tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52465055981894475322024-03-21T09:24:08.879-07:00Jim-o-wee Tribe ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-71550020629513490022014-01-30T19:43:00.002-08:002014-01-30T19:43:59.300-08:00A Winter Gift<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Baby it's cold
outside." That's all too true - and I am not eager to go out this
morning but I have to. DRAT. Out the window I can see that I am not
going anywhere until I get the new light coating of snow off my car. And
another DRAT!<br />
<br />
On days like this I once thought "There
is nothing finer than to be in Carolina" but from what I hear on the TV
Carolina is suffering in the cold too.<br />
<br />
The first time I
ever lived in really serious cold was in 1957 when Jim and I were
living in Brooklyn, New York. There was a really fierce blizzardy snow
that year. I was chilled to the bone in our third floor attic apartment
where the windows leaked icy winds.<br />
<br />
Jim was an intern
at Kings County Hospital which was a 20 minute drive from our apartment.
The snow started mid-day. It came down in heavy sheets with winds
tossing it as it came. By that night the snow had piled up. Cars were
not moving on the city streets. I could not bring our year old son
Jimmy and drive over to the hospital to pick Jim up.<br />
<br />
Even
though he had a room and a warm bed at the hospital Jim decided that he
would "make it' home. Meaning he would walk some blacks and take
several subways to our stop which was three blocks from the house. I was
not happy about that then and now I realize how foolish it was for him
to do it. But he was determined. He left the hospital about 8 pm.<br />
<br />
Remember
in 1957 only Dick Tracey had a cell phone. There was no way of checking
in. So while he slogged through the snow and cold I waited - - often
peering into dimly lit street below our third floor window for sight of
him.<br />
<br />
Finally, well-after midnight, I saw a figure, bent against the wind, trudging up the street.<br />
I heated coffee. He was a sad sight. It took quite a while for him to warm up after he changed out of wet clothes. <br />
An intern's schedule those days was brutal - 48 hours on and 24 hours off. Jim had just bought us a day together.<br />
<br />
He understood that the intern year was tough - on him and in some ways
even tougher on - a young wife dropped into a strange land and left
to fend for herself - - with her toddler by her side. <br />
<br />
By time for him to go back the roads were passable and I drove him to the hospital. <br />
<br />
Over
the years I have often thought of that cold walk - sometimes we would
laugh about it - other times I would tear up thinking of Jim, a tired
young doctor leaving the ward at the end of his grueling shift and
walking home in the snow - a melo-dramatic picture, right out of O.
Henry, that was real. <br />
<br />
Today I look at that cold walk and understand it more clearly than I did then - it was a gift of love.<br />
<br />
When our daughter, our second child heard this story, read she laughed, "Mom maybe thats when yal got me."<br />
Who knows. Could be. Possibly. It <i>was</i> a cold night.<br />
<br />
Treasures come in many forms. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-90391357313485875852014-01-30T19:40:00.001-08:002014-01-30T19:45:42.276-08:00The Calendar - 1955<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_QnK9lCua0b1Nq-kplGpEVPBAxwweBOsJu9IJbVM6DIRUQdmM-CAiE7FnhPCJ8BMoDJyU4z1Wc2ffwfTr9-y5whHNhHNxjgZuTw_J9euPeAZQ8_GSt5dKgM8CyRWWhRjFbqfLHIMHIg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-28+at+12.45.44+AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_QnK9lCua0b1Nq-kplGpEVPBAxwweBOsJu9IJbVM6DIRUQdmM-CAiE7FnhPCJ8BMoDJyU4z1Wc2ffwfTr9-y5whHNhHNxjgZuTw_J9euPeAZQ8_GSt5dKgM8CyRWWhRjFbqfLHIMHIg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-28+at+12.45.44+AM.png" height="200" width="178" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Recently I
opened a collection of sentimental souvenirs from the early days of my
marriage with Jim Schoettler. The memories came flooding back and I knew
that meant stories ahead. And, I am working on those. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Rather
than waiting until the whole story has jelled I am telling vignettes of
the longer story as a way of collecting more bits of memory and quilting
them into a new fabric. Sort of like I work on my collages - bits and
pieces worked into a whole. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It is just the way I always work - - my process, so to speak.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In this video a small calendar opens the door for a flood of memories to start working.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When
I make an art piece I photograph the stages. For this story I am taping
bits as I work out the final structure of the story - - and the tapes
