The Thinking Woman's Travel Guide To True North

By R. A. Labrenz

Life long friends, Tally and Barbie struggle with loveless marriages, life and challenges of motherhood. They long for a satisfying committed relationship like their friend, Lissie, has with husband Cesar. Barbie narrates their story as they discover their own strengths and confront personal limitations while they navigate through the stormy seas of life. She recounts how they met when they were girls and the way their friendship developed around Tally's intellectual English professor father and his spiritual Native American friends who introduce the girls to an extremely different culture. Then, there is Tally's extended Polish-American family who can always be counted on to have the most interesting ideas regarding settling issues with neighbors.
The girls learn to meditate and to effectively differentiate between rhetoric and reasoning. As adults, they promise not to give in to their own inadequacies, though everyone protects Tally from traumatic memories whenever there is a funeral. Even though life is more difficult than they imagined, they continue to celebrate their accomplishments and remain closer than most sisters. Tally has stage presence, Lissie is clever with words and Barbie is just plain sensible.
Beautiful women have no problems attracting men. Clever, intelligent women often intimidate all but the most self-assured men. But women who have healed from loveless marriages need more than ordinary male attention. To succeed and gain their respect, a man's primary job is to encourage her to trust him by making her feel loved and deeply cherished. In return, she will feed him the sweetness of life, which is very delicious, indeed.
The men our heroines choose have one thing in common: It requires a grand gesture to win these capable, unique, women. It takes self-examination, self-awareness and the proper motivation to keep them happy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. A. Labrenz
• Release date: Nov 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370102952

R. A. Labrenz

R. A. Labrenz was born in her beloved Chicago (Pilsen neighborhood) and currently lives in North Florida. She has been writing since she was six years old, when she won her first award for an essay about her terrific and articulate father. Labrenz fosters a didactic approach to writing. In her words, she "writes about what matters." Both sides of her family are gifted story tellers, so she not only grew up immersed in this environment, but inherited those genes, the imagination, the memory and the word orientation to bring stories to life. As an Administrator who worked in corporate settings, she was often tasked with writing and communication. Since her heart is set on making things better, she has won peer Awards at GE Healthcare and Booz, Allen, Hamilton for implementing those enhancements, including improving the customer experience. When she's not writing she's often volunteering in community service. She describes herself as a Respecter of Life; Enjoyer of friendship with amazing people; Mother of 2 tall, handsome sons; Grandma Nay to Willow; Happy owner of the rescue Hungarian Vizsla/Yellow Lab-mix, Doc; Citizen of the World; Painter; Gardener; Chef/Baker; Author; Mentor; Speaker; Life Coach, and one of millions of Americans who descended from Governor William Bradford (Plymouth Plantation/Mayflower).

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Chapter 1 - Agitation

Our minister, Reverend Glaser, read Job chapter 14 from his pulpit. Man, born of woman, is short-lived and glutted with agitation. Like a blossom he has come forth and is cut off, and he runs away like the shadow and does not keep existing.

Reverend Glaser was in his mid-twenties, inexperienced and I had no confidence that he could provide answers. I wanted answers because my short-lived life was glutted with agitation when I was desperately seeking peace. These days people seemed to come to church more for social reasons rather than for elevated wisdom and guidance. I’d heard of folks driving through the parking lots and counting how many luxury cars were parked there during a service. They became members of the church with the greatest count of those lavish vehicles. To my way of thinking, you pick a faith not by how upscale its members are, but by the substance, by its fruitages, by how it makes you a better version of yourself.

Everyone in our church seemed bored that day and I wondered how clueless Reverend Glaser really was. Some fell asleep, others dozed and woke themselves with a snort or a head bob and jerk. Reggie Taylor, who was sound asleep, distracted me. His head, his chin actually, rested on his large chest and moved forward every time he exhaled and rose back with every inhaled breath. Reg was always bored with the church service and only came to keep peace with his rather bossy wife, so it was natural that he fell asleep.

What was really exciting was watching Arnold McMurray, who sat in front of Reg, and who also slept. Instead of Arnold’s head moving forward, like Reg’s did, as Arnold breathed, his head moved backwards. It was just a matter of time before their heads collided.

I leaned forward slightly and threw a be serious look at Tally, who was visiting. Savannah, my daughter, seemed on the verge of laughing because she saw that I was watching Arnold and Reg. Lissie was absent that morning. She had been at breakfast with us but was feeling rather queasy due to early stages of her first pregnancy.

