I had never seen my grandmother Annette cry. “She’s just a little sad,” my grandfather explained. The three of us had just finished dinner and we were sitting at their big dark wooden table where weekly my grandfather would write poems for me on any topic I came up with. It was 1957, I was seven years old, and in a few days I would be leaving my birthplace of Uruguay for The United States. My grandparents had immigrated there from Prague and while they each spoke many languages, my grandmother had never mastered Spanish, my only language at the time. She was a warm, large woman with silver hair, bright blue eyes, and an almost shy smile, who always seemed to look at me with absolute delight. But my grandfather often had to translate for her.
“In a few days you and your mother and your father will be going on a fine adventure to a whole new life in America,” he said. Ever since my mother married Fred Kuhner when I was four, my grandfather referred to him as my father, even though his own son, the scoundrel who deserted his wife and tried to harm his infant daughter (me), and repeated stole from his parents , was my biological father. “Fred Kuhner is a wonderful man and he will always take care of you and protect you in your brand new world. I used to dream of living there when I was younger,” he said with a small sigh and then continued, “I even tried for Annette and me to go after we were married, but we could not get papers.” Then he continued, “But now you, you will get to do this.” “Is abuela sad because we will be so far away?” I asked. He translated for her. She had been clutching a delicately embroidered white hankie which she then used to dab her eyes. She smiled softly and said something, slowly got up, and left the room. My grandfather translated, “Yes, Sylvia, she is sad because she loves you very much and she will miss seeing you.” My seven-year-old mind could not possibly comprehend the vast distances between where my grandparents were and where my future would be. “This is very important for you to remember,” he said, suddenly more somber and serious, “life is a mighty adventure and you never know what will happen. And even the briefest encounter with someone connects you to them somehow. We are all connected in this giant world. We are never, truly alone. So remember to be kind, always.” I understood. Even after the Nazi invasion of his homeland and the ransacking of their house and the killing of many family members and their sudden escape to South America and their scoundrel son’s painful activities, he never allowed me to use the word “odio”—hate. “Hate only kills parts of you, not the other,” he would tell me. “Your father has a father in The United States. Did you know that? He comes from Germany. We never met him, but we have written a few letters. I think you will like him very much. And you know what? We have the same name, Max.” My father had told me stories of his own dad and that of his mother, Wilma who had died just a few years ago. My grandfather continued, “I’m sure he has interesting stories to tell you about his old country. He’s a good man.” Months later I met my new grandfather, Max Kuhner, at his home in the woods just outside Worcester, Massachussetts. I liked him right away. Although he seemed a rather aloof and exacting man—a very prominent engineer by profession—whenever we would visit, he seemed to delight in telling me stories about his life. I was a child full of questions and he was happy to answer. There were walking sticks throughout his house and I asked about them one day. “Ah, I like to hike in the mountains. So beautiful. You know, your grandmother Wilma and I took our honeymoon in a beautiful place, not far from where we lived in Germany. The place was called Neroberg and it was magical.” I had never heard him use that word before. “How was it magical?’ I asked. He replied, “I’m not sure. But when we wandered through the hills and then ate and slept in the town, we both felt almost like there was a special something surrounding us.” Now he shook his head. “The people we met were especially kind. It seemed that everyone smiled. Like we were all connected.” He sighed. “That was the first week of June in 1922. About a year later we were lucky to get papers to come to America. So many tried but could not.” I nodded remembering my Meindl grandparents. But the past had even more surprises. Here I am years later, writing this in a lilac-filled early spring. Life’s twists and turns have led me to many adventures. I took with me the stories from all of my grandparents and have woven them into my own life-blanket which I wrap myself in for comfort and warmth and security. After we left Uruguay, I never saw the Meindls again—they died just a few years later. My grandfather Kuhner died in 1982, at his home in the woods looking out at what he always called the “most beautiful painting of all—the daily changing panorama of nature.” And yesterday, in finally clearing long-forgotten parts of my attic I came across a box from a relative of the Meindls