All Mixed Up, With A Twist of Teriyaki

 

     I had a conversation today that made me remember events and consider things anew.

      At church, I met a young man that told our ward (congregation) about his mission to the Philippines, the various languages, the many islands he lived on and, of course, the people that he’d taught the scriptures to. I told him that half my family is Asian and several of those are of Pilipino descent.

      I recounted the time I was working at a museum a couple decades ago. I hadn’t seen my co-worker (I’ll call her Deborah) for several days as I’d been in Lake Tahoe for a family wedding. I told her that I’d be making a scrapbook and I’d bring it in. (Scrapbooking was a thing in southern Utah where I was living at the time.) It was slow that mid-morning. I counted my drawer and slid it under the register. Before we shared my photos, I asked Deborah how she was doing. “Well, I spent too much time on the phone with some Asians. They kept forwarding my calls to different departments! Why can’t we just have Americans answer customer service calls?” I agreed with her. “Then there was this Asian at the grocery store; why did they hire her? She doesn’t fit in. Also, there’s some Asian dating my nephew. She has funny-looking eyes, but enough about my week. Show me your photo album!”

      “No, it can wait; we’re bound to get some tourists soon," I declined. "Maybe another day.” (I wasn’t ashamed of my family. I really didn’t want to get into a big discussion just before welcoming customers, selling tickets, talking about the history of our museum and the discovery of dinosaur prints on the very rock our building was standing on.)

      “Oh, is this it?” She asked, reaching for the white book next to my purse under the cash register.

     “Yes, it is,” I answered as she opened it up. It was too late to stop her.

      As she thumbed through the pages, Deborah saw the bride, the wedding party, my nieces, nephews, spouses and the reception photos. Asian Americans. Beautiful, slanted eyes. She looked at me and turned as white as a sheet of paper. She kept saying, “Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry!” She was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for her. It was very awkward. “I didn’t know!” she gasped. How could she? Despite all the things that I am, I present as white. She mumbled her apologies and repeated that she was sorry.

      I mentally asked, ‘You’re sorry I have Asian family or that, unlike you, I am not a bigot?’ but I kept my mouth shut. This wasn’t about me. People were ready to come in and enjoy themselves. I wasn’t about to steal their joy with a grumpy attitude. Soon a few families came through our big, glass doors, approached our counter and before long I was selling tickets.

     A few weeks later, I was back in Michigan for the summer; Deborah found other volunteer opportunities in our community, so I didn’t see her when I returned, and I don’t give the incident much thought, except that it makes me laugh sometimes. What else can I do when someone makes a fool of herself?

     I repeat -- how could she know? I myself was raised Japanese. I realize that sounds delusional to someone who casually knows me, but I was.

     My Scots-Irish Cherokee dad’s significant other while he served in the Navy, Mary-Hana, ¹  was Japanese. While living in Japan, he learned how to make tempura vegetables and shrimp, teriyaki marinated beef, shrimp curry, and much more. He taught me how to count in Japanese, how to say phrases like good morning, and I’m sorry. My mother’s first husband, Kiyoshi, was born in Hawaii but was 100 % Japanese by ethnicity (possibly Okinawan). My mother cooked a lot of fried rice. Of course, there were other things she’d learned but about a third of our meals were Japanese.

     The home that I grew up in was decorated with what my parents brought into the marriage: Delicate Japanese paintings of flowers and birds, bamboo furniture, a low to the ground octagon table with accompanying large pillows that we sat on for some meals, Asian rugs and more. It wasn’t until 1976 that my mother came into the 20th Century and purchased modern American furniture. She sold much of what she had on the walls and on shelves. So, it was exciting to finally have nice American furniture and new (to me) meals that my mother was learning to cook while watching talk shows on the Detroit area TV stations.

     Once in a while, at school or at the skating rink, kids would bad-mouth Japanese factories and cars. They’d talk about their grandfathers fighting the Japanese soldiers and how our Detroit-made cars were far superior to those ugly little Japanese automobiles infiltrating our neighborhoods. My sisters were living in California, with their biological dad, so when Margie ² the one closest in age to me would visit, I’d have some explaining to do. My “Koshi-Daddy,” an American citizen, fought in World War Two for the United States. I tried to explain that to some of the other kids, but they just didn’t care to listen and learn. To them, all Asians were dirty, potential spies, apt to torture you just for fun. It  gave me a weird feeling that anyone would believe that nonsense. How could they lump my sisters in with such paranoia? Some kids (and teachers) were already mad at me for having a German mother.

     It was refreshing that I’d occasionally see two really nice kids from Canada who were of Asian descent at festivals and venues in the Great Lakes Region. We’d run into each other sometimes. I bonded with them right away (but I’ll leave that for another blog entry).

     I had other things to deal with: Black children spitting in my curly hair at the mall for being white. White kids beating me up and calling me the N---word for having tight curls. A mother clueless as to how to style my hair, my dad loving each and every lock on my head. A broad nose that, when I found out there was a thing called “plastic surgery,” I couldn’t wait to “fix” it.

     The ethnic confusion continued. My Japanese-German sister Margie would visit from Stockton, California, and share her Motown albums with me, then she was perplexed that I was listening more to country than my city’s trademark music style. All my neighbors’ families listened to Charlie Pride, Hank Williams, Conway Twitty, Glen Campbell, Johnny Paycheck and Kenny Rogers, so that is what I sang and played up until just before high school.

     That brings us to today: I really pondered what it means to be me, a mixed-identity soul in a world of labels and constructs. If I embrace my Japanese upbringing, then some misguided people call it culture appropriation. My own sisters didn’t eat (or remember) the meals that my dad cooked. They didn’t have Asian furnishings and art in their father’s home. They didn’t know ANY Japanese words because their dad didn’t speak it. Maybe one or two ancient aunties did, but those dear ladies were living in Hawaii and had little influence on Jeanette³and Margie.

     I thought even more about what it must be to identify with a culture but be ethnically different. What about the part African American child that is raised with a white-European mother? What about a man who was very much Native American whose family suppressed their heritage for a century, yet subtly instructed their children and grandchildren in the old ways, whether they knew they were teaching it or not? I was blessed to have the influence of many cultures growing up. What I wasn’t, my neighbors were. I don’t feel that I missed out, but these past two decades I feel very confused.

