Northwest Ladybug

Making sure these photos and videos of Leo are saved in perpetuity

2021-09-10T13:18:00.001-07:00

Leo is now 2 years, 3 months old. He is so much fun and just cuter than cute! I just need to make sure these photos and videos are saved forever, so here they are!

Here’s Leo singing the ABCs at just about exactly two years old.

I met Courtney Campbell many, many years ago when I worked at Disney and she entertained young children all around the world. Our kids were so lucky to get some amazing “personal concerts” when they were young and now our grandson has fallen in love with Courtney, as well. A few weeks ago, when Leo and Courtney were together at our house, Courtney sang this dinosaur song for Leo. He adored it so much that Courtney recorded a quick video for him to watch from home. He apparently plays it over and over and over. ♥️♥️ Here is Courtney’s recording and Leo’s reaction to it. I just love his “Uh-oh Kootney!” (Leo’s about two years, 2 months here.)

And then there’s Leo’s first introduction to chocolate milk (at 2 yrs 3 months)!

Carl, Thomas, and I are featured guests for the Third International Day of Provenance Research, 2021!

2021-04-15T09:23:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago I was interviewed for the International Day of Provenance Research which highlights the social and academic relevance of provenance research on an international scale. In that interview, I spoke about my father, Thomas and my grandfather Carl, whose art collection is still quite relevant today.

The article( in German), along with the audio file of my interview (in English) can be found HERE:

https://www.lenbachhaus.de/blog/erinnerung-leben-der-kunstsammler-carl-heumann-und-seine-familie-heute

Here is an English translation (with thanks to Google Translate and apologies to my mother, your great-Omi, who was a dedicated German teacher and is turning in her grave; she would have asked me to translate it myself! Apologies, too, for the bizarre formatting – attempting to fix it just made it all worse!):

LIVING MEMORY - The art collector Carl Heumann and his family today. A conversation with Carl’s granddaughter, Carol Heumann Snider

Several German museums are currently researching the art collector Carl Heumann (1886–1945), who created an important collection of German and Austrian art from the 18th and 19th centuries with a focus on Romanticism in the 1920s and 1930s. Because of his Jewish origins, he was persecuted under the National Socialist regime. In recognition of the fate of his persecution, the Kupferstich-Kabinett of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden, the Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin and the Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus und Kunstbau München turned to the descendants of Carl Heumann to jointly find a just and fair solution regarding the Find works of art from his collection.

In a conversation on the "Day of Provenance Research" on April 14, 2021 with provenance researchers Dr. Katja Lindenau (Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden) and Melanie Wittchow (Lenbachhaus) Carol Heumann Snider, the granddaughter of the art collector Carl Heumann, discusses her grandfather and her father Thomas Heumann. She describes how she preserves the stories of the two of them and their memories for their children and grandchildren. She gives a deep insight into the life of her family and shows how the fate of both ancestors affects all family members to this day and what possible restitutions mean to them.

The interview was conducted in English on March 19, 2021, the 135th birthday of Carl Heumann, recorded and reproduced here in written form in German. You can listen to the original interview here:

(Go to original link, above, and click on the audio file.)

Melanie Wittchow (MW): Hello and welcome to our conversation "Living memories: The art collector Carl Heumann and his family today.” My name is Melanie Wittchow. I am a provenance researcher at the Lenbachhaus in Munich.

Since 2019, we have recognized Provenance Research Day on the second Wednesday in April. This year we are also celebrating »1700 years of Jewish life in Germany«. On this occasion, we would like to talk about how provenance research helps keep memories alive.

We warmly welcome Carol Heumann Snider to this interview. She is the granddaughter of the art collector Carl Heumann from Chemnitz, Germany. We want to talk about him and his family today. Carol, thank you for joining us from Gig Harbor, Washington, USA. It's so nice to have you here today!

A warm welcome also to Katja Lindenau. She is a provenance researcher at the Kupferstich-Kabinett of the Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden. I am very pleased that you are here today for our conversation about the art collector Carl Heumann.

More than two years ago, the museum in Dresden, together with the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation and the Hamburger Kunsthalle, called on those museums whose holdings include objects from the Carl Heumann art collection to recognize the fate of the art collector and his family and to work with the heirs of the family to get in touch. The aim is to find just and fair solutions with them regarding the works of art from the Carl Heumann collection.

Katja, you are one of the researchers in Germany who initiated this. Can you explain how and why it came about?

(The participants in the conversation on March 19, 2021 clockwise from top left to bottom right: Robin Knapp (technical support), Dr. Katja Lindenau (SKD), Carol Heumann Snider (granddaughter of Carl Heumann), Melanie Wittchow (Lenbachhaus)

Katja Lindenau (KL): With pleasure. In my work as a provenance researcher, I check the holdings of our museum for unlawful acquisition. One focus is on the years 1933 to 1945, when the National Socialists were in power in Germany and many works of art changed hands during this time. Much of it has been confiscated by the authorities or the owners have been forced to sell them. A few years ago, colleagues from other museums in Germany and Austria made me aware of the collection of the art collector and patron Carl Heumann.

While looking through our collection, I found two watercolor drawings by the Austrian artist Peter Fendi and an oil-on-paper drawing by Jakob Gensler showing a girl with a parrot. All three works were bought in 1944 by the art dealer C.G. Acquired Boerner in Leipzig. Bit by bit, I tried to find out more about the fate of the previous owner and how these works of art disappeared from his collection. In the end, we knew that Carl Heumann had not voluntarily sold these works, due to his Jewish origins, and we began to contact other museums and the heirs of Carl Heumann.

MW: That's how Katja and I came into contact, and I was able to find out that the Lenbachhaus had also acquired a work of art from Carl Heumann's private collection, namely the drawing "Fischerweide" by the artist Albert Emil Kirchner.

Albert Emil Kirchner, Fischerweide, 1854, pencil drawing, washed, 30.5 x 28.7 cm, Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus and Kunstbau Munich

KL: Carol, we spent months trying to put Carl Heumann's biography together. How and when did you find out about the fate of your grandfather Carl Heumann and your father Thomas Heumann? Did you talk about it in your family?

Carol Heumann Snider (CHS): When I was a child, we talked about my father's childhood. Since it was such a traumatic childhood, I think my father tried to protect us from the trauma he experienced himself. Paintings and watercolors hung on our walls. We knew where they came from. We knew that they came from his father, whom we of course never met. But we didn't know what my father was feeling and thought we just knew that they were from his homeland. Briefly about the background: It was obvious that my parents were immigrants. I knew my father was talking about a suitcase that he had with him when he came to the United States on the ship.

When we talked about his childhood it was mostly in situations where he couldn't escape us, and by that I mean, we were sitting in the car going to Lake Tahoe, for example, which was a four hour drive. We asked him to tell us stories. And he told us these charming stories, like when he and his brother nearly blew up the garage because they had misused their chemistry kit. Or how her little sister took a nap and they took a gingerbread cookie out of the oven and they said, "Oh, we burned your doll." I mean really funny little stories like these that every sibling does would tell.

But he never said, "I went and found my father's body and dug his grave."

These were things that we didn't find out until much later. It only started when I was going to college and my father suddenly felt the need to tell us more. He began to write his first book The Longest Year in the Young Life of Peter Bauer. I think it was easier for him to talk about his trauma in the third person and give himself a pseudonym so as not to have to use the pronoun "I.”.

Most of my childhood he just wanted to protect us. But that changed later.

Thomas Heumann with his four children, Carol Heumann Snider in the middle, 2008, photo: Ulli Heumann Hanley

MW: Can you tell us when and how you first found out that works of art from your grandfather's collection are in Austrian and German museums? How did the collaboration with the provenance researchers develop?

Maybe you can tell us a little bit about Julia Eßl's visit to the USA in 2014?

CSH: Yes, it was a very special day. I think it was January 22nd, 2014. I won't forget it. I woke up, checked my e-mail, and there was a message from a woman named Julia Eßl.She said she was a provenance researcher in Austria and she thinks she had found some works from my grandfather's collection, and asked if I would be willing to speak to her. It was very exciting for me because I had never met my grandfather and only heard stories about him. And now here was someone who seemed to know something about him. So, as a granddaughter interested in her family history, I picked it up straight away.

This was also preceded by a meeting that my father had organized for our family, at which he came into contact with his children, his nieces, his nephews and of course his sister Ulli, who lives in California. He wanted us all to come together because he wanted to leave us things from his past, as he put it "with warm hands,” before he dies.

(Thomas Heumann (left outside) with his sister Ulli (3rd from left) and her family, February 2017, Photo: Claudia Bilbao (Ulli's daughter)

CHS: Among them were some official documents such as my grandfather's Jewish “ID card” and his identity card with the “J” on it. Or a document that said he had been persecuted and that he had been in a labor camp.

He passed all these things on to his family members. It was just amazing to me, it really touched me, and I wanted to know who this person was.

So that was before Julia's email. When this email came my family was planning a trip to Germany and Austria. All six of us - we have four children.

And I said to Julia that we would be in Austria in a few months and asked if we could meet.

The most important thing that stuck in my memory when I met Julia Eßl in the Albertina in Vienna was that she took me to her office and there were three or four very wide binders on a bookshelf with "Carl Heumann" on the spine.

My first thought was, "How is it possible that someone, whom I don't know, knows my grandfather so well that entire binders can be filled with information about him?"

That just aroused the curiosity and excitement regarding my grandfather between Julia and me. We got along really well and became fast friends. After our visit in Vienna, she wrote to me and asked: “What do you think about a visit from me? And that was just the beginning of an absolutely wonderful time.”

When Julia first contacted me and said she had the opportunity to come to America, my father blocked it. But then he gave in and said, "Okay, well, I'll talk to her."

Julia came and spent three or four days with my father. They were best friends. My father couldn't show her enough things. He found a document here and another document there, they spoke German and they became dear, dear friends. When it was time for her to leave there were tears everywhere, including my father. So it was a 180 degree turn.

KL: Thank you, Carol, for this lively report on Julia Eßl's visit and the relationship between Julia and you and your father. We are both very grateful to Julia Eßl in Vienna and Hanna Strzoda in Berlin, who did a lot of research and thankfully shared their findings with us.

At the moment, three museums in Berlin, Dresden and Munich want to return works of art in the near future. Carol, you are the representative of the heirs. That means you speak for all the rightful heirs of your grandfather and regulate the communication between the members of your family and the museums regarding the restitution process. Can you tell us a little bit about what it means for your family to get back the works of art that were confiscated from your grandfather 80 years ago through persecution? We are particularly interested in what the younger generation thinks about it.

CHS: That's a really good question. In fact, as a family, we are grappling with this issue. First of all, the fact that part of the art is being restituted means everything to us because of our connection to our grandfather. This is a man we have never known, but whom we have heard of all our lives. My father spoke of him with great reverence and instilled that in us too, so we knew Carl was a wonderful man. We were sad that we didn't get to know him. This little thread of a connection from Carl to his grandchildren, to his great-grandchildren, means everything to us.

Restitution is a strange thing because it has this very strong emotional aspect. Then there is this logistical aspect. There may also be a financial aspect that we don't want to emphasize at all. But it always finds a way in.

I was the executor of my father's estate, which means that after his death, I took care of everything related to his estate. So I became the main point of contact. I brought his direct descendants, that is six people in the direct line, together. That's a very manageable amount of people to work with. But if you add the next generation, with all of our children, that number goes up to 23. So we kept it pretty small and made decisions together. We met digitally last year, but before that we visited each other.

(Thomas Heumann with Carol Heumann Snider's four children, 2012, photo: Carol Snider Heumann)

CHS: About two weeks ago my 30-year-old son came to visit. He is very interested in history and speaks fluent German. He asked how everything was going and I said, “Well, there are some pieces that are being returned to us and we'd like some of them because we'd like to see them on our walls. We would like to see others stay in Germany so that they can be appreciated by the people there. And maybe we want to sell one or two of them. We do not know yet."

My son, who is a very strong personality, replied, “Mom, I would like to be asked to come to the table when these things are discussed. I am also a heir to Carl. He's important to me too, and I think I'm speaking for my cousins when I say please don't make any decisions without us. "

Right now our challenge is how to deal with this issue. How can we respect the opinion of our adult children without turning it into a crazy situation? Perhaps we will talk to our children each time, get their opinion, and come back with a general opinion for our family. It's really important for us to include everyone, but it's not easy. This is where we are right now.

MW: Let's go back to your two blogs that you mentioned earlier. I always love it when someone says it's important to keep memories alive. But you're not just saying that, you're living this idea.

In your two blogs "Northwestladybug" and "Letters from Omi" you tell the story of your grandfather and your father. I especially like your blog Letters from Omi because I love the idea that the blog is aimed at your grandchildren. Each contribution begins with "Dear Grandchildren" and then you tell about family members who, of course, have never met them. This is a great thing to keep memories for the future.

