mom would be really mad if she saw the hole in the pretty paper. 

Dad bought Mom a food processor in the early 80’s, I was a 20 something year old then.  When Mom opened the box she was thrilled.  Dad and I then started pushing buttons while the machine was on.  Then it stopped running.  Dad and I laughed, but Mom cried.  He took it back to the store the next day to get Mom a new one.  The funny thing is I don’t remember her using it very much after that.  But I was in my 20’s then and probably didn’t pay attention to what she did.

I know that Christmas isn’t all about the giving and getting of presents.  I decided to bake a birthday cake for Jesus.   It was a white two layer cake with chocolate frosting. Jesus had to like this cake.  Who doesn’t like chocolate frosting? I asked my family to gather around the table and we sang happy birthday and blew out the candles.  Then we ate the cake for Jesus and told him how good it was.  When my nieces were small we carried on the tradition of baking a birthday cake at Christmas.  Tiffany and Heather still talk about it.

 

 

The year my father passed away we were so poor that we wouldn’t be able to give any gifts. My mother was collecting widow’s benefits and I was only making $3.50 an hour working at the 350 Shop on Broadway.  My church decided to adopt us as their “Christmas family”.  Each of us received a gift plus my family was given a food box.  My present was a turquoise sweater, which I kept for a very long time. I was very thankful for what the church did for us.   I felt as though people still cared for us during our time of loss. 

 

My oldest niece, Tiffany, wanted what she called a “Garbage Patch Doll”.  Scott’s grocery had a contest to be able to win one.  I wrote my mother’s name down and put the entry blank in the box.  I prayed and prayed to win that doll for my niece.  We wouldn’t be able to afford to buy her one for Christmas.  A few days later my mother received a call from the store saying that she had won.  Thank you God!  This was a Christmas miracle. 

Many Christmases have come and gone since then.  Gifts have been given.  Elaborate dinners have been eaten.  But the best part is when we get together and reminisce about “The good ole’ days”.   The pictures come out and the stories are told all over again.  To me, this is what Christmas is all about.  Family is what we are put on this earth for, to love and be loved, there is nothing more than valuable than this.

Sticks and stones may break my bones....but words do hurt.

Every Thursday I go to a memoirs writing class.  Each of us have a story within us.  Sometimes the stories are happy or sometimes they are sad.  I have been writing about my recent marriage and other memories.  Sometimes we just need to let it all out, whether we write in a journal, as a story, or face to face with a friend or loved one. It is then we can start to finally heal.

I am the youngest person in the class.  Most of my classmates are 20 or more years my senior, and yet, I feel very comfortable amongst them. Any one of the men and women could be my mother or father. It is amazing to me how things that were either said or done to us can leave a lasting mark on our lives, even if it happened 60 years before. The memory of it continues to linger in the back of our minds. When the memory comes back to the surface there is rage and many times tears.

I sat next to a woman yesterday who had such a traumatic experience in Catholic school by a nun that she still finds it hard to talk about.  Her 5th grade teacher was a nun and made her life miserable.  From the time she arrived in the class until the end of the year the girl's life was one traumatic event after another.  The nun would shame the girl into thinking that she was worthless and the children whose father's made more money was better than she was and it was best that she not communicate with them. Those words spoken to her stuck in her mind all of these years.  Tears started flowing before my classmate began reading her story. I wanted so badly to hold her in my arms and comfort her. Often we hear stories about adults traumatizing children and literally making their lives hell.  These poor innocent souls are placed in the care of adults who can either make or break our spirit.  Her spirit is still broken.  No child deserves to be mistreated.  All they want is love and acceptance, and maybe some candy too. 

Do you have any memories that bring you pain?  I know that I do.

A Memoirs Kind of Summer

In the spring, I bought four memoirs. Each one is very different from the other. Only one of the books is new, the rest have been out for a while. Lately, I have been drawn to real stories about people who are just like you and I. Some stories are about love, others about tragedy, and then there are ones of the strange kind. And yet, we are drawn to them like the moth to the flame.

