Laughter is the Best Remedy

I want to thank all who read my previous blog post for all the kind words of sympathy and compliments on my writing skills. Writing is actually very therapeutic for me and, while I shed many tears as I wrote that blog and Randy's obituary, after I was done writing, I felt much better. And then I was able to laugh.

For those who knew Randy, you know that he was one of the most random people around and if there was ever a chance of something crazy happening, it happened to him. In that spirit, I feel it appropriate to record the events that occurred as Randy reached the end of his mortal existence. I believe he would be laughing and since he enjoyed telling a good story and making people laugh, I dedicate this blog post to him, but write it for anyone I may have brought to tears with the previous post.

To set the stage, let me first explain the housing situation. While I live in the ranch-style house with my ex-father-in-law, when Randy came here to live last year on Christmas Day,  he moved into the 2 room basement apartment. The apartment has a door on it and there is a door at the bottom of the basement stairs from the garage. Both doors have locks on them, but due to Randy's hallucinations and paranoia, he didn't trust the locks to be enough. Whenever he went downstairs, he would put a long pole between the wall and the door to prevent anyone from getting in if they picked the lock. Additionally, neither Pop nor I were aware, but he installed another hotel room style lock on the inside of his apartment door; no one was going to get in to get him without him knowing about it. Additionally, Randy's bedroom/sitting room were right underneath the living room on the main floor, so I was always able to  hear his television, him singing or talking to his dogs.

Monday evening, the 16th, Randy came up to eat dinner with me. He seemed to be okay. A little distracted, but fine. He even helped do the dishes as we talked after. Later that evening, Pop had me text him to see if he wanted popcorn. Randy declined. I told him to sleep well and he responded: "I hope both of you sleep very well!" That was at 7:58 pm. That was the last I heard from him other than a severe coughing fit around midnight due to his bronchitis.

Tuesday morning, it seemed extremely quiet downstairs. I could usually hear the TV from early morning on, if he didn't have to work. He didn't come upstairs to get any breakfast and I didn't see him outside walking his dogs. Not terribly uncommon if he wasn't feeling well. Around 3:30, Pop asked me if I'd seen or heard anything of Randy. I said no and asked him the same. Pop told me that he hadn't even seen Randy come up into the garage for a cigarette; their normal time to visit in a day. Pop said that we'd worry about it after he got back home (about 6:30). In the meantime, I tried texting Randy and then calling him with no answer. I texted Pat to see if he had heard from Randy, but he hadn't either since Monday evening. I began to fear the worst and just knew that he was gone. 

When Pop got back and found out I still hadn't heard anything, he decided that we'd wait 'til the next day and then check on him. I couldn't let him wait, knowing how I was feeling and convinced Pop that Randy must be really sick and may need our help. He went downstairs and began pounding on the basement door and yelling Randy's name while I started pounding on the floor. Eventually, Pop had to cut a hole in the basement door so that he could move the pole to open the door. Then he used the key to unlock the apartment door and had to tear the trim off the door frame to get the door open. That's when Pop found him laying on the floor, cold to the touch.He came up into the garage, told me Randy was gone and to call the ambulance. That's when the chaos began.

As I called 911, shortly after 8:00pm, I had to wonder if the woman on the other end even listened to what I had said when she asked about the nature of my emergency. I told her that my ex-husband was found dead on the basement floor. She asked if I was certain he was dead. I told her that he wasn't moving or breathing and that he was cold to the touch. 

"Is he moving?" 

          "No." 

"Is he breathing?"

"No."

"Does he have a pulse?"

 "I don't know but when Dad touched his neck, he was cold to the touch." 

Help was on the way. Within minutes, lights flashing, the paramedics arrived.Over the next 15 minutes, as a firetruck and four squad cars arrived I hobbled back and forth between the front door and the garage door to direct 2 paramedics, 4 firemen and 8 policemen to the garage where Pop met them to take them to the basement. I'm not sure if all that attention is standard protocol or if it was a slow night in Decatur.  

A little later, as Pop came upstairs with one of the paramedics to answer some questions, the phone rang. Pop answered before I could get to it.

"George, what's going on over there?" asked 

our Gladys Cravitz-like neighbor

 "My son just died!" 

CLICK!!!