Let's go back to the past one more time. Your grandfather, Carl Heumann was born on March 19, 1886 in Cologne to Jewish parents. He converted to Protestantism in 1917 when he met and married your grandmother,Irmgard, who was a Protestant. Nevertheless, Carl Heumann was regarded by the Nazis as a ”full Jew.” At first he was protected by his so-called privileged mixed marriage, but in 1938 he lost his job in his own bank, he had to pay the "Jewish property tax," and was not allowed to manage his own financial affairs. In short, he was persecuted by the National Socialist system. After the death of his wife in January 1944, he was even more vulnerable. Tragically, he was killed in the bomb attack on Chemnitz on March 5, 1945.

(Carl Heumann (middle) with his wife Irmgard and the children Thomas (left outside), Ulli (middle) and Rainer (right outside) in the Reichsstraße in Chemnitz, around 1940, anonym)

MW: Your father, Thomas Heumann, survived the Second World War. He left Germany in 1953 and went to the USA. He was also persecuted under National Socialism because of his status as a “Mischling, a so-called half-Jew.

Many Jewish people do not consider themselves religious, but define themselves by their Jewish origin. Can you tell us what role your Jewish origins played in your father's life? Are there any Jewish traditions or rituals that have been kept alive in your family to this day?

CHS: To be honest, I wish they existed. It's kind of strange for me to be the descendant of someone for whom his Jewish heritage played such a tragic role. It didn't kill him directly, but in some ways everything changed for my grandfather because of his Judaism.

When I was a child, I wanted to have a menorah for Christmas. We had one, but there was nothing behind it. Perhaps my father could have made some of the Jewish heritage his own. I think he could have done more research on his Jewish heritage and shared some of it with his children. But maybe I'm too hard on my dad because I think he had a great trauma and I think when he came to the US he wanted to leave it all behind. So the short answer is no. We celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. We never really celebrated anything related to Jewish heritage.

MW: Thank you Carol for giving us these insights into your family history. That’s so valuable. In our work as provenance researchers, it is wonderful to come into contact with the families and the heirs of the works of art. It is such a pleasant working relationship with you and your family. Thank you very much.

CHS: Thank you very much too! I really like working with both of you and everyone who has contacted us. If we can travel again, we would like to come to Germany, and it would be wonderful to meet everyone in person.

MW / KL: Yes, we'd love that too.

KL: I would also like to thank you, Carol, for your continued support in this very long process of research and restitution.

Through the posts in your blog, we got to know you and your family very well and also learned a lot more about Carl Heumann. But as I said, without the support of the other provenance researchers we would not have come this far, so once again a big thank you to the others who have supported us.

CHS: Yes, also from me. You have all been absolutely wonderful and some friendships have formed.

I would like to tell about another friendship. There was a man named Waldemar Ballerstedt in Chemnitz, who we think could have been a protector of my grandfather. You can read about it on my blog.

His grandson's wife just emailed me - I recently had an operation and she wrote to me, "Carol, we're thinking of you, get well."

So two or three generations later, there is a friendship between the descendants of a Nazi, who may have been my grandfather's protectorate, and the descendants of a persecuted German Jew.

It's just so heartwarming to me that we can forgive, forget and move on.

MW: Yes, that's great to hear. Really very touching.

KL: Nice! Is there anything else you would like to tell us?

CHS: I would like to tell you one more story.

I have a grandson, Leo, who is almost two years old. When he was very young, we showed him the picture of Sophia, a painting by Joseph Hauber from my grandfather's collection that had hung in my childhood home, and then in my parents’ houses, until my father’s death in 2017.

(Leo, the great-great-grandson of Carl Heumann in front of the painting "Sophia" from the Carl Heumann Collection, Chemnitz, 2021, photo: Carol Heumann Snider)

CHS: Leo looked at the picture and waved when he was just eight months old. It then became a tradition that when he slept in our house and woke up in the morning, the first thing he wanted to do was to say good morning to Sophia. And in the evening he insisted on saying good night to Sophia.

When Leo comes to visit now, the first thing he does is go to Sophia to say hello. To me, it's just the essence of everything we try to do to keep Carl's memory and story alive for future generations. Just seeing Leo look up while Sophia looks down at him - there is just this love bond that I can't explain. But the first few times it happened, I teared up. In my will, I will state that my grandson Leo gets the picture of Sophia so that he can have it on his walls when he grows up.

MW: Thank you for this wonderful story.

I’m getting rid of my boobs before they get rid of me

2021-02-24T09:35:00.001-08:00

March 3rd. A week from today.

That’s the day that my currently healthy boobs will take leave of my body. I’m still in disbelief that I’m about to do this, and I have the urge every day to cancel the upcoming surgery. But I know that logically I’m doing the smartest thing, hard as it is emotionally, and as hard as the surgery will be physically.

I was born with the BRCA2 gene mutation (which I blogged about last year, after I found out about it). Instead of a 3-ish% lifetime chance of getting breast cancer, I was born with about an 80-ish% chance of developing breast cancer in my lifetime. (Think Angelina Jolie, who was also born with a BRCA gene mutation and had a prophylactic mastectomy.)

(Thanks, rosalarian.tumblr.com.)

So far, my mammograms and recent breast MRIs have been clear, but it’s likely just a matter of time before I’d be faced with a breast cancer diagnosis. And if that were the case, I’d have to go through this surgery AND chemo/radiation. No thanks!

I’m 64. That means a few things in regard to my mastectomy situation.

One, I’ve already worked through a big chunk of that 80+% chance of getting breast cancer, so my chance at this point is about 35%. I go back and forth, from thinking that 35% is perfectly tolerable and I should just take the risk, to ‘no way; that’s still a huge chance of breast cancer,’ and back again. Round and round and round. It’s mentally and emotionally exhausting!

Two, I’ll be starting Medicare on November 1st of this year, the month in which I’ll turn 65. I was hoping that Medicare would be optional, but for me, it’s not. On the day that I’m eligible for Medicare, my other coverage is hugely affected. Long story short, I will be starting Medicare on November 1st of this year and MEDICARE WON’T COVER PREVENTATIVE SURGERIES. Nope, they want to wait until you actually get cancer, and only THEN would a mastectomy be covered! Yes, this is insane, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

So my hands (or rather, my boobs) have been forced. If I’m gonna do this, I need to do it now. The reconstruction process involves numerous surgeries, so I need to allow time for all this to happen before I begin Medicare.

There are three basic options after a mastectomy – “going flat,” flap reconstruction (which is harvesting fat from other locations on the body and transferring it to the breast… a very long and complicated microsurgery with a long, complex recovery), and implants. Because of my abdominoplasty thirty years ago to repair damage from my twin pregnancy, I’m not a candidate for the most common (DIEP) flap reconstruction and, although I’ve considered it, I’ve decided not to “go flat.” That leaves “gummy bear” silicone implants. This is the one I explored during my appointment with the plastic surgeon. I kinda like the shape, and the smaller size!

It’ll be months, though, before the gummy will be in my body. Expanders will be placed next week during the mastectomy surgery, and then those will be filled a bit at a time over the next couple of weeks, until I’m at my desired size (smaller). At that point, I’ll undergo an additional (“exchange”) surgery to replace the expanders (which I hear are awful) with the final gummy implants. Fun. (Not.)

Kat’s wedding will take place on May the fourth (of course, Star Wars fans that she and Ian are!) and will be off the grid at Danny’s prospecting claims, where they got engaged (including a very bumpy dirt road – gah!) in California, so we’ll need to work that into the scheduling.

Am I ready? NO. But I don’t know how I ever can really be ready to basically amputate a body part that’s integral to who I am. I’ve chosen to look at it this way: my boobs have nourished four healthy children and have served me well. Now they are trying to (or will likely try to) kill me and they need to go. That’s my logical approach, anyway.

My not-so-logical approach consists of feelings of sadness, loss, and fear.

I’ll let you know how it goes…

Preparing for a very Covid Christmas

2020-12-22T14:02:00.001-08:00

2020 can’t end soon enough. What an absolutely craptastic year it’s been, ending in another solitary holiday for Tom and me.

Fortunately, all four of our children are happily partnered and cohabitating, some even with a new Covid puppy, so no one will be spending Christmas alone. THAT would be heartbreaking.

Just as we spent Thanksgiving alone, Tom and I will also be spending Christmas alone. It’s simply too dangerous now, with Covid numbers surging to unprecedented levels in every corner of the country, including our little upper left-hand corner. Vaccines are being distributed now, but only to frontline health workers. Shannon, a nurse at Virginia Mason, will receive her first dose on Christmas Eve and Elisabeth, a nurse anesthetist at UW will receive her first dose on December 30th. But we don’t know yet whether that vaccine also protects those the recipient comes in contact with. Until we know the answer to that question, we just can’t risk seeing our kids and their families without being masked and outside, where we can socially distance.

So that’s what we did last weekend! We met outside at Elisabeth and Danny’s new house in Sammamish. Our assumption was that we’d meet under their covered front porch (it is December in the Pacific Northwest, after all)…

(Look at the sky. This photo was NOT taken this month. Duh.)

But the weather cooperated and we were able to meet in the fenced backyard. This was especially good news for the four dogs (two of them, puppies), as well as the one toddler in attendance.

Coincidentally-on-purpose, it was also someone’s “Medicare birthday”! How did that happen?! Tom and I met when we were barely 19 and 20. The thought back then of us ever actually being OLD was just… well, pretty unfathomable. And yet, here we are!

Something from “the olden days” is back, though. Tom had relatively long hair when we were dating…

I think he’s trying to relive his youth with what he calls his “Pandemic hair”! A little grayer and not as “coiffed,” but equally as handsome.

It was so good to see our kids with their significant others and fur babies!

Alex and Erin, with Misha…

…who loved the cold waterfall!

Peter and Shannon with (camouflaged) Masta-dor (Mastiff-Labrador) pupper, Chessa…

… who ran around acting like she was already 130 pounds and tall as a horse! (Give her another month or two…!)

And the Markus family, with Grace (who IS actually as tall as a small horse) and sweet Santa-Baby Leo…

…who I wanted so badly to snuggle! I mean, look at this adorable little Christmas elf!

Kat and Ian are quarantining at their home in San Francisco. The plan had been for them to drive up to Seattle in their new camper, but obviously that’s not gonna happen. We were able to FaceTime with them, though which, for this year, will have to suffice. But oh, how I miss them! It might be that the next time we see them will be at their wedding!

This Covid fiasco has changed everything. Who would have thought that families who normally gather for the holidays would need to stay home? But I think there’s actually an upside to this Christmas celebration apart, at least for our family: each couple is going to be alone this year, freeing them to establish some tradition, big or small, that will persist long past the end of the pandemic, when they’ll remind each other, ‘Remember when this tradition began…?’

And that will have to suffice as the upside to a very Covid Christmas.

A very Covid Thanksgiving

2020-11-28T09:17:00.002-08:00

Anyone who knows us knows that Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday. It’s rare that we have fewer than 15 or 20 guests (a bunch of them as houseguests for the whole week!) and we cook and bake for days on end in anticipation of a house filled with great smells, happy conversation, and lots of holiday spirit.

Last year, for example, was epic:

This year’s Thanksgiving celebration was very different. With Covid numbers skyrocketing around the country, we made the heartbreaking decision not to gather at all this year. It just isn’t worth the risk. The news on vaccines is promising – if we can just hold out for the next few months, excruciating as it will be.

So it was just Tom and me on Thanksgiving. Very weird! But, actually, it was kind of nice, too. We have absolutely nothing to complain about (other than not being able to be with family, of course) and everything to be grateful for, so we decided to make the most of this very bizarre situation.

In the morning, we decided to head just a few miles north to Manchester State Park. The idea was to scope out some good campsites for spring, but we also enjoyed a nice walk around the park…

Who knew that there was such a great view of Seattle from the sleepy little town of Manchester?! Once that fast ferry to Seattle from Southworth begins this coming June, this area will explode!

Last week we decided that if we had to be alone for Thanksgiving, we might as well make the most of it, so we ordered take-out dinner from one of Gig Harbor’s nicest restaurants, Brix25. It was delicious – and clean-up was a breeze!

We weren’t alone, though, as each of our four kids and their partners checked in remotely…

Peter and Shannon

Alex and Erin

Kat and Ian

Elisabeth and Danny

…and then we all hopped on a Zoom call for a fun game of remote trivia. Tom and I actually didn’t feel alone at all, thanks to technology!

We’re so grateful that our kids are happy and healthy, riding out this bizarre pandemic with someone they love.

At this point, a traditional Christmas is looking very iffy and chances are good that we’ll be celebrating that holiday alone this year, too. We’ll take it day by day between now and then, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, and act accordingly when the time comes.

I can handle everything except Christmas Eve; being alone of Christmas Eve would break my heart.

My father, a German half-Jew, discussing similarities between Trump and Hitler (July, 2016)

2020-09-09T16:47:00.001-07:00

Look what I came upon as I reviewed video conversations I had with my father during the years before he died, when he was finally willing to talk about his experiences as a half-Jew (a "mischling") in WWII Germany.

Dad wrote prolifically about his experiences, but he insisted that his books and stories be only for family, never for people he didn't know. I begged him to publish his memoir, stressing the importance of his first-person voice during a time when those voices were growing quieter and quieter, while another voice - that of Donald Trump - was becoming louder and louder," but he refused, saying only, "You can tell my story when I'm gone" - which is becoming my life's work.

