José with his wife, Kate .

What a pleasure it is to feature José DiMauro as our guest blogger today. Born in Argentina, José graduated from medical school at Univ De Buenos Aires and left home in 1963 to start his medical career at Chicago’s Mercy Hospital. From there he became a board certified pathologist at University of Illinois in Chicago.

After retiring, Dr. DiMauro and his wife Kate moved to Admiral at the Lake, where I lead a weekly memoir-writing class. For Valentine’s Day this year the prompt was “Before I Met You.” This exquisite essay José read out loud in class wowed us all, and he has generously agreed to let me share it with you Safe & Sound blog readers here, too.

Greta

by José DeMauro

Trying to stop the passage of time, an old memory lingers Between 1943 and 1946, when I was somewhere between nine and twelve years old. It was then that I met you, Greta.

Remember?

My father had bought that lot with the old house in the back. We moved into that old house while he built the new one up in front, the one your parents rented. That rental was meant to be temporary, until father recouped some of his expenses. It lasted for a couple of years, not more than 3, I believe. We moved into the new house after your family left.

Your parents spoke Spanish with an accent. It was said that your father was French and your mother Russian. But that could have meant anything: in Argentina we called anybody from Eastern Europe “Russian.” At the time many people were coming to Argentina from eastern Europe. I didn’t know about those things, but I suspect now that your parents may have been Jews escaping the pogroms.

Your parents looked somewhat out of place in the neighborhood, particularly your father, the owner of that hair styling salon on the main street.

You were their only child, at least two years older than me, weren’t you? You were tall, thin, vivacious, and smart. At least I thought so! You had short hair, most likely your father cropped it, didn’t he?

Let me tell you why I am thinking of you now. There was a patio inside that house my father built. We used to play there. My sister would play with us, too. Do you remember?

When I think of that patio, I mainly see the light, particularly that summer. It was vacation time. I’m guessing it was noon and the sunlight came straight down, leaving no shadows. It was hot, too. You and I were left alone on that patio, seated on the tiles with our backs against a wall and you, you suddenly turned towards me and said, more of an order than a request, “Kiss me!”

At the time, I only lived to run around with the neighborhood boys. I was not troubled by the thoughts of girls.

That day we were two children seated side by side, and suddenly quiet under the bright hot sun.

“Kiss me!” you almost commanded. I hesitated, kept looking straight ahead to something that I was not seeing. But there was an urgency in your voice.

So I turned my head and kissed you. On your cheek as I remember. Maybe it was the heat or the sweat, but it tasted salty.

Your family moved out of the house shortly afterwards. Only once, soon thereafter, we crossed paths on a sidewalk. You were with your mother, and I was with mine. Our mothers ignored each other, but you waved your hand to me with a smile, and I did the same.

I still keep an old small black and white photograph of you standing side by side with my sister and me. It is a bit out of focus, like my memories.

But I still clearly remember that kiss.

Todays guest blogger, Lola Hotchkiss.

The “I have a Dream” prompt I assigned writers in my classes last month inspired them to write about dreams they have for the world, for their country, and for their loved ones. Some even wrote about recurring nightmares!

The one that surprised me the most? This flattering essay by today’s guest blogger Lola Hotchkis. She hasn’t achieved her dream yet, but sounds like she’s pretty close!

by Lola Hotchkis

My dream began when email brought me Beth Finke’s late summer newsletter. Having lived in Beth’s hometown of Elmhurst for almost 40 years now, my ears perk up every time she mentions that this suburb would be a prime market for a memoir-writing class like ours.

Now Beth’s newsletter brought more encouragement. The article said, “We need more memoir-writing teachers. I’ve written a Memoir Teacher Masterclass on how to start and run your own memoir-writing course.”

My copy of the Masterclass was downloaded to my computer and I read all the material in one sitting. Beth makes it sound fulfilling and fun for both the students and leader. Of course, first-hand experience tells me it’s so for the students.

I started by developing a business plan. I asked my husband Doug to help by setting up a website. Don’t look for it yet because it doesn’t exist.

Now what?

Everything you wanted to know about teaching a memoir class but were afraid to ask.

Looking for a sponsor, I discussed my idea with a programming director at the Elmhurst Public Library. She said, “When I took this job, I was warned to never, ever start a writing class. They tried it once and it was a mess.” What I did learn was that if I just want to rent a conference room without official sponsorship, she can help me.

