#my mom has been making me watch Yellowstone with her since it’s been airing on tv every Sunday

[tiskycat]

Me: I fucking hate Beth Yellowstone

Me: *remembers that post about how “y’all want fucked up women in fiction but can’t even handle the ones that are slightly mean”*

Me, through gritted teeth: I respect Beth Yellowstone for being Problematic Woman representation in a piece of modern media

[tatooedlaura-blog]

The Madness of Punch

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday … Cheezy Pouffs … Bacon … Stumbling … Trail Mix …  Punch … Friday … Preparation … Uncle Mudler … Normal … Backseat … Mudler-sense … The FBI … Unthinkable … Patience … Elephant Jokes … Cooking … Rickety Tables … Mr. Skimmer … Bert and Ernie … Midnight Confessions … The Moon … Bright Sunshine … Graying Skies … Darkened Night … Possibilities … A Thing with You … Humming and Thrumming ... Warped Cosmology

@today-in-fic

____________

MRI taken, fish fed, email answered, thumbs twiddled, Mulder phoned, brain picked by aforementioned phone call, groceries shopped for and mother retrieved, they headed to the appointment.

An hour later, they settled in the car, quiet for a moment before Maggie spoke ... 

amusement lacing every word that followed, “so, basically, you have polyps in your sinuses and vigorous sex will break the blood vessels in your nasal cavity?”

This was possibly worse than when she innocently asked her mother, after hearing Bill talking to one of his friends, what 69’ing was, “I should have left you in the car.”

“Oh, no, dear. Then I would have nothing to share at the card party Thursday.”

“Don’t make me make you walk home.”

Maggie moved her hand to Scully’s arm, squeezing it tightly, “honey, believe me when I say I am overjoyed to hear that the worse things you have are fatty growths and too much sex.” Moving on, she clicked her seatbelt, “now, do you think we have time for milkshakes before you need to leave for the airport?”

Key in ignition, dignity thrown out the window, Scully grinned the grin of someone with fatty growths and too much sex, “plenty of time.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Mulder collapsed into guffawing giggles that left him gasping for air, “oh … good … God … shit, I can’t breathe … I would have given almost anything to have seen that.”

She shoved his feet over to make room so she could sit on the already creaking bed, “it was an experience but who really cares as long as that’s what it is. I’ll get the polyps taken care of when we get back and we’ll just have to have less vessel-breaking sex in the future.”

This sent him right back into laughter the likes of which finally had her putting her hand over his mouth, trying to get him to shut up given it was after 11pm local time and they were going to get thrown out of the dump that was ‘MeadowLodge Suits: Drive up, sleep in, get out’ if they didn’t quiet down. Yawning while she waited for him to calm, “by the way, I like that you didn’t even attempt to get two rooms, then lie about sharing.”

“Skinner isn’t an idiot. He’ll keep it quiet though and Dennis down in billing has been asking about us for years so he’ll shut up as well. Why waste money when we don’t have to?”

“Then why didn’t we stay at a better hotel with all this money we’re going to save?”

Mulder looked around the aesthetically unappealing mustard yellow décor, “what? You don’t like this?”

Moving to pull on pajamas, “just once, you’re going to let me book the hotel.” Once dressed, Mulder watching intently the whole 30 second process, she returned to the bed, “give me the five minute rundown, please.”

&&&&&&&&&

Case done by the following Monday afternoon, Skinner shipped them to Wyoming, mosquitoes the size of Scully eating her alive while they tramped the outskirts of Yellowstone, looking for a bank robber attempting to hide in the woods. At least this time, Mulder didn’t mention a nice trip to the forest.

As an aside, they traveled over the Old Faithful and shared a pizza in view of the geyser, Mulder, for what it was worth, snapping a picture of the top of the spout so he could show people how tall it was. Scully looked at him until he cracked, “what? I want to see just how many people give me that look before they either laugh me into oblivion or gently correct me in what they hope is the nicest voice possible.”