     In 2025, I hope to touch upon these subjects. Some of them are: being a curly-haired little toddler in Georgia at a funeral, my uncles having served during World War Two just to have their baby-brother (my dad) marry a German-born woman with Japanese-American children, my uncles fighting during that war, how my father’s younger siblings fought at home, their life on a houseboat, my dad surviving a tornado, my Uncle Harold’s pet pig, my Papa George meeting the great escape artist Harry Houdini,  how my American grandparents met, their unusual marriage ceremony, their ways of camping under the stars, how my Auntie Delma met Oak Spiering who was the love of her life, good things my daddy showed me how to cook, some food history that he taught me, how I gained a Vietnamese brother, my great-grandfather who was a country doctor in North Carolina a century ago -- and that’s only the beginning!

     My late father, David Owen, often shared tales of the rollicking life he had in the Navy, and I hope that I can relate those experiences to you in his words. He was quite a character.  I recorded his tales more than forty years ago, and they're on old cassettes. 

     This New Year will be full of the stories that made me the complex human being that I am today. You may not understand. Don’t fret; I do not even fully understand! I just hope you enjoy my family history. 

     See you next year – 2025 here I come!

 ¹  Mary was not Ms. Hana’s actual given name. This is just what my father and other Americans called her. My dad wanted to marry her in the States and make the marriage legally recognized, but she would not leave Japan.  They lost contact with one another.

  ²  Known as Maggie in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

  ³  Known as Jenny in my first published book Lizzie’s Blue Ridge Memories.

Christmas Traditions

                                            Merry Christmas

     Today I want to briefly talk about Christmas traditions. I am not talking about mine versus yours, specifically. I’m referring to a cultural construct that actually evolved over the centuries.

     The basic Christmas celebration, as we in America know it, originated from mainly European (specifically German) traditions and beliefs. Queen Charlotte, the German wife of King George III, introduced the first known Christmas tree to England in December 1800. The fragrances, art and songs have grown (snowballed you might say) since the days when Charles Dickens’ much loved and lauded novella A Christmas Carol was published in 1843. A decade or two later, the common masses slowly took on these traditions, and the United States, still in its infancy as a nation, followed suit.

     Some of our own U. S. citizens (as noted in previous posts) were of the belief that pine bows in a home were a tradition of fetishistic heathens. It’s true, such practices were pagan in origin. Many cultures, even inside our nation, still reject the bringing inside and decorating of pine trees. Some may even profess that those of us that decorate for Christmas are going to Hell!

     Take for instance individuals that reject science (yet it is my belief that God is the greatest scientist of all). You have people who emphatically adhere to a flat-Earth notion. You might meet people who believe if you and your children get inoculated for any disease, your souls will be in Satan’s grip. They seem to think that their version of Christianity is the only form of Christ-following. 

     Conversely, there are some ladies and gentlemen that attend each and every parade, cookie exchange and pageant. Some people watch Hallmark holiday movies, take their toddlers to visit Coca-Cola inspired Santas, giggle at Rudolph's exploits as he frolics with an elf who wants to be a dentist, sing Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs, (even yapping and growling along with Carl Weismann's barking dogs version). Many of these people start to decorate just before Thanksgiving.

     I meet individuals that state our dear Savior could have only been born at lambing time and reject that Jesus’ birth was actually in the winter season. Others will debate with their neighbors, point at a calendar and loudly say, “You heretic! Jesus’ birthday is on December 25, it has always been December 25 and if you don’t believe it, you’re going to spend eternity gnashing your teeth in Hades!” (Never mind that the Gregorian Calendar that we hang in our homes or glance at on our phones was first used in 1582.)

     Christmas as I celebrate it is not exactly like the observance of December 25 that my American great grandmother knew. The one that I celebrated with my children is not like the tradition of exchanging gifts on December 24 like my German-born mother. She decorated on Christmas Eve as a child and when I was a little girl Mommy allowed the tree to go up only a week before Christmas. It was then taken down New Years Day. The ceremony my own descendants will experience will most likely change with every generation.

     Does your family open gifts the night before Christmas or the day afterwards? Maybe you and your friends wait for New Years when you get together? If you have a tree, should it be festooned with red and green bulbs or blue and silver? Maybe burgundy and pink ribbons and little else?

     Do you serve ham in your home, or goose? Do you have a green bean casserole or a salad? Biscuits or rolls? Late lunch or dinner? Wine or water? Does it matter?

     Now, I want you to think of a Christmas dessert. Let’s use cake as an example. You might have the sweet cake of Christianity at your core. Your icing is blue, mine is red. The next person has sprinkles, the one down the street has piping. The core of our belief should be something sweet and good. Does it really matter if your church meets Sunday evening or Saturday morning? Does it matter if you have baptisms the first Sunday of every month only or anytime people are gathered? Does it make a great difference if that baptism takes place in a warm font or at a pond in Grandpa’s old pasture?

     The essence of the season is remembering the birth of a baby boy whose young mother accompanied her new husband for a long-distance journey. She was a stranger in another city and she gave birth without the comforting aide of relatives. Her son grew to teach radical ideas that irked the traditions of powerful men in His own community. He dined with people considered unworthy and filthy. He welcomed the friendships of political adversaries. He listened first, then taught truths that changed ingrained dogmas and customs. He instructed all who would listen to give second and third chances (and seventh chances!) to people who followed His path – the path that taught them that if they kindly gave second chances they’d be forgiven as well. He knew then (and knows now as an immortal being) that even the worst of us can mature spiritually and become better people as we follow Him. He proclaimed that He was sharing the teachings of His Father in Heaven. Whereas ancient Jewish tradition taught that women must be stoned to death for sexual indiscretions, He stated that all people are sinful (mortal and imperfect) and nobody was (or is) pure enough to execute another person for being human. He was called a heretic by leaders in His own religion. He healed the sick of mind and infirm of body. Miracles were documented by contemporaries of His own time. Stories were told of Him for many decades and centuries. He was killed for what He believed in. Even now, people who may or may not be religious, ascribe teachings to Him that He Himself never preached. Yet if each of us studies the Bible, we will find the true nature of this great man who was more than just a mere human.

