Writing pieces for publication is like having children.
Each one I give birth to (write) will be nurtured (reviewed & edited) until it isgrown-up (complete). Then I reluctantly let it go out into the world (publish it). My hope is that it is written well enough to have an impact on the world in a positive way.
My descendants (inspired audience) will continue the good that was started with just an idea or brief thought to hopefully make this world a better place.
May my legacy (my other babies) be remembered well.
I remember picking up the spewn out gum out of the gutter. A rich man’s castoff after the flavor was all gone. No matter to me, it still had substance. I needed something with volume in my mouth and my stomach. The little blob of chewiness was a dusty grey. It was no wonder with the sidewalk caked with crumbled stone and layers of soot. I popped it in my mouth after trying to scrape off as much debris as possible. Even with little chips of god-knows-what in it, that was my reward that day! The growling in my stomach kept at bay a bit longer. At least I hoped it would. I leaned up against the side of the building, chewing to my heart’s content, waiting for my mother to call me back in for lunch.
Being somewhat of a handful in my youth, getting sent outside was a common thing for me. It didn’t matter that the war was going on. Somehow, my mother thought the crisis in our city was easier to deal with than I was. On this day, my mama sent me out while she prepared our lunch. She yelled at me to stop being underfoot and in her way. Her scowl was feisty this day and her face cracked with lines I hadn’t seen before. I was almost thankful that she told me to get out and stay there until she called for me to come back in.
Lunch was our one filling meal for the day — the other meals, enough to keep us alive. Breakfast was usually schmalz on some bread. The creamy, greasy spread – rendered fat from pork. Looking back now, it resembled lard. If we were lucky, we got griebenschmalz which had cracklings added to it. The spread was chewy plus more filling. We never had to worry about the bread being stale or rotten as it never lasted long. And we had a connection to a local bakery that supplied the soldiers. We were so very fortunate in that respect. I often wondered about others who didn’t have that resource. I thought I was starving all the time, but what about them?
Of course, the soldiers ate well during the war. Because of the Oberkommando des Heeres (OKH) regulation, troops got plenty of food. They had to be fit to carry out their duties. The average German soldier’s diet amounted to roughly 4500 calories a day. They fared much better at that time than the citizens in Berlin, late 1944. We were fortunate. My father had a friend named Dieter, who favored us. He was a soldier. What a blessing, as he shared his rations with us some. Not that it stretched far for a family of six, but it sure was a nice bonus to what we ate regularly. Dad felt lucky to enjoy some of his rationed cigarettes too.
I heard mama’s voice in German as she yelled from the window – “Petra, komm hoch! Das Mittagessen ist fertig!” I was happy she had finally called me; I was so hungry! I walked back to the house with a long stick weaving behind me, etching a wavy pattern in the dirt with my quick stride.
I sat down and inhaled the Eintopf she had prepared. Sweet carrots, celery, potatoes, and big chunks of beef floated in the thick broth. She had seasoned it to perfection. I’ll never forget it.
But it will also go down as the worst meal I’ve ever had. Mama sat down next to me after I finished. To this day, I can see her tear-stained face sitting before me. She reached for me with her shaking hands saying, “Your father is dead, and so is Dieter. As we will be too.”
Storms rage destruction but will turn to calm, and then disappear. Following a weather event, the beings of nature will re-emerge, and continue as if never put on hold. Life keeps on going.
I find myself wishing for that pattern after a betrayal or a disappointment. If only let-downs were this easy. I know we can move on from emotional devastation but thinking it won’t afflict us again doesn’t seem to. Getting back to trust is difficult. It’s like trying to put on size ten pants when you are a size sixteen.
Trusting implies you are not suspicious. Doubt doesn’t even enter your vocabulary because there has been no reason for it to exist. Until – “enter devastating event”. The before was so good that the during was unbelievable but making the after so predictable.
When bad things happen, you don’t come away unscathed. The lingering pain and fear hang on. Millions of thoughts occupy scenarios played out over and over again. It’s an unrelenting torrent of destruction in your head and your heart. Created by another, but a continuing saga you perpetuate.
Having deep trust comes from someone earning it for an apparent reason. And losing it means a much harder return to normal. Actually, almost impossible.
All I wish for is Hurricane Personal Tragedy to be behind me.