I watched the movie Running with Scissors not very long ago.  It was recommended by one of my bipolar memoirs classmate to read the book before I saw the movie, but that didn't work out for me.  The book is based on Augusten Burroughs childhood\early manhood part of his life.  His mother is bipolar, the father is alcoholic, and in the middle is Augusten who is trying to find himself amidst all of the chaos.  I once had a counselor tell me that my family was the most dysfunctional family she had ever known. In a strange sort of way, I am comforted in knowing that there are others whose lives have been by far worse than mine.  And yet, Burroughs came out the winner. All of his life people would tell him that he was a writer.  He never thought about it. His journal was his best friend and he often spilled his guts onto the page.  There are five sentences in the book that touched me and I underlined them. He wrote, "And I walked around in a trance, daydreaming about Manhattan.  Trying to see if I could picture myself there among the skyscrapers and hot dog vendors. And I could see it...I threw the meat in my cart. And moved on."  Even though this is a bizarre story of which I really cannot relate to and at times unsettling; I found Burroughs memoir interesting and well worth the read.

My next memoir was The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison. It is the story of a girls loss, the loss of a father's love.  Only to be regained in the most unnatural way.  Kathryn's parents divorced when she was young.  She grew up with an emotionally distant mother. When her father re-enters her life in her teen years, Kathryn's whole existence takes a dramatic turn. Incest is an ugly, depraved act that not only is vile but severely damages the soul.  Both the perpetrator and the victim try to justify in their minds what is happening. I could honestly spit fire at the father regarding the injustice for things like this. People who think solely of themselves and not calculate the damage it will do to the victim. I've yet to figure out if it is sex or power that factors in the scenario. Nonetheless, it is very disturbing. Even if the subject matter was difficult to swallow, I found it hard to put the book down and read it within a few days time.   

 

The third memoir is by Kristy Robinett called Messenger between Worlds. I find anything paranormal fascinating. But I do have my comfort limit when it comes to this subject. I like the way Kristy wrote her memoir. She let the reader into her private life and I felt like I was right there with her. My own life resonated with hers in so many ways. Psychics have been given a very bad reputation because of so much deception.  To have this gift would be fabulous and horrible at the same time. Being open minded is one of the biggest pluses when reading about mediums and all that they do. The fact that many psychics\mediums work with the police department proves that their gift is viable whether we want to embrace this kind of spiritual arena or not. There is so much that I personally don't understand about the unusual goings on which happen so frequently on this vast plane where we live. It is not for me to try and figure it out.  The chapter entitled Voices spooked me a little but it didn't deter me from finishing the book.  Moreover, I am glad that people are stepping up to the plate and sharing their lives with those of us who are open to read about them.  

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The fourth memoir was The Flying Carpet of Small Miracles by Hala Jaber. This is a deeply moving story of a journalist who is covering war torn Baghdad in 2003.  She came across two children,  three year old Zahra and newborn Hawra, who suddenly become orphans when a missle hits the family vehicle killing everyone except the two girls. Ms. Jaber, a native of Lebanon, is married and living a dream life in the west with her husband Steven. For ten years they try to have children. But it is not meant for her to conceive.  Trying to take her mind off of things, Hala goes into war zones to report on the recent unrest. She wanders from hospital to hospital, looking for just the right little girl that the world will fall in love with and hopefully be willing to help those in desperate need of medical care. This is not a story solely about orphans, war, or the Middleast, but about coming to terms with our lives.  I was deeply touched by the ending of this book.  It was not a fairy tale by no means, but a story of understanding both sides of the matter.  

Memoirs never really existed much until the last century.  What do you think about people who write about the good or the bad things that happen to them and then publish their writing? I agree that some things need to be exposed for what they are. But are we going too far by exposing things of the most intimate part of our lives?  

Illusion of Intimacy

We need to think about the kind of connections we want to have with each other. We are lonely, but afraid of intimacy. Our little electronic and social media devices are so powerful that they not only change what we do but who we are.  They bring the illusion of companionship without the demands of friendship.  I think that we are setting ourselves up for trouble. We are getting used to a new way of being alone together, but, also, be elsewhere at the same time. We want to control where we focus our attention.  People are hiding from each other even though they are constantly connected.  Because of these devices our view of what we consider a relationship has changed.  We have Facebook, Twitter, texting, email, and numerous other social media devices.  People are texting at funerals (seriously?). Talking on the phone in the bathroom. Befriending strangers on Facebook. Yet, where is the intimacy? What has happened to the human touch?

