For My Grandfather on Memorial Day

The men on my father's side of the family all seem to have had a child in their mid-forties. My father was 45 when my younger sister was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, and so on. So, imagine the chagrin of my little sister when she was in school and tried to explain, on Veteran's Day, that our grandfather had been a veteran of World War I. That's right, WWI, not WWII. Grandchildren of Vietnam Nam veterans stared at her in disbelief. But, they should have stared at her with respect for our grandfather.

Our grandfather was William Henry Siemering, the son of first generation German immigrants to America. During the long, bitter Minnesota winters, they were grievously homesick for Germany. They never fully grasped the English language, American culture, their new world. My grandfather grew up hearing marvelous stories about Hanover and its surrounding villages. He'd picture it all in his mind, and would daydream of the time when he would sail down the Rhine and walk through the breathtaking forests.

The reality was quite different from the dream. He first stepped on German soil as an enemy soldier, a teenage American who had enlisted early to fight for his country. As with many war heroes, he rarely spoke of what happened during battle. But, he was awarded the Purple Heart for being wounded while , running through enemy fire, he dragged a shot fellow soldier to safety. When the War was over and he returned, there was a different battle to be fought. Though few people realize this today, after WWI, there was tremendous anti-veteran sentiment to greet the returning soldiers. Signs in windows announced that they would not hire veterans.

Through the 1920's, my grandfather had an odd assortment of jobs. It was while he was an actor in the Chautauqua cicuit, often performing Shakespeare, that he met my grandmother. When the Depression hit, he took any work he could find, even selling dishes door to door. But, then he found his calling. The Veteran's Administration. He would say he never wanted another soldier to be treated the way he had been treated on his return home. And he worked for the rest of his life towards that goal. It was, of course, not just his work, but was his vocation.

There're several photos I love of my grandfather...his smile in his formal stage attire when photographed in the middle of a midwestern field in the 1920's; his haunted expression in the WWI military hospital, his dented metal helmet in his hand. But it's the one here that always makes me pause and remember him. And to remember him with one word: patriot.

Salem Witchcraft Trial Genealogy Fail

I know when I usually write about family history, it's about my somewhat recently discovered mother's side of the family. It's all so notoriously fun. That's not to say my paternal line has fewer stories. For the most part, my father's heritage is from northern Germany (or "Denmark" as I tell my cousins, the Berkowitzes). Though he also has a branch that stretches to colonial New England before its origin in 16th century England.

Among my father's more illustrious ancestors was Samuel Shattuck, most noted for appearing before King Charles II to petition for greater freedom and protection for himself and fellow Quakers in the Puritan colony of Massachusetts. Yet, this brave Quaker leader had a namesake grandson who was one of the accusers during the infamous Salem Witchcraft Trials.

When I first found this out last year, I felt as angry as my son did when I made him watch Lamorisse's The Red Balloon when he was about five. I'd forgotten that following the charming antics of the balloon, things didn't turn out so well for it. In the same way, I was beaming with pride about my courageous Quaker ancestor, only to find a nearer relative was partially responsible for the unjust executions of both Bridget Bishop and Mary Parker.

Samuel Shattuck's accusations towards Bridget Bishop, in particular, were a bit bizarre. Nothing about black cat consorts or cauldrons or flying broomsticks. His accusation was that the pieces of lace she bought from him were "too smalle" for a woman to wear. So, naturally, the only reasonable explanation was that they must have been used to clothe some kind of voodoo dolls. His accusation against Mary Parker was creepier. He claimed she had somehow bewitched his son, causing his "Phis vitalls would had broak out his breast boane drawn up to gather to the uper part of his brest his neck & Eys drawne Soe much aside as if they would never Come to right again." Seriously? I mean, what was going on?

By now, the trials have been examined and studied for centuries. We have common knowledge that a certain level of contagious hysteria was involved. Of course, no one wants to have a Salem Witchcraft Trial accuser in their family tree. It's maybe just a few degrees less awful than if you had a murderer lurking on a genealogical branch. But, I have to wonder if Samuel Shattuck ever had second thoughts or doubts. Long after the executions, did he ever sit quietly on a dark, cold Massachusetts night and ask, "What have I done?" Did he ever try to make amends? I can only hope.

