Words, Words, Words!

"Annie's father discovered that there were words unique to each language, untranslatable words that cannot be expressed in the English language--and what one cannot express in language, one cannot fully experience. Without a name to nudge it into shape, a feeling always remains cloudy and dim, like a shadow hovering at the edges of one's peripheral vision. One can barely communicate it to oneself, let alone to others."

-- Sigal Samuel in "Words I Wish I Had" (published in prairiefire, vol.34, no.1)

Anyone who speaks several languages is very aware of the truth of the above statement.  I recall trying to convey the meaning of certain German words and expressions to my students at university and explaining the term "idiomatic expression." More often than not it was perceived as "idiotic expression," just because it was impossible to translate!

When my brain first took in words, there were three languages swirling around me. There was Low German (Plautdietsch) which my parents and my brother spoke to each other and to me; there was High German which was the language of school and church, and there was Russian which the local people spoke to each other. In Paraguay, where I lived from ages four to nine, I heard some Spanish, but very little. I heard more in the three months of our stay in Asuncion, when we were waiting  for our visas to go to Canada. Later, as a newly married couple, Hardy and I went to Brussels to study French for six months. During our years in Africa, I added  Kikongo (ya Leta = State Kikongo) and a smattering of Lingala to my linguistic repertoire. Some time after I learned Kikongo, I realized that a number of words I had learned were actually Portuguese. Kikongo is an African trade language and it liberally borrows words from other languages. I recognized the English and the French words, but not the Portuguese! It's no wonder that I feel most at home when I'm in a room full of people speaking several different languages.

Some people have done amazing things with words. I think of  Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani school pupil and education activist who is only 16 years old and has already experienced more pain than many of us have in our lifetime for having the courage to speak her convictions. There is Alice Munro, a beloved Canadian short story writer who, at over 80 years of age just received the Nobel prize for literature.  Margaret Atwood, another celebrated Canadian writer, paints for us word pictures of what our world can become when we treat it carelessly and with disdain. Recently I had the privilege of attending an interview with Atwood and CBC's Terry McLeod at McNally Robinson Booksellers. Atwood was in Winnipeg to view the premiere ballet performance of her 1985 novel The Handmaid's Tale, put on by the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. My youngest daughter Heidi and I later attended this "wordless" production. It was a real treat!

Amanda Greene and Alexander Gamayunov in RWB's The Handmaid's Tale

My life's quest has been to do something significant with words. This might mean several things. I want to speak words of encouragement and love to the people around me. I want to read words to enrich my own life. I want to shape them and form them and make them into a work of art. Lately I have been encouraged by Shirley Showalter, who has just written her memoir entitled Blush: A Mennonite Girl Meets a Glittering World. What I really like about Shirley’s book is that I can identify with much of what she writes. It helps me understand myself better and affirms for me the values I hold dear.

Shirley asked if she could interview me on her blog and we have done a virtual interview. If you are interested, here is the link to that interview: http://www.shirleyshowalter.com/blog/ 

"All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions." 

(Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird, p.181)

Remember when ... ?

Yesterday we went to Birds Hill Park and had a wiener roast at one of the campsites with our oldest daughter, Christine, her husband Mike, and our grandchildren, Kathryn (7) and Ben (13). The site we chose has a fire pit and a picnic table. There wasn't a soul around, except every once in a while a few horses and riders came by from the nearby equestrian training school. (We chose to picnic at the spot where the equestrian events took place during the 1999 Winnipeg Pan Am Games.)  

A weird feeling came over me as I was sitting at the picnic table. When I looked at seven-year-old Kathryn, it seemed as if I was looking at my childhood self. Her older brother Ben kept sending her to fetch the baseball he was batting and she ran after it, eager to please him, happy that he was playing with her for a change. Her blonde windswept braids were like mine when I ran with my older brother, always happy for his attention. I was somehow taken back to my childhood in Paraguay and I felt as if we were having a picnic there. 

Several things, other than watching Kathryn and Ben, reminded me of that time long ago and stirred my memory: The vast prairie and occasional scrub bush looked like the Paraguayan landscape I remember during some of my early years there (1947-1952, when I was four to nine); horses were part of our everyday existence, needed for survival; the place where our picnic table stood and where the fire pit was located had only dirt and no grass; we were sitting at an open fire and eating watermelon ...  Memory does strange things to people. When I shared this experience with my sister Irma, she suggested that my thoughts and feelings were perhaps due to the fact that I could finally relax after several very busy weeks and was now more in touch with my subconscious.

