Twelve Story Biography

    My grandmother lived for most of the 20^th century! Just think of all that she had seen from 1903 to 1999! I have many notes about her life, including stories she had told of her idyllic childhood in England, the struggles of the Great Depression, her illegal immigrant status during World War II, the love and pride she had in her children and grandchildren.

    So you would think that when she passed away I could have written a decent biography lest this great woman be forgotten. But try as I might, the writing does not go well. The notes and stories are with me, the biography, alas, is not. I will give credit to my brother, Clark, however, who has done a stellar job of writing our grandmother's life story.

    My mom passed away in December of 2012. Earlier that year I had begun telling personal stories to audiences. My confidence was building, and my stories were getting better in structure and delivery. So the next year, I decided to dedicate 2013 to two stories a month about Mom. At the end of the year I would have 24 Mom stories. Of those 24, some of them would be mere anecdotal, but there would be some, maybe even 12, that would reflect the kind of person Mom was – where she came from, what made her the way she was, who she was – and if those 12 stories were strung together, heck, they could make for a fairly decent biography – they would be my way of putting together the story of Mom's life.

Mom's wedding dress on Sarah 2006

     And this turned out very well. There is the Bonnie story, the Bobcaygeon Summer, the three trips to Crystal Beach, the three parts to the Courtship story - each very revealing in its own way; there are the fortune tellers and Mom's different homes; there is Garfield, and Mom's own stories about each of her children; and then there is the Pretty Blonde Haired Lady which still brings a tear to my eye whenever it comes to mind. Putting together the stories helped me understand Mom so much better than I would have without having reflected on them.

     Could I put twelve stories together, and could they make a biography? I think that could happen - not quite so daunting after all. I can do that for my mom, and my grandmother, and my dad.

    And every once in a while, give me a poke to make sure I follow through on all this, please!

35 20150204 Twelve Story Biography

A Memory a Day to England

 

Sarah and John Nelson 2008

   In 2008, my daughter, Sarah, married her beau, John. Sarah had become a librarian and was doing a lot of storytelling – mythology, children's stories, and personal tales. John completed law school, and had accepted a fellowship in Norwich, England. Their stay in England, beginning shortly after the wedding, was going to be for one year.

     I wanted to tell Sarah that I would send her an email every day of the year that they would be gone, but my life is not exciting enough for an email a day! So then I decided, in conjunction with our mutual interest in storytelling, that I would send a story a day – more specifically, write up and email each day, a memory from my life! Surely I could come up with 365 memories, couldn't I? Heck I could probably come up with enough memories for two years, I think! Well, the thing would be to find out – just the first 365 memories, anyway.

     So the kids flew to England, and I started sending memories – not at all chronological, and some of them connected – something that happened in 8^th grade threaded into incidents in 9^th and 10^th grade, or something one daughter did reminded me of something I had done at the same age. And I sent them to not to just Sarah and John but to a few other family members also and some friends. They all did not read all of them – but I found that this was a great exercise for me –  the reflecting, the feeling of those emotions of memories that have stuck with me from childhood – the reliving of them gave them new meaning now that I could see them from an adult point of view or from a point years later.

     Of course, as much fun and value as this exercise was, I was terrible at keeping up with it. Some entire weekends were spent catching up with the emails – instead of Sarah getting a memory a day, she might get none for a week and then eight in one day. This also made me a pain to be around at home, as you might imagine.

     So if I say that I completed only six months of this commitment, one might conclude that the whole thing was an abysmal failure. But if you think about it this way – hey! She has six months' worth of memories written down somewhere! That's kind of neat.

     And no, I did not run out of memories to talk about – in actuality, it was Mike's fiftieth birthday party preparations in April of '09 that captivated my entire attention at the six-month point, and afterward we heard that the kids would be returning to the States in June rather than September, and the need for a story-a-day or eight-stories-a-weekend faded away.

     This blog, A Sharp Stick in the Eye, was going to use the stories already written in the emails from 2008 and 2009 so that I would not get behind in 2015 and become the same pain in the butt that I was before in trying to keep up. But as you might guess, old stories have been rewritten or updated with new reflections – and some stories will not be used as I realized they were more about “what happened today” rather than actual memories. And then of course, there are the other six months' worth of a memory-a-day that will need putting together – and pictures! I want to add pictures!