“You’re special, Mulder, you know that?”

Ringing his arm around her neck, he smiled as he kissed her temple, “just ‘cause I’ve got you.”

&&&&&&&&&

And suddenly it was the end of July, Skinner finally letting them home after varying degrees of cases and assholes and scary type fellows. Walking into Mulder’s apartment, he dropped their bags to the ground and turned to her, “it’s Thursday, Scully.”

“It is Thursday.”

“You know what Thursday is.”

“The day after Wednesday, last I checked.”

He could give her the Look like nobody’s business and she loved it, “I need some Punch.”

Shaking her head, she moved towards the bathroom, “call Mom and see when the festivities are happening.”

And he did and it was good.

In less than an hour, after a quick shower together and some general fooling around, which they had chosen not to do while on cases, they pulled up to Maggie’s, Mulder rushing up the walk and inside, leaving Scully behind to lock the car and be amused.

She found him breathing deeply the scent of homemade cooking and motherly love, grinning like the proverbial idiot. Maggie was already walking slowly towards the pair, boots gone, braces on, crutches present. Mulder hugged her the moment he could, Scully following soon after, “how are the ankles?”

Looking at her daughter, “it feels strange and I’m nervous without the boots but the end is in sight and that’s something.”

All moving into the kitchen, the ladies greeted them as if returning from a three-month long expedition, Betty going as far as declaring how much they’ve grown since they last saw them. Scully hugged her, “Mulder needs punch.”

With a grin, “we already have two glasses ready and places for you at the table.”

Mulder studied the seating arrangement, “why are we not next to each other?”

Janet, piping in as she shuffled Roswell cards courtesy of Mulder’s kitschy souvenir binge on vacation, “because, from what I recall, the punch makes her floppy and we need someone who can handle their liquor to catch her.” Pointing the deck at him, “that, my friend, is not you.”

He really couldn’t argue.

&&&&&&&&&&

Scully was asleep on the table by 9:18pm, head resting comfortably on the wood surface, the game happening around her, Lillian tucking her hair out of the way whenever it drifted across the playing area.

Mulder, on the other hand, somehow managed to hold total punch annihilation at bay even though total inebriation still occurred, his plan of one gulp of water for every two sips of punch failing miserably. His tongue was blue as midnight, which he continually shared roughly every 5 minutes and Betty, beside him, had to keep gently nudging his cards closer to his chest so the entire table, at least, couldn’t see them. When that round had finished, she turned to him, “Fox, would you like some more pie?”

With an enthusiastic nod, he moved to get it himself but Maggie held his arm while Betty retrieved the dessert. Thanking everyone at the table for their part in pie presentation, he took his first bite, waving his fork in Maggie’s direction, “she makes the best pies.”

Maggie caught the fork before it went in her eye, returning it and the attached hand to the table, “Janet made this one.”

“Then Janet makes the best pies, too.” Another bite later, “Scully doesn’t like pie. I don’t understand. I mean, she keeps trying pies but she just doesn’t like them. I’ve tried her with apple pie and cherry pie and peach pie and pumpkin pie and chocolate pie and I mean, my God, the amount of pie I’ve wasted on that woman is astounding. Peanut butter pie and blueberry pie and every time, she just takes a bite and looks like she’s gonna die and then slides it over to me to finish.” Turning towards Maggie again with the fork, “what did you do to her as a child? Did you force feed her rhubard pie or mincemeat or something? How could you raise a kid who doesn’t like pie?” Maggie tried to answer, defend her dessert choices for the past 34 years but never got past taking in a breath before he plowed ahead, re-addressing the table, Scully’s prone head and the air in general, “I love pie. Any kind of pie. My sister Sam used to make pretend pie and she always knew I’d eat it ‘cause she called it pie. She’d serve it up in her tea set, make me sit in that damn little chair and scoop up forkfuls of fake pie. At least she’d serve fake ice tea with it so that was something. She would line up her stuffed animals and dolls and just go down the line, feeding everybody pretend pie and pretend cookies and fake cake … once she made a pretend pot roast for us but then took it away ‘cause she said she’d accidently burned it and it tasted funny.” Taking a deeper swig of his Punch, “she stopped having her tea parties about a year before she disappeared but even on that last day, that afternoon, before we had the fight about the TV and before she floated in the air, she made a real pie for me … she made it with Oreos she’d smashed up and pressed into a pie pan and put frosting on as filling. She cut it and served it and brought me a glass of ice tea and told me she’d make me real pies from now on because she was going to be a chef and learn how to make all the pies for real so she’d always have something I’d like to eat.”