Next up? An acquaintance who leads a class at Lexington Square and Park Place retirement communities gave me his contacts and said I could use his name. Park Place? No response to email or phone calls. Lexington Square? Fiona, the Enrichment Director, is most enthusiastic. I offered an introductory session for interested residents. They can then decide whether they want to join a class. Fiona promised to draft a notice that she would then post around the building and in their newsletter.

That was early November. Have not yet received a draft.

I talked to her assistant once and she was also very enthusiastic. “We just have to get through the holidays. January would be a great time to start this.”

Since then I was sick with a virus before Christmas. A different virus hit me on Jan. 4. Not COVID, not flu, just a bad head cold. I turned 72 years old on Jan. 2. I’m fatigued with these viruses. Am I really up for this?

Twelve years ago I retired and became free at last. Am I ready to begin a new adventure?

Despite feeling tired and congested, I again contacted Fiona on Jan. 13. Will she answer?

My next steps? The Elmhurst Park District Senior Center. If I can’t find a sponsor, is my dream durable enough to find a room to rent, publicize the class, and try to energize potential students?

So many questions. Not enough answers. It’s like the man who prayed to God to win the lottery. One night God told him, “You have to help me a little. Buy a ticket.”

I’ll never fulfill a dream if I don’t try. Am I up for a new adventure? The answer is a resounding “yes.”

Beth here. I know that a fair number of you blog readers grew up and/or live in Elmhurst, my hometown. If you still have connections there who might be able to help Lola make this a dream come true, please leave a comment here to let us know. I’ll have Lola get in contact with you!

In news of the banal, our bathroom remodel is almost done. We’re finally back home, after four nights at a local hotel, five more with our friends in Urbana, and five at a friend’s here in Printers Row.

It’s hardly been a hardship—I was fortunate to have enough air miles to be able to stay at a hotel, and to have such generous friends who are so lovely to be with. But it has been something of a disorienting grind. Especially for Beth, who has to make substantial adjustments with each new environment.

And, when it’s hard on Beth, it’s hard on me and Beth. Because she has to rely on me more, and more than either of us likes. We’re a lot better than we used to be at these kinds of times, when she has to lean on me more. That’s largely because we recognize why we’re getting annoyed and short with one another. And we check it. But I’m really looking forward to putting the house in order and getting back to a familiar rut. Ruts are underrated. It’s good, even luxurious, to be able to take some things for granted.

It’s all made me consider true hardship. Our inconvenience is nothing compared to what the homeless experience. To the would-be immigrants from Central and South America—however you feel about immigration and walls and policy—the idea that things get so bad that you’d head out with your family without knowing what lies in store—that’s pretty awfully bad. And the people in Ukraine.

So, as Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney sang in White Christmas, I’ve been counting my blessings at the outset of 2023. They include our family, our incredible friends, our blog readers and for me, especially, Beth. With that I’ll leave you with a performance by the late John Prine and Iris DeMent.

Beth and I are, in spite of ourselves, sittin’ on a rainbow.

Click to hear a great song.

Happy New Year from our friends’ place in Urbana, Illinois!

Beth and I have been bathroom refugees since December 26. That is, we’re having our bathroom redone, and since we only have the one, we got outta Dodge while the work is being done.

Our adventure started with a staycation of sorts—I used credit card miles that piled up over the shutdown to book four nights at the Hotel Essex on Michigan Avenue about three blocks from home. The whole thing kind of flummoxed Luna at first. Where they usually made a right, Beth commanded her to make a left, and they zigged where they usually zagged. But it was pretty terrific. The hotel was right across from the Hilton, where Beth swims, so that was convenient. (We would’ve stayed at the Hilton, but I didn’t have enough miles.)

Here’s to a prosperous and happy 2023!

Plus, the hotel restaurant had a great happy hour, so we invited friends from the hood to join us at ourswank new digs.

On Friday, a generous friend loaned us her car and we drove south to Urbana to visit our friends Steven and Nancy, who were Hanni’s people after she retired. We also saw my nephew Aaron and his children and his fiancé.

We ate great Chinese takeout, and yesterday, I whipped up the best batch of black-eye peas and collards I’ve ever whipped up.

It’s been swell.

