18 Years Ago: May 9th--Due date!

Blogspot, May 9, 2015

When I confirmed that I was pregnant early in September 1996 (and I can't say "found out" because we were "trying"), the "first day of your last period" became an all-important data point. Sheila Kitzinger's Pregnancy Day By Day (which I have found in a 2001 edition as a used title on Amazon) provides a chart that pairs the start of your last menstrual cycle with a date exactly 40 weeks later. My pairing was August 2 and May 9. "Remember this date is only a guide," she says, "since babies are usually born between 37 and 42 weeks." The day I had a positive pregnancy test was the day before my Granny died at the age of 96. I didn't get to tell her, but I instinctively connect her lovely soul with Simon's.

Kitzinger's advice about the inexactitude of the due date, along with with other information such as both my mother and sister had given birth "late", convinced me to focus my energies on not expecting my baby to arrive on this date rather than gearing myself up for the event. Un-raised expectations cannot be dashed. I remember being cautious in my assumptions throughout this time. I don't want to use pain medications during birth (but if I can't bear it, I'll consider options). My baby is clearly a boy based on ultrasound (but what if this baby is actually a girl?). My baby appears to be healthy and so am I (but what if the pre-natal testing was wrong, what if we have a difficult situation ahead?). And so on. What I don't see in my notes is anxiety of this sort: what if I can't handle the birth, what if I can't be a good mother? All in all, I believe I was calmly awaiting whatever would come.

May 9, 1997 Due Date! (a Friday): "155 lbs; 40 laps" All I can say about that is you go, girl.

Elderberry-apple Schorle
and Rhubarb Schorle

May 9, 2015 (a Saturday): In breezy spring weather, I biked with Miriam from Flein into Heilbronn. We rode across the fields (grassy early wheat and rye, emerging potato plants and maybe some sugar beets) and down a big hill into Sontheim. From there we joined the path along the Neckar River and rode all the way to town. (Markus uses this route to bike to and from work every day. It's about 6 kilometers one way.) We had lunch at a pleasant restaurant called Pier 58 that serves Flammkuchen (Alsatian pizza). Next we hit Stein und Duftparadies (stone and scent paradise--needs no further description). In general, the area along the Neckar downtown has spiffed up considerably since we arrived five years ago (although the stone and crystal place has been there longer than that).

We ran a bunch of other errands, trying not to step on toes in the crowds at the unnamed international festival in the pedestrian zone. Back home, I took some photos in the garden and set myself up for blogging on the back terrace. The real benefit of writing in daylight hours will be getting to bed earlier than I've managed for the last several nights. I love the serial writing (it's also kicking my butt).

(Almost) ready to bloom: peony, clematis, rose.

Ants, doing whatever they love to do on peony buds.

Stolpersteine

The world reels again today from news of great cruelty perpetrated by human beings on other human beings: mass killing of children in their school in Peshawar, Pakistan. We hear of such an event and must accept that it is true, even if we can't imagine the heartless brutality and can only dimly picture the devastation of families and the wider community.

Perhaps there is some larger context at work because today was the day my husband, Markus, and I became caretakers of two Stolpersteine in Heilbronn. The Stolpersteine are in memory of Karl and Rita Kahn, who lived at Wollhausstraße 40.

A Stolperstein is a brass plaque, about 10 x 10 cm, embedded in the sidewalk at the address of a victim of Nazi extermination. Name, date of birth, deportation, date and place of death are engraved into the metal surface. The verb stolpern means to trip, and pedestrians are meant to "trip" over the plaques, like uneven cobblestones, and take note.

The terse, non-euphemistic wording on the plaques can be a shock. "Murdered in Auschwitz" is the text on these two plaques. The sidewalk in front of my in-law's building in Stuttgart has a Stolperstein for a young man, Helle Hirsch, guillotined by the Nazis in 1937 for his role in the resistance. The plaque says "Decapitated."

Artist Gunter Demning began the Stolperstein project in the 1990's, and it has grown since then. Spend some time on the website to get an idea. Heilbronn joined the project in 2009. Yesterday, the Heilbronner Stimme printed a notice that the plaques in Heilbronn need caretakers. Markus responded, and we promptly received our assignment.

