Night Flight

The first time I hear the story about Grandma being a Superhero I think it is a joke. I am at my Aunt’s house and my two uncles are sitting at the kitchen table augmenting and spinning the tale about Grandma saving lives. The whimsy of their rendition makes me laugh out loud with them. If you knew my grandma, you’d laugh, too.

As a teenager, I am becoming increasingly convinced every day that everyone over 35 is old and an idiot. My criterion is strictly based on the urgency to gain independence and separate from those people I perceive have power over me. My parents are always complaining, “You’re reacting instead being considerate and thoughtful. in the family  ought of her as lbecause I could hear no hoofs rhymically landing in the snow.ed downsticle.      jjjacted and spYou are not treating us like humans. Do I know who we are?” I’d never thought about that. I guess I see them as the sum total of my experience with them as a child plus how others relate to them. I really don’t care, as long as they leave me alone.

Take my grandmother, for instance. I can’t think about her without searching for her image in the shadow of my grandfather. His status, power and everyone’s’ love and respect for him completely blinds me from even being aware of my grandmother. Everyone sees him as Superhuman. I don’t honestly know if that is fantasy or reality?  I just know Grandma as a quiet, withdrawn old woman who likes her gardens more than people. That’s why I think you would join me in laughing at the thought of her as Superwoman.

Come to think of it, I have spent a lot of time with my Grandmother working in her gardens. She is kind of superhuman in her world. She awes me how hard she works. Her physical strength is incredible. It is way beyond any other woman’s I know. I would even consider her courageous in the way she tackles projects that seem impossible. She is ingenious with how she Gerry rigs every resource she has into whatever she needs. She has the patience of an old soul being able to wait for her newborn plants to pop up out of the dirt every year. I wonder if these qualities were the ones my uncles were thinking of when they told their story? I’m in my bedroom thinking about this and looking out the window. There was something about Grandma being heroic when she was a girl but I’d been laughing too hard to remember the details.

The more I think about it the more I want Grandma’s story to be true. I could use a strong woman role model in this family and superwoman would do nicely. Something about this story begins to intrigue and excite me. I can’t stop thinking about it. I find myself acting like a dog that has hidden a bone and cannot find it. I am driven to find the back-story that will make this Superhero tale believable. This thinking gets me wondering what Grandma was like as a child and what her world was like back then.

I know if I ask her about it she won’t tell me anything. How can I find out about her history? Suddenly I remember several years ago mom handwrote our family history in her beautiful cursive in the back of an enormous old Bible that sits in a special place in my grandparent’s living room. Would reading that give me any clues? I find an excuse to go to my grandparent’s house and wait for an opportunity when they are both busy to bring the Bible out and open it to the back. I flip to the section entitled “Momma”. I have never looked at our family tree before and generations of people start coming to life:

Rosalie Gilson and her brother, Aleixandre, boarded the St. Laurent ocean liner in Lehavre, France and landed in Boston on May 14th, 1879. She was 16 years old and was sent ahead of the rest of the family to America with her brother after a fire destroyed the family home in Switzerland. Colin Rosier, a 39-year-old dreamer who had read every transatlantic novel ever written was living the romance as the pastry chef on the ship. On the journey over the Atlantic, Rosalie and Colin met, fell in love and after being processed (where he said on his form he was a farmer) they made their way to a European immigrant settlement in Green Bay, Wisconsin where they were married. My grandmother, Leah Rosier, was their second daughter, born in 1886, in Green Bay.

Soon after she was born the family moved to a Swiss settlement at Neuchatel, Kansas where they homesteaded 180 acres and lived a hard but content life in that community of about 200 people. After Leonie and Leah, Louise, Matilda, and Lucy were born. Aleixandre, who suffered from crossed eyes, endured a botched surgery in Kansas City after they’d lived in Neuchatel for a while. His good eye was removed by mistake and it left him blind. He always lived in his sister’s home after that.

My grandma is aware that I go and look at the family Bible whenever I am at her house. She doesn’t mention it, and neither do I.  I am sure she doesn’t have a clue what I am searching for—and frankly, neither do I. I just know I am finding comfort when I read the family’s history. I am beginning to feel part of something that has shaped who I am. Meeting my relatives, living and dead, and understanding their place in our story somehow is beginning to give me a history and a place in it, too.