This video conversation with Dad, shot at his house in Ashland, Oregon in July, 2016, four months before Trump was elected and seven months before he died (I swear, Trump's election killed him), is chilling, prescient, and terrifying.

As much as I miss him, I'm glad he's not alive to witness what's happening in our country. He totally called it.

Tom does it again: A "gar-lodge" project almost two year in the making (and counting)

2020-08-20T13:36:00.001-07:00

Back in late 2017, when we decided to scrap the idea of building in Suncadia and instead decided to move to Gig Harbor, we bought a house that kept coming up on Tom's Redfin searches, but never on mine.

Why? Because I checked that box that says "must have a garage" and Tom didn't.

Yep, we bought a house with no garage - and only one real closet! I knew storage space was going to be an issue, especially storage of Tom's massive collection of tools, machines, and other gizmos, but Tom had big plans - he was gonna build a workshop.

As you probably know from Tom's previous projects in our Woodinville home, he does amazing work. He is truly a craftsman, but he is sloooow, methodical, and meticulous. So when he begins a major project I brace myself for the long haul - and I knew this project would take a while.

It began about a year and a half ago, in February, 2019. The idea was to create a workshop attached to and just behind the car port. The first step would be to grind down a huge stump that was in the way and to pour a large, deep slab. Fortunately, we hired both those tasks out.

Once the foundation was in, Tom's work began. I don't know the technical terms for everything he did, but I do know that these thingamabobs held some really heavy concrete blocks in place.

Once those blocks were in, "lodge" became the guiding word! Look at these heavy beams!

Next: the walls. For the walls, as well as for the roof, our dear friend Neal came to help Tom. Goodness knows, I was useless as a helper.

See those three square boxes on the near wall in the above photo? Those will contain windows meant to mimic the three windows way up high on the house.

Before the roof could go on, Tom and Neal had to lay down more big, heavy, "lodgy" beams.

Of course, Tom insisted on the same green metal roof that we have on the house.

Tom's projects live in his mind. No real architectural plans, no formal drawings, nothing - so it was only at this point that I came to understand what his "gar-lodge" would ultimately look like. I loved how it was taking shape!

Being... well, me... I was focusing more on this. The mess-for-months-on-end in the carport was driving me nuts.

Next step: every inside surface was covered with pegboard. This was to be, after all, a WORKSHOP! Tom was going to build a workbench, but then found some adjustable-height work tables. Brilliant! They're on wheels, so can be rolled pretty much anywhere, individually or together, for just about any project.

Finally, it was time to get stuff out of the carport and begin moving it into the workshop. I'm kind of ashamed to admit how excited I was about this milestone.

I just love some of the finishing touches and fixtures Tom insisted on!

Of course, Tom's attention to detail extends to outside the workshop, as well, including shingles all around. I love the little "swoosh" at the bottom of the shingles. Eventually, he'll install rock along the workshop foundation - and he's busy making a gorgeous wood and rock staircase right now.

Eventually, Tom will make a set of shingled barn doors to close his workshop off from the carport. And you know by now that he has to do something special to those as well, right? It'll likely look something like this.

And you KNOW I love this!

Next project (because there always is one...): creating a new and improved entryway.

Tom will work on the entryway (creative and fun) next summer at the same time that contractors will rebuild our deck (not creative and not fun). Our current deck is in desperate need of a facelift. Hell, it's in desperate need of a complete re-do!

Prospecting and a proposal!

2020-07-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

In our family, if it happened once and it was fun, it will forevermore be considered a TRADITION.

Heading south to Quincy, California for a week on Danny's prospecting claims is now one of our favorite family traditions. It's a two-day trip there and a two-day trip back. Normally we'd stay in a hotel, but this damn Covid-19 pandemic has made 2020 anything but normal. We're not about to stay in a hotel, and we're definitely not about to fly anywhere, so a few weeks ago we bought ourselves a cute little trailer.

It's smaller than our last beloved trailer, but our winding, curvy hilly driveway just barely accommodates it, so if we want to travel, this is our option. It's just right for us where we are now in our lives - figuratively and literally. Tom added a solar system (that is, a system for solar power!) to keep the lights on for a week off-grid and Danny brought his "miner's/fireman hose" to keep the tank filled with creek water, so we were all set.

It's a long drive from Gig Harbor to Quincy, and state parks have been closed due to the pandemic, so we made a reservation at an RV park in Grant's Pass, Oregon, which marks the approximate halfway point. When we drove in, we were greeted by multiple Trump/Pence signs.

Not just one, but many of them. To be honest, we probably would have turned around and found somewhere else to stay the night, but RV parks were all jam-packed because public parks were closed, so our options were severely limited. Once we settled in, I decided to talk to the owners, suggesting that they discourage (any) political signs, as most people travel to get away from things like politics, but in the office I noticed a - yup, Trump/Pence sign. Suffice it to say that we slept and left. How sad that politics in this country has gotten to this point. I plead guilty for my role in it, but I stand vehemently against just about everything Trump stands for and have to say that if you love the guy, well... unfriend me, please.

Fortunately, the rest of the trip was filled with beauty. Even the rest stop, with the amazing view of Mt. Shasta, was pretty!

The last two miles of the trip, a rough dirt road, took about an hour, with Danny helping Tom fill in huge gaps, ridges, and holes with logs and rocks.

It was a long, hot haul to get to the claim, but oh, the beauty that greeted us!

We hadn’t seen Kat and Ian since before this damn pandemic began and we had planned this reunion carefully, with testing and quarantining all around, so that initial hug was like new life being breathed into me!

Elisabeth, Danny, and little Leo had caravaned from Washington with us and we met Kat and Ian, along with Ian’s mom (also named Kat, nicknamed “Mom Kat” to avoid confusion with our daughter, Kat), her friend (also named Tom, nicknamed “Tom Not Dad” to avoid confusion with “our” Tom), and Ian’s brother, Arden. Now all ten of us were finally together, ready for a fun week of prospecting, playing, and relaxing. We parked the trailer next to Kat and Ian’s new Westfalia van and the Markus’ tent, and settled in.

The next morning, as I walked the few steps from the campsite to the river, Ian approached me and announced that he was going to propose to Kat that morning! We’ve known Ian for over 15 years, since he was Elisabeth’s housemate at Cal and 15-year-old Kat’s “crush.” He’s always felt like part of the family and now he was about to officially become part of the family! A few minutes later I caught a photo of Ian as he told Tom of his plan for the morning.

Ian had asked Danny to help with specifics: Danny would hand Kat a prospecting pan that was ready for “processing” (the step in which the heavy dirt - and hopefully gold - are separated from rock and other “debris” by shaking and moving the pan just under the surface of the water). In that pan, Danny had placed the ring Ian had brought. Wisely, Ian brought two inexpensive rings, as that river can be quick...

This is what happened next:

As both families looked on, Ian and Kat became engaged! We quickly named the location “Proposal Pond” and celebrated with champagne!

What a great way to start our week together!

The rest of the week was full of fun, relaxation, and yes, even a bit of gold.

And we got a whole week with Leo - who is far more toddler now than baby. He’s such a cutie, and so much fun!

I especially love this little montage of Tom and Leo. Leo adores his Papa!

What a week it was! After being relegated to home for months, this was such a welcome and unforgettable respite and celebration of family, love, and hope for the future.

BRCA. DAMN.

2020-03-08T17:15:00.001-07:00

My mother's death in 2004 of ovarian cancer still seems like yesterday - when it doesn't seem like a lifetime ago.

A few months after after mom died, I talked to her oncologist about a recently discovered gene mutation, BRCA, that had been linked to both ovarian and breast cancer. Is there any chance Mom had that gene mutation, I wondered. He assured me that only 3 to 5% of all patients with ovarian cancer have the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutation, so chances were good that Mom didn't have it. He encouraged me to relax and go about my life, but also said it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a genetic test at some point. The price tag of that test back then was over $6000, and insurance wouldn't cover it.

In 1991, many years before Mom died, when the twins were toddlers, Peter was in pre-school, and Elisabeth was in 1st grade, I had a hysterectomy due to severe uterine fibroids (and Mom flew to San Diego for a month to help me out, as she always did when I needed her).

Before the surgery, I remember crossing off the line on the consent form that stated that this would be a "total hysterectomy," meaning that my ovaries would be removed (called an "ooperectomy"), in addition to my uterus. That would throw me into immediate menopause. I was only 36. No way were they gonna take my ovaries if they weren't diseased! So I crossed out that line and told them to wake me up if my ovaries look like a problem and "we'll talk," but they were not to perform an oopherectomy without waking me first. I wasn't woken and my ovaries weren't taken.

Until 2014, when I was through menopause and decided that my ovaries had served me well, but I didn't need them anymore - especially considering Mom's death ten years earlier from ovarian cancer. I was still curious about the BRCA question, but had taken Mom's doctor's advice and not worried much about the possibility that Mom, and possibly I, had the gene mutation. Although genetic testing had become more common and presumably cheaper, my insurance still wouldn't cover it in 2014. It would, however, cover an oopherectomy - so that's what I did.

So my uterus was removed in 1991 and my ovaries were removed in 2014. But when were my Fallopian tubes removed? Why is this important, you ask? Because recent research shows pretty conclusively that ovarian cancer actually begins in the tubes, and that having them removed (called a "salpingectomy") is protective against ovarian cancer AND against breast cancer.

But I'm ahead of myself.

Just before Christmas last year, Kat had the opportunity to have genetic testing through a program at UCSF. She was surprised to learn that she has an ATM gene mutation which, like the BRCA gene mutation, is associated with higher risk of breast and ovarian cancers, as well as prostate and pancreatic cancers. The risk isn't as high as with the BRCA gene, but it is still worrisome and now Kat, who's only 30, must stay especially vigilant with screening measures. She wondered who she got this ATM mutation from, so asked Tom and me to be tested through Color Genomics. Amazingly, the test was only $50 for first degree relatives of those with a mutation ($300 otherwise - still a bargain compared to $6000!).

Instead of getting my results online, I received an email, asking me to make an appointment to speak with a Color Genetic Counselor. Guess that ATM mutation must have come from me, I thought. Imagine my surprise when, while on the phone with the counselor, I saw this:

All this time, I had the BRCA gene mutation after all, and didn't know it!

The counselor told me that the chance of someone with the BRCA2 mutation getting breast cancer by the time she's 70 is a whopping 74%. "I'm 63; does this mean that chances are 74% that I'll develop breast cancer in the next seven years?" I asked him. No, he assured me, the chance decreases from that number each year that you're NOT diagnosed with cancer. But yes, my chances are pretty dang high.

And that calculator doesn't add my 26% Ashkenazi Jewish heritage from my dad's side, which puts me at additional risk.

I'd just had my yearly mammogram the week before I received this news. It was clear. So that's good. But SHIT! Really? Haven't we had ENOUGH cancer in our family recently?

The counselor noticed from information I'd provided previously that my ovaries had already been removed. As an oopherectomy is recommended for all women with a BRCA gene mutation, I was ahead of the game. "But," he said, "You might want to consider a prophylactic mastectomy. And you'll also want to get a breast MRI, just to confirm the findings of your recent mammogram." I did that last week (such fun... not!) and thank goodness, it was clear, too. So I do not have breast cancer... at this point. And for now, at least, I can postpone a mastectomy until at least next Fall.

Stanford has a great tool which can be used to predict the chances of getting breast cancer, given previous protective measures taken. Remember that it now looks like ovarian cancer begins in the Fallopian tubes - and that I don't know whether mine were taken in 1991, or 2014... or maybe even never. You can imagine my confusion, then, with THIS:

Looks confusing (ignore the "current age" box; what-ifs only work looking forward), but it basically predicts that if I had my ovaries (and presumably tubes) removed at 35 and I have no mastectomy, my chance of not getting cancer (by when?) is 46%, and only 1% greater if I have a mastectomy. If I had my ovaries (and presumably tubes) removed at 55, and I have no mastectomy, my chance of not getting cancer is 18%, and only 1% greater if I have a mastectomy. But when were my Fallopian tubes removed?!

I requested records from the 1991 surgery and received this in the mail:

Damn! I tried to call this doctor and was shocked to get a return call from him. He remembered me because my twins were born on 11/9/89 as the Berlin Wall was coming down. It was unforgettable to me and my family, for sure, but apparently it was also unforgettable to him! We had a delightful conversation, but he insisted that he "would have never" removed my tubes if he didn't take my ovaries. Now what?!

I am also in contact with the surgeon's office who did the 2014 surgery. Her nurse assured me that the tubes are almost always taken with the uterus, so they wouldn't have taken them in 2014. Could this mean I still have them? That would most decidedly NOT be good!

So here we are - my new normal. It's a bit disconcerting, but I'm getting used to it.

****UPDATE****
My tubes were taken with my ovaries in 2014! Just received the surgical report that confirms this. When removed, neither tubes nor ovaries had any sign of disease. So glad to have that mystery solved!

This book won’t write itself!

2019-10-14T09:19:00.001-07:00

Dear Dad,

I was always afraid of disappointing you and now, more than two years after your death, I’m paralyzed by it.