LOST and Why I Loved It

Six years and a hundred and twenty episodes. That's a very long time to tell one, compelling story. Sure, there were some parts that dragged and others that seemed pointless. But what kept so many of us tuning in was that the show was smart. It was unpredictable. It was about Bigger Things than network television is usually comfortable with. And, contrary to the opinion of some, it ended with a conclusion that was not only satisfying, but clearly not made up as the show went along. It had always been there.

As soon as the finale ended (and, I admit, I had to wipe away tears), I thought, "That's going to get completely polarized reactions." And it seems that's the case. Lost was a consistent mix of myth, spirituality, sci-fi, and romance. Its viewers may have been divided decidedly into those four camps. And my guess is that the group most disappointed in the finale were those in the sci-fi section. An early episode was titled, "Man of Science, Man of Faith". And the conclusion was anything but scientific.

*SPOILERS*

Having always followed interviews with two of the shows co-creators, Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, I knew they felt the the show was ultimately dealing with a weighty topic. I knew it wasn't going to end with a lazy, "It was all a dream!" cop out. When people started asking them if The Island was purgatory, they carefully answered, "No, The Island is not purgatory."

And, as it turns out, it wasn't. The Island was "real life", where flawed characters worked towards their redemption, their personal healing. The flash-sideways of contemporary California turns out to have been a type of purgatory, where the characters continued to work towards healing until they were ready to "move on" with the people who had mattered the most in their lives. None of them seemed to realize that's where they were until they would have a literally touching encounter with someone significant from their life. Then, what was hidden became known.

I'm sure there are some people who will balk at the flatly spiritual ending, even though there were pains taken to make sure no one would feel it was an endorsement of any one religion. In fact, the shots of an alter as well as stained glass window showing symbols of every major world religion felt a bit obvious. Okay, we get that you're referring to a belief commonly held by most faiths, you don't have to keep assuring us that you're not singling one out for special honor.

There's another thing surprising to me about the finale. We tend to think of television that deals with spirituality and religion as syrupy, easily digested shows like the old Touched by an Angel or Highway to Heaven. That audience is not the Lost audience. And what Lost has shown is that those topics can be addressed intelligently, creatively, and movingly. And that's an important distinction.

Are all the questions answered? No. But, I keep thinking back on events in past episodes over the whole series and continue to have enlightening, "Aha!" moments. I'm sure more will come. Because if Lost gave us anything, it was always something intriguing to think about.

How You Made Them Feel

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." - Maya Angelou

Even among those who claim they have a poor memory, I believe these words still hold true. We all recall what it felt like to be unexpectedly helped or unaccountably hurt; to be embraced by love or injured by hate. When people from the past reappear in our lives, we remember immediately if they played the role of angel or demon.

In fact, once you start thinking about how people made you feel, it becomes difficult to stop the flood of emotional memory. And it tends to be so arbitrary. I'm immediately transported to my desk on my first day of First Grade when my teacher stared at my name, that I'd just printed on lined paper. Painfully shy, I looked hopefully up at her. She quickly snatched up the paper, held it up in front of the class, and tore it in pieces, shouting, "This is the worst penmanship I have ever seen in my life!" Demon.

Then, a folded piece of paper was suddenly on my lap. I opened it with shaking hands. "Don't cry. We're best friends forever." I glanced at my friend, Holly, who nodded her head at me and gave me an encouraging smile. Angel.

I think, too, of how I have made others feel in my life. I wince at the memory of my decisions to not answer the phone or to say something I knew would be hurtful. I try to console myself with recollections of the better choices I've made. As a wife and mother, I hope I've made my husband and son feel loved and supported. I want my husband to remember the hundred daffodils, his favorite flower, I surprised him with on his thirty-fifth birthday. I want my son to remember me cheering him on as he took his first steps and read his first words. I'm hoping the memories of me absorbed in my iPhone or having the occasional rant won't take precedent.

This all came home to me several years ago. I wasn't able to attend a high school reunion, but a friend of mine did. As she reported back, she mentioned the name of a shy girl who had been in our class, and told me that this woman had recently received the direst of cancer prognoses. "Oh, and she said she'd hoped you would have been there." "Me?" I asked, "Why, I wonder?" "She said that you were the one she remembered taking the time to befriend her when no one else noticed her."

And I literally felt a lump in my throat. Yes, I remembered occasionally trying to pull her out of her isolation, sharing a joke now and then, or commenting on a pretty color of her sweater. The lump in my throat wasn't from pride, it was from the realization that something small on my part had mattered to her. The tightness in my neck was from the guilt that I could easily have done so much more.