give me a record of the process and the progress of the story. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Notes to myself as I build this story.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I
am thinking of Luciano Penay, Chr. of my Masters (MFA) thesis committe
at American University - whenever we met to discuss my paintings he
would look - and then ask me - "these are the answers - what where the
questions?" I am going to think about building this story in the same
way. What am I reminded of? When and where and who? And how will I
shape the finished story. How do you re-create those special moments
when you were young? <b>What really matters after all?</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
How do I work out a story and record my process? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Part
of my process is the work I do between this Blog, then taping parts of
the story and most importantly telling it to a group when I can. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://ellouisestory.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-precious-find-on-our-anniversary.html">HERE</a>
is a blog post I wrote when I began mulling over this stories in the
calendar shortly after I opened the "memory" box and found it. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://ellouisestory.blogspot.com/2014/01/a-snow-day-in-1954-opens-door-to-past.html">THIS</a> post comes studying some black and white pictures that were also in the box They helped me to step back in place and time - <b>at the time we were there</b> - living our story. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-36844485603728678242014-01-30T19:39:00.001-08:002014-01-30T19:41:48.355-08:00A Snow Day in Baltimore - 1954<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabe88IRFTSqJA99eiS3Sgv3kVzSvmrdeiA1HksXIKtumOlOAwGAOQkWjEdr2LexmIIsRM2ZhjDxXPQ8H_RZCNBz3LY42aEiCTVtpNEaK6tCUqwvJRTNusFQcMvhB_MZsqEj6nW8S6aAY/s1600/Snow+at+JHH++March+1954.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabe88IRFTSqJA99eiS3Sgv3kVzSvmrdeiA1HksXIKtumOlOAwGAOQkWjEdr2LexmIIsRM2ZhjDxXPQ8H_RZCNBz3LY42aEiCTVtpNEaK6tCUqwvJRTNusFQcMvhB_MZsqEj6nW8S6aAY/s320/Snow+at+JHH++March+1954.jpg" height="304" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent">A SNOW DAY in Baltimore, MD in 1954, </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">This photo captures a
moment in time 60 years ago. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">I am using this photo and a few others to help me step back in time to catch a story. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Traffic is stopped at the corner of
Monument and North Broadway. A woman walks down the center island
probably on her way to Hopkins Hospital from Hampton House<span class="text_exposed_show">, the nurses home, which faces the hospital. <br /> </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">The picture fits today in 2014 as we have snow on the ground.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkY8LLDZ7m1klbV-E2LA90YitT8fqBn63HR0U79g-F3WUfM-9jGPTHsPGDejtDPSB5BFcMiRqdH1kFYUdi1N1e0Y5inB1z4CRR8H6ulZ-eiiqlHJGQdRSBkiKn_nf9MN1FvmSDhJmuZI/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.34+PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkY8LLDZ7m1klbV-E2LA90YitT8fqBn63HR0U79g-F3WUfM-9jGPTHsPGDejtDPSB5BFcMiRqdH1kFYUdi1N1e0Y5inB1z4CRR8H6ulZ-eiiqlHJGQdRSBkiKn_nf9MN1FvmSDhJmuZI/s320/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.34+PM.png" height="312" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> In
less than a block the woman will enter the hospital grounds through
this gate That small older building which is squatting at the side of
the driveway is the Gate House Shop. In the 1950s there was no shop in
the hospital This is where people stopped for cards, small gifts and
other personal items. It is not there today. As happens, it fell to
progress. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">My
husband Jim Schoettler was a first year medical student when he took
these pictures. He was standing on the balcony at the Phi Chi Fraternity
House at 606 North
Broadway. That old red brick three story house faced the hospital and
stood next-door to the nurses' home. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ydw1dUl4MKgj_CDKnbZpqbdo5UyhAMFBDcSXQwdbflEK0l7qwY4pgXnEvj7o-sYmHYFT5AKXsgwRrUBbjfjV5D7jPeB4xoSNUHgpDMfCYycJqX5wg4_0EIGAHrIxfmMrkHlnCtxtDFw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.57+PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ydw1dUl4MKgj_CDKnbZpqbdo5UyhAMFBDcSXQwdbflEK0l7qwY4pgXnEvj7o-sYmHYFT5AKXsgwRrUBbjfjV5D7jPeB4xoSNUHgpDMfCYycJqX5wg4_0EIGAHrIxfmMrkHlnCtxtDFw/s200/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.57+PM.png" height="193" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Jim lived in the fraternity house when he was a First year student.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">As
you can tell from this photo his room must have been on the top floor.