who had sent it to me years ago. In it I saw a familiar photograph of the Meindls, Annette and Max, as a young couple. But this, I had never noticed (How could I haved missed it?) had been turned into a postcard—a common thing for tourists at the time—with my grandfather’s distinctive writing on the back. It was in German and I was desperate to know what it said. A translation group online quickly and generously helped me. It was a simple message of connection, “hope your children are well,” and “It’s hot here. We’ll be home soon.” But suddenly I saw it. Look where it was sent from—Neroberg, Germany. And when? June 5, 1922. They were on their honeymoon. In the same place, at the same time as my Kuhner grandparents. Right before I boarded the plane to America in 1957, my grandmother Annette gave me a doll she had as a child. My grandfather translated for her as she hugged me close, “I want you to have this because, dear child, we are always connected to the past in ways we can’t even begin to understand. And we must pass along not just the stories, but the love and the magic. Life is magic.” In the 8th grade my favorite subject was home economics. It was divided up into several units throughout the year—the last one, sewing, was taught by Mrs. Helen Rothman. I had heard rumors about her divorced status—but it was 1963 and divorce was only spoken of in whispers—if at all. She was a tall woman with sad eyes and a brilliant smile who always seemed delighted to welcome our small class of girls—boys took shop during those days—into her room. I was a bit of a challenge, but the considerable lack of talent and ability I had in sewing I made up for in enthusiasm. I loved everything about the large sunny room with its expansive tables and rows upon rows of bright-colored threads and notions. In May of that year our class was deemed capable of sewing our own graduation dresses. They had to be white, but other than that we had lots of choices. I was flustered and unsure I was up to the task. What if I chose the wrong pattern? What if I failed and it came out looking wretched? What if this was too difficult and I simply could not graduate? I articulated all of this to Mrs. Rothman one bright May afternoon after school when I wandered into the home ec. classroom and found her hunched over her embroidery work. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she began., “What you have to do is find a pattern that you like, figure out what things you’ll need to make it work, then go about piecing and cutting and sewing, until it starts to come together. First you follow the pattern. But if you don’t want to do it exactly the way it was designed—you can always change it. You just need to practice the skills to do that. Eventually (she looked wistfully out of the large paned window) you realize that you can make your own pattern. It may not be to others’ liking, but it will be your own.” Seeing that I wasn’t happy with my Simplicity Pattern #2427 she showed me how to alter it. Then she sent me to the massive closet to pick out colors and fabrics to add my own extra “pop” to the dress. For several weeks I spent every afternoon with her in that bright room, just sewing and learning. One day she told me about her Experience Box: “Sometimes I try a new fabric or pattern and really work at it a long time, but it just isn’t right and nothing can save it. I put those things in my Experience Box and keep it up in my attic. I’ll look through the box every now and then and remember how very awful some of it was, but how it helped me learn about my next project.“ I was startled to see that she looked terribly sad—like she was about to cry and then I saw her look down at her ring-less hands. She looked at me, “You learn from mistakes but you keep trying new patterns and making new patterns and eventually you’ll create something with your own hands that is totally you. And that’s powerful.” In June I was in a special school show at graduation and proudly wore my own creation with a baby-blue cummerbund and special tiny flowers embroidered in the hem. It looked similar to the others, but it wasn’t. It was mine.
Throughout my life Mrs. Rothman’s words resonated with me. Although still not a skillful seamstress, when our daughter came along I decided to make her christening gown myself. It took me long hours and I did this without the help of a machine. Using the skills I had learned, I sewed tucks and smocking and tiny buttons throughout the gown, but not following any pattern—just creating as I went along. It looked a little like some gowns I had seen—but not really. I wanted my daughter to begin with something entirely unique, then, as she grew, to follow her own designs—as she has. And so I’ve continued throughout my life creating patterns, following patterns, and adding to my own “Box of Experience” which I rummage through periodically. All of it—all of it—has had the power of bringing me here, right now, to this wonder-filled moment—embellished however we choose—with you. |
Archives
May 2022
Categories
All
|