Just Jill

My Life of Books

2011-02-27T14:34:00.024-05:00

I grew up in a small town. There were no stoplights but there was a post office, a couple of churches, a bar, a gas station, a country store - and a library. I spent my summers at the library. It was small, but I always found books that appealed to me.

The Boxcar Children
The House With a Clock in Its Walls
Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack

When I was a little older, I would spend my time browsing the shelves at an independent bookstore, The Book Tree. It was adjacent to the store where my mother did her grocery shopping. While mom stocked up for the week, I would carefully read the back of countless young adult titles before selecting the one book that I could afford to purchase with my weekly allowance.

I Know What You Did Last Summer
Mr. and Mrs. Bo Jo Jones
Forever

I was fortunate to grow up in a household full of books. One room of our house, which we called the dining room, contained floor to ceiling shelves - and no dining room table. The shelves were filled with book club titles and Readers Digest Condensed Books, of which my father was a subscriber. Our TV provided limited viewing options so books were my main source of entertainment. From these shelves I discovered Daphne du Maurier and Herman Wouk. I plowed through books by bestselling authors like Mary Higgins Clark, Ira Levin and Robin Cook. I devoured abbreviated versions of acclaimed books.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
A Town Like Alice
To Sir, With Love

But, it was while I was taking a class in my senior year of high school that my love of literature exploded. We read novels and short stories as a class and independently. We wrote papers and participated in discussions, forming and expressing opinions and ideas about what we read.

The Chosen
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
To Kill a Mockingbird

During that class, Bernice Bobs her Hair launched my love affair with F. Scott Fitzgerald. I spent that summer reading more Fitzgerald and becoming acquainted with other classics.

The Great Gatsby
Wuthering Heights
Jane Eyre

It was the summer of 1984 -the year that the Detroit Tigers would win the World Series. My reading time was diminished by the hours that I spent watching the Tigers on the TV and listening to them on the radio.

I left for college that Fall. Not surprisingly, I selected English as my major. I struggled through Moby Dick and couldn’t get enough of Jane Austen. I argued, after reading The Blithdale Romance, that Zenobia was a coward not a heroine. But, I empathized with Daisy Miller. I wrote a passionate paper on the sea plays of Eugene O’Neill and I botched an exam on The Sorrows of Young Werther. I loved Joyce and Wilde, Eudora Welty and Marianne Moore.

Not long after graduation, I took a job as a part time bookseller. Doubleday Bookshop was opening in Woodland Mall and I could think of no job more suited to my passions. The other booksellers were also passionate about books. They expanded my reading tastes.

Tourist Season
Love in the Time of the Cholera
Cat's Eye

The bookstore at which I worked had a small bay of computer books – none of which contained the word Internet. We used microfiche and hardbound copies of Books in Print to look up titles for customers. Ann Landers had more bookselling power than Oprah. It was circa 1989 - 1992 (to the best of my recollection) and books were in demand. Grisham, who had been selling copies of A Time to Kill out of the trunk of his car, hit the big time with The Firm. A small format hardcover, The Bridges of Madison County, became a blockbuster bestseller. The Way Things Ought to Be, by media personality Rush Limbaugh was hard to keep on the shelves. Salman Rushdie received death threats for writing the Satanic Verses. And, Madonna published her foil-wrapped, spiral bound book – Sex (which everybody wanted to look at, but not as many wanted to buy).

My bookselling job was meant to supplement my income as a social worker. Instead, I spent most of my paycheck building my library. My employee discount afforded me the opportunity to purchase books that had eluded me before. I bought books on art and photography, an atlas of the world and cookbooks.

I also began to expand my library with books on another topic – baseball. My love of baseball was (still is) akin to my love of the written word. I began to accumulate anthologies of baseball writings. They contained poems and essays that are still among my favorites in literature.

These are the saddest of possible words: “Tinkers, to Evers to Chance.”

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.

The breathtaking parabola of your blooper ball never more tantalizing or bizarrely elongated.

I also began read (and stock my book shelves with) baseball novels.

Bang the Drum Slowly
The Iowa Baseball Confederacy
The Great American Novel

I moved to Pennsylvania. I was broke, so I frequented the local library and curbed my spending on books. I returned to Michigan less than a year later and became a full-time bookseller turned assistant bookstore manager. I thought of this period in my life as a “career transition” - the jobs I would hold until I knew what I wanted to become. My much beloved District Manager, Dave Carpenter, was attempting to lure me up the bookselling career ladder. I was contemplating going back to school. He offered me a job and I expressed my uncertainty. He said, “Sleep on it – but in your heart, I think you already know the answer.” I slept on it. Then I accepted his offer.

I packed up my belongings and headed to the other side of the state, taking a job with Borders. After one year working in the Dearborn, Michigan location I accepted a position at Borders’ headquarters in Ann Arbor as a national event specialist. It was there that I met my future husband. He sat in a cube near mine, spoke kindly to his grandmother on the telephone, and loved books (he didn’t really love baseball – but he was a sports fan, so I figured…all in due time).

John and I were married in October of 1999. The reading at our wedding was from a poem by Linda Kittell - What Baseball Tells Us About Love. Three books (neatly stacked and tied with a cream-colored ribbon) were placed as centerpieces on each table at the reception. On our honeymoon, we listened to The Poisonwood Bible on audio as we drove to places like Traverse City, Toronto, Niagara Falls and Cooperstown, New York.

My job afforded me the opportunity to work closely with books, publishers and authors. I met many of these authors – some wrote books for a living and some wrote books about how they made their living.