This morning we went to find the Stolpersteine and see what immediate care they needed. 

Karl Kahn and Rita Kahn, Stolpersteine at Wollhausstraße 40

We spent ten minutes rubbing metal polish across the surface with a soft rag. The "stones" cleaned up to be too shiny to photograph well with a smartphone. In reality, they look more textured with tarnish, and it's quite easy to read the text. We'll work on another photo.

At stolpersteine-heilbronn.de, you can read (in German) about the plaques in Heilbronn. A pdf gives biographical information about the Kahns. Here is a translation of that text. We hope to learn what became of the Kahn's son, Hans.

Wollhausstr. 40
Compiled by Dr. Gerhard Schneider (Freundeskreis Synagoge Heilbronn e.V.)
English translation by Mary Craig (Stolpersteinpatin, Flein).

Karl Kahn was born on December 26, 1890 in Hollerbach.* After completing state examinations to become certified as a teacher and a teacher of religion, Kahn worked in various locations in Württemberg before he came to Heilbronn in 1924. On March 28, 1929 he married Rita Meyer, born on April 23, 1906 in Bibra, Thuringia.

After 1933, as attendance of public school for Jewish children became increasingly difficult and ultimately forbidden, a private Jewish school was set up in Heilbronn—in the rooms of the Adlerkeller brewery restaurant in Klarastraße. Karl Kahn served as director of the school and its only teacher at times. His own son, Hans, born on February 11, 1930 also attended the school, which had the character of a Mittelschule (a standard, non-college prep school).

In 1939 Karl Kahn assumed the role of cantor at the synagogue after Cantor Isy Krämer and his wife emigrated. Kahn remained active within the steadily decreasing Jewish community, particularly in helping to arrange emigrations. “To save the small Jewish community, he gave his own life and the life of his wife” (wrote Hermine Rosenthal in a letter to Hans Franke).

Karl Kahn and his wife seem to have stayed in Germany to provide as much support as possible to members of their faith community. In 1939 they sent their then 9-year-old son to England on a Kindertransport, an effort to spare Jewish children from Germany the anticipated deportations. In the fall of 1941, the Kahns were forced to move to Stuttgart. From there they were deported by Sammeltransport (collective transport) to Theresienstadt on September 22, 1942. They were both murdered on October 6, 1944 in Auschwitz.

*In Rheinland-Pfalz, 175 km northeast of Heilbronn.

Observed in town today

This morning I walked through Heilbronn at a time when I normally wouldn't. The city bus drivers, among other public service providers, are on strike for higher wages. We're a one-car family, and Markus hasn't yet replaced a recently stolen bike, his otherwise normal means of traveling six kilometers to work. So, we dropped Miriam and a neighbor at school and went into town to bring Markus to campus.

I walked in the city—returning DVDs at the library window, grabbing a coffee. The lady at the bakery remarked on the desertion in her store. Normally, school kids get off at Rathaus (City Hall) and flood her tucked away shop on their path to school. By contrast and for the same reason, I was the unlikely pedestrian/chauffeur this morning, and I was a solitary customer.

The walk along the Neckar River back to campus cooled my coffee, chilled my fingers. A flat-bed tow truck appeared in an ally off the wide pedestrian river walk. I worried about the planters edging a sidewalk café while the truck hurried around the corner onto the walkway. As I was wondering what his errand might be and reminding myself these drivers of large vehicles know what they’re doing, a business name appeared on the green and yellow vehicle’s side: geist-recycling.de.

Ha! Perhaps a family named “Geist” owns the business? Or maybe something more poetic is intended (there’s a little Casper-style ghost in the logo if you check out the web link). Regardless, the word’s associations are intriguing. “Geist” means spirit or mind or ghost. Der heilige Geist is the Holy Ghost. Just how are those recycled?

It bears mentioning, too, that a German person would pronounce that web address this way: “geist minus recycling punkt d e”. Any time a hyphen shows up in a web address, Germans call it a “Minus” and not a “Bindestrich” (the less pronounceable but correct word for hyphen). To my ear, amusing equations emerge. Another example from a call-in radio program with guest experts for various topics: “tausend minus fragen at swr punkt d e” (thousand minus questions). Folks here say it straight-voiced every time, so I assume it’s just me who’s amused.