It's so achingly simple after all. Words and actions have consequences that have lasting echoes. People will remember how you made them feel.

If I Had 3 Minutes With My Mother

My mother died, suddenly, unexpectedly, in a car accident when I was twenty-three. And although that was many years ago, I still feel a little subdued on Mother's Day, her birthday, and the anniversary of her death. We had been very close.

Sometimes, what annoys me is that we had just gotten to the other side of my semi-rebellious teen/early adult years. She was barely beginning to see the person I would become, and she had started voicing her hopes for my "grown-up" life.

I don't believe in psychics, seers, or the visions of anyone wearing gold hoop earrings and a scarf on their head. But, when dead characters on LOST just suddenly pop up and disappear after a page or two of dialogue, it gets me thinking. If I had, say, three minutes of time with my mother now, what would I tell her? I mean, after I'd ask for a brief summary of the afterlife. I think it would be something like this:

*I followed your advice. I dated until I found the one I could love AND trust and married him. You'd like him. You'd approve.

*I'm a mother! We have a son and I'm pretty sure you would have spoiled him.

*Remember how you wondered who your birth mother was? Found her. Well, found your family...she had died the year before you did.

*So, I've visited one of your sweet sisters and spoken with the other one. You also have two living brothers. And wonderful cousins. Who knew?

*You know how you were a concert pianist, living and performing in Chicago? One of your sisters was a jazz singer and may have been singing several blocks away at Mr. Kelly's, the same nights you shared a stage with Arthur Rubinstein. The two of you were in very different circles, but both musical.

*The identity of your father? Still working on that one. I'll let you know.

*Yes, yes, I'm being more disciplined about my writing. Promise.

*You know what? I still miss you. And love you. Always.

Skywalker Ranch

Among the many things that are interesting about Skywalker Ranch are the polarized reactions from people when you say its name. The words are met either with a mildly polite, curious stare or else by eyes suddenly wide open at the mention of a magical, perhaps mythical place of their dreams. And now that I've had more than enough time to fully absorb the experience of spending a day there, it seemed May 4th , unofficially Star Wars Day (May the 4th be with you!) is a good day to write about it.

We had a trip to San Francisco planned when an artist who works on the Clone Wars series invited me to come with my family to visit Skywalker Ranch. Of course, I was thrilled at the idea and I couldn't wait to see what my son's reaction was going to be. I walked into the living room and smiled at my husband.

"Thomas is going to be so excited!"

"Why? What's up?"

"We've been invited to go to Skywalker Ranch for the day."

My husband initially just stared at me, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. I hadn't realized until that moment how much Star Wars can mean to adult men of a certain age.

"Wait, we get to go to Skywalker Ranch?"

"Yes."

"Are you kidding me? Because that's not even funny if you're joking."

"No, it's true. We just need to set up the day."

"What? Go do it! Now!"

Let's just say it was a very highly-anticipated adventure from that moment on.

I love that Skywalker Ranch is off the grid, that it's far enough away from everything else that, in every direction, all you see is gorgeous countryside. From the outside, the main house looks like a traditional, albeit huge, early 20th century residence. But, inside, it's full of incredible art and artifacts that are so plentiful that after a while, you feel like you're in the treasure trove room in National Treasure. It has a library that, frankly, is where I'd like to live. Other buildings are a kind of fusion between the Arts and Crafts Movement and Asian elements, breaking the barriers between building and nature.

Walking around the property, up and down pebbled trails, past ponds, vineyards, and glowingly green hills, your imagination can run wild. I suspect that's entirely intentional. The artists at Skywalker Ranch work long hours and are never without deadlines. To step away from their computers and walk out into a vibrant, varied landscape has to have an incomparable effect. In quiet peace, fantastical ideas can emerge. At Skywalker Ranch, extraordinary creativity is unleashed.

I never, ever would have been at Skywalker Ranch if it hadn't been for the generous offer by my friend, Jahkeeli, to break from his schedule to serve as host. I tried to imagine what it would be like for a talented visual artist like himself to be surrounded by remarkably beautiful art inside, breathtaking scenery outside. To have that one's daily "work environment". Even though I honestly couldn't quite envision what it would be like, his genuine enthusiasm made it clear that he appreciates and embraces it entirely.

Every now and then, one has the opportunity to visit a place unlike any other place. To experience something that, later, doesn't quite seem like it really happened. And, in this case, I'm so grateful to have had the chance to explore a certain, special spot from which emanates unsurpassed creativity.