Picture perfect

Both of the memoir-writing classes I teach are taking time off in June, and one of the last topics I assigned before the break was this: choose a photograph, any photograph, and describe it to me in 500 words or less. “But please don’t say, well, this is a woman in a yellow skirt with a blue blouse standing in front of a doorway,” I said, asking them to consider telling their readers what happened right before the photo was taken, or the reason someone thought to take the photo in the first place. If they decided on a landscape, I suggested they could write about the significance of that building or mountain or whatever.

I don’t usually do the assignments I give my seniors, but when Ellen Sandmeyer emailed this photo from the Sandmeyer’s Bookstore 30th anniversary party last week, I decided to give it a try. While I may be unable to see the photo, I can guess what it might look like. After all, I was there when it was taken! Here’s the photograph:

Whit’s down there, you just can’t see her.

This is me on stage at the Jazz Showcase in Chicago. A gorgeous two-year-old copper-colored Golden Retriever/Labrador cross named Whitney is at my feet, and Charlie Parker has my back.

I’m looking just as stunning as I wanna be, adorned in my belted black Lana Turner shirtwaist dress. The sleeves are turned up to three-quarter length, and the top feels like a man’s classic button down shirt. After that, it’s all woman. The waist is cinched under a fabric belt, and pleats end up draping the skirt right at my knees. From what I’ve been told, this dress picks up light and shines any time I move – oo la la!

If I look happy in this photo, well, that’s because I have a lot to smile about. Earlier that afternoon I’d been surrounded by a dozen-plus of Chicago’s most talented writers, and after that senior-citizen memoir-writing class was over I’d rushed home, gobbled down lunch, grabbed a cab to the Chicago Public Radio studio on Navy Pier, recorded an interview (more on that in a future post), rushed home again, fed Whitney, changed clothes, and after following my clever and courageous dog’s lead down the street to Jazz Showcase, we arrived just in time to be escorted onto the stage to do my thing.

Brent Sandmeyer took this photo from across the bar – he and his brother Rolf had flown in from opposite sides of the country to celebrate their parents and the sensational bookstore they opened here in Printer’s Row 30 years ago. It was an honor and a thrill to be one of the handful of writers and publishers Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer chose to speak at their celebration, and while I could have gone on and on about Sandmeyer’s Bookstore, I kept my talk uncharacteristically short: I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have a glass of wine until my talk was over. Cheers!

Generations united

Check this out: Mrs. Walsh’s first-graders made a book to thank me for visiting their school with Whitney last month.

That

When the book arrived in the mail I knew right away who I’d enlist to read it out loud to me.

A number of the seniors in the Wednesday memoir-writing class I lead are retired Chicago public school teachers; others worked as aides or substitutes. When I pulled the book out of my backpack last Wednesday, these senior writers gathered around as if it were a precious piece of art – which is exactly what it is. They took turns and read every page out loud to me, ooing and ahhing over each drawing and complimenting the kids’ writing skills.

I asked them to choose a favorite page to publish with this blog post, and they were hard-pressed to pick just one. “Oh, I like this one!” one would gush. Others would chime in with their opinions, and when the page was turned to the next masterpiece, the raves would start anew. “Ooo, but I like this one, too!”

During school presentations, I show school kids how Seeing Eye dogs safely lead people like me, who are blind, where we want to go. I talk about Braille, too, and read a bit from the Braille version of my children’s book, Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound aloud. I tell them how I listen to audio books. I explain how a talking computer works and describe the way I use a screen-reader to read email messages and check out newspaper articles online.

The kids learn I can’t read print. So when teachers ask them to write thank-you notes afterwards, some of them reason they shouldn’t bother – Beth can’t read print, and neither can Whitney!

Truth is, Whitney and I honestly and sincerely do not need to be thanked for visiting classrooms. If anything, we should be thanking the kids — their enthusiasm and curiosity buoys us for days and weeks after each school visit.

But all that said, I gotta admit: I do enjoy hearing what the kids have to say about Whitney and me after we’ve been at their school. Mike has developed a knack for describing crayoned illustrations, and although it is entertaining to hear him read the handmade thank-you notes out loud, I thought I’d give him a break this time. Hearing my senior writers read this book from Warren G. Harding Elementary School in Kenilworth, NJ out loud last week was a special treat.