     This miraculous man’s name is Jesus. We also call Him Christ, meaning that He is the only one anointed (christened) as the Son of God. If we take on His teachings and follow His path, we can call ourselves Christians.

     This Christmas no matter how you proceed with your gala, the core of our celebration of Christ’s birth should center around a special baby, born in a humble stable, to a poor mother who was a visiting stranger to an unfamiliar city. Know that this child grew to teach love and buck accepted traditions that were doing more harm than good. This child of wayfaring strangers claimed to be the Son of God and performed miracles, not to make money or entertain, but to mend the broken. He wouldn’t want us to argue about who has the best gingerbread house, which community had the best marching band in the holiday parade, or who doesn’t have a decorated tree no matter the reason. If your holiday meal is merely a ham sandwich in a motel, that is enough. Most importantly we must remember why we celebrate to begin with and follow His teachings.

     Jesus is NOT the season. He is the reason for the season.

     Merry Christmas

Journalism Is Not What It Used To Be - Distilling The Facts

 

      A good reporter cuts through the BS. A good reporter also stays neutral and unbiased, at least for his or her subject, story, and research, and in the final result of what is, at some point, published. If he is anything else, the article is no more than an opinion piece better left for the editorial page of what remains of print media.

     This evening, I went to a lecture given by Roger Rapoport. He is a producer, investigator, and author. His most recently published book is Searching for Patty Hearst- A True Crime Novel (Lexographic Press, 2024). I purchased a copy tonight and I look forward to reading it, partly for the sake of nostalgia and mostly to see if there was anything I’d missed in my younger years.

     Once upon a time (okay, fifty years ago) I was a ten-year-old. One of the most memorable news stories was the kidnapping and search for Patty Hearst. I remember the actual nightmares my mother had for my sisters' safety following Hearst's abduction. They both lived in California at the time. One was newly married and the other attended high school in Stockton. Mommie would wake up from nightmares that her two oldest children had been kidnapped or murdered. One time she had a dream so vivid of my sisters' severed arms left on our doorstep holding small notes in their fists. Once contacted, my sisters would reassure our mother (each and every time) that they were safe and happy. 

     On the other hand, Ms. Hearst was held captive and  brainwashed and, as a result, robbed banks with her captors. What would make a teen girl, barely a woman, participate in these dangerous and violent capers? Was it the brainwashing? Was it Stockholm Syndrome? Was it fear or even boredom?

     Having been locked in a closet and her life threatened, Ms. Hearst emerged days later to find out that her father was unwilling (yet able) to pay the ransom. In her mind, the young abductee's whole world became an illusion; reality distorted. Her father, Randy Hearst (heir to the powerful Hearst Publishing machine), was advised by the government's negotiators not to pay the requested money. Whatever the reason, Patty's heart and mind were broken. Into the cracks were poured the views of her terrorist captors. Following the isolation and deprivation of the dark and tiny closet, she was fed tales of the war in Vietnam, starving communities not far from Ms. Hearst’s own mansion, and of course, threats to her loved ones.

     Roger Rapoport’s book promises to enlighten and educate readers with facts as well as anecdotes. After all, Patty Hearst’s fiancé (at the time of her kidnapping), Steven Weed, lived with Rapoport in California, shortly after his intended bride was taken for ransom and he was beaten horribly. The men had even worked on a book together about Ms. Hearst but later published separate accounts.

     Having not read the book yet, I can only recommend the author by his other notable works and movies, one of which is the obscure film Waterwalk, which I remember as a hidden gem. After the meet-and-greet, Rapoport asked me what my name is. His was, of course, familiar to me. I was impressed by his knowledge and research. He said that he wouldn’t give his opinions of Patty Hearst’s motives for wielding a machine gun and robbing banks with known domestic terrorists. I admired that. It lent credibility to his lecture and research—but here’s what I liked best: as he asked me my name and complimented me on presenting good questions at the end of the lecture, I mentioned that my email address was on the guest-list next to the words Manitowen Press. He asked where the Press is based out of. I answered in Michigan, yet he wanted to know specifically what city. He was direct. He cut through my bull. I am not always forthcoming about what city Manitowen Press runs its business in for a multitude of reasons, mainly because I hold the privacy of some authors in my hands. It is also because, as an author and editor (a poorly skilled one at that), I have made a few public comments that would have been brushed off decades ago. In today’s world there is always some crank with a propensity for violence. I even had a stalker. In separate instances, I’ve had threats made against me and even one made online at a family member's dog. (Briefly, I had Ollie's photo set to public on one of my online media accounts. I have a small farm as well as an interest in hunting and fishing. An overzealous person threatened to hang the dog and skin it like farm animals are slaughtered for consumers. I'm digressing, but you can see that these kinds of people don't think logically. I am getting over my own traumas, and I don’t welcome much attention.) Yet, there was Rapoport, a stranger, looking me straight in the eyes, asking very direct questions, and no amount of charm would dissuade him.

     That is how he remained a key player in the media game, by distilling a potential story down to its essence, and that, my friends, is how a reporter strikes gold.

 

(I’ll give you an opinion about Finding Patty Hearst at a later date.)

 

Bill, George, David, Olegineni, Tahnie, and Tales of Nature

     I loved listening to the tales the old folks used to tell. These relatives and friends were clear of mind and recounted the stories of their youth, the admonitions of their parents and grandparents, and other wise counsel as they sat, gathered at kitchen tables or in living rooms. I miss those experiences and I am afraid the younger generations are being cheated of similar moments. This is the way things used to be taught and how history as well as tradition was passed on.