The upper colder reaches were usually where the lower classmen ended up.
When he talked about it to me I imagined a small "garrett" room.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">It
is very like Jim to have noted his shooting location on the back of the
photos. I am so glad to see his familiar handwriting on them - its like
being close, almost touching him.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75dK5HqYUdRKxqnAoH4UkBqItBAQBDzjmIhr7fSq47x4LVOcu3LE4l45zTw__xZsWlJJ5GWbUgexUHmEdItRLdyzlm4B8-ffkmVzXVeVgWt92FB2l9JXCVqildORqYhM71on62RehJSc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.08+PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi75dK5HqYUdRKxqnAoH4UkBqItBAQBDzjmIhr7fSq47x4LVOcu3LE4l45zTw__xZsWlJJ5GWbUgexUHmEdItRLdyzlm4B8-ffkmVzXVeVgWt92FB2l9JXCVqildORqYhM71on62RehJSc/s200/Screen+Shot+2014-01-04+at+7.36.08+PM.png" height="200" width="190" /></a><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">These
pictures were taken 7 months before I arrived in Baltimore from North
Carolina to enter Nurses's Training at Hopkins. The old house was torn
down before I got there. All I saw at 606 North Broadway was an empty
lot. But I heard a lot about it. Jim told stories of the guys who lived
there and the comforts and discomforts of the house. </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span>
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">When Jim and I
met, he had just returned from a summer visit to his home in
California. There was a new Phi Chi House located at the corner of
Monument and North Washington Street. It was much smaller - a store
front building with an apartment and a few bedrooms upstairs. He and two
classmates, both fraternity brothers, had relocated to an apartment
over a corner store-front on North Broadway - a block from the front
gate of the hospital. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">I think we still have the range
finder camera he was shooting with in those days - but I doubt there is
any film available for it. Did you notice the familiar pinked edges of
the photos of those days - and the lovely black and white - -</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I hope I can find someone who recognizes the cars - </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">These photos were among the box of Jim's papers that I found recently. I don't remember ever
seeing them before - but I am grateful to have them now.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">I
look at this picture and it brings back memories of another snowy day
after I was settled in the Nurses' Home in 1955 when the world looked
just like this. Photographs, especially those old black and white ones,
can bring back a scene, a feeling, a moment in time in a very real and
vivid remembering. The time and place come back to life - at least for
me and my imagination. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">Photos feed my imagination and make me want to think and seaeerch for more. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">Catch the images and memories Tell the story.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">This is a start - </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[1dprb].[1][3][1]{comment10201163568191388_2874878}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">Do you do that? </span></span></span><br />
<br />ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-16733184490449318902014-01-30T19:35:00.001-08:002014-01-30T19:35:41.672-08:00An Eerie Gift from JimRecently I was reading Sean Buvala's new ebook, <a class="title" href="http://www.amazon.com/Measures-Story-Create-Anecdotes-ebook/dp/B005F9V8V6/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1312840340&sr=8-2">Measures of Story: How to Create a Story from Floats and Anecdotes, </a>
about turning anecedotes and snippets into fully realized stories. It
has prompted me to think about all the memories I have posted on this
blog since I began writing it in 2005. So I am going to begin mining my
treasures so to speak - to remind me of stories I want to tell.<br />
<br />
This is a nugget from July 2005.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=14748735"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1210/1345/320/skull%20fixed1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a> <br />
<br />