One rainy afternoon I’m sitting with my grandmother in her house. She is teaching me to embroider. I am feeling too restricted with her “right and wrong” ways to do each step of the process. I want to take all the colors of thread and stitch outside the lines. I am thinking—I wonder if she would let me into her world if I just asked her to tell me one story? I hold this question a long time. Finally, I take a chance and ask her to tell me a story about when she was a girl. She looks off in the distance and then without hesitation she takes a deep breath and begins...

“The person I loved most in the world was my daddy. He welcomed my help with the farm because he had no sons, Uncle Aleixandre was blind and I was strong as an ox. We took turns breaking ground on the land behind a plow pulled by our two mules. Together we worked the land, planted crops, built a house with some neighbors’ help, put in a large garden for my mother and tended the animals.

Every day when we finished our work Daddy would say, “go on and ride that pony.” I’d pull myself up onto the back of our small black mare and ride down the lane bareback. I’d gallop across the fields and along the creek that wasn’t wide but was pretty deep.

After a while everyone in the community knew me not just as one of the Rosier girls but also as the best rider around.

When I was 12, Daddy caught a cold the first week in December and the bitter cold and harsh winds blustering across the plains took its toll on him. He was in bed for a week with a high fever. The doctor even came out. “Pneumonia”, was all he said in front of us girls. I had never heard that word before and didn’t know what it meant but I could tell by the way he shook his head and looked concerned Daddy was really sick. He talked in a quiet voice with Momma by the front door for a while before he bundled up and disappeared into the frigid night.

We were not allowed to make any noise so Daddy could sleep. One night Momma woke us up and called us into their bedroom. The doctor was there. Daddy looked horrible and was having difficulty breathing. I was frightened. He called me to come sit on the bed beside him. Then he put his hand on my head and said, “You are my little curly head”. What I didn’t realize was that he had died as he said that about my curly head. My feelings imploded when Momma, wailing uncontrollably, suddenly shushed us out of the room. I couldn’t stop crying. I had more feelings at that moment than at any other time in my life.

When Daddy died, I was shattered but I felt like I had to hide my feelings because everyone, especially Momma, was hurting so badly. I hid them behind an imaginary mask and tried to face my fears and find the strength to keep going. I had to grow up fast. I knew I had to step up and be the “strong one”. Momma seemed so fragile and vulnerable. All she was able to do was try to keep up with taking care of the little girls. At first I faltered—not knowing what to do or how to do it. It was when I became completely overwhelmed and discouraged that I began discovering strengths I didn’t even know I had. By simply believing I could keep things together, I did.

I found I had the ability to put myself back together for the family. I could face danger and combat problems that came our way. Gradually, I got so I could work through all my fears. I did things as they presented themselves because they were right, not for praise and recognition. I always acted and spoke in the way that came from my best self. I loved with an all-encompassing love that didn’t come from what I did but who I did it for. I began to feel like I was stronger than reality and that I could overcome any obstacle. As long as I got myself out of the way I could face anything.

Christmas was sad for us that year. Momma didn’t know what to do. She was a widow with 5 young daughters, a blind brother, and 180 acres of farmland, chickens, a cow, a horse and 2 mules. I reminded her often everything would work out. The burden of saving my family and only being 12 years old weighed heavily on me. When spring arrived after what seemed like an endless winter I was out in the fields from sunup to sundown doing everything just like Daddy had taught me. I hadn’t imagined I had the ability to put myself back together after being so torn apart.

That fall two brothers, Jules and Armand Chatland and their father, who was a watchmaker came through Neuchatel on their travels. Armand, 21, was dying of dropsy. The cirrhosis in his liver was advanced. My first memory of him was trying to figure out what was wrong with his grossly distended belly. He was obsessed with going back to Switzerland to die and was determined to use his charm to get there.

He saw Momma as his ticket. She was a widow with 5 children who could easily be convinced she needed a man to help her survive. His illness was quite advanced and he had no intentions of staying around or becoming a farmer as he promised Momma. They were married, at his pressing insistence, which Momma interpreted as love. Almost immediately he started trying to coerce her to sell the farm and go back to Switzerland. Momma did not want to go back to Switzerland and she didn’t want to sell her farm. He continued to bully her and they fought all the time. The twins were born the next spring but only Alice survived their first year. Magritte was born right after her sister died. Now Momma had seven little girls.

