Time Travelin’

My Safer at Home (Wisconsin’s version of Shelter In Place) pearls? Strangely they involve travel, romance, betrayal, history, war, peace, financial ruin, friendship and even a Pandemic. All presented in the form of hand-written, ink splattered letters dating back to the early 1900’s, most addressed to my grandmother Florence June Westgate and then to Florence Westgate Kraffert. I found these letters neatly ribbon-bound in packets filling a massive wooden armoire standing sentry in the corner of my grandparents nook-filled attic thirty years ago. I scrambled to save them before my Mother enforced her ‘we can’t keep it, throw it away’ mantra while facing dismantling seventy years of her parent’s life. The box that I shipped to myself then to Atlanta, that followed me to Wisconsin, and then sat unidentified at the top of my shelves in my bedroom closet for decades, spoke to me, once I sat myself down.

The letters are a compilation of correspondence from friends, parents, siblings, and suitors peppered with occasional corresponding entries in daily journal notes and diaries. Narrowing in on letters starting in 1918 and going forward I am experiencing history from a current perspective… World War I, The Spanish Flu, the birth of the roaring 20’s, the depression, World War II…all happening in real time. I am holding one hundred-year-old road maps that show me life does go on. Both on a global basis and a personal, intimate one.

My grandparents became secretly engaged in August of 1921 and immediately were separated by distance. Bennie wrote Flo every day until they reunited in June of 1922. I’m still on December 1921. (And that’s not the only gentleman from whom she received letters!) Later in their life together, they received life’s harshest blow…the loss of their only son, at 19, who died in perfect health, inexplicably in his sleep. Those 1947 condolence letters are both beauty to behold and beauty to absorb…poignant, thoughtful prose etched indelibly on onion skin, parchment or linen paper. Art to be preserved.

It’s overwhelming the depth of details I’m living and weaving together and researching to get more of the story. I have entered another world and quite frankly prefer it to the one I am ‘in shelter’ from now, so struggle with reentry sometimes. It is not by accident or coincidence that I am reading about lives a hundred years ago after they have survived a pandemic.

I am amazed by striking societal similarities. Our need for constant connection is buried deep in our DNA. It just has found a new format. My grandparents looked as intently and eagerly in their ‘inboxes’ as we do ours, and almost as frequently since the post was sometimes delivered twice a day. Their adrenaline rushes were just found in hard copy. I try to imagine the thrill of receiving, in hand, a twelve-page letter from a bestie or lover and that savory moment of finding a quiet corner to connect virtually, just as we do now, although better. Handwriting makes beautiful company.

How timely to tie this collection of pearls to a worthy cause. I love and respect the United States Postal System…and am ever so grateful for their services. And pretty stamps. Write a letter, heck write lots of letters and know that not only are you providing someone today with a physical, comforting presence, you may also be gifting a glimpse of the past to someone unknown to you in the future.

PS. Any type of Parker Pen will make the experience that much more worthwhile!!

On Wisconsin

Today I tried something new.  Rage Cooking. I don’t recommend it.  I have always enjoyed cooking as therapy.  Have been the one who professes to always cook with love.  Last night after I learned my beloved home state had jumped off the political cliff and taken its citizens hostage with it, I went to bed mad as two hissing cats. After a fitful night of pseudo sleep, I woke up with the anger still percolating. Ready to erupt.  As my custom, I went into the kitchen to calm myself and found instead to hold onto my rage fiercely.  That’s when everything went amok. One burned out emulsifier wand, broken eggs on the kitchen tiles, bouncing utensils, food spattered ceiling to floor, I was operating in a complete mess both literally and figuratively.  All this before breakfast.

I’m struggling with the lesson learned. Where is the pearl here? The result on the plate tasted fine to my husband. It was a salty bitter lump going down for me. I did joke about my killing us with a ‘heart attack on a plate’ before the virus gets us, but even that provided little comfort. We have no operating instructions for this world careening off its axis.  Maybe it’s just OK to be mad sometimes and stew in it. But I do suggest to back away from any sharp instruments. And do a small business a favor…order take out. Time to take a deep breath.

Post Script…my state did not let me down.  On Wisconsin!

