Social Distancing

My neighbor’s son, David, is the quarterback of our local football team, a very personable and good-looking young man. 

“Football is a rough and tough sport, isn’t it?” I commented one day, full of sympathy. This was many years ago, when “Social Distancing” hadn’t been invented yet.

He looked at me puzzled and pondered my words. Then he laughed and exclaimed, “Sure, it’s rough and tough. That makes it a great sport! In football you’ve got to be rough and tough.”

Now it was my turn to ponder his words.

David had pinpointed the very essence of Human Nature. Men as well as  women crave contact with other people; we covet close connection with our friends; we cherish a friendly hug. 

Is it surprising then that social distancing is so challenging for us? Had we succeeded in social distancing in the early spring, a pandemic would not have happened. As it is, the numbers of new cases are climbing daily. It shows how burdensome it is for us to overcome our innermost nature and desire to be close to one another, and yet not to be told. 

Keep well,

Until next time,

Rosi 

 

A Witch

“My grandmother was a Witch,” Fannie explained while we were walking on the beach. 

“A witch?” I repeated in obvious shock.

“A good witch, of course,” she clarified when she saw my startled face.

“A good witch?” I asked. This was even more surprising. I knew witches from Grimm’s Fairy Tales — wicked witches all of them, not a good one among them. “Tell me more,” I was all ears. “A good witch? I never heard of good witches.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “a good witch. She could heal people and brew medicines for them. That’s why they called her a Witch. She also had great intuition. One day a young farmer came to her with a bloody, swollen cheek.  “One of the cows kicked me when I was milking her,” he told her.  

“Not a cow,” she replied. “It was a girl, … a girl in a green dress, wasn’t it? She threw something at you.”  

“How did you know?” the young man replied nervously. “You weren’t there.”

“Bring me the item she threw, and I’ll make you a good medicine,” she said. Then she cleaned the wound, and reminded him to come back with the item the girl had hurled at him. 

The young man came back an hour later and handed her a girl’s shoe.

“I thought so,” she said, and smiled. “Let me make you an ointment, and then go and return the shoe to the young girl. But remember, if you don’t return that shoe to the girl, the ointment will not cure you.”

Several months went by when Fannie’s grandma, the Witch, received an invitation from those two young people. They were getting married.

    

        Keep well,

        Until next time,

        Rosi

 

Mimi Stuart, American Artist of the 20th & 21st Century

         Most artists discover their talent and their desire to paint when they are in their teens or twenties, some even much later in life, or when they aren’t under pressure anymore to make a living. Mimi discovered hers when she was a year old. She was to nap in my cabin—we happened to be on a sail boat at the time—when she found my lipstick and set about painting her face, then her t-shirt, and her legs. Then she fell asleep with the happiest of smiles.

Throughout her school years her paintings won many prices. But not so at Berkeley University. Her art teacher at Berkeley wanted to see big blobs of grey and black; he deeply frowned upon her bright and cheerful colors. 

Mimi’s father objected to her painting ‘on principle.’ In his eyes, painting was a waste of time. Being an only child—his father had died when he was four years old—he was not even allowed to play with other children; he had to read books. When Mimi was hired during her summer vacation to lead a class in painting, he was furious and did not allow her to accept it. He wanted her to have a ‘proper’ job. He made her get work in a library.

I often wonder where Mimi got her talent. Not from me. My talent for painting is less than non-existing. We had a wonderful art teacher, though, a gracious and lovely nun. She appreciated art and felt its impact with all her heart and soul. I’m still puzzled that she gave me an A-.  I suspect that she loved my dancing—I did many solo dance performances/fundraisers for the Convent school I went to. Dear Sister Euphemia, she must have said many Pater Nostrums to atone for giving me an A-. And I can’t help thinking that it was her who saw to it that my daughter Mimi would be endowed with a great talent for art.

Mimi enrolled in Art School, but never went there—her father found out and made her go to Berkeley and enroll in Economics. After graduating, her father made sure she worked in a library. But luckily dear Charlie came along and married her. They found an old house that was affordable but totally dilapidated and needed every moment of Mimi’s time to restore it. But at night, Mimi sneaked into her study and painted. I was a great admirer of her art work and created a website for it. A few months later we discovered that a person in Texas was selling her paintings for good money. He had discovered her website, made photo copies of her paintings, put his name on them, and sold them. He certainly was “creative,” well, dishonestly creative.

