One immigrant's story

My Grandfather, Edvard Wallner, 1930.

Probably like every immigrants' story my grandparents' story includes a twist of fate.

My grandfather was in his 40s during the World War II and was likely pressed into some sort of service as all able-bodied German men and male children were toward the end of the war. It was never clear what my grandfather did during the war. My father was born in a refugee camp in Grotniki, Poland in 1941. This always seemed dubious to me. How was a conception and pregnancy possible during this part of the war?  They were German nationals who called Lithuania home: What were they doing in Poland? There were vague stories about my grandfather being an officer's driver, and the family fleeing a fire-bombed Dresden which my father claimed to remember. There are many holes in the story and I can only assume the holes are filled with a combination of heroics, shame and survival.

Questioning the story was not possible. I didn't have a good enough command of German (and no comprehension of Lithuanian) to ask the questions myself. All answers were filtered through my father's translations. Things were left out and my imagination is not kind.

But the story of their immigration to the United States has been told and retold many times, and the details aren't as sketchy. It is filled with heroics, shame and survival too.

Though the exact timeline isn't clear, it began sometime in the late '40s. Starving in post-war Germany, my grandparents made plans to emigrate. Their families had scattered around the globe after the war. My grandmother's family immigrated to Australia. My grandfather's family were in Canada, Chicago, and West Germany.

Having siblings already living in Australia and Canada, my grandparents tried to emigrate there first.

Tuberculosis was a threat. Because of this, all emigres had to have clean chest X-rays. My grandmother's showed spots. She had survived TB, but her X-rays called her out and Australia and Canada denied their visas.

Tapping into the resourcefulness that got him and his family through two wars, my grandfather came up with a plan. The U.S. required immigrants to have a sponsor. My grandfather contacted his cousin who was living on Chicago's south side in the Marquette Park neighborhood.  She and her husband agreed to sponsor my grandparents. But there was still the hurdle of the chest X-ray.

Wising up this time, my grandfather stepped on my grandmother's X-ray, obscuring the TB spots. Her X-ray now looked like many others — a poor-quality medical record. They were granted visas to the U.S. and told they were only allowed to bring $20 in cash per person with them on the boat voyage west. Ignoring this, my grandfather sewed $20 bills into his socks and the family embarked a ship leaving Hamburg for New York. They arrived in October, 1950.

The rest of their story is all-American. They got jobs, learned English (somewhat) and became U.S. citizens — my father being the last to become naturalized in 1976. ("I wanted to vote against Jimmy Carter," he told me once.) They led prosperous lives. Whenever the subject of the old country would come up, as it often did when we were all together, there was never longing. They were thankful to be here. Their gratitude was handed down to me.
 
They never returned to Germany. But I did. I went to Berlin in 1978, driving through East Germany to get there. I silently thanked my grandfather every mile of that drive. And I thank him  every Memorial Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Election Day, Veteran's Day, every time I hear the "Star Spangled Banner", every time I say the Pledge of Allegiance, every time I see the U.S. Flag, every time I call my myself an American.  

The Not So Great Gatsby

My husband and I are long past the double-date stage. We seldom go out with other couples for dinner, rarer still, a movie.  I have no theories on why we are this way. It's never bothered me enough to give it a second thought.

Last weekend we found ourselves in the company of two other couples for dinner. It was a spontaneous thing and it was a lot of fun. During this dinner, the conversation turned to the upcoming film adaptation of "The Great Gatsby." I'm sure I squealed (yeah, I'm a squealer) "Oooohhh I really want to see that!" The others were already making plans to see it opening night.

"You should come!" squealed Laura. (There's a reason we are friends.)
"Yes! Can we?" I asked Kevin.
"Have you read anything about it? You should because I don't think you are going to like it," he said.
"No, but I've seen the trailer and it looks dazzling. I want to be dazzled," I said, sounding like the feather head I become in mixed company after two healthy pours of Chianti.

The conversation turns to other versions of the movie, but it's clear the three of us women really want to see the new film. One of the other husbands, Steve, wants to see it as well, and I think that might bring some masculine credibility to the venture. I quickly forget why Kevin thinks I will not like the movie and I'm caught up in thoughts of how fun it will be to see a movie with other couples. Any movie. (Excepting porn.)

As I've mentioned before, I love it when men make social plans. So I thought it was cute when our friend Steve asked me the following day if Kevin and I were in for the movie Friday. He and his wife were going to select a time and theater and get advanced tickets. I asked Kevin if we were indeed in.