In his fascinating biography of his father, entitled The Constructed Mennonite, University of Winnipeg history professor Hans Werner writes about the tricks memory plays on us and how we play with memory: "Research related to memory suggests that the memories we store are fluid and amorphous and sometimes called up unconsciously by stimuli such as smell, sight, and verbal association. ... There is no single site for 'the memory' as if it constituted a discrete entity. Each act of recall is itself a new experience." (p.173).

During the Winnipeg Fringe Festival this summer, Hardy and I thoroughly enjoyed the theatre production Quilters, put on by the Shoestring Players. A grandmother is seen sorting through the many quilts she has sewn over the years. Each quilt rekindles a memory, representing some aspect of the hard life cycle of the pioneer woman, which the sixteen-member cast depicts in song. The subjects range from courtships and quilting bees to miscarriage and death; women of the time commonly endured ten or more pregnancies. Each block the grandmother sews becomes part of the fabric of a legacy quilt, gifted by the grandmother to her six daughters and grandchildren. I enjoyed the production so much that I enticed three of my sisters to come and see it with me again, and it became a family experience.

The recalling of memories included the celebration of the marriage of our niece Leanne Paetkau to Steven Saindon, on Hecla Island, August 24th. Leanne had tied small photos of her grandparents to the wedding bouquet, because she wanted these special people to be a part of this important day in her life.

My brother John and his wife Linda came from Texas for the wedding and requested to view a painting our family had commissioned as part of Ray Dirks' Road to Freedom exhibit, depicting my mother's side of the family. We call it The Three Katharinas. It tells the story of our great-grandmother Loewen-Epp, our grandmother Epp-Kroeger and our mother Kroeger-Neufeld. Ray used photographs and other memorabilia to create this work of art. He graciously consented to let us borrow the original painting for a brief time so family members can view it and call to mind the courageous women in our family. They endured great suffering through persecution, famine, loss of home and loved ones. In spite of all the tragedy in their lives, their faith in God remained steadfast. Our oldest grandchild is the only one of the grandchildren who has a vague memory of my parents (his great-grandparents). Our hope is that this painting will remind even the youngest of their family legacy.

(from left to right)  Ivan 6, Daniel 3, Markus 10, Julia 7, Sasha 5, Kathryn 7, Lena Kate 6, Ben 13

Magic Transformations

Recently I spent the morning making granola for our daughter and her family, baking two kinds of cookies (for a cookie potluck at church), and banana chocolate chip muffins for when the grandchildren come over. While I was busy with that, I listened to CBC's Jian Ghomeshi interviewing Michael Pollan who has written Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation.

Pollan told Ghomeshi and his listeners some interesting things about cooking that I think I know intuitively but have never heard expressed before. In the past, everyone just sort of took for granted the amazing things our forebears (mostly the women) managed to accomplish through their cooking. Pollan says that cooking, above all, connects us to one another since it involves us in a web of social and ecological relationships. Cooking gives us our identity and our culture. It helps us reconnect with our family. Cooking requires patience, practice and presence. Cooking can become a political act: I can decide what kind of agriculture I want to support!

As we rely more and more on corporations to process our food, several things happen. We consume large quantities of fat, sugar and salt; we disrupt our link to the natural world; and we weaken our relationships with family and friends. "Taking back control of cooking may be the single most important step anyone can take to help make our food system healthier and more sustainable," argues Pollan. "Reclaiming cooking as an act of enjoyment and self-reliance, and learning to perform the magic of these everyday transformations, opens the door to a more nourishing life." Homemade food is much healthier than what you buy on the shelves. You can be liberal with butter and salt while doing your own cooking and it will still be healthier than the food you buy, claims Pollan.

I have enjoyed the culinary arts all my life. Growing up, my sister and I had to help Mom with the chores. I always chose cooking over cleaning. Fortunately my sister preferred cleaning! I never really thought about why I liked cooking but it began to make sense to me as I listened to Michael Pollan's wise words.

                       

Two new cookbooks I'm enjoying these days are Mennonite Girls Can Cook and Celebrations, both by the same authors. The recipes of the second book are divided into sections that celebrate passages of life, such as Birth, Childhood, Marriage, Family, Outdoors, Community, Hospitality, Milestones, Holidays, and Life. My husband and I and two of our grandchildren went to our local Ten Thousand Villages store for the book-signing of Celebrations and purchased a copy. Our four-year-old granddaughter Sasha, sitting in her car seat in the back of the car, was entranced with the gorgeous photos and didn't put the book down until we got home.