     There are notes scribbled about everywhere - pockets, purse, phone, giant desk I'm using at home - of what I want to write about – today is day 34 of the 365 day year – made it this far – let's see where it goes!

34 20150203 memory a day England

Calendars and Journals

    My daughter, Amanda, was born in the month of December in 1986. After the turn of the new year that next month, I found myself with an extra 1987 calendar, and I was not sure where to hang it or what to do with it. Then it occurred to me that Amanda would have a lot of “firsts” in her first year of life – like first trip to the grocery store, first trip to the public library, first meeting with extended family members who might come to visit us in Oklahoma, and of course first sleep through the night, first tooth, first step. Who knows? I might be able to put something cute on the calendar, and not just firsts, for every day of 1987? I did not really have enough faith in myself to believe I would actually keep up with the calendar – but I decided to give it a try.

1987 Amanda's Life

     Well, I surprised myself! Not only did I have every day of 1987 filled in with something about Amanda, but in 1988, I bought two extra calendars so that I could put something down each day about Amanda on one calendar, and something each day for my daughter, Sarah, on another. Sarah is two and a half years older than Amanda, and she was doing lots of cool stuff like attending pre-school. That year's efforts turned out successfully too. And so the tradition continued well into the 90's – the calendars were by then replaced with journals for longer entries for the luxury of better describing some days.

    From the beginning I had decided to limit the entries to only positive statements – and oh my gosh what a wonderful exercise it was for me to come up with something positive to write about each daughter each day; and if I could not think of anything at all because a particular day had been especially difficult, then I would allow myself to write about what had gone wrong that day.  

     The collection of the calendars and journals on the shelf are are so very dear to me now!

The shelf of journals and calendars

     In January 2010, one month after my grand-daughter, Virginia was born, I did an entry a day for her, and continued it for the next 18 months – her Mom was wonderful in keeping me informed of lots of cute stuff I could write down.

    When my girls were little, I so wanted to chronicle every moment with words and pictures – and then I realized that parenting means living in the present and allowing the sands of time to run through our fingers – and because that time is then gone – it is so important to enjoy – cherish – every single one of those moments while they are happening. I am so glad I have the journals and the photos and the stories – but a deeper contentment flows through me for the blessings/presence/sharing of my daughters and grandchildren in my life!

33 201502021987 calendar entries

Someone on 219 just said "God Bless You!"

     Since the January 1^st entry, and thus the first installment of the 365 memories blog, was a quote of my Dad's, I'm thinking I can start each month with one of his memorable sayings. To understand this February 1^st quote, I'm going to include a description of the roads near our Heinrich house.

     The old Route 219 ran through the hamlets of North Boston, Patchin, and Boston before heading south to Springville or north to Hamburg. Zimmerman Road began at one intersection of 219 in North Boston – the law office on this very corner is where Mom worked for years and years. On the other corner there used to be an ancient tavern – but now there is a plaque commemorating the well of the tavern which was the source of a typhoid fever epidemic once upon a time!

      Zimmerman then goes over 18 Mile Creek. (Legend claims that 18 Mile Creek is 18 miles from Buffalo Creek), and just a little past the bridge, Zimmerman meets the beginning of Heinrich Road and then continues up one of the famous and picturesque Boston Hills.
          Heinrich goes down a slight dip over what we kids always called Riskie's Creek, and then Heinrich continues up the dip where it meets Valley Circle Lane and our old house on one of the corners; after that, Heinrich used to go up a hill, made a sharp right turn and then after a mile or so it intersected with the old Route 219 a couple of miles north of where Zimmerman Road met 219.

     It was a few years after college and my moving to Buffalo, that Heinrich Road was dead-ended just past our Valley Circle Lane subdivision, at the bottom of the hill before the sharp curve. The new Route 219 came through there – and the old roads of my youth were permanently changed.

     Valley Circle Lane goes around in a circle with houses on both sides of the road. Beyond Valley Circle Lane is 18 Mile Creek, a cow pasture that we kids called the Hickory Nut Woods, and a field. And just beyond that, about a half mile as the crow flies, was the old Route 219.

Our House at Heinrich and Valley Circle Lane; old Route 219 east of 18 Mile Creek

     So this has been a long-winded way of saying that the old Route 219 was about a half mile from our house .

