Thankful

Seventy-five years ago, our nation celebrated its last peacetime Thanksgiving before becoming involved in the war. Sixteen days later, Japan surprised almost everyone but my father with the attack on Pearl Harbor. (Pearl Harbor- Did Dad Know)

On that Thanksgiving Day in 1941, my mother was just twelve-years old, so her celebration was nothing like that of my father. She sat down with her family to eat a dinner prepared by her mother, while my father, then a twenty-two-year old soldier, was dining in a mess hall at Fort Dix. Dad’s family was on the other side of the world, and he had not been in contact with them for months. He did not even know if his family was dead or alive.

My Russian grandparents and three of their children were at a train station somewhere in the Soviet Union, which had been their home for over one week. What were they eating that Thanksgiving? Definitely not a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. If they were lucky that day, they feasted on some black bread, perhaps some flavorless soup, and a cup of water.

Since August, they had been walking on muddy roads and living in abandoned farmhouses while enduring months of unrelenting rainstorms followed by snow and temperatures plummeting to below zero. Their goal was to reach a train station where they hoped to board a train to take them further away from the constant bombings overhead and Hitler’s ground troops advancing closer to them each day.

So on this Thanksgiving Day in 2016, just for a moment, I will not be sad about not celebrating with my entire family. I will be happy that my mother is still around to enjoy her turkey dinner, albeit two hundred miles from me. My oldest daughter and her family will be eating a traditional New Orleans dinner, complete with some kind of seafood dressing—not stuffing. My middle daughter will be with some of her in-laws not far from my mother, and my husband and I will be celebrating the holiday this year with our youngest daughter at a barbecue restaurant just one mile from The White House. (Now that will be interesting!) They will all be happy, healthy, and safe, so that is where my focus will be.

And just for that one day, I will not think of what will come of our country on January 20.thanksgiving-2012

Toilet Paper and the End of Civility

I was thinking of my grandmother recently while I was brushing my teeth. Grandma was crafty. Perhaps I got just a few of her craftiness genes. She loved to crochet, and I am fortunate that I have one of her creations—an afghan which she crocheted and is draped over one of my sofas.

grandmas-afghan

Sadly, what I do not have, is one of her more unique projects—a toilet paper cover. So I had to rely on the Internet for a photo which I was able to locate at Crafthubs.com.

toilet-paper-cover

These lovely creations cleverly hid a roll of toilet paper and were born in a bygone era when censors were a lot more concerned regarding what was said on television and the movies. My grandma was a mother of six when the movie “Gone With the Wind” was first released in 1939. During that movie, Clark Gable spoke the infamous line, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Back in those days, it was quite a scandalous utterance.

The bathing suits during Grandma’s youth did not show nearly the amount of skin that you would witness poolside today in mixed company with children present, where bathing suits show much more cleavage and butts than during my mother or grandmothers’ time. Take a look at Grandma here, in a photo taken sometime in the forties.

jean-carey-bathing-beauty

As a child of the sixties, when the cameras rolled into the bedrooms of some of my favorite television shows, the couple (always, always married) were shown speaking to each other from their respective twin beds, separated at that time by a table. With the exception of one couple from a 1941 sitcom called “Mary Kay and Johnny,” which Grandma did not recall, married couples did not share a bed until Herman and Lily Munster  of “The Munsters” and Samantha and Darrin Stevens of “Bewitched” made cohabiting one bed acceptable.

It was not long ago when we showed respect to our elders, our teachers, and the President. I am embarrassed to be from the state where it was my congressman who yelled out to President Obama in the middle of his first State of the Union Address, “You lie.” While I understand that he disagreed with the President, I feel it was not acceptable to disrespect the office. What would Grandpa think?

Now cursing is commonplace, respect has flown out the window, and you never know what to expect when you turn on the television or the radio. It was hard enough when all of you were young, but I find it has gotten worse as exemplified by the 2016 election. What would Grandpa think, having lived for ten years in a country where democracy did not exist?

I spoke with Grandma about this tonight and told her that a part of me longs to return to a time where rolls of toilet paper must be covered, because a civil society would never admit what was hidden under that crocheted craft. In a civil world, bad manners and incivility are hidden under a toilet paper cover. But that is what freedom and the First Amendment are about, so what would Dad think?

Our Darn Old Backs

You all know how I have been having some neck pains and random tingling in my arms and legs during the past few months. Although I am still awaiting an official diagnosis, I believe I did it to myself by spending too much time sitting at my computer. Apparently, there is a correct way to do this, which I did not realize.

This has caused me to have to curtail some of my work, but most upsetting is that I have had some discomfort when holding the kids. This saddens me greatly, and what is more, I realize I share this problem with Grandpa. Unlike him, the cause of my pain were not heroic as his was. Mine were just stupidity and ignorance. Grandpa’s injury happened during the train accident he was in while he was serving stateside during the war—the accident where he switched places with the soldier on the train, who ended up dying when the track crashed through the train trestle.

I found two pages of a letter he wrote to someone at the Veterans Administration in 1989.

In November 1942 I was in a troop train accident in Valdosta, Georgia. I was in the medical corps at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia. I was assigned as a first aid NCO to a troop train which left Chattanooga, Tennessee going to Florida.

At Valdosta, George, our train crashed through a wooded bridge and fell over twenty feet into a stream. We had about twelve cars. I injured my back there, but the other men had more serious injuries—cuts and fractures. I applied first aid to every one of them.

At the destination, I was examined and told to see my doctor at Fort Oglethorpe. There, they strapped my back for about ten days.