I've never really thought about this while preparing food for family and friends, but I read recently (on a page of the website <thirdway.com/AW/>) under 'Today's Stress Tip,' that "cooking is a microcosm of life." Cooking requires a number of skills that are actually survival skills in our world. Planning skills are involved, as well as knowledge, judgment and economy, as we think about what to cook and make our purchases. Our artistic ability comes into play as we plan the makeup and presentation of the meal. This all has to be done within a reasonable time frame and in a spirit of conviviality and graciousness. Cooking helps us develop the skills to succeed at pretty much everything else. 

... the magic of these everyday transformations ...

Ukrainian Hospitality

As a little girl growing up in a remote Mennonite village in the Paraguayan Chaco, I observed my mother baking bread almost every day. It was magical to see that pile of dough double in size after my mother added the yeast or starter dough, then kneaded and pummeled it and set it in a warm place. The smell of bread baking in the clay outdoor oven lingers with me still.

Eggs had their own magical qualities. Carefully gathering the warm brown eggs laid by our free-range chickens, I brought them to Mom in my apron. The white could be separated from the yolk with some careful maneuvering. Mom would beat the egg white turning it first into foam, and then, as it became stiffer, into a delectable topping for cookies and cake. She beat the yellow with sugar, and it became a tasty treat!

Watermelon harvest was a veritable feast. Watermelon could change its original shape, texture, smell and flavor – from juicy, sweet, and crunchy when fresh, to sticky syrup we could put on our bread and Rollkuchen (fritters), or to vinegar-flavored pickles.

Another transformation happened when our mother put sour cream into a large canning jar and asked us to take turns rolling the jar on our laps. It didn't take long and that sour cream turned into solid butter. Amazing!

A pig slaughter was always a village feast in which all participated; everyone stayed up later than usual. The women stirred the lard, harvested the cracklings at the bottom of the pot, and made head cheese. Meanwhile the men and boys ended up playing soccer with the blown-up pig bladder, and the younger children played "Hide and Seek." (It's another whole game when played in the dark!)

I ask myself, what memories my children have taken with them into adulthood that involve cooking and baking? What are my grandchildren learning about this important life skill? What am I teaching them about the magic of these everyday transformations?

Of Time and Change

Change and decay in all around I see;

O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

Time has delusional qualities. Everything changes with time, but this change is so gradual that it is almost imperceptible. If it were not so gradual, it would be frightening. In childhood it seems to move very slowly, in young adulthood and mid-life it feels like it's not moving at all, and in old age one has the perception that it's flying by. This is especially obvious when we trace the growth of our children over the years. The tiny baby changes drastically within the time span of a year, but we only notice it when we compare the photos taken during the course of that year.

People have very different ways of dealing with time. My father was always ready on time and waited for Mom who always ran out of time. My husband Hardy always wants to make the most of time and ends up being late for everything. I like to be early because I don't want to miss anything! 

Even the change of seasons has become unreliable. This winter it seemed like time was standing still! The winter just wanted to linger, even though it needed to move on and make way for spring. It is still snowing in May and it doesn't feel like spring will be making its appearance anytime soon.

Recently my mother's cousin, Arthur Kroeger, wrote a book about that reliable instrument that has helped us measure and keep track of time for centuries -- the clock, and specifically, the Kroeger clock. My sisters and I invited Uncle Arthur to our book club to tell us about it. Arthur himself seems timeless. He is 90 years old, but very spry and lively, both physically and mentally. He loved being the center of attention for five women, all much younger than he, although we are no spring chickens either!

Part I of the book, Kroeger Clocks, relates the history of the Kroeger clock makers. The Kruegers of Reimerswalde in the Werder region of West Prussia had made clocks since the 1700s. Some members of this clock-making family later moved to Ukraine, where they continued to manufacture them. Over time the Kruegers changed their name to Kroeger and the Werder clocks became the Kroeger clocks. My grandfather, Abram Kroeger, married a Loewen, a farmer's daughter with land of her own, so he left clock making and went into farming. Nearly two hundred years of clock making came to an end in 1929, although the Kroegers continued repairing clocks for some time. Beginning in 1874, Mennonites who left Ukraine for Canada and the U.S. often took their Kroeger clocks along with them.

Part II of Uncle Arthur's book is a treatise on clocks in general, beginning with their early history and going into some detail about the Kroeger clocks and how to recognize them.

