Fond Memories, by Gillian

In the basement I have a
box labeled MEMORABILIA. In it are all kinds of bits and pieces from my
childhood; mainly things which once belonged to my parents. It is indeed a
motley collection. You will be glad I have brought only one to share.
My mother occasionally
wore a headscarf the like of which I have never seen on or off anyone’s head
since, though I understand many of them were produced. It is made of silk, and
rather than the usual flowers or paisley patterns or famous landmarks, it bears
a map. These ‘escape maps’ as they were called, first originated in Britain in
1940, and  over three million were
eventually produced throughout the war years by both Britain and then the
United States. The intent was to help airmen downed behind enemy lines to find
an escape route and evade capture, and I imagine a spy or two might have found
them useful. They were made of silk primarily because so much of it was
available from damaged parachutes. But silk is durable and light-weight but
also warm – a blessing in an unheated plane, and, I should guess, if you found
yourself trying to survive in Poland in January. This particular map is of part
of Eastern Europe and The Balkans. Sadly, I never had a photo of Mum wearing it
as headscarf, a purpose for which it was, of course, never intended, but at
least I still have it, and in fact I can probably see her in it in my memories
much more clearly than I would in an old faded photograph.
OK, an interesting little
bit of trivia, but my fond memories of the scarf stretch out beyond those of
Mum wearing it. To begin with, unlike most of the occupants of that memorabilia
box, I remember when and how this one entered our lives.
I think I was six or
seven, so it was somewhere in the late 1940’s, when a young German man came to
stay with us. I have absolutely no idea why, but my father brought him so maybe
it had something to do with my dad’s job. Dad had spent a little time in
Germany after the war; something to do with rebuilding German industry with
Allied help rather than with Communist assistance. The young man’s name was,
rather unremarkably, Hans, and I was completely captivated by him, as, though
with a little more subtlety, was my mother and, I think, even my father.
He was the archetypal Arian,
a Hitler poster-boy: tall, slim, piercing blue eyes and a shock of white-blond
hair. He was also charming, and, apparently, charmed by all things English –
including us. He bowed and clicked his heels, rising deferentially from his
chair every time my mother or even I rose from ours. He asked my father
interminable questions about anything and everything and clung to every word of
his reply. This was fine when the topics were manly things like machinery and
especially cars, but not so good when other responses were solicited.
‘Oh vat iss thiss,
please, in English?’ asked poor innocent Hans, delicately fingering a daffodil.
‘Oh, that’s a dandelion,’
replied my father, carelessly, as one to whom all yellow flowers are
dandelions.
‘Oh, ja, so this
iss the dandelion!’
Poor Hans seemed
enraptured. Luckily my mother was there to come to the rescue.
This was the first time
in my young life that anyone had ever stayed with us. I don’t remember how long
Hans visited, but the days he was there were magic. I became a beautiful,
charming adult. My mother became a vivacious teenager and my dad, at least by
his own standards, became positively verbose. It was as if we were suddenly
able to do everything a little better, but with less effort, than before. When
he left, our beautiful, light, colorful, bubble burst. We floated back to earth
and became ourselves once more. But none of us ever forgot that visit. It was
as if this magical stranger had shown us, for a little while, who and what we
could be.
Before he left, Hans gave
my mother a gift in appreciation of her hospitality. There was no such thing as
gift-wrap paper anywhere to be found either in Germany or Britain at that time,
so very apologetically he handed her this little package wrapped very neatly in
tattered old brown paper.
He further apologized for
the gift itself. Gifts of any kind were not thick on the ground in either of
our countries at that time, either, so he really did not need to apologize,
but, this was all he had, he said, looking completely downcast.
All three of us looked in
some confusion at this cloth map. The history of ‘escape maps’ only surfaced
many years later. If Hans had any idea of it’s true purpose, he said nothing.
He shrugged. ‘It iss … jou know,’ he gestured over his head, lightly skimming
his beautiful hair, ‘for the head covering ..’
British Silk Escape Map Fig 1
The light dawned. Mum
immediately popped it over her head, knotting it loosely at her neck and
striking a kind of would-be film star pose. It was, in fact, a strange kid of
headscarf, but my mother didn’t care – and anyway she loved maps – and I was
too young to judge. My dad smiled appreciatively. To him, I think my mother was
beautiful whatever she wore.
‘Ja. Iss goot!’ Hans
approved.
A few minutes later he
caught the local bus into town and we never, as far as I know, saw or heard
from him again.
For the rest of my life,
as my knowledge of World War Two progressed, I wondered endlessly about Hans
and his part in the war, and before. Had he been in the Hitler Youth? Almost
certainly, I would think. Was he in the Gestapo? The SS? Or a mere
foot-soldier? He had no visible scars or missing limbs or a tell-tale limp. He
looked too robust to have been in a concentration camp; neither did he have
numbers on his arm. Perhaps he hadn’t lived in Germany at all? But he did soon
after the war. And finally, most puzzling of all, why and how did he possess a
British escape map?
British Silk Escape Map Fig  2