On my way back to the car, I passed a peaceful cluster of people in yellow traffic vests holding signs against their thighs, drinking coffee, some smoking. They stood outside the city swimming pool and thermal bath, Soleo. Perhaps a strike is another form of recycling spirit?

~~I am inspired by writer/mentor/friend Abigail Thomas and her recently launched blog, which features short-shorts she's called "blogettes", to consider shorter posts. This one counts as short, for me.~~

Returning to Tennis

Over the holidays, I visited my hometown of Oberlin, Ohio. My parents, who've both entered their 80s, still live in the house they bought two years before I was born. Doing the math any way you want to, that means they've been in the house for 52 years.

The house is loaded with 52 years' worth of stuff. To be fair, my parents have begun reducing the contents with a plan of moving into smaller and stair-free living quarters eventually. And, to be fair again, it's not all their stuff. I'm the middle child of three, and (so I say) because I lived overseas a lot until Markus and I settled in Michigan and had kids, I always had two pretty good excuses for not taking charge of the stuff I'd left in Oberlin. One: I was overseas and couldn't take much with me. Two: I had little kids and couldn't bother with old boxes in the attics and drawers jammed with letters and photos.

Well, I'm back to living overseas, but I have at last begun dealing with the items in my parents' house that still have my name on them. Every time I visit, I find a day or more to sort and toss. There's my childhood and youth. My summer in Japan. There are my college years (at Wesleyan and at Oberlin) and study/travel/living in Germany. There are the grad school years in Wisconsin and Oregon. I'm pleased to say that beginning in 1992, when Markus and I got married, I became the keeper of my own accumations of stuff. Markus evacuated his parents' apartment years ago at their insistence because they need the space. If only my parents didn't have such generous and ignorable attic space and such pronounced accumulation habits of their own.

I find junk and memories. Little glass ornaments I loved to touch when I was a child.

A box of items from my girlhood desk and whatnot shelf revealed sealing wax and
a tiny punch bowl with ladle and cups in spun glass. (Attic sorting c. August 2012)

I find objects I clearly remember and objects I dimly remember. Objects I would never have known I could remember until I beheld them again. The summer of 2012, from a box labeled "What nots" I posed this little group, telling myself that a photo would make them last and I could part with them now. Then it was time to leave for the airport. I couldn't pack them away and I couldn't take them along. What did I tell my mother--to get rid of them? Or to pack them away for me again because I couldn't stand parting from them afterall?

Special collection. Objects I looked at and loved and played with as a girl.
On attic display. (c. August 2012)

This small collection may (or may not) be up in the attic still. I've cut my overall quantity down to about eight boxes up there, filled with the items you can't sort through quickly. Letters. Photos. Heavy things you can't easily mail to Germany. I'm a writer (my ultimate excuse for anything these days), and there might be a story in there. My daughter tells me it's a book: the Cleaning Out My Parents' Attic book. What stories are lurking in my girlhood letters? In the stacks of letters from old beaux and the stack from my husband? Look, there's my album of black and white Poloroid photos, and there in the photos you can see our cat (Serena)! I flip the cards with the plastic sleeved photos. I connect with the action performed dozens of times by a former me. I remember holding the corner of the photo, smelling the chemicals before peeling off the sheet that coated the photo, following the second hand around the face of my watch.

Early this month, I consolidated photos and letters into boxes I will return to--I promise. With a cup of tea and a real place to sit and sort, down from the attic, I can bring them into some kind of order. Of course I never miss or think about the lettes I wrote to my friend Sally (and she to me--for it is those I have collected) when we were eight or nine, but what kind of character can you create from old letters? From touching old objects of sentimental longing and familiarity?

And what, an alert reader might be wondering, does this all have to do with tennis?

One of the photos that crossed my hands and eyes was a black and white 8x10 of my high school tennis team. We stood and crouched, about ten of us, with coach Fran Baumann. Simple white t-shirt tucked into a red wrap-style tennis skirt. Raquets held slantwise across our fronts. Group photo smiles.

I played doubles with Sarah Friebert. I'm about 5' 4". She's about 6'1". My dark hair poofs out frizzy-curly. Her dark hair is sleeked back on her head. We are an odd couple.