     Now, Mom had some very loud sneezes. Not all of her sneezes were ear-piercingly loud, but every once in a while a really booming one would come out. And if Dad were home at the time, he would wait a second after the sneeze, and then he would point in the opposite direction of wherever Mom was in the house and say, “Did you hear that? Someone on 219 just said 'God bless you Mary!'” (Mom's name) 

     And that has stuck with me all my life. If I hear a really loud sneeze, no matter where I am, or even if it is my own sneeze, I say it in my head, and I've often been heard to say it out loud, “Someone on 219 just said 'God bless you!'” And if you have ever heard me say that – now you know what it means!

32 20150201 God bless you Mary!

The Not Number 6 Bus

    Well, I do not remember eventually getting the required physical for kindergarten, so contrary to my mother's exaggerated statement about being banned from school forever, I was allowed to go! The property that the former one-room school house sat on was being used for the building of a brand new elementary school in our growing small town. But the school would not be ready until I was in first grade. So for kindergarten the kids were being bussed all the way to the next town – Armor – far, far away – or so it seemed.

   I do not remember the exact number for the bus, so let's say here it was bus number 6. My mother drew me a picture of the number 6 and told me to remember what it looked like. I was only to get on bus number 6. I was never ever to get on any other bus but bus number 6. If I ever got on a bus that said something other than 6 on it, I would never see home again!

    Well, that worked very well. I was not afraid to ride the bus even though school was far away. I had watched the big kids standing at the bus stop at the end of our driveway for years – I had for so long wanted to be one of those big kids, and finally I was. I got on bus 6 every morning and again bus 6 every afternoon.

    Until that one fate-filled afternoon.

    The teacher had us all line up in class according to our bus number, just like every other day. And the kids for bus 6 lined up one behind the other, just like every day. And she marched us out to the parking lot, and turned us over to the big people in the parkng lot just like any other day. And the big people told us all to get on our buses, and all the kids got onto their respective buses. Except for the bus number 6 kids – because there was no bus number 6 there. The big people pointed to another bus and told the bus 6 kids to get on that bus. And all the other bus 6 kids actually got on it! Oh no! Apparently their mothers had never told them what would happen if they ever got on a bus that was not bus 6. Fortunately my mother had told me!

    I refused to get on the bus!

    The big people told me I had to get on the bus. I kept refusing. And I got louder! Crying and screaming and saying “NO!” And then I got physical. The kids on the bus looked out the window at me pitching a fit in the parking lot. Those poor kids! If I kept screaming, maybe I could save them, stalling until the real bus 6 arrived!

Then one of the big people picked me up and walked up the two steps of the bus and carried me inside! I was put down on the front seat – the seat behind the bus-driver! Everyone knows what that means! The bad kids were put in the seat behind the bus driver! How dare that big person presume I needed to be put in the seat for bad kids!!

    The big person set me onto the seat behind the bus driver and then scooted down the two steps and out of the bus. The bus driver quickly shut the door, and we started to roll.

    The bus went out of the parking lot, and down the road. I sobbed and sobbed – the one thing my mother had asked me to do, and I had failed miserably! Now, I was never going to see home again! I looked out the window and saw the telephone lines going by. I thought, “I will never see those telephone lines again!” Then I looked in the mirror above the bus-driver. I realized someone was looking at me in the mirror. It was Diane, sitting four rows behind me. Diane was my best friend. She lived three houses down the street from me on Heinrich, and she was in my kindergarten class. Diane was supposed to be on bus number 6! She is never going to see home again either.We kept looking at each other in the mirror. And then Diane gave me a kind of half smile, and she raised her hand a little and gave me a little wave.

    Of course, as you might have figured out by now, the bus we were on was a substitute for bus 6, and we were all soon taken home, just like always.

    A few years ago I asked my Mom if the school had even reported the incident to her when it happened? She said, “Oh yes they certainly did!” And then she lowered her voice and said, “You know, neither of us had done anything wrong!”

    Sometimes Moms exaggerate in order to keep their kids in line – and sometimes listening to my Mom got me out of line with the rest of the world.

    Sometimes when you are trying to rescue the rest of the world, you yourself are rescued by someone who has your back and saves you with a smile and a wave.