One day, a gallery owner in Maui discovered the quality of Mimi’s paintings and offered to exhibit them in his gallery in Maui right by the ocean’s edge; and this is where they have been hanging and selling now for many years. 

Mimi still travels the world showing her paintings, which by now are in many galleries. She has lost track of the number of paintings she has painted or sold. She’s too busy painting and completing commissions. In the meantime, Charlie, her dear husband, has turned into a marvelous cook. “You know,” he told me the other day, “Mimi is so happy when she’s painting! She wouldn’t eat if I didn’t cook.”

Until next time,

Rosi

Visit from Russia

        At last the telephone rang. Natascha had safely arrived at the San Francisco Airport. I had prepared a sandwich and a bag of fruit for her since she had been traveling for two days and two nights and was bound to be hungry. 

And there she was, sitting on the designated bench outside the Airport. Very pleased I hopped out of the car and embraced her. “Welcome to America, Natascha.”

In spite of her tiredness, her shock at my demonstrative greeting was obvious. She looked at me sternly and embarrassed, and mumbled something. Probably just as well that I didn’t understand it. But then her face relaxed and she looked not unfriendly. 

We stowed her smallish suitcase on the back seat. It was tempting to put her next to it, but I resisted the temptation.

I handed her the bag of food I had brought. “Eat and enjoy. You must be hungry,” I said, “and then close your eyes and sleep if you like. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”  I had to grin about my long speech, knowing full well that she didn’t understand a word. On the other hand, much of the meaning of what we say comes from the tone of our voice. It conveys our feelings and emotions, much more so than words can do.

It’s strange and challenging to have a guest with whom you cannot communicate. I turned on the classical music station to soothe the embarrassing silence. 

She did not open the bag of food I had brought; so I opened it for her and took a good look at her features while encouraging her to eat. She was much shorter than I, about 5’1” and slightly hunched forward. Her expression was stern, tired and emotionless. She looked a bit intimidating which was probably the way I looked to her. She wore no make-up and her skin was remarkably unblemished, though quite wrinkled.

She still was not eating and I urged her again to do so. At last she took a bite and her face brightened. 

It was time to drive home.

My office is Natascha’s room now. It’s the only warm room in the condo and the only one that has a door. All the others, kitchen, library and living room, and my upstairs bedroom have high ceilings and are open and difficult to heat. I usually spend the day in my office, happily working at my desk. 

The week of Natascha’s visit passed quickly and pleasantly. We walked the beach, went sightseeing and cooked. I taught her a few English words. She enjoyed learning, but it remained a big handicap not to be able to communicate! There was so much I wanted to know, and I’m sure she did too.  We used Laura to translate for us, but Laura was a busy lady and most of Natascha’s questions as well as mine remained unanswered.

When the time for her departure arrived, another obstacle raised its head. Natascha could not get a boarding pass. She had no valid visa; no way she could go back to Russia, they said. Besides, she had entered the country as a refugee.

What now?

We went to the Russian Consulate and sat there all day. And then to the German Consulate. Both visits in vain. 

One last avenue, the Office of Immigration. They looked at me in disbelief. Apparently, no one had ever petitioned NOT to be admitted to the USA. And that was what I requested; it seemed to be the only way to get Natascha home. As much as Natascha liked it here, she did have a granddaughter in Russia whom she fervently hoped to meet one day. We went from office to office, explaining her sad story over and over again—she was homesick and didn’t speak English … 

To my surprise, Natascha was eager to go home. She missed her comrades, and the little place she called her home. But most of all she missed hearing her language, the familiar sound of Russian.

On our third visit to the Office of Immigration I ask for someone who spoke Russian; and that did the trick. The lady was most kind and helpful. She spoke with Natascha and wrote the perfect letter for her, explaining that Natascha could not immigrate to the USA—she had to go back. And so, after a month in this country, Natascha was able to return home to Russia. I was delighted she had come. And so was she. 

       Would we ever meet again?

Letter From Russia

I held a letter from a Russian cousin in my hand! From the daughter of my father’s sister. At the end of World War II father’s young and beautiful sister, Rena, a nurse at the local hospital, had been loaded unto a truck and taken to Russia. We never heard from her again. I poured myself a cup of tea to restore my equanimity.  Then I sat down to read her letter:

Dear Roswitha,

Your father and my mother were brother and sister. For many years I have dreamt of tracking down your name and address one day, and finally I have succeeded. I was born and grew up in Russia and recently, after turning 75, I was aloud to retire and allowed to travel to Germany. 