The table, right down the line, Maggie, Janet, Lillian, Betty, Ellie and Ruth, all had to fight various stages of sighs and sympathy, all wanting to hug Mulder tightly, all wanting to make the life of their Fox better.

He didn’t notice any of it, fork feeding himself another mouthful, “I think she would have been a good cook. She loved reading cookbooks. She’d get up on a stool when our mother was gone and study the buttons and dials on the stove, look inside the oven, make me come explain to her how the gas to the burners worked. She is irritating as hell sometimes but for a little sister, she’s not too bad.”

No one corrected his present tense usage for his long-gone sibling but Ellie quietly scooted his cup away as he continued, “I think that when Scully and I have a kid, I’ll buy her a tea set and explain the stove to her, feed her all kinds of pretend pie and see if maybe she wants to be a chef.” Aiming for the third time at an astonished Maggie, “you’ll have to teach her how to make meatloaf and pie and lasagna but,” swinging the fork around to Betty, “you will not be teaching her how to make the Punch. You will make the Punch and I will drink the Punch but even when she gets to be 40 or 80 years old, she will never be old enough to see the Punch.”

Looking around at the women, he grinned a blue-tooth smile, “why are we not playing? Did I win?” Glancing from the fork in his hand to the near empty plate in front of him, “I like pie.”

Twenty minutes later and after another piece of pie, sans diatribe, Mulder gave into annihilation, entire body dropping slowly against Betty, his last words being, “I should get Scully home to bed.”

Betty, supporting his dead weight admirably, gestured for assistance and soon, FoxNDana were both snoring peacefully on the table. Maggie took them both in, her glance sliding between, then to her cohorts, “how should we get them somewhere to sleep for the night?”

Studying the situation, Ellie suggested they start with Mulder. It took all of them to get him up, move him, pull down the sheets on the adjacent bedroom, lay him down, set an hopefully unnecessary wastebasket by the side of the mattress, be amused by his arm searching for Scully.

Returning to the kitchen, they expected to move Scully next but instead, found her sitting up in her chair, tears evident on her cheeks, the saddest look on her face they’d ever seen. Maggie held still on her crutches, “Dana?”

Scully sniffed hard, swiping her cheeks but not answering until Maggie asked when she’d woken up, if everything was okay, to which she finally responded, “I woke up when you asked him if he wanted pie.”

The ladies had a concrete-enough, vague notion of Scully’s personal life, complete with abduction, infertility and gunshot scars to collectively and quietly gather bags and shoes, calling hushed goodbyes while Scully sat there, guilt-laden at having chased away her mother’s friends with her insanity. Once the front door shut and Maggie returned to her, Scully waited for the inevitable, ‘what’s wrong’ but instead received a gently hand to her back and a quiet, “did you know he wanted to have a daughter with you?”

[katiebruce]

Year of the Silver Star

It’s taken me a while to sit down and right my annual end-of-the-year post. Normally, I’ve got this post done in the weeks leading up to New Year’s Eve, or, at the very least, the night before. Yet, here we are.

 I think part of it is my fear of letting go of what was such an incredible year for me. I know I’m basically alone in having had a great 2017—that’s okay, I’m usually an outcast anyways—but also a sense that I’ve peaked and will now plateau, if not avalanche, downwards into both my Saturn Return and my thirties. Whatever it may be, I owe it to both one of the best years of my life and one of the strangest starts to a new year I’ve ever had to document it.