I sighed rather audibly, I’m afraid, because the sigh was a reaction to Savannah, who was nearly seventeen, and who had given me a stern look, as if to say, Mother, really! My mind wandered to whether I really wanted to be imprisoned at this service today when I could be appreciating the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains which are always lovely and whose peaks point upward towards the heavenly home of my higher power.

Allison Taylor, Reg’s wife, ignored her sleeping husband and though she stifled a yawn she tried to appear interested in Reverend Glaser’s sermon. She always wore a hat to Sunday services and color coordinated her family’s wardrobe. Today was aqua day. I wondered if she wanted answers too. Bossy and irritating, was her life glutted with agitation? I think so. I had taught their girl, Annie, and the only thing I looked forward to in the parent-teacher meetings with Allison was getting them over with. I always felt like I needed a shot of tequila after a meeting with Allison. Yes, she was definitely glutted with agitation.

Reverend Glaser turned his attention to the single women in the congregation. He lovingly and gently spoke of their burdens, especially when they were raising children alone. Somewhere in this portion of his sermon, single, unmarried women began to be termed as women without male headship from a father or a husband. That quickly turned to women without a head or headless women. This drove Tally and Savannah absolutely crazy. They are visual thinkers.

Reverend Glaser quietly finished his sermon early, but instead of us standing to sing a hymn, he introduced a French missionary who was visiting and who would speak on the subject of the Apostles for a few minutes.

Tally shifted her weight in the pew and raised her eyebrows a bit. She leaned forward to adjust her shoe and gave me a half-smile. I know she was trying to refocus and be serious.

I thought of how Tally was glutted with agitation even though she had a well-developed personality and a fine character. We had just completed a Meyers-Briggs assessment and she was an ENFJ, which make up only 2% of the population. And Lord knows she does process differently than most. The results pegged her as enthusiastic, goal-oriented, diplomatic, responsible, and caring. She held strong values and opinions, and advocated for what she believed in and always tried to act in accordance with her values. She has become excellent at setting priorities and developing plans. I would describe her as hardworking, passionate, grateful and appreciative, and very playful. Her ex-husband, Rob, had always been selfish, stingy, and emotionally unavailable and he did not deserve her. Yes, she was definitely glutted with agitation too.

My attention returned to the church service when the French missionary began. He had a very pronounced accent, and the first time he said apostles the word sounded like applesauce. Savannah swallowed a laugh, and hid that reaction behind a cough. Tally looked like she was going to explode. Sitting in the shadow of Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Vesuvius is a struggle when you know they are going to erupt any minute. It can also be very entertaining.

In the next moment, the back of Arnold McMurray’s head hit Reg Taylor’s nose with a loud, thwhop! Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was also dozing, hollered, Oh my God! and at the same time Tally yelled, Hallelujah! and pretended to get the Holy Spirit. She looked up, dazed, and unfocused, shook her body, arms outstretched and amid gleeful laughs and some babbling, Savannah gently escorted her outside. Neither one could have taken another minute here.

Such is my life. I’m grateful that my oldest friends and my daughter enjoy one another so much. We truly take pleasure in being together. Even when Tally leaves me holding the bag, or in this case, leaves me to explain why my friend got the holy spirit when we’re not Pentecostal. I attend a rather serious, traditional Methodist church and, after the service, I heard myself explain, My friend loves the Lord and sometimes she feels the need to express that love.

I knew that later I would be razed by Savannah who thought that this church was a joke. She believed in a higher power, and even the Bible, but she felt that people had willfully corrupted the church and the Scriptural message. Tally prays to her higher power in the morning, making requests and setting intentions. In the evening, she meditatively reflects on her day and uses EFT, or Tapping, to gain clarity. It works for her. Lissie's process is simply that she has a wonderful husband, unlike Tally and me.

Tally is one of my oldest friends. She could have just calmly gotten up and moved herself outside of the church for a breath of air. But there would have been no drama, no acting. The stage was set and this was way too interesting for her to pass by. This kind of drama was playful to her and provided a break to the agitation she was glutted with.

The summer I was ten, Lissie, Tally’s Dad, David, and I experienced Tally’s version of drama when we were camping and Tally was explaining the difference between prayer and meditation.

David called it stage presence.

He said she was born with it. Annoying, isn’t it?

Yes, Lissie and I had agreed.

I look forward to watching how it matures. In fact, I'll enjoy seeing what each of you grow into, he had said.

As I left the church, giggling to myself that day, my questions remained unanswered: Why are we still struggling and weighed down—glutted with agitation? When would we find real happiness in our lives? I think that I’ve always had those questions and seeking the answers led me to my profession.