After much hemming and hawing, the “Me, Myself and I” memoir-writing seniors finally chose, drumroll, please…)

Note to blind blog readers: the picture shows a very long Whitney dog smiling at the camera. She is wearing a harness, and all you see of me is a very, very long arm holding on. The first-grader’s writing reads like this : “I like when the dog was woking the prsin.”

On the move, and on the air

The memoir-writing class will be there celebrating Wanda’s 90th on Wednesday. Wanda is to my left in the photo (the far right as you look at it).

When I asked Wanda Bridgeforth what she wanted me to bring her for her 90th birthday, she didn’t hesitate. “Harper!” she said. “Bring him to class!”

Wanda is an animal lover. You might remember the beautiful letter she wrote when it came time for Hanni, my Seeing Eye dog, to retire last year. Harper may not be able to handle traffic anymore, but that won’t keep him away on Wednesday. We’ll take a cab.

Wanda joined our memoir-writing class five years ago, and she’s only missed class once in all that time. With her daughter’s help, she self-published On The Move( the first volume of her own memoir) in 2009. Wanda has had a significant hearing loss since childhood, and she sits right next to me during class so she doesn’t miss a word. This turns out to be a privilege for me: I get to hear everything Wanda says, too!

In her 90 years, Wanda has lived in more than 50 different apartments or houses. Her mother was a “domestic” and had to leave Wanda every Sunday to take off and live at the houses she took care of. Wanda lived with one relative one week, a friend the next, and sometimes, with complete strangers. “I tell you, Beth” she said to me once. “I could tell you stories about growing up that would make the hair curl on a bald man’s head.”

A number of Wanda’s hair-raising stories will be included in On The Move, Volume Two, which she hopes to have out by this Christmas.

And speaking of 90-year-olds with published memoirs, if you happen to have missed Hanna Bratman’s interview on Chicago’s WGN Radio Sunday morning, never fear: you can download the interview from Rick Kogan’s web site. Rick Kogan introduced her on air as his “favorite new writer,” and said she was “a natural” on the radio. And once the microphones were off? He whispered to me, “She’s a doll!” I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks her back. And next time, we’ll bring fellow nonagenarian memoirist Wanda Bridgeforth along, too.

A note from the author

That’s Hanna, the author. (Photo by Nora Isabel Bratman)

Loyal blog readers will remember Hanna Bratman, the matriarch of the memoir-writing class I teach for Chicago senior citizens every Wednesday. Hanna grew up in Germany. Her family was Jewish, and Hanna escaped on her own before World War II. She was only 19 years old when she arrived, alone, in the United States. Others in her family didn’t make it out in time.

Francine Rich from Blue Marlin Publications read an excerpt of one of Hanna’s essays posted here on my blog and was so moved by it that she volunteered to edit and compile Hanna’s collection of essays into a readable format. When she finished, she decided to go ahead and publish them into a book for Hanna. Francine’s husband Jude got involved, going online to find images and photographs from the time periods Hanna wrote about. Their son Dominick designed the cover.

Francine titled the collection”What’s In My Head” after something Hanna’s mother had said when tensions started building in the early 1930s. “Hitler won’t last,” Hanna’s mother told her daughter back then, reassuring her that things would change soon. “You know, they can take everything away from you, except of what’s in your head.”

Hanna’s family surprised her with the book last weekend when they were all here in Chicago for Yom Kippur. The best way to describe Hanna’s reaction is to excerpt a note she sent afterwards:

When my daughter Rudy announced on Saturday night after the Holy day dinner that she had an announcement to make, she made sure that I was listening. I expected her to probably announce that my Great Grandson Eli at 4 months was now able to sit in his high chair or slept through the night. The whole family and friends had assembled around the dining room table, standing room only. Rudy was next to me and reached into the bag that was hanging on the back of the chair. “Mom, You are the author of this book.” Applause. I am looking at the book, not quite comprehending what I am looking at. The first thing I recognized was the picture of the Synagogue in Mannheim, I still don’t realize, that this is the book of my stories. I am totally speechless, I am dreaming this, it cannot be true.

Hanna said she had come to the dinner with her daughter’s family and had quite a bundle to carry when it came time for her son’s family to drive her home.

That’s Francine on the right, publisher of “Hanni and Beth Safe & Sound” and “What’s in My Head.” Her husband Jude is on the left.

