tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735274935367616862024-03-17T22:03:01.467-05:00Layers of the Onion - A Family History ExplorationThis blog explores a family history search. It addresses genealogy, Jewish heritage travel and artwork. It has taken the author to Belarus, the Ukraine and Poland where she visited her ancestral towns as well as Lithuania where she studied Yiddish at the Vilnius Yiddish Institute. As the author is both an artist and a genealogist, the blog also addresses her artwork related to her family and cultural history.Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.comBlogger476125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-41662331140549778092024-03-08T11:14:00.001-06:002024-03-08T11:33:55.292-06:00Not Every Sam Was a Schloime or a Shmuel<p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e3_npSv6GQrR9au1Hc1xg5VR8dRM1wr4qpuhV83GlzS_uKp-E8a0Mw4eV66ls0Zy_SGsglJhoPbYkIxv1A3_8z5Op5RS7q0cbJmY6ImOd4BGaDfGCpdOHexnUYsj-H53_OHd5CW_XgzHj1tVaOgDwHGdHxcnUPx1TUr8bjmVk0q0Cl2FfKRJ9atQIBU/s1400/NameWordCloud.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1400" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e3_npSv6GQrR9au1Hc1xg5VR8dRM1wr4qpuhV83GlzS_uKp-E8a0Mw4eV66ls0Zy_SGsglJhoPbYkIxv1A3_8z5Op5RS7q0cbJmY6ImOd4BGaDfGCpdOHexnUYsj-H53_OHd5CW_XgzHj1tVaOgDwHGdHxcnUPx1TUr8bjmVk0q0Cl2FfKRJ9atQIBU/w397-h212/NameWordCloud.png" width="397" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">For those involved in Jewish genealogy, the fluidity of given names often presents a brick wall. You can't find the record if you don't know the name. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">Jewish traditions have unique features, presenting both challenges and valuable clues for family history. Typically, a Jewish child receives a secular name and a Hebrew name. For Ashkenazic Jews, that name is usually after a deceased grandparent or great-grandparent. When several cousins bear the same name, you can assume that a grandparent of similar name probably died shortly before the earliest birthdate. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our ancestors came from another country where they had a secular name, a Hebrew name, and often a nickname. Then they Americanized their name and selected a new name that may or may not resemble their former name. Having made that leap into a new life, they often continued to modify their name, trying on new identities<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">. </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">To work your way back you will want to learn their Hebrew and Yiddish names. To follow their trail in the United States, you will need to trace name changes. So how do we do that?</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"><b>Finding Hebrew and Yiddish Names</b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">A unique feature in Jewish tradition, the tombstone, provides the Hebrew name. If you are fortunate, there will be Hebrew on your family tombstones that will reveal both the decedent's Hebrew name and their father’s. You may be able to work from the Hebrew name to the secular Yiddish name found on the immigration manifest. Often the Yiddish name is shortened from the Hebrew. Yisrael becomes Srul, Ishaya becomes Shaja, Eliazar becomes Lazar. </span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">Certain names may be calques. A calque has the same meaning in a different language. Often calques are associated with animals. Aryeh means lion in Hebrew and Leib means lion in Yiddish. While someone’s tombstone may read Aryeh, their secular name was likely Leib and, in the U.S., they often became Louis. Dov means bear in Hebrew, Ber in Yiddish. Sometimes the two names are combined, such as Dov Ber, but there are often unrelated double names. And don’t forget those nicknames. Dov often became Berek or Berel because of the Yiddish form of the word. </span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">After 1906, the naturalization record will show both the name they went by in the U.S. and if different, the given name and surname they held when they entered the country. You can now work back from that document to the immigration manifest. One thing you will quickly discover is that not every Sam was a Schloime or a Shmuel. They may have been another name with an “S” such as Shimon or Shaja. </span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"><b>Trying on a New Identity</b></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">When our ancestors arrived, they discovered the popular names of the day and were quick to assume them if they resembled their Yiddish name. Batya often became Bessie, Chaim become Hyman, and Chana, Anna. But not always! And some names hardly changed at all. Binyamin became Benjamin 94% of the time. You may be surprised to know that in 97% of cases Ze’ev became William. Ze’ev is a calque meaning Wolf. Wolf to William makes more sense, but it would be puzzling if you didn’t know about calques.</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">There were no rules governing which name they took, and names often evolved. The best way to trace them is to review city directories and census records, tracing them in family groupings so you can continue to track them as names change. You may find small changes from Bertha to Bessie, Betsy, and Betty. Conversely there can be seemingly unrelated changes as I found with a Chaim who became Elmer and then Norman.</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">Never assume a name was static. Knowing a person’s name at a particular time will allow you to locate records from that period. If you have a gap with no records, consider the possibility that records are hiding in plain sight, just by a different name.</span></p><p><br /></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-46657775101506945452024-01-07T11:57:00.000-06:002024-01-07T11:57:04.536-06:00The Ones That Stayed With Me<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GhD6NRfTp9GU7ChfyIKpalM2_MLoOIg0-gqAoB3WcuJ4zEJR43oKE89OaHF1qAx7I-evJJ9lvkw3f2pDt7P_wKhJuj3bYVUtbWqwRuajKCfiihmLpfUBLdaf8xpLM1C2EsvRb9bGA6wQOoytFA3_TbSHD39thzAdQ7KY4simSTMuIBzyyIRQuaiccC8/s1354/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2011.36.53%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1354" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GhD6NRfTp9GU7ChfyIKpalM2_MLoOIg0-gqAoB3WcuJ4zEJR43oKE89OaHF1qAx7I-evJJ9lvkw3f2pDt7P_wKhJuj3bYVUtbWqwRuajKCfiihmLpfUBLdaf8xpLM1C2EsvRb9bGA6wQOoytFA3_TbSHD39thzAdQ7KY4simSTMuIBzyyIRQuaiccC8/w386-h146/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2011.36.53%20AM.png" width="386" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Each year I write a summary of some of the books that spoke to me throughout the year. By the end of the year I have a long list, but I am often hard-pressed to resurrect the threads of the books that I rated highly after reading. Instead, it is the ones that had sufficient force to stay with me that remain. This year there are several that met that test. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Tom Lake by Ann Patchett</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GF6jqOk-FZT-9ehMEXpa9fCGYAEfq1O38g5ezmMYxEjfyMO75XOZgR4qryh_vpjHV0zCXs4jOAHL2Ngc7HasxSZSZ_yGjZsTLPkFDIe43QjcSH-qF7U4rBBocN7gKdDJcE9mLmRzeF6EzCawA89G22Wlo0G7st9K5h5G_GThRt0PZ9XiqA2TlhXpKn8/s884/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.15%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="884" data-original-width="586" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GF6jqOk-FZT-9ehMEXpa9fCGYAEfq1O38g5ezmMYxEjfyMO75XOZgR4qryh_vpjHV0zCXs4jOAHL2Ngc7HasxSZSZ_yGjZsTLPkFDIe43QjcSH-qF7U4rBBocN7gKdDJcE9mLmRzeF6EzCawA89G22Wlo0G7st9K5h5G_GThRt0PZ9XiqA2TlhXpKn8/w177-h267/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.15%20AM.png" width="177" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I have always been a fan of Ann Patchett and her latest book <i>Tom Lake </i>did not disappoint. Central to the story is the play <i>Our Town</i> and a theater company in which Lara, in her youth, performed the part of Emily as she became involved with Duke, the actor who played her father. After their relationship ended, Duke goes on to become a famous actor while Lara, after a brief stint in acting, ultimately chooses a less glamorous, but satisfying life. The story moves between time periods with flashbacks to that earlier time— then a young woman, still forming and vulnerable, versus the mature woman relating the story to her daughters, as she chooses how much to impart. It made me think of the encounters of youth with all their foolhardy elements. Who we are in maturity contains all the layers of our past as we form the boundaries of our adult self.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Postcard by Anne Berest</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRSQeYCoXioR_kUubUMq9sZyrR1gWbS6pvY_0p4Xk9KZp3ma95QzVNOk8T0pBdrvLrIKYeddaEXRdALnvucP5Y8_EOOB02uR3lqoYp33bNXv7lBZn6DwQ1CGFAP_REvbNsDnWe8ZUSBCZg57PAm5P5YjT1I9OmVuraSd8QjVhmYUUMY4Xlr9xzSlTeMw/s434/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.46.16%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="290" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRSQeYCoXioR_kUubUMq9sZyrR1gWbS6pvY_0p4Xk9KZp3ma95QzVNOk8T0pBdrvLrIKYeddaEXRdALnvucP5Y8_EOOB02uR3lqoYp33bNXv7lBZn6DwQ1CGFAP_REvbNsDnWe8ZUSBCZg57PAm5P5YjT1I9OmVuraSd8QjVhmYUUMY4Xlr9xzSlTeMw/w175-h262/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.46.16%20AM.png" width="175" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When people come through my studio and view my artwork on cultural themes, they often recommend books to me. I am always intrigued that they think they know me so well as to know what I’d like. Even more so when I find they are correct. <i>The Postcard</i> came from such a recommendation. It begins with a mysterious unsigned postcard that arrives with only the names of family members who died in the Shoah. An unsolved puzzle then, fifteen years later, a chance barb at the author’s inconsistent engagement with being Jewish, launches her into a search for that lost family. And quite a search it is, with dead ends and serendipitous discoveries deep into the French experience of the Holocaust and the personal history of the author’s family. It is a search laden with self-discovery as she discovers a deeply personal connection to her ancestry.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store-James McBride</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzc9MfIwHMJ8WMkVKeduCco0sS8DsHzm1woYtLdq-tlEmMjlWoE5nazYbhtIj4D4NbKKQubcOLjz-BZ4Oo50o_BlMKf9PDGeFg48aueeo9nwZBRHPPJlcWpBxN3XLYTSyEjK34RoDs9iRlbk4A12pw6k7SM5upnwTRCkViuOQ3PA8f0ToAQkUDjGMxI4/s438/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.31%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="290" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUzc9MfIwHMJ8WMkVKeduCco0sS8DsHzm1woYtLdq-tlEmMjlWoE5nazYbhtIj4D4NbKKQubcOLjz-BZ4Oo50o_BlMKf9PDGeFg48aueeo9nwZBRHPPJlcWpBxN3XLYTSyEjK34RoDs9iRlbk4A12pw6k7SM5upnwTRCkViuOQ3PA8f0ToAQkUDjGMxI4/w172-h260/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.31%20AM.png" width="172" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Many years ago, I read the <i>Color of Water</i> by James McBride. I recalled that his mother was a white Jewish woman who married her black husband in the 1940s. When I first heard of <i>The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store</i> which connects the black and Jewish communities, I thought it likely drew upon the threads of his own personal experience. My involvement with the Jewish historical community had also made me aware of the early beginnings of my local Jewish community which also existed as an immigrant community side by side with the black community. For a firsthand flavor of these joined communities, McBride is the perfect storyteller, bringing a warmth and tenderness to the relationships that connected the two communities. While sometimes separated by ethnic and racial differences, the two communities also interact and support each other. Each character is finely developed and an integral part of the larger community that surrounds it.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Foster by Claire Keegan</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FsvN-9hn7pcfzkWba86gREtodvtK2KJ4d_TXkcqc5OAw_vjxthsywcp3MnuUAG8byoAdPTyjPr9sdV_aZ9UA-WN3mEoIgWL3-lBBOPWMhHES0htmazZwRb4R0BIDQEB4z8Z5zsipi4qFKZrI086EGgj7gd8WiU2md8DRmIUUoCpsk4kqFBlJVSXZX6U/s438/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.57%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="286" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_FsvN-9hn7pcfzkWba86gREtodvtK2KJ4d_TXkcqc5OAw_vjxthsywcp3MnuUAG8byoAdPTyjPr9sdV_aZ9UA-WN3mEoIgWL3-lBBOPWMhHES0htmazZwRb4R0BIDQEB4z8Z5zsipi4qFKZrI086EGgj7gd8WiU2md8DRmIUUoCpsk4kqFBlJVSXZX6U/w168-h257/Screenshot%202024-01-07%20at%2012.45.57%20AM.png" width="168" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This novella packs a lot in. <i>Foster</i> is a quiet story, amplified by the quiet as it forces the reader to</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> focus on each gem of expression and thought. Even the one word title implies both a foster child and what it is to foster. A young girl is sent to spend the summer with a foster family as her family awaits another child. In this new home the child is nurtured and flourishes in a way we learn was not likely in her home of birth. The foster home has its own griefs, the loss of a son, a sadness that allows its hosts to open their hearts to this girl child in need. This quiet story was made into a quiet movie, quite true to the novella. On a flight back from London, I had the good fortune to watch the aptly named <i>The Quiet Girl</i>. I was left to wonder what happens to this glimpse of sunshine in a child’s life upon her return to a family that lacks the nourishment under which she thrived. Does she keep that spark alive within her?</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 17.3px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So why these books? Each spoke to me in a unique way, touching aspects in my own experience. From the inward and vulnerable child, to the experimental period of youth, to the understanding of family history that connects each of us to our own roots and culture. Each topic of interest was explored by an author who is a master of their craft, capable of touching those common experiences in a manner that echoes our own personal experience.</span></p><p></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-62781924522838087142023-12-28T13:50:00.007-06:002023-12-28T14:39:02.626-06:00A Peaceful Journey<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 13px;">It always begins with a phone call, those things that rock your world. My niece, brave soul, had taken on the task of passing on the news of my sister’s death, still in disbelief as we both absorbed this unimaginable event.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">It was indeed hard to believe. My sister, Andee, was so alive, such a vibrant person. I last saw her at Thanksgiving, the one time of year we gathered in person. We had a good talk. I recall the solidness of her hug. I never expected it was the last time. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKQa-gImJX252Oiwa916OCElchARy-xrXZmxrVtL3cAw-RxXUHATSpdaWUy67-BrdekMBEU-R9S0Eo5z5E83KDL7B-KSTlOg6lF7u1-eGkIZbw37jCNR4AOGv49jd4GjUzSvi5jOaA_A2wxk5uW8QRJUlIIUfJWEzt3VDUJaigepVH07s2Y6vqlf8ORmg/s652/Screenshot%202023-12-28%20at%202.05.58%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="472" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKQa-gImJX252Oiwa916OCElchARy-xrXZmxrVtL3cAw-RxXUHATSpdaWUy67-BrdekMBEU-R9S0Eo5z5E83KDL7B-KSTlOg6lF7u1-eGkIZbw37jCNR4AOGv49jd4GjUzSvi5jOaA_A2wxk5uW8QRJUlIIUfJWEzt3VDUJaigepVH07s2Y6vqlf8ORmg/s320/Screenshot%202023-12-28%20at%202.05.58%20PM.png" width="232" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I had forgotten the ability of death to strike suddenly, lulled by the lengthy life and gradual demise of my parents, well into their 80s. I wasn't prepared for the unexpected disruption of our trusting assumption of day following day. Neither was she. Her menorah still sat out, candles beside it, waiting to be lit for the sixth night of Hanukkah. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I have written about my parents and brother upon their deaths and often over time as they bubbled up in my memory. A sister is harder and this is the last and most difficult to write. I try to unpack it to capture the magnitude of the loss it signifies to me, and it feels like a <a href="applewebdata://8AA4240B-2FB4-470B-9A80-BE0A5F12ECCB/Matryoshka%20doll"><span class="s1" style="color: #dca10d;">matryoshka doll</span></a>. I remove one layer only to find another. Matryoshka dolls, those dolls inside dolls, represent a chain of mothers carrying on the family legacy through the child in their womb. There is something about that image that is particularly apt. My sister embodied my mother, carrying her love and wisdom forward to her own daughters. As the only sibling who had children, she represents that carrying forward of family legacy, but an improved legacy as she took the best of each of our parents in a thoughtful act of parenting. She embraced that part of her life and did it with love and a full heart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My sister was the last direct tie to my family of birth. We could speak in unfinished sentences when we talked about our parents, we knew the subtext because we lived it. We often carried them into the future with us, imagining their reaction to new events in the world and in our family. When we found a new cousin through DNA we talked of how our dad would have responded to this new family member with delight. In each new accomplishment we heard our mother’s voice cheering us on.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I contemplate how birth order affects the parent with whom we most identify and who we in turn become. My brother, the oldest and the son, identified with my father. As the middle, I am an odd combination of the often-contradictory parts of both parents. My sister, the youngest and the one with the most solo time with our mother as a child, identified most closely with her. And for me Andee’s loss represents a loss of my mom-proxy. When I had something that I wanted to tell our mother after her death, I used to call my sister. She understood the significance through our mother’s eyes.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My sister was three years younger than me, not a long time in adult years, but just enough in child years that we lived different lives. We shared a room growing up. I recall the argument at bedtime about the radio, on or off. I liked silence. She, music, perhaps reflective of her more gregarious nature. As the youngest child claiming her space, Andee honed her wit, a talent she carried throughout her life. It was a quality that drew people to her. She developed and nurtured deep relationships with friends and strong bonds with family.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">For much of our lives, our lived experience wasn’t in sync. When I was married, she was single. When I was single, she was married and raising a family, a foreign world to me at the time. We came together in times of crisis and could talk easily, but mostly we were busy living our own very different lives.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Ultimately, what brought us together and deepened our relationship, was our mother, an extraordinary person for whom we both felt a deep love. We had different relationships with her. I often would say “my mother” and Andee would correct me with “our mother” and I would advise her that we connected with different parts of our mother, hence my phrasing. I shared travel and art. Andee enlarged her life with grandchildren and great-grandchildren.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As we came together to assist her in her final years, we discovered a new relationship with each other in the process. I trusted Andee completely to do the right thing. I trusted her to act out of love. And I trusted her to be incredibly capable in whatever she took on. It was a mutual trust and it made us great partners. When our mother passed away, I didn’t want what we had built to end. We had been talking every day, working together with a common goal of supporting our mother. We did dial it back a bit after that, we weren’t talking every day, but when we talked it was a three-hour conversation. It changed how we understood each other, and it allowed for a deeper relationship than we had had up until then. And I wasn’t ready for it to end.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">On her deathbed our mother told us she saw her late mother. It felt comforting as we faced that impending loss.I liked to think of her going from our love to her mother's love.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">At the time, Andee and I had looked at each other, both recalibrating what we thought came next. We liked this version. They say it is a common experience as our brains assist us in a soft landing through our transition from life. In a world of so many marvels, I’d like to believe there is more to it. I have been thinking of that moment in recent days, picturing Andee with our mother in whatever form energy survives in the universe. </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"> </p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When I lit my menorah that night, I said the Hanukkah prayer. Then I said another, wishing Andee a peaceful journey.</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 2px;"><b> </b></p></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-28847560746193009612023-09-23T19:55:00.007-05:002023-09-24T14:16:09.354-05:00A Life Well Lived<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I learned the news as I drove to a nature center to meet friends for a walk, a phone call telling me that my dear friend Dora Eiger Zaidenweber had passed away. Now this shouldn’t have been a surprise. She was 99 years old and in home hospice, mainly because of her advanced age. While she had many aches and pains that accompanied that age, she had a will that sustained her. Enough so, that even knowing that none of us get out of this alive, her absence still felt like a very strange concept to grasp. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUELlrlvLgTQ1i2--8p460Ckm5Bv07t7uhNUvIRCExlkX-m7NrJoLmvYbOrOp5WNKY_YrInBhieXWvbWtl8rxHT0MyUhj5r6P3GLtR3k5rSkG99Z0ECdtdUX-rubJQrUan4bFdYTma0y4nZ_SY2ndsHlFDFw8t_xKdeYn5MRY4kPzqohDd8J8-Eqz46ig/s3264/IMG_1202.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Dora was an unusual and impressive person. A Holocaust survivor and Holocaust educator, at age 99, she testified at the State Capitol on behalf of Holocaust education and was still presenting to classes on Zoom, an intelligent and well-educated woman with a graduate degree in economics from a time when few women pursued such paths, an immigrant to the United States who carved out a new life with purpose, a world traveler, the nexus of a close-knit</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZLac0g3e5wx818d6Qq6j0y9xNJhIKJIihW2uwT2kKkWyp1olTEKu_jKRt87x1_KGsiPkRkEIu2-jhqBNtTtc-8iKHfU_Oh-9FzwENXh1rm70rIKrdz7WLku2V5co4fBTwmYJnaskHW58htIulIyde0PZIMpR9KusFI20K6Pc3vN7ReSBYhOfu8fsntw/s626/Screenshot%202023-09-23%20at%208.09.02%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="626" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZLac0g3e5wx818d6Qq6j0y9xNJhIKJIihW2uwT2kKkWyp1olTEKu_jKRt87x1_KGsiPkRkEIu2-jhqBNtTtc-8iKHfU_Oh-9FzwENXh1rm70rIKrdz7WLku2V5co4fBTwmYJnaskHW58htIulIyde0PZIMpR9KusFI20K6Pc3vN7ReSBYhOfu8fsntw/s320/Screenshot%202023-09-23%20at%208.09.02%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">extended family and a person with a network of deep friendships. She faced obstacles and surmounted them, whether it was surviving the Holocaust or losing her sight. In typical Dora spirit she responded to this later loss by studying the Talmud by telephone, listening to the Economist on tape and with the use of a magnifying device successfully translating her father’s memoir from Yiddish.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are people who we encounter in our life who shape us, take us in directions we didn’t anticipate. While we all are shaped by parents, sometimes we are fortunate enough to encounter people who play a pivotal role in our adult life. It is a different kind of shaping; we are less malleable, and it often requires sustained interaction to take root. Dora and I met almost every week for thirteen years. Long enough, consistently enough, for a deep relationship to evolve. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In the almost 500 blog posts I’ve written over the past fifteen years, Dora is mentioned in 7% of them, obviously a significant presence. I met her in a surprising way. I was doing a website on the former Jewish community of Radom, Poland, one of my ancestral towns. A friend in Israel told me that he knew a woman from Radom who had a close friend from Radom who lived in my community. He sent me her contact information. It languished in my email box for several months. I then gave a presentation on artwork I was doing on Radom, drawing from a homemade film from 1937, a snapshot in time of the pre-war Jewish community. A woman in the audience told me that she had sat next to a woman from Radom at a dinner the prior night. She later shared that woman’s contact information. Of course it was the same person to whom I had not yet responded! When I get information in stereo, I have learned to pay attention.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Dora and I had a bit of a comedy routine in how we retold the story. She teased me about hesitating to call her, imagining this old woman with a thick Polish accent. She put on the croaky voice of an old woman as she offered this version. I protested that I had been totally focused on preparing for an art exhibit of my work in London. The truth may lie somewhere in between. I was distracted, but I do hesitate to call people I don’t know, it’s an introvert thing, we introverts much prefer email. The one thing we both agreed on was that it was bashert (Yiddish for fate) that we met. I pantomimed fate tapping me on the shoulder as I looked the other way, then jabbing me in the ribs for not paying attention. We later discovered that my great-uncle lived at the same address as her grandmother in Radom, fate indeed!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUELlrlvLgTQ1i2--8p460Ckm5Bv07t7uhNUvIRCExlkX-m7NrJoLmvYbOrOp5WNKY_YrInBhieXWvbWtl8rxHT0MyUhj5r6P3GLtR3k5rSkG99Z0ECdtdUX-rubJQrUan4bFdYTma0y4nZ_SY2ndsHlFDFw8t_xKdeYn5MRY4kPzqohDd8J8-Eqz46ig/w251-h335/IMG_1202.JPG" width="251" /></span><br />We spoke on the phone for an hour and then I went to her house later that week and we spoke for five hours. Thus began a friendship with many late evenings of conversation. At first, I sought her input on the <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/Poland/index.html" style="color: #954f72;">Radom paintings</a> that I was doing. This was somewhat impeded by the fact that she couldn’t see them as she had limited vision. I described the images to her and asked what she recalled about a water carrier or young men playing chess in the street. As I completed that series of artwork, I contacted a friend at the Arts and Culture Center in Radom who I had met the prior year. I mentioned the work to him which resulted in an invitation to show it in Radom. Now I had a show in London followed by a show in Poland to plan for, it was my year of international exhibitions. As the paintings were small, I needed to build out the show, so asked Dora if she would be willing to show photographs of her pre-war and ghetto life, pictures that had been hidden in her family members’ shoes during the camps. She agreed, then noticing a wistful tone in her voice I asked if she would like to join me there. “Maybe,” she replied. It then dawned on me that I had only known her for three months. What if something happened to this then 86-year-old woman during our travels? The maybe became a reality in a way that assuaged my concerns when her son who lived in Boston agreed to accompany her one way if my husband and I could accompany her home. In Radom, I met more of her extended family who took the opportunity to join us there as well, to hear her stories first-hand in the place where they happened. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now that wasn’t our only trip together. Some years later I was making regular visits to my hometown in Central Illinois to see my late mother. To entertain myself while there, I did a genealogy talk for the local Jewish Federation. When they mentioned a need for a Yom HaShoah speaker, I suggested Dora. I had only to figure out how to partner her with her grandson in Chicago for the event and agree to accompany her on the flight home. Dora used to tell me that I made things happen and I guess I did. She appreciated that quality, a quality she too possessed and it formed part of our connection. We recognized parts of ourself in each other. One evening we sat in my car in front of her home. Speaking into the darkness, she confessed that she had been pulling back from her more public life, thinking that part of her life was over. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then she turned to me and said with a rush of emotion, "And then you came along and pulled me back in! " </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wasn’t sure at first if she viewed that as a good thing, but she quickly assured me that it had given her back a sense of purpose. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Dora, in turn, played an important role in pulling me back into the Jewish community. I had grown up in Reform Judaism but had not been engaged in the community for many years. Suddenly I was accompanying her to events within the Jewish community, meeting her extensive network and attending lively seders at her daughter’s home. While I had begun to step gingerly back in through family history and artwork, she pulled me into the center of things. Just as I made things happen in her life, she did similarly in mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZD8P1yOI65a1g_Y2dzfDXag0Lu53RO8DJwH21zclHjM_T69sx9WKq0HZkJh_1eecBNqzm-Kh0AUSLs3l3yKBE9XZ2fr4fuEqb8cnjkbHVyb-ZuhcEnLQCHf0BH3S0ZFT0k8p-xcrNqKfqkSYA3D2XDAws-EvH7VGkmmQ43q6MxKQW-mRZnKVxWtlsLbY/s1342/Screenshot%202023-09-22%20at%2011.18.39%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="1342" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZD8P1yOI65a1g_Y2dzfDXag0Lu53RO8DJwH21zclHjM_T69sx9WKq0HZkJh_1eecBNqzm-Kh0AUSLs3l3yKBE9XZ2fr4fuEqb8cnjkbHVyb-ZuhcEnLQCHf0BH3S0ZFT0k8p-xcrNqKfqkSYA3D2XDAws-EvH7VGkmmQ43q6MxKQW-mRZnKVxWtlsLbY/s320/Screenshot%202023-09-22%20at%2011.18.39%20PM.png" width="320" /></a>Dora knew how to build friendships. She often told me that as you get older, you just need to find younger friends. She was the poster child for that approach. When we returned from our trip to Radom, I didn’t want our relationship to end, but it had largely been built around a project and I wasn’t sure how to reframe it. Dora took charge and suggested that we could go out to lunch together. Thus began a weekly get-together where we shared the events of our life in our deepening friendship. One day I mentioned an art exhibit and she expressed interest in seeing it. </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“But how will you see it?” I asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“You’ll describe it to me,” she replied matter of factly. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I learned that approach added a dimension to my understanding of the artwork as well. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We exhibited her photos with my paintings in several venues and I created a series of paintings called </span><a href="http://www.studio409art.com/DoraSeries/index.html" style="font-family: helvetica;" target="_blank">Dvora's Story</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> based on her stories from the Holocaust. They became the structure of new talks where she told those stories. I assisted her in talks, putting together slides and imagery to tell her stories, often interviewing her to provide a structure to her presentations.</span></div><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When her grandsons worked together on her father’s memoir </span><a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/search?q=sky+tinged+red" style="font-family: helvetica;" target="_blank">Sky Tinged Red</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">, about his time in Auschwitz, I sometimes functioned as a go-between, serving as her eyes for information that she needed to review and comment on. As I’ve written in this </span><a href="http://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2023/05/the-shape-and-contour-of-life.html" style="color: #954f72; font-family: helvetica;">blog</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">, I later interviewed her during the Covid years to capture her own story spanning seven generations of Eiger women. She extracted a commitment from me, to work on her story. In her final months, she reminded me of that regularly. In true form, Dora gave me a final gift with that assignment, a way to give back to my dear friend. And so, I will soon turn my attention to shaping her story, as I work with her family members to turn it into something to share within their family, and perhaps beyond. </span></p></div></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-7791321495300001902023-08-27T19:16:00.001-05:002023-08-27T21:27:54.398-05:00Roadmap to My Evolution
<p style="margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I approach a milestone birthday, I realize that one of the advantages of getting older is that you have a roadmap to your own evolution. You have enough history to understand who you are and the confluence of events that has led to the you of today. Often you find there are major themes that consistently drove your decisions, be it in careers, partners, or interests. You may have had a glimmer of that earlier in your life, but hindsight has a way of underlining it with a head slapping Duh! I think this is what they mean when they say older and wiser. <span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsfIBTp-DAr9ZY0ukPwUxR7QagEDdizeRks6zQIkFpDeEzvjslyLpmFzgLWiPmN_lWIDA8nkJcovbbq22d58Yvj8KLtdfUiM1A_794sJ4ggjMv_Ul4zFLy4842fks2tWYh8b3zK8tc0g0POzkF5B4qoKHNK7MctVyFaIK9bsQaAz3D7SRkvra4HMbPsI/s1278/Screenshot%202023-08-25%20brighter.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1278" data-original-width="1152" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsfIBTp-DAr9ZY0ukPwUxR7QagEDdizeRks6zQIkFpDeEzvjslyLpmFzgLWiPmN_lWIDA8nkJcovbbq22d58Yvj8KLtdfUiM1A_794sJ4ggjMv_Ul4zFLy4842fks2tWYh8b3zK8tc0g0POzkF5B4qoKHNK7MctVyFaIK9bsQaAz3D7SRkvra4HMbPsI/w249-h277/Screenshot%202023-08-25%20brighter.png" width="249" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I revisit my history, I recognize my parents within me and how fundamental their influence was. I also am surprised by my younger self. How did she know that I wonder as I view my former self at arm’s length. I’m a bit awed at this somewhat foreign creature I see in the rear-view mirror. I think more and more that we start out with a package of skills that we hone over time, but it is all there earlier than we realize. We really don't change much; we just get more comfortable in our own skin.<br /></span><p></p><p style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Usually, we are relying on memory as we assess our past. Of course, memory can polish up many a failing, but sometimes we have the benefit of documented memory. Recently I had the opportunity to revisit former self at less than half my age. It came about in a rather unexpected way.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLF1XELdZ42-IxdNCta9KPI1sEH_nCb1Lr3irkZSWuaOTXJIDSQ2ufSsxG-LyrmtKhxzULJeHQkdL4AM-0u18ZF7LkeBVVHi68DUvbBFl9q3BwhE8vi-e053iu0F5AAkS29IOqeohuD52fGfsOw8khivK9yHhQbbdTQQ6YVbA1lo8ZiVCEtcEWHq1Cxg/s575/Susansm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="575" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLF1XELdZ42-IxdNCta9KPI1sEH_nCb1Lr3irkZSWuaOTXJIDSQ2ufSsxG-LyrmtKhxzULJeHQkdL4AM-0u18ZF7LkeBVVHi68DUvbBFl9q3BwhE8vi-e053iu0F5AAkS29IOqeohuD52fGfsOw8khivK9yHhQbbdTQQ6YVbA1lo8ZiVCEtcEWHq1Cxg/s320/Susansm.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A local history museum recently promoted their Memory Lab. The lab allows you to digitize media that is now obsolete, such as VHS tapes. I knew I had a drawer full of videos that had been languishing for many years and there was one that I had always wanted to digitize. This tape was of my mother with my aunts. It was at a time, when my parents used to travel down to Florida to visit my mother's sisters. I had prepared a list of questions about family history and asked my mother to pose those questions to her siblings. My father was enlisted to video the discussion. My mother diligently posed her questions as the conversation rapidly spun out of control. She fruitlessly tried to coax her unruly sisters back to their assignment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I took the VHS tape into the lab and was surprised to see that the date on it was 1992, ten years before I really did a deep dive into family history. It was a time when I was doing oral histories, which sparked my interest in this effort. I also realized that 1992 was ten years past the maximum period (10-20 years) before a tape starts to degrade. While not in perfect condition, it was usable, and there was my mother a few years younger than I am today. I felt a yearning to leap into that video and ask her thoughts on getting older, a topic that I often discuss with contemporaries, one of which she suddenly </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">appeared to be.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I was delighted to have that tape and began to gather other tapes to digitize. Next on my list was a tape that dated back to the 1980s when I had made a career change from running nonprofits to banking. I had finished an MBA in finance, and by then had spent a few years as a lender at a large bank. The bank was known for a controversial contemporary art collection that was unusual in the corporate world of that time. I had been interviewed in 1987 about my perception of that project and its impact on employees, but also my view of the workplace and my place within it. I set the tape aside with the intention to digitize it when time allowed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Universe soon kicked into gear in a surprising way, one that makes you wonder who’s pulling the strings. Two weeks after I located that tape, I received an email from the co-founder of a nonprofit working with exhibitions of contemporary public art in Los Angeles. His email harkened back to the visual arts program at the bank where I had worked so long ago. He had received a grant from the Andy Warhol Foundation to explore that project and learned that I had been interviewed by a videographer as part of a series of interviews. He expressed interest in my recollections of the program and that video project from thirty-six years earlier. That old video had been elevated to archival status. Should I agree to share it, it would be the first one to which he had access. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;">“You’re a good researcher to track me down,” I replied. I went on to explain the unusual fact that I had that tape, newly unearthed, sitting on my table to digitize. I agreed to consider sharing it after I viewed it.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #333333;">It was a shock to see my younger self, complete with those 1980's shoulder pads, emerge from that video. My first thought was that I hoped I didn't embarrass myself saying anything stupid now that I had an interested audience. I was relieved to find that former self passed my scrutiny. I liked that she considered each question carefully and pushed back on conclusions with which she didn't agree. I regarded her with almost a maternal eye, as if she were a unique being with a connection to me, and yet, not me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On the tape I spoke of my decision to go into finance a few years prior, when I had been approaching the much earlier milestone birthday of thirty. After a degree in social work and experience running nonprofit organizations, I had been weighing my next step. I explained that I had chosen finance because I had encountered a financial person who I felt was skewing the facts, manipulating the numbers to their benefit. Ultimately, I went into finance to protect myself, to be able to challenge with knowledge and authority. And I wanted credibility in the world, that for women often comes with degrees in “hard” subjects–– all uniquely female motivations. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;">Both my choice of finance and my later choice of banking were driven by the same desire for options, both were broad areas that would offer a range of future paths. Control and choice, big themes that repeat in my decisions.</span> Once I arrived in banking, I found I was rather ambivalent about <span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;">being a banker. It was a very different world than what I had done previously and the culture that surrounded me seemed quite foreign to me.<span> </span>I spoke to the interviewer of a duality in me, what I would today call my analytic and creative sides, both well developed and sometimes competing for my time and attention. My friendships and interests outside of banking fed my more creative side. I knew clearly even then that I would never fit well into a narrow track.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; background: repeat white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I went on to explain the bargain that I felt I had struck with the bank. “It’s like I don't buy wall to wall carpeting in my home, I have rugs, I'm coming to the bank, I give the bank certain things, certain skills that I have to offer. And I hope that when I leave the bank, I can roll up the rugs and take them with me. I'm developing certain skills that I will carry away with me. But I'm not setting up residency here.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thirty-six years later I look back at a time when I didn't know what would come next </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">but was carefully charting my path. Something that resonated with me was a comment I made about banking being a job which didn't absorb all my energies. I went on to reflect on an early job running a nonprofit which I had created that did absorb all my energies. I noted that I liked that in many ways. . . And missed that. . . And I wouldn't mind being in that again, I added, but I wasn’t sure about the stress that accompanied it. Today I seem to have come full circle, working with several organizations and projects that do absorb my energies, embracing the stress and finding the engagement of that effort satisfying once again. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of course, former self knew that long ago.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And by request, here is a brief excerpt from the interview.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzFnMGcqU-8sG2nL28KYrvPqsAmazfUt-jf58ENQ2zCk5cYLBa8CNS5jGziLz9FjcX0dFLdSX4DbqQ1PYCtpg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-5909446480851743162023-07-23T01:08:00.001-05:002023-07-23T01:08:17.614-05:00An Accidental Collection<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">As a genealogist, I am a keeper of stuff. I would hazard a guess that most genealogists are pack rats, as they know that gems are hidden in the materials that others with a less historical bent would blithely discard.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">With this orientation at my core, it is not surprising that I have recently become enamored by the Cairo Genizah. In a few days I head off to an international conference on Jewish genealogy in London. They will be showing the film <i><a href="https://www.cairotothecloud.com/" style="color: #954f72;">From Cairo to the Cloud</a></i> and Dr. Ben Outhwaite,</span> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">the head of the Genizah research at Cambridge will be at the conference. I’ll have an opportunity to visit with him over dinner so decided it was time to learn more about this topic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">So, what is a genizah? The word comes from the Hebrew word <i>ganaz</i> which means treasure house or hiding place. In Jewish tradition, holy writings are held within a genizah when they have been retired from use. Holy was often taken to mean containing the word "God." As was the custom at that time every document contained the words "with the help of God," hence many secular documents found their way into the genizah as well, painting a picture of bygone centuries. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">I love how the actual discovery of the Cairo Genizah unfolds. The surfacing of the genizah was due to two Scottish twin sisters, who were respected scholars. They purchased manuscripts in the Cairo marketplace in 1896 that they identified as possibly significant. They in turn shared them with their friend, the scholar Solomon Schechter, who identified them as writings of Ben Sira, better known in the Christian world as Ecclesiasticus. This was no small thing, the Hebrew</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"> text of this had not been seen since the 10</span><sup style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">th</sup><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"> or 11</span><sup style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">th</sup><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"> century. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">As I read newspaper accounts of this discovery from 1898, I stumbled across a rather delightful interview with one of the sisters, Mrs. Lewis, who reports, <i>“The author of Ecclesiasticus was a woman-hater. The names of Deborah, Ruth and Judith do not occur in his list of national heroes, and one of his aphorisms runs, ‘Better is the wickedness of a man than the goodness of a woman.’ It seems therefore a just judgment upon him that the Hebrew text of his book, the text that he actually wrote, should have practically disappeared for fifteen centuries and should have been brought under the eyes of a European scholar, I might say a scholar of his own nation, by two women.</i>” (</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">Cambridge Independent Press 12/2/1898</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-u7KBzD5AEilh0oLL_aq6tgbxVO3wRZGGjxYKw9I7dE4sWxYHX7SCG59kPsLy2vehdVdo0JA2Ih7s5UtwKmKv77ngVAD7A53Mf8q8dorjCaPNO8ds_g7SzYtXaWbtGTiJ78x8SUjBYS77LcB8wB7PcyKlPswV0nPbeYBo4FlrJagLNj1rlm8vNJQVjE/s714/Screenshot%202023-07-21%20at%205.52.25%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="714" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-u7KBzD5AEilh0oLL_aq6tgbxVO3wRZGGjxYKw9I7dE4sWxYHX7SCG59kPsLy2vehdVdo0JA2Ih7s5UtwKmKv77ngVAD7A53Mf8q8dorjCaPNO8ds_g7SzYtXaWbtGTiJ78x8SUjBYS77LcB8wB7PcyKlPswV0nPbeYBo4FlrJagLNj1rlm8vNJQVjE/s320/Screenshot%202023-07-21%20at%205.52.25%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Solomon Schechter studying the Genizah documents</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">Schechter believed these papers likely came from the genizah at the Ben Ezra Synagogue in Old Cairo and promptly paid it a visit where he charmed the community and was invited to take what and as much as he liked. He reported that he “<i>liked it all</i>,” boxed it up and brought it to Cambridge. Today, the collection consists of 193,000 fragments that have been mined for over a century. Historian, Simon Schama, termed it “<i>the single most complete archive of a society anywhere in the whole medieval world.”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">This was no orderly library he walked into. In a colorful description Schechter talks of "<i>a battlefield of books... </i></span></span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>Some of the belligerents have perished outright, and are literally ground to dust in the terrible struggle for space, whilst others, as if overtaken by a general crush, are squeezed into big, unshapely lumps</i>." He described the resulting odorous grit of this </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">centuries-old deterioration as g<i>enizahschmutz</i>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">It is not just the mass and deterioration which catches his attention, but the juxtapositions and contradictory nature of its contents. He reports that "</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>In their present condition these lumps sometimes afford curiously suggestive combinations; as, for instance, when you find a piece of some rationalistic work, in which the very existence of either angels or devils is denied, clinging for its very life to an amulet in which these same beings (mostly the latter) are bound over to be on their good behaviour and not interfere with Miss Jair’s love for somebody.</i>"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4z4FySOaJyU22kQbjjNu-a8l2kv_fiM3PaPr7vJl_erbYytraDAST73bFXx_lDNWlDWOEjuOGU2leJbpbVqwWIDncSWddNxvUr0PLSvH2nIf-TFXk2SNuvYwiB9ygbAPi9uZAD9G5o0k4CiACvyGm7Ks97PP77tHLO4YnoxGk_orN4U_O84qj0NkSiJk/s1324/Screenshot%202023-07-20%20at%208.42.55%20PM.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1324" data-original-width="1082" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4z4FySOaJyU22kQbjjNu-a8l2kv_fiM3PaPr7vJl_erbYytraDAST73bFXx_lDNWlDWOEjuOGU2leJbpbVqwWIDncSWddNxvUr0PLSvH2nIf-TFXk2SNuvYwiB9ygbAPi9uZAD9G5o0k4CiACvyGm7Ks97PP77tHLO4YnoxGk_orN4U_O84qj0NkSiJk/s320/Screenshot%202023-07-20%20at%208.42.55%20PM.png" width="262" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face="sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122; text-align: start;">A letter signed by </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abraham_Maimonides" style="background-image: none; color: #795cb2; font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" title="Abraham Maimonides">Abraham</a><span face="sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122; text-align: start;">, the son of </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maimonides" style="background-image: none; color: #795cb2; font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" title="Maimonides">Maimonides</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">What I find fascinating is that it is a collection by accident, not carefully curated and created with a specific point of view filtered through the eyes of the historian. It is a jumble of direct source documents, both secular and religious that capture a cross-section of society for 1000 years of Middle Eastern history. Precisely because it doesn't have a specific focus, there have been scholars through time who have made this collection their life's work, plumbing its depths from their own unique vantage point. For some, the emergence of a new form of Hebrew poetry drew them in. Others focused upon the evolution of Judaism that is revealed within documents ranging from 4th-5th century CE to the end of the 19</span><sup style="font-family: Helvetica;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> century. I think perhaps my favorite was the holistic approach taken by the scholar Shelomo Dov Goitein. Rather than focusing on one aspect, he attempted to join the disparate pieces to recreate the community between <o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">950-1250. To this end he identified 35,000 individuals, including 350 prominent individuals and the interactions with each other. Archives of entire families found their way to the genizah. He looked at </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">professions, goods and trade</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"> to paint a picture of a community where Jews worked side by side with their Arab neighbors. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">It was a bit of a golden age for tolerance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;">Within the collection are documents in the handwriting of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maimonides" target="_blank">Maimonides</a> (who lived in Cairo and attended the synagogue) as well as marriage contracts, leases, shopping lists and even young children practicing their letters. Since paper didn’t emerge until around the 10<sup>th</sup> century, early documents were on parchment and as writing surfaces were precious, they would often scrape away prior writing to replace it with something new. While much of it is written in Hebrew, Arabic and Aramaic, other languages literally emerge from beneath the surface text, a palimpsest echo of the old providing yet another work of interest.</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> Beneath an 11th century Hebrew text, hides a 5th-6th century Greek translation of the Book of Kings. Often palimpsests were Christian writings originally purchased for their writing surface and resulting in documents of importance for Christian scholars as well. The genizah is also credited with being a treasury of Arabic literature.There is something for everyone.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><a href="https://pr.genizah.org/TheCairoGenizah.aspx" target="_blank">The </a></span><a href="https://pr.genizah.org/TheCairoGenizah.aspx" style="font-family: Helvetica;" target="_blank">Friedberg Genizah Project </a><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">is now digitizing the manuscripts making them available to scholars around the world –– A little crowd sourcing is likely to open up new pathways and understandings.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">To learn more about the Genizah, I highly recommend the </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">book </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica;">Sacred Trash: The Lost and Found World of the Cairo Genizah </i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">by Adina Hoffman and Peter Cole.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">There are also several YouTube videos on this topic. Here's one to get you started: </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">https://youtu.be/3VkiYSVl48c</span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-30970306093015904672023-05-23T22:56:00.001-05:002023-05-23T23:34:50.146-05:00The Pieces That Surprise<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdY8pV0_b0xqA6IPaFTXDIe3xpV2WSYId2C8CG_FrouSU_vWHa02nqZgVz9amKRGQLqlmlakDIg4kWwLL4pi3EgL0e_rBl2mMDOgOnDxK2aJjMlrfc9RPzesnnLHQiPW0e-ttqyoE-TZHK_uAtbpv7DaVvqdjjmz01KD-KdQGMqliR4uagrTlf8OxO/s4030/IMG_7886%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="4030" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdY8pV0_b0xqA6IPaFTXDIe3xpV2WSYId2C8CG_FrouSU_vWHa02nqZgVz9amKRGQLqlmlakDIg4kWwLL4pi3EgL0e_rBl2mMDOgOnDxK2aJjMlrfc9RPzesnnLHQiPW0e-ttqyoE-TZHK_uAtbpv7DaVvqdjjmz01KD-KdQGMqliR4uagrTlf8OxO/w396-h129/IMG_7886%202.jpg" width="396" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Each year, Northeast Minneapolis hosts Art-a-Whirl, the largest open studio event in the country. Thousands of people come through studios over a three-day weekend. For the artists, that means 18 hours, sitting in our studios and interacting with our visitors. This year was the first year that began to feel more normal after Covid. Many of us have begun to unmask as we welcomed visitors.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As an introvert who has interacted through a Zoom screen for several years, it felt both exhilarating and exhausting. So much of creating artwork is a solitary pursuit and suddenly there are people, so many people! It was fascinating to watch them respond to my work, and to engage with them about my work and about life, for the human experience is often a theme within my work. For three days I get to channel my inner extrovert. I turn into a performer and a storyteller. And I have new insights into my work and my process, as I answer my visitors’ questions.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"What is the piece that feels most important to you?" one woman asked. I tell her that the pieces that surprise me are most dear to me. Sometimes I start out thinking I’m going in a particular direction but if I listen carefully, I end up somewhere entirely unexpected. It feels rather magical. The separation between me, and the universe, feels quite permeable in those moments as our energies align. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I came out of a career where I was very good at getting results, driving to a conclusion. That doesn’t serve me very well in creating artwork. It is all about letting go of the process and letting it guide me, learning to unlearn. The work that I do revolves around story, often difficult ones. I paint about family history, which takes me into the Holocaust. I’ve painted about both loss of memory and of cherished memories. Through an Artist Lab, I have painted on themes of change and transformation, brokenness and wholeness, often using nature as a metaphor. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMbzPL0tGewE6kNKdQ7rBZSOVb4leJIsebZcBMi6S1z5SZytMEK2Bs9S4Jx2cMHrDf9UHBxQx_UVFo5vQF69b72AuyLBIiTdRJsDSHIb2tP6HHeQhfHxDGcBV5xUIRsyAaYdEcJSSYBmxrfOoNECEAyFh1mNZIQrZxkE1coqas3c6WKvLFJbnE627/s486/Screenshot%202023-05-23%20at%2011.23.21%20AM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="352" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMbzPL0tGewE6kNKdQ7rBZSOVb4leJIsebZcBMi6S1z5SZytMEK2Bs9S4Jx2cMHrDf9UHBxQx_UVFo5vQF69b72AuyLBIiTdRJsDSHIb2tP6HHeQhfHxDGcBV5xUIRsyAaYdEcJSSYBmxrfOoNECEAyFh1mNZIQrZxkE1coqas3c6WKvLFJbnE627/w193-h267/Screenshot%202023-05-23%20at%2011.23.21%20AM.png" width="193" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Stepping into the Chrysalis</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGIemxAiPGzma7OkYeUhLAU4WnzzbFQn6n-Rk4_Zy27QXEOhGspZIAsqd2CivTVfZpG0LjhPYhnYUYkGIRhU4PeELPcLYCIyOW4PmfF4EDvBsVUfwCjU-nCwpDu3WmqOdSaFRayIS6UwuO63n34BhaUA8Ygo0ehJbOKKPBX7-gfFcGNJsvReurZjGl/s552/Screenshot%202023-05-23%20at%207.04.14%20PM.png" style="clear: right; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="552" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGIemxAiPGzma7OkYeUhLAU4WnzzbFQn6n-Rk4_Zy27QXEOhGspZIAsqd2CivTVfZpG0LjhPYhnYUYkGIRhU4PeELPcLYCIyOW4PmfF4EDvBsVUfwCjU-nCwpDu3WmqOdSaFRayIS6UwuO63n34BhaUA8Ygo0ehJbOKKPBX7-gfFcGNJsvReurZjGl/s320/Screenshot%202023-05-23%20at%207.04.14%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">The story I tell most often is of a triptych I painted called "Stepping into the Chrysalis" which tells the story of transformation and change. Oddly enough it evolved in a similar manner to its subject matter. I tell of its </span><span style="color: #0000e3; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">evolution</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">, then dramatically open the doors as I talk about how we too often go through change with trepidation, eating ourselves alive with worry, much as a caterpillar dissolves into caterpillar soup within that chrysalis. They laugh ruefully, acknowledging this shared experience. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">People often bring friends to my studio after hearing me tell a story that they then want me to tell their friends. Sometimes I watch them retell the story themselves, tickled that it touched them and that they remember the details. One young woman told me that this story of transformation had stayed with her and she often thought about it.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I painted about my mother’s loss of memory in her later years and I post stories as well as the related artwork. I’ve had people respond with tears about subjects that resonated in their own life. Many have loved someone who lost memory and my work touches those raw places. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Those with Jewish heritage, and many without, respond to artwork based on interviews with Jewish elders or my story of traveling to Poland with a friend who is a survivor to show my artwork about the one-time Jewish community from which both my grandfather and my friend came. </span></p><div><br /></div>