"I don't know. Let's wait and see if Chip gets back to me about a meeting Friday," he says.
"You're stalling. You don't want to see the movie, do you?" I accuse.
He denies this and I drop it.

Steve emails me the following day, asking if we are in. I explain the delayed response, perhaps maybe whining just a wee bit.
"Do I need to send him a 'what kind of hubby are you email?' Steve volunteers.
"And how would that email go?" I ask, knowing such an email would not go over well at all.
"Just a nudge about doing something just because your best girl likes it. And a reminder that chivalry and generosity gets returned ten-fold," he writes.
I decline his offer. Just the other night Kevin rescued a dying, half-paralyzed wild rabbit, setting it up in a cozy box in our garage with some spinach leaves. He then drove it to the animal hospital the next morning so they could humanely end its life. Kevin needs no reminders of chivalry. Ever.  
 
Another day passes and Kevin calls me at work to check in. He says an odd thing.
"There wasn't much in the mail for you today. Your "New Yorker" came. Wait'll you see it."
"Oh, that's right, they've got a piece about 'Gatsby'. It's on the cover too, right?"
"No, not the cover. There's a 'Gatsby' review. You're going to want to read it before you consider going to see it."
"Why? Is it scathing?"
"It's bad."
"I don't care. I want to see it. You don't have to come along." I snap like a petulant 12-year-old.

This morning Kevin gets up before me and makes me buckwheat pancakes and coffee, and I am reminded again how he would never need a nudge about generosity and chivalry. My heart swells with love. We sit down to eat and he says: "Did you read that review in the New Yorker last night?"
"No. I was reading about Syria," I say defensively.
"We're not going to Syria Friday," he shoots back.
"You're not going to read it are you? I know how this goes," he says with more than a little contempt.
"And you are going to hate this movie no matter what," I shoot back. "You are going to base your opinions on this one review? You don't even like the New Yorker!"
"No, I base them on what I've seen in the trailer too. I don't think I will like it and I don't think you will either. The reviewer got motion sickness from the camera work. Beware," he says.

He asks questions about the logistics of going to the movie as if it were an entire weekend getaway.
"Did Laura's email mean we are to buy our own tickets or were they buying them? What time is the show? When do we need to be there to get a seat together? It's not that theater way out there in Naperville is it?" he continues.
We are now snipping at each other and I'm incredulous. Why is this outing turning into a pain point?
As I head out the door for work he comments on my outfit. He does this a lot and creatively.
"Lori's all in black and white today. Yin and Yang. The duality of man," he says.
"Yes. That's me. I'm a duality," I say.

Kevin is very likely right. All signs do point to me hating the "Great Gatsby". Questionable camera work, an incongruous soundtrack, a filmmaker whose previous work "Moulin Rouge!" I loathed— all adds up to a fat thumbs down. He knows me well.

Once at the office, I check the email trail regarding the movie and I buy our tickets online, happily responding that the B.'s have purchased their tickets. I'm weirdly excited that we're "in." It is then that it dawns on me: I want to see this movie, on this night, with these people because I don't want to be left out. I need to be part of a mini society of happily married couples. What I overlooked is how strong-arming my husband makes me a lesser member of that society.

There's a solid chance Kevin and I will be leaving the theater tomorrow night disappointed in the movie and wishing we could have those four hours of our lives back. If that happens, I know I will have to apologize. But I know Kevin will not say "I told you so."

I guess that would make us a happy couple after all.

Betty's Performance Review 2012-13

To: Betty White Draper Boop
From: Human Resources

RE: Performance Review

You have been a member of our household for approaching one year now. It's time for us to assess your performance as Pet I. You will be assessed on a five point scale on these criteria:

Skills/knowledge
Attitude
Lovability

1-5 scale:
5. exemplary: ready for more responsibility or even another pet
4. very good, worthy of human bragging
3. good: acceptable behavior for a Pet of your experience level
2. needs improvement: lacking in some Pet basics
1. Unacceptable: long-term cage restrictions or a visit from The Dog Whisperer.

Skills/knowledge
Rating: 3
Betty, you have made great strides since coming on board in 2012. Growling at your human dad has diminished significantly, and you have learned to walk on a leash.  You rarely bark. You have made good progress refraining from rolling over and squirming your back into the grass when you perceive something smells good. However, you need to master several of the basic pet skills with more consistency. Those skills include bowel and bladder management, and avoiding unnecessary chewing of human objects,  seeking out, retrieving and chewing every single piece of paper you encounter, and refraining from dining on goose shit and dead birds.