Momma’s days weren’t any easier with Mr. Chatland there. She was up stoking the fire by 5 in the morning. She cooked 3 square meals a day and became an expert at stretching what little food we had. She washed clothes by hand in a washbasin with a wash board, took care of the girls, scrubbed the floors and kept the house pristine—which must have been hard with seven children, her blind brother and her lazy, sick husband. Between his disinterest and his illness he mostly stayed inside every day sleeping on the couch. I farmed. I did the best I could and worked hard. Some days I worked so hard I didn’t even feel like riding the little black horse. Fighting grew worse between Mr. Chatland and Momma. I knew she would never give in.

One night all the little girls started having pain in their bellies. Several vomited and the youngest ones became delirious. Momma was beside herself. She could see how quickly things were deteriorating and she was terrified. She kept putting cool washcloths on the girls’ foreheads. I imitated what she was doing trying to help my little sisters. At one point our eyes locked and the look in Momma’s eyes told me she was panic- stricken. At that moment I knew what I had to do.

I bundled up in the warmest clothes I could find. I slipped my handy down wool cape over my shoulders, buttoning it clear up to my chin. I wrapped Momma’s long scarf around my neck and when I opened the door cold air hit me in the face bringing tears to my eyes. I could feel butterflies fluttering in my tummy like I always did when I was scared. I never liked being in the dark and the task ahead of me was daunting! “I can do this!” I said over and over to myself. I slipped the halter over the little horse’s head with my eyes closed because I knew exactly how it felt and besides, it was too dark to see anything.

I had to go to the next town because we didn’t have a doctor in Neuchatel. I had never been to that town and only had a vague idea which direction to go. I wasn’t even sure how far away I was going. With an act of courage, I grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself up onto the mare’s back. The moon was a small sliver low in the sky. It reflected so little light there weren’t even shadows. It was a totally black night. I followed the cottonwood trees along the creek so I wouldn’t get completely lost in the dark.

The cold sent shivers up my back but I hung on tight and pressed forward. When my feet started to go numb from the cold, I only allowed myself to think about how much I loved my little sisters and that I didn’t want them to die. I knew the little horse could sense my fear because I could feel her gait quicken and her body extend so she could go faster. I was so full of fear and love and anxiety and caring that I rode faster than I ever had in my life. The wind whistled by me as I forged ahead through the night on the back of my trusted friend. The rhythmic pounding of hoofs on the snow ceased after a while and though I couldn’t look, I was certain we were flying! I hunkered down close to her neck to keep my face from freezing in the biting air.

I reached Onaga and found the doctor’s home just past mid-night. He readied himself quickly like he was used to making these late-night calls. His buggy lurched forward when his horse started out and he held onto the reigns tightly in one hand and his black leather doctor’s bag in the other. I rode my little horse alongside. All I told him was my sisters were dying. He was silent and looked concerned. Maybe he didn’t ask questions because I was so young? Maybe he was marveling at my bravery. We rode along, each deep in thought, the horses alert to the serious feelings they felt from us.

We reached the house and quickly went in to see the children. He carefully took temperatures and began treating symptoms: vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration, delirium and shock. I thought I could tell from the look on his face the seriousness of the situation and that he was worried the children would start dying. Maybe that was my fear. Momma was nearly hysterical and I knew she was keeping herself together only because the doctor was there. Mr.Chatland was on the couch snoring.

Toward morning Momma and the doctor saw that everyone was still alive. He had been so busy dealing with the immediate crisis there had not been time to diagnosis what was wrong. Now that things were stabilizing he began to examine the girls more closely. The first thing he noticed on several of the girls was small bumps on their hands that looked similar to very small warts. He carefully studied each girl’s hands. On several he saw white lines on the fingernails. That’s when he knew what it was. Arsenic poisoning. It didn’t take long for the doctor to figure out that Mr. Chatland had been putting miniscule amounts of arsenic into “the little girls’ milk” for some time. Momma and the doctor and I were so caught up with helping my sisters we didn’t hear Mr. Chatland slip out of the house and ride away on my little black horse. We never saw him again but heard he died in Kansas City”.

Grandma stops talking and looks directly into my eyes. I am at a loss for words. The story is true! I heard it directly from her! She is superwoman! Just then several tears slide down her cheeks and I hold my breath because I am trying to keep back tears, too. I am overcome with respect, pride, and gratitude. In the sharing of this one story my love for my grandma has expanded exponentially! I don’t even mind when she stands up, puts down her sewing and walks into the kitchen to be alone.

You see, what I understand from Grandma’s story is that superwoman is not a fictional character. She is a mindset.