    Many times in your life, you mght get on the wrong bus – but it is the wrong bus ride you remember long after the Number 6 bus rides fade from memory.

    And no matter what bus you get on – you will eventually, somehow, manage to see home again!

    These are some of the things I learned in kindergarten.

31 20150131 kindergarten bus

Kindergarten Registration

     One day when I was four years old, my mother and I went down Back Creek Road to a building which had once been a one room school house. It was no longer a one room school house, but it was being used by the school district for other things.

     On that day, the building was being used for kindergarten registration!

     I was so excited! There were lots of people when we walked in the front door, and because I was so little, all I could see were legs in front of me. And I held on tight to Mom's hand which was high – but I did not let go – and she was holding on tightly too.

     There were tables all along the walls of the room – and people were going up to the tables and filling out paperwork for the folks sitting in chairs behind the tables. It was noisy – I did not know how people knew what to do. I decided that when you are an adult, you know everything – and I was looking forward to knowing more as I got older.

     The front of the room had a step up and a whole stage-like area. I imagined that that was the area where the teacher once stood in front of her students, and perhaps she even had a desk on that raised area of the floor. There was a line forming in the middle of the room in front of that step. The line was getting longer and was almost out the door where we had come in. I did not like the looks of that line. After a while Mom and I were standing in that line too.

     As the line moved slowly forward, I was finally able to see what was on the raised area of the room. A very old, decrepit looking man was sitting hunched over on a chair; he was thin and the suit he was wearing just hung off of him. I was getting more uncomfortable by the moment. But I was holding Mom's hand – and everything would be okay. The old man talked to a mother and child for a while. Then the mother and child would walk away and the next mother and child in line would walk up to the old man for their turn. I did not understand what was going on. I did understand that I did not like it.

     After a while we were in the front of the line, and then it was our turn. The old man smiled at me, beckoning me forward. Why was he smiling at me? This was not good. Mom tugged at me until we were both standing in front of him.

     He was smiling and talking to me as if he knew me, as if he liked me – but he did not know me and he could not like me. And after a moment, he felt he had made enough small talk, and he tried to take off my coat!

    I kicked him in the shins.

    The next thing I knew, I was in the parking lot - still holding my mother's hand, and she was moving so fast, it felt like we were flying! When we got out of earshot of everyone inside and outside the building, Mom hissed at me,

    “That was Dr. C*** you just kicked! He was just trying to give you a physical! You needed that physical to go to kindergarten – And since you did not get the physical, you can't go to school!”

    Well, how do you like that? I had not even begun my first day of school, and I was kicked out forever!

30 20150130 Kindergarten Registration

The Blizzard of '77

   

Souvenir Tote from the Blizzard of '77

 In January of 1977, I began a new job – just after the agar factory. Dad had gotten the position for me – as an admin in a truck repair shop. It was supposed to be just for a few months as I had applied to graduate school, and I thought I would be back in classes by September. Well, I still was not driving, and the truck place was a few miles away, almost to Buffalo. Dad had told me not to worry about transportation – but this was one of those common sense things again – I thought that meant he would take me to and from work every day, and Dad thought that meant I would figure out something – like post a notice or talk up the guys in the shop into giving me a ride every day. When the job began, Dad was dropping me off and picking me up.

     The truck repair shop was owned by a plump couple I have always endearingly referred to as the Dumplings. The Mrs doted on the Mr all day long in the office I was supposed to share with them. The office had a kitchen, complete with stove and sink. The Mrs made eggs for them both every morning. Mr Dumpling would eat while working at his desk, and then Mrs Dumpling would clean up.

     Apparently it was not discussed at the interview whether or not I drove. So you can imagine the Mrs' disappointment when the first thing she asked me to do was take a deposit to the bank, and I told her that I had no car or license. She had been hoping to make me do all the stuff she did not feel like doing in the office. Things were not going well right from the start.

     What I thought I was hired to do was take the job sheets from the crew from the day before and tally up the hours spent on each job and make sure each guy had put in 8 hours for each day. How hard could that be? And I knew I was a great worker with half a brain. Turns out there are some jobs I am totally unsuited for – and admin is totally one of them. The hours never matched up, and I didn't want to be constantly tattling – so I was doing a crappy job. The Mr was glaring at me all day for being an incompetent, and the Mrs was glaring at me all day for breathing.