I am not only carrying some delicious leftovers but also 10 copies of my very own book. I hardly slept that night thinking of all the many people that have helped me to make this dream a very sudden reality, and all the friends and few relatives who would want to have a copy sooner rather than later. Given my age and energy level nobody ever expected that this book ever will become a reality. I, Hanna L. Bratman has reinvented herself as the author of her memoires, of a beautiful book. Francine I am adjusting to this. The word THANK YOU does not adequately describe how I feel.

I fully well appreciate the many hours you have spend with me, a total stranger, the sacrifices of your family and to see the whole thing through including the publishing and printing.

THANK YOU ALL.

Francine had dozens of copies made for Hanna. “I don’t want her reimbursing me,” Francine told me. “The book is being presented to her as a gift and should be “regifted” to others in the same fashion.”

Author Hanna Bratman will be appearing on Rick Kogan’s “Sunday Papers” radio show on WGN-Am 720 in Chicago this Sunday, October 16 at 7:00 a.m. to talk about her book and how it got published. If you’re awake that early on a Sunday morning, listen in!

A remarkable, resourceful bunch

The writers in the memoir class I teach grew up on Chicago’s south side, in the Philippines, on farms, as military brats, in plush Chicago suburbs. They are Catholic, Jewish, agnostic. One thing these seniors all have in common? They are resourceful.

Take Myrna. She lives in a Chicago neighborhood called Lincoln Park, and When she found out there was a waiting list to get into the current eight-week memoir-writing session I lead in downtown Chicago, she called to see if Lincoln park Village might be willing to sponsor a writing class of its own. A post on the New York Times New Old Age Blog this week describes Lincoln Park Village:

A two-year-old nonprofit serving 230 members in 165 households, Lincoln Park Village was organized by older adults who want to age at home. More than 60 such villages, modeled on Boston’s decade-old Beacon Hill Village, have formed across the country, and 100 more are in development.

Susan, another student from the “Me, Myself, and I ”class I teach downtown, offered to host a free introductory class in her Lincoln Park home last week. The event was a success, and starting in September, I’ll be leading two different memoir-writing classes for seniors every week: the Wednesday class I’ve taught for years downtown, sponsored by the City of Chicago , and this new Lincoln Park Village class on Thursdays.

Jeff Flodin was one of many writers from the downtown Chicago “Me, Myself and I” class who showed up at the Lincoln Park Village event Thursday to cheer me on. Jeff lost his sight in his thirties, and he and his Seeing Eye dog Randy took a bus to Susan’s place — Harper and I got a ride from a Lincoln Park Village volunteer. Jeff had never been to Susan’s house before, and the bus stop was four blocks away, but they made it. Talk about resourceful!

Since starting the memoir class a year ago, Jeff has come out of retirement and is working part-time at Friedman Place, a non-profit Supportive Living Community for blind and visually impaired adults in Chicago. He leads a writing class at Friedman Place, and has started a blog for the Guild for the Blind here in Chicago. The post he wrote this week about labels used to identify people who are blind was both thoughtful and funny — just like Jeff! Here’s an excerpt :

So, for everyone out there wondering what to call me, I’ll give you a clue. Blind is OK. But, to really grab my attention, “Hey, handsome!” sure does the trick, too.

One thing I preach to the writers in my class is the merits of keeping essays short: they’re do-able, you choose stronger verbs, and shorter pieces are more likely to get published. So as much as I’d love to go on and on about all the resourceful writers in my class,
I’d better practice what I preach. Just one last story.

That’s Hanna.

Loyal Safe & Soundblog readers are familiar with Hanna Bratman, the matriarch of our writing class. Last year Hanna was featured in a Someone You Should Know segment on CBS television here in Chicago. The CBS interview focused on how Hanna has embraced technology to write her memoirs–she has macular degeneration and uses special software that enlarges the print on the screen for her. From the CBS web site:

what do you want to be doing when you’re 90? Hannah Bratman of Chicago is going high-tech to make memories. As CBS 2′s Harry Porterfield reports, she’s someone you should know.

Francine Rich, my publisher at Blue Marlin Publications had been so moved after reading excerpts of Hanna’s writing here on my blog that she volunteered to collect and format all of Hanna’s essays for her.