--> in the family  ought of her as lbecause I could hear no hoofs rhymically landing in the snow.ed downsticle.      jjjacted and sp

To The Curb

The thing I found when I opened the first tub is the only dress I ever liked in my entire life. Pink with a Peter Pan collar—just like my mother always dressed me in. Size 4T. Embroidered on the front are 4 small chefs – the two on the top are spilling food on the two below. I remember liking the faces on the lower ones, clearly expressing their surprise (and dismay).

I carefully take the dress out of the gigantic zippered plastic bag I had used for safe storage. The bag is filled with tatted doilies, crocheted table runners, quilts – hours and hours of women’s handiwork. The women of my family. The Grandmothers of my tribe.

As I take the dress out my nose is hit with the cool dank smell of mildew. I turn the dress this way and that – letting memories wash over me. I am flooded with little girl memories of long ago.

Before I put the dress back in the bag I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick picture. Then I reinsert the dress, re-zip and lift the entire bag, carefully dropping it into a heavy black plastic garbage bag. I pull it to the out into the weak sunlight to the curb. Gone...

The garage is poorly lit. Natural light from a cloudy day is filtering through the open double door. The structure is more like a cave than a garage. The back end is dirt and dirt covers the top in a low mound. It is filthy here as well as damp. Cobwebs are delicately woven between the old stonewalls and random objects that have been left here through the years: a rusty old exercise bike, a green fertilizer spreader, and parts of an almost unrecognizable electric foot bath.

Seven portable air conditioners are resting all around the floor on 2 by 4s, looking like tombstones in the faded light. When I first entered the garage I thought the floor was made of dirt but now as my eyes have adjusted I see it is concrete. My memory of the concrete floor comes back to me. I vaguely remember it on another damp and cloudy day when I left my eight rubber tubs here ten years ago.

The tubs are packed with sentimental items that belonged to my mother and her family dating back to the 1800s when my grandfather and grandmother’s families arrived in Kansas from Switzerland. I never heard any stories about how they ended up in Neuchatel, Kansas or why they left their homes? Those stories of my history, of my life, are lost forever. My mother ended up with all these objects – things I do not know about, filled with memories that are not mine.

In the second tub are lots of books. I had put some of them in zip lock bags while others had been haphazardly left in the tub. All are ruined. Without emotions I fill another black plastic bag and drag it to the curb.

I open the 3rd tub and begin sorting through glassware. I recognize some of the hand painted flowers on plates my mother had hanging in our kitchen when I was growing up. I know nothing about the pink or purple candy dishes, the cut glass vase, or the crystal dessert or sherbet dishes. I state at them blankly with only the memory that my mother had loved them.

I still feel the pain of my mother dying too young. She was only 62 and the cancer spread quickly through her body. I was 27 and not ready to be orphaned, lacking both life skills and the maturity to be in the world without her.

From my birth until her death I was convinced I had ruined her life. Then after she died I began to realize that she had chosen her life. She had chosen her time to die – to die when we were all out of the hospital room, alone – a way out of her disappointing and guilt-ridden life. I realized it had nothing to do with me.

When she was dying I was angry, scared and lost. The life choices I made after her death reflected my confusion for decades. When my father hastily re-married he did not want my brother, sister or me to have anything of our mother’s. We insisted with an urgency we didn’t understand and took whatever he would allow of my mother’s family heirlooms.

I moved the many treasures around for years, from house to house, through relationship after relationship – yearning for her. If I had them out in view she would not be as gone. The items weighed me down, grounding me in the past but they did not make me happy.

Out of all the tubs I pick a milk glass swan as my memento. I remember it being around when I was growing up. I do not know how it made it into my parent’s house, or if it came from Switzerland. I do not care. I like it.

Now, at 66, I let it all go. I unburden myself of my mother’s “things” that fill these tubs with forgotten memories and untold stories. I tote garbage bags to the curb, shut the door and do not look back.

Dreaming “America”

Being in the world was what my grandfather valued most. He was born in Switzerland in 1885 and came to America when he was three, living in a Swiss farming settlement in Kansas call Neuchatel. Being a first generation immigrant at that time in America’s history required courage, ambition and the spirit of making something of yourself. My grandfather excelled at all. He became an astute businessman and entrepreneur, acquiring a number of retail and wholesale lumberyards in Nebraska, Kansas and Missouri by the time he was twenty-five. In 1909 he settled in Onaga where, managing the lumberyard, he added a grain elevator, got married, had my mother and 2 other daughters, bought some enormous farms nearby and buckled down to live life. 