Doris Kearns Goodwin
David McCullough
Ken Burns
Madeline Albright
Caroline Kennedy
Cal Ripken, Jr.
Stephen King

I met them at events, over lunch and during dinner. Some were charming, some were reserved and some were not so nice. But all of them were memorable.

Meeting John Updike prior to an event in Boston, then sitting in the front row listening to him read a selection from “Rabbit At Rest.”

An encounter with Michael Moore – which altered my opinion of him and of his work.

Chatting with Russell Banks about baseball, while enjoying lunch at Gratzi.

Bookselling was changing. Technology and the Internet were impacting the industry and Borders was struggling. I witnessed rounds of lay-offs. The numbers varied. A few people lost their jobs or a few hundred people lost their jobs. At times, I was responsible for laying people off. Other times I just watched it happen. And in June of 2008, I experienced it first hand when I became one of nearly 300 people who lost their jobs in yet another round of lay-offs.

It sucked!

My life, to that moment could be recalled in books. What I was reading when I was pregnant with our first child. The book I read in an effort to impress a guy (John). The book I read just before losing my job.

The Corrections
Last Orders
Water for Elephants

Books were not going away because I no longer worked at Borders. True. But my life with books was going to be different. Advanced Reader Copies. Dinners with authors. Pre-publication information. My life with books changed.

Another thing changed. I had not realized how much of my social life was connected to my job. Suddenly I was home, looking for a new job, and lacking conversation with friends. I joined Facebook. This was a good thing. I was social again – albeit online.

Fast forward a couple of years. I am again happily employed. But, I haven’t withdrawn from Facebook. I spend way too much of my free time reading status updates and not enough of it reading books. This realization makes me sad.

Just last week, Borders filed for Chapter 11. This also makes me sad. A lot of people are talking about the mistakes Borders made. And sure, they made mistakes. But, it is more than that. The landscape of books has changed. And, a book lover like me is part of the reason why. I am spending more time on Facebook and the Internet than I do reading books. I am reading less and buying fewer books. I am not sure how this happened.

I am not ready to break up with books. Maybe it is just the "44-year ache" and I need to recommit myself to the relationship. But, I am not willing to give Facebook the boot either. I guess I need to learn how to balance my free time better. I need to read more books. Not just for me…but for my kids. I want my blossoming book-lovers to have a life-long love affair with books too.

We read together. We always have. We read favorites from my childhood and we discover new favorites.

Horton Hatches the Egg
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane
The Circus Ship

But, they need to see me reading more and “being connected” less. So, excuse me while I grab a book and set a better example for my kids.

Do the Right Something

2010-07-26T22:00:00.000-04:00

I want to do the right things. Things like being nice, buying local and helping the poor. I want to recycle everything that should be recycled. I want to bake homemade cookies for my kids to take to school. Rather, I buy them at the bakery section of my local grocery store hoping, if I put them on a pretty plate, that everyone will think they are homemade. I want to drive a Prius and grow vegetables in my garden. I want to save, not spend. I want to eat better and laugh more.

Instead, I do some of the right things some of the time. On most days, I am okay with that. I tell myself, “You are a working mom” and “You do the best you can.” But then I meet someone that is doing everything I aspire to do - plus, they are making their own clothes, canning food for the winter months, writing a book and hiking across America to raise money for some charity I didn’t know existed. Many adjectives spring to mind to describe these amazing individuals. Most of which are not appropriate to print.

People like this often inspire me to improve upon one or more of the aforementioned items. Or, depending on my hormone level at the time, I want to slap them across the face and say, “Hey! Cool your jets, honey. You are making the rest of us (or at least me) look bad.”

In truth, I think I do a lot of things right. My kids say please and thank you (except when they forget). I smile at strangers. I hold the door open for people and offer to return shopping carts to the cart corral for the elderly. I read bedtime stories to my kids. I vote. I recycle (most of the time). I buy local (some of the time). These things are easy for me. And, that is the problem that I have with myself. I don’t challenge myself to do better. I convince myself that what I am already doing is enough. It’s not.

So, what am I going to do about it? I can tell you what I am not going to do. I am not going to try and do it all. I am, however, going to challenge myself with one or two new things. I think it will be easier to implement these changes in my life if the entire family gets involved. So, although they don’t know it yet, they are getting on this “ship of change." (A phrase and managerial style I owe to my days in corporate America). I might let them have a vote in the process. I am not sure yet. It doesn’t matter because (starting tomorrow) we are all trying something new.

Tiger Stadium Waltz

2010-07-20T22:12:00.002-04:00

My memory spins and dances with thoughts of Tiger Stadium.

Double headers, extra innings and rain delays. Day games and night games. Pitching duels and homerun frenzies. Games won and games lost.

There were games with my dad. Games with friends. A game with co-workers and our unforgettable boss, Dave Carpenter. And the game I attended with a couple of ladies that played for the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.

There were moments big and small. Banging the olden wooden green seats up and down while yelling, "WILLIE! WILLIE! WILLIE!" A few minutes standing on the grass near the first baseline, looking into the empty stands. A brown paper bag filled with snacks that my great Aunt Alice packed for me to take to the game. The time, when I was six, that a blind women named Mary sat next to me. She listened to the play-by-play on a red transistor radio, banged the backstop with her cane, and gave me an autographed photo of Al Kaline.