Sarah and I became doubles partners junior year, holding down the position of second doubles. Senior year, we advanced to first doubles. The Oberlin team did well in our conference (we had some strong singles players), but team success always seemed to occur despite my own meager accomplishments on court. When we won, it felt like Sarah won and I did my best not to mess things up too badly.

But I did play tennis. I went to practice. I tried to learn topspin. I tossed and tossed and hoped I'd throw a ball where I could actually hit a serve. I had a mean doublehanded backhand (like Chriss Everett), it's true. I was lucky occasionally on a volley, and my forehand was sometimes okay. I had solid quadriceps that bulged out above the knee from all that "ready positioning" and running short sprints. I had a solid right forearm.

This past week, I followed a whim and peeked in on the Heilbronn Open men's pro tennis indoor tournament. It's an annual January event, held in the industrial area between my town of Flein and the neighbor town of Talheim. I see the posters every year, and this year I learned you could watch for free during the qualifiers. I took a look. It was tennis. Thwack of the ball. Squeak of the shoes. Breath and sweat of the players.

The officiators were a new element for me. A dozen linesmen surrounded the court, each responsible for calling one particular spot where balls could go long or wide. Sometimes they errupted with such animal noises of "Long!" and "Fault!" that people in the stands rustled nervously and chuckled. There were eight ball kids scampering around to keep balls out of the way. There was the scorekeeper. Back when I played, we called our own games. If I didn't see it properly, I always called the ball in. What else can you do? The serving player called the score before each point. We were teenagers and probably said dumb stuff like, "Luv all!" I do remember this about playing: deuce situations that went on and on. Once we hit 30-30, we called it deuce. Then it was "Ad out" and you scrambled to get the point. "Deuce" again. Then "Ad in" after which we invariably lost the game or set or match point and went right back to "Deuce."

Yesterday I watched the doubles final between the Skupski brothers of Great Britain and a what-the-heck pair of a Polish man and Finn who'd just teamed up for this tournament. The systemmatic Brits had every reason to win, practiced moves and conspiratorial strategy whispers before each play. But the other two men made the most of what-the-heck and pulled off the title. I'd never seen pro doubles before, but it turns out they don't play the whole deuce game. They get to 40-40 and then the next point decides the winner of the game.

The doubles players seemed to strategize about what kind of serve would be hit, where the second player would stand (crouch) out of the way, and probably what sort of pattern they might run. A doubles point--with running to the net, crossing the court, spinning to grab a shot--reminds me more of pairs figure skating than of the base-line, long rally and power shots of men's singles tennis. I don't remember having strategic mini-conferences with Sarah between points. I think my personal strategy when I had the serve went about as far as this: hope I hit the ball over the net and inside the box. Backing up: hope I can toss the ball up to where I can hit it on my serve. Hope I don't have to re-toss too often. Hope it's someone else's turn to serve soon.

I sell myself a little short, but not much. Maybe the desire I got from watching the tournament will hold, to grab a raquet and swing at a ball. Maybe it will inspire me to check out the tennis club that's three blocks from my apartment.

But what I'm really thinking about today is how important threads in life get started and keep going. I suppose that's what nostalgia is. Sarah Friebert re-entered my life about ten years ago. She went on to become a pediatric oncologist, and I went on to have a child with cancer. She reached out to us mid-cancer journey and sent Simon one of the best goody boxes he ever got (how did she know he would like ring-pops so much?). In 2004, I learned that Sarah was not only a pediatric oncologist, but she had also specialized in pediatric palliative care. She's one of the pioneers of that field, and I most recently encountered her on the pages of a January 20, 2014 New Yorker article about advances in the field. Here's another link about the article from Akron Children's Hosptial, where Sarah works.

During the two months we spent caring for Simon through his dying, Sarah advised patiently on the phone from Ohio. About dosing narcotics. Whether to transfuse blood or not. To hydrate or not. How long a person can last without taking food or water. We found a way to blend her knowledge with the care plans of Simon's doctors in Utah. My doubles partner.

Watching tennis this past weekend and recalling the sort of tennis player I'd been, I wondered if the challenges and rhythms of Simon's cancer weren't a whole lot like tennis. You get a kind of clean slate when you start a new set in tennis, and you get that sometimes, too, with cancer. But you get into trouble again, then try to get out. You win some rounds, you lose others.