Child's Play

Two weeks into our local Covid-19 meltdown… I am getting on my very last nerve.  My husband, Matthews’ as well it seems. Our walks are imperative to surviving this mandated cohabitation. The trees and birds, clueless to the potential fall of humanity’s very existence, provide great comfort in their normalcy. It’s Spring comin’ so the birds are starting to sing about it. It’s Spring comin’ so the trees are starting to feel their buds. For some reason, ground moss is everywhere on steroids.  I came across some on a hiking trail that could have used a buzz cut.

Recently, I had a Knock Me Over-I Get It moment that revealed the meaning of something preached about for centuries. This pearl appeared through my observation of children playing outside as we walked. Due to the quarantine restrictions, families have been outside in droves throughout our neighborhoods and city parks.  Common sightings display children gleefully running ahead of their adults, spreading their arms and twirling in pure joy as the sun shines on their backs. They are oblivious to the weight we adults carry as we solemnly nod to each other, keeping our mandatory 6 ft distance intact. And then the Aha moment sprung up---we do indeed need to be childlike in our faith. The children are happily spinning because they are not burdened by the mistakes of the past or the fear of a grim future. Their entire existence is ruled by blind faith. Faith that today holds promise because the sun is shining, and the wind is at their backs. Pure joy. Let’s all try our best to twirl a little forward in faith.  Namaste.

Opening Locked Doors

Below, a vignette that is a cheerier perspective on airplane travel.  And it all relates back to being open to connect with people.  This little pearl about knocked me over.  I am still circling around the outcome because of course, as life would have it, other pearls have sprung up leading me in a different direction. This story needs to be told though.  I haven't quite figured out how to make it a pleasurable pause…

One good thing about airplane pillows…they are perfect face shields when one has absolutely mortified oneself on a flight.  Which I just recently discovered, I’m chagrined to say. I’ve labeled this humbling trip my Incredible Journey Home, Part One and Part Two.

PART ONE

The flight from Raleigh Durham, North Carolina to Atlanta can go by in a blink.  A mere fifty –seven minutes from wheels up to touch down. I was leaving a brilliant North Carolina spring day to head back to Wisconsin which was still under winter’s relentless grip. (We actually call the late season antics of winter blocking spring’s progress, Sprinter.)  My seat mate in 2A engaged briefly as we settled in, sharing a lament of leaving such a beautiful blooming landscape. It is typically clear to me whether my mantra of ‘choosing to connect’ while traveling will be stymied or embraced on a flight. I am good either way, but if offered the opportunity will forge ahead in light conversation to see if something of interest unfolds.  In this case, it did. Mightily.

I discovered my neighbor had ties to Wisconsin via a shared lake home property in the Northwoods owned by her husband’s family.  (The Northwoods is Wisconsin’s northern region featuring pristine lakes and long rows of pine forests.) She described the difficulty in scheduling visits there from her home in Connecticut and commented on her 100 year-old mother-in-law’s desire to keep family lake traditions alive. Not easy in today’s world of expanded and spread out families.  This comment offered me a perfect segue to share a screen shot of my book, Come To The Lake: Reflections On A Cottage Life which documents our own lake traditions spending summers in an authentic 1920’s lake cottage.  She immediately pulled my book up on Amazon and ordered a copy. Our conversation continued with me mostly talking about my self-publishing journey.  I mentioned my IPPY awards, and joked about my ‘upside-down’ business plan with my book costing me more to produce then I can sell it for, my joy in the production process and ultimately touched on my upcoming Chamonix writing program. At one point when I talked about self-publishing, she asked how many copies of each book I printed (1,000 first book, 1500 second book) and nicely commiserated, “That’s a lot of books to sell!” as I lightly bemoaned the challenges of self-promotion.

She then began to ask very informed questions regarding the Chamonix program, talking about Point of View, and asked whether either of the authors leading the program wrote historical fiction.  Finally, I turned the tables. I asked, noting her pointed questions, if she had a writing background. It was then that she quietly informed me, “Yes, I write historical fiction. My first book I wrote is called “The Lilac Girls.”  Enter pillow covering my face. The Lilac Girls, having sold over one million copies, is a phenomenal book that I keep by my bedside. Her second book “Lost Roses’ was at that moment reaching number three on the New York Times Best Seller List.  This women in 2A, whose name I can now reveal as Martha, is a personal hero whose own journey as author was somewhat accidental. She didn’t ever plan to write a novel, she just discovered a moment in history that she was compelled to research and share.