 So, here it is.

 I started 2017 doing one of my favorite things: being out of the country. Sure, I was working, and sure, I wasn’t with my most favorite people, or in one of my favorite cities (not to shade Toronto, by any means)—but I had a good time. I had this overall feeling of excitement and change and that air of “anything is possible” that often accompanies the completion of a year--but somehow more than ever before. Something just felt right.

 I knew that starting the year off out of the country would provide ample travel opportunities and I made no hesitation in starting that right away. My best friend and I flew to Philly for a weekend—to see one of our favorite emo bands, mind you—and explored the frigid city in all its historic glory. About a week later, I flew to Vegas for my roommate’s bachelorette party, which, in and of itself, was easily one of the most eventful things that happened last year…

 February came and I turned 28 and celebrated with my girl gang at a library themed, Oscar Wilde bar. We got LIT-erary. I still find that fucking hilarious. We ended the night at our favorite watering hole, The good old Owl and ended up getting called The Spice Girls which was actually such a revelation for us (and even though Nicole wasn’t there, she somehow was the fifth we needed and the universe fucking knew it.)

 About a week or so later, me, Bethany and Lo flew across the fucking pond. We traveled London, Liverpool and Edinburgh for a week and froze our bloody arse’s off. In London, Lauren and I had a most memorable night where we were both kissed by a rose and wound up and a Beyonce bash, complete with face masks of Bey and all. I was catcalled in the most British way possible: “Oi, that’s a big bottom!” and I ended up meeting a guy we referred to as Mr. Grey for the better part of the year. He and I would, uh, well, fuck it. We’d have facetime sex at like, the most awkward hours and tbh it was sexy and made me feel great and I walked a little lighter and enjoyed how silly it was for a while. Of course, it ended a few months in, as these things often do, but I can’t deny the fun I had and I feel like I shouldn’t. Everyone should have sex with a sex monster (yes, that’s what I’m going to refer to him as now) at least once in their life. It was a wild ride.

 Beebs and I got inked in Liverpool on an absolute whim, and I had a sixty-year-old man tell me about the time he saw Bowie on the Ziggy Stardust tour as we listened to Lorde and he forever immortalized my love of The Thin White Duke on my forearm. This is when I really started letting go last year; I’m not very good at being impulsive. I may appear to be, but deep down I have grave anxiety about pretty much anything I do. I’ve just been lucky enough to have people who are willing to tolerate it and help me work past it in my adult life. But something changed in me in Liverpool, that drunken night where I not only decided I would get inked but thought up the concept mere hours before having it forever, and I can say I completely allowed this new girl to inhabit me and take over for the remainder of the year.

 I fell in love with Edinburgh and decided that, should I pursue a Master’s degree in the next few years, I’ll be going to school there. I’ve never felt quite as home as I did there. (I realize I’ve always said that about London, but trust me, if something was ever going to top Lahndo, it must be true love.)

 Me and the girls (all sexed up from chatting with all the foreign boys we did) had a most memorable night when we got home getting drunk at a sex store together and spending a collective $800 or so dollars on toys and lingerie. Self-care, bitches.

 In March, I watched as my roommates committed to a beautiful forever together. It was also my first time as a bridesmaid, and holy cow are weddings a lot of work. I’ve always said I’ll have a tiny wedding, if not just elope, but holy hell the experience from the inside only solidified that in my mind.

 Spring came and went and I grew my hair longer and cut it short again, yearned for warmth and visited my sister in Florida & flew to visit Kris in his newly adopted city of Denver. This is also around the time where I went on a few Tinder dates (Lord, help me) and fell, soul-crushingly head over heels for a guy I met one fleeting day at work…

 I took Acid on a third date which resulted in it also being The Last Date, but it made me see text messages as bubbles and I battled a dragon trying to get money from and ATM and watched a Star Wars for the first time (and last time) and had an evening of bad, trippy sex. Nothing like hallucinogenics to make you realize you are not in sync with another person, lol.