Being a kindergarten teacher is the perfect job for me. The skills I learned at the University translate to life—anyone’s life. Life will always align itself with the experiences we need to find fulfillment. We need to get out of the way and be willing to do the work. And I am certain that we must be observant about what Life, the Universe, and God, is handing to us. If we don’t resist and we become really aware, the answers will come. Just be careful that the source for answers is a truthful guide.

Chapter 2 - Horses

My students are little more than babies. They are young enough to still be likable. First graders start getting an edge because they are already becoming jaded. Kindergarteners are still sweet, usually smell good and have few limiting beliefs, except for the ones their parents have imposed upon them. Since their parents are the reason the kindergarteners are alive, responsible parents decide which beliefs their children need to learn. Not lying, being considerate of others and horseback riding are at the top of my list and I applaud any parent who makes these a priority.

It goes without saying that the first two are reasonable expectations. Horseback riding teaches children so much. Learning how to love and train an animal can help a child understand that there are things in the world other than themselves. Horses are beautiful creatures, whether at rest or running wild and free. Horses teach us about diversity because they come in various colors and sizes, white to black, speckled to solid, miniatures to Clydesdales. They are strong and graceful, and add greatly to a child’s aesthetic appreciation. Engine power is even measured as horse power, which proves their importance in our culture.

I’m happy to own a painting of wild horses running. The 5-foot square canvas has been placed over my mantel in the living room of my century old Virginia house. Using browns, tans, creamy beiges and charcoal gray, my friend, Tally, painted it for me when I was pregnant with my lovely Savannah. I admit it’s an unorthodox baby gift, but Tally knew it would speak to me with unuttered words.

The painting is of three horses, all mares, fertile, strong and courageous, running amid dusty Oak savannas. Birch trees are behind them and a stream awaits. When they enter the water, I imagine they will swim, drink, and enjoy how the water splashes away the dust, leaving them sleek and beautiful. They will emerge refreshed—laughing their equine laugh and flicking away the last drops of moisture from their dancing, glistening bodies. They are not glutted with agitation and will soon be ready to continue a worthwhile trek in Life. I envy them.

When I look at the painting, I see Tally as the Sandy colored horse with a light mane and tail. She is the tallest of we three, and intensely expressive. Lissie is the black mare, glossy and strong. Though she is quieter than the vivacious Tally, no one ever overlooks Lissie. We seek out her guidance, we are amazed with her courage and her energy is boundless. I am the smallest of the three. I appear as the dappled gray. Easy to get along with, I am an introvert because I prefer to recharge alone. Also, I am comfortable with obediently following others, most of the time. In the Meyer-Briggs assessment, we all showed the Intuitive or Feeling qualities very strongly, which is probably why we’ve remained so close. We get each other.

We’ve always been friends because our Grandmothers were always friends. They are our common denominator. Somewhere in our shared background our lineage hails to Poland. My own grandmother is a Pole and married an Americanized Scot. Tally’s grandparents came from the old country and raised a passel of children that ran high to boys. Lissie’s grandmother is French and married her Polish sweetheart, a physicist. Lissie lives down the street from me and we attended Sweet Briar College together, though we met each other when we were small girls. We were able to keep our horses at Sweet Briar and satisfy our love of riding, though neither of us own horses any more.

We still ride occasionally.

Chapter 3 - Desperation

Lissie graduated from Sweet Briar on a Friday and the next day she moved to France. My Dad’s job was eliminated in Michigan and our orchard didn’t provide enough revenue for a school like Sweet Briar, so because of economic cutbacks, and instead of finishing college with a gargantuan student loan debt, I sold my horse, moved home and married Ken, which was an act of desperation hidden behind my father’s unemployment and my Dad’s approval. Dad liked Ken. Even if I had the ability to buck Dad, the fact was that I really loved Ken. Handsome, smart, talented, tall, curly haired Ken with the great smile. He thought I was beautiful.

I’m a little uncomfortable, admitting that, because now that I remember him telling me that he thought I was beautiful, I feel like I was very superficial, and I wasn’t. I was only just twenty, my life at home wasn’t great, and I wasn’t particularly adventurous. Ken came from a nice family, he was smart, and he said I was beautiful. I really, unconditionally, loved him. That’s a pretty heady combination for a young, inexperienced, naïve woman.

After Ken left Savannah and me, although it was painful emotionally, personally and financially, I was able to finally get my degree from Radford University, and I now teach at the elementary school in Libertyville, Virginia.