Onaga was a town of first generation Europeans who were keenly aware of fitting in. Grandpa’s life was largely defined by his deep pride at being an American citizen. Notebooks with stories and things in it talking about how to be more “American” were read and reread. To this end, he became very immersed in the community taking an active part in civic affairs. He served many years on the City Council, and was Mayor of Onaga from 1929 to 1933. During these years, the sewer system was installed, natural gas mains were laid, and some streets were paved. Joining the Masonic Lodge, the Congregational Church and becoming a Shriner allowed other ways of being active and influential. Serving on the Pottawatomie County Fair Board for many years, he was one of the original stockholders. Having a keen interest in sports of all kinds, he was one of the organizers and staunch supporters of the Onaga Baseball team as well as financing and overseeing the installment a golf course. Perhaps the thing that brought the most pride was putting his three daughters through college, which he did during the Great Depression. He became extremely loved, trusted and respected in the community.

People are complex though, and the Philip Cosandier the world saw was in many ways incongruous to my Grandpa. To me, my grandpa was a constant source of anxiety whose presence was always there, whether he was or not. I find myself standing off to the side when I talk about him now. For, you see, in my family we were not allowed to talk about ourselves to anyone. But the truth is he was the Patriarch of our family who loomed over us, larger than life itself. I often wondered how he wielded so much influence and power. I surmised early on this was probably a remnant of “the old country” and how families were set up there.

The fear of him seemed strongest in his three daughters. They passed this down to us children by demanding lots of rules and do’s and don’ts about what we could and could not do to meet Grandpa’s standards with such great seriousness and intensity it was like someone would die if we didn’t follow all the rules without question. It was a lot of pressure on me, but paled in comparison to what I felt my mother and aunts suffered through the years. The family’s fear of Grandpa hung over us all like thick fog and distorted my childhood perceptions of him.

The unspoken family stories about him were passed down by osmosis at birth, I concluded when I was twelve. No one would argue that the stories truly had mythic proportions and created in our hearts and minds images that were a blend of Zeus, Rumpelstilsken, and God. Regardless of the energies he personified, the overpowering distinguishing characteristic was that he was not “just” a man—but something greater.

He dominated our family silently, never expressing his feelings. It seemed to me his control over his daughters, that stressed them out at the most basic level, came in the form of money that was given yearly or not at his discretion, in his “own sweet time” my mother would say. None of this was revealed directly to me but over the years pieces were woven into my life like a patchwork quilt—one perfect small hand stitch at a time. I was completely convinced that the perfect behavior required of me was crucial to smooth the way for our survival.

There was another situation relating to money that paralleled my mother’s. My father worked diligently and selflessly for Grandpa at the lumberyard for over 30 years being paid very little, with the promise that when my grandfather retired he would give the lumberyard to my parents. Instead, when he retired, Grandpa offered to sell the lumberyard to my father for the current appraised market value. I was old enough to understand that this was a tragic betrayal and it really saddened, angered and confused me. The dysfunctional ebb and flow of my grandfather’s control with money set up a family dynamic that reached far beyond my ability to read minds when no words were spoken.

I was scared of him. Once when I was around four or five I went with my father to the lumberyard on a weekend to get something for a customer. It was cold and wintery so my father left me inside while he went out to get what was needed. The front door of the lumberyard opened into an area with hardware displays where the public came in, got helped and paid for their purchases. Back behind this retail space was my grandfather's office. This was his private world and was entered by invitation only. I had never been invited or allowed in his office and that very fact drew me to it like a bee to honey.

The lights were off and it was getting toward evening so it was kind of hard to see. I stepped into the shadows and crept across the room timidly—terrified but excited to be in this forbidden place. Grandpa’s gigantic wooden desk practically filled up the entire room and left very little space for the roll-top secretary desk in the corner with the typewriter on it. I rolled a little bit when I scooted myself up into his large burgundy leather office chair. A calendar with big squares was in the middle of his leather-covered desk.  Even though I had never been there, I was certain everything was in its proper place. The two pens that stuck up from a metal base fascinated me. A large stapler and pads of paper with Onaga Lumber and Grain Company were within my reach. I did not touch anything, though. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I began to look around. My gaze had just landed upon the posting machine—a skinny, large black calculator-looking thing on a stand—when I felt grandpa’s presence.