As we discussed historical fiction, I mentioned a story that jumped out at me in our community cemetery which is blocks from our house, a great place to walk and is where our boys learned to ride bikes.  On one of those ‘practice’ days, I discovered a large, four-sided tombstone where five of the names listed had all died on the same day in 1903. I was curious about their fate and while searching through newspaper archives, discovered they were victims of the devastating Iroquois Theater fire. I actually went to the Chicago Historical Society and researched the fire, composed a significant file and set it aside for twenty years as a possible writing project.  One of the searing details of the fire was that nine hundred people perished due to locked exit doors, totally unnecessary deaths that could have easily been prevented.

Martha informed me that my next writing project is indeed an historical novel and it is what I should be focusing my efforts on in Chamonix.   She then gave me a speed ‘Masters Class’ in novel writing, listed writing books for me to read and even provided me with her email address in case I wanted to reach out to her.  Beyond generous, beyond kind…I couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor. I walked off that plane inspired, invigorated and absolutely stunned.

PART TWO

I also was exhausted most likely due to an adrenaline rush from our conversation, so looked forward to being quiet and just simmering on the last leg of my journey home.  As I approached my seat I noticed my new 2A seatmate was already settled in. An elderly gentleman, who very sweetly extended his hand across the arm rest to me as I sat down and simply said, “Hi, I’m Dave”.  And then we were off…dang that connection mantra!

Our conversation touched on his family visit to Florida, the recent loss of his wife of sixty years and his past professional life…pretty basic stuff.  I then asked him about his adult children and where they lived and he informed me his youngest daughter was in California. He then very quietly began to talk of Nancy, his oldest daughter, who married a professor from Washington DC. He went on to describe that Nancy, her husband and ten year-old son were visiting Paris and the hotel they were staying in had a fire… the three of them perished of smoke inhalation due to the fact that the exit doors of their hotel were locked and they could not get out. 

Our ‘basic stuff’ conversation transformed immediately.  We delved into a deep, genuine discourse on learning to trust happiness after loss (a constant challenge for me), and also remarked how lovely it was that we chose to connect while those around us were encased in earbuds and screens.  At one point Dave exclaimed how lucky it was that we shared laughter together. I once again found myself deplaning in absolute shock.

When the universe talks, one must listen.  I now have a new craft to learn, a new purpose to my days and a renewed appreciation of the value in making a choice to connect instead of focusing singularly as we travel our respective paths. Thank you Martha and Dave for my incredible journey home.

Friendless Skies

It occurs to me that we’ve practiced social distancing for quite some time, which is something I wrote despairingly about back in January of 2016. It was when the sky felt like it was falling, ever so silently.

I choose the opposite of despair today. I choose hope instead. And they cannot share the same lane.  I am hopeful we move on to a new normal that looks nothing like the flight I described below.  I hope that when we do have the opportunity to sit next to each other again, we will start with a nod, a smile, shake hands and be grateful for the opportunity to connect. I hope for shared happy trails ahead.

From January 11, 2016:

Oh dear. Flying cross country from Los Angeles to Minneapolis, I realized that we are all living in some bizarre Orwellian Sci-Fi horror movie and it has nothing to do with the airline, flight attendants or weather. It has to do with us, the passengers. The passengers who no longer choose to connect with our own species. All around (me included as I finish one movie and a smattering of Ted Talks) are humans who no longer choose to engage.  Instead we are pacified by staring into individual boxes in front of us.  We carry our devices on with us, use the ones offered us and myopically never look left or right.

I think of the heyday of travel. When people chose to dress for their journeys…pill box hats, gloves, jackets, ties…all with respectful purpose and with the intention to engage. Travel was part of the joy. Even if everyone’s future was totally compromised by the smoke blue fog of endless cigarettes, long hours of travel were filled with conversation and connection. With the understanding…we are on this path together.

We now have individual channels, headsets, and even walls in certain seats, to ensure in every way we immerse in a singular experience. We will never discover our six or seven degrees of separation at this point. An entire future of disconnect perfectly planned for our travel comfort.  Happy friggin' trails.