I do think I kept at it as a tennis player, but I had limits on my abilities. I know I kept at it on Simon's cancer care, doggedly keeping pace with treatment needs (and other stuff), but I wonder now, having known the terrible odds from the beginning, if I ever thought we could win that one, any more than I ever believed I'd win at tennis. Can that be true? It feels true.

I watched a player win the men's singles tournament yesterday. He was not one of the top-seeded players, and he'd come into the tournament ranked about 138 in the world. But he was on a tear, having won 12 of 14 matches already this month. Having lost in a semi-final in Doha to world number one Nadal (but having held his court against the champion). Peter Gojowzck (24-year-old German) beat the number one seed Igor Sijsling (Netherlands) in two sets. Gojo was calm at the baseline and hit a wicked-hard ball that looked for all the world like it was out, but then it dropped just on the "in" side of the line. Topspin! I thought. Isn't that what they taught me in the summer time at the Oberlin Tennis Camp all those years ago?

Aside from 15,300 Euros, the big deal about a win for Gojo in the Heilbronn tournament was a chance to move into the top 100 players. We'll be seeing more of this player, I'm quite sure. He was a pleasure to watch. He said his next goal is to make the top 50. Dreaming big, the top 10.

I checked today's stats, and there he is at 99. Every. Win. Counts.

Finding Goethe, Finding Götz

Setting: Burgfestspiele Jagdshausen (summer theater festival in the castle at Jadgshausen)
The Play: Götz von Berlichingen mit der eisernen Hand (Götz von Berlichingen with the Iron Hand)

Quote of the evening (for me):

Götz: Ach! Schreiben ist geschäftiger Müßiggang, es kommt mir sauer an. Indem ich schreibe, was ich getan, ärger ich mich über den Verlust der Zeit, in der ich etwas tun könnte.

Oh! Writing is busy idleness--it infuriates me. While I write about what I've done, I could have used the time to do something else.

As I sat in a sturdy scaffolding-style seating area erected in the castle courtyard for the summer festival, my eyes and ears darted to follow the words and actions of the characters in a complicated historical play. Suddenly, the main character, then imprisoned and being encouraged by his wife to get back to his autobiography, shot out these words of writerly frustration. To me, it was one of those moments when the playwright steps forward to speak his mind.

So, Goethe the prolific writer of poetry and plays and prose also struggled, perhaps? The comment by the character Götz seems particularly suited to writing autobiography or memoir: the challenge of living versus writing about the lived versus living and thinking all the while about writing about it.

Götz von Berlichingen [g-u(e)h-ts try British pronunciation of "shi(r)ts" with a "g" at the front; BEA(R)-li(h)-hching-en]. Götz von Berlichingen is a name you hear all the time around here in the region of Heilbronn. "Götz slept here" or "Götz was imprisoned in this tower" or "this was his castle". The historical Götz lived c. 1480-1562. He might have been born in the castle at Jagdhausen where we saw the play last night, or a nearby location. He died at Burg Hornberg high above the Neckar river in Neckarzimmern. I know Hornberg--now a picturesque ruin plus renovated hotel plus thriving vineyard--from a pleasant wedding anniversary get-away in 2011 and subsequent birthday celebrations in the restaurant. I've linked to the German wikipedia page because it has excellent pictures.

But Götz von Berlichingen (such an awkward name for the English-speaking mouth) and his lasting appeal have only slowly begun to reach me. The historical figure, a knight ready for service in myriad conflicts and also a man from a family of means, seems to have tread the line between respecting and defying authority. As a young man, he lost his right hand in battle. He wore an iron prosthesis, which became a kind of trademark. Often imprisoned and kept under extended house arrest at the end of his life, he nonetheless lived into his eighties.

Despite his ubiquity in the culture, during our first year in Heilbronn I had not become aware of the man or the play, which is covered as standard literature in school around grade 8-10. I first heard about it sitting in a semi-dark theater next to Miriam's English teacher on a school outing to see a play (A Christmas Carol presented in English by a German-based American drama group). She mentioned a barely intelligible name of a work based on complicated history. For clarity I asked if it was a play. Yes. And was there discussion of how the author(s) dealt with the writing, I asked (being a writer). Only with some difficulty did I realize we were talking about Goethe.

