My grandmother was 16 years old when she came to the USA. She traveled across Russia with her little brother. Just the two of them. She dressed as a boy, as it was unsafe to be traveling as a young woman. She had a life with both joy and sorrow, and I try to let my vision of her connect with the joy, the adventure, and the love.
I'd love to hear more about your grandmother and her travels...Even if you have to imagine the story because you can't be sure. Or maybe, especially if you have to imagine it.
Ah Susie, sublime. I grew up and spent much of my life on the west coast. I’d been in snow in Colorado but never an ice storm. I’d seen the uniform sea of desiccated salt crystals in Death Valley’s early morning light refract into micro jewels of color just as you describe. But I’d never seen the colors of an ice storm until I moved here.
And the way you weave it into the new/old flashes of colorful lives you never knew-delicious. I’m thinking about how that helps me expand your sublime observation and awareness into an embracing compassion for all humanity.
Some days, I have to stay away from the genealogy just because I can't take the constant surprises. Life turns out to be considerably stranger than fiction.
Love your writing, and happy to discover the shared connection to Iasi, from whence my paternal grandmother.
Thank you! I'm sending an email so that I can indulge my Iasiphilia.
whew... got choked up reading this one. Beautifully written, Susie.
It's a tender subject, isn't it?
Susie, as usual, your words are a gift.
The stories seem to go back, back, back in time. There's no end to what we carry.
My grandmother was 16 years old when she came to the USA. She traveled across Russia with her little brother. Just the two of them. She dressed as a boy, as it was unsafe to be traveling as a young woman. She had a life with both joy and sorrow, and I try to let my vision of her connect with the joy, the adventure, and the love.
I'd love to hear more about your grandmother and her travels...Even if you have to imagine the story because you can't be sure. Or maybe, especially if you have to imagine it.
Ah Susie, sublime. I grew up and spent much of my life on the west coast. I’d been in snow in Colorado but never an ice storm. I’d seen the uniform sea of desiccated salt crystals in Death Valley’s early morning light refract into micro jewels of color just as you describe. But I’d never seen the colors of an ice storm until I moved here.
And the way you weave it into the new/old flashes of colorful lives you never knew-delicious. I’m thinking about how that helps me expand your sublime observation and awareness into an embracing compassion for all humanity.
I hadn't gotten quite that far, Jim. But I love where you're going. All of a sudden, the huddled masses became people with names.
This is lovely.
Thanks, Rosemarie. I'll wager a great many of us have immigration stories.
A wonderful story. I hope you will follow it to its natural conclusion even if you decide different scenarios until then.
Some days, I have to stay away from the genealogy just because I can't take the constant surprises. Life turns out to be considerably stranger than fiction.