Attitude
Rating: 2
Your diva-like attitude needs some adjusting. Betty, you are not the alpha bitch of the household. That position is already held by your human mom. While you are mostly enthusiastic when you see your human mom, occasionally there are lapses and lackluster affection when she returns home. Rarely do you show any love to your human dad and often do not even leave the cage when he comes in to see you. Your obstinacy over walking is borderline ridiculous. Your human dad should never have to carry you down the stairs to take you out for a walk. Additionally, it is unacceptable to attempt to run back inside once you are out with him when know you have business to conduct. When you are walking with human mom, you need to keep up the pace and refrain from stopping every two feet to smell, lick, or eat grass and other non-edibles, then shooting her aggravated looks and refusals to move when prompted.

At the dog park or other situations where dogs are included, your social behavior is spotty at best. You are choosy about who you will sniff and sometimes are downright aggressive in your behavior toward larger, alpha male dogs. Betty this makes you look slutty. You will be wise to remember that you have been rescued from a life of canine prostitution.

On a positive note, Betty you have made good progress in allowing your human dad to pet you between 10 and 10:30 p.m. Let's expand on that, Betty.

Lovability
Rating: 4
It cannot be denied you are adorable. And, while your human mom once described you as the "Heidi Klum of the dog world," recent weight gain has required her to amend that to the "Shelly Winters of the dog world." Your soft, fluffy white and beige fur, your perfectly tousled floppy ears, and your impossibly sad eyes make you irresistible. Your occasional smile is cause for celebration. Your sweet face begging to be let up on the bed, your little paws on human mom's knees when she sits on the commode, and your gorgeous wagging tail running away from your human dad is super loveable.


Overall rating: 3

Honorable Mention Mom

As Mother's Day approaches I've started seeing a few blogs where moms list what gifts they want to receive from their offspring. One particularly amusing entry on the blog Moms Who Drink and Swear lists the five things she doesn't want. It was this entry that inspired me to conjure up another five things I don't want either. But in thinking about it, I realized there is nothing I would discourage my son from giving me.

So, what would I encourage him to give me? Seeing as he is a recent college graduate and very low on funds, I decided the best Mother's Day gift from him would be hearing a few key words and phrases in a conversation — any conversation be it on Mother's Day or any day.

Here are the top five verbal gifts I'd like to receive (without sarcasm, thank you):

5. "You were right about ______."  That blank could be filled by just about any word(s) from "college" to "drinking 10 cups of coffee a day" to "Game of Thrones." The day he acknowledges my input is the day I will know I've raised an adult.

4. "I made an appointment with Dr. _______." That blank could be filled by any medical professional. Dentist, internist, optometrist, psychiatrist. I'd even accept witch doctor. The day he makes his own appointment to deal with any physical complaint will be the day I know I've raised an adult.

3. "I got a haircut." Yep. Adults do this too.

2. "I accepted your friend request on Facebook." Ensuing dialog should not include the words "but you are on a short leash."

1. "Thanks Mom." Actually, he is very good about this. I'll make this simple for him. My Mother's Day gift need only be this very phrase.

I have become my grandmother

Me in the office on a rainy Tuesday.

I'm one of those people who sets the alarm clock one hour before I really need to be out of bed. I've never been able to pop up and hit the ground running.
During that hour when I'm hitting the snooze button every nine minutes, I think about what I'm going to wear. I don't get out of bed until I have an idea of what I will put on my back.
Today, I got out of bed with no outfit in mind. Annoyed that the weather is dictating I should be in boots, but the calendar saying I should be able to break out the peep-toed pumps, I was uninspired.
With the gray sky peeking through my bedroom blinds and radio reports of rain, I faced my closet and grabbed orange. Then I said oh what the hell, embrace the rainbow. (The results are pictured at left.)
As I dashed out to the car my husband got a glimpse of me.
"Really putting the crazy out there today, huh?" he said chortling.
"What, too colorful? Fuck it. I am colorful and I don't care if people think I'm crazy," I snipped back to him.