After answering the paramedic's questions and being assured Randy had not suffered, he prepared to leave as the doorbell rang again! Enter the deputy coroner. I directed her toward the basement in time to see the paramedics putting the EMPTY stretcher back into the ambulance. I had assumed they would be taking him to the morgue for an autopsy. Nope. Amid the previous chaos, I had begun to text family and close friends, but with all the confusion and my own stress, I was a bit blunt and uninformative, so I began to get texts and phone calls in return to add to the other chaos.

"Sorry. Can't talk now. Will get you more

info as soon as I can!"

The coroner came back upstairs and I was put in charge of answering her questions. As we were talking, firemen and policemen were in and out with questions of their own. The coroner contacted the funeral home to come pick Randy up, but kept being put on hold. Suddenly she screamed into the phone!

"You WILL find the director on duty and you

will do it now! I have a body to pick up

and if you can't find him to do it, I'll call

the owner RIGHT NOW!"

Amazingly, the director was on the phone in less than a minute and assured her they'd be right here. With that assurance, one by one all of the "officials" began to leave. We had a moment of quiet, then the bell rang again as the funeral director arrived. There were two men; one probably in his early thirties; the other late 40s early 50s. Pop was asked to pull his car out of the garage so they could get in and out with their stretcher. They removed the sheet and long stemmed red rose from the stretcher and they headed downstairs. Shortly, I heard commotion and grunting on the stairs and then I heard:

"Hey. Would you mind grabbing that side 

and I'll take this one?"

Yep. The 30-something young man really asked the 89-year-old man to help carry his newly deceased son up the stairs! What's worse? Pop directed them, on the count of three. On three, Pop lifted but the doofus DIDN'T and had Randy not been strapped onto the stretcher, he would have had another fall onto the basement stairs! Finally, they got Randy upstairs and into the van. I noticed that they left their sheet and the rose on the chair, so I asked them about it, thinking they would give the rose to Pop and express their condolences. Nope.

"Oh yeah. Don't want to forget our sheet."

And away they went, Randy, sheet and rose....

Thinking all would be quiet now, after 10pm, 3.5 hours after it all began, Pop went to pull his car back into the garage only to realize the headlights had been on the whole time and his battery was dead! Deciding he'd mess with it in the morning, he came inside, we sat and reviewed the day's events a little while and he headed to bed about 11:30. Fortunately, I was still too wired to go to bed, because at midnight the doorbell rang again! 

I got to the door and realized there were two more officers at the door! Forgetting all about our security system I unlocked and opened the door, setting off the alarm. Holding up a finger to the policemen, I headed to the kitchen to silence the alarm when my phone started telling me the house alarm had been triggered. I got both silenced, headed back to the front door only to find Pop in his pajama pants coming down the hall yelling "What the hell is going on now?!?" Gladys Cravitz struck a second time! As she saw Pop's car sitting in the driveway, totally out of character for Pop, she decided she needed to call the police to do a wellness check on him! Learning of the situation, the officers offered to push the car into the garage for Pop and hook up the charger. Until they couldn't cuz his fancy car locks up and you can't push it if there is no power!

End of Tuesday, December 17th

Begin Wednesday, December 18th

A fairly quiet start to the day. Pat arrived from Kentucky a little after 10:00. He went to greet Randy's dogs, cleaned some things in the basement and went with Pop and me to the funeral home at 1:30. That was a fairly routine venture until Daisy, the director assigned to us, asked if we had a POA. Pat pulled it out and gave it to her.

"This is a financial POA."

"Yes. Isn't that what you need?"

"We need a medical POA." 

(3 faces just stared back at her until Pop says what we're all thinking)

"That's not gonna do us much good now, is it?"

"We need a medical POA to authorize the cremation.

Did he have any children?"

"5"

"I'll need their names."

"ALL OF THEM?!?!"

"Without a POA we need authorization from all 

surviving children."

"Can we do it through email?"

After providing Daisy that information, we finished up the business transaction, I texted my kids to watch their emails and get the authorization back asap. We left and hit a couple different auto places to get a new battery for the Lexus and then headed to get some dinner. Going through the drive through, Brandon and Sami called to report on her surgery and let me know there was no email yet. Told them I'd call back when we got home. 

We walked in the door, I began to unload the food and the phone rang. You guessed it! Glady Cravitz insisting she talk to George to give him her condolences and tell him what a wonderful young man his son was, etc. I refused and hung up on her too. As I continued to put out our food, the doorbell rang! I went to answer the door to find an Amazon delivery for Randy! Dog treats for the dogs! Thank heavens they arrived before Pat took them back to Kentucky with him. As I returned to our food (Pop and Pat were eating by this time) my phone began ringing again; Brandon!