In 1945, at Camp Beale when I was being discharged, I was asked if I wanted to apply for disability. I asked how long it would take, and they told me about six months. I turned it down, and now I know I made a mistake.

The reason I am writing this letter is that I am seventy years old, and when I hold my grandchildren for a long time, my back hurts. I called the VA because I wanted to know if my back ever gave me any real trouble, could I go to a VA hospital. The consultant on the phone said yes and advised me to apply for benefits.

And that, girls, is all that I have of that letter. I do not know if he ever sent it, nor do I know if he ever applied for benefits. I wish he had because it probably would have helped his financial situation as the breadwinner for a family of seven. But we can’t change the past. It’s just water under the Valdosta, Georgia bridge.

But he never complained.

train-accident-pg-1

The Etiquette of Crossing the Street- TBT

I tried to teach you as much as I could think of while you were growing up, but with three of you, I worry that I taught one of you something maybe twice, and then at least one of you, I missed out on an important piece of motherly wisdom.

Who learned how to sew on a button; who learned how to iron a shirt? I know, from a potentially disastrous observation, that neither Dad nor I taught Casey never to insert a knife into a toaster. Fortunately, we were there to witness her doing this and shrieked in warning.

It turns out that one of the newspapers I read growing up had an etiquette column. Maybe if you were exposed to this, I could have had time to teach you the dangers of placing metal objects in a toaster.

Here is one of my favorites, which explains the proper way for a man and a woman to cross the street together. Please look at the photo, and before reading the caption, choose which photo you believe represents the correct method: Should you grab your man’s arm or should he guide you with his elbow? It’s a difficult decision, I realize. Choose and then check out the answer.

Crossing Street Etiquette

 

Just One Sentence

As you have noticed, over the years I have saved a lot of my memories. That is why I loved the idea of creating those memory boxes for the three of you. I have the photos, letters you wrote to each other and Dad and me when you were younger, my high school/college scrapbook, and the photo album Grandma made for me. Additionally, I saved the letters she wrote to me several years ago in response to the memory-jogging postcards I sent to her. What I don’t have, however, are any letters from Grandpa.

I learned from my trip to the National Archives that he was quite the letter writer in his youth—writing letters to his commanding officer, ambassadors at the State Department, and even, it seems, the Secretary of State. Did President Roosevelt hear of the plight of Grandpa’s family? I tried looking for evidence of that at the Library of Congress but came back empty-handed.  Could those letters, if they exist, be stored at FDR’s presidential library in Hyde Park, New York?

I guess he exhausted that part of his life when he became a father. Did he and Grandma write letters to each other when he was stationed at Fort Hood, Texas before they got married? I wonder. I will have to ask her about that when I talk to her.

I have only one very small note that Grandpa wrote to me—just one single run-on sentence that he wrote on my graduation card from high school. I wish I had more, but at least I have something.

Note From Dad

 

Leaving the USA

Was I the only one who did not know about Grandpa’s trip to Russia as a boy? Uncle Dave sat down and made the video which showed the photos on the ship, so did Grandpa tell him the details that day? Did he tell Aunt Ar when they took the trip to Russia together? Uncle Mart is interested in history, so did he know?

I am thinking about it today, because on this day in 1931, Grandpa’s family was arriving in Europe from New Jersey after a week-long journey on a surprisingly luxurious ship—the Berengaria—which was built as the replacement for the Titanic.

The sea was rough during half of the trip, with a lot of wind and rain. Grandpa, his brother Pete and their mother got quite sick one day. Although travel in third class was not luxurious and they did not have a bathroom in their cabins, the dining room was quite nice and they were able to enjoy several movie days at sea.

Their ship arrived first in Cherbourg France at 4:00 in the afternoon to discharge some passengers and pick up others. From their ship they were able to see a French fort, some sea planes, a submarine, and several of the ships which had also from left New York. That must have been fun to see.

They took a short ride across the English Channel to Southampton, England, which is the same port from which the Titanic left. Dad and I took a train there from London last year and went to a museum, which had a replica of Grandpa’s ship. His family probably traveled on those same tracks to London, where they spent five days before the next leg of their journey.

I was surprised to learn that they were able to tour the city, visiting all the typical tourist sites of London such as the House of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the British Museum, and Hyde Park. It was nice to see that my grandparents were able to give the family this nice little vacation before the big move to Leningrad, which I am guessing did not go over well with any of the kids.

Dad and I were able to see the hotel where Grandpa’s family stayed, which was in a very nice area of London. The hotel has not changed much from the outside (we saw a photo of the hotel at a nearby library), but it has now been converted into apartments.

They left London on the morning of December 23, traveling by train to the port city of Hull, which is on the North Sea. From what I learned based upon the diary I found, the rest of the trip was not as much fun except for Christmas Day. On that day, they spent the afternoon walking around the city of Copenhagen, where they were allowed to buy some candy.

They spent two very rough days at sea on a very small Finnish steamship, and everyone got sick. Even the dishes were rolling off the tables. Having been on several cruises where a rough day did not even approach that, you can just imagine how awful that must have been.

The trip ended in Helsinki, Finland on a very snowy and windy day. They disembarked the ship, walked around the city and bought some souvenirs before boarding a train for a thirteen hour ride to the Soviet Union. By 6:00 on the evening of December 29, they had arrived at a hotel in Leningrad, eighteen days after leaving their home in New Jersey. Were they scared, excited, or just too tired to feel anything?

Grandpa and Family- December 1931

Grandpa on SS Berengaria- December 1931