 So it goes.

 I traveled Europe for two weeks with Ellie which was lovely and exhausting. I returned to my beloved Italy, which was huge for me, as I always wanted to go before it had been ten years since the last time I stepped foot in the first foreign country I ever visited. We got drunk in San Marco Square and listened to battling string quartets and fell in love with foreign men we were too afraid to talk to and I was old enough this time around to know not to order a Long Island iced tea from a bartender who barely understood English in the first place…

 We eventually, by some form of absolute witchcraft, caught a flight to the tiny Greek island of Santorini and legit lived in a cave house for five days. We walked all over that tiny island and I let the sea breeze cleanse my skin and my hair and my heart and my mind. We watched the sunset every evening as if it were a spectacle to behold (it was—it always is) and just really let ourselves tell time by nature, and how it made our bodies feel. It was really a humbling experience to be in a place that’s so, so small. Going to Athens (via a ten hour ferry ride, mind you) was a bit of culture shock after being so confined for so long. Being in one of the most Eastern cities in Europe, however, really just made my itching to go to the middle east even more dire.

 I had a rough summer in terms of mental health; I hate summer flying (& the debilitating crush I mentioned above seemingly saved me—for like a week—and then left just as fleetingly as it arrived and left me in a pretty low place. I still dream about the guy regularly; I had two separate one’s last night.)

 I started taking Xanax again. Because, well, life is hard and my roommate has a prescription.

 I got to explore the beautiful, beautiful part of Wyoming that is Yellowstone National Park and got to see the beautiful, beautiful human being my best friend is becoming in the process. For a few days we camped, explored, and just really took in nature—even a death storm that threatened to turn our tent into a boat—it was a beautiful experience and I’m glad Nicole has found a place to call her home surrounding her with such beautiful, expressive people.

 August came and with the promise of September on its heels, I started to feel like myself again. Virgo season always does it to me; it’s my polar opposite and therefore, my most compatible sign. Ellie and I got another round of impulsive tattoos; strawberries—a quote stolen from Shakespeare that really just became a euphemism for our friendship throughout the year. We went to riot fest and I saw New Order and cried and Paramore (for the first time since I was, like, nineteen… and while we’re in a side note, let me just mention how much After Laughter was very much the soundtrack to my year and I’m not ashamed to admit it) and Ellie cried and we just had a very fun few days in the hot Chicago heat.

 I chose to recover from this by getting yet another tattoo; my largest & most intricate to date, so that made for an interesting, but wonderful day. It’s also worth noting that I got it in the south side of Chicago so, like, if I ever go to prison at least I’ve got that going for me.

 I returned to Milwaukee and had a riotous night with my girls where I got hit on by two famous band members and it was like, the stuff dreams are made of. I know it’s silly to assign worth to someone’s fame, but you have someone hit on you who has, like, a million Instagram followers & songs in like fifty different movies and see how it makes you feel & then judge me. This also started my love affair with the lesser famous band member who I’ve now entered into some weird “see you around Chicago” love affair thing for the past few months where we both flirt and ignore each other simultaneously. It’s wild.

 I saw so many bands and cried to so many songs and discovered so many artists and felt all the things.

 Friendsgiving came, and Nicole came, & along with her came The Con X tour. Without getting too into it, that was a huge shifting point for me & 2017 in general. The Con was an album that saved my life both metaphorically & also, like, physically, and to be able to stand outside of the depression that nearly took my life ten years prior and say, loudly, “I am still here and I like my life and sort of like the person I am but I am also trying to become better each and every day and it’s all very much worth it” is beautiful and powerful thing.

 My mom and I spent a wonderful weekend in Vancouver, exploring the cold north and even got to go whale watching, which was, honestly, one of the most breathtaking, awe inspiring experiences I’ve ever taken part in. Nothing will make you feel as small as floating in a yellow zodiac in the middle of the ocean surrounded by six Orcas and a baby (but fucking huge!) humpback whale will. Nature does a good job of reminding us of just how insignificant we are.