British Silk Escape Map Fig 3
British Silk Escape May Fig 4

I shall never know the
answers to any of my questions, and finally I have become at peace with the
handsome and charming Hans, whoever he was; whatever he once had been. Now, I
simply find it incredibly ironic that one of my most treasured objects, and all
the fond memories that go with it, was given with such sincere humility, by a
German. It took a German to cast, just for a few days, a cheerful light to brighten
my corner of the endless gray gloom that was Postwar Britain.
© October 2016 
About the Author  
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.

Fond Memories, by Ricky

About 14-years ago, my
youngest daughter, Verity, and I went on a father/daughter bonding trip.  We had a wonderful time together.  From 10 thru 20 September, Donald and I
retraced part of that previous trip. 
Time and finances dictated that we could not complete the entire trip
that my daughter and I did, but the shorter distance could neither prevent the
recall of those past fond memories nor prevent the creation of new ones.
As I write this “story”, I
am attempting not to make it a travelogue but to restrict myself to writing
about the experiences and feelings involved. 
First, I will start with the summary; 10-days and 3,160 miles driving a
car (no matter how comfortable) is way too much butt time in said car.  Having dispensed with that memory, I am
passing around a few of the many photographs I took on the trip.  It has been said many times that a photograph
is worth a thousand words, so by passing these around I am saving myself
thousands of words and many pages of paper.
The trip beginning was
delayed several hours when Donald’s cat, Parker, noticed the cat carrier and
hid from us.  Once we finally got her
into the carrier and to the cat “hotel”, it was time for a late lunch.  We managed to get to Douglas, Wyoming the
first night.  At this point, Donald and I
were still excited to be on our way.  For
me traveling is no fun unless one is sharing it with another.
When we arrived at the
Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, the weather had turned cool and
windy.  Donald was excited as he had
never been there.  The wind dampened his
enthusiasm.  I did not know that the
entire battlefield was a National Cemetery. 
Many improvements had been made since the last time I was there.  For Donald, it was his first time and he was
moved emotionally.  I have long ago
recovered from feeling the great sadness that the battle created in its
aftermath.  However, I moved from sadness
to little feeling to happiness when I discovered that not only were there
markers to show where the soldiers fell but markers showing where the Indian
warriors fell.  There is also a marker to
show where the cavalry horses are all buried. 
The best feeling of happiness came to me when I saw the monument erected
commemorating the Indian’s side of the story.
EBR-1 is a historic site
that relatively few people visit because it is out of the way for past and
present security and safety purposes. 
This is the site of the world’s first nuclear power plant.  Verity and I took the tour when we were
there.  Donald and I got there on the 12th
and tours were stopped for the season on September 1st.  I was very disappointed because I wanted to
“show” Donald something most people will not get to see.  Donald appeared unimpressed with the building
façade which dampened my joy in being there. 
Except for the wind, we enjoyed looking at the two prototype nuclear
powered jet engines on display outside the EBR-1 building for obvious reasons.
At Craters of the Moon, we
did not go walking along any of the trails into the lava beds.  The last time I did that, I tripped on an
outcropping and cut my palm on some lava I grabbed to prevent a fall.  We also did not climb the Inferno Cinder
Cone.  The last time I did, I got