"Can I call you back?"

"Yeah, but just a minute.

We got the email."

"Okay... sign it."

"That's the problem. It's not a cremation authorization

and it's not for Dad. It's for Jacqueline ___

and it's got all her personal information! Even her 

Social Security Number."

So, as I sat and watched Pop and Pat feeding their faces, I called the funeral home to talk to the director and explain what happened. This unconcerned man got on his computer and said that he saw what he did and started to explain himself. I'm like, "I DON'T CARE! Just send another email with the right paperwork to my children so they can get it taken care of!" In the meantime, my other kids were finding their emails and sending me texts asking who Jacqueline was too!

What a zoo!!! Fortunately, the chaos calmed down after those first two days. I'm certain that it doesn't sound nearly as bad as it was to live through, but I hope you do recognize how appropriate those two days were considering the way Randy did EVERYTHING in his life. If it was possible to have a glitch, he'd find it! I think instead of Murphy's Law, I'm going to begin calling it Randy's Law!

It's still been a rough week, especially considering today (Dec 23rd) would have been our 41st wedding anniversary and it's also the 5th anniversary of his mother's passing.Today Pop brought Randy back home and he'll stay here until one day this spring when we do a small memorial for both him and his mother. His spirit, we know, is in a better place where he can be happy and smile again. AND, Megan and I are pretty well convinced that he was greeted at the "pearly gates" by our good friend, Susan, who probably had a "Welcome Home" party planned to greet him. 

Happy Anniversary, Randy!

How do you say good-bye to a guy named Randy?

How do you say good-bye to someone who's been a part of your life for 45 years? How do you pay proper tribute to the person named in the title of your blog? What do you say about the most exasperating person in your life when that person is also the one who gave you everything that is worth anything in your life: 5 wonderful children, 23 grandchildren and the gospel of Jesus Christ? How do you stop wishing that his demons hadn't taken over his life so that he could have recognized and enjoyed all the blessings he forgot he had?

One of my very best friends died yesterday. He was my friend and constant companion for years before we married. After we married, he took on more of the role of my best friend; he was the one that was present and shared my joys and sorrows. We did everything together. Many believed that we were the perfect couple with a perfect marriage. In some ways we were.

But internal conflict and genetic mental illness combined with prescription drugs and drug abuse took its toll on the spontaneous, creative, fun-loving guy that I knew I would marry before we even went on our first date.

Randy loved me. I know he did, but not the way he should have to marry me. He only asked me to marry him because he had seen me dating another guy and didn't like it AND he knew how badly I wanted children. Since he didn't like seeing me with anyone else and he knew that I would be actively looking for a man who had the same goals I had, he decided to do the "right thing" and proposed. Perhaps I was naive, but I believed he was proposing for the "right reason;" that he loved me...like that. 

Thirteen years into our marriage, he dropped the bomb and told me he was gay. I offered him a divorce immediately, but he didn't take me up on it. He wasn't sure if that's what he wanted. When we finally divorced four years later, he told me that he still didn't know what he'd do if he ever saw me with another man.

After our divorce, Randy dove headfirst into everything he apparently felt he'd been missing. He had several different sexual partners, he began using drugs and was an obligatory father to our five children. He loved them in his own way, but his expression of love was polar opposite to the love my kids were used to getting from me. But, they were used to taking his expressions of love and loved him in return.

A few years after our divorce, Randy met a great man, Pat, and they became committed partners. I love Pat. My kids love Pat. Grandchildren who know him love Pat. And Randy loved Pat. But somewhere along the line, Randy contracted HIV and has been on HIV medications for years. As I understand it, over time, HIV medications begin to take a toll on the mind. 

Randy had a pre-disposition to mental illness, inherited from his mother and never sought the real help he needed to control the illness and its control over his mind and his life choices continued to grow. Eventually, Pat couldn't take the mood swings and abuse any more. He left and Randy hit rock bottom. He turned to serious drug abuse and began having severe hallucinations; believing people were out to get him, trying to kill him and drugging him. He BELIEVED terrible things of many different family members and his paranoia began to control all of his life actions. His demons were ever present in his life.

