It’s Throwback Thursday, so I have prepared what I hope is a
special treat for your enjoyment. I have a quartet of posts that hark back to the
origins of the person you know as Me. It’s a bit more personal than my usual
fare of how odd the past was (e.g. the 1900 German Fireman Sprinkler Head, or
the How-in-the-World did that thing even fly 1938 Nintendo Airplane posted
earlier).
A few weeks ago, Greg LaValley (who is quickly becoming my
favorite local historian) posted a photo of Dr. Donahue (more on him in a later
post) on the You Know You’re From Cass City Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/groups/228587690517305/].
It reminded me of two occasions when my family made the front page of the Cass
City Chronicle. Thanks for the Rawson Memorial Library newspaper archive, these
articles are available online and I cobbled the columns to make them somewhat
more compact. I present them to you now, with some necessary clarifications,
and some personal observations as well. (I’m not going to go through each image-garbled
word though, unless specifically requested.)
Oma und Opa
The first article about my grandparents predates me by two
years. What struck me as I reread it this time around is that I am now the age
my grandfather was then. Here was a 60-year-old man (58 when they first arrived
in America) starting life over again. True, I am two years into the process of “starting
a new life” as well, but it is not by the sweat of my brow. I am currently
living a life of leisure, so it’s not at all the same.
The article does do a good job of characterizing my
grandparent, concise though it is. They never
did get their citizenship (anyone who has tried to pick up a second—or in their
case, a fourth—language later in life, knows it’s not a cakewalk; they knew
enough English to get through life), but they did get their green cards, of
which they were very proud, and which I still have…somewhere.
The second article will fill in a few more details of their life,
so I won’t spend any more time on that here.
Notes:
My grandmother’s first name was Clara, which, owing to the era
of the articles, does not appear in either article: “Mrs.” was enough.
The “Yugoslavian” language they spoke was Serbian. It was
the language everyone in the household used when speaking about matters that my
young German ears were not supposed to understand. As a result, I have a sizable
store of Serbian curse words locked in my head whose meaning I can only guess
at, but have deduced to a degree over the years.
The sister who sponsored their immigration was my grandfather’s
sister, Theresa, my Tante Resi. So, yes, Joanne Reinbold, if not for your
grandmother, I wouldn’t even exist.
My mother’s name was spelled “Hedy” not “Heddy”, proving
that journalism back then is not that different in some regards as it is now.
End of part one.
Mom
Yes, before anyone says it, that adorable, cherubic little towhead
in the photo is me. Can we move on now?
When it comes to a biography, I have often thought that my
mother’s would make a great Hollywood epic. Facing what she did at such an
early age (she was a teenager during the War) and coming out the other end with
such grace, only to be slammed down again later by divorce and rise up from
that until death came calling way too soon [see my blog for that story: https://jonnyquestone.blogspot.com/2018/01/today-is-day-i-traditionally-wax-bit_31.html].
She was able to keep her humor throughout—witness the inclusion of the Cognac
and Statue of Liberty stories—something that she no doubt got from my
grandmother whose wit was legendary.
Not many notes or comments to make; the story really tells
it all. I do like the brief description of her as a person.
The only real standout for me that needs additional fleshing
out is that the twelve years they spent as refugees in Austria is reduced to a
single sentence. Twelve years is a long time by any standard, but when your
days are spent in a work camp and your nights in a one room apartment no bigger
than my current bedroom living in a country that wished you weren’t there, it
takes on a little different meaning. They didn’t talk much about those years
around me (or the wartime either for that matter), so I can’t offer much in the
way of details. I do have pictures though, and every year during that period
there was a Charlie Brown Christmas tree in evidence. I am forever grateful
that the photo albums made it through the War and beyond.
The two suitcases each which accompanied them to Austria
grew to three wooden trunks (lidded crates really) and three suitcases total
when they left for America (I assume a more relaxed round of packing than when
you are fleeing for your life), still not much when you consider most people
need at least a moving truck to relocate these days. The smallest trunk was painted
and repurposed as a toy chest for me; and I still have the smallest suitcase.
End of part two.
Bonus: Grandpa
The year after my grandmother died, this appeared in the
society page of the Chronicle on July 1st, 1982. It reiterates some
of the previously related details but also adds a little more depth to my
grandfather than just “grave” and “studious”. And it actually gives names to my
grandmother and my great aunt.
One little detail that needs to be corrected is that my
grandparents got married in 1926, not 1927. Otherwise my mom would have been
born two months before the wedding. I have their framed and dated wedding picture
to prove it. (The date was too faint to show up in this image of the photo, so
you’ll have to take my word for it.)
Dr. Donahue
I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about Dr.
Donahue. Since it was the post about him [https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10216488429430965&set=gm.3600687133307327&type=3&theater&ifg=1]
that got me started on this trip down memory lane. But more than that, Dr. Donahue
was a part of our lives since forever, and not just us, but the whole town. He
was there when I came into this world and he was there when my mother left it. He
was quite broken up about that, professionally for sure, but personally as
well. I think his obituary paints about as good a picture as you can get of the
man. But there was an incredibly human side to him that might not shine through
all the larger than life details in print. Case in point is one of my favorite anecdotes.
About a year after my mother died (I had my driver’s license
by then), my grandparents and I were on our way to see (I assume) my
grandmother’s sister, Elizabeth (Tante Liza [pronounced, “Leeza”]). Before we
even got out of town, I rear-ended a car at 45 mph. (I claim limited
responsibility: he had his turn signal on and was pumping his brakes at the
same time in sync with, but alternately from the blinker. (This was back when
there was no center brake light; and I’m sure the situation I’m describing is
exactly why they became the industry standard years later). The way I saw it, I
had a 50-50 chance of guessing which way he was turning. I guessed he was going
right, and I gunned the engine to pass. He was turning left. Bang. No one was
seriously injured, but Grandpa—uncharacteristically in the front seat—cracked his
head on the windshield. So, after all the insurance nonsense (I don’t remember
if there was police or roadside assistance involved) off to see Doc Donahue we
went.
As it turned out, the driver of the other car was an
Osteopath, for whom an MD like Dr. Donahue had a smidgeon of professional
contempt. When he found out who I had hit, a strange and mirthful expression
crossed his face. Again, nobody was seriously injured. Dr. Donahue explained
that he knew him. And then several more times during the examination, he would
say, “so you hit Dr. So-and-So”, feigning disbelief by shaking his head, but
betrayed by the barely concealed smirk on his face. To be sure, Doc Donahue
didn’t wish the man ill; that wasn’t in his nature. But appreciating Karma might
have been.
I have for my entire life been surrounded by these types of
larger than life figures (and more that I haven’t mentioned here). I am left
with one of two conclusions. Either I have been extraordinarily blessed, or
that larger than life folks are much more common than I’ve been led to believe.
Either way, I count it as a win.
