For some reason, intuition threw my time machine (which directs the path of my mind) into reverse, causing us to zoom back to several years before the birth of my precious mom. As intuitive thought often guides the pathway of my mind, here's a bird's eye view of whichever train of thought is about to appear on my computer screen and yours … One caution, I'll have no time to edit, till later:
Sad to say, I know nothing of my Grandma Ella's and Grandpa Harold's childhood, other than this:
My passionate, robust grandma, the eldest child in a large family, grew up in Russia during the latter part of the 1800's.
As Grandma Ella had told my mom, who'd passed this information to me:
'My father and I were very close. Since he did not place much faith in my mother's ability to run our active household, that responsibility fell to me, early on. As pleasing my father pleased me, I worked to surpass his expectations.'
In this way had Grandma Ella been habitually primed to run the show wherever life took her next.
My grandma's dad, a strong-minded man, had a dear boyhood friend, who'd moved to London. Before biding each other goodbye, these fast friends made a pact: If one had a daughter and the other a son, they'd arrange a marriage between the two.
One day, a lovely, dark haired, young girl, on the verge of womanhood, was picking apples in her backyard when she sensed a presence behind her. This presence happened to be a young man, staring at that which he liked, so far: A long, wavy mane of hair, cascading freely down a young woman's curvaceous back. With her apron filled with juicy apples as ripe and rosy as the blush of youth blooming on her cheeks, Ella spun around and brown eyes flashing, my grandma faced her intended, Harold, for the very first time. As Harold was a well dressed, handsome lad, whose family had done well in London, Ella, whose inner strengths had longed to meet her match, looked upon this dapper, young fellow with favor until, my grandfather introduced himself and humbly uttered this request in reverence for the magnificent, young woman whose passionate nature had clearly been sensed, standing before him: With hat in hand, Harold asked, respectfully: Can I give you a kiss? Upon hearing her intended's deferential request, Ella's welcoming smile turned upside down, and her fiery spirit shot off this reply:
If you have to ask ... NO!
Next thing Harold knew, an apron full of apples had been flung straight at his person, and before he knew what had hit him, this spirited, young woman, soon to be his wife, flounced furiously away—and from that day forward, their first interchange pretty much describes the tone of my grandparents' marriage until death did they part when Harold lost his battle with heart disease, at the age of fifty-two.
Pretty dramatic response [or not so pretty] from a young woman to her besotted betrothed during the first decade of the 1900's, when the fair sex was expected to react in demurely when responding to the man of the house, n'est ce pas? And now I know why intuition suggested that I start my mom's story with this vinette, describing the blazing nature of her mom.
Having lived with my Grandma from the day of my birth until marrying Will, I'd witnessed the power of her strong, matriarchal spirit, first hand, countless times, most especially when Ella, who'd ruled Jennie's kitchen, felt defensive or displeased. (As my sister, Lauren, and I'd absorbed a double dose of strength of spirit from Grandma and my dad, thank goodness, intuition channelled my mind to carve out a path, whereby I chose to seek out speaking and listening skills, which graced my think tank with temper-taming knowledge once motherhood challenged me to modify a two-year old's emphatic: 'No! No! No!' …)
Upon marrying Harold, Ella was not about to leave her family for foreign shores, so the young couple made their home in Russia, not far from that apple tree, where Grandma's mindset, concerning her intended, had taken root, and from that day forward ... dominance, concerning who would rule the roost, remained uncontested ...
Sometime before WWI broke out, Grandma's younger sister, Batia, had emigrated with her husband to the U.S., and acting as sponsors, they implored my grandma and grandpa to join them. As to the whereabouts of the rest of my grandma's siblings, it's assumed that they'd perished along with so many of the Jewish faith during WWII, because eventually, all communication with her side of our family ceased. Sadly, to this very day, if asked what fate had in store for my grandma's family, I'd reply, quite seriously, our family has no clue.
If asked about Grandpa Harold's family in London, we lost track of them for a very different reason. The spelling of Grandpa's last name was changed when he emigrated to America by way of Ellis Island. Oh wait ... Scratch that detail. Though we'd thought they'd made their way through the endless lines if immigrants at Ellis Island, my niece, Jessie, recently learned they disembarked from the ship in Nova Scotia. So, each time we'd tried to contact family when we'd traveled to London, we'd offered the authorities the wrong name. How did we find that to be true? Recently, we found my mom's long lost birth certificate, where her rightful birthday and rightful maiden name had been recorded, correctly... one hundred years ago ...
Eventually, Grandma and Grandpa had sound reason for choosing to leave mother Russia, behind. During my childhood, Grandma's terrifying tales of hiding from marauding Cossacks made my hair stand on end. One story described grandma as a young woman, huddling with her friend as the two lay petrified, hidden in the bushes whenever the thundering hoof beats of horses suggested that another drunken raid on Jewish life was imminent. When the friend's baby began to whimper, a loving hand covered the frightened infant's mouth. Once their belongings had been ransacked by soldiers, some tearing through the house still mounted on horseback, the two friends emerged from their hiding place to find the precious child, who had suffocated, lifeless in his mother's arms.
