What a splendid journey it's been. Ch#2, Early Years.

Given the turmoil of getting legal papers and leaving Germany, the long transatlantic cruise, the storms and waves, the course diversion, processing though US immigrations - the train ride out from New York to Chicago must have flashed by in a sleepy blur.

Arriving in Chicago, we were met by Aunt Elsie and Uncle Julius who rolled out the red carpet for us at their small Chicago apartment.  Much later I came to realize it was so small because they were also buying a Florida vacation home and another on Beverly Shores, Indiana.  They always did seem to have their priorities straight.     

I heard we twins were a big hit.  Yes, I'd be the one grabbing for the flowers.  After the celebrating and some rest, our family moved into another cramped apartment above a shop, on a busy thoroughfare. 

My dad got established at Altman’s Camera Store off Lincoln Avenue, joined the Chicago Musicians Union, and worked his butt off.  Then, he found a nice ground-level apartment to raise kids in.  It wasn’t far from Altman’s on the western edge of the Lakeview district, 3307 N. Bell.  Located two houses down from a T-intersection, which meant little through traffic.

Mom recalled that it felt palatial compared to the two small rooms in Münster.  Her one complaint was that the entry was tucked under the second floor stairway and created the atmosphere of entering a mine.  Once inside, you’d be in the living room, with a full width archway connected to the dining room, where a built-in cupboard lined the back wall of the dining room.  Then came the bathroom, sized to create a corridor leading past it and into the kitchen.  

On the left were the bedrooms, first came the fledglings’ room, the next for my parents, then a narrow pantry, then a final bedroom for my brother, followed by a small back porch area and yard.  Needless to say the bedrooms were tight.  Still, Mom and Dad created a space with pretty modern decor, one could even say chic.  

These days all three floors belong to the same family, who removed the front stairs. Ironically, realizing my Mom’s dream a half century too late for her to enjoy the afternoon sun shining through the front door.

In September of 1956, we were joined by our kid sister and the family stabilized for a dozen years.  Dad was constantly working.  Our brother, being 8-9 years older, was off doing his thing.  While Mom had her clutch of three little one’s trailing behind everywhere she went, and she went everywhere!

My Mom loved getting out of the apartment to explore her new home town.  We walked and walked and also took public transit buses.  First she taught us growing toddlers how to hold hands and stick together even when strung out behind her in a crowd.  Then, how to get on and off the bus - no fuss: one, two, three, keep it going, keep it together.  

When we went to big places like museums, our visit invariably began with “the talk” establishing a rendezvous location, should we get separated.  Early on she taught us to behave, and had us memorize our address and phone number, along with how to recognize the cop or security guard, and to speak up if we needed some help - that was all before entering grade school.

 

In hindsight, the language thing was interesting.  Unlike Dad, Mom did not know English and started fresh, learning the language from scratch.  With Dad always working and Mom home alone with kids, or going somewhere with us in tow, often frequenting local ethnic shops, where clerks spoke German, it was our language of record. 

Yet she learned and got along.  Don’t get me wrong, Dad was there on weekends and drove us all over, still working 60ish hours a week between camera shop and music, left Mom with a heavy load of her own.

Being home with kids all the time, learning a new language was a challenge.  I imagine Dad probably spent time helping Mom with English, and we never noticed.  His giant Webster's Dictionary wasn't for show.  So despite her heavy accent, Mom kept learning new English words to weave into her sentences and she steadily improved, especially once we were off to school.  

Mom also had a knack for insisting on being understood and not allowing herself to be dismissed.  With her heavy accent she communicated well enough for help to materialize, and issues to get resolved - and life went on.  It was a beautiful quality that lasted her entire life, leaving her with a rolodex full of friends and admirers when she exited. 

It was important to both our parents that we retain our German language and awareness of our heritage, so from earliest memories the golden rule was: “We speak German inside our home and English outside of our home.”  

What I find fascinating in hindsight, is that in our preschool years we were surrounded by German almost all the time.  No TV, there was the radio, always tuned to WFMT Chicago's classic radio, yet my sisters and I entered kindergarten as fluent in English as the other kids in our class.

I think it was our old style ‘50s neighborhood, with over a dozen kids who’d spend summer days running around, playing in front yards, and backyards.  When older, out on the street for ballgames, and in the alley when we could get away with it.  Sometimes moms would congregate on front stairs to relax, gossip and watch us play.  I think we literally picked it up by osmosis.  In any event, I like the idea of not having an original language, and being bilingual from the get-go.

We touched history in small ways, like the clanking bottles of milk being delivered from an old fashioned ice packed van, leaving its trail of water.

The summer days when an Italian produce vendor led his horse and cart through the alley, singing in a booming operatic voice that permeated our homes: “Straaawberrries, Raspberrrrieees, . . .”.  He attracted many moms, and kids, out of those apartments.  Mom enjoyed shopping from him, they’d gibber jabbered in their different accents while transacting business, it was actually fun to watch.  Both being from the old country I think they connected.