 The holidays just passed and I forgot about two ex-lover’s birthdays until days after each had past. I’m a big fan of dates; so this, too, was a huge thing for me. My Saturn Return stressed me out for months, yet finally arrived, subtlety, yet very directly. I assigned all my turmoil the Mercury Retrograde and the moon’s rotation yet also tried to use that bad air as a way to propel myself further into becoming better in some odd way. 

I spent a week at home in Tampa and the past week here in Chicago and I’ve been reflective and passive towards the new year, which is new for me. I celebrated the end of one of my favorite years, Year of the Silver Star, seeing Twin Peaks at one of my favorite venues in the world. I’ve lately adopted such a deep, profound love for Chicago that I can’t say was always there. I’ve always loved it here; don’t get me wrong. But lately I’ve just got this overwhelming sense of pride about living here and the person it’s shaped me to be. I truly live in the greatest city in America; it’s such a quiet, best kept-secret and it’s all fucking mine.

 So, in saying goodbye, I realize I am also going to be mourning the death of a good friend to me—2017—in the process. There’s a certain amount of fear that comes after having such a good year. Can anything else compare? Where will I go from here? What does the future hold for my small, insignificant experience on this planet?

 At least David Bowie can’t die again.

 2018 has had a slow, humble start. I think that’s going to be the theme, though—slow and steady. I’m cautious because I’m aging (twenty-nine in a few weeks. twenty-fucking-nine!) but also because of my fear and understanding of Saturn Return. I was just becoming comfortable with impulsive kb, and am now being faced with a wise, considerate version of myself. I’m really trying to act thoughtfully & with reason.

 I will not invite toxic relationships, old or new, into my life. I will not settle for less than what I what, just because I am afraid to voice what I do want. I will not let anything stop my travel plans—and boy, do I have a lot of them for this year.

 I will move out of my apartment, my home for the last seven years, in four short months. I will turn a new leaf. I will (finally) graduate college. I will likely have bad sex. But, I will also have good sex. Really, really good sex. I can feel it; it’s vaginal intuition. I will visit India and bask in the beauty of the Taj Mahal and dream of a love so wild that someone might dream of building me something so grand in order to express their feelings for me some day. I will visit Australia and New Zealand, Iceland, China and who knows where else. I will continue to learn about myself, slowly, humbly, and try to embrace the woman I am and the one I want to become.

So, 2018, Year of the Stardust, I salute you and your intrinsic ability to control what’s next for me. I know it’s going to be a transitional year; that’s inevitable. But I will do my best to accept your place in my life with open arms and love. I will try every day to better understand my place in this world, and what’s next for me. I will continue to grow up. I will end my twenties with you!

 I eagerly await your lessons and turmoil, & burn sage in beginning you, officially, tonight. (After all, it’s a full moon and that feels more like a fresh start than some mortal-made calendar, anyways.)

Cheers to you, Stardust. May the crumbling of my Silver Star bring only beauty within you.

[timracek]

Oma

I’ve pretended to be a writer since I was fourteen years old and never, in the last eleven years, has anything been as difficult to write than this.  There is no one I’ve met in my life more deserving of being remembered than Oma, and I feel completely overwhelmed because I will not come close to capturing what she meant to me and and our family, but I am obligated to try. This is by no means meant to be anything close to a definitive story, just my own observations and what she talked to me about.

***

Dorothea Aleith was born on July 1st, 1929 in Helmstedt, Germany.  She didn’t know much about her parents early years. From the best that we could figure, her father, Hermann’s family came from Helmstedt and her mother Gerturd’s from somewhere farther east. Her Father had fought in the first world war as a teenager. He spent most of the war in a prison camp. He was a jack of all trades, working at various points as a coal miner, an airplane mechanic, a groomsman at the city stables, an air raid warden, a baker, and a gardner. She still had a postcard he sent to his parents from the front lines in 1915.