So while raising three lively children and running her own publishing business, Francine found time to reformat 64 of Hanna’s essays and professionally edit them, too. The essays are still Hanna’s words, of course. “I didn’t revise her essays. There was no reason to.” Francine wants to surprise Hanna now by presenting the essays in book form. “Any chance you can get me some photos from her childhood?” No chance. There aren’t any.

Hanna grew up in Germany. Her family was Jewish, and she didn’t think to take photos along when she escaped on her own before World War II. She was only 20 years old when she arrived, alone, in the United States. Others in her family didn’t make it out in time. “I’ll tell you this,” she often says to me. “I’ve always been very, very lucky.”

Thanks to Francine, we’re the lucky ones now. we have the opportunity to learn from reading Hanna’s story. I’ll leave you with an excerpt:

I had not told my mother that I had gotten a “B” on that important test, and now I had to confess. “On that last test that he gave us, after his Heil Hitler, he handed out the papers, and I had a B instead of an A. All of my answers were correct. I raised my hand and got up, shouted Heil Hitler, and asked him why I had a B instead of an A. His reply: I gave you a B because you did not follow the formula I taught. You followed a formula I had not taught as yet. Besides, you are a nervy Jew to challenge me. I will downgrade all of your papers.”
I said to my mother, “I didn’t tell you about it, but I will never go back to that school. They don’t want me there.” I started crying again. My mother said, “If you really don’t want to go back, I won’t make you. You know, Hitler will not last much longer. There will be a change in government, and Hitler will not last. In the meantime, even if you don’t go to school, you will have to keep up with all your schoolwork and study French and English. I will arrange to get the assignments, and when Hitler is gone, you can go back. You know, they can take everything away from you, except of what’s in your head.”

If I could be any age

That’s us–the memoir class, or at least most of us–at Jean’s Hyde Park apartment and had a wonderful time.

Years ago I assigned the topic TVland to the “Me, Myself and I” memoir-writing class I teach for senior citizens here in Chicago. Beverly read an essay confessing her childhood desire to be Jim Anderson’s daughter on the radio/TV show “Father Knows Best.” I’ve been calling her Princess ever since.

Earlier this month I asked the students to start an essay with the words, “If I could be any age, I’d be…”. Princess is 86 years old now, and at least three fellow writers in class are in their 80s, too.

Hanna turned 90 in January. After living all those years, was there one age they’d like to be for ever and ever?

Many of them wrote about being in their twenties, and one came in at age 35: “By age 35 you’ve lived long enough to have some serious experiences, but you still have a lot of life ahead.” A few (including Princess, of course!) chose 17, but none wanted to be any younger than that. From Beverly’s essay:

My mind was an internal tangle of books, movies and magazines. Make believe filled my thoughts when I was alone. Different scenes and dialogs rolled before my mind’s eye when I went to bed. It put me to sleep. I was a good sleeper back then.

Princess dreamt of being a lawyer. Her father insisted she study nursing. She didn’t argue. “Having dad there to tell us what to do made things easy.” Like many of her fellow writing students, Princess finished her essay saying how grateful she felt to be the age she is. She may never have become a lawyer, but now she volunteers regularly at the VA hospital. “At age 86 I am happy to be alive and well,” she wrote. “I’m surrounded by the love and concern of my two wonderful children.” After reading that essay aloud in class that day, princess returned home and suffered a stroke. Mom’s speech is improving, her daughter reports in email messages to me. The next questions are in the cognitive arena.

Our class is on a short summer hiatus now, and last Saturday Jean, one of the writers, had us all over to her place for some snacks and refreshments. Another student chauffeured me and my Flintstone-sized cast to Jean’s Hyde Park apartment. A third was waiting at the door to help me inside.

Our hostess Jean has been in the memoir class since 2006, shortly after her husband Charlie died. “I was feeling low,” she said. “I hoped maybe your class would help.” I think it has. She still misses Charlie, of course, but when her fellow writing students walked into her apartment and gawked at the thousands of books lining the walls, Jean was happy to explain how she and Charlie always liked to read. From time to time she’d pull a book from the shelf, show it to a fellow writer, explain the book’s significance, why she couldn’t part with it.

A conversation about books led to one about art, then one about writing, then one about parties. And there I was, surrounded by old friends, laughing my broken-foot-blues away.

Not everyone could make the party, of course. Maria was back in Italy to visit relatives, Eldoris had a bridge date that afternoon. But you can bet that those of us who were there made a point to lift our glasses of iced tea to Princess and her speedy recovery.