There were firsts and there were lasts. Alan Trammel's last game. My first autograph (from Dick Sharon, thank you very much!). The first game I attended with my husband - who was not yet my husbad. The last time my grandfather saw a game at Tiger Stadium. My final trip to the corner of Michigan and Trumball. I took a sentimental stroll up that steep ramp to the upper deck and choked back tears while singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th Inning Stretch.

And that moment, not all that long ago, that I was driving past the long-deserted Tiger Stadium. A gaping hole, made by a demolition crew, allowed me one last glimpse inside. I saw the blue and orange seats. I could almost hear the roar of the crowd. I imagined the green grass that always took my breath away. I saw Herbie Redmond, as he did his little dance and tipped his hat, just for me.

And just like that, Tiger Stadium was gone. I watched her disappear at 70 mph in my rear view mirror.

A Passion for History: Maxine Tewsley

2010-05-30T08:46:00.001-04:00

Check out this SlideShare Presentation:

A Passion for History: Maxine Tewsley

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Dizzy-ing World

2010-02-13T13:01:00.004-05:00

Ever since my children were born, I have been contemplating the ultimate family vacation...a trip to Disney World. Planning a trip to Disney World is complicated. There are many things to consider:

How much money do you need to save?
How old should the kids be when you go? (We don't want Maxine to be too old or Alden to be too young.)
Should you stay at a Disney World resort or someplace else?
If you stay at a Disney World resort, which one?
Do you buy Mickey Mouse ears?
Which parks should you go to on which days?
How much sunscreen do you need?
Do you go over spring break when EVERYONE else goes, or do you go some other time of year?
Do you take a grandparent (or two) along?
Which friends have already been to Disney World? What advice can they offer?
Are there any good discounts available?
Do you drive or fly?
If you fly, do you need to rent a car?

I have spent eight years asking myself these questions. I have sent for brochures. I have conducted research online. I have looked at travel books. I have spoken with friends that have made the journey.

The entire thing was making me dizzy.

Then it occurred to me that we don't need to go to Disney World. My husband didn't go to Disney World as a kid. He is still a fun-loving, imaginative person. My family never made a trip to Disney World. Okay, I did go to with a friend and her family when I was in the 8th grade. Still, I never went with my family and I did not sustain any permanent emotional damage as a result.

Now I am planning Not Disney World Vacations. I am excited imagining all of the places in the real world that we can see with the money we might have spent on Disney World.

I am a never say never kind of gal so if my Facebook status suddenly mentions a trip to Disney World you don’t need to remind of this blog post. Until then, however, we are planning trips to historic places, national parks, and off-the-beaten path America.

I think my kids will be okay. If not, maybe I will order them some Mickey Mouse ears from disney.com.

Have a Green Christmas: A Holiday Shopping Open House

2009-12-01T21:01:00.001-05:00

A Holiday Shopping Open House

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Bah Humbug!

2009-11-28T23:48:00.031-05:00

Before I begin, let me establish that I fully understand the true meaning of Christmas. I do. But, that being said, I also love everything about Christmas (commercial and otherwise).

I love presents. I love buying them. I love wrapping them. I love giving them. And, I love getting them. I love baking cookies and making candy. I love driving at night to look at lights (the beautiful and the tacky). I love decorating the tree. I love singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs when I think nobody is listening.

This year, something is different. I seem to be lacking any holiday spirit.

Today I decorated the Christmas tree while carols were playing on XM radio. Normally, I gently unwrap the ornaments, excited to see what is behind the paper that kept them safe for the past year. Once unwrapped, I carefully examine the tree to locate the perfect position for each ornament. Today, I ripped the paper from each ornament and hung those suckers as quickly as possible. I even found myself annoyed by the Christmas music that I had playing in the background and switched the station to a channel playing 80's music. That's not all! Typically, once I begin the decorating process I don't stop until everything is in place. When I finished with the tree today, I shoved the boxes with the remaining decorations in the corner. The rest could wait for another day.

I have been suffering from a bit of a headache today. My husband and I met up with some old classmates of mine and their spouses last evening. The wine and conversation were flowing. I have a hard time believing, however, that a slight hangover could dampen my holiday spirit.

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that this has been a stressful year. I became unemployed in June (for the second time in 12 months). After 15 years working at a job I loved, and at which I was successful, the company for which I worked was struggling. I was one of nearly 300 employees laid off in June of 2008. I went to work for another organization six months later. It was the wrong fit from the get go (for them and for me). So, in June of 2009 I once again found myself unemployed.

The economy sucks right now. No denying that. And the job market in Michigan is not so hot either. I generally spend a lot of freaking money at Christmas. Not this year. So, maybe that has dampened my spirit a bit. (Remember, as previously established, I DO understand the real the meaning of Christmas).

I anticipated that this might be a problem. I had a plan. I would make a lot of gifts. I reassured myself that it would be fun, “You’re not working now, Jill. You have extra time". Shortly after having that conversation with myself, we all got sick. Maybe it was the swine flu. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter. The "influenza-like" illness pretty much wiped my family out of commission for a month.

Suddenly, Christmas is just four weeks away and the gifts I had planned to make are still in the planning stages. So maybe that has got me down a bit.

Thanksgiving was nice. Our family was together. We hung out with friends. We ate leftovers. But, Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is on the way. Normally, I would be oozing with excitement. This year I find myself wanting to stand in the way of the rapidly approaching holiday. I want to shout, "Stay the hell away! I am not ready for you! I need more time! I need a job! I want more money!"

Christmas isn't scared of me. It is coming anyway. I need to find my holiday spirit.