<p style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLorJmdohgJKCNEqYPtT2dXnAne9iwaiQTab7G2nAh5Uya83Pl_9zpyrtoOB_smOJXSlo9IvYyJPW_az9qd7O38j_MHE4slJNbxnw9OGe7b04dDXPP4UoGAiIBQKtPMBhSZtKsyak6dtSCK9woVO4rsUaWJXUVIgAbuUO2PjnDr_IlO9j_zq5yhuOL/s576/Gedenken.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="173" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLorJmdohgJKCNEqYPtT2dXnAne9iwaiQTab7G2nAh5Uya83Pl_9zpyrtoOB_smOJXSlo9IvYyJPW_az9qd7O38j_MHE4slJNbxnw9OGe7b04dDXPP4UoGAiIBQKtPMBhSZtKsyak6dtSCK9woVO4rsUaWJXUVIgAbuUO2PjnDr_IlO9j_zq5yhuOL/w107-h357/Gedenken.jpg" width="107" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gedenken</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And many respond to a tall painting of the forest of Ponar with Yiddish text beneath the trees. It is from an old series, but too difficult to store in my loft so stakes its claim to wall space. Ponar is where the Jews of Vilnius were murdered during the Holocaust by their Lithuanian neighbors. The painting has a certain beauty that attracts people to it and when they ask me about it, I always hesitate for a minute, unsure about bringing them into the dark story that underlies it. I tell them about the Polish journalist who lived near the forest and saw the Jews brought to the forest, who afterwards heard the stories of their murder- the woman who hid her child in a pile of clothing, the chase through the forest after someone who fled. Each day he wrote about what he saw and heard, burying his words in jars in the forest, as if the forest could speak. In time it does, those pages surface in archives, then a book, painstakingly pierced together. He reports, “It was a beautiful day,” then writes of the horrors of that day. It is the juxtaposition between beauty and horror, that is the coda to the story.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhHUwpMVJ8HH1r8Kj9vATiJ8hujpyzhvYF686tJZr5aJgr3vRkpSzRAHkjRFX4QWW9TXCKOS-1Ut_PGv34ljSX5zEcY8MBoKobATV3bWt4BWwKuXP_h529MFyD8qYyA9CCMFOssNqSlIgQM2riIPZ3Hq1m5QHyvaP0do2cZdjTY1eK4Muh-hw5775/s1385/Ghost%20Trees-sm.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1385" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhHUwpMVJ8HH1r8Kj9vATiJ8hujpyzhvYF686tJZr5aJgr3vRkpSzRAHkjRFX4QWW9TXCKOS-1Ut_PGv34ljSX5zEcY8MBoKobATV3bWt4BWwKuXP_h529MFyD8qYyA9CCMFOssNqSlIgQM2riIPZ3Hq1m5QHyvaP0do2cZdjTY1eK4Muh-hw5775/w130-h200/Ghost%20Trees-sm.jpg" title="Ghost Trees" width="130" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ghost Trees</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Sometimes I have a story to tell that reads in an entirely different way to a different viewer. A painting titled “Ghost Trees,” that I did shortly after reading <i>The Overstory,</i> has trees separated from their stumps, a reflection of the way in which trees exist in community and the impact of deforestation. It drew an excited response from a young woman who exclaimed “It’s a Minecraft tree!” I soon learned that floating trees are a feature in Minecraft. And here I thought I had been channeling Magritte. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When story is your creative engine, it makes for interesting conversations, ones that touch on shared experiences that have deep emotional roots. I may never know someone’s name, but I often learn their story as well as sharing mine. Sensing a kindred spirit they often suggest books and movies they think I would enjoy. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">To share stories with those who were once strangers is powerful. It builds an awareness of how we are all connected and reminds me of why I do what I do, in precisely the way that I do it. I ended my weekend with that mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion, with gratitude for the opportunity to share stories and artwork and to make those very real connections with others.</span></p></div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div><br /></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-74906726817190163692023-05-15T17:02:00.002-05:002023-05-15T17:03:42.143-05:00 The Shape and Contour of a Life<p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">Every Mother's Day, I reflect on the many mothers who have influenced my life. My own mother has been gone now for almost eight years and yet she still feels close to me, embedded in my wiring. We often say, "may her memory be a blessing" and her memory has indeed become one.</span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">I have always had strong friendships with women of my mother’s generation, something that becomes more difficult with time as so few of them are left. This year my friend Dora invited me to join her family for her Mother’s Day brunch. Dora is 99 and was born within two years of my mother. We have gotten together weekly since we met almost thirteen years ago. It was a connection of bashert (Yiddish for fate). We were introduced by two separate friends, one in Israel and one in my community. I was creating a website on the former Jewish community of the Polish town from which my grandfather came. Dora was born in that town. She survived Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen and later came to Minnesota after the war. </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td style="width: 684px;" valign="middle">
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<p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: Helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6GPJxrSLET7wNFvHFo4fswV8yZ8YArMP4LyycZW0iEPazVw690JK0Sj-UOluumu_15hZT4n0DFLMANe-kgu72sXy0xlXw9yQJ9O3ouxYbrP-iGDJLmgHA--lfmuGBwwUNCM7eu87QNVjoBEgjKDW4FTQYVHYMGapfRa8wyeqAWFcTEAOTl7CDIhz/s1600/P1070477.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf6GPJxrSLET7wNFvHFo4fswV8yZ8YArMP4LyycZW0iEPazVw690JK0Sj-UOluumu_15hZT4n0DFLMANe-kgu72sXy0xlXw9yQJ9O3ouxYbrP-iGDJLmgHA--lfmuGBwwUNCM7eu87QNVjoBEgjKDW4FTQYVHYMGapfRa8wyeqAWFcTEAOTl7CDIhz/s320/P1070477.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Susan and Dora at our show in Poland<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">We have traveled back together to our shared ancestral town. I showed artwork there together with photographs of Dora’s pre-war and ghetto life, photos that survived hidden in her family members’ shoes. On a weekly visit in 2020, just prior to Covid shutting the world down, Dora told me she had a little project for me. Now I should have been suspicious when she said “little.” There is no such thing as a little project, for me or for Dora. They always expand. She wanted to document her relationship with seven generations of women dating from her great-grandmother to her great-granddaughters. She sat between those two poles and reached out her hands to touch them all, from great-grandmother to great-granddaughter, she was the point of connection.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">The following week the world shut down. After such steady contact with Dora for ten years, I wasn’t quite sure how we would stay connected, but that “little” project proved to be central to our </span>evolving relationship. It also proved important in giving her a purpose and a connection in a time of great isolation. We set up a weekly phone call and, on that call, I interviewed her. She would talk and I would type. By this time, I knew much of her story. She had told parts of it on video when we were in Poland. Later she told me stories that I painted. Sometimes she used the paintings in her classroom talks as a Holocaust educator. I would interview her and show the image of the painting. She would tell the story. </span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But this was somehow different. It was a continuous thread, from childhood through the Holocaust, the loss of family members, the chanciness of survival. She told me of life after the war in a displaced person’s camp and attending university in Germany, going to school with former German soldiers. When asked where she was from, she replied, “The east.” It was only when spring came and she wore short sleeves that they noticed the number tattooed on her arm. In 1950 she and her husband immigrated to America. There she found her way in a new culture, returning to school for a graduate degree, starting a family and a career, then telling her story as a Holocaust educator. It gave me the shape and contour of a life, one which was lived in a purposeful way, with intention. </span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">After we could get together again, we began to meet at her home. Rather than going out to lunch, I now bring lunch to her. Afterwards we pick up the thread of her story. We are often faced with the limits imposed by aging. Her sight is impaired, so we were reliant on hearing. As her hearing worsened, I improvised with technology so she could hear what I had typed to review and edit. I set up a speaker and used the speak option in Word in a male voice which was easier for her to hear. I would jot her changes and then add them to the version I had uploaded to the Cloud. Her grandson, a journalist, was our editor. He would read through it and make changes, move passages around and leave questions for me if something was unclear. I would pose his questions to her and send him a note back with her replies.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOxCIiObLwavGMZtoDdD_TGkVi-hitEzc-3K4o8t2tccoEU6Ms2QjWczpjluWJIX71SIhROBNhdiOURduqqsDX-Yyrsfa0PIQqU8ly00qF3pz-Zwvj4jBvA2jlTw2bhXhU_G6piyNLOWylRKoKEYaif6ajDTkQJUPKlALsPITEKlCSK4fDLckAR2B/s1600/P1070203.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOxCIiObLwavGMZtoDdD_TGkVi-hitEzc-3K4o8t2tccoEU6Ms2QjWczpjluWJIX71SIhROBNhdiOURduqqsDX-Yyrsfa0PIQqU8ly00qF3pz-Zwvj4jBvA2jlTw2bhXhU_G6piyNLOWylRKoKEYaif6ajDTkQJUPKlALsPITEKlCSK4fDLckAR2B/s320/P1070203.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: xx-small;">Dora in Warsaw at memorial to deportees</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">We are nearing the end of the story, writing a conclusion. There was a symmetry in recent events which speaks to the cross-generational theme of this project. Recently, I was at her home when she and her daughter were on Zoom to a class at the university where Dora talked of her experience during the Holocaust. A few days later she testified at the state Capitol in support of Holocaust education. She had been nervous going there. She had spoken to many large groups and never seemed to be ill at ease, but this time she felt the weight of what she was doing. There was a consequence that was important. She had to get it right, to make a difference. I got several emails that day from members of the press trying to locate pictures of her as a young woman. Her daughter, who was with her, didn’t have easy access to the photos and had referred the press to me. I sent the photos off and later watched her and the photos on the evening news. She was the star of the show, an articulate spokesperson seeking to make a difference for subsequent generations, for those great-grandchildren for whom she had written her story. </span></p><div><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-32523262941272344332023-01-08T12:06:00.001-06:002023-01-13T14:01:23.093-06:00Of Islands and Remarkable Women<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohBI1x69evDih23AporBCSOeTbIaa_qhCbxxA6Sc4QbVEoA5TxmJXcngX_8kgxHH1rXcLAFFoOWDWtS_12k9Il6oOvIOJM9DRFB06JClMHnpV6GvSXazR21SXVPi0YNJ2pmmyYsKoPfrtzA5INRyiCnntqcHW8d8A3K9NpuWmJLs705ZODfPI8UXS/s1430/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-08%20at%2011.50.04%20AM.png" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="1430" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohBI1x69evDih23AporBCSOeTbIaa_qhCbxxA6Sc4QbVEoA5TxmJXcngX_8kgxHH1rXcLAFFoOWDWtS_12k9Il6oOvIOJM9DRFB06JClMHnpV6GvSXazR21SXVPi0YNJ2pmmyYsKoPfrtzA5INRyiCnntqcHW8d8A3K9NpuWmJLs705ZODfPI8UXS/w370-h135/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-08%20at%2011.50.04%20AM.png" width="370" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-kerning: none;">So here's round two of favorite reading from 2022. Some seemed to pair conceptually even though quite different in content. One story explored the relationship between an island and the people who populate it, another the Covid virus and the lives of the people within a restricted island of safety. One offered a view of the often-untold story of remarkable women in Victorian times, another an all too relevant view of the China-Taiwan history through the experience of two remarkable women. One, of course, was also trapped on an island. I found all of these books remarkable and hope you do too.</span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Existing on an Island</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></i></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBMV1j0zGdv2STDVOs5H4mPjj0Pn78wSKvO348-wbbld_gZMBq0VozbK9NV3D2o1xNTCeSE9_YAETqUwZse6-tQahGPkBQdpZkxM751ATQIdCuUe2-9jDyxGNOjhscsO9IGHi9qnq7Zq6_0cqgUIuMlWIVB--eDtNYia03-yxdTlkFmt4eLvTOvgv/s346/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.14.47%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="242" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBMV1j0zGdv2STDVOs5H4mPjj0Pn78wSKvO348-wbbld_gZMBq0VozbK9NV3D2o1xNTCeSE9_YAETqUwZse6-tQahGPkBQdpZkxM751ATQIdCuUe2-9jDyxGNOjhscsO9IGHi9qnq7Zq6_0cqgUIuMlWIVB--eDtNYia03-yxdTlkFmt4eLvTOvgv/w140-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.14.47%20PM.png" width="140" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>The Unseen</i> <i>(2020)</i> by Roy Jacobsen is a book I was unlikely to find on my own. Too quiet I would have said about this Norwegian writer recommended by a bookclub friend. And yet, I found this book quite enchanting. It is about an island and the people who live there. Life is not easy there</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> and their character is not etched with words, but with their actions in this challenging environment. And yet they are deeply formed and people of clearly defined character. The island is a character as much as its stoic inhabitants, the weather and the sea are as well. They all exist in relationship to each other; the islanders engage with their surroundings to carve out their existence and find meaning in that effort. The novel itself is composed of carefully chosen words that construct a world that would be foreign to many of us.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDBynjkE7v1w1WGj8I7u79MR3oHtXqrGuF7SQlOKWhixP5opNhjjwmvMj1AxF2IZqLvjUwpb65I14eKyYnTaVpUVeUZWRwYZuEtzrjOVB6dqKBYj4--9B_ZDsRE2dAPdomGMTiH-uZCnv-CrAMmI0Qq8L_wP4-2nHQgPmocK6Ibucex286Mta4TE3/s352/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.15.13%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="230" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWDBynjkE7v1w1WGj8I7u79MR3oHtXqrGuF7SQlOKWhixP5opNhjjwmvMj1AxF2IZqLvjUwpb65I14eKyYnTaVpUVeUZWRwYZuEtzrjOVB6dqKBYj4--9B_ZDsRE2dAPdomGMTiH-uZCnv-CrAMmI0Qq8L_wP4-2nHQgPmocK6Ibucex286Mta4TE3/w131-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.15.13%20PM.png" width="131" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I loved <i>Lucy by the Sea</i> <i>(2022)</i> by Elizabeth Strout and read it in one day. It had a simplicity to it that made you feel as if you were having a conversation with a friend. From an island of safety in Maine, Lucy shares a home with her ex-husband as they watch Covid emerge and send its tentacles throughout NY, touching friends and family as its grip tightened. Another theme that played out through the book were former partners maintaining close friendships, forgiving and accepting each other for who they are and continuing to grow in their relationship as they age. And yet a third theme of the relationship between adult children and their parents as it unfolds against the backdrop of Covid. Life is not simple for anyone, but the growing and deepening relationships keep them connected despite the turmoil that surrounds them.</span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> Remarkable Women</span></b></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HY09mKrKwaiJfD2Caqn23O80zxULql-oXHc4f51_HQTi_lBNSzQ66nZdeNrmTxTcF7EOgSYYa-ffzZZ0UqCW6qzWYap6-bZ_9SGcpOXBRTxdyFukisXx-H15E0AZFMqIkr6fw94QZRsUjvA2CsW_RiSqdkGfX6d0NRXTJUdVuaL3VCxtMJ1kcMAb/s352/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.16.08%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="216" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HY09mKrKwaiJfD2Caqn23O80zxULql-oXHc4f51_HQTi_lBNSzQ66nZdeNrmTxTcF7EOgSYYa-ffzZZ0UqCW6qzWYap6-bZ_9SGcpOXBRTxdyFukisXx-H15E0AZFMqIkr6fw94QZRsUjvA2CsW_RiSqdkGfX6d0NRXTJUdVuaL3VCxtMJ1kcMAb/w123-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.16.08%20PM.png" width="123" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>The True History of the First Mrs Meredith and Other Lesser Lives (2020)</i> by Diane Johnson is a reframing of the past through present-day eyes. It was originally written in 1972 and was</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> reissued in 2020 with an introduction by Vivian Gornick. It looks at those famous male authors who we can find in Wikipedia, one the father of Mary Ellen Peacock and the other the husband. And then it takes a step to the side and dives into the “lesser” life of Mary Ellen, a woman of the Victorian era who was raised to think and express herself freely. Her life had a challenging trajectory, her mother went mad, and Mary Ellen left her well-known husband for an artist, then died young. In the meantime, she left much documentation of her life and her thoughts, all captured in pithy footnotes. It creates a captivating portrait of a thoughtful, engaging and for her time, unconventional woman.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvwciwYta0B3pirbc3UnPBCbeWUxmpkPuA9E3jQt92iEkUrBadQ31ToIpgjcUgEFOZ3mo-I6kSqV7fD_XiBUIiM3Qd2R0inmXSeFG3iKR7MQbNty9YVhS5iVzkY9r_iHymeAj6VswUunOggIN1BxqfFjrHx4VZg-qALu5SBoPbkyanfQElr9KpwKe/s346/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.16.40%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="232" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvwciwYta0B3pirbc3UnPBCbeWUxmpkPuA9E3jQt92iEkUrBadQ31ToIpgjcUgEFOZ3mo-I6kSqV7fD_XiBUIiM3Qd2R0inmXSeFG3iKR7MQbNty9YVhS5iVzkY9r_iHymeAj6VswUunOggIN1BxqfFjrHx4VZg-qALu5SBoPbkyanfQElr9KpwKe/w134-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%2010.16.40%20PM.png" width="134" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;">In <i>Daughters of the Flower Fragrant Garden (2022)</i>, Zhuqing Li tells the true story of a family where two sisters found themselves separated between Mao’s China and Nationalist Taiwan during China’s civil war. When what was to be a short visit to a friend resulted in Jun being trapped on an island held by the Nationalist Army, a separation of over thirty years ensued. The sisters came from a family of wealth, long lineage and Nationalistic ties, a background particularly troubling for those trapped in Mao’s China, who were punished and “re-educated," sent to primitive villages and forced from successful careers. Juan’s sister Hong, a doctor deeply committed to women’s health, met such a fate, ultimately recovering her career, but assiduously avoiding any political connection, even cutting all ties with her sister in Taiwan. The book explores how they each navigated this schism and the environment in which they found themselves.</span></p><p></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-34434693089643838082022-12-28T21:00:00.007-06:002022-12-28T22:06:54.624-06:00Readings: Bridging the Space Between<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZ1NzhFM-WVSmvimKZ-baHvl__E1kw02OkP9W7iZ1thMKbZBuhmSQVJLFuJGHjSgcPTbeTGTi7SRwHxLWkft8r_7FojH8p42o2uhkASTiLJo32hqhWV52yhzT9kTVRrp8CF8fwys3sUC7biKnGIWZBDquf4W5gM8is-yUqTtdnQrIjCRVx2uAXiQp/s1252/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%208.19.03%20PM.png" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="1252" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZ1NzhFM-WVSmvimKZ-baHvl__E1kw02OkP9W7iZ1thMKbZBuhmSQVJLFuJGHjSgcPTbeTGTi7SRwHxLWkft8r_7FojH8p42o2uhkASTiLJo32hqhWV52yhzT9kTVRrp8CF8fwys3sUC7biKnGIWZBDquf4W5gM8is-yUqTtdnQrIjCRVx2uAXiQp/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%208.19.03%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Since 2010, I have compiled my favorite books that I read each year. It allows me to trace the topics that have intrigued me over time. I often find recurring themes and this year was no exception. Many had two threads to the story, past and present which ultimately weave together, bridging time and deepening understanding of past to present. Others invoke that liminal space between life and death, often bridged through the suggestion of ghostlike presences. And one addresses a different kind of liminal space, that between sleep and wakefulness. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Past and Present</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdlPvW1ZTluxgwAQ3bAfZ9drVytRr4eOyAKRr20uuZRy9IkEjkjP9Xyukfj_sEncAlAQghrSAz91XJFBYHvmNYlKrH-bEefYr9DdedDbtdL03AI_seW1kFHGmFR6km3u7_znlC8HLkvptrknuHAr2TgiDLG84OLX6CNvv7yOcYUMDnZN56MqgPqne/s452/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.34.52%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="296" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdlPvW1ZTluxgwAQ3bAfZ9drVytRr4eOyAKRr20uuZRy9IkEjkjP9Xyukfj_sEncAlAQghrSAz91XJFBYHvmNYlKrH-bEefYr9DdedDbtdL03AI_seW1kFHGmFR6km3u7_znlC8HLkvptrknuHAr2TgiDLG84OLX6CNvv7yOcYUMDnZN56MqgPqne/w131-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.34.52%20PM.png" width="131" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One of my favorite authors is Geraldine Brooks. Her books are a rich exploration. Her newest book</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><i style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Horse-Novel-Geraldine-Brooks-ebook/dp/B09G9D94VW/ref=sr_1_2?crid=3KMYE93QP1NCQ&keywords=horse&qid=1672279190&s=books&sprefix=ho%2Cstripbooks%2C229&sr=1-2" target="_blank">Horse</a> (2022)</i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">is a story of a racehorse and of race. The racehorse is Lexington, one of the most famous racehorses of all time. Coupled with his story is a story of Jarrett, his black groom who raised him from a foal and accompanied him throughout his 25-year lifetime. While a highly recognized and rewarded slave because of his special skills, Jarrett still functioned within the boundaries of slavery. When he sought to buy his freedom, his owner reminded him that as his slave he couldn’t own anything so the money he offered should revert to his owner. A magnanimous owner, he did not impose that requirement, but reminded Jarrett that it was his choice, not Jarrett’s. Paintings were desired of these celebrity horses and were valuable in the horse business of racing and trading. A practitioner of equine art is introduced into the plot and his work reaches into a modern-day story tied to the horse in question. Even the horse’s skeleton becomes an element within the modern-day story. I found myself searching for the outlines of history and it was never far away. Set at the time of the Civil War it was told with accuracy. Jarrett is an imagined composite character as are the two modern-day protagonists, but everything else was clearly documented in history as the reader is given a front row seat. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2Wa-ETsTQDrRUhEaINHFaTzcInrJqIQKD6Y3D5JuFiMMrhjdqkN5WyORoChEP634lev38o4k_52nBQZfnrne2AK57bKZcm1Ew8eMZJ0uzmxCz9XXid33voqp6nNJFIsalu_JAky9cV_RYbJVBij-IfbEbYo3igvn1dUbG1oNGHpsT4rhONdL7VsA/s460/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.35.37%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="306" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2Wa-ETsTQDrRUhEaINHFaTzcInrJqIQKD6Y3D5JuFiMMrhjdqkN5WyORoChEP634lev38o4k_52nBQZfnrne2AK57bKZcm1Ew8eMZJ0uzmxCz9XXid33voqp6nNJFIsalu_JAky9cV_RYbJVBij-IfbEbYo3igvn1dUbG1oNGHpsT4rhONdL7VsA/w133-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.35.37%20PM.png" width="133" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Once on a visit to Chicago, I stopped by the Holocaust Museum in Skokie. There I discovered a show composed of letters written by newly freed African Americans post-Civil War seeking their</span> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;">families from whom they had been separated. It was both touching and heart-rending. I was struck by how I had never contemplated the separation of families and the efforts to rejoin them after the Civil War, although I was certainly aware of the similar search of Holocaust survivors for remaining family after WWII. </span><span style="color: #0000e9; font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+book+of+lost+friends&i=stripbooks&crid=FQ0JPSH62SBA&sprefix=the+book+of+lost+friends%2Cstripbooks%2C120&ref=nb_sb_noss_1" target="_blank">The Book of Lost Friends</a></i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+book+of+lost+friends&i=stripbooks&crid=FQ0JPSH62SBA&sprefix=the+book+of+lost+friends%2Cstripbooks%2C120&ref=nb_sb_noss_1" target="_blank"> </a><i>(2020)</i> by Lisa Wingate takes this period and explores it through one of those past and present books with two layered story threads, one in 1875 Louisiana and the other over a century later in the same location. As a family historian, I often focus on the connection of past to present, a connection that allows us to make sense of today's world resting on the bones of the past. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYw39G058EBtPIAmBwL6wKcjNHbZFTOeGsUta9trUrRMxTOwRuAQX8Y-uEDJIeODFCGDEovtnBPORUfXiU0KxU5LonVsfY0mzmzNt811wyLUeAyhai7gaeRJ05tTvf9lovsK6A8Cl5BzgrOvkPmsbI7EOUpAiWBmY3lbVZnCN5j_Gom02pwhNl__l/s454/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.42.35%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="306" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYw39G058EBtPIAmBwL6wKcjNHbZFTOeGsUta9trUrRMxTOwRuAQX8Y-uEDJIeODFCGDEovtnBPORUfXiU0KxU5LonVsfY0mzmzNt811wyLUeAyhai7gaeRJ05tTvf9lovsK6A8Cl5BzgrOvkPmsbI7EOUpAiWBmY3lbVZnCN5j_Gom02pwhNl__l/w135-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.42.35%20PM.png" width="135" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sunjeev Sahota’s, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/China-Room-Novel-Sunjeev-Sahota-ebook/dp/B08NFS85PP/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NPKJB5BEJNJT&keywords=china+room&qid=1672279406&s=books&sprefix=china+room%2Cstripbooks%2C130&sr=1-1" target="_blank">China Room </a>(2021)</i>, is another novel with two threads, past and present. Despite its perhaps misleading name, it is set in India and its reference to China is the crockery variety. The first and most compelling story dates to 1929 during a time of arranged marriages. Three Indian women are married to three Indian brothers. The conceit around which all revolves is that none can identify which is their husband in daylight -opaque marriage veils and only nighttime assignations create this circumstance. Mehar, a fifteen-year-old from a poor family, believes she</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> has identified her husband only to be in error, leading her into a love affair with another brother. Seventy years later her great-grandson arrives from England and discovers the traces of her life and the story behind it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Life and Death</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OvgCap3ANzHojDU27UKESCkvposwiRWhMGfhB5-ZYyNuShvvJjWe_fUxD9C3TM9JXGWPmNiTkI8k3GNd1vBIqMy9yExoNCL0uj1RD1QHm703Pqw_3HkpfHngbZyPoDQwOOnLu_dkq9mCX3MS56sVOh8U29wa-p-tcL8ZUuIHMweHgFnpa5O79vrC/s460/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.36.49%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="302" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OvgCap3ANzHojDU27UKESCkvposwiRWhMGfhB5-ZYyNuShvvJjWe_fUxD9C3TM9JXGWPmNiTkI8k3GNd1vBIqMy9yExoNCL0uj1RD1QHm703Pqw_3HkpfHngbZyPoDQwOOnLu_dkq9mCX3MS56sVOh8U29wa-p-tcL8ZUuIHMweHgFnpa5O79vrC/w131-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.36.49%20PM.png" width="131" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sentence-Louise-Erdrich-ebook/dp/B08TWYG991/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3O5XSHKDLT3JY&keywords=the+sentence&qid=1672279506&s=books&sprefix=the+sentence%2Cstripbooks%2C120&sr=1-1" target="_blank">The Sentence</a></i> (<i>2021</i>)</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">by Louis Erdrich was an especially intriguing book to me as it is set in the community in which I live during the time of Covid and the unrest after the George Floyd murder. To make matters even more interesting, it incorporates a ghost story with a permeable veil between this world and the world beyond. A former customer continues to haunt the bookstore </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">and Tookie, our protagonist, must contend with her presence. Erdrich writes of what she knows, setting this story in a bookstore, no doubt modeled after Birchbark Books, the store she runs in real life. Through the guise of Tookie, we are also offered a variety of additional book recommendations.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFecCSlJgKpNtv-7nocaFBajiZePljcgPMO-qF0TLH_TYGOpmW1Vx3fOGg04qZXrpTWqx64d2rbg9pr_u8mU-Vsjhm94CxbIsVRwyCpxWAPbuqcIQvdLGYJ_m7IaIAadjsWwFCxrbf8HSAt-u1QTk-HHkFZzMStOZwwIpGwFbn_FaPsMhBpHpRtDXr/s452/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.37.40%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFecCSlJgKpNtv-7nocaFBajiZePljcgPMO-qF0TLH_TYGOpmW1Vx3fOGg04qZXrpTWqx64d2rbg9pr_u8mU-Vsjhm94CxbIsVRwyCpxWAPbuqcIQvdLGYJ_m7IaIAadjsWwFCxrbf8HSAt-u1QTk-HHkFZzMStOZwwIpGwFbn_FaPsMhBpHpRtDXr/w133-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.37.40%20PM.png" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ghosts seem to be a feature in Erdrich’s writing as the line between the living and the dead seems often quite permeable. In <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=the+night+watchman&i=stripbooks&crid=3M9Z7JE9HT5JL&sprefix=the+night+watchman%2Cstripbooks%2C127&ref=nb_sb_noss_1" target="_blank">The Night Watchman</a></i>, <i>(2020)</i> a fictionalized story is based on Erdrich’s grandfather and the important role he played in fighting <a href="https://library.law.howard.edu/civilrightshistory/indigenous/termination"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">termination</span></a>. Termination efforts began in 1953 and were designed to eliminate the role of the Federal government in controlling reservations, instead passing costs to the states and pushing Native </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Americans off the reservation and into the cities. The result often meant the loss of their reservation lands and the government support which was in fact to be compensation. This is one of several plot lines as the Native Americans organize to challenge this strategy. While the character who represents her grandfather drives this storyline, the broader community is interwoven with a cast of strong characters that we come to care about, both living and those who have passed on. Strong women rooted in Native American culture show the way to a future navigating two worlds successfully.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYjx7KSuv3qQGWZDla9_PaWfalayDSZpfvku3EVpYppCWFt24tec9MHYAkZpgjgMVq2dNHeDKEenj-0v6H2J66cjJaKY7wpRr6AvayxPgzMku0PBoVBIReF7gHdTdRb5XT5OzONzlVvZu458XhXU790NalH9nrWYrdM5LfV8RJnp7OvcSb6pQKZVM/s452/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.38.07%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="302" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYjx7KSuv3qQGWZDla9_PaWfalayDSZpfvku3EVpYppCWFt24tec9MHYAkZpgjgMVq2dNHeDKEenj-0v6H2J66cjJaKY7wpRr6AvayxPgzMku0PBoVBIReF7gHdTdRb5XT5OzONzlVvZu458XhXU790NalH9nrWYrdM5LfV8RJnp7OvcSb6pQKZVM/w134-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.38.07%20PM.png" width="134" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I loved Maggie O’Farrell’s <i>Hamnet</i> so was eager to read her new book <i>The Marriage Portrait</i>. But first I heard her do a reading where she was asked about her memoir, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Am-Seventeen-Brushes-Death-ebook/dp/B071NR513K/ref=sr_1_1?crid=Z1ARSXP293ZH&keywords=i+am%2C+i+am%2C+i+am&qid=1672279748&s=books&sprefix=i+am%2C+i+am%2C+i+am%2Cstripbooks%2C126&sr=1-1" target="_blank">I</a><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Am-Seventeen-Brushes-Death-ebook/dp/B071NR513K/ref=sr_1_1?crid=Z1ARSXP293ZH&keywords=i+am%2C+i+am%2C+i+am&qid=1672279748&s=books&sprefix=i+am%2C+i+am%2C+i+am%2Cstripbooks%2C126&sr=1-1" target="_blank"> Am, I Am, I Am </a>(2018)</i>. Before I moved to her latest novel, I took a detour and read this most unusual memoir which explores the close calls with death or danger that she somehow evaded. Each chapter focuses on the physical point of vulnerability in her body. It culminates in the life-threatening situation which grips her most deeply as she watches her daughter’s life precariously perched on that thin line that separates life from death. I took away from that book a new appreciation of the opportunity to live each day of our life and the vulnerability which always hovers nearby.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlLqFM1AHzMUCvrLNiQeUdZ4k-tVIoSM_eE4Fx2Q8WkQv0HuCvzuJYexb3rXLF_f3h6XGo--r78NYk29IVMVqnaR0H8JZ1AjrVeXAVnJTZiDsrhnKEDS_vLAcErd_ALxeZHMwrQHsIQMwKiALePOp2gu2Oa6LduYr_R4dht-p2TFbqXtpkkYsXP57/s446/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.38.37%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlLqFM1AHzMUCvrLNiQeUdZ4k-tVIoSM_eE4Fx2Q8WkQv0HuCvzuJYexb3rXLF_f3h6XGo--r78NYk29IVMVqnaR0H8JZ1AjrVeXAVnJTZiDsrhnKEDS_vLAcErd_ALxeZHMwrQHsIQMwKiALePOp2gu2Oa6LduYr_R4dht-p2TFbqXtpkkYsXP57/w134-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.38.37%20PM.png" width="134" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I then moved to <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Marriage-Portrait-novel-Maggie-OFarrell-ebook/dp/B09RTYQW2S/ref=sr_1_1?crid=34DCUPVOWZ9EZ&keywords=the+marriage+portrait&qid=1672279841&s=books&sprefix=the+marriage%2Cstripbooks%2C118&sr=1-1" target="_blank">The Marriage Portrait</a> (2022)</i>, based on an actual marriage in 1558 which similarly sits atop a deep sense of vulnerability between life and death. A young girl of 16 enters a marriage </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">with a ruler who fluctuates between a heightened sensitivity and understanding of his bride and a cloud of threat which makes her fear for her life. It is underscored by the sense of vulnerability women of that time faced in a marriage should they not produce an heir while subject to the control and whims of a spouse. I thought back to <i>Hamnet</i> which also focuses on the thin line between life and death. This seems to be the theme that intrigues O’Farrell through these books, a thread in her own life which informs her choice of material.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Sleep and Wakefulness</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWwXy1LFEK5h4pOnrmbO23RPiDIypvcPYb0jyrwqB4mbLojQxDE20iojTg1m3RQvqp_435YiZ6ioaebnFnMLvYMN0EJD6btipJkcSbXhxYQulLO3EWDdhCMDCj_iLKnt73g9rcVY0he2Kb-4vJlQtktDCwrPMGL8a-cqTOBI7ayJFNHAQmxakx9m4/s454/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.46.49%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWwXy1LFEK5h4pOnrmbO23RPiDIypvcPYb0jyrwqB4mbLojQxDE20iojTg1m3RQvqp_435YiZ6ioaebnFnMLvYMN0EJD6btipJkcSbXhxYQulLO3EWDdhCMDCj_iLKnt73g9rcVY0he2Kb-4vJlQtktDCwrPMGL8a-cqTOBI7ayJFNHAQmxakx9m4/w132-h200/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-28%20at%207.46.49%20PM.png" width="132" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Colson Whitehead’s latest novel <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Harlem-Shuffle-Novel-Colson-Whitehead-ebook/dp/B08QMZC2PM/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3I9ZDE65BC6P0&keywords=harlem+shuffle&qid=1672279908&s=books&sprefix=harlem+shuffle%2Cstripbooks%2C132&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><i>Harlem Shuffle</i> </a><i>(2021)</i> is quite different than his earlier books The <i>Underground Railroad </i>and <i>Nickel Boys</i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">. It is a character study of both the people and the place, New York Harlem in 1959. I found myself especially intrigued with a concept that it frequently referenced <i>dorvay</i>, a derivation of Ray Carney, our protagonist, from the word dorveille. The word is formed from the French words, <i>dormir</i> and and <i>veiller,</i> to sleep and to be awake. It came from a time before electric lights when people split their sleep in two, waking in the middle </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">to perform those tasks that somehow eluded them in daytime hours. Carney thought of himself as coming from a crooked beginning with a father who was, well, a crook. He however was just slightly bent and</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><i style="font-family: helvetica;">dorvay </i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">was when the straight world slept and the slightly bent got to work. Carney bridged the world between the straight and the crooked, living a life perched on a tightrope between the two. How he resolves this contradiction is the story.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Stay tuned for a few more topics on islands and remarkable women!</span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-3188350366273989232022-10-12T10:47:00.000-05:002022-11-01T11:44:23.518-05:00Layers of Time<p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 233); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-kerning: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When my mother was in her final years, I often traveled to spend time with her. She lived in Peoria, the town where I grew up, still in my childhood home. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">It was an eight-hour drive and a week-long visit. I explored the city with her, rediscovering it myself as we visited museums and gardens. We shared special moments, but it was also challenging as her memory fled. I needed a periodic escape to be fully present for her and began reconnecting with old friends from college and post-college days. One evening at dinner, a friend noted that when my mother was gone, my visits would cease. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">Of course, </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">he was right, but it had never occurred to me, acknowledging my mother’s future absence was not something I could easily conceive of – emotion clouding the logical inevitability</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: #0000e9; font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="color: #0000e9; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">His prediction came to pass in 2015 when my mother passed away. I came down again in 2016 for the unveiling of her tombstone and the sale of my childhood home. After that, there was no reason to make that lengthy trek–– until I received the invite to my 50th high school reunion, one year delayed because of Covid. I had never gone to a high school reunion. High school was not my happy place, but rather something I needed to get through to get on with my life. I began to poll my friends on whether they had ever attended a reunion. There were two schools of thought, those who encouraged me to go and those who insisted they would never ever go to a reunion. The former tended to have an air of conviviality that would serve one well at a reunion. I am much closer in temperament to those in the latter group. </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I hold no sentimentality for high school or any of the schools I’ve attended. I’m not much good with the rah-rah stuff, hated pep rallies, don’t follow college sports and have no interest in graduation ceremonies. I skipped two of mine. I love learning, it’s the sentimentality and ceremonial parts that felt foreign to me. And then there is the question of ownership. There are those who owned high school. They were the stars of that show, attended the reunions and basked in the sentimentality of those years. I understand the concept of owning one’s space better now as I do that in my spheres of interest. It is a good feeling, being recognized for what you do well, a feeling of belonging. I am grateful to feel that in my life. Still, high school wasn’t my space, and to enter a place and time that didn’t really belong to me, I needed reinforcements. I started a message group with a couple of high school friends who I’d connected with on Facebook. They too were debating attending and shared similar sentiments. Slowly we converged on a decision to attend.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcra6AcUH6BegjDHcmEOHA6LnHCV7OqkBXTR8E3vWmWnrd68jxuzi2MTEHd6Esk3ghHdWgCDKoqjm2R4Du_Ew9pmGmyuj6PWJSfC_0fO0AaUy4VkYk3YThggRqWLmkeer4Norbl3mn9uHbKCOjZNqO7piTjnrtZSV84h71Mo5LrZkJO00gsg5lxPDs/s4032/IMG_5971.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcra6AcUH6BegjDHcmEOHA6LnHCV7OqkBXTR8E3vWmWnrd68jxuzi2MTEHd6Esk3ghHdWgCDKoqjm2R4Du_Ew9pmGmyuj6PWJSfC_0fO0AaUy4VkYk3YThggRqWLmkeer4Norbl3mn9uHbKCOjZNqO7piTjnrtZSV84h71Mo5LrZkJO00gsg5lxPDs/s320/IMG_5971.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9gnKpGcqMBRg2ZYTo32BJucyihZzOoyOBCijuyyFYg3Ssr14mJLpbQnC6npA8P4X8FXwva97H-JLWWkiuWsBMZyNI8IEAmdoDN-UgP3igktMr_p8onJB7JMS32g6-T1Ti8sXQ9wO7OmdXJeX8mJaSQbVtQNUxpQwGbZPS9U8ySII2E41TgS2iHIB/s4032/-IMG_5864.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9gnKpGcqMBRg2ZYTo32BJucyihZzOoyOBCijuyyFYg3Ssr14mJLpbQnC6npA8P4X8FXwva97H-JLWWkiuWsBMZyNI8IEAmdoDN-UgP3igktMr_p8onJB7JMS32g6-T1Ti8sXQ9wO7OmdXJeX8mJaSQbVtQNUxpQwGbZPS9U8ySII2E41TgS2iHIB/w188-h250/-IMG_5864.JPG" width="188" /></a><p></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">These were the thoughts that occupied me as my husband and I set forth on that long drive. Our route took us through the Driftless area, a region</span><i style="font-family: helvetica;"> </i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that covers portions of Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois and Iowa. This region wasn’t covered with ice during the Ice Age so lacks deposits of drift, hence driftless, but by no means unfocused. It has steep hills, bluffs, dense forests and deep river valleys. The Mississippi River cuts through the region creating amazing vistas and overlooks. Add to that fall colors and my usual napping in the car was held in abeyance as I absorbed the extraordinary beauty of our drive. It felt like a prelude that demanded something equally worthy.</span></p><p class="p6" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 233); color: #0000e9; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In my purse were several colorful stones I was bringing to place on my parents’ gravestone. My parents’ presence still pervaded my sense of the city. I remembered when my father took us on what we jokingly termed the Phil Weinberg memorial tour. First to the studio of an artist to see a portrait he had just completed of my father, then to their burial plots. Some years later, we gathered in front of his portrait for a family photo after his funeral. Perhaps this was a memorial tour of my own, saying goodbye to a city I was unlikely to return to anytime soon, a city vested with a rich layer of memory. I suppose it is only fitting to have it begin with high school friends, some dating back to grade school.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span class="s2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 233); color: #0000e9; font-kerning: none; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration: underline;"></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxjshvhtl3rfSQwBuDrJ7ihpoO_HWuzr9bmLDVqcF8HOGOPKn-CUEkyERhxPvC9vOcPYA6ABRhJa8skqcota9nGhwqa03njFSk_AyvA6m_B72EyJ-rpa0Kz3oO0kM07x2EYrDEE-pFlB4VSWMTw4WgYiTPSJOCZXmcDKwuJAzflQLGDtCLHRngR0M/s4032/2-IMG_5882.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxjshvhtl3rfSQwBuDrJ7ihpoO_HWuzr9bmLDVqcF8HOGOPKn-CUEkyERhxPvC9vOcPYA6ABRhJa8skqcota9nGhwqa03njFSk_AyvA6m_B72EyJ-rpa0Kz3oO0kM07x2EYrDEE-pFlB4VSWMTw4WgYiTPSJOCZXmcDKwuJAzflQLGDtCLHRngR0M/s320/2-IMG_5882.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpsePLh9YCfUuLr05SAylkGCK3fLHDCYFVzbBSd8g4Ls55vSboggde0BfLeRPRaj3bL7ghv708QcYvlvYxc9MSeQNtXgmiOVfxll9gKfNpaqUDh3V-ygmFga1RmF6W7yKQXDRzjb-OSUD4hqjaGc5_dxAX1F2Z8I6SHLPp13-ieuR2HpyRldgPh35/s3264/2014-06-20%20Mom.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpsePLh9YCfUuLr05SAylkGCK3fLHDCYFVzbBSd8g4Ls55vSboggde0BfLeRPRaj3bL7ghv708QcYvlvYxc9MSeQNtXgmiOVfxll9gKfNpaqUDh3V-ygmFga1RmF6W7yKQXDRzjb-OSUD4hqjaGc5_dxAX1F2Z8I6SHLPp13-ieuR2HpyRldgPh35/w240-h320/2014-06-20%20Mom.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We stopped for dinner at the Landmark Cafe in Galesburg, a nearby city. I noted the stamped tin ceiling, brick walls, and a curious window, not sure if it was a decorative feature or an actual window. My husband stopped at the car to pick something up and on his return announced there was a courtyard that the window overlooked. I looked around me again with dawning awareness, picturing the room, its window and door from the opposite side. I logged into my pictures, pulling up a photo of my mother sitting in that courtyard eight years earlier smiling happily at me. It was the beginning of something I experienced throughout my visit, an odd sense of layered time. Past and present co-existing with an accompanying sense of dislocation.</span></p><p class="p5" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Once in town everything seemed different, yet oddly familiar. My husband asked if I wanted to drive, quickly regretting that proposal as we both remembered the reason he usually drives. He is a horrible passenger. But I needed to drive to get my bearings in this strange mix of the familiar turned on its head. I drove by that old pink house in which I grew up, well more like a watered-down burgundy, now painted white. There was my mom’s old car in the driveway. We had sold it along with the house. I stealthily took a picture out the car window. </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd_fwbNsEvMvzeILUMv_6QE1y-Z7Izh4qmjGFolaMka0YvIqZwlgnJ4ZK3tHrfk5yO4nDQ4P5gzLbICShAr2NgT7ROxnCMbFYjjRRK5AUJgYHXXhtdTythtrnUWQAkQAl0kZn6JLIKnCD7Ixue9SPKVpobdA4mpVJX4Ypl25rXIgFy_DN2X52zva8/s4032/-IMG_5889.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd_fwbNsEvMvzeILUMv_6QE1y-Z7Izh4qmjGFolaMka0YvIqZwlgnJ4ZK3tHrfk5yO4nDQ4P5gzLbICShAr2NgT7ROxnCMbFYjjRRK5AUJgYHXXhtdTythtrnUWQAkQAl0kZn6JLIKnCD7Ixue9SPKVpobdA4mpVJX4Ypl25rXIgFy_DN2X52zva8/s320/-IMG_5889.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We went to lunch in an area </span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I remembered for</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">interesting shops and restaurants only to learn the familiar places were gone. Finally, we settled on Cayenne, a place painted with a Day of the Dead theme, grinning skulls on its walls. Once again, I had this déjà vu moment realizing that this was formerly a more sedate restaurant named Salt. We had gone there after my mother’s funeral. I reimagined our table of family amidst the skeletal grins.</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Later we went to the cemetery. I said the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, and placed my stones atop my parents’ pink marble tombstone, their new pink home. I had started a new ritual on my last visit. Three months before my father died, my parents had called my answering machine and sang Happy Birthday. I kept the recording and played it on each birthday since. My last visit to their graves was around my birthday so I had conjured them up with a rousing Happy Birthday song from cyberspace. Now as my birthday loomed, I again summoned their spirits, letting their voices waft through the graveyard.</span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That evening we joined old college friends for a Friday night art crawl and dinner. We had a satisfying visit, filled with deep conversations that I had missed. At the reunion the following evening, I enjoyed connecting with childhood friends. Many people were no longer recognizable as the teen in my memory</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">. No one escapes aging. We were the fortunate ones as the list of those no longer with us grows. Since then, life had layered its own disruptions and challenges on everyone in that room, the great leveler. We all live layered lives, juxtaposing times both past and present.</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We drove back through </span><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">the Driftless area, stopping at a vista near which locals had set up a table selling homemade jams. My husband recalled our return from a visit to my parents many years ago. We had stopped there to enjoy the view and had of course purchased jams, likely from the same merchants who confirmed they had been selling there for almost twenty years.</span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-14776860776464374592022-09-05T10:49:00.003-05:002022-09-06T09:37:16.888-05:00Recognizing Family<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUmebbIgdjRrnv9JrsjjT-SZ6HBsEZuv5arw10D0UrzjQ4_-QXuccj-uT_m11Bh1BFNBsy_xO_7zQNFdkH-_eFSP1qdEI5wifrxVZyusE60vYAhuFM79mRCHzNDxesE_ZGgMM9bDuErcdhF4HsforKvZoz0zBJKNqrwMx38U0nu6JBwhEg7eG5QnN/s1909/Womenmourning-rev.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1903" data-original-width="1909" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXUmebbIgdjRrnv9JrsjjT-SZ6HBsEZuv5arw10D0UrzjQ4_-QXuccj-uT_m11Bh1BFNBsy_xO_7zQNFdkH-_eFSP1qdEI5wifrxVZyusE60vYAhuFM79mRCHzNDxesE_ZGgMM9bDuErcdhF4HsforKvZoz0zBJKNqrwMx38U0nu6JBwhEg7eG5QnN/s320/Womenmourning-rev.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I often think of my life as a bit of a Rube Goldberg creation. I set something in motion, as if I were sending a marble spinning on its path. But that path is seldom a straight line and takes me in unexpected directions, introduces me to new people and new ideas, and often leads to surprises along the way. Just as I trace my path backwards when I solve a genealogy puzzle, I also retrace the pathways that have led me forward in my explorations in life. I am often amazed at the uncharted paths that result from that initial step.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Among the many projects that I have taken on, one has proven especially fruitful with many unexpected surprises. Twelve years ago, I created a <a href="https://kehilalinks.jewishgen.org/radom/index.html" target="_blank">website</a> on the city of Radom, Poland as a volunteer for<a href="https://jewishgen.org/" target="_blank"> JewishGen</a>. It is called a Kehilalink<i>. Kehila</i> means community and these websites document and commemorate former Jewish communities. Many of these towns no longer have any Jews in them. <i>Judenfrei,</i> the Nazis called that, something they achieved in many places. But they are communities with long memories. Often descendants are children of survivors and heard the stories firsthand, others like me are genealogists in search of the story of their family. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My paternal grandfather was from the town of Radom, Poland. The entire family was involved in flour milling and he was the youngest son, his oldest brother 18 years older. My grandfather immigrated to the U.S. in 1913, the only one of his family to depart. My theory has always been there wasn’t room in the business for him. Virtually all of the family that remained in Radom died in the Holocaust, save one cousin who survived Auschwitz and immigrated after the war. I never knew my grandfather well as I was a child when he died, but I have gotten to know the community from which he came.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Among the beneficial things to come out of this project was meeting my good friend Dora who is 98 and a survivor from Radom. Early in our friendship, I had the opportunity to travel back to Radom with Dora and hear about the community in which my family once lived. We traveled there on the occasion of an exhibit of my artwork on the Radom Jewish community coupled with photos of Dora’s from her life in Radom. The Yizkor book, which is a memorial book created by survivors of that town, has recently been translated from Yiddish and one of my paintings from that work will grace its cover (image above).<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Over the years I’ve had the opportunity to interview Dora and several others who were survivors from Radom. I’ve done research for people with roots in Radom and each of these projects has taken me deeper into the available resources. Sometimes I find records in archives that are not available on-line and as more gets digitized, I discover it, and add links to the Kehilalink. As a result, it has become a rich resource for people researching their family. I have assisted several people with information for books that are based in Radom, as well as descendants who are traveling to Radom. Through these efforts, I’ve gotten to know a network of people with ties there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I realized I needed a more active effort to connect people to the resources. "Build it and they will come" only takes you so far. Every year there is a conference on Jewish genealogy put on by <a href="https://www.iajgs.org" target="_blank">IAJGS</a>, the International Association of Jewish Genealogical Societies. One of the features of the conference is what they call Birds of a Feather groups (BOFs), gatherings that share a common interest and often are around a specific town. When the conference went online because of Covid, it occurred to me that it presented an opportunity to reach out to people around the world with ties to Radom through a BOF gathering. Last year I shared information on the many data sources in different repositories that can be accessed through the Kehilalink. Afterwards, an attendee mentioned that she had seen identity papers with photos from the 1930s in the Radom archives. I was aware of identify papers that the Nazis required of Jews in 1941, but not the earlier ones.