I should be done with this book about your life by now and instead, I haven’t even begun. I wanted to write while you were still alive, but you were adamantly against that idea, insisting, “You can tell my story when I’m gone.” I don’t know if that was persistent wartime paranoia speaking, your familiar reluctance to draw attention to yourself, or simply the fact that you no longer had the energy to put behind your own voice.

Always meticulously thorough and organized, you color-coded and systematically filed thousands of research documents, hundreds upon hundreds of pages of diaries, short stories, and journals, and even left behind the manuscripts of two full books – which you refused to publish. You left me notes (“Carol, if you want to tell my story, you’ll need this…”) and annotated sources, indicating that you wanted and expected me to tell your story.

So why can’t I get started?

If I were a psychotherapist, I could possibly tell you why I haven’t yet begun to write. My best guess is that I’m terrified of being judged by you, even after you’re gone – just as you were terrified by being judged by your own father for the entire seventy-three years of your life after his death. And because my book is supposed to be about you and your father (and your mother and, well, world history), the paralysis is even more pronounced.

People know that writing this book is my life’s work, now that I’m retired and now that you’re, well… gone. Some are anxiously waiting for me to announce, “I’m done!” But I’ve barely begun.

Where do I even begin?

Is this your mother’s story as a non-Jew whose sole existence protected her Jewish husband and mischling children during WWII, then died suddenly of a brain tumor in January, 1944, at which point all hell breaks loose for you, your siblings, and your father?

Is it the story of your father, the prominent Jewish art collector who somehow maintained his title as German consul to Portugal, and was probably the only one of thousands of Jews not deported from Chemnitz? The more I research, the more it looks like he might have had a protectorate! Is that the story?

Is it your story as a mischling (mixed-breed) during WWII, Dad? You wrote two books about your experiences, but refused to publish either one, insisting that they weren’t good enough and no one would really care, anyway. They are, and they would! Do I just edit and publish your books, allowing you to tell your own story when you’re gone, and leave it at that?

And I’ve had so many related experiences myself. Is this my own story, too? Do I tell of meeting Julia Essl in Vienna, the Provenance Researcher who had been tasked with the job of researching your father in order to help determine whether some of his art which had ended up at the Albertina Museum should be restituted to his heirs? Do I describe my own shock at seeing multiple thick binders on Julia’s shelves, each labeled “Carl Heumann,” realizing that Julia knew far more about your father than any living person? Do I describe Julia’s trip to the US to interview you, and the lasting friendship with her that endures to this day?

Do I tell of last year’s invitation from the mayor of Chemnitz and the director of the art museum there to attend the opening of the exhibit in honor of you and your father after you donated three of your father’s works back to the museum, insisting that “seventy years is enough!” when I balked that it was precisely those organizations that stripped your father of his position on the board due to his Jewishness?

Is it my story, too? Do I somehow weave all this together? Am I a good enough writer to do that?

My office bookshelf and cabinets are filled to the brim with more than enough research, more than enough information, more than enough documents, more that enough letters, to tell the whole story. In fact, I have so much… STUFF, that I am overwhelmed and paralyzed, unable to begin at all!

I need help. I need the combination of book coach, writer/editor, project manager, and psychotherapist. Does such a person even exist?

Excerpts from “You Wanted to Know: Opa Answers his Grandchildren’s Questions about Life as a Mischling (half-Jew) in World War II Germany”

2019-09-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

I wrote this post in 2010. My father didn't want me to publish it at that time, for the same reason he didn't want to publish the two books he'd written about his life as a half-Jew in Germany during WWII - he thought no one would be interested and he was very uncomfortable drawing any attention to himself.

In retrospect, now that he's gone, I think there's another reason Dad refused to tell his own story (but wanted me to tell it after his death): Dad suffered from survivor's guilt.

I am now Dad's voice and I am finally (FINALLY!) getting down to the business of writing his story. If I were to do some self-reflection on my reluctance to get started with that story for the past two years, I think I'd realize that Dad passed some of that survivor's guilt on to me, and now I feel immense pressure to tell it right, just as he would have. I need to let go of that pressure, of those unspoken rules, and just tell his story and my story, in my own words. I need to allow myself that freedom, something that I find extremely difficult because dammit, I keep hearing Dad's voice in my ears, telling me to get it right.

Going through the thousands and thousands of pages of Dad's writings is the first step. Part of that process will likely be to blog about what I find. Maybe speaking to a very small audience first will help my own apprehension about speaking to a bigger, unknown audience.

My father recently turned 82. Lately he’s been very busy focusing on something he previously didn’t want to focus on: his past. As I was growing up in the late 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s, my dad was busy doing what other American families did – working, parenting, and simply doing what had to be done each day as a father, husband, head of a household, and employee. The past was the past back then.

Now, my father’s past is a lesson for our future. As more and more people who lived through World War II die, it becomes more and more important that their stories be told.

In 1979, prodded in part by his children’s incessant questions and curiosity about his past as a “mischling” (or “half-Jew”) in World War II Germany, my father wrote a book called The Longest Year in the Young Life of Peter Bauer (a pseudonym for himself, as telling the story in the third person was easier for Dad). That book has never been published, as he wrote it simply for his children – and now there’s been a new “printing” for his grandchildren.

This book describes my father’s life in 1944/1945 when, essentially, “all hell had broken loose” for him and his family. His father, a Jew, had married a non-Jew in 1919. It was my grandmother who, by her very existence, protected her husband and children from persecution by the Nazis.

Although my grandfather’s Jewish heritage had already stripped him of his job as the Vice President of a private bank and of his position (but not his title) as Vice Consul to Portugal, his fate at that point was not that of many Jews in Germany, surely due to his Aryan wife and his minor “half-breed” children. That story is told in my father’s first book. Here is the first page of that book, an introduction for my brothers and me.

I have asked my father whether he’d consider publishing The Longest year in the Young Life of Peter Bauer, and his answer has always been modest and self-effacing – “Oh, no one else really cares about the heart of a 16-year-old mischling…” (because the book is at least as much about my father’s developing “soul of a poet and mind of an engineer” as it is about wartime Germany), but perhaps he will consider publishing it if his children and grandchildren continue to stress the importance of his memories.

A few years ago, my 82-year-old father sent his grandchildren an e-mail saying, in essence, “OK, I’m ready to answer all those questions I didn’t answer for my children or for you previously. Ask me!”

And they did – as did I, thrilled that he was finally so willing to tell those stories that, when I was growing up, he’d only reluctantly tell when he was captive in the car on the way to Lake Tahoe or on those rare occasions when a story from his past would bubble up and he couldn’t resist telling us. Those stories, though, were usually happy and funny memories of Dad’s life before the Nazi regime – stories like the one about the Christmas when Dad and his older brother stole their little sister’s favorite doll while she was napping and when she awoke they tormented her as they pulled a slightly burnt gingerbread man out of the oven, explaining that they’d put her doll in the oven just to see what would happen…

But I digress.

So in answer to his grandchildren’s questions, Opa spent the past few weeks again at his computer (because he is exceptionally tech-savvy for an 82-year-old… gotta love it!), and when I arrived in Ashland over Christmas vacation, there was a binder with a 66-page memoir waiting for me in my room. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep that night, as I devoured every word, so grateful that Dad is finally willing – and even eager – to talk about the poignant, and often painful, memories of his youth.

Again, Dad doesn’t think that his memories warrant publishing, but he has agreed to allow me to share some excerpts here. Last time I visited I methodically photographed almost every photo I found in his albums on the shelf in the guestroom, so I’ll include some of those here as well.

Dad didn’t list questions from his grandchildren and answer each one. Instead he created a chronological narrative with headings.

(Just a quick note here: I have a copyright notice on my blog, which I normally don’t enforce all that stringently. In the case of my father’s writings, however, I am adamant: these are HIS words and photos and he has been gracious enough to allow me to share them on my blog – reluctantly, I might add. Please do NOT copy them for any purpose, anywhere. Thanks!)

The Early Years

“My father had been brought up Jewish, the oldest of initially four brothers. My grandfather died when my father was 10, so it fell to him to raise his three younger brothers in a fatherless family. The second oldest died at the young age of 21. I know really nothing about him, beyond that he, too, was a bank employee when he died in 1909. I have tried for years to learn something about him, but I have been utterly unsuccessful in digging up any information on him, what he did, where he was from, etc. Nobody even has a single picture of him. Any possible documents about him were either destroyed by the Nazis (because he was Jewish), or by the bombs in Cologne, where my father was born.”

(My paternal grandfather)

“My mother came from an old (not Jewish) family located in the Rhineland north of Köln (Cologne). Her father was CEO of a major steel- and machine tool producing factory in Chemnitz. I do not know who came to Chemnitz first -- my grandfather or my father. A CEO of a factory and a banker would have a lot of common interests. My mother's ancestors included the founder of a shoe factory in Wermelskirchen. His factory is now the city library and his villa, where my mother grew up, is a retirement home. The family included a number of military officers, including a WW I flyer in the mold of the "Red Baron". I have no idea about how my parents met, about their courtship, and the circumstances of their early years.”

(My paternal grandmother)

“I do remember sitting on the rounded wooden cover to my mother's sewing machine, playing with a button box she kept. I remember the cook coming in to discuss with my mother the menu for the coming week. There must have been times when I sat on my mother's lap, but I know now that physical contact was generally not considered proper at the time, nor was it hygienic. Disease was all around you, and I remember my mother telling me not to wrap a banana peel around my wrist because that would give me polio.

(My dad at about 3.)

But I do remember sitting on my father's lap, trying to get away from his cigar smoke. Often, he would have spread out the huge Schnorr "Bilderbibel" (Picture Bible) from his collection cabinet and would tell me stories from the Old Testament -- never the New; that's what he knew and remembered from his own childhood and, I would think, from studying the Torah.”

(My father’s family before the war.)

“The house where I was born was a large single-family house in Chemnitz in a “good” mixed neighborhood that had villas, schools, offices, shops. The house was at a corner, surrounded by a garden with an iron fence (which we eventually have do “donate” to make guns) on a stone wall. Also within that fenced enclosure, there was a separate garage, with a laundry room and apartment above. In the early years, the garage was used as my father's fencing arena -- one of the few sports other than Cross Country skiing and ping-pong my father ever did. The apartment above the garage was where the "Hausmeister" family lived: he took care of our house: he fired up the central furnace and partly smothered it at night, to stoke it again in the morning. He shoveled the fuel from the coal cellar and did all the handyman work around the house. He also taught us boys to play chess. On the side, he had a manual job in one of the factories. And then, there were additional people who came in on a regular basis: the wash woman once a week, the iron woman the week after, the gardener, etc. I remember laundry days in particular, when the two big built-in brick tubs would be heated with wood and coal, until the water boiled and the whole room was so steamy you couldn't see the other wall, engulfing even the drying centrifuge I got to try to crank sometimes. The clothes lines were strung out outside on poles, covering the lawn and our play area, leaving only the sand box exposed.”

(My dad’s childhood home, before…)

My Social Life

“For emergencies, there was the telephone, but every call in town cost money, and any long distance call, besides being prohibitively expensive, had to be arranged by the operator, usually hours ahead of time. Besides, most of us had bicycles, and if we had a need or urge to see someone across town we’d get on the bike and ride there. The idea of an impromptu get-together just did not exist. Besides, after-school activities were much rarer than they are today. There were absolutely zero sports. We had piano lessons, and we used the bike or walked or used streetcars to get there. I don’t remember any family who had a car, so nobody could be “taken” anywhere. On weekends we often did things with our parents and siblings: take a train to go on a hiking tour, or go cross-country skiing.”

(My dad –the middle child, literally – and his siblings.)

Junior Prom, Senior Prom, dates, dress-up, taxis, -- how foreign all this was to me when I learned about it all from you! Our schools were boys only, and there were no organized or even semi-official co-ed events. You were limited to whatever acquaintances you could make via your family. One advantage: approval was often automatic, because whomever you met was automatically from the right kind of family. Outside of that, making contacts with girls was hard, very hard. Having a sister helped, having relatives helped, so it turns out that I was luckier than most.

In summer vacation of 1941, at the age of 13, I was invited, “purely by coincident,” by a friend of my mother’s who had “a good name,” even with a “von” in front of it. She had a house at the edge of a small lake north of Berlin, and a big garden with lots of raspberries and gooseberries, and lots of healthy vegetables. She also happened to have a 13-year-old daughter. We turned out to be each other’s first loves.

Early Nazi Repressions (1933 – 1942)

“I believe it was in 1939, in the Sexta class, the first class of High School (that would be fifth grade here), we had to fill in a form which showed our family -- a normal thing to do in school, except that the form was issued by “The Party” meaning by that time the only party in existence, the NSDAP (or Nazi Party). My father asked me to fill in what I could, and to ask them about the rest.

I went to my mother first, although there was hardly a question; I knew my grandparents on my mother’s side very well, and birthdates and such was easy to get from Mutti. Vati, my Dad, was different: he had me sit down, and I knew something was up. “As for my parents”, he said, “You know their names: my father was L, after whom you got your middle name. My mother was S -- remember her? You were only five when she died. For them,under religion, you have to put down ‘Mosaic’” So that was it. I figured that “Mosaic” must mean the religion of Moses, and that means Jewish. I mumbled something like “I know”, but I didn’t really, I only knew there was something. Everywhere around, I could hear that “Jews are bad, they’re the worst.” Somehow that didn’t seem to fit. Never again did my father say anything about his family, not about his parents, not about his brothers. I found out the reason much later, when I was doing research for a book that hasn’t materialized.