Really, what's my problem? So I won't be able to spend as much money. That's not so bad. So the kids won't get as many things. They get way too much stuff anyway. So there won't be as many gifts to open. Big deal. That is not what Christmas is all about anyway. Get over it, Jill! Find a little cheer. Celebrate the season. Start belting out the carols and enjoy it, dammit! Establish new (cost-effective) traditions. Give all of the toys that the kids got for Christmas last year (and don't play with) to charity.

I know. I know. I KNOW! And, I don't care. Things are going to be different this year. Old traditions will go undone. There won't be as much giving. All of this makes me want to scream, "Bah Humbug!"

Maybe I really don't understand the true meaning of Christmas. Or maybe I do, but I just don't care because I really enjoy the giving gifts thing. It really doesn't matter because Christmas is coming and I can't stop it. I can't even slow it down a little.

So, tonight I will close my eyes and rest. And tomorrow, I will hopefully wake up headache free and find myself in the mood to sing Christmas carols. If not, I may need a good swift kick in the you know what.

Abraham Lincoln: A Biography

2009-11-24T21:55:00.009-05:00

At the age of eight, Maxine has had a love affair with Lincoln that dates as far back as kindergarten. This afternoon, when I thought Maxine was working on her homework, she was actually drafting a report on Lincoln as a surprise for her father. The handwritten report also contained several illustrations. She crafted this report from memory. Her biography on Abraham Lincoln follows, exactly as written.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN
A Biography

By Maxine Tewsley

Report on Abraham Lincoln

Abraham Lincoln was born in Kuntuky on February 12, 1809. He had a mom a sister and a dad. As he grew he learned how to read and it was his favorite thing to do by the fireplace. His sister Sarah loved to make Abe giggle. As the years passed by Abe began to become a man.

Abe had many jobs and his first one was store clerk. Then his careere changed. He became a husband, father, a lawer. Years past he grew his boys grew and his wife grew and espeshily his mind grew.

Now Abe was running to be presidnt of the United States of America, and he won! Abe had to be Presidnt during the Cilv war and he hated slavery so he put a stop to it. Many people from the South did not like Lincoln for stopping slavery.

Espshly John Wills Booth he did not like Lincoln 1 single bit. Abe and his family went to a play called My American Cousin and John Wills Booth knew it. Erly the day that Abe was going to be there John Wills Booth snuck in with a small hand gun and hid. When Lincoln sat down and he had no idea but he was in for a little surprise right in the middle John Wills Booth jumped out and shot Lincoln in the back of the head and then jumped over the stage and broke his ankle.

Nobody knowed where and how John Wills Booth hid until he was found in a barn fire and killed. Now memories of Lincoln float through our country and we remember him and his history.

Breakfast Table History

2009-11-18T10:41:00.116-05:00

I like history.

Not the history that I was taught in grade school. Not even the history that I was taught in college. That history all seemed so boring. It didn't jump off of the pages of the circa 1970 text book and come to life. It was not relevant or important to who I was, whom I might become. It was education by rote.

One plus one equals two
I before E except after C
No taxation without representation

ZZZZZZZZZZ...Boring!

There was one exception. In middle school my fellow classmates and I were presented a social studies course on local history. We learned about Chief Cobmoosa, a steamboat named Paragon, and a french fur-trader by the name of Daniel Marsac. I began to realize that history was also about me, not just about things that existed before my time and beyond my grasp. History was no longer flat and lifeless. It was important and vibrant. It gave me dimension.

History was also part of my family life, especially on Sunday mornings. Church services were not part of our weekly ritual. But there was a ritual to Sunday. On that day of the week, history came to life at the breakfast table. My father would tell stories about growing up in a small town during World War II, his experiences in the Marine Corp., attending a one room school, and working on the family farm. Each week would bring a new story about an event or experience that came before me. Stories that were an important part of my history. I discovered things about my parents that might have otherwise been lost. And, I became acquainted with family that I never met:

My great grandmother, Edna Weitz, who caught the attention of my great grandfather, Henry Alden Johnson, as she rode her bicycle (the kind with the big wheel in front) past his farm on her way to teach school.

My Great Uncle Morse (Henry's son), who once tried to pass a truck while riding his bicycle. He survived the attempt, but his arm was broken in the process.

A distant cousin, who in the 1800's, killed her children and herself. Her husband discovered the bodies upon his return from work.

But, despite the stories my parents told, there were two individuals that felt lost to me. My paternal grandmother, Rosetta Boughner Johnson, ran off with another man in the early 1940's, leaving behind my father, my uncle and my grandfather. And my maternal grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, who died when my mother was in the eighth grade.

I did not want to learn about these people through stories. I wanted my grandfather to be living and breathing. And, I wanted to know if my grandmother was still alive, where she was, and if she ever wondered about the family she left behind. I would eventually get answers to some the questions I had about my grandmother, but that is another blog for another time.

My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of ten siblings. Nine boys and one girl. At family reunions I would watch my grandfather's siblings interact with their grandchildren and children. I was often envious of my cousins. They knew their grandparents. I wanted to know mine. I wanted to know how he smelled. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like. I wanted to know if his eyes really twinkled when he smiled, like my mother told me. Other times, I was simply curious. Which of his siblings was he most like? And despite my curiosity, it wasn't until I was an adult that I learned the unique stories of George, Henry, Andrew, Ernie, Ollie, Gerald, Michael, Jacob and Kate. I was so concerned with what was not, that I did not take the time to get acquainted with what was.