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I soon located one complete year in 1934 that had been scanned. I worked in partnership with Judy Golan, the Radom area coordinator of <a href="https://jri-poland.org" target="_blank">JRI Poland</a>, an organization that indexes records from the former Jewish Polish communities. Over several weeks we made an intensive effort to extract information to include in their database, capturing over 400 photos of Jewish people who lived there. Another search involved me in locating photographs as I sought to find photographic support for a suspected DNA connection to a new-found relative.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This year I made finding photos of family the theme, sharing photos from ID papers, forced labor camps, concentration camps and many sources of that period. I asked researchers if they were aware of anything additional and learned of almost 400 <a href="https://cbj.jhi.pl/collections/851552">online</a> pictures in a Jewish Historical Institute collection that had gotten separated from the 1941 ID papers, many without names. Viewing the faces felt eerie. As if the name was in my memory, but simply eluding me. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMRnra7SIAas20xT9bzvn8BHtecUU_8GjB7hT-WpxSo4K6XsqXxlLSfjkkF2Qw57CLwxWyd7dRbkcfnATRtCIlHUSd_siYNu2V7Ek-Rw0Y7EAPzJa8IRHxBeq8e9_Wgn77jvWA5kwnXLawd5KIopw4-W3LgbLEesly5UNT-6q5XUVBJy4DgYdEUmu/s2052/Screen%20Shot%202022-09-04%20at%208.56.33%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="2052" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMRnra7SIAas20xT9bzvn8BHtecUU_8GjB7hT-WpxSo4K6XsqXxlLSfjkkF2Qw57CLwxWyd7dRbkcfnATRtCIlHUSd_siYNu2V7Ek-Rw0Y7EAPzJa8IRHxBeq8e9_Wgn77jvWA5kwnXLawd5KIopw4-W3LgbLEesly5UNT-6q5XUVBJy4DgYdEUmu/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-09-04%20at%208.56.33%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /> At the BOF discussion, one person suggested we explore facial recognition software. You need to have a database of relevant images before that could be useful, but an article in the <a href="https://www.timesofisrael.com/google-engineer-identifies-anonymous-faces-in-wwii-photos-with-ai-facial-recognition/" style="color: #954f72;">Times of Israel</a> alerted me to the efforts of Daniel Patt, a Google engineer. Patt is using facial recognition to recognize faces from pre-war Europe and the Holocaust through a project called From Numbers to Names. Inspired by his experience visiting the Polin Museum in Warsaw, coupled with the fact that three of his grandparents were survivors, Daniel drew on his technical skills to develop this project. He has coordinated with the U.S. Holocaust Museum to include photos from their collection and also has photos from collections at Yad Vashem. The quick search runs against about 170,000 faces while a lengthier search reaches about two million faces. You can listen to Daniel talk about the project on the Chai Montreal <a href="https://anchor.fm/chai-montreal/episodes/From-Numbers-to-Names-Identification-of-Holocaust-Photos-Through-AI-with-Software-Engineer-Daniel-Patt-e1krj3v" target="_blank">podcast</a>.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I located the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> project </span><a href="https://numberstonames.org/" style="color: #954f72; font-family: verdana;">website</a>,<span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">From Numbers to Names, and reached out to Daniel to offer him information on the many photos which I had identified, the largest being the 14,000 images of the Radom Jewish residents from 1941, many of whom later perished in Treblinka. Additional records included those nameless photos, the earlier identity papers, and photos from Dachau and Auschwitz. After viewing the Kehilalink, Daniel also asked me about getting a copy of a digitized film I had referenced of the Radom Jewish community from 1937, as they can extract images from films. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The extraction process has begun as they incorporate these images into their database. I expect that there may well be more stories to emerge.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am struck by how a volunteer effort can be that first step that begins the process. Add a bit of obsessive energy, something genealogists have in excess, and an effort to connect and share information with others of like energy. Those combined elements can power something much larger than our individual efforts.</span><span style="font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-36752009372591253382022-07-18T11:24:00.000-05:002022-07-18T11:24:13.546-05:00Inside-Outside: Opening the Door to Community<div class="separator"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For the past ten years, I've participated in a Jewish Artists' Lab. Recently I was invited to assist with a retrospective show for the lab and find that it has taken me into my own personal retrospective. </span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeT_bNLMLQUa6a9nht7pyq6ZP1M7qFtnJ4EINYHPzXfHZGKzjL1x_5Ko3Z2upWPvVcynZKr7pW4B4bwWKWLqPL8OUG42Z9rMTX7ryq5MMUbrOYg-pKpnrLhTadlk_AOmvwKl-BcUldxhZR5Czp0yaAI5AHoC8CGf5UwwVf8z9EpX18lQD5AspBi_Df/s458/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.21%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="370" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeT_bNLMLQUa6a9nht7pyq6ZP1M7qFtnJ4EINYHPzXfHZGKzjL1x_5Ko3Z2upWPvVcynZKr7pW4B4bwWKWLqPL8OUG42Z9rMTX7ryq5MMUbrOYg-pKpnrLhTadlk_AOmvwKl-BcUldxhZR5Czp0yaAI5AHoC8CGf5UwwVf8z9EpX18lQD5AspBi_Df/w242-h299/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.21%20PM.png" width="242" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I had entered the lab with some trepidation. I had felt a bit outside of the Jewish community until I stepped into family history research and began to incorporate it into my artwork. When the lab announcement arrived, I had been showing artwork related to family and cultural history as well as the Holocaust. I didn’t think of myself as a Jewish artist, but rather an artist who was Jewish. There is a subtle distinction between the two. I’m skittish about labels as they tend to constrict paths rather than expand them.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Over time I developed a rather unique role within the lab. In 2012, I began to write about it in this blog. As this has a more general audience, I tended to write of elements of more general interest. As that first year concluded, I wrote a <a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2013/08/a-declaration-of-being.html" target="_blank">blog</a> on a piece in the show that caused me to consider the importance of naming who we are when the path is still emerging. “I am an artist” or “I am a writer”– tentative announcements that begin to take form in reality by the sheer power of acknowledgement. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After that blog post, I was invited to create a separate <a href="http://mplsjewishartistslab.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">blog</a> for the lab itself. My vantage point changed a bit from a more general audience to one more deeply immersed in Jewish content. I felt a bit awkward at first, finding my voice for this new venue. There is a wide range of observance among the lab members. I’m at the very secular end and I worried a bit about lacking the deeper knowledge of some of my fellow artists who were much more immersed in Jewish practice. I ultimately decided to let the blog reflect my personal lens as I sought meaning in the content for myself, often from the perspective of metaphor. It became a creative engine for me, presenting a different lens through which to contemplate a subject. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> As part of the lab, we created an artwork for an annual exhibition. I started each year wondering if I could come up with something thought-provoking. After ten years, I’ve learned to trust the process, but am still relieved when a compelling idea begins to come together. While I created paintings for the exhibitions, the text and the story behind it felt equally important. The process by which it evolved often became an important part of the story as well.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> One of my favorite themes was Text-Context-Subtext. It was in its very name a layered approach, often working itself to the subtext of creativity. We looked at the text of Genesis and the creation of the world, then discussed the difficulty in both <a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2013/06/all-beginnings-are-hard.html" target="_blank">beginning</a> something creative and deciding <a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2013/07/endings.html" target="_blank">when it is done. </a>I was relieved to learn from my fellow artists that I wasn’t alone in struggling with such things. I began to accept that part of the process of creating is uncertainty. It is a process of experimentation and being open to possibilities as we find our way. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Passages in the Torah served as jumping off points for such questions as to how we might <a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2013/03/painting-time.html" target="_blank">compress time</a>, or express sound through a visual medium. I began to step beyond my <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#bound" target="_blank">painting</a> to include poetry, expanding my scope as I drew on a story from a close friend, a Holocaust survivor. I later returned to her <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#artwork2" target="_blank">story </a>when we examined the theme of light where her experience during the Holocaust flipped our associations with light and darkness on their head. Darkness that hid them was her friend, while light meant exposure. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I often dove beneath the surface in search of metaphor and tapped a wide variety of sources for inspiration. Sometimes I shaped the theme around a related topic of interest. We explored water, a primordial force of both creation and destruction. I had been painting about memory as I observed my parents’ struggles with its loss and ran across a quote from Toni Morrison that became my raw material for my <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#Flooding" target="_blank">artwork</a>. "<i>You know they straightened out the Mississippi River in places... Occasionally the river floods these places. "Floods" is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”</i> I explored the linkages between water and memory and put out a memory jar, asking people to submit a memory they shared with someone who had since lost memory. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWFs60xUcO0Mjteqhn2184ix_-ZU8-ISKd6l4nL123uCYaM4HmSqOnuDddbrp8-nwD46PQCjjONyFfZfs5Ge6k_3YHe5Lpv54eJvJF_GaNd345F2pAJ_NL9iHPQL2iAQ7Y1PvA-fiWdO4ymjYRV4QUai9_kgh3eqp9t6c246ZjFi0jOH8PCakfrkg/s3126/TheRoundnessofThings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3126" data-original-width="2540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWFs60xUcO0Mjteqhn2184ix_-ZU8-ISKd6l4nL123uCYaM4HmSqOnuDddbrp8-nwD46PQCjjONyFfZfs5Ge6k_3YHe5Lpv54eJvJF_GaNd345F2pAJ_NL9iHPQL2iAQ7Y1PvA-fiWdO4ymjYRV4QUai9_kgh3eqp9t6c246ZjFi0jOH8PCakfrkg/s320/TheRoundnessofThings.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Roundness of Things - Wisdom-2016</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Appropriately, wisdom was our theme the year my mother died. For several years she was the source of so much of my creative energy as I processed her loss. She was also a very wise woman, and my <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#roundness" target="_blank">artwork</a> was a reflection on the wisdom of mothers, incorporating her notes on the wisdom she gleaned from books.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX91rdmis6GKqZfGnOHGHVqEwB6xUPmAB_A9RjhCh_3Xuvw-tXL_3l_sLjszhaIXigMi9Jj7UP0S9gDtlNXPQNFcXeL9eylU6a3nKnTZZPWUPtgbBLgddEGnKfCygUMvUgQYGIegvEzJXWpz0wWeXJczoyx8QM3c-rWcf5Oplf2IsJZORKiITrz2J8/s532/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.28%20PM.png" style="clear: right; font-family: helvetica; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="532" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX91rdmis6GKqZfGnOHGHVqEwB6xUPmAB_A9RjhCh_3Xuvw-tXL_3l_sLjszhaIXigMi9Jj7UP0S9gDtlNXPQNFcXeL9eylU6a3nKnTZZPWUPtgbBLgddEGnKfCygUMvUgQYGIegvEzJXWpz0wWeXJczoyx8QM3c-rWcf5Oplf2IsJZORKiITrz2J8/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.28%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stepping into the Chrysalis-2017 <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dlxGTQrLV7k8cX9inoQiaKTrBHjeZcChggqdA5kksQ4bLoC0i4IKkwMjofNIz9nwOd76Zuk-Z4kmiGOP-BeKnAec28eVOJ9fo3zcn6XOvtThqwOYMm4zOaBlLsaQF3CamHmCFNBu1rKVc_8yVnCoE2dwnK8Z3_JUONzywQ_7EPP1cdMXJ6b-uu0Z/s476/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.14%20PM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="336" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dlxGTQrLV7k8cX9inoQiaKTrBHjeZcChggqdA5kksQ4bLoC0i4IKkwMjofNIz9nwOd76Zuk-Z4kmiGOP-BeKnAec28eVOJ9fo3zcn6XOvtThqwOYMm4zOaBlLsaQF3CamHmCFNBu1rKVc_8yVnCoE2dwnK8Z3_JUONzywQ_7EPP1cdMXJ6b-uu0Z/w214-h303/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-12%20at%2011.56.14%20PM.png" width="214" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Stepping into the Chrysalis-2017</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Two themes were interrelated. The first was Inside-Outside, Boundaries and Otherness. The second was Crossing the Threshold. It was 2016 and we were first seeing the deep divide within our country. There was a lot of “othering” going on and a lot of talk about boundaries. While that </span>was the direction I first anticipated exploring, I ended up delving into the three parts to this topic, inside, outside, and the in-between, navigating the passage across that boundary line. My <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#boundaries" target="_blank">work</a> became a triptych with an inside, outside, and a meditation on the often challenging in-between. It opened to embrace the viewer much like an ark.The following year, I created a <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#thresholds" target="_blank">piece</a> that explored stepping into change, a trail of eggshells led into the structure as I stepped into something new and unknown.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeLeKYP7LK6qjT3u4eaERLTUloAix2D9dlBxIBTjSeB9Pvi2aewyCyXbv7Ic3Iq7aKErt0vyVhnolfm1TFpPZUpX7lD6nHwB3UtmC_Y4wnIc9tiHJ7HLjNiaF-tQGd_x78vEcs3uVwxpLtzB9xGg4EWxmuStQi7c1Gxqs46GEbLNnDUJOyvmW7trA/s6000/Tree%20Time%20-%20SWeinberg.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4058" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeLeKYP7LK6qjT3u4eaERLTUloAix2D9dlBxIBTjSeB9Pvi2aewyCyXbv7Ic3Iq7aKErt0vyVhnolfm1TFpPZUpX7lD6nHwB3UtmC_Y4wnIc9tiHJ7HLjNiaF-tQGd_x78vEcs3uVwxpLtzB9xGg4EWxmuStQi7c1Gxqs46GEbLNnDUJOyvmW7trA/s320/Tree%20Time%20-%20SWeinberg.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Tree Time - 2020</span></td></tr></tbody></table> Our last two years were Covid years. We met on Zoom, and I abandoned the gym for walking. I became enamored with trees as I walked through my neighborhood, a different kind of figurative subject than the people I had painted. And I only realized in hindsight that I had continued with an inside-outside theme for three paintings in a row. </span></div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2sHynN5I3oilb-2MkQ6Upkg_Zfg5AsAgdagep6a3Y0szwVnNlpppinZGkyDI0OfzH_9eP-16PXaJ6N01fUqpR1wK4uuo5wblYJ0673Mf92Y5hF-hgcRckI0gCXdqE6CKXGMbxugrg-zsz2Qa7ltgok1di3W56u7OlJW-MFMRnUJ7-Ot3i1Kvc9ym/s2720/TheBurlyTree.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2720" data-original-width="2621" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2sHynN5I3oilb-2MkQ6Upkg_Zfg5AsAgdagep6a3Y0szwVnNlpppinZGkyDI0OfzH_9eP-16PXaJ6N01fUqpR1wK4uuo5wblYJ0673Mf92Y5hF-hgcRckI0gCXdqE6CKXGMbxugrg-zsz2Qa7ltgok1di3W56u7OlJW-MFMRnUJ7-Ot3i1Kvc9ym/w297-h309/TheBurlyTree.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burly Tree - 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we explored the environment with the topic of Muddy</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> Waters, I <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#treetime" target="_blank">painted</a> a 4700-year-old tree in California known as Methuselah with its tree rings painted as backdrop. We know of global warming in part because of a core taken from that tree. I thought of it as a messenger, much as was the original Methuselah. The following year we addressed Brokenness and Wholeness which I explored through a tree laden with burls. Burls grow out of injury into a thing of beauty, charting a circuitous route, much as we do through life. The burls made up the background of this <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html#brokenness" target="_blank">painting </a>as well. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I look back, I realize that the subject that has become central to much of my recent work is the in-between, how to show the inside and outside simultaneously, the liminal state of transitions and the uncertainty that often accompanies it. As someone who has moved between multiple worlds, it is a topic that resonates for me. I also had a few muses, my friend Dora and her Holocaust story inspired two paintings as did my mother. The community of artists has helped me to appreciate the common threads that we all deal with in a creative process and made me feel welcome within the community. And accepting the process has helped me navigate those times when I am stuck and not sure where I’m going next. Along the way, I’ve learned a lot more of the underpinnings of Judaism and have a deep appreciation of its support for questioning, challenging and thoughtful inquiry.<br />
</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You can find my lab work on my website at <a href="http://www.studio409art.com/JewishArtistsLab/index.html" target="_blank">Artists Lab.</a></span></div><div><br /></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-30589567360996930672022-05-09T21:40:00.001-05:002022-05-12T07:58:39.378-05:00A Puzzle in Ten Steps<span style="font-family: verdana;">When my father died, I was the first one to tackle his office. My father loved information. If something interested him, it ended up in a growing pile that ambitiously reached skyward. When we would prod him to tackle the clutter, he would threaten to light a match to it. I think he was joking.</span><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After his death, I wouldn’t let my siblings enter that space until I first went through it. Mind you, it wasn’t hard to keep them at bay; it was rather daunting. As the family historian, I feared that someone else would pitch something that only I would find valuable. When I got into family history, my father had joined me. He contacted his cousins and gathered information which he proudly presented to me in our weekly phone calls. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In his office, I found scraps of paper and envelopes with jottings that I salvaged from destruction. They would have had no meaning to anyone else. To me they were gold. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I found myself thinking of that recently, when I was working with a client where we had hit a dead end. His family came from an area where there was little on-line. I had built out what I could but felt as if I was nibbling around the edges. I hadn’t found that thread for which a simple tug begins to unravel the puzzle. As I probed for more information, I asked a question born of my experience in my father’s study. "Do you have any envelopes with jottings on family history?" I told him about my experience and how an opening can emerge from the smallest detail. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And yes, he had an envelope with a few details jotted by his late mother alongside notes on a purchase of needles and thread. It was only later that I connected that odd juxtaposition with my own search. In fact, the information on that envelope presented me with a very important thread on which I was able to build. Some of the jottings would not make sense until much later, but the thread with which I began was this:</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Sheba’s mother Betty raised Joe ” </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4qt44vVSwqXiDSzQodrAOBH4-mdiamFhDfkmLgvXT5O50bIHLJYjCigPhWIxuMmehqVqjmmQSKWQzXVxnsStayldny-w81AwmITugSU0v9ftiNuOO_gDkgCBOKEVn5IzAJxuWJ9z2A51q84VUSoCYwYZoXv1YgPAuyFYT7HvYJy7krH9QRNaDmWm/s810/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.30.04%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="810" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4qt44vVSwqXiDSzQodrAOBH4-mdiamFhDfkmLgvXT5O50bIHLJYjCigPhWIxuMmehqVqjmmQSKWQzXVxnsStayldny-w81AwmITugSU0v9ftiNuOO_gDkgCBOKEVn5IzAJxuWJ9z2A51q84VUSoCYwYZoXv1YgPAuyFYT7HvYJy7krH9QRNaDmWm/w383-h226/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.30.04%20AM.png" width="383" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Joe was his grandfather, but my client had no idea who Sheba or Betty were. I recognized this as a good clue with multiple data points that would help to prove its accuracy. If they all lined, up I would know I was on the right trail. I had two names in relation to each other and one of them was unusual. I also knew they had to be in one of two cities, even better if they were in both. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">1) </span><b style="font-family: verdana;">Search related data points, lead with the unusual:</b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I went to Ancestry.com and did a search on the unusual name of Sheba with a mother named Betty in both Minneapolis and Milwaukee, the two towns we knew Joe had lived in as a child with his father Sam. Up popped a record with a new surname, Betty's married name of Juster. Betty and Sheba Juster appeared in both cities. The trail was heating up.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">2) <b>Form a hypothesis.</b> To raise someone’s child you likely had a close relationship to his parent. My theory was that Betty was the sister of Sam Cohn, Joe’s father. Now I needed to validate that. I had two names, her given name and her husband’s surname. I wanted her maiden name to test my theory. I plugged her husband’s name into a </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">Minnesota marriage database</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"> and up popped his wife, Betty Cohn. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">3) </span><b style="font-family: verdana;">Verify the relationship:</b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> So how could I verify that she was a sister, rather than perhaps a cousin? For that I wanted to see if they had the same father. I needed a death certificate for Sam and Betty. We had one for Sam and it gave his father as Eliezer. When we located one for Betty, it gave her father’s name as Alter. So not a match? Not so fast. I’ve done enough research in Jewish records to know that many people had two names which they used interchangeably. The jury was still out on this one. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">4) <b>Build an information foundation:</b> I’ve learned that sometimes we need to wait for the facts to emerge. What we do while we wait is build the foundation. We look for constellations of related names in city directories and census records. Census records show family groupings. City directories show people with shared surnames at the same address or nearby addresses. The Minneapolis library has </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">digitized city directories</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">, so I was able to do my research from home. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">5) </span><b style="font-family: verdana;">Watch for multiple spellings. </b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just in case I forgot, the city directory reminded me that if I was searching for Cohn, I should also search for Kohn, Cohen and several other varieties. In fact, I found that the same person often went by different spellings in different years and across related family members at the same address we could see different surname spellings in the same year.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px 0px 0px 52.4px;"><tbody><tr><td style="border: 1px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 103.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">1889</span></b></span></p></td><td style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 109.9px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">1891</span></b></span></p></td><td style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 97.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">1892</span></b></span></p></td><td style="border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 114px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">1893</span></b></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0); border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 103.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Alter Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 109.9px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Altor Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 97.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Alter Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 114px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rev Alter Cohn</span></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0); border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 103.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Isaac Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 109.9px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ignatz Kohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 97.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Isaac Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 114px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Isaac Cohn</span></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0); border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 103.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bertha Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 109.9px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bessie Cohen</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 97.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Betsy Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 114px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Betty Cohn</span></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0); border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 103.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Simeon Cohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 109.9px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sigmund Kohn</span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 97.8px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p></td><td style="border-color: transparent rgb(0, 0, 0) rgb(0, 0, 0) transparent; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 1px 1px 0px; padding: 0px 7.2px; width: 114px;" valign="top"><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">6) </span><b style="font-family: verdana;">Look for groupings and patterns: </b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Notice above how both given names and surnames can change. Bertha to Bessie to Betsy to Betty. Isaac to Ignatz, Simeon to Sigmund. And we have Cohn, Cohen and Kohns. Each of these groupings shared a common address within a given year.