     After two weeks I knew I would have to leave – it was just too intolerable. But Dad had gotten me the job, and if I left, it would be an embarrassment to him!

     And besides all that, it was snowing.

     The snow had started the month before, in December. The Buffalo Western New York area is well prepared for a lot of snow – and has the equipment for moving it out of the way. The snows of December 1976, however, had proven too much for the area – the plows could not clear out enough snow before another storm would hit and paralyze the land once again. As January came around, trains were coming to town to haul carloads of snow to other parts of the country, no kidding! And we Buffaloons, as we sometimes are referred to – persevere. We can't stay home – if we did, we would be there for six months of the year. So if there is any way possible, we go to work or school or for groceries – that's what we do. We had to keep moving.

    And it kept snowing.

    On the morning of January 29, 1977, a Friday, I got out of bed not thinking about the weather but rather feeling sorry for myself that another two weeks had gone by since I had decided to quit my job and yet I had not had the guts to tell my father. Dad had already left for work. My brother, Clark, was home from college, still on winter break, I think, or maybe school, the University of Buffalo, was closed because of the snow. Clark was going to take me to the shop.

    We got in the car and started down the road, turning onto the old 219 which was iced over, heading toward Hamburg. At one point the car spun around and careened into the snowbank on the side of the road. We got out, brushed away the snow and freed the car from the drift. One would think at this point we would have then driven home – but that did not occur to us – we were Snow Belt Veterans! Clark took me all the way to the truck repair shop and then he returned home – in fact Clark went back to bed, and thus he was unaware of what what happening when I called him later that morning.

     At the shop, hardly any employees showed up. Most had called in claiming the weather was too bad where they lived. Around 11 o'clock, the daughter-in-law of the Dumplings, who worked a few hours every week in the office, pointed out the window and told us all to take a look. The day was dark and the visibility was near zero.

    The Blizzard of 1977 had officially begun!

    Mr Dumpling told me I could call for my ride home. I woke Clark up and asked him if he thought it would be okay to come and get me. He did not know why not. And he said he would be right there to pick me up. That was just after 11AM.

    At 4 o'clock, Clark called back. I was frantic! “Where are you?” He said he was at his girlfriend's house. She lived in South Buffalo! I lit into him so bad. “Why did you go there? Can't you go anywhere without your girlfriend? Don't you know the roads are terrible out there? You need to come and get me!”

    Clark showed an infinite amount of restraint during my tirade, and he patiently waited for me to finish (or else he was yelling back at me and I just couldn't hear it above the din of my own hissy fit). But finally he got the chance to explain.

    He had started out from our house in North Boston and was on the same route we had done that morning. Only he got to a place where the road was closed because of the weather. Clark went down a few more streets trying to get to my general vicinity, and he ended up on the thruway. That would not have been so bad, if he could have gotten off at the first exit he came to, but the first exit was closed, and the next one – the first exit Clark got to that was not closed was the one for South Buffalo – and he got off at that exit and promptly skidded into a drift on the side of the road. Right next to another car – and other cars that were already covered over by the falling snow.

     Clark got out and walked up the ramp and then to his girlfriend's apartment which was another mile or so away. He had been through so much, and I had had the nerve to lash out at him from the cozy warm office with the chilly people!

     My Mom worked a quarter of a mile from our house. She walked home in the midst of the wind and freezing cold snowfall – she thought she was not going to make it, but Mom was the only one in the family who did make it home that night.

     Eric was away at school in New York City, so we did not have to worry about him.

     Dad had just started a new business at the beginning of the year – in Buffalo – the weather had wreaked havoc on them that first month, and the night of the Blizzard of '77, he and his partner were stuck at the office. Someone in a car in front of their business had died – presumably of a heart attack – and no one was attending to him because there were so many living people who needed help! 

     After all that Clark had been through that day, and with an abandoned car on the ramp of the thruway – he was staying safe and warm at his girlfriend's.

     And it became clear after talking to Clark, that I was not going home either.

     I hung up the phone and looked at the Dumplings.

     Oh dear.