My Great Uncle, Michael, has spent countless hours compiling his family history. Like the stories my dad used to tell at the breakfast table, the stories and information that my Uncle Mike has compiled help me to understand more about who I am. They also helped me to discover more about the grandfather I never knew, and the family from which he came.

Five of my grandfather's brothers (Henry, Michael, George, Andy and Jacob) were in the service during World War II.

Henry John Hoover was working at the Fisher Body Plant in Pontiac, Michigan when the United States entered WWII. He enlisted in the Navy just prior to being drafted.

On June 5, 1944, Henry spent the night aboard a ship in the English Channel, arriving at Omaha Beach the next morning, as the first D-Day landings were getting underway. That evening, his regiment was taken closer inland and placed upon a ship that "had been sunk for a breakwater." When the sunken freighter came under fire, the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) that had transported the regiment to their position cut free of the freighter leaving Henry and 114 other men behind. The Coast Guard eventually arrived, taking the men back to sea. Henry then volunteered to go ashore, staying in France until August of 1944. He was later sent to Okinawa, where he remained until the end of the war.

Henry died on March 26, 1995, one month shy of his 85th birthday.

Michael Clarence Hoover volunteered for service in March of 1941. He served in the Army, training to become a pilot. His first ride in an airplane was also his first training flight. Michael was eventually assigned to the 466th Bomb Group, where he piloted a B-24. The 466th flew its' first combat mission, bombing Berlin, Germany, on March 22, 1944, for which the 466th received an official commendation from General James H. Doolittle. Michael flew a total of 32 combat missions over France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. Including missions on June 5th, 6th and 7th, to help the Allied Forces on D-Day. On July 23, 1944 the 466th flew their last mission at the battle of Saint Lo in France.

Michael was awarded the Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with his wife Pauline.

George Kasper Hoover was drafted into service in 1942, at the age of 34. He spent seven months in North Africa, participating in the Tunisian and Algeria-French Moroccan campaigns. George received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Tunisian campaign:

"...On January 31, 1943, Private Hoover voluntarily manned an antitank gun and, although subjected to heavy fire, succeeded in destroying the hostile emplacment. Private Hoover's heroic initiative was instrumental in the capture of important objectives."

In July of 1943, George was in Gela, Sicily when, for four days, his regiment was heavily engaged. He and the other members of his regiment received Presidential Unit Citations:

"The regiment pushed inland, encountering intense enemy artillery, tank and machine gun fire. Lacking armored support, this battalion repulsed a savage enemy attack with three 37-mm guns, a few rocket guns and small arms. When enemy tanks overran the battalion's position...the men stood fast and fought gallantly and furiously at close range destroying and routing enemy tanks with rocket gun fire...Distinguished bravery and Spartan efforts enabled this organization to repel the attacking forces. When its' position was cut in two and the battalion commander was wounded and evacuated, the men fought heroically and made important advances...after a bitter engagement meted out a decisive defeat to the enemy."

On June 6, 1944, George and his regiment were among the first to storm the beaches at Normandy. He also participated in campaigns in North France, Rhineland and Central Europe. His decorations and citations include: Bronze Star Medal, Distinguished Unit Badge with one ribbon, Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster, Good Conduct Ribbon, European-African Middle Eastern Theater Ribbon with one Silver Star and two Bronze Battle Stars, and five Overseas Service Ribbons.

George Kasper Hoover died on July 12, 1988 at the age of 80.

John Andrew Hoover and Jacob Vincent Hoover also served during WWII, but never saw active duty.

My grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, died in 1953, at the age of 37. He was younger than I am now. I have read the newspaper articles that tell the story of his "tragic death.

"The father of four school-age daughters was dead on arrival at Butterworth Hospital Tuesday morning after coming in contact with a 6,900 volt power line. The accident occurred while Hoover and other employees of the municipal light plant were installing a new transformer."

It seems ironic that my grandfather would die at such as young age and that his brothers would survive WWII. But that's history and such is life.

Everywhere, all around me is history. The person driving too slow on the freeway. The cranky cashier at the grocery store. The old lady at the library who always wants to talk a little too long. My Great Aunts and Uncles. They are all history.

I want my children to know who they are. I want them to know who came before them. I will tell them stories at the breakfast table.

I like history.

A Fish by Any Other Name

2009-04-18T22:28:00.008-04:00

Grandma Tewsley gave Alden a fish for his fourth birthday. His name is Bobby Flippy. We have not discussed the fact that Bobby Flippy might be female with Alden. I figured Bobby could be short for Roberta so there was nothing to worry about.

I spent the first couple of weeks worrying about Bobby Flippy the way I worried about my newborns in their first few months of life. Is he breathing? Is he floating on the top of the water because he is dead? Or, is he just looking for some food? So far, Bobby Flippy is thriving.

Bobby Flippy is quite pretty. Lovely shades of blue. But he is a Beta fish. We were told that he needs to live alone because Beta fish eat other fish. He is pretty - but evidently not all that nice.

Because he lives alone, and might be lonely, Alden thought Bobby Flippy needed a friend. A plastic pink fish (one with a spring and suction cup that jumps into the air if you press it down) is now neatly positioned outside Bobby Flippy's tank. Every now and then Bobby Flippy swims past. Alden thinks he is happy to have a friend. I think Bobby Flippy is pissed that the pink plastic fish is beyond his reach.

Bobby Flippy is Alden's first pet. Alden is destined for a childhood of non-cuddly pets, because things with fur make me sneeze (a lot!). He will have to have pets like fish and turtles. No snakes. They make me sneeze too. This reality makes me sad. I love dogs.