Tally remained in Chicago, until she was sixteen when her Mom moved the family to a sheep farm in Wisconsin. Tally had skipped a couple of grades in elementary school and graduated as the Valedictorian of her class at sixteen. Before she was seventeen she had married Rob O’Connell instead of accepting the Journalism scholarship at Northwestern. That was just another inexperienced girl in another act of desperation. As a child, she had the foundation for being anything she wanted to be. Creativity and artistic expression have always beckoned her. Looking back, starting at about age ten, the more in tune she became with those around her, the freer she felt to express herself. She seriously studied piano at the Chicago Conservatory of Music from childhood, but artists tend to starve, and Rob was so emotionally uninvolved in their life that she was always glad she had learned to type and understood word processing, spreadsheets, calendars and other electronic business applications. Her aunt Tovah encouraged her in that direction. Tovah, who also played the piano brilliantly, said that knowing how to type would always keep her fed.

Tally’s desperation screamed to everyone who loved her. Yet none of us knew how to reach her—how to save her from the consequences of very bad choices that were thrust upon her. She’s been living a life glutted with agitation since she was twelve. True, I felt bad for myself, but no one has had it harder than Tally.

Chapter 4 - Chicago at 8 years old

My grandmother, Katerina, brought me to Chicago via train when I was eight. She was visiting her life-long friend Natalia who was a part-time chef at a five star Chicago restaurant; part-time because she really wanted to retire. Natalia had an eight-year old granddaughter also, who everyone called Tally, because her given name was also Natalia, after her grandmother. I was scheduled to stay a week or two, with plans for my father to drive down to get me and we would return to our apple orchard in southern Michigan. Grandma Katerina was staying the entire summer, for two months.

I remember getting out of the taxi and feeling very timid and small in this overwhelming city. My grandmother held my hand as the driver retrieved our luggage from the trunk and placed the suitcases and travel bags on the sidewalk. We looked up at the red brick apartment building with the black Mansard roof and the white limestone sills. The building was so large it contained two addresses: 5209 and 5211. Each side housed four flats, two smaller flats on the ground floor, one eight-room flat on the first story and one nine-room flat on the second story. Tally and her parents lived below Natalia and Jan, who lived on the second story. Above that was a huge attic filled with Jan’s tools and overlooked treasures forgotten by previous tenants since shortly after the Chicago Fire in 1871, when the building was constructed.

Outside was a wide set of white cement steps which led to a glassed-in entry/lobby. A few steps up was the entrance to the first-floor apartments, the 5209 on the left side and 5211 on the right side. A sweeping and rather grand staircase led to the second-floor apartments. Clerestory-type windows and a huge skylight lighted the lobby. Nothing separated the building from her neighbors: 5207 and 5213. Like New York Brownstones they were snuggled against each other. Below the postage stamp front gardens, on each side was the entrance door into the front English basement apartments which were four rooms: a large kitchen and parlor and two bedrooms. The back three room apartments were entered in the rear, through the backyard and the rear porch. On the first and second stories, between the kitchen and the dining room was a butler’s pantry. There was a sliding door from the kitchen side to the dining side designed for a cook to transfer meals to the serving staff. A hallway, parallel to the butler’s pantry, led from the kitchen to the dining room. The windows were tall with wide sills. Ceilings were twelve feet high and all the doorways had transom windows above them.

While the building was imposing, life within was even more impressive. Tovah, who wore slacks and a blouse, the youngest of Natalia’s three daughters, had been sitting at the top of the exterior steps, waiting for us. When the taxi pulled up, she rang two doorbells on the left side, then she opened the lobby door, and called up the interior steps, They’re here! The middle sister, Francheska, and her little girl, who I figured to be Tally, came out of the left door. Francheska carried a one-year-old baby, named Andrew. Natalia and Jan, with two of their five sons and two of the three daughters, quickly ran down the large cement steps, outside, front and center of the building, to welcome us. The boys carried our luggage up both sets of steps to the second story flat. The chatter, hugs and kisses began the moment they all emerged from the building and descended on us like a swarm of locusts.

Wonderful to see you, How was the trip? Is this Barbara? She’s so pretty! She looks like you when you were her age. Let me get that for you. I’m making gołumpkie, Have some coffee. Someone get the half-and-half. Here are lemon squares. We’ll make punchkies tomorrow when Aimee and Elizabeth come, almost crushed me. The different voices and laughter, the footsteps scurrying, the chairs moving, the sound of the coffee cups, plates and flatware clinking as afternoon coffee appeared on the table, the parakeets tweeting in the dining room bay window, the bubbles in the aquarium, all created an interior cacophony that I had never experienced before.