volcanic dust in my throat which took three months to heal.  I did not want either Donald or I to go
through that.  Donald did spot Mickey
Mouse at a different roadside stop.
At Twin Falls, Idaho, we
spotted a golf course with an ominous looking hole inside the Snake River
canyon.  It was awesome to see in situ.
Continuing on to Nevada, we
spent about an hour in historic Virginia City. 
I have been enamored of the Tahoe, Carson City, Virginia City area since
I moved there in 1958.  Donald not so
much.  He mostly liked the old
architecture of the buildings and streets, but did not appreciate going in some
of the famous saloons such as: The Silver Queen or the Bucket of Blood.
The Silver Queen saloon is
famous for the floor to ceiling portrait of a lady whose formal gown is inlaid
with silver dollars and her jewelry is composed of small gold coins.  She is a very impressive sight.
After leaving Virginia City,
I began to get more excited as we approached Lake Tahoe.  First, we had to complete our symbolic trip
across the Great Basin by stopping at Mormon Station in Genoa located at the
foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
There is a statue there to “Snowshoe” Thompson.  He carried the mail over Carson Pass to Placerville,
California from 1856 to 1876 in the winter.  Contrary to his nickname “snowshoe”, he did
not use the American version.  Instead,
he used the Norwegian version which we call cross-country “skis”. 
Donald and I finally arrived
in the Tahoe Basin via the Kingsbury Grade, a pioneer toll-road.  We passed between several casinos, which
thrilled Donald but I was used to the sight. 
I was mostly excited to attend my 50th high school reunion.
Over the next 4-days, Donald
and I attended four reunion events: the meet and greet, class dinner, a tour of
our old high school and the new South Tahoe High School.  You can see about the school by watching an 8
½ minute segment of the Larry King show (16 Jan 2016) at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ki-_4fYpANg
The same week we were there
it was announced that the high school was named 7th most beautiful
campus in California.  My sense of pride
did go up.  I am pretty sure Donald
agreed with the evaluation. 
During the tour, another
member of our class of ’66, was inducted to the Wall of Fame.  Bob Regan composes songs and lyrics for the
Nashville crowd.  The other member of the
wall from our class is one of my two high school friends, Ray Hoff, whom I
refer to as the rocket scientist.  He
worked in the space program building satellites until he retired.
I was not shy in high
school, but I did keep a low profile, or so I thought.  I was amazed at just how many of my
classmates actually remembered me.  That
was another ego boost.  At the class
dinner, I learned that some of my classmates were up to quite a few
hijinks.  I guess that is why our class
was given the moniker “The Rebels”.
I know Donald had a great
time, when not confined to a car seat, and now he has many new happy
memories.  I also have happy memories of
traveling with Donald and the reunion.  I
only hope we can keep them for a long time into the future.
© 10 Sep 2016 

About the Author  


I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

Fond Memories, by Ray S

Memories
are the past,
A
path up to a musty attic,
That’s
life stacked up there.
Piles
of shoe boxes filled,
Yellowed
envelops,
A
tower of ancient vinyl,
Weathered
albums, ancient year books.
1964
baby girl arrives joining
A
two-year-old brother;
The
new beginning, four lives into fifty plus years.
Faint
shadows cross a darkening window.
New
lives carry on;
Old
ones and memories slip away.
It’s
time to finish stories and chapters
The
book gets heavier and heavier to hold
Heavier
to open and close
Hard
to discern a fond memory
From
the dross of a long life lived.
It
is time to go down those stairs.
© 10 October 2016 
About the Author