My parents took my brother and I to the humane society to get a puppy when I was in the 4th grade. (I didn't develop a dog allergy until I was an adult). We came home with a 2-year old collie named Kelly. We didn't pick the name Kelly. She came with that name. We could never quite convince my cousin Kelly of that fact.

Kelly (the dog, not the cousin) loved to go for rides in the car. She also loved to attend local little league games. It was not so much the game that she liked, but the attention she got while she was there. Everyone would scratch her ears, tell her how pretty she was, or comment that she looked like Lassie. After the game she would prance home with an inflated ego and a happy heart.

My brother and I also had rabbits. My rabbit's name was Snowshoe. Feminine. Pretty. Delicate. My brother named his rabbit Buck. We didn't keep up our end of the bargain in caring for Buck and Snowshoe. My father arranged for a nice man to take "care" of our rabbits. Then, I thought they were going to live on his farm. Now, I am pretty certain that Buck and Snowshoe became rabbit stew.

When I was in college, my roommate and I were stumbling home from an evening out when we found a lost dog. A little solid black fur ball. We snuck him into the dorm. The next day I begged my parents to take the dog in. They agreed to take him until we found the owner. My dad, who has a quirky sense of humor, named the dog Spot. We never did find Spot's owner. My dad arranged for a man to take "care" of Spot. Unlike Buck and Snowshoe, Spot went to a good home.

Like Alden, I too had a fish. I only remember one thing about my fish. I spilled water from his bowl onto my mother's coffee table. I didn't do a good job of cleaning up the mess. Long after my fish died, the water ring remained on the coffee table. I don't remember his name. A name is important. Kelly, Buck, Snowshoe, Spot and my old fish What's His Name. I am writing this Blog so Alden will always remember that his fish (his first pet) was named Bobby Flippy.

Christmas at Three

2008-12-20T21:41:00.017-05:00

Alden is three and he is concerned about all-things Santa.

Last night we were at a holiday party. A fire was burning in a beautiful stone fireplace. Alden gave the fireplace a thorough once over, finally asking a question common to three year olds, "How will Santa get in if there is a fire?" A quick-thinking party-goer pointed out a sizable vent, explaining to Alden that Santa could exit at that point, and avoid the fire all together. Alden found that answer to be satisfactory.

Alden has a lot of questions about Santa-related things. "Why is the North Pole on top and the other pole at the bottom?" "What do the reindeer eat?" "Do elves make all of the toys?" "Will Santa put the bag down the chimney before he comes down?" The questions go on and on and on.

He has also been listening for Santa at night. Every morning he reports the same information. "Mommy, I listened for Santa last night, but I didn't hear him." When I explain that Santa won't come until Christmas, Alden replies, "But Mommy, it is Christmas." To him, Christmas is the entire month of December.

Last weekend, as we were leaving a birthday party, Alden spied a Santa. This particular Santa was headed into another party in the neighborhood. Being the jolly soul that he is, Santa approached Alden and gave him a giant candy cane filled with treats. Santa "ho, ho, hoed" and asked Alden what he wanted for Christmas. Alden was wide-eyed and I wanted to hug that Santa. On the ride home, Alden asked why Santa was driving a truck.

Later that week, when another Santa visited Alden's preschool, Alden asked, "Santa, did you drive your truck today?"

We celebrated Christmas early with Grandma Tewsley, as she is leaving town tomorrow to spend the holidays with other family members. Grandma gave Alden the item from the top of his Christmas wish list, "Thomas at Water Canyon." Because Alden has already reported to three Santas that he wanted "Thomas at Water Canyon" he was worried that he needed to send Santa an update. Tonight he decided that Santa probably already knew and would just bring him extra tracks. Mommy didn't buy any extra tracks. I hope Alden will be satisfied with the other things that Santa is bringing to him.

Alden's fascination with Santa and his love of trains joyously collided when he watched The Polar Express for the first time. That night, he repeatedly shouted from his bed, "The first gift of Christmas."

Alden has also been getting his Christmas groove on. He strolls around the house singing Christmas songs. He doesn't always get the words quite right, but he belts them out with gusto and panache. My personal favorite goes like this..."Down through the chimney when I say NICK!" Repeat line five or ten times.

Tonight as Alden was drifting off to sleep, I heard him mumbling, "Santa will bring me two things, or maybe nine." I am quite certain Santa IS NOT bringing Alden nine things.

Christmas at three is the best!

The Bird is the Word

2008-12-14T23:50:00.011-05:00

During the summer of 1976 I celebrated my tenth birthday. That same summer, Jimmy Carter won the democratic nomination for president, Nadia was scoring perfect tens in the summer Olympics, a hostage situation in Uganda prompted Israel to stage a raid on the Entebbe Airport, the Son of Sam was terrorizing New York City, Legionnaires’ disease killed 29 people at a convention in Philadelphia, and Viking 2 entered orbit around Mars. However, as a ten-year old that loved baseball, the most important thing to me that summer was the fact that Mark “The Bird” Fidrych was on the mound for the Detroit Tigers.