Our quarters were a small bedroom with a double-sized bed, a wooden chair and a dresser. We would unpack later. Our grandmothers were too excited to leave each other. When the conversation changed from English to Polish, Tally invited me to her room, in the flat downstairs. She introduced me to her complete set of Hot Looks International model dolls. Then, we listened to Mark Anthony, Roberto Carlos, José José, Luis Miguel and Gustavo Cerati, on her father’s tape player while we played Oklahoma Gin Rummy in her father’s den. A family from Mexico lived next door and Tally’s family was learning the Latin rhythms. She showed me the Remington and Smith-Corona manual typewriters and a book explaining how you could teach yourself to type. I had never seen anything like the floor to ceiling bookcases, with over a thousand titles in that one room, including the complete works of William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. Several World Atlas’s, two sets of encyclopedias, Ridpath’s History of the World—a first edition from 1901—all nine volumes, the world history by Washington Irving (with the most interesting background of Mohammed), several dictionaries, including an unabridged one that sat on its own pedestal stand, were at home here, generously sharing their knowledge to anyone who was willing to open their covers. There were volumes of science, technology and art books with beautiful photographs, that I would get lost in later that summer. The room's furniture was comfortable. We had our choice of a loveseat, two wing-backed chairs and a large wooden desk with a globe of the world perched on top.

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed, soft, mellow notes that comforted me. On the last count when the timepiece struck five o’clock, Tally’s father came in.

He picked up Tally and she squealed, delighted. How’s my Tally-girl? he said as he kissed her cheek and set her down. Introduce me, please, to your friend.

Tally said, Daddy, I want you to meet Barbie, Katerina’s granddaughter. Barbie, this is my father, Dr. Holcomb. He’s a teacher.

He shook my hand and sat down on the coffee table, where we’d been playing cards. It is very nice to meet you, Barbie. We’ve been looking forward to your visit. Please call me David. Welcome to Chicago’s Hyde Park! He said these words as Tally leaned her back into his shoulder and his arm cradled her.

He clapped his hands together and his tone became a bit serious. Have you practiced? he asked Tally.

No, she moaned.

While you do, I’ll take Barbie to the kitchen and we’ll get acquainted. Is your Mother upstairs?

She nodded, with the baby, they’re all speaking Polish. She rolled her eyes.

Ah, I see. That’s just their excitement overcoming them. They will settle back to English soon. While I entertain our guest in the kitchen, I’ll still be enjoying the excellent piano music that comes from your wonderful heart.

Tally rose from leaning into him and skipped to the baby grand piano in what I assumed was originally the dining room. As David and I made ourselves comfortable in the kitchen, with a wine glass of grape soda that he poured for each of us, Tally began to practice.

How was your train trip? he asked me while warm up finger exercises were being played.

Nice, I said quietly.

Was it your first time on a train?

I nodded.

What did you like the most?

Eating sandwiches in the Dining car, my enthusiastic answer surprised me.

I was raised on a farm in Wisconsin. It’s quite different from a city like Chicago. What do you like about living on an apple orchard?

Soon I was conversing with him as if we had been friends my entire life. In ten minutes, I had lost my shyness and found my eight-year old voice.

After twenty minutes of nibbling a cookie, sipping grape soda and listening to scales and finger exercises from the other room, he said, Let’s go back to Tally. She’s about to play the piece she’s working on for the recital. Performing artists play their best when they have an audience.

When she was finished with a piece that sounded like a kids’ version of a tango, he applauded, as did I, and shouted, Bravi! Beautiful my darling! He kissed her hands and smiled into her face. Then we went upstairs to dine on what was the first of many gourmet suppers with that huge extended family.

Some of the most wonderful memories I have from those summers were because of Tally’s Dad, David Holcomb, PhD, and his telescope. He would carry the telescope up to the flat rooftop on clear nights so we could discover, for ourselves, the moon’s craters, then marvel at the fuzzy rings around Saturn and spy on our nearest neighbor, Mars.

On Saturdays, David would take us to various Chicago Museums, and we’d swim in Lake Michigan until our lips turned blue—which took about fifteen minutes, it was that cold. We watched fireworks on July 4th at Soldier’s Field and shopped at downtown Carson’s and Madigan’s with the Chanel No. 5 scented fountain in the store’s center. We attended the Philharmonic Orchestra events, where Tally’s Mom, Francheska, was the pianist and a vocalist. We went to the symphony with Tally’s parents and her piano teacher, Mrs. De La Rosa, who also taught opera. But our favorite was the Art Institute.