There were informers all over the place, and one never knew what children might say, and to whom, if they found out more details about Vati’s family, being Jewish and all that. So the easiest way was “totschweigen”, which means practicing “dead silence.”

“If there is one omission which I now regret, and forever will, it is that I did not ask more about my father’s family. I have spent months trying to dig up information after the war, both here and in Köln (Cologne) where my father was born. On the Internet, in Synagogues in Germany, in City offices, in cemeteries: nothing, absolutely nothing was to be found. As one official said in Köln: “The Nazis destroyed everything, and what they didn’t find, the bombs got.” A total iron wall for me, impenetrable. Not a single photo, nothing about where they came from, when they changed from what name, when and where they married, about their personalities, what they did professionally, when they moved to Dresden and why. Nothing.”

“It is ironic that the pressure from the Nazis made many Jews either re-discover their Jewishness, or made them more Christian in order to maintain “privileged” status. That pressure, I think, made Vati practice Christianity seriously and made his children do the same. Without that pressure I would suspect he would have lived without much practice either way.”

The Nurnberg Laws

“The Nürnberg Laws, with the euphemistic title of “The Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor”, defined for the first time who was a Jew, not by religion, but by race. For the first time in history, now one could no longer evade the designation of being Jewish by converting from the Jewish religion.

No longer was a Jew defined by the religion of the mother. Four or three grandparents: you were a “full Jew”; two grandparents made you a “half Jew” (“mongrel of the first degree”, like me). or one grandparent only: a “quarter Jew” or “Mischling zweiten Grades”. There were also all kinds of other classifications, like who you had married and when, but some of these finer distinction were added later, by thorough German bureaucrats who loved pigeon holes. That laid the groundwork then for different “laws” defining how to treat what category of Jews. During their reign, the Nazis in different regions came up with about 2,000 “laws” and regulations for the single purpose of how to “legally” treat Jews. That way, everybody’s behind was covered, and many of “Hitler’s Willing Executioners” later-on did their dirty work “under cover of law.”

“In 1938, Goering, who had famously said “I am the one who decides who’s a Jew and who isn’t!” came up with a new classification: “Privileged Mixed Marriages”. My parents eventually ended up in that classification. Essentially, that meant, in practical terms:

Such Jews were in practice unlikely to be deported to camps.
They did not have to wear the yellow Star-of-David identifying badge;
They had to identify themselves by adopting, under law, the middle name “Israel” for men, and “Sara” for women; not using that name “voluntarily” was punishable by law.
They had to carry special ID cards with a large letter “J” for “Jude”; (I still have my father’s ID Card)
They were subject to some, but not all of the restrictions and cruelties that befell other Jews.

There were 28,000 such Jews left in Germany at the end of the war.

In order to be “privileged, one had to conform to essentially two requirements:

The Jewish partner of a mixed marriage had to be non-Jewish by religion;
Children from that marriage had to be brought up non-Jewish, meaning essentially Christian.

Those two conditions determined every day in the lives of my parents and us “Mischling” children. Due to #1, above, the non-Jewish partner, in our case my mother, became the hostage, who was singly, by reason of her very existence, responsible for the safety of the spouse, the children, and the family. The condition #2 required that there could be no doubt that we children were Christians, not Jews.”

(My grandmother with my dad, middle, and his older brother)

Christian Upbringing

“I do not know whether his parents were practicing or secular Jews, neither do I know whether his brothers also converted and if so, when, but I do know that his brother Hans, who died in 1909 at age 21, is buried in the Jewish cemetery in Dresden, with a Hebrew inscription on his grave stone. Nor do I know why Vati converted. His conversion, whether done for practical reasons as an aspiring banker, or out of conviction, turned out to be a good thing, though, because when the Nazis came to power a generation later, his marriage became automatically “privileged”. As long as I remember, my father was most concerned to make sure that everybody knew that we children were Christian, and that there could be no suspicion that he maintained ties to the Jewish Community.”

Ignorance and Silence

“That was also the reason why Vati never, never talked about his family or about anything that had to do with his Jewish background. Oh, he would say that as a child he only had a single tie (unlike us!), and, unlike us, he never dripped any gravy on it. He had sayings that he remembered from his childhood, but never a word about his parents. Not asking about it is probably my greatest regret I have today. But one must remember that it would have been unacceptably rude for us children to even subtly mention subjects that we knew or even sensed to be taboo or somehow too sensitive. Jewishness was one taboo, sex was another. “Don’t speak until spoken to” was the rule. We never dared asked questions. We never broke through the silence which, I’m sure, was with good intentions in order to shield us from the dangers and ugliness of the world.

But, when in doubt, you do the safest thing. Because there were informers everywhere who may hear us, or who may hear about us, the safest thing to do was silence. My parents must have expected, that we would likely brag to our friends that we had Jewish relatives. Kids will say anything that makes them interesting in the eyes of others. My parents knew that.”

Kristallnacht, 1938

“Our house happened to be right across from the Synagogue. My mother was out of town somewhere, and we children had dinner with our father when we heard commotion and noises outside. We saw flames coming from the Synagogue. Vati immediately told us to close all roller shutters on each window in the house, and to turn off all lights, to make the house look deserted. There was no discussion as to why, we just did as we were told.

The most important information came the morning after from my school friend Zschorn in the last class of Grade school. Zschorn told me that he knew something I didn’t: "I know, my brother is in the SA, he was one of the ones who set it on fire!" (Kids will brag to anybody to make themselves interesting, remember?!) When I told that to Vati later, he held me by both arms and said slowly and most earnestly: "Don't you ever repeat that to anybody!!" I didn't, but I wondered, and I did not understand. I believed Zschorn because I could see that the fire engines only sprayed the house next to the Synagogue, not the fire itself. My mother came back that day. Her story was: “probably an electric short circuit.”

For weeks, whatever parts of the synagogue had not been destroyed by the flames was blasted and carried away. It was my first hint of things to come.”

The Wannsee Conference

“The “final solution” was decided, or rather: approved, by vote, by a convivial, evil, polite gathering of high officials, led by Heydrich. The purpose was to demand -- without written record -- the cooperation of all government branches that millions of Jews would be “transported” to the East (meaning Poland and places like Auschwitz.). There was some mostly subdued discussion, but the purpose was clear: the war is not going well; cooperate or else. It was all done very gentlemanly.

One thing that affected me personally came out of the discussion: they needed manpower so badly that they could hardly afford to include “Half Jews” with the “”Full Jews” -- much better to use them for slave labor than to transport them with the others They were unable to solve that part of the “Jewish question”, finally leaving it to be dealt with “after the war”. Meanwhile, they could use us to do some “productive work”. They were still programmed to call it “after the victory.” Whatever they called it, it was probably a decision that is one reason why I am alive today.”

Dismissal from Gymnasium (High School) and Private Lessons

“In the spring of 1943, I had just finished “Unterterz” (literally the lower one of two levels three of the Gymnasium curriculum), at age 14. My report card for that year was nothing to crow about, but the worst part was that it said that I “was leaving the school” effective March 31, 1943. That was because the Nazis had issued a directive that “half Jews” were no longer allowed any kind of higher education, including high school.”

“For what happened next, a few fortunate circumstances had to come together, completely unknown and unknowable to me: everybody, not only I, had to accept the very fact that this outrageous attempt to exclude a whole segment of the population from the intellectual development of the nation was for real. My parents had to decide on how to handle this change in realities in a way that would have the least detrimental affect. Once they had decided that private lessons in the key areas of my previous education would be best, they had to find teachers who (1) would be available and affordable, (2) would give me a better and more unbiased education than I could have gotten in school, and (3) would be allowed by the Party to give private lessons to Jewish-related people.

All of this came together, and fortunately my father was allowed to include my tuition fees as “family support,” and thus could use for me those parts of his funds he was still allowed to spend.”

1944 Days Remembered

“Most people would accept life as it was because they didn’t know any different. Everybody was in the same boat: hungry and cold and with little hope for the future. One didn’t know about the thing called democracy, let alone that it even exited anywhere for real. There no comparison whatsoever, one even accepted propaganda, because it was not a dirty word, but an official government activity. Life became harder in small steps, food and everything else became more and more scarce, not all at once, but gradually from day to day. Air raids with death, people made homeless by losing their places where they lived, losing every scrap of what they owned, except what they wore on their back, all that was coming closer and closer, and more frequent. In areas where there had been no air raids (yet), houses were filled to capacity with newly homeless people from other cities, mainly from the north and west of Germany, and from Berlin. We, too, had friends and family people in our house, most only temporary. Living just became harder by the day, and one had to live hand-to-mouth by whatever means happened to open up at the time.”

The year started with my mother becoming very seriously ill. For months, she had been complaining about “strange tastes” in her mouth, and numbness in her face. In spite of all kinds of tests, none of a variety of doctors could diagnose the cause. (Today they could!) She herself thought, as is clear from her letters, that it was all due to menopause, greatly aggravated by the tremendous pressures and worries about every-day life. Of course, it would have been much too risky to mention anything political in any letters -- they were routinely opened and read by Party censors. But she knew: if she would die, the fate of her husband and her family would be unpredictable at best. She, and her life alone, made their marriage “privileged.”

February Transport to Theresienstadt

“The following is probably the most ironic tale I know: on February 15, that is three weeks before the catastrophic air raid on Chemnitz, and two months before liberation, at a time of complete chaos and during the complete crumbling of society, the Nazis still organized a final transport of 57 remaining Jews from Chemnitz to the Concentration Camp in Theresinstadt. They were all from Mixed Marriages -- “privileged” and not -- and non-Jews who, for one reason or another, had the “standing” of Jews, (so-called “Geltungsjuden) -- but my father was not one of them. To this very day, I have not been able to find out why he, and presumably others, was not included. The only logical explanation I had came from Beate Mayer who wrote a book “ˆJüdische Mischlinge”; she said that “privileged Jews” who had minor children (Ulli and I) were rarely transported to camp, even at the very end. That possibility has not been confirrned yet.

Theresienstadt was liberated not long after by the Red Army, and the prisoners were set free. All of the 57 people, every one of then, survived, and nobody was sent to a camp other than the much less brutal Theresienstadt. If my father had been on that transport he would have survived the air raid on March 5. (Carol’s note: instead, my grandfather Carl, was at home, here… My father found his body.)

(My dad’s childhood home, after…)

“After surviving a decade or more of Nazi oppressions, he died in the Allied air raid because he was NOT part of the greatest oppression of his life -- transport to a concentration camp.”

And now (after Dad “approves” this post), we are going to watch Conspiracy, a movie about the Wannsee Conference of 1942, which decided the fate of so most Jews in World War II Germany. Dad is now focusing on his past with a fervor to recall such important events in history and to pass them on to his children and grandchildren. Why? Because “NEVER AGAIN” simply must have meaning forever, and if the full stories aren’t told by those who lived them, those words might lose some of their meaning as the years pass. That simply cannot happen, and my father has decided to spend his later years making sure of it.

Ashes to Ashes

2019-09-16T17:10:00.001-07:00

Mom died in 2004. Dad died in 2017. Only today, in the wilderness above Lake Tahoe that they both so loved, were their ashes given back to the earth.

For many years during our youth, we spent a week each summer at the City of Berkeley Family Camp on Echo Lake, in the mountains high above Lake Tahoe. This, we thought, would be a good place to scatter Mom and Dad’s ashes.

What we didn’t expect was the first snowstorm of the season - in September! How apropos! Mom and Dad loved to ski and spent years on the Ski Patrol at Heavenly Valley and Shaw Valley ski resorts. In fact, Mom and her dear friend Toni were the first two women ski patrol members at Squaw in the early 60s, breaking the glass ceiling for all the women who followed them. Of course it would snow today, as we bequeathed them back to the land they loved so much!

By the time we got back to Meeks Bay, where we’re gathered for our second annual sibling weekend (unfortunately without Stephan, who had to bow out at the last minute), the sun was out again and Lake Tahoe was shining in all her glory.

Mom and Dad fell in love with the Sierras, and especially Lake Tahoe and the mountain lakes around it, because it reminded them of the Alps in their home country of Germany, from where the emigrated in 1953.

I hope that, in some way, they are back home today.

Cancer? At 32?

2019-07-17T14:07:00.001-07:00

June 14, 2019 will forever be remembered in our family - both for a very happy event and for a very scary event.

Our first grandson, Leo, was born that morning at Swedish Hospital in Seattle. Unbeknownst to us, our 32-year-old son, Peter, was also at Swedish that morning. He and his wonderful new girlfriend, Shannon, had decided to do what mature, responsible adults in a new relationship do - get an STD screening. Peter, a healthy young male, hadn’t felt the need to see a doctor in a very long time - since moving away from home about ten years ago, in fact - so he didn’t have a primary care provider in Seattle. I had been urging him to have a check-up for years, but it wasn’t until this decision to be screened that Peter decided to finally make the call.