Now ensconced in my boring beige office, I go about my day. Part of my job entails editing a newspaper section for people over the age of 50 (we politely avoid the term "seniors"). A story I assigned months ago has been submitted: "It 'girls': Grande dames with individual style are free to be". The subject matter is women of a certain age who embrace fashion: "Fashion for them is not about slavishly following trends but about expressing the supreme comfort they feel in their own skin. Whether their look is bold, eccentric or put together classic, they do not go unnoticed," as our staff writer Ro so eloquently wrote.
I thoroughly enjoy reading this story that goes on to quote a man who has documented the stylish older women of New York City and the world in a blog, a book and a soon-to-be documentary. (Advanced Style is the blog linked here: Advanced Style.)
I loved this quote from a woman, Ari, featured in the book: “I was never fearful of being extraordinarily different,” Lubi says in the book. “I would rather be considered somewhat different and mysterious than ignored.”
Yes. That's what I want to be when I'm old, I think to myself.

My Grandma Cogan with my son in 1990.
(Photo courtesy of Mark Bonne)

I walk over to Ro's desk to tell her how much I enjoyed the story. As I approach her she is already smiling — undoubtedly at my crazy outfit.
Just as I'm telling her how much I liked the story, it dawned on us both: I have become the eccentric woman of a certain age.
"We should use your picture with the story," she says. She took the picture above.
Looking at the photo, I see why my husband called me crazy.
I see that I have become just like my grandmother pictured here at right, in 1990 when she was well into her 80s, rocking a hot pink lion sweatshirt and coordinating neck kerchief.
And I'm just fine with that.

The power of the purse

This photo is the very genesis
of my love of fashion. But that's for another entry.

I've had a long standing love of purses, wallets, suitcases — really just about anything with handles that allows me to tote around my most important possessions and make a fashion statement at the same time. I remember my first purse (picture on the left) but I cannot possibly imagine what the four-year-old me held it that sweet little white handbag.

My love of purses has been handed down from my own mother and her mother. Old purses were often given to my sister and I to play dress up with, and purses were frequently gifted to us — always containing one penny.
"It's bad luck to give anyone an empty purse," my mom informed us.

In moments of boredom, like long car rides or waits at doctor's offices, our mom would sometimes let us go through her purse. The scent of gum and lipstick, the crumpled tissues, the matchbooks emblazoned with restaurant logos and wedding dates, the bright lipsticks, and perhaps best of all, the muffled, mysterious sound of items jostling around the dark interiors could hold my interest more than a Highlights magazine. I especially liked going through her wallet; reading her drivers license and looking at the photos of a younger me, my sister, cousins and my dad, and seeing how much money she had — counting down to the last penny. There was always at least a penny.

But rifling through her purse was strictly by permission only. My own father wouldn't dream of placing a hand on that secret world without express permission.

It seemed to me that carrying a purse was the very essence of womanhood.

Recently my dear friend Teresa lost her beloved grandmother. In a quiet moment, away from the rest of her grieving family, she went through her grandmother's purse. She cataloged the items and shared this amusing list:

• Two tubes of cherry Chapstick.
• One half-eaten strawberry nutri-grain bar, in open package, folded over (obviously saving it for later), and one empty nutri-grain wrapper.
• Three crusty combs — the small kind (with tiny teeth) that old-man barbers use.
• A snapshot of Opi, but his head isn't in the shot — all you see are the bottoms of his ears, his nose and then the rest of his body. (Why did pick that one to put in her purse!??)
• A little black case thing with two Happy House business cards in it. (Happy House was an antiques store she owned years ago.)
• One tube of Revlon lipstick: "Softlit Ruby"
• One folded up restaurant napkin, two folded up tissues and three used tissues.
• Two prayer cards of "The Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague.
• A laminated prayer card: "To St. Raphael the Archangel"
• Her YMCA pass that expired July 31, 1982 (her photo is fabulous!)
• One goldfish cracker (yes, one!).
• A pill that looks like she spit it out of her mouth into her purse.
• Her wallet, which contains nine bobby pins (no cash!); another little plastic case with seven more Happy House business cards in it; and an old piece of scrap paper with her social security number, her name and address, Mom's work phone number, Mom & Dad's home phone number, Sabrina's phone number (and her old Palatine phone number crossed out) and a really old phone number of mine.
• A loose stack of note paper, unused, all with strawberries and flowers on each one (undoubtedly purchased at a garage sale for a nickel)
•  charm embossed on top. It's so tiny that I can't read who it is.
• And one more little plastic case. This one's jam packed: Grandma's Illinois State ID card; three band-aids; a small sticker from the Pike Brewing Company in Seattle (??); Jacob's sixth-grade school photo; an AA card, with the 12 steps and 12 traditions and serenity prayer on it; a Crystal Lake Motel business card; various other business cards (physical therapy center, day care center and podiatrist); and -- yep, you guessed it -- two more Happy House business cards!