     My father, David Owen, taught me how to plant trees and shrubs. He said to dig in a suitable spot, water the hole, place the roots in and pat the soil and also sometimes actually pound the earth with our boots. (I’d used my bare feet then, and I still do now! Somehow, I feel closer to mother earth when I take my shoes off.) My daddy cautioned me not to leave air pockets around the roots. He’d water some more (usually that meant I’d hold the hose in my tiny fists). Then he showed me how to do a little “dance ritual” around the tree, further patting the soil. Later I added a solemn invocation to the four directions of the earth: One to the east where the sun comes from, a second to the west where our wind and rain originate, third the north where I believed our Cherokee ancestors came from before they went into what is now the Appalachian region, and lastly, the south, where warmer temperatures return from in spring. That is, I thought I’d added those supplications to the four winds. I learned recently that it is an indigenous prayer and that the “planting dance” is known to many Native Americans and First Nations People east of the Mississippi. I wonder if my daddy taught me that entreaty, as well as the dance, because it was hidden deep in my conscience. I know it was all passed down by some ancestor at some time from another ancestor at another time. My father passed away in 2007. I cannot ask him the particulars, but I do know my Cherokee ancestors had the Anglicized surnames of Silver and Walkingstick. Their Cherokee names were Olegineni U-Ta-Lv-Nu-Sti and her husband Tahnie Udalvnusti. They were both born in 1735 and both died in Bird Town in what is now Swain County, North Carolina. I can only speculate that each generation passed this planting dance down to their children all the way to me, and it hurts when people in my own family accuse me of culture appropriation when I pass these traditions down to my own grandchildren. It is my history. It is what I was taught and it is what I do even now when I plant fruit trees.

          Everybody has a story. I have mine, my ancestors had theirs. Some stories are lost along the way.

          I was told the adventures of two men in my ancestry: Bill and George. It was said that Bill, on my Parker side, was out hunting when he was a young man. It was a beautiful autumn day in North Carolina. The long walk and refreshing air made him weary, so he took a nap at the base of a tree. A sound sleeper, he later woke, but his eyes were blurry. He had a difficult time adjusting his vision and soon realized he was under a pile of leaves. He carefully dug his way out and wondered what in the world had buried him and for what reason. Old-Man-Curiosity had Bill by the heart so he climbed the tree and patiently waited. Later a mamma mountain lion came into view with her half-grown cub. The two large cats neared the pile of leaves. Bill could have shot one or both, but he saw no need to, and he wanted to observe a little longer. The lioness gave a signal, sort of a squeak, and indicated to its youngster. The baby cat leapt onto the pile and dug with ferocity but there was no meal beneath. The disappointed mountain lions waisted little more time investigating where their dinner had gone and padded off. Bill realized that had he slept much longer, he’d have been eaten.

     George’s story was a thrilling one also and began as a hot summer day in Georgia. Even in the woods, there was no respite. The humidity was oppressive. The man found a stream, stripped down and jumped into the cool water. He waded and swam for some time, then made his way to some roots that provided a little shelter by the streambank. George relaxed in the dark, damp, coolness. Not long after, he heard a rustling close by and saw a buck and a couple does tentatively walk to the stream. The buck somehow signaled his okay and the small herd dipped their heads in and drank. The animals also sought out the coolness of the water and waded in. The stag came closer to the bank where George rested, and soon, all he could see were spindly, brown legs at eye level. Closer and closer came the buck as he passed the sheltered spot where George held his breath and waited, in stillness. The deer turned his haunches toward the bank. On a whim, George quicklymgrabbed onto the animal’s back legs. With a whoosh the startled stag leapt as best he could with George holding on for dear life! The man tightened his grip as imagined scenes of the large cervid potentially turning to gore him with dagger-like antlers flashed in his brain -- which by that time was being shook in his skull all while sharp pointed rear hooves kicked at his face. Within a few more bounds, George lost his grip and the herd fled the stream.

     Many years later, I asked the old folks about these stories. They could not remember which old uncle had nearly become the cats’ chow. I asked my dad about Papa George grabbing the stag’s back legs. I recounted it word for word. He just shook his head in doubt. My dad told me that he didn’t believe his father, a very smart man, would have been that foolish. Daddy had never known about that story.

     Tonight, I realized, we all know an Aunt Marie or an Uncle Raymond that did something of note. There might have been an old friend named Verna who was born in a barn. We say, “That was quite a story.” We believe that at each family gathering, the tale will be retold of how it was a cold night right after Christmas and Baby Verna was put in a tomato crate, her cheeks and all ten toes and all ten fingers -- cold to the touch. Nobody will ever forget the details. Then decades later our kids say, “Mom says Raymond was quite a character!” yet they don’t quite remember why he was a character. Even later, our grandchildren ask, “Who was Raymond? Who was Marie? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Verna.” Another generation passes and these people are barely names on a family chart, even if someone is doing family history.

     This upcoming year I urge you readers to start your own blog. It shouldn’t matter if nobody else outside of immediate family or your close friends reads it. Tell your story. Tell your parents’ stories. Recount the adventures of what it was like to go to a pajama party, ride a bike, go on a trip to your grandma’s house. Commit to write one day a week, or one day a month. Set aside a couple hours or an evening to do one story at a time, Write that day and time on your calendar. Make it a ritual. Let it become a habit. Put down that remote. Set down your phone and stop zombie scrolling. I guarantee, the same silly reels will be waiting for you on TikTok and in the long run, you won’t really miss them. Don’t let your stories fade. Tell your true, authentic history before you are history.

Abundance and Gratefulness - True Thanks and Giving

     Happy Sunday. I wish to add a little more to what I shared last week, since technically, it's still Thanksgiving Weekend.

     As I was about to speak in church last Sunday, I looked out at the people in the pews. Some of them I’ve known for a few years. Some are new move-ins. I put my reading glasses on to look at the pages before me and saw them with a different perspective. They were the same people, same families, same clothes, in the same seats - yet with my lenses on, I saw them differently. On and off, blurred and defined. I realized, seeing that we are abundantly blessed is a similar process. It’s all how we see our circumstances.

     I began my talk with this sudden realization and opted to leave my spectacles on my nose, telling my listeners what was happening with my glasses. Then I said to them that there is so much to be grateful for. Psalm chapter 118 verse 1 says, “Give thanks unto the Lord.” For instance, we can be angry that roses have thorns or grateful that a thorn bush produces flowers.