Part III, entitled "Amazing Clock Stories," is the longest and for me the most interesting part of the book. One such story, 'The Reimer Clock,' tells how Agatha Reimer and her children were forced to flee Ukraine at the end of October 1943. Their husband and father was arrested by the Soviets in 1938 and disappeared from their lives. They loaded the family's Kroeger clock onto the horse-drawn wagon with other precious possessions. As they moved further into Poland they ended up walking for seventeen days through ice and snow to East Germany. On his back, in a "Rucksack" (backpack), seven-year-old Abram carried the heavy Kroeger clock. That same clock went with the family to Paraguay  in 1947 and then made its way to Canada in 1955. This year, in the week Arthur came to tell us about the Kroeger clocks,  Abram Reimer, the little boy who carried the clock on his back, passed away. Time now stands still for him, and drags on for his widow. The Kroeger clock on her wall continues to tick faithfully.

With the new electronic gadgets now giving us the time at the touch of our fingers, clocks will soon be obsolete and continue to exist only in museums. Another change ... easily accepted by the younger generation but a little more difficult to adopt by seniors who love their clocks!

Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?

Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

[Henry Lyte, 1793-1847]

In Memoriam

I write this in memory of Tillie Wall (1915-2012)

How can I capture in a few words the essence of a life lived every minute to its full capacity until the age of 97?

The British poet laureate, Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), attempted it when in 1833 he lost his best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, very suddenly at a young age. Tennyson raved and ranted for pages and pages, and did so for many years, as he struggled to understand the meaning of life and death.  He finally completed In Memoriam (originally called "The Way of the Soul") in 1849.  Four lines from his long work stand out for me as I think about love and loss:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

Last November I lost my very dear friend, Tillie.  I got to know her at a very crucial time in my life.  She was to me a mother, a sister and a friend when I was far away from my family and friends.  Although we have lived separate lives for many years now (in the early 1980s she returned to California and I returned to Canada), for a few years in the early 1970s we lived across the hall from each other in an apartment in the provincial town of Kikwit, DR Congo.  Tillie worked in a TB clinic and as a midwife. When we arrived in DR Congo she had been there for many years, delivering thousands of babies.

My work at that time was adjusting to a new culture, learning a new language and birthing and raising my babies. To Tillie, every baby was an "angel," a very special gift from God. She was present at the birth of our first daughter Christine (delivered by emergency C-section) and very likely saved the life of our second daughter Anita, when she went into severe convulsions before she was a year old.  When Christine was bitten by a dog at age four, Tillie administered a series of rabies shots.  She joked and played and made it all seem like fun, so Christine was not intimidated by the needles.

Tillie once taught me a lesson I will never forget. She went on a three-week consultation trip and asked me to water her plants. I promised to do so and promptly forgot.  When she returned, many of her plants were beyond hope.  She was angry with me and said she didn't know if she could trust me again. I felt terrible because I had let her down.  However, the next time she went away she again asked me to look after her plants.  I knew she had forgiven me, and this time I did not let her down.

I think what I want to say about Tillie is that she lived a life of pure love.  She loved what she was doing with all her heart; she felt a strong call from God at a very young age and she never wavered from that path.  The Congolese people called her "Ma Wall" and when she went back for a visit after her retirement, they lined the streets reaching out to her and calling "Ma Wall, Ma Wall, Ma Wall"!  She was a mother, a sister and a friend to thousands of people, many of whom literally owe their life to her.

"Those who loved you and were helped by you will remember you. 

Carve your name on hearts, not on marble."

                                                                                                                                              --C.H. Spurgeon

Unprepared for the Journey

[ Note: This blog entry was originally posted in May 2012.]

I'm beginning another journey, but for this one I don't pack any bags or make any reservations. However, it requires a lot of organization, and the making of some difficult decisions, not one of my strengths. On this journey I will be travelling backward in time. It will probably be an emotional roller coaster. I'm tempted to just cancel my reservation.

My sister got me started. She brought over two large boxes of letters and cards that our mother had saved over the years and asked me if I wanted to go through them.

Our mother died in 2008.

I am tempted to push everything to the back of the closet and leave it there, because I'm really not ready for this trip. However, I have already started, by pulling something from the top of the pile and I am hooked. It is a gorgeous Mothers Day card, which was given to mom not by one of her eight children, but by my dad , who loved to give her cards at every occasion. I think she kept them all!

Next, a letter, written by me, when our children were young. It includes a note written by our youngest, who was seven at the time. There is no time limit on this journey, and I stay here for a very long time. My baby has learned to read and write, and in her childish scrawl she sends her Oma a poem. Now, when I read this poem I have reached the age my mother was when she received it, and I can read it with her eyes and with her heart.

Strange Tree

Elizabeth Madox Roberts

Away beyond the Jarboe house

I saw a different kind of tree.

Its trunk was old and large and bent,

And I could feel it look at me.

The road was going on and on

Beyond to reach some other place.