Mark Fidrych was relatively unknown at the start of the 1976 baseball season. He didn’t make his first start until late May – and that was only because the scheduled starting pitcher had the flu. In that game, Fidrych threw seven no-hit innings, winning the game 2-1. That season, he went on to win 19 games, lead the league in ERA, and serve as the starting pitcher for the American League in the All-Star Game. But, it wasn’t just his success as a pitcher that catapulted him to fame, it was his entire persona. He was tall and lanky with a mop of curly blonde hair. People thought he resembled Big Bird on Sesame Street, earning him his nickname, “the Bird”. He also, among other things, talked to the baseball, strutted wildly around the mound, and insisted that some baseballs “had hits in them.” His antics captured the imagination of baseball fans everywhere.

Fidrych also captured the imagination of my grandfather. My grandfather was born and raised on a farm in a small town in western Michigan. He had a thick head of white hair that he often topped with a fedora. His given name was James Lawrence, but everybody called him Bob. His vocabulary was often sprinkled with a foul word or four. He possessed a mischievous sense of humor. And, he enjoyed baseball.

I have several memories of my grandfather at Tiger Stadium. Most vivid is the final trip he made with us to Tiger Stadium. In his eighties, his boyish excitement was still evident. He ate a slice of pizza, reporting that it was the first time he had ever eaten pizza in his life. He got a kick out of watching two women seated near the Tiger bullpen. And, he had some choice words for a couple of obnoxious teenagers that repeatedly kicked the back of his seat. That boy-like splendor was often noticeable in my grandfather when he was at the ballpark. I remember how animated my grandfather was during a game in which the Tigers were playing the Chicago White Sox. He yelped, “Willllllburrrrr, Willlllburrrrr, Willlllburrr” in a booming voice, at Wilbur Wood, a pitcher for the Sox. My grandfather shouted at Wilbur for one reason only. It was simply fun to yelp the name Wilbur.

As the 1976 season neared an end my grandfather made two ill-fated attempts to witness the magic of “The Bird” first hand. He decided that we needed to make a trip to Tiger Stadium on a day that Fidrych was scheduled to pitch. As luck would have it, we made that trip on the third of September. It was a beautiful night, and on the way into the stadium my grandfather bought my brother and I large “The Bird is the Word” buttons from a street vendor. We proudly wore our buttons into the stadium, displaying the cartoon-like drawing of Fidrych as part man, part Big Bird. Fidrych pitched just three and two-thirds innings. The Tigers lost that game to the Brewers 11-2.

Disappointed by that trip, my grandfather had another idea. Mark Fidrych and Mickey Stanley, were scheduled to appear at a local department store (Rogers) to sign autographs for fans. My grandfather made plans with my father to take my brother and me to the event. We arrived early, but we were still 200 people or so from the front of the line. If we were patient, we would eventually get an autograph from Fidrych. My grandfather and father, however, could tell that we would need more than patience. As the line of fans grew in number, the event organizers snaked the line back and forth in an effort to contain the crowd. This was problematic because they were weaving line without stanchions, barriers, or ropes. When the doors opened, the crowd moved forward in one big mass. We waited for two or three hours and never moved from our spot. The difficult decision was made to take my brother and I home. I did what any disappointed ten year old girl might do – I cried. Not just a little. I cried for the duration of the thirty minute trip home.

I wish I could go back in time and do that car ride over. Instead of tears, I would have said, “Thank you for trying Grandpa.” But, at ten, I was not yet mature enough for that type of response. Time passes. It is no longer the fact that you did not get an autograph that makes you want to cry, but rather it is the fact that you are not sure you EVER told you grandpa thank you. Not even when you were older and had gained the maturity to do so.

And this is life…so things happen. Eventually, everyone that waited it out at Rogers Plaza got an autograph. Wilbur Wood was seriously injured in a game at Tiger Stadium in 1976. He pitched again, but was not able to regain the level of mastery he had prior to the injury. Mark Fidrych never again matched the glory he had achieved in 1976. My grandfather eventually passed away. And me, well, I learned a lot about life that summer of 1976 – I just didn’t realize it until about 1991.

The History of a Little Girl

2008-11-26T22:49:00.015-05:00

My daughter, Maxine, just turned seven. She is not your average seven year old. Alright, in some ways she is a normal seven year old girl. She likes Hannah Montana, The Jonas Brothers and High School Musical. She also loves the John Travolta and Rikki Lake versions of Hairspray. If you ask her why, she will tell you that she liked how “black people and white people marched together so they could be equal.”

The name Maxine is old fashioned. It was a popular name in the twenties, but has since fallen in popularity. When my husband and I first tossed the name around, it felt sort of clunky and even a bit ugly. But, as other names came onto the list and left the list, Maxine remained. It emerged as a strong and even cute name. And, it was a name that held meaning because it was my maternal grandmother’s name.

We began to tell a few people that we had settled on the name Maxine. My mother was thrilled. My mother-in-law was not convinced, but kept her sentiments quiet. Then, at approximately 7:30 PM on November 12, 2001, Maxine Eleanor Tewsley made her way into this world. She was one week overdue. Her cheeks were marked with red blisters. She barely had a nose. She was beautiful. My husband announced her arrival to our parents, all of whom were in the hospital waiting room. My mother sentimentally expressed how pleased her mother would have been. And, at that moment, my mother-in-law fell in love with the name Maxine.

Maxine knows the significance of her name, because we have told her stories about her great grandmother from the day she came home from the hospital. It would make for a great story if I could tell you how much Maxine is like my grandmother. I cannot tell you that. Maxine is uniquely Maxine. But, Maxine loves stories. She will tell you she loves stories that “really happened.” I may have hoped that naming Maxine after my grandmother would have resulted in a genetic miracle. A miracle that would have parts of my grandmother come alive in my daughter. Instead, something unexpected happened. The story of “how she got her name” created a desire in Maxine to hear other stories that “really happened.”

