Wonderful, Wonderful Easter Mem'ries!

     It’s almost Easter, and so I think back fondly of old and dear family friends, such as the Westerlunds. When I was little, these neighbors were a constant fixture in my life, even after we moved from Dearborn Heights, Michigan to Taylor a few miles away. Pete was born in Copenhagen, Denmark. Amelia was from Lebanon. I loved them both like another set of grandparents.

     I used to follow Pete, a skilled carpenter, all around from project to project. One was at his step-daughter Marie’s home where my family visited a lot. Other times those tasks were in his garage or yard. I observed while Pete painted baseboards that balanced on saw-horses, installed them, took a ballpeen hammer and gently pounded tiny nails into the wall to fasten the baseboards, then explained how to touch up that paint (a skill I remember into adulthood).

     Sometimes while working, Pete would take a break. During those breaks the old man would sing, “Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen!” Later at home, I’d play on my swing set and sing that same song over and over again. Most moments between projects, Pete removed his painter’s cap and then lit a cigar, clamping it in his mouth Popeye-style. I was fascinated every time I saw his bald pate: there were two deep dents in his skull covered by skin. (What preschooler absorbs all that in, like a sponge, to recall it decades later as if it happened moments ago?) At some point I changed the lyrics to “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen! Something hit Peter in the noggin,” no doubt influenced by some older child or adult.

     I heard all kinds of tales as to why Pete’s skull was misshapen: from maybe having a brick land on his head, getting hit by a hammer, falling off of a roof. One day, long after we’d moved off of Stanford Street, I asked my father why Pete had two holes at the top of his head and was told that it happed as a result of an accident doing carpentry. I could only speculate as to which of the three incidents (maybe all three?) had caused these noticeable indentations.

     Other than singing and patiently explaining some finer points of carpentry, Pete was quiet. He was a man of few words, as his wife Amelia was the one to talk, direct and lead.

     My memories of Amelia were that she attended church faithfully, she would cook Lebanese recipes, she dressed in beautiful pastel colors, she spoke with confidence, but most of all, I was amazed because she was the first woman I ever knew who actually DROVE A CAR! None of my aunts, not my mother, not one of their friends, could operate a vehicle at that time.

     Whenever my mother wanted to go to Kmarts, Amelia was the one doing the driving. I have happy memories of eating at the store’s little cafeteria. One time even after we’d moved, she drove my mother and I to a meeting about traveling to Germany. I was bored in the back seat while the car was going down the highway toward the meeting, and like a little fool, I played with a dead wasp which, when I showed it to Amelia, she was clearly upset to say the least. On the way home I got a bloody nose and wouldn’t stop picking at it. I believe by that time, Amelia regretted the decision to be our designated driver.

     Since my American grandmother lived in Virginia and my Oma was in Germany, my sense of family and belonging came from dinners at the home of Pete and Amelia.

     Easter was the most special event where we’d gather with Amelia’s family: her daughter Marie and her husband, her granddaughter Delores and her husband and children, as well as a few more people that I do not remember. A short walk next door and we’d arrive to the aroma of kibbeh and warmed pita bread. (In my mind not nearly as delicious as McDonald’s, there was absolutely no way I was going to eat spicy raw bloody lamb.) I’d sit at the kids’ table with Amelia’s great-grandchildren Lynnie, Karen, Eric and Shelley. I’d pick at the pita bread and spoon a little mashed potatoes and gravy into my tiny mouth. Every time Amelia would yell at me that there were starving children in the world and how could I waste food? My dad would come to my defense and say that my plate had been piled high, by some adult, with things I didn't ask for and shouldn’t be forced to eat. He'd eat the kibbeh, but how could a little girl with a sensitive palate enjoy that? All the while, four little kids around me would be quietly chewing every morsel on their plates.

     I thought my fourth birthday was a public holiday like Easter or Christmas or even the Fourth of July! It was quite an event with a cake featuring every superhero that I was aware of: Batman, Robin, Superman, Catwoman… even Bozo the Clown! (I was a preschooler, and to me a creature with that much flame colored cotton candy-inspired hair had to have superpowers!) Amelia’s great-grandchildren were invited, too. My favorite kid there was Lynnie, since she was my age. It beat the celebration I had with a dog the year before, but I’ll save that tale for next week.

     Shortly after that wonderful party, my mom and dad found a home on an acre in nearby Taylor and before the end of the summer of 1968, we moved. Still, several times a year, we’d go back to Dearborn Heights to see my Pa Pete and Grandma Amelia. Sometimes we’d visit Marie’s home. Other times we’d travel up to Lynnie’s house where I was overwhelmed by the number of other children playing in their basement.

     Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays—we celebrated together and I felt that the Westerlunds were family. Over the years, we attended weddings and baby showers as Lynnie’s siblings grew. One year while I was in high school, Pa Pete got very sick and died in his own bed. I don’t know why I associate his death with Grace, Princess of Monaco, but I do. We were at the Westerlund's when we heard the news of Princess Grace’s car accident and I think that’s also when Pete was deathly ill.

     Not long afterward, Daddy retired and when he and my mother moved away to Utah, except for the occasional Christmas card, we all lost touch with the Westerlunds. Shortly after I got married, David and I went to Amelia’s old house. There was yet another generation at the kitchen table. I was amazed at how many LIVING generations that I knew of that family, five in total.

     That visit felt awkward and forced. I still loved them all, but somehow the dynamics were off. None of us kept in contact after the 80s, until social media brought some of us back together.

     There is no conclusion to this, no moral of the story, no point really -- just good memories that helped shape the woman that I am today. 

Christmas 1967- my Dearborn Heights neighbors. Pete and Amelia Westerlund, my mother Anneliese, Marie Scarpace (Amelia's daughter).  Me in the front row.

March 1968, my 4th Birthday, with Pete and Amelia's great-grandchildren. Facing is Karen Eggen, Lynn Eggen. Back to photographer is Shelley Eggen. Left of her, a bit of Eric Eggen. Me in green jumper, farthest left.

Beneath the Surface

     When I was about nine, my dad and I spent a special day together. It was August, and soon autumn would touch my world with bright orange and red, my favorite colors at the time.

     Daddy heard that this year would be the best salmon fishing in about three years, maybe the best opportunity ever. Even though the two of us only fished with cane poles, we both wanted to watch the expert anglers’ successes. We headed south of the Downriver area of Detroit with a loose set of places we’d visit.

     Our first stop was Michigan Memorial Cemetery. My dad let me drive our station wagon along the graveyard’s lanes, but only for a few minutes. He then took the wheel once again, a look of determination on his face. “There? Maybe there? Things have changed,” he muttered to himself.

     We parked and got out. Daddy reached into the back of our vehicle for some flowers. We walked solemnly amongst the graves of people who were at one time alive, breathing and dear to their loved ones. Daddy lit a cigarette as we zigged and zagged through a few monuments.

     “Ah, we’re close!” he said as he pointed to a grave. “I remember this.” Together we read the words on a headstone. The poem was something like,

            “Where you are, I once was. Where I am, you will someday be.”

      It was very somber and sobering to me. I felt very much alive!

     A little farther and we were at the grave Daddy was searching for. “Your grandmother wanted me to lay these flowers on my brother’s grave, He would have been forty-three. He was only eighteen when he passed away. That’s almost twenty-five years ago!” Then he whispered something like where had all that time gone. (Forty-three seemed so old then. Now my own nephews are about that age and even older! I am sixty-one myself. I repeat my father’s thoughts: where did all that time go?) He put the flowers down on the stone and we spent a quiet moment together.

     Taking deep breaths, Daddy’s tinged with grief, we carefully stepped back and returned to our vehicle.

     We drove to Monroe and parked our car in a lot by a river. There were hordes of people, picnic baskets, families, anglers of all ages. My father watched the skilled and the unskilled as they pulled up a few salmon here and there. He’d remark how some of them were fishing correctly and others were using illegal means. We stood near the dam and he said that only weeks before, some boys who weren’t much older than I, had been pulled under the current. He pointed to the surface of the river and then to the dam.

     “Take a look,” he said pointing to the calm above the dam. “Looks smooth, right? You think that’s safe to swim in like your backyard pool? Well, it isn’t.” Then he pointed at the dam. “Those children were deceived by the tranquility of the surface, but there’s an undertow that pulled them under. They’d surface and get jerked under there again and again. One of them drowned.”

     He quoted something about “Still waters run deep,” and not to trust the first appearance.    

     I remember the afternoon becoming overcast and we decided to go home. On that drive, I thought about the uncle I never knew, the cousins I’d never have and currents that I could not see. I thought about rivers, undertows, boys who would not grow to become fathers. 

     All my father’s lessons have served me well in life. He’d teach me with stories. I later found Daddy’s method was The Cherokee Way of the storyteller: Observe; Instruct. Occasionally my dad would lecture. I hated those times. I enjoyed the stories coupled with real-life examples from nature. I wish these days parents would teach their children and those children would listen.

     I realize that now attention is short and brains have been conditioned to snatch a snippet here and there.  Many things that are displayed on social media will not help us survive or thrive.

     I hope my family’s lessons will help my grandchildren to learn. I hope that these stories will inspire. I hope that when I am no longer here, my words will carry on, because there will come a time that you will be where I once was, and I will go to a place that you will be someday.