     About 80 years ago, there were two sisters: Corrie and Betsie. They were thankful for, of all things, fleas! At the time, they were imprisoned in a concentration camp. Most books were confiscated. They even had to hide their scriptures! Those Bible verses were written on playing cards and hidden, because the “offense” of being caught with a Bible meant beatings and less rations (if you could call a bit of stale bread, dirty water, rotten meat or gruel with rat droppings food). They could have even been executed. As a result of the flea infestation, they were spared an inspection by an otherwise fastidious prison matron.

     I’m grateful for simple blessings like indoor plumbing, my own shower and my own toilet. I am even grateful for McDonalds. I’m what my dad called a ‘Heinz 57” kid. My dad’s people  were pre-Revolutionary War, European and Mixed-blood Cherokees. My mother was born in Germany. When I last visited Europe at the age of seven, my grandmother and aunt lived in apartments with shared toilets down a hall. What could be loosely called “toilet paper” was brown and stiff, like shopping bags. Oh, and the toilets had no seat. They were mere holes in the floor attached to pipes. Even at the age of seven, this was mind-boggling for an American child. Also, the food was strange to me. After several days of picking at what was put in front of me and refusing to eat, my mother thought I would starve. My dad and mother asked a US soldier (who risked punishment) to sneak a hamburger out of the commissary for me. For three weeks I ate mostly bread, carrots, and simple things -- and I grew to love grape juice while there. If I’d liked McDonald’s before that trip, I was nearly obsessed with their cheeseburgers by the time I got back to the states.

     Likewise, I am grateful for clean drinking water from a tap. In some countries, the women and children carry buckets to streams that are miles way. Sometimes there are cattle wallowing in the same water. Carrying the containers back to their simple homes is backbreaking work involving a yoke balanced across their shoulders. Then the families wait for the mud to settle at the bottom of the buckets.  Although the liquid at the top might look clear, in the water there are worms, flukes and germs that can sicken and kill people. Even then, these villagers grateful when the streams flow.

     As stated previously in this blog, I’ve had two major accidents in my life and a multitude of little wrecks. I was grateful to come back from the multi-vehicular wreck in which, according to witnesses at the scene, my head went through the window of a pickup truck. That was 29 years ago. A counselor reassured me that it was unlikely to happen ever again. He urged me to be less hypervigilant. But guess what? I was rear ended a couple more times, and then nearly 14 years ago, my family and I were in the deadliest trainwreck in Nevada’s history. People died in front of us! As we left the train cars, a billowing, intense fire consumed the section we'd just left. 

     I can either lament that we were injured and traumatized, or be grateful that we survived. It still took effort to heal. The Lord spared our lives, but I had to make an effort to come out of it: with prayers, physical therapy, yoga, massages, and counselling.

     By the way, our luggage was consumed in the fire we escaped. Collectively we lost almost everything we’d packed:  our clothes burned, a library book burned, my laptop burned, and yet my daughter’s scriptures were not burned.

     In the course of recovery, the best counselors urged me to keep a gratitude journal where each evening I’d write at least five things I was grateful for. Then I thanked my Heavenly Father for those blessings. My therapists urged me to see the bright side of all my trials.

     To illustrate, in the classic movie, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, there’s a scene where Mr. Smith’s girlfriend says she envisioned a tunnel and every time she’d come out of that tunnel and into a bright new world. She appreciated the beautiful things she hoped to see all around her. Could we all make an effort to see the beauty in the little things all around us? Thankfulness is appreciating abundance and not dwelling on the darkness we’ve left behind; it’s looking at the new things set before us. To look back on the tunnel, in my case, only led to further depression. To simplify it down to its essence, Jesus can be our light at the end of the tunnel.

     Recently Hurricane Helene Ravaged the Appalachian Mountains and their citizens. The deluge washed away homes, businesses, farms, and entire communities. In many cases, all the survivors had were the muddy clothes on their backs. That’s just one of the few times in recent American history that our citizens actually “lived” Timothy verse six, chapter eight. How can anyone have gratitude in that situation? For some, the alternative was being exposed to the elements in complete and stark nakedness. Some districts did not even have potable drinking water. Many towns were remote and unreachable by truck or even helicopters. The people were grateful for mule teams that brought in basic supplies and tents for shelter. 

     To paraphrase, Timothy verse six, chapter eight says,

“Godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. Yet if we have food and clothing, we should be content with that.”

 

     The people in my church have said that if you are prepared you won’t have to fear. Like the boy scout motto, it’s good to be prepared. However, what if you lose your home and family along with all you’ve set aside for sustenance? Some homes in the hills of North Carolina were just gone. Other people were grateful that their houses were spared, but barely, and even then, in many cases, they didn’t have clean water.

     So, what can we do to help our “brothers and sisters” in similar situations? People from my church volunteered their time to clean up parts of North Carolina where some of my distant family members were born. Preparation is the first step. When that isn’t enough, love, kindness and the ability to assist will help us all keep walking in the right direction.

     We can show our gratitude for our abundance by choosing to share. Some of us can help by donating to reputable organizations that build water tanks and purifications stations in Africa and South America. If you message me in the comments, I can list a couple for you. Then there are the Giving Machines that will be placed in malls this holiday season. They are large, red, vending machine-like kiosks.

     Yet, what happens if someone we know and love has died in one of these recent tragedies? Their suffering is at an end. That is a simple truth. Isn’t it a blessing that the ones we loved no longer struggle to breathe or feel pain? It’s hard to feel grateful for that stark reality, but it’s a blessing in its own way.

     What if we die? We might find ourselves wandering in the valley of death. We might be consumed by the darkness around us, hoping to find a light to guide us. If we see that glimmer before us, we must follow the light. Know if we die, we die in Jesus. That is a simple blessing and yet in its simplicity, it is profound.

     For that I am thankful. Amen.

Stuffing the Bird - My Complicated History with Thanksgiving Traditions

 Dear Reader,

 

     Today I am taking a new course with this blog. I hope to show you a different perspective. I myself have had to live with a multitude of perspectives from the time I first remember, and that might be at the age of about eighteen months.

