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.