Why it's Important to Spend Time with your Elders
I was on Facebook earlier today and saw that it was the birthday of one of my second cousins. Her Oma is my Oma's older sister. This year will mark 5 years since my Oma left us. Every now and then, I call my Tante Irmi and chat with her for a moment, because it's the closest thing I have to talking to my Oma. I used to call my Oma all the time.
I called Irmi in the middle of her lunch. She was gracious enough to let me interrupt and entertain me for a while. I remembered Uncle Heinz and his dentures. I shared with her the memory Oma had recorded for me in her memory book. "Oh, that never happened," Irmi said. We both laughed a little, knowing it had. We talked about health and butter versus margarine. We chatted. She didn't know it, but I was crying for at least half the time. She told me her son was going to come over to check on her soon and she needed to go and finish her lunch. I told her goodbye and that I love her. I do. She lets me call her and unbeknownst to her, she's my surrogate Oma. She is, even if it's only for a few minutes.
While I was talking to her, I looked up at the photos on the wall. There is a pair of coordinating photographs I had found in my Oma's house several years ago. I enlarged them, framed them, and hung them on our wall. I like to look at them, because it shows me a side of my family that I wasn't privy to otherwise. I didn't know my mother as a girl for obvious reasons. I never met my great-grandmother (Uroma), because she died when my mom was little. I did get to meet Opa Karge, but he didn't live much longer after I was born. I have pictures of him and me together at my first Christmas. The funny thing is that he looks the same in the pictures taken when my mother was little as he does in the pictures with me as a baby. It might be the angle at which they were taken. I couldn't really know for certain.
As I eluded, my Oma got a memory book that a grandmother is to fill out one page per day, sharing memories with her grandchild. She filled most of it out for me. I love it, because it shares with me more of her I wouldn't have known otherwise. It's an awesome thing for someone to share with you who they were before you came into his or her life. Most of the memories are from her life before she graduated high school.
When my grandfather (Pa) died, my Oma slumped into a rut. I was in a precarious place in my life at the time, and knew that my best course of action would be to ask my Oma if she wanted a roommate and if it would be okay if I was that roommate. She agreed hesitantly at first. I moved back home from across the country. The first week after I moved in was such a magical time. We stayed up late every night, playing games and talking. She told me stories of the family's years in Okinawa when Pa was in the army. She told me about how she and Pa had gotten together. She told me about what she had wanted to be when she grew up. She told me so many things.
As an adult, I married a man significantly older than myself. That being said, his mother was close in age to my Oma. She left us last August. I enjoyed most the visits where we went through her old photos and through my husband, she would tell stories about their time in Greece or stories about their early life in the States once they immigrated here. She would often wear shirt dresses, not unlike Pa's mother, my great-grandmother. It would bring me back to my childhood and remembering visits to my great-grandmother's apartment. When I was much younger, my mother would take my brother and me to her apartment. She'd feed us breakfast which usually included this orange-like juice. I found it and tried to drink it as an adult. I couldn't even. I had remembered it tasting so good.
I try to talk to my husband about his childhood and memories from Greece when he was young. He doesn't remember much if anything. It's a good thing we have pictures, but, even then, he doesn't know who half the people are. Now that his mother is gone, we have his younger brothers to rely on for that information. We don't all get together nearly often enough.
My father had a great interest in family history and memories. I really enjoyed the times and talks with him. My parents divorced when I was young and I didn't get to know him as well as I would have liked. He's also gone. Next month, it will be three years.
I guess the point of this is that I am so grateful for having spent the time with these people and absorbing whatever of themselves they were willing to share with me. Those talks and tales are little bits of treasure that can't be bought. I treasure those stories and old pictures like gems from a time before my time, because I would never have known them if it weren't for the willingness of my loved ones to share of themselves with me. I'm glad I took the time.
All of this, because it's Julianne's birthday.
I called Irmi in the middle of her lunch. She was gracious enough to let me interrupt and entertain me for a while. I remembered Uncle Heinz and his dentures. I shared with her the memory Oma had recorded for me in her memory book. "Oh, that never happened," Irmi said. We both laughed a little, knowing it had. We talked about health and butter versus margarine. We chatted. She didn't know it, but I was crying for at least half the time. She told me her son was going to come over to check on her soon and she needed to go and finish her lunch. I told her goodbye and that I love her. I do. She lets me call her and unbeknownst to her, she's my surrogate Oma. She is, even if it's only for a few minutes.
While I was talking to her, I looked up at the photos on the wall. There is a pair of coordinating photographs I had found in my Oma's house several years ago. I enlarged them, framed them, and hung them on our wall. I like to look at them, because it shows me a side of my family that I wasn't privy to otherwise. I didn't know my mother as a girl for obvious reasons. I never met my great-grandmother (Uroma), because she died when my mom was little. I did get to meet Opa Karge, but he didn't live much longer after I was born. I have pictures of him and me together at my first Christmas. The funny thing is that he looks the same in the pictures taken when my mother was little as he does in the pictures with me as a baby. It might be the angle at which they were taken. I couldn't really know for certain.
As I eluded, my Oma got a memory book that a grandmother is to fill out one page per day, sharing memories with her grandchild. She filled most of it out for me. I love it, because it shares with me more of her I wouldn't have known otherwise. It's an awesome thing for someone to share with you who they were before you came into his or her life. Most of the memories are from her life before she graduated high school.
When my grandfather (Pa) died, my Oma slumped into a rut. I was in a precarious place in my life at the time, and knew that my best course of action would be to ask my Oma if she wanted a roommate and if it would be okay if I was that roommate. She agreed hesitantly at first. I moved back home from across the country. The first week after I moved in was such a magical time. We stayed up late every night, playing games and talking. She told me stories of the family's years in Okinawa when Pa was in the army. She told me about how she and Pa had gotten together. She told me about what she had wanted to be when she grew up. She told me so many things.
As an adult, I married a man significantly older than myself. That being said, his mother was close in age to my Oma. She left us last August. I enjoyed most the visits where we went through her old photos and through my husband, she would tell stories about their time in Greece or stories about their early life in the States once they immigrated here. She would often wear shirt dresses, not unlike Pa's mother, my great-grandmother. It would bring me back to my childhood and remembering visits to my great-grandmother's apartment. When I was much younger, my mother would take my brother and me to her apartment. She'd feed us breakfast which usually included this orange-like juice. I found it and tried to drink it as an adult. I couldn't even. I had remembered it tasting so good.
I try to talk to my husband about his childhood and memories from Greece when he was young. He doesn't remember much if anything. It's a good thing we have pictures, but, even then, he doesn't know who half the people are. Now that his mother is gone, we have his younger brothers to rely on for that information. We don't all get together nearly often enough.
My father had a great interest in family history and memories. I really enjoyed the times and talks with him. My parents divorced when I was young and I didn't get to know him as well as I would have liked. He's also gone. Next month, it will be three years.
I guess the point of this is that I am so grateful for having spent the time with these people and absorbing whatever of themselves they were willing to share with me. Those talks and tales are little bits of treasure that can't be bought. I treasure those stories and old pictures like gems from a time before my time, because I would never have known them if it weren't for the willingness of my loved ones to share of themselves with me. I'm glad I took the time.
All of this, because it's Julianne's birthday.
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