It was a call that likely saved his life, prompted by a girlfriend who just happens to be, of all things, an oncology nurse.

On that call to set up a screening appointment, Peter mentioned “a swelling.” The intake receptionist immediately kicked into high gear, knowing (as we have learned since) that any painless lump and/or swelling in the testicle is to be taken very seriously, especially in young men aged 15 to 33, as this is the group most affected by testicular cancer. (Peter is actually on the old end of the spectrum!)

Suddenly, the low-key STD screening that Peter initially expected had become a “triage” day of blood tests, an ultrasound, and a chest x-ray. At the end of the day, all alone in a radiologists examination room, Peter was given the very distressing news that he almost certainly had testicular cancer. Regardless, he was told, his testicle would need to be removed (an orchiectomy) - and soon.

Peter must have texted me soon after hearing that news.

I sensed no urgency from Peter’s text, nor from his call about an hour later, which he began by congratulating us on becoming grandparents.

“Thanks! And congratulations to you on becoming an uncle!”

Peter then mentioned something about also being at Swedish all day and having some tests, and... wait... something about an ultrasound that showed... what... wait —

WHAT??

CANCER??!

Yes, our oldest daughter had a baby and our oldest son was diagnosed with cancer on the same day and in the same hospital. How crazy is that? Talk about an emotional rollercoaster!

Peter has since said that the phone call to us that day was the hardest part of his ordeal with cancer - including the surgery and all the waiting.

Exactly a week after Peter’s awful day alone at the hospital, he underwent an orchiectomy.

Peter’s support team consisted of Erin, Alex’s wonderful girlfriend (Alex was in San Francisco house/pet-sitting while his twin sister, Kat and her SO, Ian, were in Thailand), Tom (not pictured), me, and Peter’s sweet girlfriend, Shannon.

Fortunately, the surgery, which went well, was out-patient.

That weekend, Peter had his own private nurse to take care of him at home. Thank goodness for Shannon!

A few days later, Peter received his pathology report. His cancer was staged PT2, PNX, meaning his primary tumor was relatively large and it was unknown whether cancer had spread to his lymph nodes.

After Peter’s surgery, we identified a Testicular Cancer Specialist team at Virginia Mason Hospital - the same hospital where Shannon is an oncology nurse. Testicular cancer is a relatively rare disease, and most urologists see one or two cases in their careers. We wanted Peter to be under the care of the best of the best, so his next move was to request an appointment with Drs. Porter and Flores at VM, as they see eight to nine cases of testicular cancer per month in patients who come to them from throughout the country.

We all squeezed into an examination room a week ago today for our first appointment with this team. We were told, first, that testicular cancer is a highly curable (not just treatable) disease and that, ultimately, Peter would be fine. At that time they also ordered a CT scan of Peter’s chest, abdomen, and pelvis, along with a few blood tests, and made a follow-up appointment for today, when we’d get a definitive idea as to next steps. Possible next steps would be Active Surveillance (just keeping an eye on things, via regular blood tests and CT scans, for a few years) or, if the CT shows cancer, radiation or chemo.

Today we all nervously met again with Drs. Porter and Flores.

We were so incredibly relieved and thankful to hear that Peter’s CT scan is COMPLETELY CLEAR! The doctors found nothing of any significance on his CT scan! (Peter called that one small insignificant spot on his liver “college”!)

Peter now refers to “that week I had cancer” - but that week (or rather, with all the waiting, that month) has changed him, I am sure. Like his dad, he will always now be a cancer patient. That, in itself, must change a person.

I know that cancer has changed me this year, too, as two men who I love most have dodged it - Tom, as he beat prostate cancer earlier this year, and Peter, as he beat testicular cancer last month.

Can we now please just be finished with cancer for a while?! That would be nice.

Announcing... Leo Thomas-Rex!

2019-07-14T09:18:00.001-07:00

He’s here! Our first grandchild, Leo Thomas-Rex Markus, announced himself to the world with what can only be described a grand entrance.

At 8:30 on the evening of June 13th, I got a phone call from Elisabeth. I had just talked to her an hour or so earlier as she headed home after three consecutive days of 13-hour shifts as a nurse anesthetist at University of Washington Medical Center. She was exhausted, she’d said, and would be in bed within moments of being home.

‘Hmmmm,’ I thought, ‘Why is she calling now?’

“I think my water just broke.” Elisabeth said calmly. “Danny called me from a business dinner and when I sat up to answer my phone, I felt a POP! I don’t think it’s pee...”

“It’s not likely pee,” I told her, drawing vaguely on my training 20 years ago as a doula and childbirth educator, but mostly as a mom. ”Maybe you should call your midwives. No real hurry, though; contractions will likely take a while to start. Have you felt any since this happened?”

“No,” Elisabeth replied - followed immediately by, “Oh wow. Yes, maybe this... is... one?”

Tom and I went about our evening, excited that our grandchild would be born by this time the following evening (once the water breaks, the baby must be delivered within 24 hours, as the chance of infection increases after that), but fully expecting to have a full night’s sleep. Still, I was so excited I had a hard time drifting off to sleep.

Danny’s text, sent at 11:33, made it pretty clear that we wouldn’t have to lie awake, excited, but just waiting.

Elisabeth had gone from no labor to hard labor, with contractions two to three minutes apart from the get-go.

Precipitous labor. There’s a misconception that a precipitous labor means an easy labor, but it is far from easy, as mom has had no chance to deal with lighter, further-spaced contractions. Instead, she is thrown into a frightening whirlwind that can be very scary, as she attempts to keep up with this powerful force from which there is no rest and no escape. Oddly enough, Elisabeth’s labor seemed to be progressing much as my labor with her did: I popped into hard labor at 10 PM, arrived at the hospital shortly after midnight, fully dilated, and she was born after a very short, but very intense labor, at 2:38 AM.

At this point, Tom and I quickly packed a bag and waited for another communication from Danny. It came barely a minute later:

Waiting for the next communication was hard. Was everything OK? Forty minutes later, it arrived:

And we were on our way! Traffic would not be an issue as we made our way across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, headed from Gig Harbor to Swedish Hospital in downtown Seattle.

When we arrived, Elisabeth was working hard, with assistance from Danny and his sister, Michelle. One thing was for sure: it was too late for an epidural.

I took hundreds of photos in the next (very) few hours, which Elisabeth and Danny will have to look back on, as things happened so quickly that it was hard to keep up. Very few are internet-suitable.

This is the wonderful midwife helping Elisabeth stay on top of her frightening, powerful, very precipitous labor. Throughout the entire labor, Elisabeth had no meds if any sort! She had wanted to have an unmedicated labor, if possible, and now there was no doubt that she’d have one!

At 3:53 AM, Leo finally arrived, fully awake and with his eyes wide open!

Needless to say, we were all instantly in love - especially Leo’s mommy and daddy!

I have been proud of Elisabeth many times in the past 35 years, as her accomplishments have been great. But I don’t think I have ever been as proud of her as I was after she birthed our first grandchild.

And Danny! He was surely a bit frightened, too, as nothing had really prepared either of them for this sort of labor. But he was amazing as he calmly attended to her every need and provided uninterrupted support and advocacy for Elisabeth.

Elisabeth said to me a few weeks before Leo was born, “Don’t assume that I’ll have a strong maternal instinct like you did. We might not be alike it that way. It might take me a while...” Ha! From the moment Leo was born, Elisabeth was a loving, natural mommy, full of maternal instinct - and oxytocin.

And Danny! What a wonderful father - right from the very first moment!

We see this new little family every chance we get, and love every second of watching our grandson grow and change each day.

I must have a thousand photos of Leo already. Here are a few of my favorites. Isn’t he a cutie?

I’m a little late with this blog post, because today...

I think we’re gonna love this grandparenting gig!

The nursery awaits

2019-05-26T18:17:00.001-07:00

Elisabeth is officially a “primigravida” (advanced maternal age) mom today - her 35th birthday! To celebrate this, we (her “advanced parental age” parents) came to Capital Hill to visit her and Danny, and to see their newly created Pacific Northwest inspired nursery.

Look at this!

The nursery is filled with items of sentimental value to Elisabeth and Danny - from the birch tree that Danny climbed as a child that recently had to be cut down (by Danny!) due to disease, to moss gathered at our house, to the wood mountains that Tom made for the recent baby shower, to the ink print Kat made from a tree round in Danny’s dad’s yard (which was also used at the wedding) to rugs bought in Spain on Danny and Elisabeth’s honeymoon.

Here’s the tree in front of Danny’s childhood home and Danny cutting it down a few months ago...

And finding just the right branches to slice and bring into the nursery...

And here they are in the nursery!

All this moss (and much more!) was gathered at our place. The baby’s name -which remains a mystery to everyone but Danny and Elisabeth - will go on after he’s born.

I just love the single, long bookshelf, which is filled with books which were given instead of cards at the baby shower.

(Of course Professor Ian, Kat’s boyfriend, made sure Baby Markus learns the important stuff early in life.)

And Tom’s mountains above ithe bookshelf work so perfectly.

One of my favorite things in the nursery is the “cloud” that flashes with various weather patterns (really!) and the raindrop hooks under it. So wonderful!

Elisabeth’s definitely been nesting. She’s ready! Today marks her 36th week of pregnancy, meaning that if this little guy came today, he’d likely be just fine.

Everything is set and ready to go - including the new parents.

What a lucky little boy to have such a wonderful home, and room, and parents! We can hardly wait!

Maternity photo shoot (It’s almost time!)

2019-05-19T15:04:00.001-07:00

Elisabeth and Danny’s baby - our first grandchild! - is due to make his appearance in about a month, and yesterday was the official maternity photo session.

Location: our home in Gig Harbor.

Photographer: Kat

(These first few photos, though, are mine, taken on my iPhone...)

Yay! Kat sent me some her “official” photos. Love ‘em! Here they are:

Of course I got some shots of the shoot...

What a fun day for all of us!

After the photo shoot, Danny and Elisabeth made the MOST delicious Indian meal as a belated Mother’s Day gift.

And then of course we had a backyard bonfire!

It’s amazing that in just a month or so our lives will change so dramatically. I never had grandparents of my own, so this feels like a double-huge deal!

I just can’t wait!

Sophia

2019-05-17T19:12:00.001-07:00

Joseph Hauber painted this portrait of his sister, Sophia, in 1828. She was part of my grandfather’s collection and this painting always hung in my childhood home. Today, more than a year after moving in, we finally gave her a most important place in our home - after we veeeery carefully made a few minor repairs to the old and delicate frame.

I think she looks beautiful.

Welcome home (again), Sophia!

Tom’s Great Big Prostatectomy Adventure

2019-03-08T12:41:00.000-08:00

When we last visited Tom’s prostate cancer experience, we were deep in the process of researching treatment options.

For the past four years, Tom had been a participant in the University of Washington's Active Surveillance program, in which he had PSA tests every three months and biopsies every 12 to 18 months. Although his PSA had remained under the normal 4 ng/mL, the past two biopsies had shown a few Gleason 7 (3 + 4) segments, which was disconcerting after two years of only Gleason 6 readings. Although there was no rush since his cancer was obviously slow-growing, it was time to act.

Tom's urologist, Dr. William Ellis, suggested that he explore the variety of treatment options available, among them brachytherapy (radioactive seed implants) and surgery. I knew a bit about brachytherapy, as my father, who also had prostate cancer, had been part of a clinical trial in 1998 when the method was just beginning to gain favor. In fact - as I recently discovered in going through my father's documents after he died in 2017 (NOT of prostate cancer) - Dr. Ellis had been one of my father's doctors!

After briefly considering radiation, Tom decided against it for a number of reasons. Most importantly, Tom wanted to know definitively what he was dealing with. Radiation destroys the prostate but doesn't remove it. This bothered Tom for a few reasons. One, he just didn't like the idea of "carrying around dead tissue." And two, without testing the organ itself, one can only guess at the pathology of the disease.

Surgery, on the other hand, provides the benefit of a definitive pathology report, as the organ is removed and tested. In addition, the major side effects of ANY treatment of prostate cancer - incontinence and erectile dysfunction - only get better over time after surgery, whereas with radiation, one is "waiting for the other shoe to drop," since these side effects tend to come on slowly after treatment.

So surgery it was. Back in December we made an appointment for Dr. Ellis to surgically remove Tom's prostate (a prostatectomy) on February 12th at the University of Washington, about an hour drive from our home in Gig Harbor. Our plan was to drive to Seattle the day before surgery and stay with Elisabeth and Danny, who live just a 4-minute LightRail ride from the University. In fact, this is Elisabeth's daily commute, as she works as a nurse anesthetist at the University, even occasionally working directly with Dr. Ellis in exactly this surgery!

It didn't occur to us for a second that the Seattle weather might hinder our plans. But when February 12th drew near, THIS is what we were dealing with.

Weather reports called for a very small window in which we could try to make our way to Seattle. We decided to drive to Bremerton and take the ferry to downtown Seattle rather than brave the freeways.

This photo was snapped during a very short window of decent weather - even a glimpse of blue sky!

We arrived safely at Elisabeth and Danny's house on Capitol Hill, but snow fell all night long - and then the rain came, making our short walk to LightRail treacherous, as we waded through slushy puddles.