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">7) </span><b style="font-family: verdana;">Pay attention to proximity:</b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> It wasn’t until 1895 that Sam showed up near by. By now the Cohns were no longer living as a family, but in close proximity. Betty’s husband appeared across the street from Sam and by 1900 Sam was down the street from Betty and her husband. After that they disappeared only to reappear in Milwaukee. Alter remained in Minneapolis on that street for many years. I suspected these names were related and that hunch was confirmed when in Milwaukee I found Sam and Betty’s husband in a business called Cohn and Juster.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;">8) <b>Search newspapers, including community ones</b>: We believed that Alter was Betty’s father based on her death certificate. I checked the MN Historical Society for </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">death records</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"> and found two Alter Cohns in town. I searched Newspapers.com for obituaries and found two – a detailed one with none of the related names and one with only the name, age and address. The local Jewish newspaper, the </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">American Jewish World,</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-kerning: none;"> began publishing under that name in 1915. I had dismissed this as a source earlier because Sam had left Minneapolis before it began. Alter, however, had remained so a search might yield more information than the city paper had. And in fact, a search yielded a detailed obituary that named all of his children, Betty and Sam among them. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqYyEPsoqIGITa-Vt8AYrzCoB-8l-vpb_mCpiHVqsTWLEFNtuj7m_D4IfOA2K7l1-BJmF3qmZ4c9i1er0ISBPdJX82wM-N0fio-6Mpyy4iTzlcqJgxXAlLgQ6NXhu6CGe6JCteCq_M8bs-qYeAX3UUM_adCMJUqQIOmBj_SrYXEOCsZkdZaUgDvui/s1148/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.29.45%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="1148" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqYyEPsoqIGITa-Vt8AYrzCoB-8l-vpb_mCpiHVqsTWLEFNtuj7m_D4IfOA2K7l1-BJmF3qmZ4c9i1er0ISBPdJX82wM-N0fio-6Mpyy4iTzlcqJgxXAlLgQ6NXhu6CGe6JCteCq_M8bs-qYeAX3UUM_adCMJUqQIOmBj_SrYXEOCsZkdZaUgDvui/w400-h133/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.29.45%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">9)<b> Search tombstones</b>: <a href="about://"><span style="color: #813a5f; font-kerning: none;">Findagrave</span></a> is a wonderful resource for tombstones. I did a search for the Alter Cohn in this obituary and came up with an image. Jewish tombstones often list the Hebrew name of both the decedent and their father. While Alter was written in English on the tombstone, his Hebrew name is reported as Eliazar, reconciling the different </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">names given in Sam and Betty’s death certificates. Sam and Betty are indeed siblings based on both the obit and the tombstone. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7xgW8SEF3ppigFUBuh_3jxDgDxPREbNo33puOgpbyj7PydBKfX44RPE2BqqTQTLGQ_5Aj2bTTWj6PH1C9kqiLSi-BzuMnYtpiflanonzZzYUXLk8MxCq94PIG1Obf-bERqqAdiaexlvrU_UNldtkerLa6ISZZgu5lXGo8Bq64I0agNY547oR2TnK/s748/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.29.52%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="562" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7xgW8SEF3ppigFUBuh_3jxDgDxPREbNo33puOgpbyj7PydBKfX44RPE2BqqTQTLGQ_5Aj2bTTWj6PH1C9kqiLSi-BzuMnYtpiflanonzZzYUXLk8MxCq94PIG1Obf-bERqqAdiaexlvrU_UNldtkerLa6ISZZgu5lXGo8Bq64I0agNY547oR2TnK/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-09%20at%2012.29.52%20AM.png" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">10)</span><b style="font-family: verdana;"> Expect variances in birth years:</b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> There were a few details to clear up about age. The death certificate gave a birth year of 1850. Birth years in census records ranged from 1839 to 1850 and carved into the tombstone was the year 1839, the year he gave to the census taker in 1895. I’m putting my money on 1839 as it was the first year reported and closest to the event. When I calculated how old he was when his son was born, 1850 didn’t make sense. I continued to build out the family, finding details on descendants of Sam’s two brothers and sisters.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, there you have it. Ten simple steps from envelope to solution, an iterative process to solving a puzzle by finding that critical thread and following it wherever it leads.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-21030022921413235962022-03-26T09:17:00.003-05:002022-09-24T16:05:20.079-05:00A Place of Perilous Danger . . .and Hope<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX7Mek2W5HDCFZ2qbLEF1oSduXDOKdhwtqcvoonAHgqnCjfeMsMh_TuIRHcqCynWC2sb9GKgQfgYKxz4AOorueSHY9EGgX8TklpYTtOEbpNMIHSZCHhTKkt6rjTq5FbYSiiHADoGMXBwkeyN7a35MyyDULjJAjrfBRuEZqtChn05fiMMEnr1N8zvv/s1600/P1060290.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX7Mek2W5HDCFZ2qbLEF1oSduXDOKdhwtqcvoonAHgqnCjfeMsMh_TuIRHcqCynWC2sb9GKgQfgYKxz4AOorueSHY9EGgX8TklpYTtOEbpNMIHSZCHhTKkt6rjTq5FbYSiiHADoGMXBwkeyN7a35MyyDULjJAjrfBRuEZqtChn05fiMMEnr1N8zvv/w400-h266/P1060290.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Kamenetz Podolsk 2011</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><br /><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: helvetica; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Over recent weeks, I’ve watched the unfolding events in Ukraine with horror. I traveled there in 2011 to the town that my maternal grandparents came from, Kamenetz Podolsk. It is a town with a 13<sup>th</sup> century fairy tale castle in its midst, turrets rising high above the city. I imagine my family living in the shadow of those lofty spires. My grandfather left there in 1911 to come to the United States to avoid being drafted into the army. Ten years later my grandmother came in the wake of a pogrom. All that survived was a story of their ten-year-old daughter who died in that pogrom, along with many other Jews. That was to be followed by further massacres during WWII for any family that had the bad fortune to remain. That has been my association with Ukraine, a place of perilous danger.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Recent events have certainly supported that perception of danger, now directed at the Ukrainian population. It has also caused me to feel both empathy for its brave people and not a small amount of pride in their Jewish president. Little did I expect that changes since my grandparents' day would lead to the election of a Jewish president in a landslide. His courage and communication skills have stood him in good stead as he rises to the occasion –perhaps a response to perilous danger resides in genetic memory.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As with many genealogists who have ancestors from Ukraine, the thought that follows the dismay at recent events is to wonder if our history will also be wiped out within the archives. This is a war that is highly destructive to both civilians and physical infrastructure. While not as heart-rending as the assault on civilians, the assault on history is also concerning. Many of us fear the collateral damage that could occur to archives. Ukraine is even more vulnerable to this destruction as they are newer to the practice of digitization. Less is preserved in alternative form. </span></p><o:p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2185" data-original-width="3074" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGSfTBLWeCD75osMfNTF1XsulxKrppT50vUKMKt08UnTw07WJEmAQOo7E93zGe5wJJlXle3OHoiTUeg0aGDm_FR5JqqkLBIH8vF34s7vyipqmbBbfVoRSzH7Z6xwmmP4rpeop0jPOpVwZmU2hdqAo1WIE8N9eiTZ1UNRX6YzHdMEiABIuOxnrDlYP/w400-h284/KishlanskysUkraine.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1897 Family Photo - my grandmother 2nd from left, great-grandfather -2nd from right<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGSfTBLWeCD75osMfNTF1XsulxKrppT50vUKMKt08UnTw07WJEmAQOo7E93zGe5wJJlXle3OHoiTUeg0aGDm_FR5JqqkLBIH8vF34s7vyipqmbBbfVoRSzH7Z6xwmmP4rpeop0jPOpVwZmU2hdqAo1WIE8N9eiTZ1UNRX6YzHdMEiABIuOxnrDlYP/s3074/KishlanskysUkraine.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I first began my research into my Ukrainian family in 2002, I did it the old-fashioned way, taking family stories and testing them against records. I started with a few pages written by my grandfather reporting that my grandmother left Ukraine with her brother and his wife. Shot at while crossing the border, she was taken to a hospital in France. I couldn’t quite imagine the geography of this journey but did indeed find her coming to the US from France, followed one week later by her brother and his wife. I located her brother’s granddaughter who contributed the fact from her grandmother that they had to swim a river to leave the country. I sent letters out to those who shared the rather uncommon family’s name, finding a cousin my mother had never known. Together we traveled to California to meet her. She gave us a photo of the family from 1897. Death records and other documents allowed me to build the tree out to my 3rd great-grandfather. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Internet was still fairly new and access to on-line records was limited, especially for Ukraine. I reached out to</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><a href="https://feefhs.org/resource/russia-blitz-about" style="color: #954f72; font-family: helvetica;">BLITZ</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Information Services and they sent an employee to the Ukrainian archives on my behalf. She was able to locate a number of family records despite an archive fire a few years earlier that damaged many holdings. Ultimately she concluded her efforts because of unrest in Ukraine, a recurring theme I had not fully understood at the time.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Fast forward many years. . . I am doing research for a woman whose family came from Ukraine. I began our work advising her about the challenges of researching Ukrainian family. Relative to many other countries, there is still not much on-line for Ukraine, but this research pushed me to take a fresh look. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Finding and Digitizing Records </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So how do you confirm if there are records for your towns? </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Miriam Weiner has done the research to populate a very useful site called </span><a href="https://www.rtrfoundation.org/search.php" style="color: #954f72; font-family: helvetica;" target="_blank">Routes to Roots Foundation</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> for Jewish and civil records. If you input the name of the town, it will tell you what information resides in the archives for what dates and which archives. It doesn't however tell you if it is on-line and if so how to find it. For that you will want to see if there are indexed records. These are created by someone familiar with the language who reviews records and extracts key names and supplemental information. For Jewish records you will want to use </span><a href="https://www.jewishgen.org/databases/all/" style="color: #954f72; font-family: helvetica;">JewishGen’s Unified Search</a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> which pulls up available indices. </span></p><o:p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Suppose you find something? Now you will want to determine if it is digitized and on-line. Archives in some countries such as Poland have committed to digitizing and in many cases searches will yield attached links to the records at the archives. Even without an attached link, you can go to <a href="https://www.familysearch.org/en/" style="color: #954f72;">Familysearch</a> to see if they have digitized it. There you will search on the country and town in the catalog (go to search - catalog). With the details from the index, you may be able to find a corresponding digitized record.<o:p></o:p></span></p><o:p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But here’s the challenge –if records are not digitized, there are no on-line records. And if they are digitized, but information isn’t extracted into an index, you will need to have language skills to navigate those records.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Familysearch has been scanning records in Ukraine since 1994. That is a fairly recent history. Political upheaval delayed their efforts for a number of years after they began.With the appointment of new archive leadership in late 2019, an agreement was made to begin digitizing later in 2020. Of course Covid presented delays and now we have a war that could endanger the very documents we hope to preserve.<o:p></o:p></span></p><o:p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The recent agreement grew out of extensive work by Ukrainian <a href="https://networks.h-net.org/node/4555727/blog/khroniky/5581535/access-and-digitization-trial-alex-krakovskys-archival-battle" style="color: #954f72;">Alex Krakovsky</a>,a researcher of Jewish history, who has taken branches of the Ukrainian Archives to court many times so he could scan records from the archives without being charged an exorbitant fee. He has pursued this with a sense of mission, posting more than two million records on a Wiki page. Many of these scanned records are now in the queue to be indexed by the <a href="https://www.jewishgen.org/Ukraine/" style="color: #954f72;">Ukrainian Research Division at JewishGen</a>, something that will take some time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #111111;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #111111;">Ukrainian records that are scanned but unindexed are available on-line and can be accessed through the </span><a href="https://www.tkfgen.org/open_sources_p00.html" style="color: #954f72;">TSAL Kaplun Foundation</a><span style="color: #111111;">. This includes an interface to the Alex Karkovsky records. You can also find useful links at the blog <a href="https://lostrussianfamily.wordpress.com/scanned-russian-and-ukrainian-archive-records/" style="color: #954f72;">Lost Russian Family</a>. </span>You can use translation tools at <a href="http://stevedores.org" style="color: #954f72;">stevemorse.org</a> to learn what the name looks like in cursive, converting from English to Russian print and then to cursive. If you locate a record that looks like that name, post the document on a genealogy Facebook page or <a href="https://www.jewishgen.org/ViewMate/" style="color: #954f72;">Jewishgen’s Viewmate</a> site to get a Russian speaker to translate it further. This is all pattern recognition and not for the faint of heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #111111;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Failing the ability to access Ukrainian records, you may find as I did that you can discover a surprising amount of information from US records. Look for death certificates with parents’ names and immigration manifests that note family members they were traveling to and who they left behind. In the meantime, we are fortunate to have the records scanned by Alex Karkovsky and over time that backlog will be whittled down. And if we are very lucky, the archives and our history, along with Ukraine itself, will survive these perilous times.</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></o:p></o:p></o:p></o:p></span>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-35239021987568508832022-03-02T13:43:00.003-06:002023-08-10T18:13:01.064-05:00Other People's Families<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I first began doing genealogy, I signed up to join a group of Jewish genealogists in Utah for a week at the Family History Library. For many years it was an annual event. There are a select few who welcome a week of library research with happy anticipation. Given a choice, most people would opt for a beach vacation. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was plotting a course that would carry me into a satisfying future of immersing myself in other people’s families. One of the things that came out of those annual visits was a community of people who shared that rather unusual enthusiasm. In 2008, one of my fellow researchers asked if she could hire me to do research on her ancestor who came to Minnesota in the 1800s. She was a genealogist herself so I knew I was going to be working on the gnarly puzzles she couldn’t solve but living in Minnesota I had the benefit of proximity to the sources.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">I discovered that I enjoyed this opportunity to extend my family, for I began to take personal ownership and adopt them as my own. On some level it is an intimate thing to know the nuances of someone's family. I've found stories of re-invention among immigrants who went on to build successful lives, but also stories of deep sadness. Recently I found a family that lost most of its children within a few months, presumably from an illness. And there are the stories of events that were often not spoken of – love triangles and mental illness and of course the illegalities. I’ve looked up records from Leavenworth prison and followed stories of bootleggers. Usually enough time has passed that it has become an interesting story without the anguish of the moment, but I always imagine the weight of those events on their life and that of their children. </p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Projects tend to find me and I need to then consider what is in my lane and whether I can add value. My lane is largely Jewish genealogy even though many of the skills I have cross over to general genealogy. Even within Jewish genealogy, there are areas of expertise. For example, I do a lot of work in Poland and Lithuania and can navigate records written in Russian with some facility. On the other hand, I know little about Hungarian or Czech genealogy so steer clear of such projects. Then there are the grey areas where I start working on a family with Lithuanian roots and they just happen to have German roots as well. Suddenly I am thrust into totally new territory to navigate with the skill set I’ve developed for other countries. </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I recently found myself in just such a situation. As someone who always wants to pull the rabbit out of the hat, it is a bit unnerving. Can I do that when I step out of my lane? I remind myself that there was a time when all of this was new to me. I’ve learned that once you figure out the resources that are unique to a region, the core process of puzzle solving is the same. You look for the loose thread where a gentle tug will begin to unravel the puzzle and then leapfrog from one source to another. Sometimes I find that thread in a surprising place. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAFgemM8ZnabymnZbqSVbZcadWFo1U2fvw21JN51ncIGncKPQ4E7PuE4MISdwoBIAf4iMPjSHNpIOt72IlHj9cxILNOGQ_8htPPUTXbUSAJQLzVZdKm0AvhB13fe5gOWvtU5-6uC-rxl5H7uOsHN40NByZb42WSFkY-vkfwdEYgXboMWlbDf57i70c=s844" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="844" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAFgemM8ZnabymnZbqSVbZcadWFo1U2fvw21JN51ncIGncKPQ4E7PuE4MISdwoBIAf4iMPjSHNpIOt72IlHj9cxILNOGQ_8htPPUTXbUSAJQLzVZdKm0AvhB13fe5gOWvtU5-6uC-rxl5H7uOsHN40NByZb42WSFkY-vkfwdEYgXboMWlbDf57i70c=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I begin my research with a newspaper search. Sometimes there is little, but in smaller towns one may find surprisingly granular information. A client’s great-grandparents were fortunate to leave Germany in 1939. On their immigration manifest, they noted a son in Ohio. A search soon revealed two sons in an Ohio town that had about 12,000 people in 1900, around the time they first showed up there. My search of the local paper found reports of their many trips back to Germany in the intervening years. One of the most unusual discoveries was from a newspaper report on an event that happened twenty-five years earlier. You know those look-back columns? The local paper had one that in 1937 looked back on an event from 1912 when this family member was called to NY to attend the funeral of a half sibling. We hadn’t known of any half-siblings so combining that knowledge with a search of NY records, I found the death record that cited my client’s great-great grandmother and her first husband. I then located probate records on the half-brother that cited the entire family in both the United States and Germany, providing me with the married name of an unknown daughter. With this information, I could access Holocaust records for family members who remained in Europe, drawing additional information on who remained from immigration manifests and survivors cited in obituaries of the American siblings. We discovered a significant impact of the Holocaust on this family, all history of which my client had not been aware.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Another branch came from the region that moved from Germany to Poland after WWII. The objective was to trace family in records overseas. I began with <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/773527493536761686/3523902198756850883#"><span class="s2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(129, 59, 95); color: #813b5f; font-kerning: none;">JewishGen</span></a>, the beginning point for Jewish genealogy. There I found one promising indexed record but as the original record was not on-line I contacted the JewishGen Town Leader for that particular town. Not only did he provide me with the record, but he also clued me in to <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/773527493536761686/3523902198756850883#"><span class="s2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(129, 59, 95); color: #813b5f; font-kerning: none;">BaSIA</span></a>, a unique Polish site that allowed me to search successfully for many of the records in what is referred to as Greater Poland (Wielkopolski), a region that was once part of Prussia. In addition to that source, I located helpful Polish sites such as <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/773527493536761686/3523902198756850883#"><span class="s2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(129, 59, 95); color: #813b5f; font-kerning: none;">Geneteka</span></a>, </span><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(38, 38, 38); background-color: white; color: #262626; font-kerning: none;">a database hosted by the Polish Genealogical Society. </span><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">While not Jewish specific, its indexed records included Jewish records. Often sites will provide some translation to English and failing that I could easily navigate using Google Translate on my phone with its camera option to translate Polish text. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Verdana; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My takeaways – don’t hesitate to ask for assistance and look for country and regional sites that may index records within the archives. And don't forget that translation support is easily available on your phone. While such projects may feel initially intimidating even to an experienced genealogist, there is often an entry point that can lead to surprising discoveries.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-69260152456443892912022-02-07T12:41:00.003-06:002022-02-07T12:57:20.164-06:00The DNA Rabbit Hole<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">One of the areas of genealogy that attracts many people is DNA. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">While I am deep down the rabbit hole of genealogy research, I hesitated for some time before taking a deeper dive into DNA research. It was only when I received an email from a woman who reported that her husband had a high level of DNA connection to my late father that I began to pay close attention. I had heard of those “non-paternal events” which essentially mean the father isn’t who he is expected to be, but I hadn’t anticipated anything nearly so interesting within my own family.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUvwfJyhgKa6CLpKELsggZjdDLcA6sjbDiHpsrGLI6hbeVIzbMPWPpxRlIZD7VizjePTK6iPmbPj2TofGz2XJ7mgCCT9rr5U44LkygetBkWOnS-VAiR4pnUFlqwBVOPXOJIq2I75XQdvkbTFez3nbizwqYkS9_O7s2Oy0zOjqRXy5lBISrNuezVkX1=s822" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="822" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUvwfJyhgKa6CLpKELsggZjdDLcA6sjbDiHpsrGLI6hbeVIzbMPWPpxRlIZD7VizjePTK6iPmbPj2TofGz2XJ7mgCCT9rr5U44LkygetBkWOnS-VAiR4pnUFlqwBVOPXOJIq2I75XQdvkbTFez3nbizwqYkS9_O7s2Oy0zOjqRXy5lBISrNuezVkX1=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">The level of DNA match is measured in a unit called a centimorgan (cM). A parent-child relationship would typically have around 3500 cMs and other relationships scale down from that to a distant cousin at 8 cMs. Different testing firms can vary in the amount, but the basic relationships are fairly consistent. Long ago I had convinced my father to get his DNA tested and had then uploaded our DNA to <a href="https://www.gedmatch.com/" style="color: #954f72;">GedMatch</a>, a site that provides tools to analyze the data. They had languished there for some time as I wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. Neither did I know what to do with the string of emails I was receiving from the original testing company announcing matches. Now I had new motivation.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">In this case my Possible Relative (who we’ll refer to as PR) had a match to my father on GedMatch around 434 cM and about 132 cM for me. Raised in Puerto Rico, he had suddenly discovered with some surprise that he was 50% Jewish. He was curious, but also concerned about causing discomfort in his family as no one had broached this subject with him previously.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">I looked up a <a href="http://fh.familysearch.org/system/files/team/ait/images/blog/centimorgan-chart.png" style="color: #954f72;">chart</a> on FamilySearch that told me the likely cM match for different relationships. I eliminated those that were older than my father’s generation as PR was just shy of 50. From the chart, I concluded that the relationship to my father was likely through a first cousin and PR was either a son or perhaps a grandson of that cousin. If he was the son of a cousin then we would share a common set of great grandparents and would be second cousins. That was the closest relationship I had ever sourced through DNA so now I had some incentive to come up the curve. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">I knew I needed to bring in reinforcements so I contacted a friend, Dan Kastrul, someone who was far more knowledgeable in DNA than I was. He suggested I look at <a href="https://dnapainter.com/tools/sharedcmv4" style="color: #954f72;">DNA Painter</a> which provides a similar chart as well as a tool that will tell you the odds of likely relationships. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">With his guidance I went into <a href="https://www.gedmatch.com/" style="color: #954f72;">GedMatch</a> and we looked at the X matches of PR to see if it would shed any light on which of his parents was Jewish. A man inherits his X chromosome from his mother so we looked at PR’s X matches on the GedMatch One to Many comparison tool. We saw no Jewish names in the multitude of X matches <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">even though many of the DNA matches that were not X matches clearly had Jewish names.</span> Thus we concluded that the mother was most likely not Jewish and the father was. My next step was to consider which of my father’s male cousins were likely candidates, considering cousins on both my father’s maternal and paternal sides. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">My grandfather had been the only one of his family to come to the United States in the early part of the 1900s. As a result, he was the only sibling who survived as the Holocaust sent most of our family to their death in Treblinka. My father had sixteen male cousins, twelve in Eastern Europe and four in the United States. We were fairly certain of those in Eastern Europe that only one had survived the Holocaust. After the war, Meyer, the son of my grandfather’s sister Bayla, tracked my grandfather down through someone he met in Germany who had an uncle who played cards with my grandfather – a story which gives new meaning to Jewish geography. I considered the five cousins I knew who had been alive fifty years ago and focused on two, one of whom was Meyer. He would have been 52 at the time of PR’s birth. My hope that his branch of the family had survived may have influenced my focus, but on a practical level I considered that he had been single and lived in Florida, with some proximity to Puerto Rico. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">In the meantime there was a complicated personal story unfolding as PR finally decided to approach his mother with his questions and learned that he was in fact adopted. His adoptive mother produced the adoption file and it gave us additional information about the mother and the likely father. There was no direct line on the father, but some possibilities that still seemed to include those I was considering.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">At this point I began to look for photographic relationships. I had compared a picture of PR to my father and was struck by the resemblance, same forehead, same ears, same coloring. Now I went a step further back. From my genealogy research, I had identity papers for my grandfather’s sister, Bajla, and her husband, the people I believed were possibly PR’s grandparents. These were papers that the Nazis required to be completed in 1941, along with a photo, as they prepared to murder my family the following year. I positioned a photo of PR between his purported grandparents and there was a striking resemblance to Bajla. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">What I wanted was a picture of Meyer, the possible father. I had an identity paper with a photograph, but it had Meyer’s brother’s name on it. Then I remembered a story I had been told. When Meyer left the displaced persons’ camp he had taken his late brother’s identity to get into the United States. He had heard it was easier to enter if you were younger and his late brother was eight years younger than him. He had some explaining to do when it was time to collect Social Security. The picture I had assumed was his younger brother was in fact him under his original name. I continued to search Holocaust records, now using his original name and at Arolsen Archives I discovered a picture of him at an older age after the war. In the picture there was a deep cleft in his chin which matched that of PR. Based on photographic evidence, I was pretty sure I was on the right track, but I needed the DNA evidence to support it and I knew just where to go.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">When I first started doing genealogy twenty years ago, my late aunt had suggested that I speak with her friend Phyllis about family. I was a bit confused at first as to the relationships. Phyllis and her husband rented my aunt’s Florida apartment. How would she know about family? I soon learned that she was far more than a renter. In fact she was a survivor from Radom, our common Polish ancestral town, and her family and mine had worked in the same business. She and Meyer had been in Auschwitz together. There were marriages between the families and Phyllis and my father were both cousins to Meyer, my father on Meyer’s mother’s side and Phyllis through his father’s side. I had done a lengthy interview with Phyllis years ago and learned more of the connections, and that story about Meyer assuming his brother’s identity. She has since passed away but I have kept in touch with her daughter, a contemporary of mine. If Meyer was the link, then Phyllis’ daughter should test similarly to me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;">When we ran the test my theory indeed proved out. Her test showed a similar level of centimorgans to PR as mine. I also ran my DNA against that of Phyllis’ daughter and learned that we didn’t have any direct relationship. I now felt confident that my theory was correct. Photographic evidence and genealogical research were supported by a DNA connection tied to both sides of Meyer’s family. <o:p></o:p></p></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></span></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-86969351184025759222022-01-01T10:30:00.002-06:002022-01-14T10:37:54.462-06:00Readings: Exploring what It Means to Be Human<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Each year I review what I’ve read in the course of the year, some newly published and some just newly discovered by me. I look for concentrations of work by a particular author, themes that echo across multiple books and that most elusive of measures - books that speak to me. I’ve been doing this since 2010 and as I review past lists I am struck by how much my reading has shaped my understanding of the world.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some books that I expected to make my list didn’t, even though they were well-written and by authors I’ve enjoyed in the past. Perhaps their past work set the bar too high. I had loved Amor Towles <i>A Gentleman in Moscow (2016)</i> and found his latest book <i>The Lincoln Highway (2021)</i>, mildly entertaining and with an intriguing premise of the hero’s quest, yet somewhere it seemed to meander off the road. In <i>Apeirogon (2020)</i>, Colum McCann attempts an experimental approach filled with snippets of facts, metaphoric in nature. It offers a lot to analyze, and yet the profusion of details deterred me from quickly engaging with the story at its crux– an Israeli and a Palestinian who each lose a daughter to the conflict and form a friendship as they share their story to influence the larger story. Both are still worth a read, just not my favorites within their body of work.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There was a theme that emerged across many books that I read this year that surprised me as it spanned both fiction and nonfiction. Everyone seemed to be writing about gene-editing in one form or another. In addition to enhancing humans, the theme often connected to artificial intelligence that borders and extends human capabilities. That in turn took us into the territory of the golem, a creature from Jewish mysticism, created of clay and brought to life by man. The central question seemed to be “What does it mean to be human?” And a related theme, “What responsibility accompanies knowledge?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHGdnHGTt0JKqZnUwR5wXlhMtb06X9ZxGiAjGr9dLnm4L_4l1DkA9Q5qBycfwG53d5D2EVSsvXcth635T8xb0R0b24ib1wLpV2Vol2towZnZenbFTyaNLxE_9bGtYPpO8cQN_oxcoUqE32IFJcjwt6GR9OOswrwtq8xzpGnFS0qO_eY918FMcf5vY7=s799" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="799" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHGdnHGTt0JKqZnUwR5wXlhMtb06X9ZxGiAjGr9dLnm4L_4l1DkA9Q5qBycfwG53d5D2EVSsvXcth635T8xb0R0b24ib1wLpV2Vol2towZnZenbFTyaNLxE_9bGtYPpO8cQN_oxcoUqE32IFJcjwt6GR9OOswrwtq8xzpGnFS0qO_eY918FMcf5vY7=w257-h171" width="257" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>The Code Breaker (2021)</i><span> </span><span>by Walter Isaacson sets the stage in the real world as it tells the story of our growing ability to edit genes and raises some serious ethical questions. As our ability grows, where does it end? Is there a distinction between curing an illness carried within the genes or manipulating genes to increase intelligence or physical abilities? And what does the latter imply for our world where there is unequal economic access to the very thing which can alter opportunities in life? Do we in fact create a permanent divide in classes of people passed on through generations genetically? Does that in turn force us to abandon ideas of equality that underlie our political system? Certainly people are born with different capabilities today and economics may influence their ability to pursue them, but this could take it to a whole other level. As our abilities become more “God-like,” what responsibility do we carry in how we deploy them? As always, Isaacson knows how to take facts and shape them into a compelling story. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSRU-on-38YOwAsGHW0v9A77cJNbe-1umtQ8_7K_7f9v5azDbd93frjJZ_veUS8hxL__yXrj4bDfygXSjRVFevL-IuYRTTdJcbmkf1waiTj8aRHs_e7xP9znUnMc4O1JhziiD1kdcsjATnguhlx0IMwl4huYgUyXEjfd6DcmEQkUgnNqzUT4ufE9CZ=s1102" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="1102" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSRU-on-38YOwAsGHW0v9A77cJNbe-1umtQ8_7K_7f9v5azDbd93frjJZ_veUS8hxL__yXrj4bDfygXSjRVFevL-IuYRTTdJcbmkf1waiTj8aRHs_e7xP9znUnMc4O1JhziiD1kdcsjATnguhlx0IMwl4huYgUyXEjfd6DcmEQkUgnNqzUT4ufE9CZ=w375-h121" width="375" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><span>I have long been a fan of Marge Piercy’s poetry, but I was surprised to learn of her novel <i>He, She and It</i> <i>(2010)</i>. Set in the middle of the 21<sup>st</sup> century, this very dystopian world, weaves together </span><span>artificial intelligence, enhanced humans and the golem of myth. It took me awhile to step into it as first I needed to learn the rules of this new world which it portrayed, but once I agreed to its premise, it became quite gripping and sometimes surprisingly prescient given when it was written. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgio0-kiKKIaDqSrghepf2ErP4MCV8knvZNW_9kbb7Bi1L92Tru8T1gQbum0RUmszGNGRbPkEs9wOGEw0XnBEjtvmEyLABW2v9hXmVG1G_euu8TOyrSYfqqn9ogAwhxcEiLbekGCyZ-gJoL9KQkYXR40q0HBegd4AnwHR5C2BKpnLQYleS9Vv5DgInk=s548" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></a></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span>The theme of golems continued with <i>The Hidden Palace (2021)</i> by Helen Wecker, following the characters from her earlier book <i>The Golem and the Jinni (2013)</i>. I would suggest reading the earlier book first which I think was stronger. The golem, a rather earth-bound creature as defined by the very clay out of which she is created, explores and stretches the limits of her being. And the recent book <i>Klara and the </i></span><i>Sun (2021)</i><span> by Kazuo Ishiguro explores gene editing and “artificial friends” through the eyes of an artificial friend who has a child-like understanding of the world coupled with a deep level of</span><span> </span><span>humanity.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While I was on the theme of genes, I read <i>The Lost Family (2020)</i> by Libby Copeland which explores how a simple DNA test can upend lives, revealing a different history from that we were raised to believe about ourselves and calling identity into question. Each of these books deals with identity, what is ordained by our genes or shaped by the world in which we live.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3wp5XXCbFSzy4TmiMopFiZoBvXlNClwT_tcaE00Oxisy4USElscl-6BHwgXHepCrqdwnkwoO8PYhRMqnqTa8hEd9ah1-bFsEdsxCW4O76WTDuOpuldUT5sT2z0ddQtmY3RS0M4-g2kussaXhHUfuPgAWLHv104kt5FUMznA0hMlre4MwCRkzP-J4Y=s988" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="988" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3wp5XXCbFSzy4TmiMopFiZoBvXlNClwT_tcaE00Oxisy4USElscl-6BHwgXHepCrqdwnkwoO8PYhRMqnqTa8hEd9ah1-bFsEdsxCW4O76WTDuOpuldUT5sT2z0ddQtmY3RS0M4-g2kussaXhHUfuPgAWLHv104kt5FUMznA0hMlre4MwCRkzP-J4Y=w354-h136" width="354" /></span></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This was also the year of Ann Patchett as I read <i>Run (2009)</i> and <i>The Dutch House (2019)</i> along with her wonderful essays in <i>This is the Story of a Happy Marriage</i> <i>(2013) </i>and <i>Precious Days (2021)</i>. I especially appreciated her essays where she opens herself up to her reader. She shares who she is and what she thinks and feels and you in turn feel as if you know her. She reveals her insights into her writing process and her reflections on how essays afford her a different way to approach her writing, a form of expression less pressured by the lengthy timeline which a novel requires to bring it to life.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Other books that intrigued me were <i>Cloud Cuckoo Land (2021)</i> by Anthony Doerr, a complex weaving of stories, and it is indeed about stories and how they preserve us even as their recorded form is threatened with destruction through the forces of time. Dara Horn’s book of essays <i>People Love Dead Jews (2021)</i> has a rather startling title that is quite apropos. In one essay she explores how a young man who worked at the Anne Frank House was told to hide his yarmulke under a cap on his job lest he reveal his Jewishness and hence “non-neutrality” even as they celebrate a young woman who was murdered because she was Jewish. Lots of things in this book to contemplate. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And finally I need to give a shout out to Heather Cox Richardson, a historian whose twice weekly talks on history and politics have enriched my year. Her book <i>How the South Won the Civil War: Oligarchy, Democracy and the Continuing Fight for the Soul of America (2020)</i> expounds on many of the concepts in her discussions and is a rather timely topic. Having a historical framework is both disturbing and comforting. Disturbing in that one realizes how long we have been struggling with these same issues and comforting in that we have at times managed to transcend them, moving forward into a truer democracy and perhaps a deeper sense of humanity.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Other good reads to check out in the realm of historical fiction:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>The Indigo Girl </i>by Natasha Boyd on the story of Eliza Lucas Pinckney</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>The Women of the Copper Country </i>by Mary Doria Russell</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>Dreamers of the Day</i> also by Mary Doria Russell</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-1383760938885025522021-12-14T15:46:00.003-06:002021-12-27T20:16:17.796-06:00 The Passing of Time <p><span style="font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: AppleSystemUIFont; font-size: 13pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinKa_mh-OUeN_Jcq_qqoqdf_9zR4_0ivlc4sUCMN6ZCMfZdCbozJklHBhJ7y6Sfkh-2wz8HymKWIgiR9tiy08reeOWVUP3QxVPJJHW3lk-0G03KMufvJIVfyVww5FZGnCIYhPoYdyTOXkbTLWvJrWY9WnMgd7DF8FvivYObcs1EId93CgQZ_A1lTlr=s2294" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1585" data-original-width="2294" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinKa_mh-OUeN_Jcq_qqoqdf_9zR4_0ivlc4sUCMN6ZCMfZdCbozJklHBhJ7y6Sfkh-2wz8HymKWIgiR9tiy08reeOWVUP3QxVPJJHW3lk-0G03KMufvJIVfyVww5FZGnCIYhPoYdyTOXkbTLWvJrWY9WnMgd7DF8FvivYObcs1EId93CgQZ_A1lTlr=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">As winter approaches, I begin to retreat from the world into my own private hibernation. Summer and fall saw me gathering with vaccinated friends outdoor for walks or coffee. With the new Covid variant and colder weather, I’m back in retreat mode. We had a brief reprieve and nervously committed to our Thanksgiving visit in Illinois which we had skipped in the prior year. In past years we had turned it into a mini-vacation, stopping at the Milwaukee Art Museum and the Art Institute in Chicago. Smaller and less crowded museums were satisfying substitutes.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now back at home, much of my actual as well as emotional time is occupied with a possible move. It is intimidating and challenging, both to settle on a choice that satisfies both of us and the task of thinning unnecessary belongings in advance of a move. I imagine there is a break-even point where I will have disposed of enough to be able to fully imagine a move and it will become easier to pull the trigger if the right opportunity presents itself. My husband and I agreed that the first place we saw was really the best, but we were too new to this search to realize it at the time. It is of course long gone and had its shortcomings as well. I watch each of our possibilities slowly disappear into the hands of those more ready to commit. There are trade-offs with each choice and we are reluctant to accept them. We consider that this is likely our last move and that brings an added pressure to find the perfect choice. I frequently remind myself that there is no perfect in people, homes or jobs and I need to live in the world of the possible. Nice words, but hard to internalize.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Meanwhile, I look around at what we have gathered over the years and can’t imagine how to do the serious downsizing of belongings that is required. I tackle a little bit each day and can barely see the difference. This week I found a box of floppy disks in my closet and my husband found a place that would recycle them. Ah, but first, I wanted to see if there were any treasures on them. I had a portable disk reader rescued from my late father’s technology detritus that I could use to access them, but soon realized I would have to go through some machinations to make them readable. It is a strange thought that personal computers were still quite new at the time and the high density disks held 1.44MB. I look at my current files for a reference point and realize that could be one photograph. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Many were easily disposed of, but one had the enticing title of “letters.” To my surprise, I found it contained four years of letters to the long-distance beau who had preceded my husband. That made them about 30 years old, not to mention me about 30 years younger! It was a surprising time capsule into my life at that time. I was fascinated by who I had been as I felt quite distinct from that past version of me. I cheered her on as she stated clearly what she needed and empathized with the hard hitting letters she had second thoughts about that were titled “not sent.” Former self really had clarity about her life! She also could be a bit emotionally exhausting. </span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It wasn’t just the past me I was contemplating. It is staggering to think about that early world of computers when email was still quite new and most of my letters still went by mail. It was the last letter-writing relationship of my life, a form of communication that exposes so much of oneself. Even stranger was that the early letters were in a different format so at first I could only access the ones at the end when things were quietly crumbling and I was firing the occasional warning shot over the bow. Only later did I figure out how to open the earlier letters of those days of early infatuation and discovery. It was like reading a novel cleverly laid out in reverse. A shattered relationship reassembling itself into hopes long past. I found myself thinking that it would be an interesting format for a book although I would guess someone has done that already. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Even stranger was when I read my horoscope, something I have not done for many years. Whatever possessed me to do that? I had with some apprehension, read several of the early letters that day and it felt significant to meet my past self. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Perhaps so. Here’s what the horoscope said:</span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Old pictures, past social media posts and historic texts will be part of the texture of this day. Some artifacts make you smile. As for the cringeworthy ones, let them represent how far you’ve come. Celebrate growth.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoHeader" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I reflect on the passing of time and the changes that occur within both us and our surroundings, I prepare to welcome a new and hopeful year. Perhaps one where I can gather once again with friends and stroll through crowded museums, a post-Covid time. I may even look back on this time fondly as I move into the future and celebrate the growth to which it has given birth.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-81535233060701556282021-10-28T13:30:00.006-05:002021-12-04T16:01:21.371-06:00An Unexpected Bridge<p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’ve gotten my booster in anticipation of an upcoming flight to Reno. It will be the first time I’ve been on a plane in two years and not for something I had ever envisioned, a memorial service for my brother who passed away last month. Needless to say the loss of a sibling is not something I ever wrapped my brain around in any serious way, figuring there was much time before I would have to cross that bridge.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I was sandwiched in the middle between a younger sister and older brother, only a year and a half younger than my brother. As a child, I had a rather competitive nature and was quite frustrated that I could never catch-up to my brother in age. Just when I arrived he moved forward another year. It became our joke when I would call him to wish him a happy birthday. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"You still haven’t caught up," he teased. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“That’s OK,”I assured him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It’s not a good thing if I do.” </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I reflect now on the fact that unless similarly ill-fated, I will catch up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is a wake up call to my own mortality. I wasn’t ready for the suddenness of death after a short illness, nor in quite this familial proximity.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My siblings spread out in different geographic and life directions. We found different paths through life, different careers and family configurations. Our parents remained at the core as we each checked in frequently and they had strong relationships with each of us tailored to who we were.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When they passed away, I reflected on how that might change my sibling relationships. We no longer had the core that joined us. Would we just spin into our separate orbits? My sister and I had strengthened our bond as we supported our parents in their later years. While very different, we share many values and worked well together as a team. That had deepened our respect for each other’s talents and our trust in each other.</span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">My brother and I were not close which in some ways makes a loss more challenging. We had many divides and politics was a significant one in recent years. He worked in radio, conservative talk radio. When we spoke we inevitably veered into our very divergent political views. There was little room for common ground and we often tripped over that proverbial, dare I say, elephant, in the middle of the room. “La,la,la,la, I’m not having this conversation,” I would sing out, fingers in my ears, when we’d stray into that danger zone. In one of my last emails to him, I told him that we could talk about family, pets and the weather, but not politics. A string of emails on his dog followed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I went through old picture albums, pulling photos from our childhood, I found many of us together as children and I began to recall our shared history, often just flashes in memory. I remembered when as a toddler I struck out on my own in search of the milkweed pods that so fascinated me. Just when it was beginning to dawn on me that I didn't know quite where they were, my brother pedaled up to me on his tricycle to announce with an impressive air of authority, "You're lost!"</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-odgcmcgZSE4/YXrowAYQlGI/AAAAAAAAi5M/zi6TYLHd5gI7V5q7QRG27Jmn_QiGODq5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s474/Fred-theMagician-cr.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="373" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-odgcmcgZSE4/YXrowAYQlGI/AAAAAAAAi5M/zi6TYLHd5gI7V5q7QRG27Jmn_QiGODq5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fred-theMagician-cr.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fred the magician</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At childhood birthday parties he performed as a magician to the rapt attention of little girls in party dresses. Later I would sneak into his room to figure out how the tricks worked. Mirrors! </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzvrCjw06Bs/YXroK_oGjpI/AAAAAAAAi5E/xeEoHNsuSBYNyTBPjikFsBF08ISBHFbngCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/Susan%2Band%2BFred.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1014" data-original-width="1024" height="198" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uzvrCjw06Bs/YXroK_oGjpI/AAAAAAAAi5E/xeEoHNsuSBYNyTBPjikFsBF08ISBHFbngCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h198/Susan%2Band%2BFred.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susan and Fred</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When our grandmother lived with us for several years he gave up his room and had a rollaway bed in the bedroom that I shared with my sister. At night we would play cards with a flashlight under the covers. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And when he commandeered our bathroom as a darkroom for his photography, I remember feeling somewhat envious of this passion that possessed him even as I banged on the door demanding access. Some time after that our lives diverged along with our beliefs about the world. The common ground slipped from beneath our feet.</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So now I go to the memorial to acknowledge the reality, to hear his “tribe” share stories which he would certainly have enjoyed, to be there for his family and to join with my sister. And no doubt I will still argue politics with him in my head wherever he resides.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-23957031575953889982021-09-13T14:00:00.024-05:002021-09-15T00:26:25.070-05:00Outsider Eyes<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ayszDwVMEmo/YT_XyTaFgMI/AAAAAAAAiuo/sWsm1adwaA072r_16YNekuapWtdDLjWFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s532/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-13%2Bat%2B5.59.00%2BPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="532" height="248" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ayszDwVMEmo/YT_XyTaFgMI/AAAAAAAAiuo/sWsm1adwaA072r_16YNekuapWtdDLjWFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-13%2Bat%2B5.59.00%2BPM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"></span><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">I was never much of a small talker. That means I flounder a bit when I'm in a big group of people and I have to schmooze. It's not my natural habitat. I can strike up a conversation with one person or a few and get to know them quite well, but my degree of chattiness is in inverse proportion to the number of people in the room. It is the legacy of a shy person. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I walk with a group of friends each week and recently I commented that I was shy. They turned and looked at me in amazement, familiar with the gregarious small group me. Some had seen me in my public mode, in front of a room talking on a subject that I knew well. That’s a different me too and it often fools people. I’m always slightly amazed myself. Even as a shy person, I have opinions and I have found that tends to draw me into the center of things.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"> </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I
was reminded of the inner me as my 50th high school reunion approached
and I dithered over whether to attend. Would I revert to that shy person
once again? Would I walk into the room and want to flee? With an eight
hour drive to get there, accompanied by my husband, it wasn’t a small
commitment. I remember going to a party as a newly single person and
having that flight reaction. I gave myself permission to leave, but only
after I talked to three new people. By then I was comfortable. I had
learned how to work my way into a room, past my discomfort. But that
approach works best solo. Being a couple can too often become a social
crutch, no matter how welcome that crutch may be in the moment.</span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"> </span></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I
reached out to some high school friends on Facebook to see if any of
them were going. We were all curious about our classmates, but as covid
flared up again we all had hesitation as well as conflicted feelings.