Sad to say, I know nothing of my Grandma Ella's and Grandpa Harold's childhood, other than this:
My passionate, robust grandma, the eldest child in a large family, grew up in Russia during the latter part of the 1800's.
As Grandma Ella had told my mom, who'd passed this information to me:
'My father and I were very close. Since he did not place much faith in my mother's ability to run our active household, that responsibility fell to me, early on. As pleasing my father pleased me, I worked to surpass his expectations.'
In this way had Grandma Ella been habitually primed to run the show wherever life took her next.
My grandma's dad, a strong-minded man, had a dear boyhood friend, who'd moved to London. Before biding each other goodbye, these fast friends made a pact: If one had a daughter and the other a son, they'd arrange a marriage between the two.
One day, a lovely, dark haired, young girl, on the verge of womanhood, was picking apples in her backyard when she sensed a presence behind her. This presence happened to be a young man, staring at that which he liked, so far: A long, wavy mane of hair, cascading freely down a young woman's curvaceous back. With her apron filled with juicy apples as ripe and rosy as the blush of youth blooming on her cheeks, Ella spun around and brown eyes flashing, my grandma faced her intended, Harold, for the very first time. As Harold was a well dressed, handsome lad, whose family had done well in London, Ella, whose inner strengths had longed to meet her match, looked upon this dapper, young fellow with favor until, my grandfather introduced himself and humbly uttered this request in reverence for the magnificent, young woman whose passionate nature had clearly been sensed, standing before him: With hat in hand, Harold asked, respectfully: Can I give you a kiss? Upon hearing her intended's deferential request, Ella's welcoming smile turned upside down, and her fiery spirit shot off this reply:
If you have to ask ... NO!
Next thing Harold knew, an apron full of apples had been flung straight at his person, and before he knew what had hit him, this spirited, young woman, soon to be his wife, flounced furiously away—and from that day forward, their first interchange pretty much describes the tone of my grandparents' marriage until death did they part when Harold lost his battle with heart disease, at the age of fifty-two.
Pretty dramatic response [or not so pretty] from a young woman to her besotted betrothed during the first decade of the 1900's, when the fair sex was expected to react in demurely when responding to the man of the house, n'est ce pas? And now I know why intuition suggested that I start my mom's story with this vinette, describing the blazing nature of her mom.
Having lived with my Grandma from the day of my birth until marrying Will, I'd witnessed the power of her strong, matriarchal spirit, first hand, countless times, most especially when Ella, who'd ruled Jennie's kitchen, felt defensive or displeased. (As my sister, Lauren, and I'd absorbed a double dose of strength of spirit from Grandma and my dad, thank goodness, intuition channelled my mind to carve out a path, whereby I chose to seek out speaking and listening skills, which graced my think tank with temper-taming knowledge once motherhood challenged me to modify a two-year old's emphatic: 'No! No! No!' …)
Upon marrying Harold, Ella was not about to leave her family for foreign shores, so the young couple made their home in Russia, not far from that apple tree, where Grandma's mindset, concerning her intended, had taken root, and from that day forward ... dominance, concerning who would rule the roost, remained uncontested ...
Sometime before WWI broke out, Grandma's younger sister, Batia, had emigrated with her husband to the U.S., and acting as sponsors, they implored my grandma and grandpa to join them. As to the whereabouts of the rest of my grandma's siblings, it's assumed that they'd perished along with so many of the Jewish faith during WWII, because eventually, all communication with her side of our family ceased. Sadly, to this very day, if asked what fate had in store for my grandma's family, I'd reply, quite seriously, our family has no clue.
If asked about Grandpa Harold's family in London, we lost track of them for a very different reason. The spelling of Grandpa's last name was changed when he emigrated to America by way of Ellis Island. Oh wait ... Scratch that detail. Though we'd thought they'd made their way through the endless lines if immigrants at Ellis Island, my niece, Jessie, recently learned they disembarked from the ship in Nova Scotia. So, each time we'd tried to contact family when we'd traveled to London, we'd offered the authorities the wrong name. How did we find that to be true? Recently, we found my mom's long lost birth certificate, where her rightful birthday and rightful maiden name had been recorded, correctly... one hundred years ago ...
Eventually, Grandma and Grandpa had sound reason for choosing to leave mother Russia, behind. During my childhood, Grandma's terrifying tales of hiding from marauding Cossacks made my hair stand on end. One story described grandma as a young woman, huddling with her friend as the two lay petrified, hidden in the bushes whenever the thundering hoof beats of horses suggested that another drunken raid on Jewish life was imminent. When the friend's baby began to whimper, a loving hand covered the frightened infant's mouth. Once their belongings had been ransacked by soldiers, some tearing through the house still mounted on horseback, the two friends emerged from their hiding place to find the precious child, who had suffocated, lifeless in his mother's arms.