Finally! What an adventure - and surgery hadn't even begun!

Elisabeth is a nurse anesthetist on the University of Washington surgical staff, so this was very familiar territory for her, which helped Tom tremendously, as he was given (or at least made to feel that he was given) VIP treatment by Elisabeth's co-workers.

Dr. Ellis came to talk to Tom, reminding him that his full expectation was that the cancer is contained to the prostate and that he would be able to spare those very important nerves. We knew, though, that this is only a "best guess" until the prostate is actually removed and tested, so our fingers remained crossed that everything would go well and that the outcome would be positive.

After Dr. Ellis left, the wonderful anesthetist, Chris gave Tom a dose of Versed, which...

...well, look at his face!

My guess is that Tom wasn't very nervous when he was wheeled back to surgery.

Tom's surgery lasted about four and a half hours, during which time Elisabeth gave me a glimpse of her work at UW. She was able to get a few updates from Chris, who said that Tom's status was "railroad tracks" - that is, completely stable and doing really well.

It's hard to kill almost five hours on a dreary snowy day in Seattle, but we did our best.

Once we heard that Tom was in recovery we made our way to see him. First Elisabeth because, she said, he "might not be ready..."

She was right. He looked... well, not himself.

The surgery finished at 5:30, but Tom was quite slow to wake up. He was still very sleep shortly before 8:00 PM!

I was provided a chair/bed in Tom's hospital room so I could stay with him overnight.

At about midnight, Tom's nurse mentioned that she'd be getting him up to walk soon, but said that it could wait until morning if he preferred. He suggested getting up to walk right then - and then had to walk five full laps around the floor. Such a show-off! I just wanted to go back to bed, but wasn't about to be the one to cut things short!

The next morning, he did it again. He was doing better than either of us had expected! And look at the fashion statement!

In order to facilitate healing, all men who undergo a prostatectomy are sent home with a catheter in place. Once we were instructed on how to care for the catheter for the next eight days, Tom was ready to head home! Or rather, to Elisabeth and Danny's, as our long, winding, snow-covered driveway at home would be impossible for him to navigate for at least another day or two.

Two days later, when we headed home, Tom navigated the driveway beautifully, helped by Elisabeth and our friend Courtney, and carrying his catheter bag in a bucket. I didn't get a photo of this, as I was reaching out to neighbors to try to find a place to park for a few days. Quite a few trees had come down while we were gone, including one across the pond!

Elisabeth stayed with us for the next four days, providing nursing expertise as needed. But Tom hardly needed her, as he was healing beautifully! He never touched the opioids that were prescribed for him, choosing instead a regimen of Ibuprofin and Tylenol. Within two days, he wasn't even taking those!

Tom said the most annoying part of his recovery was carrying his catheter around in a bucket - which we named "Uri"!

Eight days after his surgery, we headed back to UW for catheter removal and to hear the results of the definitive pathology report. We were absolutely thrilled at the results - all cancer confined to the prostate, no other tissue or organs involved. ALL GOOD!

It has now been a bit over three weeks since Tom's surgery and he is doing GREAT. I joked that I've needed to lock up the power tools, so ready is he to get to the many awaiting projects around the house. But he did get to one easier project that included no heavy lifting (which is forbidden for four to six weeks) - he refinished the two large butcher blocks in our kitchen.

It is often said that the goal of a prostatectomy is, in essence, three-fold: first, and most importantly, to remove all cancer. Second, to spare the patient from ongoing incontinence. And third, to spare him from resulting ED. The cancer is gone! And the other two side effects are already showing to be not much of an issue at all... and they will only get better over time.

There is no one gold standard for the treatment of prostate cancer. Each man needs to make the choice that is best for his circumstance. Tom and I are both thrilled with how this prostate cancer adventure has ended (though I should say that we aren't fully guaranteed that it is over forever; sometimes, many years later, it reappears), with the cancer eradicated and side effects not much of an issue at all. We consider ourselves (as it is a couples' disease) very fortunate!

My new name is OMI!!

2019-01-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

I’m going to be a GRANDMOTHER (“Omi”) and Tom’s going to be a GRANDFATHER (“Papa”) to a little boy, coming in June!

Thank you, Danny and Elisabeth!

Inside projects: Almost finished!

2019-01-12T11:35:00.001-08:00

When we were looking for a place to retire, and a home to retire to, Tom and I each had our own wish lists and must-haves.
Top on my list was that the inside of any house we bought (or built) had to be finished. For 35 years, Tom had been remodeling our homes but, much as I appreciated the improvements, it felt to me as if we lived in a perpetual construction zone, and I was so DONE with that.
Top on Tom’s list was that there had to be projects for him, preferably creative projects – like, say, building a tree house for future grandchildren or building another massive backyard water ~~feature~~ park.
Fine with me! Just keep the projects outside!
Almost a year ago, after months of Tom swooning like a schoolboy with a crush, we bought this home in Gig Harbor, WA.

I fell in love with the house, too. Except for two things: that god-awful, wrinkled, faded green carpet throughout (even in the master bathroom) and the distinct lack of storage space. While Tom does great work, he is a slow perfectionist, and I envisioned months (at least) of floor installation, not to mention lots of time to install new storage spaces.
So much for my wish list!
Fortunately, we quickly sold our house in Woodinville during a particularly robust spring market and could earmark some of our unexpected proceeds for professional flooring installation. Phew!
So, over the period of two weeks (during which we moved into the cottage), the wrinkled carpet was removed and Brazilian chestnut hardwoods and ceramic tile were installed. What a difference!

Once the floors were in, I felt like I could breathe and relax. Ahhhh…
But wait!
That master closet! That glorious, large master closet – with two wire bars and NO storage! No, this will not do. Tom quickly (two weeks – record time!) installed the most glorious closet system… with LOTS of storage!

(Yes, that is my craft table in the master closet.)
My dream of a house that is complete on the inside was quickly materializing.
The only thing left to do was create some much-needed storage space for my office. I have a book to write, after all, and I simply can’t begin to write it (or so I tell myself) until I feel organized - that is, until I have a place for all my reference books and for Dad’s copious files.
This wall. Yes, right here!

So in September, Tom began to create a wall of built-ins for me. The process was long and arduous, with lots of interruptions for trips and holidays and other critical projects (like playing in the mud to fix some leaks while the pond was empty), but my built-ins slowly took shape!
We started with kitchen cabinets from Lowe’s.

But Tom created the shelves from scratch, his first complete carpentry project.

And just look what I have now!

I absolutely LOVE my new built-ins! NOW I am ready to start in on the book! For some odd reason, it feels like this is what it took to finally get me going. This is an office where I can really delve into research – and writing!

Actually, I was wrong. The inside of the house isn’t quite finished.
There is one project left to do. Poor Tom has had to do all my bidding before he could begin on his own project – creating built-ins for and organizing his own office.

He will finish this on his own timeline. I have a feeling some of his favorite outside projects will come first.
Like that treehouse for future grandkids.
He’s spending an awful lot of time with this book…

Who says retirement is boring?!
Addendum: After I wrote this post, Tom reminded me that I already posted photos of the new floor and closet. Oooops! (And I had no idea he kept up so closely with my blog…) Oh well, here it is again!

This is your PSA (public service announcement) about your PSA (prostate-specific antigen) test.

2018-11-08T19:40:00.001-08:00

Four years ago, during the summer of 2014, I was forced to ponder the possibility of life without Tom when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. (I blogged about it previously here and here and here.)

Long story short, our Independence Day celebration in 2014 was cut short when Tom ended up at the ER with what we thought was a bladder infection. Pain meds and antibiotics didn’t touch it, so within a few days we were at a urologist’s office, where a PSA blood test revealed an abnormally high score of 49. Knowing that a score higher than 4 can signify prostate cancer, I began to panic – and research. (Tom did neither of those things which, in retrospect, was wise. Dr. Google can be terrifying!)
Three weeks after his PSA test, Tom underwent a biopsy, which revealed stage one prostate cancer. Stage ONE! Not stage four, as I had feared and researched myself into believing. I cried happy tears when the urologist told us the news – which absolutely baffled Tom who, having no idea what I had encountered in my researched, questioned why I seemed relieved. It was only then that I revealed my fears to him. So he had to get used to the idea of having cancer at all, and I could breathe a sigh of relief that he’d be around for a while, after all!

The urologist suggested removing the prostate surgically. But we decided to take some time to breathe and to get a second opinion at the University of Washington/Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, one of the top cancer centers in the country. Since the biopsy had shown that Tom’s cancer was stage one and slow-growing, he opted to take part in an “active surveillance” study through the university. Participants in this study have a PSA test once every three months and a biopsy once every 18 months to two years. Many men stay in the study for years, with little to no change in their cancer. Unfortunately, Tom won’t be among that group, as his cancer is now early stage two – still not a panic situation but, according to his current doctor, time to “look into options.” We are still confident that the cancer is well contained within the prostate, but we know that this is NOT a cancer you want to deal with once it has “escaped the capsule,” as they say. In those cases, it can be a killer.
So we are currently looking into treatment options. None of them are great, and all of them come with some degree of risk of both incontinence and impotence – though an excellent surgeon (which we have) can often spare nerves so both can be restored. (We’re too young for this!)
We feel confident that we caught this cancer early – thanks to a terrible infection four years ago. But we are still amazed that prostate cancer, the second biggest killer of men, doesn’t have the spotlight that breast cancer has for women. Men, it seems, are not routinely encouraged to have PSA tests the way women are encouraged to have regular mammograms.
Granted, the PSA is not a perfect predictor of prostate cancer, as it’s prone to false positives, but it is something! I have begged our sons (29 and 31) to get baseline PSA tests (even asked for it for Christmas this year!) because both their grandfathers and their father had/have prostate cancer. But in my opinion, EVERY man should include a prostate screening in their regular check-ups, beginning sometime around 35-45. This means a DRE (digital rectal exam) and a PSA (blood test). I asked our PCP why this isn’t done on a routine basis and he said that most practitioners will do both tests when requested (and seriously, would the average man ask for a DRE?!), but that it just isn’t the “gold standard” at this point.
Tom and I began to mention this to our family and friends and were amazed at the number of men in their 50s, 60s and older who have never had a PSA test!
So this is our PSA regarding your PSA:
MEN: PLEASE, please, please… GET ONE!
PARTNERS: PLEASE, please, please… make sure he GETS ONE!
Rant over.

.

NaBloWriMo–a Mo late

2018-11-03T20:02:00.002-07:00

I came home from this weekend’s Write in the Harbor conference determined to start writing again.

I don’t mean Facebook post writing; I mean sweat-it-out-straight-from-the-heart-blood-sweat-and-tears-head-down writing, like I used to do here.
What better time to re-dedicate myself to writing, I thought as I left the conference, than right at the beginning of November - National Blog Writing Month. It’s perfect! How inspiring!
Then I got home and looked up NaBloWriMo and came to realize that things have changed since the last time I undertook this endeavor. It turns out that November is now NaNOWriMo – National Novel Writing Month! I missed NaBLOWriMo by, well, a month. It was in October.
I can handle some self-imposed pressure to blog every day, but the pressure to write a novel is exactly what’s paralyzing me – and it’s what brought me to the conference to begin with.
I promised my father before he died that I would tell his story. He wrote for his children and grandchildren but didn’t want his story “out there” while he was still alive. After he was gone, I came across numerous files and documents with “directions” for me, things like “Carol: you’ll want to use this for the book.”
No pressure. Right, Dad?
No one who knows me would call me a procrastinator. In fact, I’m normally quite the opposite. There’s often a fire under my butt, but moss doesn’t stand a chance with me. If I can think it, I can do it – and there’s usually very little time between the two.
Except with this book. I simply can’t seem to get started.
I don’t know if it’s Dad’s voice, telling me just how he’d like the book written or if it’s my own voice, insisting that I could never meet his expectations. But the voice is persistent, and insistent, and I am obedient – and paralyzed.
One of the sessions at the writing conference today was titled “Overcoming Obstacles.” We were asked to complete two sentences regarding our writing. The first was “If I fail…” The second was “If I succeed…” My answers show just how paralyzed I feel:
“If I fail… my father will be disappointed – from the grave!”
“If I succeed… everyone will know my father’s story – and what if he didn’t actually want that?!”
The instructor pointed out that I saw even success as failure. No wonder I’m paralyzed!
Later in the class, the instructor asked us to imagine the most terrible thing that might happen if we were unsuccessful in our writing goal – and not to be afraid to “get dramatic.” My answer to this question was even more distressing. I wrote, “If I finish the book and it’s terrible or if it’s never even published, those who thought I couldn’t tell Dad’s story would be proven correct. I would die without doing the one thing I promised Dad I would do. ‘Never forget’ would be true because first-hand memories of the Holocaust would be a thing of the past – and I’d be partially responsible.”
Then I got really dramatic (per the instructor’s direction) and wrote, “’Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ Now we all have to repeat the Holocaust… and it’s all my fault!”
At that point, I had to go back to my notes from the session of the workshop called “Creating Your Writing Persona.” In that session, the instructor quoted Barbara Kingsolver, author of The Poisonwood Bible: “Don’t try to figure out what the other people want you to say; figure out what you have to say. It’s the only thing you have to offer.”
And that is exactly what I’m going to have to do.
But first, I need to get back into the practice of daily writing, so Facebook notifications will be turned off for a month while I remind myself to do what I love (and remember how to do it).