High school was not our happy place. As I talked with different friends
in my life today about it, some replied, “Oh you have to go!" Others
confided that they had never gone to one and have no intention of ever
going. I am much closer to those in the latter variety.<br /></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="margin: 0px 12px 0px 0px;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKYP9Ei5g34/YT-4KielTgI/AAAAAAAAiuI/whiaxz-Bsn4M0nNxQWF4EB5SoCumHXz7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s432/IMG_3161sm.jpg" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="136" data-original-width="432" height="101" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lKYP9Ei5g34/YT-4KielTgI/AAAAAAAAiuI/whiaxz-Bsn4M0nNxQWF4EB5SoCumHXz7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_3161sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td>
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</table><br /><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">I think those who were on the outside in high school, and didn’t fit within the rosy picture of high school nostalgia, often carry those outsider eyes into their adult life. That is not a bad thing. It certainly fosters compassion and empathy for others and it often plays out in different career paths. Those outsiders become the artists, the writers, the educators – the people who often serve as change makers and interpreters. It takes being outside of things sometimes to see it clearly, perhaps because we aren't invested in the existing hierarchy. That is the first step to creating change. It also allows us to reach out to people in different spheres as we are not fully identified with just one. Now that is not to say that those who did have the stereotypic high school experience may not come to similar places later in life. Life isn’t high school and over time we may all share experiences that cause us to view our world through a new lens. Still, us outsiders have a leg up on that. We were eager to enter the world and leave high school behind. That openness to new experiences often led each of us to new opportunities that shaped our life.<br />
</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Those planning the reunion had a survey that asked what were we most proud of in the course of those intervening years. I thought of the many things I have accomplished in my life. It makes for a nice résumé, but those are not the things I take pride in. In the bigger picture, I’ve learned how to navigate the world. To respond with resilience, to reinvent myself as necessary, taking on new challenges in a wide range of fields. And I’ve continued to learn and grow and have had a rewarding life as a result. See, not exactly the answer of a small talker. It is a bit like when someone asks how you are and you proceed to tell them way more than they bargained for when "fine" would have sufficed.<br />
</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">There was a question about something we liked in high school and I considered my first response which was “leaving,” but concluded that sounded a little too “Bah humbug” for the occasion. I dug deeper to my memories of art class which introduced me to a path I have sustained throughout my life, and one which years later led me to meet my husband in a life drawing group.<br />
</span></p><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">So what did I decide after all this contemplation? No road trip for now. Perhaps a Zoom call with a small group of high school friends will suffice. Were it not for covid, the scales might have tipped the other way. And perhaps they still will. Sounds like they are postponing until next year so more to come.</span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-7226665721953725752021-08-24T12:00:00.000-05:002021-08-24T12:00:01.538-05:00Solving for X<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQv46uv2OGw/YSRWVNoMPjI/AAAAAAAAimU/zYy6YhR-aMITLStz8nd8lXJ-ad20Y3HsACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2995.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1556" data-original-width="2048" height="243" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQv46uv2OGw/YSRWVNoMPjI/AAAAAAAAimU/zYy6YhR-aMITLStz8nd8lXJ-ad20Y3HsACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h243/IMG_2995.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span>The summer before I entered high school, I picked up an algebra book from our overflowing bookshelves in my childhood home, always a wonderful place to forage for something of interest. With its red, faded and worn cover, it must have been one of my father’s old textbooks. In the back of the book were the answers to the equations it posed. My curiosity piqued, I spent the summer working my way through that book of puzzles, much the way other people might do crossword puzzles. I was thoroughly absorbed with my ability to successfully solve for x. Geometry never thrilled me the way algebra did. I loved the clarity it offered and the way it aligned with the way my brain worked. I realize in hindsight that was the beginning of my fascination with puzzles.</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Do you have a theme that defines your life? Perhaps a cluster of themes that interrelate? I think we all have them and as we get older we can begin to recognize the patterns that recur. My themes often revolve around solving puzzles and telling stories. A friend once pointed out that in some instances those two things were linked in a sequence. In genealogy for example, first I often had to solve a puzzle to be able to tell the story. My artwork which focuses on a larger story often shares that quality. We all have a need to find meaning in our world, the function of story, and making sense of our world is a way to feel a sense of control, even if largely illusionary in nature. When the pieces fit tightly together, I feel a satisfying sense of mastery over my small piece of the universe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">These days, artwork and genealogy are my primary vehicles to explore those central themes of puzzles and story and have forced me to learn some new skills. I am learning how to live in a space of not knowing, a creative space where first we must allow for many possibilities and feel our way, often with moments of uncertainty, all part of a creative process where we start with the unknown and solve for x in its many guises. When not immersed in artwork or genealogy, you will likely find me playing word games, yet another permutation on puzzles that offers a microcosm of life lessons. Now I’ve written of this topic before in <a href="https://sgweinberg.blogspot.com/2015/08/fun-and-games.html" style="color: #954f72;">Fun and Games</a>, suggesting some of the lessons that I’ve learned from games. Lately I’ve been recognizing within those games, the need for a skill that I am still working on, the ability to quickly respond to change when things go awry, to regroup and redirect. No “deer in the headlights” moment permitted. Instead we need to swiftly look for the opportunity created by that disruption.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Have you ever had a fabulous word and a spot for it worth many points? Horrified, you watch as your opponent takes that space. What do you do? In a timed game, you need to quickly find an alternative and not bemoan the one that no longer exists</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">. One of the things that I do immediately after identifying that perfect location is to look for a second choice so I can move quickly in the moment if necessary, that moment when I would otherwise be frozen in dismay. Now, I may never need my second choice because I get that perfect spot, or more often because t</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">he word that my opponent puts down in <i>my</i> spot frequently opens up a more desirable opportunity than my plan B. If I can shift gears quickly, I can take advantage of it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We can become so attached to that one outcome, that we are unable to quickly abandon it and shift course. And we miss other opportunities because we have forfeited our agility in accepting change. In my banking days we called it a sunk cost. It's done, can't be undone and is irrelevant to what happens next. When we focus on what is lost, we miss what is in front of us. It's a concept that is not just monetary in nature. When my mother began to lose memory, part of me wanted to mourn the person she had been. In that moment it was irrelevant. She was who she was in that moment and I needed to be in that moment as well. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I often find similar blind spots in genealogy, when I make assumptions that close doors prematurely or in artwork when I decide where I’m going and force a direction rather than letting it evolve. Those actions come from an anxiety to find closure and certainty. I am still learning to hold that door open a little longer, to fumble a bit in the dark along my journey and to embrace what lies ahead.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Those themes of puzzles and story have expressed themselves in the paths I chose in the world. In turn they become the vehicle by which I learn some very necessary lessons.<br /></span></p></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-9884431676529740252021-07-10T21:32:00.005-05:002021-07-11T20:17:41.729-05:00The Fluidity of Names<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I love solving puzzles. I often have a “spidey sense” about the answer before I have the logical reasons to lend it credence, although in this case I sense what is right rather than what is amiss. There is something operating beneath the surface that I can’t fully explain, but I study my path to try to grasp its secrets.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am drawn to genealogy in much the same way that I am drawn to reading. It is a way to imagine the lives of other people in other times, plus it has that added benefit of allowing me to solve puzzles. There is an impatient part of me that wants to rush the process, but I have learned it cannot be rushed or pre-judged. I need to remain open to possibilities as they unfold. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Recently, I was hired to find what I could for a client who knew very little of one side of his family. He started as do many of my clients, with the names of his grandparents, Harry Hoffman and Esther Ackerman. They were from Romania – Bucharest he thought. He wasn’t aware of any family beyond his grandfather who came over and when I went to the records on JewishGen from Romania nothing came up in that region. I could feel those butterflies that always begin a search. What if I come up empty-handed? I can only work with what is there and sometimes it just isn’t there. As I couldn’t draw on overseas records, I focused my search on the US which can often shed some light on their ancestral town. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7N3yZiRUaWE/YOZuX84e_eI/AAAAAAAAicU/eGPHNFVZyE4iF0qqXxvrsQRCOpm7CdBTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-07-07%2Bat%2B10.17.14%2BPM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1443" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7N3yZiRUaWE/YOZuX84e_eI/AAAAAAAAicU/eGPHNFVZyE4iF0qqXxvrsQRCOpm7CdBTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-07-07%2Bat%2B10.17.14%2BPM.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I started to circle the problem, pacing mentally, looking for threads to tug on. I started by building a base of public information, searching both mainstream press and the local Jewish press, I combed city directories and located census records, beginning to build an address list, tracing them as they moved to different locations. I found the people who shared their names and time period but were not them. I needed to be careful not to confuse their records. I located death records, finding the names of Esther’s parents within them.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Having exhausted my options, I went back to my original notes, looking for a clue. My client recalled a visit to his family from a woman named Bess Propper from New York, perhaps she was related in some way. When I shifted to New York, the ground began to shift as well, yielding its secrets. I found Bess and discovered</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">that her maiden name was Ackerman, like Esther’s. Then I traced her father Harry and found his naturalization paper under the name Henry, tied to the names of his wife and children as listed in the census.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It revealed his ancestral town was Galatz, originally in Moldova, now in Romania.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I often find success searching via stevemorse.org, a better front-end search engine. I went to the section on deaths and marriages where there are multiple ways to search for this information in NY. I chose Family Search because they often have parents’ names. In this case I found the parents of Harry Ackerman. They matched those on Esther’s death record. Siblings! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This is the first delicate thread of fact on which I begin to build and I soon weave a tight connection between a series of facts. I do a search in the NY marriage records for the two grandparents’ surnames and find one such record in 1903, the year of marriage indicated in the census. It is between a Harry Hoffman and an Ernestine Ackerman. Harry gives his father's name as Morris, which just happens to be my client's middle name, reflective of Jewish naming patterns. Could Esther have gone by Ernestine? Using that name, I search the immigration records and find her coming in from Galatz, Romania in 1903 which ties to the year given in her census records. She is going to “her brother, H Ackerman.” Ernestine and Esther are indeed the same person. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I still have to connect NY to Minnesota where Harry and Esther end up. I go online to the <a href="https://genealogy.cjh.org/familycollections.php" style="color: #954f72;">Ackman and Ziff Family Genealogy Institute</a> at the Center for Jewish History. They hold the index for the Industrial Removal Office, a program in the early part of the 1900s that assisted Jews in leaving NY for the interior of the US. There I input Hoffman and clicked on the Industrial Removal Office, then searched for records from Minnesota. There it was, H. Hoffman and his wife Esther going to St. Paul. I took the index information from this site and went to Ancestry.com where I searched the card catalog for the Industrial Removal Office records. Yes, the index and the documents are in two different locations. You just need to marry them up. Now I line up the dates and realize that in the space of one month, Ernestine arrives, marries and is on a train with her new husband to Minnesota. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I then turned my attention to Harry. Perhaps there is a name variance for him as well. I review my notes and find that he is listed as Herman in several census and directory records. When I searched on Herman Hoffman, I discovered an immigration manifest for Oct 1899 coming from Galatz, the same town as his brother-in-law Harry Ackerman and his fiancé Ernestine. I then searched for census records and found Herman Hoffman living with his sister’s family a few months later in the 1900 census, a family member of whom we knew nothing. His sister's marriage record also gives her father as Morris, corresponding to that of her brother.The year of arrival in the census corresponds to the immigration manifest so I am fairly sure the Herman in the manifest and the census are the same person, but how do I confirm that this is also the Harry in Minnesota? A few more records allow me to prove it out. In the NY naturalization records, I find a declaration from April 17, 1900. This was before naturalization records gave us much information, but in concert with other records it told me what I needed. The address given matched to that given in the 1900 census record. Then I found the next step in the naturalization process, the petition which was filed in Minnesota. I know it is the same Herman as it references his prior filing in New York by the corresponding date and court.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So here’s our story:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Herman arrives in NY Oct 1899<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In 1900 he is living with his sister in NY at the address he notes in his first naturalization filing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The father’s name for both Herman and his sister is the same in their marriage records<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Similarly Esther and Harry Ackerman also share the same parents in their records.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ernestine arrives 6/10/1903 and goes to her brother in NY<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Harry and Ernestine marry 6/21/1903<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They arrive in Minnesota 7/8/1903<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Herman finishes his naturalization process in 1906<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One final puzzle still stood. The transcription of the marriage record gave the father of Ernestine as Jak. According to her death record, it should be Isak. Not a big difference is there? I ordered a copy of the original marriage record to see for myself. The writing is hard to read, but it could certainly be read as Icek. And an interesting detail. The witnesses were H. Ackerman, the brother of Esther/Ernestine. And representing Harry was someone with the married surname of his sister. Each had their nearest relatives present.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So, what did I find as I study my path? Names are fluid. They tried them on and discarded them. Harry Ackerman also went by Henry, Harry Hoffman by Herman and Esther by Ernestine(a). Harry seemed to use Herman for more official documents, but not always. Esther came over as Ernestine, later shedding it for Esther. Herman and Ernestine are common names in the Romanian records. Had I insisted they had to be Harry and Esther, I would never have found the records. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ages also were quite fluid. In this case the age range between Harry and Esther fluctuates from 8 years at marriage, 10 years on their immigration manifest, an average of 13 years across 5 census years and 16 years at death. The takeaway– if other elements match, don't be overly concerned about ages. They were of far less importance to them than they are to us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Similarly, people aren’t static. They came into St. Paul via train but lived in Minneapolis. It isn’t that hard to cross the river. And a record by itself may not tell you much, but when you marry it up to related records, you begin to weave them together into a timeline which reveals a piece of the story. It is often by tilting the lens ever so slightly that we begin to solve the puzzle.</span><span style="font-family: AppleSystemUIFont;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-30095842012732391592021-05-31T20:19:00.008-05:002021-05-31T20:19:56.738-05:00Reawakening<p></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pfLCTqzqZGA/YLVtC-DjpsI/AAAAAAAAiCs/UnjPE-UURs8ACEAtp86vt-k5ieRkK5XWgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Broken-Ice.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1519" data-original-width="2048" height="296" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pfLCTqzqZGA/YLVtC-DjpsI/AAAAAAAAiCs/UnjPE-UURs8ACEAtp86vt-k5ieRkK5XWgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h296/Broken-Ice.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>After over a year in physical isolation, I am beginning to emerge. It is a strange transition, I am never quite sure when to wear my mask. As foreign as it still feels, I am reluctant to let it go too quickly. Different rules apply in different places. I went to meet several members of a board I’m involved with in a new location. On the door it gave clear directions, cutting through the confusion. <i>Vaccinated people do not need to wear masks</i>. We happily took ours off and it was the first time in over a year that I saw their faces unmasked without a screen between us. Momentarily, I felt rather daring, then it quickly felt normal.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I've begun to meet weekly in person with a close friend as I record her story. It is quite a compelling one. She is a survivor of the Holocaust, 97 years old. We met each week by phone during Covid and I typed as she recounted. Pre-Covid, we used to go out to lunch each week, but now I pick up lunch and we meet at her home to work on our project.<br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Memorial Day weekend we met up with my brother-in-law to visit the graves of family members. While one other vaccinated person felt safe to be with unmasked, when we entered a restaurant, I felt flummoxed by masking etiquette. We wore our masks while we got our food, took them off to eat and then what? Do you put it back on when you finish eating?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’ve ventured into grocery stores, still masked, first for a few items, then for a big shopping trip. Over the past year we’ve had groceries delivered and I keep getting messages from Target that my cart misses me, as if I am so starved for connection that I am anthropomorphizing my grocery cart. I’m still shopping for two week stretches out of habit and I have a new appreciation for those delivery people who sustained us over the past year. I celebrated my new-found freedom by getting my favorite foods at Trader Joes (which doesn't deliver) and noticed the slight weight gain that followed. There was a discipline around planning meals that I need to manage to maintain. The same goes for a daily workout. I anticipate schedules getting busier away from home when it becomes harder to fit that workout in. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is a reawakening and as I worked with the theme of brokenness and wholeness in the Artists' Lab, I found the echo of my experience in my artwork. As the ice of winter was thawing, my husband and I encountered an area where the ice had cracked and water flowed beneath it. It too felt as if it was reawakening. I had taken a picture of the ice fragments when my husband suggested I film it to capture the movement. I ended up combining a photo, a video and the painting above titled <i>Reawakening</i>, into a short piece that you will find at the bottom of this post.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I feel as if I needed this break and yes, I realize a pandemic is a bit of overkill quite literally to make that happen. Let me assure you, it would not be my chosen method of epiphany. But I know that I am a person who likes to be in the middle of things and unless the world stops along with me, I keep going, like a hungry person at an all you can eat buffet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now the world didn’t really stop. It just allowed me to structure my time from home. I attended writing workshops and a three week course on the Holocaust, lectures on art from London and book talks from as far away as Poland. I presented at conferences and gave genealogy talks on-line. Virtually, I was able to gather descendants from one of my ancestral towns from around the world. I consulted with genealogy clients locally as well as nationally and internationally. I met a new friend who had moved here, introduced through an old friend, and set up regular on-line visits and I connected with old friends who live elsewhere now that Zoom seemed to make reconnecting so much easier. My artists’ lab continued to meet on-line and actually allowed for more engagement with breakout rooms enabling more small group discussions. Nonprofit meetings continued on-line and I managed presentations of my genealogy group to both a local and national audience. In some ways my life got busier and broader in scope, while my physical sphere shrank. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So which world do I prefer? I’m not sure. I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to spend physical time with friends without the careful precautions the pandemic has required. Sometimes it just seems easier to Zoom. I can picture myself sharing a meal or a walk with friends, but I don’t think all of the nonprofit meetings have to be in person. I am hoping they conclude the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now I realize this has been a harder time for my extroverted friends. They have a much more fundamental need for that physical connection. It has also been harder on friends who live alone. Still, living with someone isn’t always such a panacea. As much as I describe myself as an introvert, I live with someone who is even more so. We both got much more in touch with our need for space, even while valuing our connection. We realized that my prior busy schedule had given us both some breathing room. Now we needed to learn to co-exist in the same shared space, often by carving out our own physical turf. Fortunately we also have a studio that provided some additional room. Our proximity leant itself to working out together at home or walking and our mutual fascination with the politics of our times led to a constant stream of CNN in our home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So I don’t know what the ideal world would look like, but I hope to emerge thoughtfully and incorporate what I’ve learned through this pause. I will be maintaining some of the discipline that I drew on for diet and exercise while allowing friendships and outings to gradually re-enter my world. And I’ll be holding onto the expansion of my world that technology afforded while preserving windows of unscheduled time for the many interests that feed my soul.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MTNlLaczHbg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Or click on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTNlLaczHbg" target="_blank">Pulsation of Life</a> to see it full screen</div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-773527493536761686.post-2646417302489218972021-05-09T10:33:00.007-05:002021-05-09T14:33:09.790-05:00My Many Mothers<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">My mom has been gone for six years now and Mother's Day now seems like a holiday with no significance to me anymore. I have a folder with all of the Mother’s Day cards I gave my mom over the years that she saved and I retrieved after her death. She especially liked the ones that spoke to the genuine friendship between us. I would have chosen my mother as my mother if I had a choice. Who knows, perhaps in some universe I did. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I hadn’t planned to write anything, but then I read </span><a href="https://heathercoxrichardson.substack.com/p/may-8-2021" target="_blank">Heather Cox Richardson’s column</a><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> on the many mothers we have in a lifetime and began to reflect on some of mine.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></span></div><div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N05Hq_jj4_E/YJdvnCUSFAI/AAAAAAAAh-o/NmcZ_WGznfU2IvGspVzQeyd6GR4Zb5vjACLcBGAsYHQ/s630/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-05-09%2Bat%2B12.04.02%2BAM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="630" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N05Hq_jj4_E/YJdvnCUSFAI/AAAAAAAAh-o/NmcZ_WGznfU2IvGspVzQeyd6GR4Zb5vjACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-05-09%2Bat%2B12.04.02%2BAM.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I have often considered what I learned from my mother’s example. One of the most important take-aways was evident. From our own relationship, I learned how to have rich cross-generational friendships with women. That is something that she and I did amazingly well. When I was in my 30s I began to take her on trips to Europe and our relationship matured into a friendship that lost some of the hierarchy imposed by a parent-child relationship. We became two people who enjoyed each other’s company and shared many interests. I began to have some understanding of her life and who she was.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I get older, I often wonder about how she viewed aging. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I would love to be able to have that conversation with her. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I know she was happy with her life through all its stages, but I now have an appreciation of how hard-won some of that happiness can be. She made choices along the way to create her path and I am certain it was not always clear sailing. She had a visceral understanding of my wiring because she shared much of it, but the one thing she never understood was my certainty that raising children was not for me. Despite that, she was able to see me not as a clone of her needs and desires, but as someone unique, but also connected. She was able to give me room to be me, the best gift a parent can give a child. And she cheered me on as I confronted both challenges that we shared, and ones unique to me, as I carved out a life of my own making.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Because I chose not to have children, I had the luxury of control over my life and my time. I don’t take that for granted. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I began to understand something about the bond that is created by giving to another person, something most mothers realize much earlier even as they bemoan the loss of control over their life and time. I also learned that with the act of empathy and that very commitment of our precious time, we in turn create a rich connection.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yRJaU_hHatw/YJdnVVOqbVI/AAAAAAAAh-I/lgljSEgUZUwqavpbC76yKYjsAHCRVmcyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Kitchen%2BCompetition.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I met my current husband, his mother was in her mid-80s. She lived to 95 and we developed a special relationship in those intervening years. She was an intelligent woman, a reader and a lover of words. I </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">am convinced much of what I appreciate in my husband came from her. She also had a difficult life without much control over her choices. We began to go over each week and do her grocery shopping, laundry and perhaps most importantly, bring things of interest into her life. I thought of our visits as an opportunity to make our time together meaningful and something to look forward to. </span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-83jpWQRyTAw/YJgWklBaK7I/AAAAAAAAh_I/9nvDdSUmQVYel35DXjiZOAdGeO2cbAb6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1790/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-05-09%2Bat%2B12.05.19%2BPM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1790" height="290" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-83jpWQRyTAw/YJgWklBaK7I/AAAAAAAAh_I/9nvDdSUmQVYel35DXjiZOAdGeO2cbAb6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h290/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-05-09%2Bat%2B12.05.19%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitchen Competition 2002 by Susan Weinberg</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We began to play Scrabble on each visit and I realized that she loved words more than strategy. If she read a word that would work well in Scrabble, she hung onto it until the next game. One day she put down a seven letter word and got scads of points. I commemorated it with a painting of us together, my first self-portrait and a portrait of us engaged in something we both loved. I hung it on the wall in my home when she came over for her birthday celebration and waited for her to recognize it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I got into genealogy, I gathered information on those long-gone people who had once been significant in her world. She was intrigued with the trail of documents that captured her as a young girl. I interviewed her as my husband painted her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I had a rather unique role. My husband was expected to show up. I did by choice and that made it a special commitment that she understood as coming not from expectation, but because I genuinely enjoyed her. Out of that giving grew a mutual love and appreciation of each other that felt familiar to me. I had learned it from my mother.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Another mother who has touched my life is my friend Dora. I met Dora in 2010 when she was in her late 80s. I was doing the website for the ancestral town in Poland that my grandfather had come from. Dora had grown up there and was fifteen years old when the Nazis invaded in 1939. I began to ask her about the town and her story. I also began to forge an unexpected connection, both recognizing some of myself in her and finding a deep admiration for how she navigated her world. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">She is a very accomplished woman in life and intellect. After she survived the Holocaust she carved out a life in the United States, becoming fluent in yet one more language. She got a graduate degree in economics, became an accountant and a Holocaust educator. What I found most admirable was how she adapted to challenges within her life. When her vision deteriorated she shifted to books on tape listening to the Economist each week and studying the Talmud by telephone. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Three months after I met her we began to plan a trip to Poland where I was invited to show my artwork. She joined me and shared photos from before the war and during the time of the ghetto. We did several shows in our own community pairing these materials. Over the past ten years we have gotten together most every week. I take her out to lunch and we go to events or work on projects. I’ve interviewed her and created artwork on her stories. Sometimes I assist her with talks to classes and we’ve used the artwork in some of them as a jumping off point for her experiences. During quarantine, we changed our get togethers to several hours on the phone each week recording her personal story. We celebrated her 97<sup>th</sup> birthday on Zoom and now we’ve begun to get together again in person. We talk about books and life, politics and religion. It has become a friendship with a long history and a model for me in how to face life’s challenges while staying actively engaged in the world and living a life of purpose.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When you live well into your 90s, many of your friends are no longer around. Dora has mastered the art of establishing long-standing friendships with younger people. Someday if I am fortunate, I will be on the other side of that equation. So on this Mother’s Day, I am grateful for my mother who modeled that special friendship and all the mothers who have followed in my life.</span></p></div></div>Susan Weinberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17692910743410251017noreply@blogger.com0