David and Francheska Holcomb, who had toured the Louvre on their honeymoon, considered the Art Institute to be one of the finest Art Museums in the world. The catalogue said: The 12th through the 20th century paintings in the European collection contains more than 3,500 works. Holdings include a rare group of 15th-century Spanish, Italian and Northern European paintings, highlights of European sculpture, and an important selection of 17th- and 18th-century paintings. Major Impressionist and Post-Impressionist works are among its most significant holdings.

We became fluent in "A Sunday on La Grande Jatte—1884", 1884/86 by Georges Seurat, a pointillist. Up close, everything is a blur of tiny colored dots. From farther away, the dots become softly lighted shapes and shadows. Tally always became quite verbal and excited over this painting. She spoke about the relationship of each color to the one it was placed next to and the full effect it had on the viewer’s eye. We all loved that painting. Lissie has a framed reproduction of it in her Dining room today.

The Thorne Miniature Rooms gave us glimpses of European interiors and American furnishings. The photography collection began in 1949 when Georgia O’Keeffe donated the Alfred Stieglitz Collection. We appreciated Edward Weston, Paul Strand, Eugéne Atget, and André Kertész. Because of our forays, we learned to identify Byzantine art from African and Asian art.

David Holcomb was the best teacher. And handsome! Both of Tally’s parents looked like movie stars. Tall, gorgeous David with his straight blond hair and dark blue eyes, and Francheska with her dark brown hair and hazel eyes were an absolute vision together. Those were the years of big hair, and Francheska’s was permed and teased to perfection.

Tovah was only two years younger than Francheska. She had just met a materials science engineer, a graduate of MIT, named Maurieus St. John, but everyone called him Smitty. While he was often at Natalia’s and Jan’s, Smitty was quieter than this boisterous, overwhelming, wonderful family. Most of the spouses were more introverted and they all shared a deep respect and appreciation for this extraverted bunch. Tovah was the Secretary to the President of Harris Bank and Trust. She worked downtown, in the Loop. She made us feel very welcome. One day, Francheska took us to Tovah’s office and then lunch in the Harris cafeteria. I wonder if the people who see you with me think you are my daughters or nieces? I hope so, she said. You are so lady-like and polite. I’m very proud of you.

That family was something else.

Chapter 5 - Our Hero

Lissie, or Elizabeth as the grandmothers called her, and her French Grand Ma Ma, Aimee, arrived the next evening to the same kind of friendly welcome that I experienced the day before. Lissie was one year older than Tally and me.

Natalia, the semi-retired chef, seemed to be constantly cooking, so she almost always wore an apron. Whenever she made gołumpkie, Polish stuffed cabbage, she’d send extra home to the 5211 side of the building where the Cabrerra’s, Simon and his wife Rebecca, lived. The family culture insisted that we correctly pronounce words, regardless of what language they were spoken in. So, gołumpkie was pronounced go-WUMP-kee, with an explanatory lecture about speaking high-class Polish. Simon’s mother, Maria, and his father, Raoul, were visiting from Mexico, and were deciding if they wanted to move to Chicago. Maria and Natalia became friends over food, since food always transcends cultural differences. So, by the end of that summer, Natalia knew how to make tortillas, tacos, tamales with masa harina, and, my favorite, chicken with chocolate, ground sesame and almond molé Poblano sauce. The two women would get together and show each other how to cook favorite dishes, which produced some fine eating, and which they chattered and laughed through—Natalia in her broken English and Polish and Maria in her broken English and Spanish. When Mrs. Krych, from the Czech Republic, joined them, we never understood what the heck they were jabbering about. But, they always followed the thread of their conversations and were surprised when we didn’t. Mrs. Krych made the best pastries. Oh my. Just remembering those delightful, delicious aromas makes my mouth water.

At the back of Tally’s apartment building, past the backyard and adjoining the alley, were two garages, carriage houses actually. The uncles and David parked their cars there.

Late one night, David came in Tally’s room where we three girls were sleeping on a set of bunk beds and a separate twin bed and he gently woke us when he turned on a small lamp. He was fully dressed.

From the door he said, I’ll wait outside your room while you put on your robes and slippers. We’re going out front. One of the garages is on fire. It’s okay, the firefighters are here. Everyone is on the steps.