I saw a tree that looked at me, 

And yet it did not have a face.

It looked at me with all its limbs;

It looked at me with all its bark.

The yellow wrinkles on its sides

Were bent and dark.

And then I ran to get away,

But when I stopped to turn and see,

The tree was bending to the side

And leaning out to look at me.

I know this tree intimately. It has my mother's face, one of the last times I saw her, after she had a bad fall, and I hardly recognized her. The wizened face of age that pleads to be recognized, the one I don't really want to see, but it keeps looking at me, beseechingly.

Comments (received after original posting in May):

Marge:

Okay, so this is why we don't throw this stuff away. It's so that people like you, who have so much talent for the written word, bring us back to look with wonder at how incredibly blessed we were to have the life we had. How wonderful that we had a father who loved to go out and buy our mother beautiful cards. He couldn't afford much, but wanted to express his feelings and if he couldn't do it with his own words, then he'd do it through Hallmark. It doesn't matter, he did it and that's what counts. And a young granddaughter who at the time, probably didn't even see the significance of the poem she was sending. But, on some level, knew how important it was. And we read it now and think of our mother and maybe even think of ourselves growing old and hoping we can be even close to the woman she was. 

Elfrieda:

Thanks Marge, for your affirmation! Your last sentence expresses my sentiments exactly. I just pulled a photo out of the box of Mom wearing a baseball hat, which I can't even imagine her doing! Christine took the picture. I showed it to Ivan and Sasha and they both thought it was me! 

Dora:

I'm glad you're taking us along on this journey! 

"To be a healer you need seven wounds"

"To be a healer, you need seven wounds" (Wilma Derksen, Path of the Heart)

When you have lived as long as I have, it is not that difficult to find seven wounds. However, most of the ones I listed occurred when I was younger. I had the rest of my life to deal with them, to try to come to terms with them. Wilma Derksen, in her book Path of the Heart, writes, "Life continues to break us and those around us. The challenge will always be in the putting together of the pieces, not in looking at the completed [puzzle].”

I work hard at trying to put together the pieces, and then an enraged psychopath comes along and kills twenty elementary school children by shooting them at close range. It devastates me and I walk around preoccupied with the thought of evil.

"Every criminal was once a tender, innocent and defenseless child."

Organizers of an art display by Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan made the above comment. Cattelan's work, which explores life, death, good and evil, is installed at the former Warsaw Ghetto, where thousands of Jews were killed or sent to their deaths by Hitler's regime. It features, among other items of art that try to speak about the situation of hidden evil everywhere, a statue of Adolf Hitler on his knees, praying. (Winnipeg Free Press, Dec.19th, 2012). Can you imagine this man at his prayers? What would be the content of his petitions?

It becomes easier when I picture him as a youngster, waiting in fear and trembling for his father to come home and give him a beating every day for no reason, other than that of venting his own frustration on a defenseless child! (For Your Own Good, Alice Miller)

Recently I heard a CBC broadcast that asked people to report on their feelings of revenge when they had been wrongly treated. The most powerful story came from a woman whose father had been bludgeoned to death by a schizophrenic neighbour whom the family had befriended. For a good part of her life she carried around thoughts of revenge. When she finally met the perpetrator, he talked about the devastating loss of his mother when he was four years old. Suddenly she could imagine him as a four-year-old, bewildered, alone and frightened. She pictured her four-year-old niece whom she loved dearly, and she forgave him at once. This woman was liberated from the burden of revenge she had carried with her all those years.

Wilma Derksen, whose pre-teen daughter Candace was murdered in Winnipeg in 1984, was the invited author at a supper book club meeting my four sisters and I held recently, after we had read her two latest books, Path of the Heart and Echo of the Soul. She shared with us that she and her husband Cliff made a promise to each other very soon after the police discovered Candace's body, that they would not be consumed by anger, bitterness, revenge and other negative emotions. Since Candace's murder, they have worked tirelessly helping others in similar situations to deal with their trauma.

In Wilma's above-mentioned books, many people need healing from what life has brought them and from their reactions to it. They come to an elderly woman whose only claim to fame is that she has seen an angel, and this made all the difference in her life. This woman takes time for everyone who asks for her counsel. Mostly she just listens, with understanding and compassion. The narrator of the story is her little granddaughter, who is also "wounded" and sits at the grandmother's feet listening to the people and learning from her grandmother's counsel; in the end she finds the path to her own healing.

Evil will always be a part of our world. It is so relieving and liberating when someone who has been victimized shows us by example how to not only cope with evil but how to become actively engaged in fighting it -- not with guns and other violent means but in a spirit of listening with love and compassion.