Looking back from 69 years old, it’s wonderful to have those little memories and to connect to an even earlier time, as it raced into the past.  For instance, both the milkman and alley produce vendor were gone by the time we moved out in the summer of 1965.

Other grand first memories were our maternal Grandparents' home.  They lived about a hours drive west, in Carol Stream on prairie turned farmland.  We could see across fields to Wheaton miles off in the distance, and Grandpa would hunt pheasant out in the farmland beyond his backyard, past the train tracks.  

Grandma liked to remind us to say our prayers - she was probably our only early source in that regard.  My parents having gone through the horrors of WW2 weren’t particularly impressed with God, or religion, so never pushed it on us.

Ironically my Grandma taught me about nature, and later about science.  For instance, back in the days all three of us fit into the tub together, bathing us was a routine and on hot days, after the bath, she'd take us out to her arbor which was draped with gorgeous Morning glories and it was big enough for a table and chairs.  

We got lined up out there to get our nails trimmed and I distinctly remember her explaining that she liked clipping our nails out there because the trimmings would get swept into the soil and then they would help feed the plants.  It was an immediate homer, as my thoughts ran around all the bases of her concept.  It gave me plenty to think while I explored her yard and the little forest right next door. Thereby realizing an appreciation for life's recycling nature and my kinship with the outdoors before starting school.  My sister's remember the events, but not her words.

My grandparents had a good deal of land around their home with lots of lawn to run around on, a very big vegetable garden in back, and a little sandbox Grandpa built for us.  It’s where I discovered the night sky and getting lost looking into the depths of space and dreaming about the unknown  - also where I caught my first fireflies to put into a glass jelly jar to make a temporary lantern, gorgeous little bugs.  My mom or grandma would make sure we’d release them before coming in for the night. 

Speaking of night, there was also the famous flash that filled our night sky every thirty seconds.  Originating from the Drake Hotel on the Lake Michigan’s shoreline, the brightest beacon in the world, visible for a hundred miles, they bragged.  Then time and the modern skyline obscured it.  These days it has been refurbished, but only flashes out over Lake Michigan.

Out over Lake Michigan is where we found our other escape from the crowded city, in our Aunt and Uncle's vacation home.  Located on top of a sand dune in Beverly Shores, Indiana, now the Indiana Dunes State Park, it was a destination location for their extended family, so it was often crowded and always lively.  

Uncle Julius's self-built house, using salvaged materials, was the most amazing beautiful weird place to me, though at this point in my life it simply overwhelmed.  In later years I came to realize it wasn’t built by architectural plan, it grew organically out of Uncle Julius’s imagination and what he scrounged together, and his love for those sand dunes.

Besides the curious house, there was a mosquito-free gazebo, small concrete pool, and a garden with winding paths and a wishing well.  On the back hillside, next to the "driveway" there was a swing that must have hung from a hundred foot tall tree.  

The driveway began with side-by-side railroad ties, descending the steepest stretch of the dune’s backside. Farther down, it switched to large army-surplus roadway matting, a rubber version of the Marston Mat, laid down until it met packed dirt road.  The same matting, cut into narrow strips, was used on the trail down the lake side of the dunes. 

It was so much for my tiny mind to take in and I couldn't get enough of it.  Being there for wild blueberry harvest time was an especially tasty treat.  It was my introduction to the primal sensations and satisfaction of picking food off wild plants and placing it into one's mouth and belly.

Among my earliest memories is Uncle Julius, sitting in his sandy living room, serious as can be, explaining to me that there was a big plug at the bottom of the lake. Every night Lake Michigan was drained of water for cleaning.  I didn’t buy it.  But, he sounded so sure.  Yet it didn’t make any sense to me.  Yet, he was Uncle Julius. He knew everything!  He was the coolest!  He wouldn’t lie to me.  Would he?  It had my little head in a turmoil for a couple days, especially when my brother and Dad agreed with him.  

Eventually, I arrived at the conclusion, big people lied, because I could never figure out how in the world they’d be able to refill it every morning, and slept easy again.

The nights, as well as the days were an adventure.  While adults entertained downstairs, we kids were packed into the attic, barracks style, the bedtime started with stories that would drift off and be replaced by insect and critter sounds that spooked and excited and vividly fed our imaginations.  With comfort in numbers it was fun for, almost, all of us.  I also ways loved it.

When the mornings came around again our master of ceremonies Uncle Julius would rally us with plans for the day, as Aunt Elsie (with moms helping) kept order and fed us.  Then he lead the race down to the shoreline.  

Besides the sand and the waves, he had discovered some natural clay deposits along the shore and loved making sculptures with his, back then legal, harvested clay.  He usually had a supply of the natural modeling clay ready to use and loved teaching us young kids how to make faces and whatever we wanted.

Aunt Elsie was the matriarch of the house and a natural boss, besides cooking, she engaged in a relentless, though losing, battle to keep sand out of her house.  She’d meet us on the deck, to make sure everyone followed the foot washing routine in the basins of water planted all over her deck - before entering her house.  