     At one point in my life, I thought about writing a book, under a pseudonym. I will be brave. I speak my truth. Some of what I say might confuse you. Some of it might comfort you. It will educate you. It might even offend you.

     This is the first entry which will be part of a series on subjects close to my heart and from my life. I was told in the early 1980s that I had unusual experiences. I thought they were just normal and every day. To other students during a share-your-story-write-about-your-classmates exercise in English class, I was told otherwise. Life has just gotten more exciting, challenging and unusual. Some epiphanies, if you wish to call them that, came years after the initial experiences. Some of the topics I’ll tell you about involve family dynamics, family history, DNA, race relations, how I came from a prejudiced family that was alto multi-ethnic, pets we used to have, and how wars shaped my family. I’ll also discuss culture and food -- and how culture (at least in my family) has influenced my food choices and what I cook. In other words, this is a blog sans genre; one that I hope will be a little more focused.

     Today I will tell you the story of Thanksgiving from my childhood family’s perspective.

 

     My mother, as you might have read from previous entries, was born in Germany in 1930. Before World War Two, before American soldiers, before television, Germany had no Thanksgiving Holiday as we know it in these United States. She’d never eaten a turkey or tasted pumpkin pie.

     My father, on the other hand, was born in North Carolina. His hill people did not celebrate Christmas. It might have been a big deal in some larger cities, but in small towns and counties, Christmas was still considered a pagan holiday. These people greatly loved their savior, Jesus. They just thought it was blasphemous to celebrate what they did not believe was His actual birthday. Many of their ancestors had emigrated to Appalachia before our Revolutionary War and long before Dickens penned A Christmas Carol.

     According to my late aunt, Lynn Marie, who was born in 1919, Thanksgiving was a bigger holiday to them. They’d give thanks, exchange small gifts and (when they could afford it) feast on turkey. My dad despised that dry old bird. I’ll admit, having eaten my grandmother’s turkey only two times that I remember, it was tasteless and desiccated.

     Fast forward years later. My mother brought in the Christmas traditions of her youth with a decorated and lighted tree. My grandmother was still reluctantly embracing the celebration, herself, and the only gift I remember getting from her was a manicure set. I was a small child. She was a loving grandmother, but was not comfortable with gift exchanges at that time. I’m not certain she ever was. She accepted cards and still kept the ones sent by her sons that had deployed overseas in two wars.

     On the other hand, my mother had never celebrated Thanksgiving, even after she married her first husband “Tak”. He was Asian American, raised in Hawaii, and his parents had died when he was a small child. His big sisters, barely older children themselves, raised him. I’m guessing that a few servicemen from the “stateside” had a feast on base or in some homes, but it was still alien in Honolulu in the 1950s to a blended-race family.

     I remember Thanksgiving was something we went to at Auntie Lynn’s house. We had turkey, countless sides, and pie. My mother eyed the pumpkin pie with great suspicion and subsequently, I wouldn’t touch it. There were cookies made with M&Ms for the little kids. Auntie's in-laws were also German and much older than my grandmother. Mama Kohl, who seemed to enjoy every morsel, would feast, then fart in her chair. My cousin Greg and I would giggle and leave the table, having barely touched our plates.

     Sometimes my parents would take me to visit their friends, Pete and Amelia Westerlund, to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with Amelia’s family members. This elderly couple, well into their second marriage, were both immigrants to this country. While it is unlikely that they embraced this new-to-them tradition, Amelia’s children, grandchildren and great grandchildren partied like Americans in every sense of the Turkey-day Tradition. Their Lebanese-Italian influences were seen in many of the dishes, one of those being kibbe, both raw and cooked.  What I remember more than the food was how the men sequestered themselves off into a room to watch hours and hours of football on a colored television, while the women talked in the kitchen and children played in the basement.

As much fun as it was to play with Amelia's great-grandchildren who were my age, I wanted to sneak upstairs and see the magic and miracle of COLOR TV! Ours was a small black and white set.

    Many years later, when I was a young teen, Auntie Lynn and Uncle Raymond retired, then moved to Arizona. Their three grown children moved to California. No more big dinners in their home on Appoline Street in Dearborn.

    Peter passed away when I was in high school. We’d been neighbors in Dearborn Heights when I was a toddler. As a child I thought he was the most interesting man, and I’d follow him around the yard. We’d moved to Taylor before I started public school and my family saw less and less of him and Amelia. So, by the time he took his journey through the Valley of Death, we’d spent less time with people I’d considered to be a second family. No more Thanksgivings with the Westerlunds.

     Thanksgiving. Just us. My father, my mother, myself and an adopted “uncle” named Elmer. He was an elderly bachelor estranged from his brother. My dad would bring him home once a week, on Tuesdays. We’d do his wash, feed him a dinner around our table, then send him back to his house in Detroit with containers full of leftovers. At some point, he must have asked for a good old-fashion dinner with turkey and all the fixings. My mother made turkey and dressing. There were a few forgettable sides. It was still Tuesday. The following Thursday was a day that I’d watch the parades on television. One year, we found an open pizza place on Thanksgiving, and that’s the meal we devoured. My dad gave thanks for that. He didn’t relish eating two weeks of turkey left-overs. His words.

     I myself embrace both holidays. My turkey is moist. I’ve gotten compliments. After my mother passed away and before my father died, he asked me to make stuffing, but “not that boxed stuff. It has to taste like your mother made it!” Her crouton brand hadn’t been on the market shelves in years. I’d already bought the disliked boxed brand. What was I going to do? I used some other brand of croutons that I’d bought, added some celery and blended in the boxes. I hid the containers under the turkey bag in the trash can just as my dad pulled up into our driveway. I was holding my breath as we sat down to Thanksgiving dinner 2004. My dad took a few bites and said, “Your turkey is moist. I really like turkey now, the way you make it.” Then with moistened eyes, he said, “This stuffing, it’s just like your mother used to make it.”