Gold!

2018-11-02T15:54:00.001-07:00

Our new son-in-law, Danny, is a ~~fanatical~~ devoted gold prospector.

Would you believe that he pulled the gold for these wedding rings out of the ground?

Danny owns a few mining claims in California and has asked us for years to join him and Elisabeth for a few days of prospecting – which we were finally able to do a few weeks ago.

It took us about 14 hours to get to Quincy, CA., where we’d be staying.

Fortunately, the long trip offered some amazing views, especially of Mt. Shasta!

Quincy is a quiet, charming town in the California foothills.

While Danny and Elisabeth always camp on the claim, Tom and I decided that we’re just too old to camp in freezing night temperatures. For the first time since we sold our trailer in March (when we knew we’d be moving), I missed not having our beloved home on wheels.

A motel, we decided, would have to suffice, so we booked a week at the Ranchito Motel which was, well… rustic. It actually had a charm all its own (says the glass-half-full optimist in me), with a cute little meandering stream.

The rooms needed some TLC, but management is apparently “working on it” - and it was kind of nice to have a kitchenette for the week.

When we got to Danny’s claim the next morning, Kat and Ian were there to greet us! (Unfortunately, they’d only be able to stay for two days.) The makings of a great week – our two daughters with their SOs and pooches – had come together to do some California gold mining!

Most of us quickly got to work.

Some of us left the gold mining to others…

I did have a go at mining with the “bazooka,” a cool gizmo that captures little bits of gold.

Just look at this booty (not one grain of which I prospected)!

I was distracted by things like this cute guy.

And this gorgeous white heron!

Quinn at first wanted to chase the poor guy, but quickly seemed to understand that we’d quietly observe and appreciate; no chasing allowed.

Good girl!

After six days of gold mining from sun-up to sun down (Danny and Tom, and sometimes Elisabeth) and relaxing (me, and sometimes Elisabeth), Tom and I headed home, stopping at beautiful Burney Falls on the way. Who knew something this gorgeous is just off the highway?!

We weren’t looking forward to another fourteen hours in the car, but views like this made it worth it.

Stopping in Ashland, Oregon was bittersweet. My parents moved there in 1981, so it was like a second home for me and where we spent many holidays with extended family. But now, since both my mother and father have died, and since Lou (who my father married in 2009) has moved away, there’s no one left for us in Ashland.

Still, we enjoyed Lithia Park with its fall leaves, and we stopped for dinner, “creekside.”

(I like this picture of Dad and Lou better!)

When we got home at 2 AM, Quinn settled in to sleep, and barely budged for the next three days!

It was a golden trip, and something tells me it won’t be our only gold prospecting trip to the Golden State in the years to come.

Another out-of-the-blue connection to the past–in which I hear from the granddaughter of my father’s beloved nanny!

2018-10-28T09:55:00.001-07:00

I got a call a few hours ago from a woman named Anna in Germany who, it turns out, is the granddaughter of my father’s favorite nanny, nicknamed “Halle.”

My father spoke lovingly of “Halle,” and remembered her affectionately throughout his life. Never did I think that I would actually have any direct connection to her! But 70+ years later, things keep happening to bring my father’s early life into focus for me! It is such a gift.

In the early 1930s, Jews were forbidden to have non-Jewish household help, so “Halle” (her actual name, I learned today, was Ilse Langer) had to suddenly leave my father’s family. It was among the first times my father’s life was directly impacted by the changing political climate in Germany, and I believe it had a lasting impact on him. Little did he know that she also fondly remembered those days for the remainder of her life, calling them some of her happiest.

When Anna told me today that her grandmother named her son (Anna’s father) Thomas (my father’s name), I just about lost it.

Shortly after we spoke on the phone, I received this email from Anna:

"Dear Carol,

I am still very emotional just now, but it was lovely to have talked to you.

I can easily believe that your father, aunt and uncle loved her a lot. She was an absolutely lovely and lovable person. I remember her as calm, loving, with good sense of humour and a great love and especially understanding for children. In many ways she started to train me to understand children, when I was still a child myself by telling me lots and lots of stories about the children she had cared for in her lifetime. Among them surely your father, aunt and uncle, only I can’t remember the stories that clearly. I work at university now, training childhood educators, after working with children for years myself

Ilse ("halle") trained to be a kindergarten teacher probably very shortly before she joined the Heumanns in Chemnitz. She was born in 1915 and joined them in the early 1930ies, as far as I know. So she was probably very young and impressionable, when she stayed with the Heumanns in Chemnitz. She was called “Halla” by the children. This is not a proper German name, but a nickname invented and given specially by the children.

It was a great heartbreak to her, when she had to leave the family and I think her time and positive experiences in the Heumann-Family made her immune to the anti-semitism in the Third Reich.

I always knew her as a great humanist and pacifist. She had survived two world wars and there was no place for hatred in her heart. She had countless friends and contacts, who dropped in any time of day, when she was old. And she used to collect second-hand-goods from anyone who dropped in to give to different charities, eg. for people with disabilities and for refugees, who had to start from scratch in Germany in the 1990ies. I bet she remembered how that feels like…

More hopefully later on, so much for now. It feels good to have found and contacted you! All the best wishes across the ocean."

And then Anna sent me this (translated), written by her uncle about Ilse ("Halle"), along with a photo of her shortly before she died just before her 90th birthday, in 2006:

"Noteworthy is still the time as a teacher of two children with family Heumann in Chemnitz. For Ilse, that was a positive milestone in her life, a great time. She was loved by the children and their parents also and respected. They called her Halla and they took her traveling. She always raved about Sylt. The father was a Jew and as far as I know Consul in Portugal. He owned a noteworthy Spitzweg (art) collection. As a result of the race policy, Ilse had to stop working at the house, or rather the villa, of the Heumanns, which was in Chemnitz on the corner of Kassberg and Reichsstraße and was destroyed in 1945 by bombs. Ilse, as I said, ended up in Seifhennersdorf at the end of the 1930s and now the circle closes. She never heard from the Heumanns again. "

Apparently, Halle assumed for the rest of her life that my father, his siblings, and their parents all perished in the war. If only they could have spoken before her death in 2006. My father would have absolutely adored that!

I'm feeling pretty... verklemmt (which is not actually a word, my mom always insisted!) right now!

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Danny and Elisabeth Markus!

2018-10-27T18:10:00.001-07:00

This post is long overdue. They all are these days, but this one is especially overdue because Danny and Elisabeth are barely even newlyweds anymore, having been married for, like, EVER.

Or since June, anyway…

You don’t need me to yammer on about what an amazing day it was (it was an AMAZING day!).

And you don’t need me to tell you how much we love Danny (we LOVE Danny).

And you don’t want to hear about the many months of planning that went it to this amazing day (MANY months… AMAZING day!).

You want to see PHOTOS! Am I right?

OK, fine. But I might need to add some captions. Deal?

Elisabeth and Danny were married at DeLillie Cellars in Woodinville. When they reserved the venue, we lived in Woodinville, but life took a few quick and unexpected turns and it turns out that we had already moved to Gig Harbor! So, like everyone else, we traveled to Woodinville for the weekend.

Here are a few photos of before the ceremony:

The beautiful bride. Yes, I’m biased, but isn’t she?!

Mom with her two beautiful daughters. Kat, Elisabeth’s younger sister, was the maid of honor.

These are not just any wedding rings. Danny, an avid prospector, actually pulled the gold in his ring out of the earth! He joked for years before they got married, that he couldn’t marry Elisabeth until he had enough self-mined gold to make a ring.

The gem is Alexandrite. It changes color! I always insist it’s purple, even when everyone else sees green. I wonder what that means.

Yes, I was a bit choked up -- all day!

Maid of Honor, getting ready. When did my little girl become such a beautiful woman?!

Zoe was the Maid of Honor’s honorable canine. I just love that this wedding was dog-friendly – though we didn’t bring Quinn because we selfishly wanted to focus on the humans of the day, not our little Quinn-cess.

Grace, Danny and Elisabeth’s sweet (huge) dog, was very much part of the day!

Alex and Peter paid a visit to us as we were getting ready. I don’t see them anywhere near enough these days, and I miss them both!

This is Danny, getting ready with his sister Michelle and her husband, Kenny. I love that we’re all now family!

Elisabeth and Danny wrote their own vows, full of love, honor, and support – and without any “obey” bullshit, of course.

The ceremony was, in a word, EPIC!

Kat and I helped with Elisabeth’s dress as she went to meet Danny for the “first look.” She had successfully managed to keep her dress hidden from him for almost six months!

My guess is that Danny was impressed.

Apparently there’s a tradition in Indian weddings, where the bride and groom lead a dance to the site of the ceremony. I’m so glad Danny and Elisabeth adopted this for their wedding. The mood was just pure JOY!

And the ceremony itself… brace yourself, because it was amaaaaazing (and not at all traditional)! Well, maybe it began as a traditional wedding ceremony…

The bride and her very proud father.

I don’t think Tom took his eyes off Elisabeth the whole time. He wanted to appreciate every second of this walk down the isle!

Danny walked his mother (and Grace), down the isle. I just love Kathleen’s tennis shoes!

My handsome sons walked me down the isle.

Ah, the story of Kat and Ian!

OK, Reader’s Digest version: Ian has been Elisabeth’s best friend since they were freshmen at Cal together in 2002. Kat’s first plane trip alone, when she was 13, was to visit her sister. She met Ian, who was 18. Instant crush, but… really?! Fast forward about 15 years: Ian has gotten his PhD in chemistry at Harvard and opened the Ian B Seiple Lab at UC San Francisco, and Kat has moved to San Francisco to live with him! Those five years that were a big deal at 13/18 aren’t such a big deal at 28/33 – and that crush? Well, it most definitely continues! (Psssst – we also love Ian!)

It was such a lovely ceremony!

Yeah, I know. Verklemmt again!

I love the way Elisabeth looks at Danny in this photo…

…and how she looks at her new wedding ring (‘this thing is happening!’) in this photo!

At this point in the ceremony, things took a bit of well, an… unusual turn. Danny and Elisabeth had asked Ian to be in charge of the unity ceremony.

Ian is a chemistry professor…

You know where I’m going with this, right?

Um… YEAH.

Ian spoke of UNITY and LOVE and well, chemistry, all those good things. But to be honest, I can’t remember details because I was thinking, ‘Please don’t blow us all up!’ (Not really; he would never do that!)

And then it was time to PAR-TAY!

Happy! Happy! Happy! I just love the sheer happiness at weddings – especially this one!

Of course, there were the requisite family and wedding party photos:

Danny and Elisabeth with Danny’s family.

Danny and Elisabeth with Danny’s mom, sister, and brother-in-law.

Our family!

Hey look – I have a new son!

The goofy wedding party.

The reception was wonderful!

On each table, Danny and Elisabeth shared aspects of their lives…

Elisabeth’s career in anesthesia…

…their beloved (and quirky) VW bus…

…their mutual love of their annual trips to Burning Man. (I wish I had photos of all these center pieces! There was one for Grace, one for Danny’s career as an actuary, one for their love of rock climbing, etc.)

And suddenly the daughter is… parental?!

The food was incredible!

Kat gave a hilarious speech that had everyone in stitches!

Then I talked about “The 25 Things I’ve Learned in 25 years of Marriage.”

(Since some have requested that I post those 25 things, here they are:

· Laughter is sometimes more important than conversation.

· Conversation is sometimes more important than silence.

· Silence is sometimes more important than righteousness.

· Kindness is most important when the incentive for it is lowest.

· Staying angry is difficult when you're laughing.

· "Being nice" is very effective.

· Traveling in the same direction sometimes means staying put.

· Passion may fade, but true intimacy grows in its place.

· Unconditional support is sometimes the best thing you can give.

· Winning isn't always winning.

· Trust is much more powerful than jealousy.

· Marriage is an ebb and flow endeavor, with each lasting anywhere from hours to years.

· Pooling finances emphasizes the meaning of "ours" and "in this together."

· Hugging and kissing in front of the kids makes them happy.

· Planting a garden together is good for your relationship.

· Good sex is important.

· A good marriage is a gift to your children's future relationships.

· Shared interests are important. So is having interests of your own.

· Good parenting is sexy.

· Misfortune can be a favor.

· Playfulness isn't stupid.

· Don’t count on changing each other, but DO count on change IN each other.

· Dating is hot.

· Early birds and night owls can co-exist.

· The habit that annoyed you in year one will still annoy you in year twenty-five. (And also in year 35!)

Then Tom gave a toast that began, “I have just a few short things to say…” and down cascaded his “few notes”!

It was sweet and funny and kind and self-effacing – just like Tom.

Then the sun began to go down and the photographer whisked away the happy couple for a few (amazing) photos.

And then we all partied into the night!

The day went by so very fast, but the memories will last forever!

I love these two with all my heart and I’m so happy that they found each other and (finally) made it all official with a damn fun party!