Rena, my mother, grew up in Germany.  World War II had just ended and Russian troops occupied  our town. She was working in the local hospital when Russian soldiers came and loaded all doctors and nurses onto trucks and carted them off to Russia. They were taken to labor camps where they had to work. I was born in the first camp. 

While Mother worked in the fields, she tied me around her front to protect me from the whip of the foremen because she often collapsed from hunger and fatigue. She and others spent nights in a cave to be protected from rain and cold. It’s only thanks to her love and caring that she and I survived. She never let me out of her sight, because hunger was so acute that the other prisoners would have gladly eaten me if given a chance.

She taught me to read and write. But very little, because it was not easy. We had no books, no paper, no pens. Nor did we have time; as soon as I could walk I had to work at whatever I could do. A friend wrote this letter for me, because for many years I have been speaking only Russian—ever since mother died, long ago. 

During the winter they truck us to factories to work there. Sometimes little, sometimes much. We never know. Life is unpredictable. Mother had more children, I did too. But they were taken away. I think one of my granddaughters may still be alive. They do not want us to have children or friends. We are always separated and put in different camps. We rarely know where we are. Russia is very large. They did not school us, only when necessary for work we are doing. 

I have a train ticket to return to Russia in two weeks. I do not know if I can stay longer in Germany. Can I see you? 

I would very much like that.

 
          Natascha.

A hundred questions flooded my mind. Should I send her a plane ticket to come to America? Would she get a visa? Once here would she ever be able to go back? Or would she be stranded here? Should I travel to Germany and see her? Would we be able to communicate? I didn’t speak a word of Russian and she not a word of English. If I sent her money would she get it? Every letter to or from East Germany used to be opened and read by the Communists. It took many months to get mail from East to West Germany. Had it changed after Germany’s reunification? Worse, Natascha was a Russian citizen who had worked in labor camps all her life. I wondered how much freedom or privacy she was allotted. 

Truth can be stranger than fiction.  I decided to sleep on it. 

Until next time,

Rosi

Why Not?

         Wayne, my grandson, is graduating from grad school today. 

          I still remember his graduation from his first school, many years ago. His family lived in Sun Valley and I was visiting them. Just before breakfast, Wayne, eight years old then,  knocked on my door and ask me to knot his tie. He was wearing his dark blue Sunday suit and a T-shirt, with a yellow tie wrapped around his bare neck.

“Do you have a shirt,” was my logical question.

“I do, it’s at the cleaners, but this T-shirt is fine.”

“Do you need to … do you want to wear a tie?”

“Yes,” he said, “you need to wear a tie when you give the graduation speech.”

“You’re giving the graduation speech?” I asked surprised; he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. “May I read it?”

“No need; you’ll hear it soon enough,” he smiled.

         Frantically, we all searched for something shirt-like for Wayne to wear, but we couldn’t find a thing.

“Actually, I like your T-shirt, Wayne,” I mused. “It has character. Let your Dad do the tie. He’s better at it than I.”

So eight-year old Wayne gave his speech wearing a dark-blue suit,  a white T-shirt and a yellow tie nicely knotted around his bare neck. He carried it off majestically. And I’m still smiling whenever I look at that photo of long ago.

After thanking all his teachers, he also thanked his friend John for bringing him lunch. 

        My daughter was sitting next to me and audibly inhaled, “I always fix him lunch,” she whispered deeply embarrassed. In a small town where everyone knows everyone, word would spread quickly that Alison didn’t fix lunch for her son.

“Wayne,” she said when she saw him, “I always fix your lunch!”

“Yes, Mom, I know, but I eat your lunch during my first break at ten. I’m hungry again by 12 and am really happy that John brings a big lunch for me.”

Audibles: Condo Living & Staying Young

I’m thrilled to announce that two of my books, “The ABCs of Staying Young,” and "Condo Living" are available now on audible.com. They are read by Blair Seibert, a professional narrator with a most delightful voice. "The ABCs of Staying Young" is brief and to the point, and cannot fail to keep you feeling vibrant with the energy of youth. "Condo Living" clarifies the differences between living in a house or a condo. Both books abound with humorous anecdotes. Enjoy.