The purse inventory gave Teresa, and those of us she shared this with, an intimate peek into the last days of wonderful, colorful woman.

After Teresa shared this with us, she and our friend Anne made a pact: "I vow to immediately confiscate your purse after you die and go through the contents." I take this oath as seriously as my marriage vows. The contents of my final purse can be analyzed only by my dearest girlfriends.

A woman's purse says so much. It's contents not withstanding, a woman's purse symbolizes a woman's economic power and her ability to provide for her family. Many of us continuously juggle family, jobs, and our own needs. It's difficult for me to imagine the struggle of a woman who has little or no financial means to help "fill her purse."


I just joined a great organization, Mothers & More who is dedicated to helping these women every year with their  Power of a Purse campaign.

A nonprofit organization,  Mothers & More is a 25-year-old organization dedicated to improving the lives of mothers through support, education and advocacy. For five years now they have been running a Power of a Purse program.  Members and chapters donate more than 20,000 purses and thousands of personal items financially disadvantaged women through shelters and other nonprofit organizations.


For the month of April, Mothers & More is running a Writing Contest in celebration of Power of a Purse that is open to both members and non-members. Contestants are invited to share, in 300 words or less, how the mission of Power of a Purse resonates with them through their “purse-onal” story. Mothers & More will publish the top 5 stories on their blog, Mothers' Voices. The top story will be featured on Brain, Child magazine's website.

And the coolest thing (and a shameless plug for me) I've been asked to be one of the judges for the essay contest. 

So, for details on how to enter, the fabulous judges, and a complete list of prizes, please visit the writing contest page here.
To learn more about the campaign, visit Power of a Purse 2013 on Mothers & More’s national website.

Game of Thrones

I just did a shameful thing. I spent 13 hours Easter weekend watching one TV show. I got sucked in by a cable promotion offering me free access to a series of premium shows during a "watchathon."
What started as an innocent way to while away a late Friday hour turned into a mini-obsession that kept me from more productive pursuits like laundry, paying bills, walking the dog, cleaning house, and writing letters to my congressman.

How easy it was to ignore the world around me and plunge into a fantasy world of seven kingdoms, medieval intrigue, visceral sword fights, and brothels of "Game of Thrones." I woke up Monday morning with a TV hangover and vowed to get a grip on reality.

For me, those were 13 hours poorly spent. Not because the TV show wasn't good; it was very good indeed. But because there are so many, many things I should have been watching other than  TV. That message was driven home to me later that Monday.

Recently I've dipped my toe in local politics by helping a dear friend Steve Vasilion who is running for 5th ward alderman (my ward.) It has been an eye-opening experience, and actually kind of like courtly intrigue the closer we get to election day. What has been most surprising to me is the arrogance of our elected officials. How like the kings of a fantasy world they are.

Proposed $120,000 River Walk Arch

Like a good serf, I have been working hard to pay my taxes — which have doubled since I moved to Batavia nine years ago — and pursuing my own creative interests, the lords of the manor have been ripping me and my neighbors off.

While our utility bills crept skyward,  like peasants we adjusted our thermostat, bought energy saver appliances and tried to cut down on our electric use. Meanwhile, our elected masters of coin obligated me and my neighbors to a $250 million coal-fired energy plant deal that has been increasing my utility bill and will continue to do so indefinitely.

While I attended openings and events at the town's local gallery, wishing I had the money to  purchase one of the works of a talented local artist, my city council has been planning on spending more than $120,000 on their own art: a decorative arch, not designed by a local artisan, over a congested and confused street.

While I was at my full-time job, or volunteering at my church, at our town's United Way chapter, my city council was organizing committees to figure out how to spend my money. Committee meetings and hearings I knew little about and don't recall ever being invited to attend.

Monday night, the city council told a few concerned residents that they were too late in their comments and questions about the council's recent folly.  We should have been at the committee meetings and public hearings they said.

Apparently now they want our time AND our money. It's not enough to elect a council to serve the best interest of it's citizens, we now have to watch their every move.

Like a game of thrones.