Now, back at home, I am toasting to all my friends in that memoir class. Here’s to you. You consistently show me how to appreciate life — at any age.

Link to Shutterfly here to see more photos from Jean’s great party last Saturday.

Here’s why I haven’t moved

With all the snow and ice this winter, and then with this week’s mayoral election, I just knew that the seniors in our memoir-writing class were getting phone calls. “Friends and relatives from warmer places are calling you, right? They’re asking you why you don’t move closer to them.” Their heads nodded in unison. A chorus of “uh-huhs.”

And so, the assignment for last week was: Here’s Why I Haven’t Moved to _________.” It was up to them to fill in the blank. as always, these writers did not disappoint. Audrey’s parents came from a small town in Edgefield County, South Carolina to Chicago during the Great Migration, and Audrey had considered moving there.

I’d see a lot of relatives on my visits. my aunts and uncles were so comforting. One of my older cousins coined the phrase “door poppers”: short visits to as many people as you can in a period of time. I think our top count was 15 in one area. No matter how short the visit, the people were glad to see you. 

When it came time for Audrey to retire, however, things in Edgefield County had changed.

My thoughts had been that I would come to a place that would remain a quiet country town, but it was getting quite busy. The next generations were unlike their elders. A home-cooked meal became take-out. No “door poppers” with them. They are hardly home. I thought I knew the traditions and behavior of the people in the area, but as generations change, so does the culture. 

It was so interesting to hear all the essays and find out, one, which place each writer had considered moving to, and two, what had kept them in Chicago.

Joette.

Joette’s piece about why, if she ever moves to L.A., she’ll take a plane, opened with a description of her Pop’s decision to close his Puerto Rican diner in New York City and drive the family (along with their flamboyant counterman and bus boy) to Los Angeles:

His cousin told him that it was the Promised Land and invited us to join her there.
My mother packed up a few pieces of clothing for each of us, and only one toy per child. Not much of a sacrifice. We were so poor the three of us kids didn’t have much to begin with. I brought my doll, although I would have preferred taking the Rock-ola. 

Joette’s description of the beloved jukebox they’d left behind in the New York diner reminded all of us why it is oh so important to include detail in our writing.

The counter guy Raul used to love to dance to the big beautiful Rock-ola juke box that blasted out a vast collection of tunes sung in Spanish. As a six year old, it delighted me to watch him dance as he went about his chores. I loved to lean on the huge wondrous music machine and feel its heartbeat pulsing with the amazing rhythm of its Latin soul. I liked to put my eyes close to its colorful lighted body and see the green and red world shining within it. Standing on tip toes I could watch the 45s drop into place and the record player arm move as if by magic into perfect place to play the number requested for only a dime, five plays for a quarter. 

Wondering why I haven’t moved away from Chicago? The answer is obvious. I’d miss this class too much!

Wanda & Hanna: Feeling the Illinois frost

The memoir-writing class I teach for senior citizens at the Chicago Cultural Center was cancelled on Feb. 2 due to the blizzard. You know, I’ve seen other winters, and I’ve made it through, but this one doesn’t seem the same. After a phone call to Flo to make sure she was doing alright, I dialed Wanda’s number to see if she was weathering the storm, too.

This is what our street looked like on the night of the blizzard. (Photo courtesy Lora Delestowicz-Wierzbowski, friend, neighbor, White Sox fan and artist.)

My regular blog readers know Wanda from some of her essays I’ve excerpted here. When she heard my voice on the phone, she excused herself to turn down the radio. “I’m tired of hearing all those people calling in anyway,” she said. “All they’re doing is complaining about their long waits for the bus or the train, or the way the city didn’t shovel their street.” Wanda is 88 years old, and she is not a complainer. She credits her own upbeat attitude to her hardworking mother and her beloved uncle, Hallie B. “Hallie B. always told me that people who sit and mope with their head in their hands, well, they never see the good things coming their way.” When I asked her to describe the storm to me, she started out by using her favorite four-syllable word. “Bee-you-tee-Full.”

Wanda has lived in more than 50 different apartments or houses in her lifetime. Her mother was a “domestic” and had to leave Wanda every Sunday to take off and live at the houses she took care of. Wanda lived with one relative one week, a friend the next, and sometimes, with complete strangers. “I tell you, Beth” she said to me once. “I could tell you stories about growing up that would make the hair curl on a bald man’s head.”