     Mr called the nearest motel, and surprisingly, there were enough rooms for us if we doubled up. The daughter-in-law called her husband, the Dumplings' son, and he said he would come and get her. I almost choked on my jealousy when he actually showed up in his pickup truck and with a big grin on his face – he is the only person I heard of from all the Blizzard of '77 stories who actually got to where he was going to, and back again! With the daughter-in-law gone, that meant Mrs Dumpling and I would have to share a room together when we got to the motel.

    There were two carloads of us – it was quite dark, and the visibility was still near zero. I was in the car with Mr Dumpling driving. It was obvious that he could not see much – and we drove very slowly down the street, and not having to go too far, we managed to get to the motel safe and sound.

     We were ushered into the dining room where the Dumplings bought us dinner. All of their gestures were sincere and generous – but I was so uncomfortable. I did not know the guys at all, and I felt like they probably hated me because the boss was always yelling at them about the hours that I could never seem to match up. I did not talk at the dinner table – fear and social awkwardness – was I ever going to get out of this mess? And what was I going to do after dinner? The evening was young – it would be too early to go to bed, too weird to watch TV with Mrs Dumpling; I couldn't hang around with the guys, and oh my gosh – is the Mr going to be in our room too? From what I had observed of their relationship, I doubted he would be separated from the Mrs even for one night!

    Well, just as we were finishing dinner, the Mrs took ill, and Mr Dumpling put his arm around her and walked her out of the dining room. I got up from the table, fished around in my purse for some change, and called my Mom from a phone booth in the lobby. I gave her the number of the phone, and she called back so the call would not be under any time restrictions. We talked for quite a while – Mom mostly laughed at me. She did not know about my need to quit – but all the other circumstances of the evening had her amused and kept her from thinking about the rest of her stranded family or the car that was buried by the side of the Thruway. I couldn't talk to Mom all night, however, so eventually we hung up, and I braced myself for what I might find in the room I was supposedly sharing with Mrs Dumpling.

    Would she be there ill?

    Would she and the Mr be there giving me dirty looks for even thinking I was really supposed to spend the night with them?

    Would she be in one bed and Mr be in the other? What would I do then?

    What if they locked me out?

    What if they are having relations?

    I don't know when I have ever dreaded anything more as I approached that motel room door.

    Inside the room, Mrs Dumpling was sound asleep on one bed.

    And Mr Dumpling was sound asleep on top of her.

    So. Was it okay for me to stay in the other bed?

    Should I stay dressed? It seemed like it would be awkward to undress.

    But then in the morning, they might feel insulted that I felt I needed to stay clothed while in the room with them.

    Why did this have to be so weird?

    Morning was not going to come soon enough.

    I opted to stay dressed, but I got under the covers – I guess that was so it would look like I had undressed if that was better for them to think so. I don't know – what is proper etiquette in situations like these?

   In the morning, a dove flew by with an olive branch. Or at least the Blizzard of '77 was over. The snowstorm had ceased, and the sun was out.

    We got in the two cars and went back to the truck repair shop. Mr Dumpling told the guys that if any of them felt they could get home safely, they were welcome to try.

    There were three brothers who worked there and lived in a town south of Boston. They were going to head for home. Somehow I worked up the courage to ask for a ride. A fourth person inside a front-seat-only pickup truck was quite the imposition – I thought they were going to say no. They seemed more concerned about getting me all the way to my house – and I assured them they could just drop me off on 219, I could get home all right from there.     I was never so happy to get in a pickup truck with three strange men before! (yeah, I don't think I had ever gotten into a truck with three strange men before then – the weather, you know, makes us do surprising things!) They took me almost all the way home, dropped me off, and I never saw them again.

     Mom was, of course, happy to see me.

     Dad finally made it home when a cousin with a truck (thank you again and again, Paul Des Soye!) found out where he was and was wonderful enough to give him a lift. I think that's how Clark got home too. The car was eventually taken to an impound place and retrieved – none the worse for wear.

     Two days later, on Monday morning, I called Mrs Dumpling and told her I would not be in – ever. She sounded relieved. Dad was upset when he found out, but I think Mr Dumpling smoothed things over and said it was for the best for all of us.

    My Uncle Jim used to call Mom every year on January 29^th and ask her if she remembers what day it is? That's how I remember the date.
   Everyone who lived through the Blizzard of '77 in Buffalo/Western New York has a story to tell.
    And this is mine.

29 20150129 Blizzard of 77