Standing in the shadow of the doorway and I could see the anger in his face through the sunbeams coming through a back window that magnified the dust particles floating in the air. I was paralyzed. I knew I would surely die. When I had leaned back in his chair and put my small feet on his desk—wondering what it felt like to be him—I hadn’t anticipated getting caught. 

My breathing stopped when he stepped into the room. Slowly and purposefully I could hear the steps coming toward me, one carefully placed foot at a time. Then he put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. His breathing was irregular and hard. “Have you ever been bad before?” was all he said, and without giving me time to answer, slowly turned around and left. I knew I had done something unspeakable. So, I never told anyone about it, until now. And neither did Grandpa, I believe.

Another time when I was nine I remember being scared. I was mowing Grandma’s yard. I was pushing the mower up a substantial incline, smelling the green of the newly mowed grass, humming something about a hound dog by someone named Elvis Presley and thinking about what I would do after I finished mowing, when I looked up and saw Grandpa standing directly in my path. I quickly swerved the mower to one side to avoid a collision.  I was startled and a bit rattled. I turned the mower off and stood there in silence. Surveying the entire front yard critically, he looked me in the eye and asked, “what did you do, shave it?” I swallowed hard, and panicked as no words came into my mind to respond. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out two quarters, which he slipped into my trembling hand. “Don’t tell Grandma”, was all he said turning toward the house and disappearing.

As I got older I began to have experiences where I could tell from his actions there was genuine caring for me. This frightened me, as I didn’t know if I could trust my feelings or him. There was no doubt he delighted in taking his grandchildren to swim, to fish, for picnics, to amusement parks, to Kansas City for A’s baseball games. It was at these times, when our mothers weren’t there, that he relaxed. That’s when it seemed he loved being with us. Of course, he loved the boys the most. That was just the way it was, but that didn’t take away from the hotdogs, the rides, the happiness of spending afternoons at swimming pools in nearby towns.

Especially fun was the enormous box that would arrive filled with fireworks on Fourth of Julys. He generously and joyously let us, as well as children in the neighborhood, pop as many firecrackers, write our names with swirling sparklers, make musty-smelling black snake ashes on the sidewalk and shoot off as many roman candles as we possibly could. The fireworks coming out of the box seemed endless! At the end of the day when it got dark our fathers would light up the sky with exploding colorful fountains. Then we’d have homemade vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries in it that our grandmother had made, waiting for us in a metal cylinder, ice and salt melting around it in a wooden tub under an old rag rug.

Another sweet memory I’ve never talked about before was when I was in high school, my first year running track. I was on the new cinder track that circled the football field. There was a rather large hill overlooking it. The first day at practice I just happened to look up and saw his baby blue finned Chrysler sitting all alone. When we were finished with practice, I broke away from my pack of friends and ran up to his car. The electric window opened slowly and without a word he reached out and handed me a pair of white leather cleats. I had never felt such a direct show of love from him. They were my size, too. How had he known? Every day for practice and at every meet he was in his car watching. It made me run faster to have someone interested and genuinely supportive of me.

Sometimes all the grandchildren would pile in his car and he’d drive fast and recklessly on the dirt roads home from fishing on one of his farms. One special way he enjoyed taking us home had a small hill that went up to a crest and then dropped down quickly onto a wooden one-car bridge. His foot would push hard on the accelerator pedal going up the hill and then he’d let the car fly until we’d bounce on that bridge hard enough for me to almost hit my head on the ceiling. When the car took flight he would scream out at the top of his lungs “whop-tee-do”. You cannot imagine my shock still to this day, that my stoic, proper grandfather would be screaming “whop-tee-do”, let alone driving like that!

I wonder if my grandfather, at the end of his life, felt like he had reached the level of Americanization he had so desired? Did he have any understanding of how his choices and those his family made gave him immense power, which created a world of fear for his family? I believe he would have recognized some things in his life as great successes and also admit to disappointments and regrets. From the outside, everyone viewed him as a huge success. From inside the family, our feelings were discombobulated, battered and bewildered.

It’s not surprising that Grandpa remains a mystery to me. I’ve never been able to merge the world’s relationship with him, my own experiences (both scary and wonderful) and the intense overlay my mother and my aunts projected onto our lives through him. It feels odd to be around someone for eighteen years and still not know or understand him. I have come to believe when humans think about what they want to call “God”; they translate that into a form they understand. But this Energy, this Source that we give the label of “God”, is not something we can ever understand. When we attempt to, the distortions are enormous. Was my grandfather human or was he God? Honestly, I don’t know...