                           (Her father, the X on the right and his brother.)

The closest I’ve ever seen Oma come to bragging was when she talked about her father. She liked to talk about how he could take apart and reassemble an engine without assistance. How, when he worked at the stables, he would bring her and sisters to ride on the horses once a week when he exercised them. How much bread he could smuggle home in specially stitched pockets in his coat. How big he could grow fruits and vegetables in their garden (gooseberries the size of large marbles, strawberries the size of a man’s fist.) He was a chess master and always carried a portable game with him. He would easily beat her husband the few times they played.

Her parents sang opera together in the parlor.

We didn’t talk much about her mother, but when I was a kid she took me with her to leave flowers on her grave.

                                (Gertrud with her new Daughters)

***

One of her favorite stories to tell was about her own birth: How her parents had picked a name out for their first child, her twin sister Herte, but were unprepared when they found out there was another baby still to come, which sent her father sprinting across town to find the doctor.  They were at a loss as to what to call this surprise child.

Their Grandmother, Dorothea, had a suggestion.

      (Twins, with their Aunt and Uncle and Grandparents, including Dorothea.)

When they were growing up, Oma baby sat neighborhood children. Many of whom were still writing her. One of them sent his own son, Alex, to live with her for a summer.

She liked to swim in a local pond in the springs.

During the war, She would listen to the BBC on a radio they hid in the house somewhere. She loved when they played her favorite, the Glenn Miller band.

Oma spent most of her life living like someone on borrowed time.  She and her sisters had health problems their whole lives. Oma was born with a bad heart valve, she had tonsilitis at a time when that wasn’t a simple procedure, and when she was a teenager she almost died of diptheria. She was told that she couldn’t have children or she would die. At age 32 she had her fifth and final child, my mother.

***

Oma had the kind of life that, to figure out what year a certain story took place in depended on whether or not her train was strafed by fighter planes.

When they were fourteen, Oma and her sister were sent to work as maids, in a town nearly 400 miles away.  Oma was given to a family of four, the father was school teacher. Herte was given to a farm, she had a learn how to milk cows. Oma thought she had the better deal, until her family accused her of stealing a watch and the school teacher father arrived in his full nazi officer uniform to interrogate her. They eventually found the watch in one of his other suits.

That March, Oma was bedridden with tonsillitis. The mother of the family would crack the door open once a day to check if she was still alive and slide a sandwich in for her only meal. Once Herte found this out, she came and told the family she was taking her sister home. They agreed, but stipulated that if they didn’t return soon they’d send the police after them.  It was on the train ride home they had to evacuate several time into ditches alongside the tracks because the train was being strafed by fighter planes.

When they returned home, Oma described this great image, of her with a crazy high fever, and her sister walking down the streets of Helmstedt on an unseasonably warm day, both of them wearing fur coats, and happening to bump into their parents on mainstreet.

Their parents would not allow them to go back.

                            (Oma with her sisters, Lisa and Herte)

***

During the war, Oma got so many love letters from local boys who were away fighting that she made Herte answer some of them for her.

They called her the ‘Shirley Temple of Helmstedt.

My grandfather was one of 30 Americans stationed in Helmstedt. The first time he saw her walking in town, he told one of his friends he was going to marry her.

The first time Gerturd really believed he was serious about marrying her daughter was when he showed up outside their house with a diamond ring and called into the open window: ‘Mama, do you think I mean business now?’  It was the first time they had ever seen the diamond, and Oma said it caught the light and flashed at them in an impossibly cliched movie moment. They became the talk of the town. ‘Oh look, she has a diamond.’

After the second world war, her father was sent away to a temporary camp for political prisoners. There he could only correspond with his family on postcards, in 25 words or less.

It was in 25 words or less that Oma explained she had met a GI and he had proposed and whether she should marry him.

He wrote back that she should.