To be fair, Goethe had been for me up until then mostly a "lyricist" of some famous songs (Lieder), like Schubert's "Gretchen am Spinnrade" and "Erlkönig" and dozens more. (I am aware that he cared little for the efforts of Schubert and others to corrupt his work by adding music.) It turns out he also wrote plays, fine examples of Sturm und Drang to teach in school and permeate a culture. Now, at last, I've seen the Götz play, too. Perhaps our outdoor theater evening will help Miriam just a little when the work comes up in school.

The final thing that everybody knows--and I mean everybody--is the famous "Götz-Zitat" [g-u(e)h-ts tsee-tat] or Götz quotation. Not the one I posted here, but an expression that Goethe uses to carve his character's defiance into the minds of generations and into the language itself. While facing attack in his castle in Act Three (of five) and being told to surrender, Götz, with all due respect, gives his reply: "er kann mich im Arsche lecken." (In "good" English: "he can kiss my ass.") Interestingly, the Projekt Gutenberg version of the text cost me some time in finding the exact quote: they have censored it out with a stage direction to slam the window shut! Last night's Götz gave the full line from an upper balcony, loud and clear.

In any case, should you want to make a rude comment in the German context, you may simply refer to this scene from the play. For example, you can say: "Götz-Zitat" (what Götz said…). Or you can invoke the "Schwäbischer Gruß" (the Swabian greeting), as in "She gave him the Swabian greeting."

Signs of Spring

Having recovered full use of my right arm, I'm back to typing and other activities as usual. Just under 4 weeks to get rid of the stiffness and shooting pains from my elbow down to my wrist. I have a new respect for the complicated mechanism that is my arm. As I recall it, the soreness I used to get from hitting a tennis ball was never this difficult to shake.

We're having another day of balmy temperatures--a real feeling of summer at 25 degrees Celsius (77 degrees Fahrenheit). This evening we plan to head to one of our favorite "Besen." Here in the Heilbronn area, where there are so many vineyards, the vintners run temporary restaurants at different times of the year. The tradition developed to help winemakers sell off older wines to make room for the new ones and also to offer another source of income. At a Besen, you can expect to find a list of 10-20 wines and a menu of local specialties. When the weather's nice, you can sit outside. Last Saturday we spent an idyllic evening (joined by my sister, Julie, who was visiting) at Weingut Drauz (I like the place a lot better than their website, which is one of the more bizarre websites, complete with goofy music, that I've seen in a while). After wine with tasty food (I had Maultaschen--or Swabian Ravioli) we finished the evening with Hazelnut spirits (grappa/schnapps that's clear, not sweetened, and goes down with a punch of flavor).

The word "Besen" means broom, and you literally find the establishments that are currently open by looking for the brooms that hang outside or along the road, like balloons marking the site of a party. The idea being that they are sweeping out the old, I guess. Here's a link to a German wikipedia article on the topic: http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straußwirtschaft (even if Deutsch isn't your language, you can enjoy the photos).

So, on another topic, I have watched with puzzlement and some horror how the locals go about caring for trees. Especially in February, there was a rash of pruning. Piles of boughs lined the roads next to what remained of the trees. One explanation, I learned, is that February 28th was the last day that tree pruning was permitted. After that, the habitat needs to be there for birds to nest.

Okay, but what explains the amputation-style pruning method? Below are two photos of rather mild examples. As you can see, the main branches have been hacked off at a certain point, leaving the trees to send out new, thinner branches there. I trust there's solid reasoning behind the practice, but I haven't figured it out yet. Here are some of the theories so far:

1) Wine growers trim back the grape vines to two main stalks before the growing season and the practice is carried over to trees (from my British friend Andrew).

2) They do thorough pruning because it's expensive to undertake and you don't want to have to do it again very soon (from my mother-in-law).

3) Restrictions about tree size and/or overhang on neighboring property require the practice (my best guess).

4) Someone went crazy with a chain saw (OK, more a description than a theory, from my sister).

In any case, in my opinion, it's hard to comprehend the practice as something that is driven by aesthetics. If anyone knows something on the subject, I'd be interested to hear from you!