At first Maxine asked for stories about things that happened to her father or me, when we were little. Then, there was a night, when she was four, that she listened, captivated, to a story about Abraham Lincoln. She became somewhat obsessed with Abraham Lincoln. In first grade, the first book she checked out of the library was pictorial of Abraham Lincoln that contained almost 200 pages. Just the other day, I spoke with the librarian at her school. She commented on how Maxine always checks books out on Abraham Lincoln. At six she could tell you about the Emancipation Proclamation, the names of Lincoln’s wife and assassin, and the years in which he was born and died. And, although she is most fond of Lincoln, she can also tell you quite a lot about Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., Harriet Tubman, Anne Frank, and Helen Keller.

I might have thought that her interest in history was just a passing curiosity, but then there was a trip to the Henry Ford Museum and her Hundred Days Project.

Just after Christmas last year we journeyed to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. There were amazing things to see: huge Christmas trees with beautiful lights and decorations, elaborate doll houses, and big shiny trains. But, there were two things that thrilled Maxine. Lincoln’s chair from Fords Theater, and the bus on which Rosa Parks took a stance.

Shortly after our trip to the museum, Maxine began work on her Hundred Days project. At her school, it is a tradition for all of the kids to create something that represents their 100th day in school. It could be as simple as making the number 100 out of Cheerio’s. Maxine decided to draw 100 pictures representing 100 dates in American History. She asked her father and me to tell her about a date in history. Then, she would draw a picture of that event. She worked on her project for one month. We put all of the pictures into a three ring binder and she proudly carried it to school.

This year Maxine wants to draw 100 pictures of dates in world history. I told she is not your typical seven-year old.

But then again, she wants “Baby Alive Learns to Potty” for Christmas.

Who Are You?

2008-11-17T23:12:00.006-05:00

Do you know who you are? Bullshit answers don’t count. I mean, do you REALLY know who you are?

I know who I am.

I am a pilgrim
I sailed on the Winthrop fleet
I fought the Narragansett
I stormed the beach at Normandy
I am a widowed mother of four
I deserted my children
I fought in the Civil War
I tried the man that shot President McKinley
I am a murderer
I am a teacher
I founded a park system
I am a U.S. Marine

I am all of these things and more

I know this because I have been researching my ancestors. If you haven’t started digging up yours, I suggest that you give it a go. It is easier to do than you might think. The internet has made it easier. Chances are you are already spending way too much time online. Why not spend a little bit of that time learning something about yourself.

Check out ancestry.com. Ancestry.com is a lot of things. It is a time machine. It is a detective service. It is fun. It is easy. There is one thing that it is not. It is not free. Get your parents or other relatives to help you foot the bill. That’s what I did. I guarantee you will be glad you did. And if you’re not, well…you should be.

And… you might just find out who YOU are.

Starting Over

2008-11-15T23:27:00.015-05:00

I started a new job this week. I haven't started a new job in almost 14 years. Until June, I was employed by a company at which I had hoped I could spend the duration of my career. Okay...I know that is not realistic these days, but it was something to be proud of in our parent's generation. I guess a little of that generation rubbed off on me because I was proud of my longevity.

So...like I was saying, I had worked at the same place for nearly 14 years when my job was eliminated in June. I was still in my twenties when I began my career with "the company." I met my husband at "the company." He sat in a cubicle close to mine. I could overhear occasional phone conversations that he had with his parents and grandmother. I fell in love with him, in part due to those phone calls, and before he ever asked me on a date.

Truth is he never really asked me on a date...we just sort of happened. And then we just sort of moved in together. Eventually we were married. People from "the company" came to our wedding. Then we got pregnant...and just after we entered our second trimester...just when we began to tell people that we were expecting our first baby, we had a miscarriage. I was at a business dinner for "the company" when the bleeding started. Later we got pregnant again. We had a beautiful daughter. Then, we got pregnant one more time. That time we had a son. Along the way, between the wedding and the day on which my position was eliminated, other things happened. Two of our friends died. One in his sleep. Another shot himself. My father-in-law began a prolonged battle with cancer, that he eventually lost. I worked for great bosses, okay bosses and downright lousy bosses. But, I loved my job. And, I loved "the company."

And then one day, after almost 14 years of service one of the boss-types referenced above invited me into her office to tell me that the company was fiscally challenged and that my services were no longer needed. I had one hour to clean out my office. But, how do you clean out an office full of 14 years worth of accumulation? I could box up the photos on my desk. I could pack the files that were mine to keep. But I could not put the life I made at "the company" into a box. It was entangled in the walls and halls. I could not extract those things in the sixty minutes I had been given to pack my things and leave. So I packed what I could into boxes. My husband put them onto a rolling cart, pushed them down the hall and out the front door. Then he loaded them into the minivan. It has been almost six months now and those boxes are still unpacked on a shelf in the basement of our house.

So, I started a new job this week. Everyone is really nice. I am enjoying myself. I am glad to be starting over again, but I wonder how long it will take me to untangle myself from that place and time and take root at someplace new.

I Don't Know What I am Doing

2008-11-14T00:26:00.000-05:00

Really. I don't. And, I don't know why I am doing this either. Writing a blog. I guess it just seems like the thing to do. I am not a writer. Altough I wish I was. I don't have much to say. That is, I don't have much to say that I want posted on the web for everyone to see. But...oh well! I am going to try the whole blog thing anyway.