These days Wanda lives alone, perched in a small apartment in a South Side high-rise that overlooks Lake Michigan. She writes her essays for class while sipping on coffee, looking out her kitchen window and watching the birds and boats on the lake. “There was absolutely no horizon during the storm,” she told me. “The sky was white, the ground was white, the lake was white. Like someone had draped a fuzzy white blanket over my window.”

Wanda woke up at 3 a.m. the night of the storm and sat staring out of her window for hours. She’d never seen anything like it. It was stunning. “I drank coffee until I was drunk!” she laughed. “It was Bee You Tee Full!”

My regular blog readers are also familiar with Hanna, the oldest student in our writing class. Hanna turned 91 in January and plowed through the snow with Speedo, her walker, to make it back to class last Wednesday. “He doesn’t like the snow,” Hanna admitted. “But he got me here.” She brought an essay she’d written about the blizzard, and I’m excerpting from it here :

The snow muffled the sounds. The silence is stunning. The view is interesting, the ice shelf hugs the shoreline totally, the lake is miles away. It’s all white as far as I can see. Almost blinding. The trees stick out and relieve the monotone, the shoreline and Belmont harbor are clearly defined, but all white. The sky is light gray. I wish I could paint this totally deserted moonscape with nothing moving, the gray sky just a few shades darker. 

And of course, by writing this essay, Hanna had painted the landscape for us. She just used a pen rather than a brush. I walked home after class with a spring in my step. The Yaktracks on my feet were working, Harper could guide at full speed, and Wanda and Hanna’s positive words were helping me look at snow in a different way.

Once home safe & sound I found a message in my inbox that lifted my spirits even higher. You might recall that Francine Rich, my publisher at Blue Marlin Publications was so moved after reading excerpts of Hanna’s writing here on my blog that she volunteered to collect and format all of Hanna’s essays for her. Francine is making sure she sticks with Hanna’s original text but is making all necessary grammatical changes and, in some cases, renaming the stories.

All this work is taking Francine longer than she had anticipated. The email message that made me so happy came from Hanna, she’d heard from Francine. Three files had been formatted that morning, and the task had taken Francine a little over an hour to complete. From Francine’s note to Hanna:

There are 83 files. If I try to devote an hour a day to this, it should take me about four weeks to complete the process. So I figure I’ll be done about mid-March.

This is such a generous, generous gesture on Francine’s part. Thanks to Francine, Hanna will have all her essays organized, formatted and ready to send out to agents and publishers before her 92nd birthday. “I’m having fun with it,” Francine wrote in her note to Hanna. “And may even surprise you with the end results…”. If all those agents and publishers out there are too dimwitted to take on Hanna’s book, it will already be formatted. Hanna and/or her family can self-publish.

All you Hanna Bratman fans out there get ready to stand in line. I predict a trail around the corner and down the block at her first book signing.

When your birthday falls on September 11

Happy birthday Myrna!

Myrna Knepler enrolled in my memoir-writing class after retiring from teaching at Northeastern Illinois University. Having a smart woman like her as a student could have been intimidating, but Myrna is so sweet, so patient and so downright fun that you just can’t be nervous around her. Plus she has a terrific laugh!

Myrna saw a story in the New York Times about people with birthdays on September 11 and showed up in class Wednesday with an essay on the subject. Here’s an excerpt from Myrna’s essay:

I am one of those whose routine compliance to a request for identification at the bank, the airport, and the doctor’s office elicits comment, and sometimes commiseration. Yes, my birthday is September 11th. Unlike other days marking tragic events like Pearl Harbor, this event, like the festive 4th of July is known by the date it occurred. Most people can’t help commenting.

People who share that birthday are quoted in the Times article as coping in various ways. Some still limit their birthday celebration even years after the 2001 tragedy. Others try to ignore what they see is only a coincidence. Myrna said she tends to do the latter, but there is always some sense of tragedy on her birthday morning. She turns on the radio, or opens the newspaper, and there it is. In the New York Times, a September 11 birthday is described as a conundrum.

Every year since, there is a strange confluence of events for those born on Sept. 11. It might be a point of pride to share a birthday with literary lions (D. H. Lawrence and O. Henry) or celebrities (Maria Bartiromo, Brian De Palma, Valentino and Moby), but sharing the day with a national tragedy is a conundrum.