Once outside, the fire pump, with a hose attached from the street hydrant, was pumping water down the alley to the garage. Lissie and I went to our grandmothers and put our arms around their waists. We rubbed our eyes. We could smell the fire and here and there bits of ash floated down. The women and children were in pajamas, slippers and robes, but the men were dressed in street clothes. Everyone who lived in 5207, 5209, 5211 and 5213 had evacuated their quarters and were milling around on the street.

Tally had her arms around her father’s waist when a firefighter approached David. The men talked, pointed to the backyard and then left us. Go to your Grandma now, he said. David reached in his pocket for his keys before he disappeared down the dark street.

Tally came to us, The firefighters want him to drive the car out of the garage. They asked how full his gas tank was. They’ve been aiming the water at the gas tank to cool the fuel.

Lissie’s eyes grew huge. I suspected she was as in love with David as I was and we genuinely feared for his safety.

After a while, a blackened sedan pulled up to the street parking in front of the building. Everyone’s eyes were on David as he emerged, triumphant. Our hero explained that a firefighter showed him how to breathe air that had been cleaned from smoke by a heavy mist from the hose nozzle. In the garage, David opened the car door, holding his shirt tail like a pot holder because the handle was so hot. Once in the driver’s seat, he started the car and drove from the garage through the alley to the street where the car now sat.

Tally’s Hot Looks International Models dolls were in the back seat and she looked so sad when her father brought them out and we all saw that the heat and the smoke ruined them. Tally didn’t have any dolls except these and she loved their ethnic diversity. We had played with them all summer in an empty bookcase that we pretended was their doll house. Tally and her mother and aunts had been decorating it and had made furniture out of cut up shoeboxes. It was great.

Honey, her father explained, our auto insurance, will pay for the repairs to the car. I don’t see why we couldn’t also add these dolls to our claim. The thought cheered her a bit. The three of us learned everything there was to know about insurance and claims because Tally’s family never let an opportunity to teach us escape.

Francheska tried her best to mend and salvage the dolls when they found out the doll series had been discontinued. Her parents and family tried Legos, Tinker toys and Lincoln Logs, which provided no consolation to Tally, but which the baby, Andrew, would enjoy when he got a little older. Tally recovered a bit when she discovered Hans Christian Anderson, Grimm’s Brothers and Aesop’s Fables books, which her father found just for her. Uncle Louis and Aunt Tovah bought her a sketch book and some charcoal pencils, which helped, too. Grandma Natalia also found a beautiful children’s book about archaeology and Tally loved the real-life adventures.

The following week, as David and Francheska’s car was being cleaned and repainted, the grandmothers, Francheska, and we three girls got dressed up and took the CTA bus and the El, short for elevated train, to meet Mrs. Lerner at her downtown, skyscraper office. The El made a loop around the downtown part of the city. Mrs. Lerner’s office building was in the Loop. From her office, we could see Harris Trust, where Tovah worked, and a stunning view of Lake Michigan. I had seen this great lake from its eastern shore, the Michigan side, and now, after hours of train travel, I witnessed it from the southern, Chicago side. David said it was like an inland ocean.

We walked two blocks to have lunch at Stouffer’s with Mrs. Lerner. Leonora Lerner was a stylish, impressive woman. She was well read and had traveled around the world. At her office, she was reserved and cool. At the restaurant, she was warm, relaxed and friendly. She laughed and told us a hysterical story about her husband and their basset hound, Lucy. She truly loved our grandmothers and I was soon to understand the why behind her affection.

Leonora Lerner and her husband, Max, had been to dinner several times at Natalia’s flat during the summer. One evening Mrs. Lerner passed around a photograph to the family and friends who were assembled. The four-year-old girl in the faded, cracked photograph was little Leonora.

It was a snapshot of the grandmothers taken in 1938 in Krakow, Poland. The photograph held special meaning to Leonora Lerner and her friends. A snapshot in time to cherish. Old, faded and cracked, the picture nevertheless showed the promise and freshness of their youth. These grandmothers had given birth to generations, then nurtured their children and we grandchildren and provided a proud history. The photograph was of three young teenagers, Katerina, Aimee, and Natalia, who held four-year-old Leonora on her lap. She passed the framed photograph around the group. The snapshot froze their embrace, their happy mood, and their laughing faces because the day the picture was taken had been pleasant and meaningful. The next day their lives changed with Kristallnacht, the Night of the Broken Glass, in Berlin. The young women in the photo would be robbed of the rest of their adolescence tomorrow. The next decade would bring grief, struggles, horrors and sorrow. They endured extreme hardships: fighting for truth, fighting for each other and fighting for their lives.