Jim and I met at Johns Hopkins Hospital. He was in his second year in medical school and I was a new nursing student.<br />
<br />
Jim
was very intense about his studies. Often our dates became "study"
sessions. We spent hours in a hospital library. Jim had his nose in his
books and often I dozed off over my textbooks.<br />
<br />
Jim often helped me tackle difficult assignments. Learning all the bones of the skull offered quite a challenge.<br />
<br />
One
night when Jim came to pick me up at Hampton House (the nurses
residence) he was carrying a round package wrapped in newspaper. He
offered it to me. "I think this will help you learn those bones." I took
it. <br />
<br />
I felt round hardness in my hands. I lifted back
on edge of the newspaper wrapping. I stifled a gasp - it was a skull. " I
borrowed it for you." Jim explained. He was waiting for my reaction. I
swallowed hard. "Thank you."<br />
<br />
I took it to my room and left it on my desk while we went to a movie.<br />
<br />
When
I returned later I unwrapped the skull and stared at it. The sightless
eye cavities above the gaping toothy mouth stared back. I set it on my
desk and got into the bed with a book. Shortly, I turned out the light. I
could still see the skull on the desk because of light from a
streetlight outside. I turned away but I could not relax. I knew that
skull was looking at me. <br />
<br />
Finally I got up, picked up
the skull and moved it to the closet. I set it on the floor and closed
the door. I turned back toward my bed. Then hesitated, and - all right,
all right - I <i>did</i> feel kind of stupid as I turned the key and locked the closet door.<br />
<br />
That's where the skull stayed until I returned it to Jim.<br />
<br />
<br />ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-61213591202943665582014-01-30T19:33:00.002-08:002014-01-30T19:33:58.190-08:00Cuff LinksI published this on my Patch.com blog last year. <br />
<br />
The Cuff Links <br />
<br />
use a picture of Jim from Fresno State College<br />
<br />
When I met my husband, Jim Schoettler, he usually
wore a white shirt with French Cuffs when he was dressed for church or to go
“out”. With that shirt he wore a pair of
simple gold ovals with an engraved “S” in the center of the oval. I learned
later that these were more than favorite cuff links they were his <i>only</i>
cuff links. <br />
<br />
His high
school sweetheart gave them to him. He
laughed when I told him I was jealous of them.
“Why? That’s over.” Although he
added others over time he was loyal to those early cuff links because they
carried and acquired history and he wore them often until he died. I got over
being jealous as I came to understand that Jim was not one to waste money on
something he already had and liked. Things were just <i>things</i> to him.<br />
<br />
We never
did agree about that. I am one of those people who is apt to imbue
"things" with mystical power and sentimental meaning. <br />
<br />
One day recently when I was reviewing my list of
the things that I had to do for the day I remembered that I had taken my red
striped shirt, the one with French cuffs, to the cleaners and had not picked it
up yet. I was startled as I thought about those French cuffs and the cuff
links I had been wearing with it - - Jim’s oval cuff links. I do that a lot. Wear some thing of his as a
way to feel he is close by. But this time the more important point was that I
could not recall removing them before I dropped the shirt off at the cleaners.<br />
<br />
I squeezed back the tears realizing that if they
dropped out of the sleeves they would be
lost to me. I felt terrible. I quickly
finished dressing so that I could get to the cleaners as soon as possible.<br />
<br />
I was glad the familiar friendly woman was behind
the counter at the cleaners when I pulled open the door and rushed in. I told her my problem, “Do you have my
husbands cuff links in your lost and
found?” <br />
<br />
“I will look.” But they were not there. She looked
at my face and added, “If you left them in and they found them at the plant
they will be in a little envelope pinned to the invoice on the shirt." She
walked into the back room and I heard her pushing the heavy revolving rack
around and the crackle of plastic as she checked the names on the
garments.<br />
<br />
It seemed
a very long time and I was beginning to tear up again. When she returned she
hung all my items on the front rack - and then she handed me a small envelope.