At some point, my mother, born and raised in Germany had mastered the art of -- stuffing! It was what my father remembered most about OUR Thanksgivings; not holidays with the Kohls, football in color at the house of a family member of Amelia Westerlund, and not a dry turkey when he was growing up. It was stuffing that my mother had made into an artform, in my opinion. I had tweaked her recipe and successfully made it my own!

     I let out a huge sigh -- and I gave thanks.

Four Months Later, am I Listening Yet?

     Today I hit that wall again- even more hard. It was physical and spiritual, yet not mental. Thankfully I’ve had wonderful counselling in recent years that’s helped me to cope and “hold it all together”.

     As many of you know, in the nineties I had a major vehicular accident involving several automobiles which resulted in a very serious head injury. In 2011 I was in a trainwreck. Once I recovered (now when I say “recovered” I mean functioning enough to look normal on the outside) I became hyper-social. On top of raising children into young adulthood, I joined book clubs, hiking groups, maintained jobs (and I will admit they were part time for a school district, subbing in several capacities from teaching, aiding in resource and lunch-lady duties) and I wrote books.

     Several years ago, my family and I downsized and moved home to Michigan to a log cabin. I have chickens, rabbits, fruit trees, berry bushes and a vegetable garden. I love the sound of birdsong and the feel of the wind on my face as it gently whispers through the trees. The woods give me a sense of calm. I need that peace because I work at a mental health clinic, part time, and put on a happy face for our clients, many of which I’ve grown fond of. I type transcripts, make appointments, file, and say silent prayers for several of the patients. Many share their stories. Many do not. Some I know personally. I come home mentally exhausted.

     Last week, I sat at the dinner table and blurted, “I am so, so tired!”

     My youngest daughter set her jaw and rolled her eyes. My husband asked what I had to be tired for. I answered, “I was at work today. Yes, I know that it is only part time, but it was work. I get up, feed our animals, get ready for work, dress professionally like a modern-day Jennifer Marlowe, figure out a new route to work several times a month because one road or another is closed, I feel our clients’ palpable emotions in our waiting room, make executive decisions, drive home, change clothes, feed and water the animals again, tend to our garden, exercise and lift weights, do scripture study and art, play the piano, decorate our home for each and every season, cook many meals from scratch, tend the garden, fertilize the flowers and trees, weeding, see our grandchildren sometimes, go out with my ladies’ groups to socialize, do yoga on Fridays, Bible study group, brush the animals, clean the hutches and coop, find time to do my nails after those cages are clean, drive my senior friends to events, hospitals, emergencies, appointments, volunteer to do their shopping, do our budget, make sure the bills are paid, go to church, walk our dog and go to our service-animal training together, write books and stories, proofread, edit, my vision is becoming more blurry every week so those tasks are getting more difficult, go shopping, pick up milk in between shopping trips because, well, it seems like nobody else can do that even when it’s down to the bottom of the carton, shower, shave my legs, all while I’m in pain, aching, stiff and crying on the inside. I drive to my on-going physical therapy appointments or my body could lock up. On top of that my physician left his practice, my therapist moved on to be a school counsellor and my dentist is retiring. So now I get to seek out another mental-health provider, switch dentists, find a new doctor and hope that they are actually accepting new patients and then hope and pray that these businesses actually accept my insurance! All while looking good and keeping my husband happy!”                                      

(If it was difficult reading those run-on sentences, just think how breathless I was after saying all that!)

     My sweetheart countered with, “I’ve worked full time for nearly forty years, I vacuum upstairs and do my own laundry.”

     I acknowledged that. (I will add, he cut the grass three times this year.) I’d asked him to maintain his man-loft upstairs when I started working again: first at a senior citizen home as their activities coordinator and most recently at the mental health office. I love my job, and the paycheck helps with the never-ending medical bills and their co-pays. I could do all the laundry, but my lover kindly volunteered to do it. Before long, I asked him not to wash my delicates because they were becoming shrunken, damaged and unwearable.

     My husband told me, then, that I was choosing to be a grumpy old woman. I silently vowed to be more pleasant around him, even though our conversations center around politics and the world’s problems. I’d rather get compliments on my cooking or talk about something sweet and romantic with my man, but these are the things he chooses to talk about during our precious moments together. I smile, until he himself gets all grumped up and then I just lose my patience. Yes, my choice. I should counter with gentle words, but by then I am burnt out and looking for a soft place to land.

     Yes, I’ve been living a very Proverbs 31 existence, with the only exception being that if anyone asked me to rise before dawn, at 6 am, in my dream-state, I’d probably hurt them every way my zombie-like body could manage. I’ve really been rocking verses 10 through 31, specifically, and looking good while doing it. I’ve been a river, flowing into the big lake, peacefully flowing along, giving…giving. All the while my currents were churning beneath the surface; deadly and silent.

     This week, even after physical therapy, my neck was stiff. I cancelled my yoga date with one of my best friends today and just sat in my recliner, with a cup of warm cherry-chocolate coffee in my hands. I contemplated, lost in my own thoughts, hearing the never-ending screeching in my ears that sounds like I’m sharing a wall with a machine shop. Without warning, above the ringing, I heard the words, “I’m concerned about you.” It was external and at the same time, internal. Was it my own exhausted brain telling me something? Was it an ancestor reaching out to guide me? Was it the Holy Ghost? The verse from Psalms chapter 46 verse 10 came to my mind:

                                          “Be still, and know that I am God.”

     It’s time that I listened.

     It’s time to embrace. . .stillness.

#Stillness  #BibleStudy #BreakDown #HyperSocial #Tired #PTSD #Accidents #ManitowenPress #Exhaustion #SmallFarmLife #Volunteer #VolunterBurnOut

                                          Stiff Neck, Served with a Smile

 

TheTick

 

     Have any of you hit the proverbial wall? I just turned sixty. I realize that for some this is not old. I take care of myself, but on top of on-going medical issues for decades and the occasional health crisis, I was in a multi-vehicular accident in 1998 as well as a train wreck thirteen years ago. I am not lazy. I am bone weary.