Leonora was not a grandmother to any of us. She had been a small child in 1938, a neighbor, who our grandmothers adored when they were just coming of age. Ripped from her parents, she had been assigned to a German family to be fostered in the concept of Third Reich ideals. Not officially part of the SS Lebensborn Program, she was still to be educated according to Master Race concepts. At that time, some children escaped a concentration camp simply due to their blonde hair and blue eyes, like Leonora. Her survival was a miracle. That she was not bitter from the experience was a testimony to the wonderful substance that made her.

We learned much about our grandmothers that evening. Aimee had fought in the French underground against the Nazi’s after horrible, cruel leadership had separated the friends and their families. She had confidence, combined with serenity, from knowing that she had done everything in her power to stop a monster.

Katerina, my own grandmother, told her story about how she and other young people in her village had been able to hide from the German armies for a while. One day, they walked home, after enjoying the end of the day’s work in the field. They had been more carefree that day and laughed and carried their scythes over their shoulders. The fragrance of the fresh sweet hay they had mowed with those scythes lingering in their hair and clothing. When a band of soldiers approached them, her brave young fiancé would not compromise and would not join the forces of Hitler’s army which the soldiers demanded. Katerina saw him shot by Nazi soldiers. Other young men, Katerina’s friends and school chums, immediately understood the macabre message and straight away joined the military ranks. Moments later the martyr died in my grandmother’s arms. His sacrifice gave her a resolve to live with purpose. Heroic to the end, even after the war she became an advocate for victims in Third World countries. She moved to Scotland to learn English and married a young Scotsman who was more American than Americans. My mother was born in Edinburgh and married my father, which is how I came to be born abroad. My whole family came here when I was two and settled on the small orchard near Benton Harbor, Michigan.

Even now, I remember as Mrs. Lerner told us, how Natalia had risked her life to rescue her from the Nazi’s hands even though Natalia wasn’t Jewish. Leonora was. Natalia risked her own safety and saved the life of an innocent child whose behavior testified outspokenly that she rejected her foster parent’s teachings. Because of her indomitable spirit, in hushed tones they slated her for extermination. Leonora, this remarkable child, would come to profoundly influence all of our lives and choices. Even beyond our lives, her gratitude would speak.

You were all so young and brave, I said to Lissie’s grandmother as I looked at the picture.

No, not brave, Aimee said sharply, through her French accent. We were terrified, each one of us. Terrified. This Hitler, he changed everything. Families were torn apart. Everyone was afraid of something. Hiding Jews. Being arrested. Not complying with hideous orders. Family, friends or neighbors turned you in. She smiled. But we knew we had to change too. Limiting beliefs…I had to free myself from limiting beliefs. She paused and sighed. And we learned. Not everyone does, you know. So, I am grateful for the education that ordeal provided to me. I struggled because I didn’t trust others. I thank God that Lissie, you and Tally won’t have to deal with that.

Someone very wise once said: To live without history, you, your family…would seem to be without roots, without a past. The present would seem to have no foundation and little, if any meaning. But, in a Chicago flat, after a delicious meal of open-faced Italian beef sandwiches with sautéed green peppers and onions in au jus on Italian bread (which we ate with knives and forks), it was Tally’s parents, aunts, uncles and neighbors, our grandmothers and we three granddaughters who appreciated this personal history, this retelling of family stories that bound us with the glue of integrity and pride.

Being immigrants was a source of shame to some members of our families, Lissie’s brothers and my older sister, were a few. Tally had sputtered about that hypocrisy the morning we were getting ready to meet Mrs. Lerner for lunch. She had a lot to say about our unappreciative relatives who were descendants of these grandmothers, and the concept became even stranger considering America was the melting pot of the world and they were all Americans. In eight-year old words, Tally passionately reasoned that this was the greatest bigotry, descendants of Europeans thinking they were better than the people they descended from. Lissie said that a greater prejudice existed among Southern whites who were humiliated by the union of their daughters to anyone who was not white. I agreed with them both.

Looking back, I am amazed with the intelligence behind our eight-year old conversations. This developed because the adults spoke to us as if we were real people. There was no children should be seen and not heard notion in that family. The environment was so rich—playing with Lissie and Tally, taking day trips around the Windy City, meeting Mrs. Lerner, listening to clever conversations and eating phenomenal food—that I remained with Grandma Katerina all summer, with a promise to return next summer.

In the fall, David drove his family