In a recent study, there was an old woman pouring her heart out to a robotic seal (paro). It had white fur with big eyes and long eye lashes.  The seal made comforting sounds when the woman bared her soul to the tiny robot.  Somehow she was comforted by this robot.  It made her feel understood, but the machine understood nothing. The old lady was surrounded by people who could have given her this kind of comfort, but opted not to.  However, they cheered a connection between a human and a machine and they thought about all of the possibilities for those lonely people who have no one to share their innermost thoughts with.  We expect more from technology than from each other.  At end of her life, she deserves to have people around who knows her story and can learn from her.  Can a device do that for anyone? What has become of her value?

By Len Barcousky//Pittsburgh Post Gazette

A couple of years ago, when I was going through my divorce, my brother, his girlfriend, and many friends and relatives were at my side whenever I needed them. My brother came over every day and would cry along with me. Those times were and are priceless. I literally would not have made it through such a dark and lonely time without all of them telling me that I can make it.  It is shameful to imagine a little old lady or man with no one to share their heart and soul with. For that matter anyone can be lonely and in need of companionship. Were we not made to be in pairs?

April 22, 1984 was the worst Easter in history

April 22, 1984 was the worst Easter in history.  Well, at least it was for me.  When I reached my father’s bedside at the hospital, I was in tears.  Upon my arrival, I was totally disheveled.  My hair was standing on end, more people saw the slip underneath my dress than I dared to think about, and someone nearly ran over my felt hat.  

In January, my father was diagnosed with cancer. He was in a lot of pain by the time he was first diagnosed, but it was too late for chemotherapy to help.  Dad was a spray painter for Fruehauf Corporation.  The paint fumes and the two packs a day cigarette habit caught up with him.  By the time April came, the cancer had spread to several areas of his body.  As all children who have had terminally ill parents or relatives in their lives, I hoped for a miracle.  Besides, I am a good friend of God.  We know each other very well.  Surely my prayers for healing will be answered. 

Easter morning, I woke up and got ready to go to see my dad.  He had asked my mom to have a puzzle book brought up to the hospital so that he would have something to do.  Since it was Easter Sunday, I decided to put on my new dress.  It was black with a white collar and it buttoned at the waist.  There were no other buttons to keep the dress closed, because of the way it was designed; I wouldn’t have to worry about being indecent.  I put on high heeled black dress pumps.  To keep me warm, I wore a burgundy coat that came to my waist and zipped up the front.  I had a matching burgundy felt hat with feathers to top off my ensemble.  Admiringly, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked good.  My dad will surely be impressed with how pretty I looked for him.

The wind had picked up during the night.  By the time morning arrived, there was quite a gale.  It was tornado season.  Even though I live in Indiana, we still get a lot of wind whenever there are tropical storms or tornados anywhere in the country.   I climbed into my car and headed to St. Joe Hospital.  My car rocked from side to side as the wind pounced upon it. The parking lot for the hospital was located across the street.  I found a place to park after having driven around the block several times.  The door of the car flung open wide when I pulled on the handle.  As I emerged from the vehicle my hat started to lift off of my head.  I quickly grabbed it and held it down tight.  The wind blew the flap of my dress open and exposed my slip underneath.  Thank goodness I had a slip on that day; otherwise a lot more than a slip would have been exposed.  With my other hand I tried my best to keep my dress closed, with my purse and my dad’s bag hanging on my arm too.  Another strong gale came along and the hat flew off my head.  I watched in horror as it rolled down the street, imagining that the hat would be smashed at any moment underneath the wheels of a car. Several cars had swerved, narrowly missing my hat.  I ran as fast as I could to get it, all the while trying to hold the flap of my dress closed, which proved to be useless.  My hair was swirling about my head like the funnel of a tornado.  I wasted my time styling my hair that day.  I should have gotten up straight out of bed and came to the hospital.  Surely, I couldn’t have looked any worse than I did just then.  After retrieving my hat from the middle of the street, I focused on getting inside as quickly as possible before another gust of wind swept me away.  I was very upset by the time that I got to my dad’s room. Tears were flowing down my cheeks as I handed him the bag and left without saying a word.  When I left, he called my mother asking what was wrong with me.  She was clueless. 

When I arrived back home, my mom met me at the door.  “Charles called here wanting to know what’s wrong with you”, my mother said to me as I walked into the kitchen.  I told her about my ordeal that morning with a lot of detail and exaggerated emotion.  Then I went upstairs to my room so that I could change my clothes and maybe cry a little more.  There would be no going to church for me that Easter Sunday, because, that day, I was a drama queen. I am sure that my parents had a good laugh though.