In 2001, Myrna was supposed to celebrate her birthday at dinner with two of her daughters. Instead, they spent the evening at the Red Cross.

There were lots of people there, and strangers talked easily to one another. The Red Cross was overwhelmed with people wanting to give blood and give us an appointment for another day. We grabbed a bite to eat and went home.

One of the women interviewed in the New York Times story will turn 40 next year, the tenth anniversary at Ground Zero, and says she doesn’t look towards that birthday with the dread she might have otherwise. “The events of that day made aging seem like such a minor worry.” I have a feeling that might be how Myrna feels, too. I’ll say this: I’m sure glad Myrna was born, and I feel oh so fortunate she found her way into our memoir-writing class. As the Beatles like to say, Myrna: “I’m glad it’s your birthday. Happy birthday to you!”

Guilty

Photo courtesy Audrey Mitchell

In honor of our infamous Illinois ex-governor, the topic for my memoir-writing students last Wednesday was “guilty.” Hanna, the matriarch of our class, came back with an essay that was, in a word, stunning.

You might remember Hanna from a previous blog post. Hanna grew up in Germany. Her family was Jewish, and Hanna escaped on her own before World War II. Others in her family didn’t make it out in time.

Hanna was only 20 years old when she arrived, alone, in the United States. The essay she brought to class Wednesday was about her first visit back to Europe in 1965, thirty years after she left.

This is our first trip back to the places where we had the first part of our lives, I to Germany, Eugene to visit his brother in Slovakia. I simply had to confront my past and verify that it really happened to me.

Before World War II, Hanna’s parents owned a butcher shop in Mannheim. After Hanna’s father died, her mother ran the shop. Then Adolf Hitler won the election, and things began to change.

Our delivery van was parked on the street and Heini was responsible for its upkeep. He had been with us for at least 25 to 30 years had started as a butcher apprentice and sausage maker. His wife Rosa had been with us for about 15 years, she arrived from the countryside the day I was born and worked as a sales lady.Rosa and Heini had met and got married in our house.

Hanna’s essay goes on to describe one memorable day at the butcher shop.

The atmosphere is tense. The problem is that Heini is sitting in our van every afternoon making a show of reading the Sturmer, the most anti-Semitic newspaper published in Germany. My mother and brother are very upset about this and my brother tries to talk about it and suggests that if he wants to read the paper in our van, he should read the local paper not the Sturmer. Heini is responding that the paper is an official publication and he can read it where ever. “It is not against you. It is about the other Jews. He keeps on reading it in front of our shop.

During their 1965 trip to Germany, Hanna discovers that Heini and Rosa survived the war and were running a Bierstube and restaurant.

I had to now confront them.

Eugene and I are sitting in a booth by a window .We are the only customers and we had ordered. Heini is waiting on us. He brings the beer.”Heini don’t you remember me? I am the Hannelore. Long silence. He calls Rosa to announce that I am there. He does not quite believe that it is the girl that he remembers. Rosa is crying.

They sit together to talk about their lives, then Rosa scurries out to prepare a special meal.

Rosa had made my favorite meal. Fresh asparagus and Schnitzel, a plum cake for dessert. I feel good, she remembered. We are talking and Heini tells me that he had been in the German army and how much they all suffered during the war. He tells that they had sent him to the Russian front which was brutal the worst. I am looking at him and heard him say. “The reason why I was sent to the Russian front is because I had worked for a Jew for 30 years. It was all your mother’s fault.”

Rosa started to cry again. Hanna remembers finishing the meal in silence.

All I could think of. It was your mother’s fault.

Hanna turned 90 this year. She lives alone, takes Para-transit or public transportation to get to class each week, and she affectionately refers to her walker as “Speedo.” I’ve had the privilege of meeting Hanna’s children, and they are smart, spunky and witty – just like their mom. The Chicago CBS station interviewed Hanna on her birthday this year, describing how she has embraced technology to write her memoirs. Hanna has macular degeneration – she makes regular treks over to the Chicago Lighthouse to use special software that enlarges the words on the screen.

This year marks the 70th anniversary of Hanna’s escape from Germany to America. “I’ll tell you this, Beth,” she says. “I’ve always been very, very lucky.” Hanna makes the rest of us feel lucky, too. Especially on Wednesdays, when Speedo escorts her into our classroom so she can share stories with us.