Eating black-eye peas and collards is a Southern tradition that is believed to bring good luck and good fortune (literally). I learned about that tradition decades ago from my friend Pick, who grew up in Virginia.

Driving around Urbana-Champaign always is sort of paradoxical—our former long-time hometown feels totally familiar, but what with the new high-rises, campus buildings, and new restaurants and shops I’m not familiar with, I feel like a ghost.

But overall, it’s pretty wonderful, and I’m at a point in life where what familiar things remain trigger an avalanche of memories. Which trigger other memories (like eating black eye peas and collards with Pick.)

The past year has been paradoxical, too. My work is meaningful and the non-profit organization I work for is thriving. Beth is going strong, as she posted just last week. We’re mostly healthy (but for a herniated disc that is steadily improving thanks to my physical therapist.)

But there was loss, a lot of it. There was our friend and neighbor Janet, Beth’s niece Stacie (not all that long after the premature loss of her nephew Robbie), my Urbana friend Barry, the irascible and inimitable Brad, Flavio of Printers Row Wine, and the regal, one-and-only Wanda Bridgeforth.

A couple of these losses are felt more intimately—because of the frequency with which we saw them and their proximity, I keep expecting to run into Janet and Brad when Beth and I stroll around the neighborhood. I can recall their gaits; I’d recognize their silhouettes as I squinted to see them approach from down the street. Every once in awhile I think I see them.

When Beth and I experience a loss, our friend Hank, of Jewish heritage, always sends the most comforting of thoughts: May their memory be a blessing.

Their memories are indeed blessings. As was the good fortune of knowing them.

Here’s to a safe, healthy, and happy 2023.

The wonderful Wanda Bridgeforth left us a lot of gifts, including this story.

I came across drafts from my book “Writing Out Loud“ a week or two ago while searching for something else on my computer. I was delighted when notes about one of Wanda’s stories about a special Christmas popped up. In 1927, Wanda received a very special present from Santa. I knew right then I’d be sharing this story with you Safe & Sound blog readers. Merry Christmas!

“I must have been a really good girl in 1927,” Wanda started, going on to describe her new Effanbee Rosemary Doll. “Her curls and eyelashes were natural hair. Every time I sat her up or laid her down she opened and closed her eyes and said, “MA-MA!!!” That was enough to melt a little girl’s heart.”

Wanda gave the doll her Mama’s name: Geneva. “Mama showed me how to wash and iron Geneva’s dress, panties and bonnet,” Wanda wrote. “Life was good for this little seven-year-old until late spring 1928, when her father lost his job. “He liked his drink,” she said. That’s when her Mama started “working in private family” – Wanda’s words explaining that her mother had to live with the family she worked for.

Thus began Wanda’s vagabond years, staying with one relative for a week, a neighbor for another, and, sometimes, with complete strangers.

“I abandoned all of my toys except Geneva,” Wanda wrote, describing her doll as her confidant and bedfellow. “Every Tuesday after school I washed her clothes so she would be nice and clean when Mama came home on Wednesday, her day off. The three of us would sit at the kitchen table and exchange the events of the week.”

Wanda washed Geneva’s clothing so often that they faded. “For Christmas in 1931, Cousin Sugar, the lady I was staying with, made Geneva a new outfit. Mama and Cousin Sugar assured me the new clothes did not need weekly washing.”

Wanda’s friends boasted that their own dolls were made of rubber and could drink milk or water from a tiny bottle with a tiny nipple on it.” I looked at Geneva, her mouth was open and she had a space between her lips. I bought a tiny bottle with a tiny nipple on it from Woolworth’s 5 & 10 cents store and fed Geneva,” she wrote. “After a while Geneva developed a horrible odor and her body became damp.”

Cousin Sugar and Mama cut a slit in Geneva’s body and found the straw stuffing full of mildew and mold. Her plaster body was falling apart. Only her head was intact. “I didn’t realize her straw insides absorbed the liquid instead of passing it through like the rubber dolls did,” Wanda wrote.

“I was inconsolable. Geneva was DEAD!”

Wanda decided Geneva must have a funeral. Dressed in their parents black clothes, she and her friends marched behind a Radio Flyer Wagon lined with black crepe paper. “We sang a hymn and sent Geneva, My Favorite Toy, dressed in her Christmas Outfit to live with the Angels.”