"Here you are sweetie." I opened it and inside were two familiar gold
ovals. The tears I had been struggling to hold back slipped freely down my
cheeks.<br />
<br />
A woman
waiting behind me who had heard it all volunteered, “I don't get that attached
to things.”<br />
“I try not to care so much but my husband died last year and those are his cuff links.”<br />
”OK. I get it. That's terrible – sort of like
flushing your engagement ring down the toilet.”<br />
<br />
Choking back a laugh, and working hard to keep a
straight face, I nodded. <br />
<br />
Back in the car I laughed out
loud but none-the-less I am grateful that the cleaners agree - - <i>small
things do mean a lot.</i><br />
<br />ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5246505598189447532.post-40346507429143826602014-01-30T19:32:00.001-08:002014-01-30T19:32:25.955-08:00Open the Windows to Memories<h2 class="date-header">
<span style="font-size: small;">I will start by copying in the first post of this
series in 2014. I thought at the time that travel was a natural place to
begin.</span> </h2>
<h2 class="date-header">
1/01/2014</h2>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="7997452115322879687"></a>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<a href="http://ellouisestory.blogspot.com/2014/01/passports-open-windows-to-memories.html">Passports Open Windows to Memories</a>
</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMO8xXWiliZS1lham6sdqSA_u_0qk0Bm6icp2tXaPqcWntM7lHDMEjXYq8HDrFvw4PEeNjsHZC_ob837ZePYwtkR2OlTWjYuZ_OE5uKdem2EykOxgSG7jMHS2TymTAFINiOcGd5sXbJTw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-01-01+at+9.31.54+PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMO8xXWiliZS1lham6sdqSA_u_0qk0Bm6icp2tXaPqcWntM7lHDMEjXYq8HDrFvw4PEeNjsHZC_ob837ZePYwtkR2OlTWjYuZ_OE5uKdem2EykOxgSG7jMHS2TymTAFINiOcGd5sXbJTw/s320/Screen+Shot+2014-01-01+at+9.31.54+PM.png" height="252" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Surprise.<br />
<br />
Today when I was searching my file cabinet for a 94 year old letter that
is important to a new story I am working on - I bumped into a surprise.<br />
<br />
The folder label said "Travel". Even though I knew it would not relate
to the main search I was curious. I pulled the "Travel" file folder out
of the drawer and am I glad that I did.<br />
<br />
Five cancelled US Passports. After I checked their dates and stamps I
opened a red plastic travel wallet which was also in the folder. I was
startled to find a stash of British Pound notes safely tucked in it -
where they had obviously been waiting for at least twenty years. Found
money. Since my last Passport recently expired - I will use this small
fortunate find to pay for the renewal.<br />
<br />
In the meantime - I am studying the dates on the Passports and the stamped pages for our travel stories.<br />
<br />
When I looked at my black and white photo I remembered the day - August
27, 1975 - that Jim and I went to the walk-in Passport Office on K
Street to apply for and pick up our new Passports. All done in three
hours.<br />
<br />
This was just a week before we were flying to London for our first
over-seas adventure. I have to think about it a bit to do the story
justice when I tell it. <br />
<br />
Jim and I were excited. But we were also nervous over leaving three teen-agers on their own at home for two weeks.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetedcNiB-m9LxMwRYBM_tZDPWp0uuDEJ0Lht4F-RQGEcPXfBdWh4J3NfYNhnKxVtwTC2QKz44MAgZ_wPREa6pyrcN-XXh3y0Ey0HO6mz0vO-QsZwFKmOpiQSDWjsyhvUXgrVKzcGOjDc/s1600/DSCF4172.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetedcNiB-m9LxMwRYBM_tZDPWp0uuDEJ0Lht4F-RQGEcPXfBdWh4J3NfYNhnKxVtwTC2QKz44MAgZ_wPREa6pyrcN-XXh3y0Ey0HO6mz0vO-QsZwFKmOpiQSDWjsyhvUXgrVKzcGOjDc/s200/DSCF4172.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
We, like many couples at the time, who were traveling separate from
their kids, arranged for separate flights. I flew over on British Air,
leaving about 4 hours ahead of Jim. Our B and B was relatively close to
Victoria Station so I found my way there and settled into a small
intimate room - unpacked and went to sleep. Startled by a noise at the
door of our room I woke to see Jim standing in the door-way. The
adventure had begun.<br />
<br />
I feel lists coming on as I re-ignite the memories of those two weeks in the UK. And find the pictures.<br />
<br />
Those two weeks together with Jim were wonderful and that was also the
start of quite a trip for me. Jim went home at the end of the two weeks
and I boarded a train for Paris at Victoria station. In Paris I met a
good friend and she and I traveled together - for four weeks .<br />
Using a eurail passes we hopped trains from Paris to Florence to Rome to
Vienna to Germany. She dropped off the trip at her home in Germany and I
went on to Amsterdam for a few days then flew home from there. I was
just winding up my MFA studies at American University and I had made the
trip to see all the artworks I had been studying for seven years. It
was more than I expected with other side-adventures thrown in. I am
looking forward to riding memories and reliving it.<br />
<br />
Happy to say there are three other Passports in that file. Stories galore.<br />
<br />
A great way to start the New Year - - re-living travels that began in 1975. <br />
<br />
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ELLOUISESTORYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15524893156201808778noreply@blogger.com0