When Ella had a child of her own, it was no surprise that she'd longed to join Batia, who'd beckoned from the safe haven of the Midwest, where religious freedom offered liberation from persecution—though women, who'd not yet won freedom to vote, marched for their right to equality, while in later years, the persistence of color discrimination continued to rankle the minds of many until whites, aligning with blacks, for sound reason, marched with MLK as miscarriages of justice pierced hearts, for decades. Why? Because two sides of human nature fight for space within each mind ...
Somewhere around 1908 Ella and Harold, toting their small son, Allen, booked third class passage from Russia to the USA. As their story goes, payment for their passage took them only to London, where they were forced to disembark, shocked and furious at having found their trusting nature taken advantage of so heartlessly. Whomever they'd paid the full amount to sail to the new world had pocketed a portion of the money after booking them passage only as far as Europe, suggestive of each generation's need to grow toward maturity, aware of differentiating between friends vs frenemies. ( As you shall see, I'll learn that sad lesson, concerning frenemies, as well ...)
Thank goodness, Harold's family took my grandparents and Uncle Allen in for at least a couple of years while my grandpa (who'd died before my birth) saved passage, yet again, this time just for himself. Once Harold arrived in the states, on his own, he worked as a tailor to save passage for four more. While seeking asylum with his family in London, Harold had fathered a second son, Jerry, and before he'd set sail for the new world, Ella had conceived my mother, Jennie. Then, when my robust grandma (who'd become ill and thin during the many weeks in which she'd crossed the ocean in steerage with two rambunctious tots in tow) could not nurse her black eyed, raven haired babe, fellow travelers took turns holding my precious mother, Jennie, in their arms while spooning fluids into her sweet, hungry, bud-shaped mouth. Thus was my tender-hearted mother, a one year old cherub, held in Ella's emaciated arms, when she set eyes on her father, Harold, for the very first time.
And now that you know a smidgen about my mom's family history, let's redirect our time machine to 1912, several months before my Dad's birth for this reason: Before my parents' love story can unfold before your eyes, we need to transport Jack from Poland to the Midwest, where he'll grow up to attend a dance, and upon laying eyes on black eyed, raven haired, voluptuous Jennie, across a crowded room, my father will make his way to his beloved's side, where he'll literally sweep his sweetheart of sixty years off her feet, and after twirling my lovely mother around the dance floor and into his car, we'll witness my dad's thoughts and my mom's thoughts quickly part ways … and thus, when next we meet, I'll feel as curious as you to see where my stream of consciousness will direct the story-telling portion of my mind to travel back in time, next ...
Somewhere around 1908 Ella and Harold, toting their small son, Allen, booked third class passage from Russia to the USA. As their story goes, payment for their passage took them only to London, where they were forced to disembark, shocked and furious at having found their trusting nature taken advantage of so heartlessly. Whomever they'd paid the full amount to sail to the new world had pocketed a portion of the money after booking them passage only as far as Europe, suggestive of each generation's need to grow toward maturity, aware of differentiating between friends vs frenemies. ( As you shall see, I'll learn that sad lesson, concerning frenemies, as well ...)
Thank goodness, Harold's family took my grandparents and Uncle Allen in for at least a couple of years while my grandpa (who'd died before my birth) saved passage, yet again, this time just for himself. Once Harold arrived in the states, on his own, he worked as a tailor to save passage for four more. While seeking asylum with his family in London, Harold had fathered a second son, Jerry, and before he'd set sail for the new world, Ella had conceived my mother, Jennie. Then, when my robust grandma (who'd become ill and thin during the many weeks in which she'd crossed the ocean in steerage with two rambunctious tots in tow) could not nurse her black eyed, raven haired babe, fellow travelers took turns holding my precious mother, Jennie, in their arms while spooning fluids into her sweet, hungry, bud-shaped mouth. Thus was my tender-hearted mother, a one year old cherub, held in Ella's emaciated arms, when she set eyes on her father, Harold, for the very first time.
And now that you know a smidgen about my mom's family history, let's redirect our time machine to 1912, several months before my Dad's birth for this reason: Before my parents' love story can unfold before your eyes, we need to transport Jack from Poland to the Midwest, where he'll grow up to attend a dance, and upon laying eyes on black eyed, raven haired, voluptuous Jennie, across a crowded room, my father will make his way to his beloved's side, where he'll literally sweep his sweetheart of sixty years off her feet, and after twirling my lovely mother around the dance floor and into his car, we'll witness my dad's thoughts and my mom's thoughts quickly part ways … and thus, when next we meet, I'll feel as curious as you to see where my stream of consciousness will direct the story-telling portion of my mind to travel back in time, next ...
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