     I cook supper from scratch three days a week, usually something from my small farm is in the main dish. Two nights a week, other members of my family cook and some nights we have leftovers. My husband made fajitas from scratch yesterday, because I was out and about with my two youngest grandchildren and one of my adult children.

     Since I recently was hired part-time at an office, my husband does his own laundry. He'd do mine, but after a mishap with some dress pants in the drier, I said I can handle my own clothes washing. I do the farm chores. He does the mowing. My youngest daughter helps when she can. The work is pretty evenly distributed. I feel blessed.         

     Then there are some days I just cannot drag myself out of bed. I hurt that bad. Then I feel guilty because: rain, snow or sunshine, animals are dependent upon their human caretakers. I refuse to take painkillers because I'd be even more useless.

     I keep plugging along. Yes, I take time to rest, create, get a massage to stretch what's become locked into place. Somehow I do it "With a Little Help from My Friends" as Sgt. Pepper would say.

     I take time every summer evening to pick the Japanese beetles off of our fruit trees and bushes. It's like meditation to me. I take time to ponder and breathe deeply. I am dedicated to this lifestyle. Sometimes I'm treated to a flock of turkeys marching through my yard, or a herd of deer making their way in and out of the woods.

     Birdsong greets me in the morning. I listen to the cries of a couple of hawks during the day and the calls of owls and quail at night.

     Twice a year my taxes go up. That's stressful. My township changes the zoning and handbook frequently— less animals, more subdivisions. That stresses me out. We no longer have agricultural land where I live. All blueberry fields are now designated rural residential. The ten-acre horse farm down the street got a rude awakening last year.

     Last week my doctor put me on diabetes medication so now I feel EXHAUSTED. Also, I doubt that the recommended guidelines for how many carbohydrates a sixty-year-old woman is allowed to have take into consideration people like me. I’m not sitting in front of a TV all day ironing and folding laundry, eating potato chips and sweeping the crumbs off of the towels before I stack them in the linen closet. Sometimes several days go by before I even go upstairs into the loft to sit down to catch up on a couple shows.

     Then last night, there was a tick IN MY BED. With the exception of my housecats, I do not allow any animals on my bed, indoor or outdoor. How that little sh!t bug got in my bed, I do not know. I've encountered ticks before (more and more frequently as the years go by) and I deal with them. This was different. My bed is my sanctuary where I can finally begin to unwind.

     After my daughter got the little eight-legged vampire off of me, I had a meltdown. This morning, after I fed the animals, I went back inside, crawled under the covers and rested. It’s now late afternoon. I still have to clean coops and hutches. I still want to get some fresh air and walk my dog. . . but I have shut down in every way. I want to care, but suddenly I JUST DON'T! I want to move away from ticks. I want to relax with just my dog in some city far away from farm animals, orchards, gardens and most of all, ticks.

     That little bloodsucking demon was my last straw this weekend. I have hit the wall -- and it isn't pretty.

(My mood today)

A Roller Skating Patrick Swayze & Maureen McCormick in a Shiny Red Bodysuit. (Jessica Wore it Better)

     It was a long, cold, snowy weekend, a great time to catch up on shows I haven’t seen and books I haven’t read. I was also craving A. silly fun, and B. a warmer climate. For the silly element, imagine “rolling” one of the Beach Blanket Bingo (the Harvey Lembeck years) with Saturday Night Fever and a pinch of Dirty Dancing. There’s no better setting than sunny California. With that boiling pot of ingredients you get the motion picture that might have, arguably, started the whole Roller Derby craze: Skatetown USA, set in a Los Angeles roller rink.

     “Skatetown USA!” some of you gasp, “that poorly written, goofy, pointless mess?!” Well, yes, but I’ve never seen it before. Not once – EVER-- before tonight. This review is forty-five years in the making— Well, what can I say.  I couldn’t drive myself to the theater in 1979.

     I’ve wanted to see this film for decades for many reasons. The soundtrack alone was only rivalled by Saturday Night Fever’s record breaking LP album. When I was a teen, Tiger Beat was the magazine all my friends raved over and Scott Baio was on A LOT of their covers. (Yes, Chachi is in this film.) Other notable performers were Ruth Buzzi, Ron Pallilo and Maureen McCormick (in an outfit that looked A LOT like the gown that Jessica Rabbit later wore). In fact, this show was meant to be a post Brady Bunch vehicle for McCormick, as well as exposure for other young performers wishing to start their careers. 

     For the moment, let’s just focus in on one: Patrick Swayze. In this, his film debut, Swayze portrays Ace, an angry skater with a chip on his shoulder. Did you know Mr. Swayze could skate? I did! Seven years later he was in the hockey movie Youngblood with Rob Lowe and another, at that time, unknown actor, Keanu Reeves. (Swayze and Reeves would later star in Point Break). Roller-skate, ice-skate, dance, act, sing -- what couldn’t Swayze do? His performance alone is worth watching this crazy slapstick mash of nonsense. I always thought that the reason fans (and non-fans) have never enjoyed this motion picture on DvD and digital media is because of the nightmare to secure music rights, but I might be wrong. In my research, it turns out that Patrick Swayze purchased all the film rights to this jambalaya of a movie and prevented its distribution. He was embarrassed by Skatetown USA. Yet his intense performance is more than noteworthy. It’s phenomenal. It’s seething. It’s sexy.  I’ll even add that there is choreography that predates Dirty Dancing yet is nearly move-by-move identical in some scenes.

     Then there’s the crazy situation usually not seen in 1970’s flicks: an interracial couple! Flip Wilson plays two rolls: one as Harvey Ross, the manager of the neon emblazoned rink/ comedy club -- and HIS OWN MOTHER! (Think Wilson’s beloved Geraldine.) Yet here’s the unexpected part - Harvey’s daddy, Jimmy Ross, is played by the late character actor Billy Barty, a little man with more talent in his compact spirit than many other acting giants of the 20^th Century.

     Watch for other cameos such as (possibly) Richard Simmons in the opening credits in the conga line; and Dorothy Stratten… in a pizza line.

     

     I was able to find a copy of Skatetown USA online through a library archive. If after a reasonable search you still cannot find this motion picture in its entirety, I will send you a safe link.