She made her own wedding dress from a parachute my grandfather somehow got a hold of.

My grandparents had to marry three times. Once for the government, once for the Army, and once in a church. The church wedding was last, and it was moments before that wedding that her father returned home.

She never saw him again.

She also received a necklace and a poem from her namesake grandmother. The last line of the poem was ‘We will never meet again.”

***

                                             (Meeting the in-laws.)

Her first impression of the United States was shock that cars came in colors other than black.

Their first license plate number was ‘86’

She couldn’t believe that her father-in-law’s house didn’t have a bathroom, but an outhouse, and to battle the heat they had an electric fan blowing over a block of ice.

She told me that her father-in-law couldn’t believe how pretty she was, and how lucky my grandfather was. 

She thought my grandfather’s brother, Douglas, was a brat.

                       (Oma in St. Louis in a dress she made herself.)

***

My grandfather was in the Military for 22 years. Together they lived in Monmouth, Alaska, Missouri, New Mexico, Almost Maine and finally back to New Jersey.

She hated Missouri, she refused to live there alone while my Grandfather was deployed in Korea.

She wouldn’t even get out of the car in Maine, where my Grandfather had bought a 100 acre farm, sight unseen. He sold it shortly thereafter.

***

In 1975 they bought five acres in Howell.  This is where I grew up. Where I spent every day of my life from birth until I turned five, and as often as I could after that.

Oma told me that if she had wanted my first language to be German, it would be German.

My Grandfather often referred to their swimming pool as ‘The best twenty thousand dollars I ever spent.’

That place was eden to me. When I was growing up, at my own house if my dad asked me to mow the lawn I’d rather set myself on fire. At Oma’s it was a privilege. I was never happier than when I was raking leaves there, or cutting wood, or mowing the back acres.

She made the best pancakes and bacon. And cheesecake. She would always make me a cheesecake at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  She made the most incredible soup. When I told her she had to teach me how she would shrug and say ‘Eh, I just threw it together.’

When I was growing up, every Wednesday she’d come to our house to clean and do laundry. Because I guess she needed more work to do?

Wednesdays are still inexplicably my favorite day of the week.

Every holiday memory I have growing up is with Oma at Oma’s, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Memorial Day, 4th of July. It was always at Oma’s.

She was never unhappy to see you. Even when you brought all the toys out of the basement and left them scattered across the house. Even after I almost blew everyone up on the 4th of July, 2007.

I loved sleeping over there. I loved staying there so much, I would even though she made me go to church on Sundays, which I did not love.

Her favorite TV show was ‘Keeping Up Appearances,’ But she always made time to watch Antique Roadshow.

When I see pictures of her now, there’s something off about her. To me, they’re missing some part of her, something you can’t capture on film. Some kind of spark that was there always. Her drive I guess. She was always busy, always doing things. After she turned 70 she went to hike in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and Glacier National Park in Alaska, spelunking in crazy caves, whitewater rafting.

The only time I met her sister Lisa was after they had spent the day riding roller coasters at Great Adventure. I was jealous she didn’t take me too. This last Christmas, she complained that she never thought she would be in bed doing nothing all day. She was 87.

She died on her father's 121st birthday.

The first time it hit me was when I was going through my notebooks where I had written down as many of the stories she told me as I could. I frequently noted ‘Find out more,’ or ‘Ask about this.’

Now I can’t.

***

I found a letter my Mom wrote to her during her Sophomore year of college, which Oma had saved, and I’m putting it here without her permission because it’s too perfect not to.

“ Dear Mom,

I just wanted to write to you and thank you for all the things you’ve one for me. You really are a real mom. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything for your birthday. I like giving you things, but there is always Christmas. I hope you don’t mind!

I’m eating the bread - It just came out of the oven & it’s perfect. (How else could it be with you mixing and me baking.)

Thank you Mom. For everything.

I love you,

Nancy. “

Ich liebe dich, Oma.

I’ll miss you. Tell Poppop I said Hi.