We tried, but never succeeded.  So, everyday when we were playing by the lake, she returned to her Sisyphean task of sweeping up dust pans full of sand, to toss back out onto the dune.  Only to see her crowd returning from the beach, with sand in our hair, stuck up to our knees and in every fold of clothing. 

We felt for her and she was genuinely loved by all of us for her indomitable spirit and putting up with our circus.

The juxtaposition between Carol Stream and Beverly Shores impressed me as far back as I could remember.  While I loved visiting both, Beverly Shores was always a thrill and felt magical, while Carol Stream was more like comfort food.  The other standout memories from my first years was Christmas.

——  trying to track down a picture from Christmas at Bell Ave.  ——

Though not interested in religion, my parents embraced Christmas, Advent and the joy of the season.  In December relics from the old country would appear, such as a beautiful Bavarian shaved wood nativity scene.  

The square Advent Calendar that resembled a grand brick building with a candle in the “courtyard” to backlight the windows.  After dinner, each day’s window shutter was opened ceremoniously, by a lucky child.  Rather than candy, it contained the appropriate bible quote from the nativity story.  Mom would read to us.  At Christmas the main door was opened.  Our music was provided by a dozen treasured German Christmas albums.

We also had a fresh evergreen Advent wreath that hung horizontally off a center table stand that was topped with a star.  The wreath held four candles, one for each week.  Sundays we lit the candles on the wreath. 

Being fresh from the old country, we had beautifully decorated trees with wonderful fancy old world glass and wood ornaments.  Even had candles for the Christmas Tree along with the tinsel and electric lights.  

The candles were only lit for short periods, Advent Sunday’s and Christmas Eve.  Then we’d spend a few minutes simply soaking it all in and eating Mom’s wonderful cookies and sweets.  Then candles were extinguished and we kids attacked the presents under the tree.  Well, no.  We wanted to attack them.  But, order and decorum was to be kept.  

You know, it was fine.  Why not spend some moments appreciating the wrapping, and the care taken, and the blessing of receiving and a thought for the person giving it.  Mom was correct.  Christmas Eve, German style.  It was dazzling, and the memories retain their sparkle. 

Those were sweet times and went on a few years before starting to evolve as we grew and times changed - though, through the changes we never lost the spirit or memory of those first few magical Christmases.

The other big thing we grew out of, was our greeting tradition when Dad came home.  With the bubbling excitement only toddlers can muster, we’d line up in the dining room.  Dad stepped through the door and would toss his stuff onto the couch, and assume the stance.  Then he’d signal us one at a time and we’d run and jump on him as he twirled us and hugged each of us, then park us on his shoulder, or back, then ready for the next, we piled up.  Then he'd peel us off, one at a time.  So he could go and give Mom her kiss and hug.  Sadly we have no pictures of us piling on our Dad. (There was an 8mm movie, but alas gone to the ages.) Fortunately, Mom's cousin loved doing the same shenanigans with his kids, so I'll share their picture.

Looking back from 69, it’s a meditation for me to appreciate, we were there, it is a part of me.  

Sure it wasn’t always that good, still, it was filled with more than enough good and wonderful moments to make me and my sibs forever grateful for what we had and experienced - even if it didn’t always feel that way going through it.

What I've come to understand made all the difference was that we were secure in our parents’ love, and through all the foibles and dramas of life to come, that thread remained solid throughout.  I never take for granted, what a leg up that gave me, and all my siblings, in the unforgiving game of life to come.

Before I leave my pre Audubon years, there was that one particular day, that moment that sparked my first epiphany.  The sun streaming through the front windows onto the rug I was playing on.  Mom was bustling around, and the sunshine transmuted floating dust motes into sparking stars and universes.  At one point I can still picture my Mom walking past me and watching this beautiful vortex of sparkling points swirling in her wake.

Out of the blue I remember asking: “Who is God?”  

I like to think it took her a couple beats before answering: “A speck of dust that wanted to be more,” was her response.  

I must have been primed, because it blew me away and rippled throughout my young being and never left.  I repeated the thought like a mantra and it felt special.  It was fascinating.  With the decades, eventually, I came to understand that Mom did better than answer my question, she left me with a riddle and an abiding challenge that turned my life into an adventure to experience.

Think about it, metaphorically speaking, heck, even physically speaking - the arrow of time working with sub-atom matter, always “wanting” to be more.  Earth’s biological evolution, always striving to be more.  Humanity’s drive toward self-destruction, driven by always wanting more.

For me, instead of an answer, it was a riddle and a challenge worth rolling around in my thoughts, which I often did.  It imprinting itself into how I grew up looking at myself and the world around me.  I had no God to obsess over, one way or the other - my parents made it a non-issue, and Mom’s wisdom helped me stumble onto a path of discovering a more objective, Earth-centered appreciation for humanity’s eternal questions and resolving our fears.

I belabor the point because the framing and challenge inherent in that soundbite: “A speck of dust that wanted to be more,” took up the mental/spiritual centerstage in my young imagination.  I believe it is at the foundation of my homespun cosmological and humanistic outlook.  God's shackles were never attached and I was free to learn about this miracle planet Earth that created us unencumbered.