I didn't mean for this post to get dark, but it is the darkness that dominated his life for the past few years; cutting him off from most who loved him. His demons have been part of my life for the past year as he came home to Decatur to stay with his dad. There have been good times over dinners together or working on small projects, like assembling the new snowblower, laughing at our own ineptness, it was like old times as we were always good at laughing at ourselves. It was wonderful being able to discuss concerns over his Dad's health or share frustrations when we were scolded as if we were three-year-olds. But then his demons would come back; the hallucinations took over and he'd barricade himself in the basement apartment, certain that "they" were after him again.

In recent years, Randy alienated a lot of people; our children most of all. He said terrible, hurtful things to those who loved him the most all driven by the demons he couldn't chase away. To all who have been hurt by him over the years, I ask that you try now to focus on the good, fun Randy that you used to know; the one that you shared laughter or a project with; the one who was creative and spontaneous, because that Randy was still in there. 

I pray that my children can focus on the dad who would pack up the family and take us on an unplanned adventure to Niagara Falls; or fall victim to his own DIY projects and fall through the attic floor, hanging into the garage below; or even the dad who taught them how to work hard hanging drywall, stapling insulation or running electrical wiring which have enabled them to be able to complete home improvement projects in their own homes today.

I pray that they can focus on the dad who cried at the sight of his baby laying helpless under a bililight; the dad who slept under his daughter's crib in the hospital for weeks so she'd know she wasn't alone; the dad who loved the special hugs from the little girl that insisted on sitting on his lap to watch TV in the evening; the dad who made special arrangements to get his boys into the best preschool and traveled hundreds of miles to attend their high school performances. This was their REAL dad. This was the man I loved. This is the man who will ALWAYS hold a piece of my heart. Whatever his reason, this is the man who gave me the best gifts of my life and for that I will be eternally grateful and will never forget the good that we had. 

In closing, I pray that he is now free from his demons. That he knows HIS reality was NOT reality. And that he will recognize that the love we have always had for him IS REAL. I love you Randy. Rest in peace.

For other blog posts specifically about my relationship with Randy, see posts from 31 Jan 2013, 15 Mar 2013, 22 May 2013 and 31 Jan 2016

Welcome to the family #23, Rocky!

Getting stabilized

He has red hair!
That's a first for a Sloan/Zielke!

Daddy says he looks like Emily,
cuddling her body pillow!

I began calling him Rocky early in his mother's pregnancy. "Rocky" was an underdog who became a world champion boxer in a movie by that name. The character was a tremendous fighter who kept persevering even though no one thought he could do it. This is how our little "Rocky" came to be. He beat all the odds. He wasn't supposed to exist. His mother, Emily, had been given no better than a 2% chance to conceive on her own. Each of Rocky's siblings came to the family through fertility specialists, but Rocky? He came on his own. Emily's pregnancy wasn't an easy one and it seemed that her body wanted to miscarry. She was assigned to strict bed rest at times and Rocky held on. If he could just hold on for six months, he'd have a "fighting" chance! And fight he did! Until the night of Dec. 6, 2019. The family was at their ward Christmas party and Emily began to have pains. Barton took her home, got the family settled and began watching a movie. For two hours, Emily suffered through contractions that were three minutes apart. When she began to bleed, they knew they had to head for the hospital! A neighbor came to sit with Abigail and Millie until Emily's parents could get there and around 12:19, Bart & Emily left for the hospital in Riverton, UT. Amid a great deal of screaming, commotion and urgency, Emily's water broke, she was finally given permission to push and little Rocky was born "around' 12:41!!! Unable to breathe on his own, they rushed him away and called to have him life flighted to a hospital better equipped to handle his needs. All day, fog had prevented the life flight helicopter from going out, but the fog cleared in time for them to fly to Riverton from Salt Lake to help Rocky. As soon as they landed, the fog rolled back in. Our Heavenly Father had cleared the fog long enough to enable these specialized nurses to get there in time to get Rocky ready to transport. As the fog had come back in, and Rocky was doing better, they opted to take him to Intermountain Health Center NICU by ambulance. Daddy Barton followed in his car and took a short video of the trip there. Bart was told he'd be in the NICU for two months; around the time of his due date, Feb 10. It is less than 16 hours later that I'm writing this memory and at this time, Barton has told us that he's almost breathing on his own, he's eaten and all his "numbers" look good! With God's blessing, maybe his stay in the hospital will be much shorter than two months! Barton and Emily haven't given Rocky his official name yet; there's a slight battle. Emily likes the name Jack. Barton likes Hinckley after the LDS prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley. To this very proud, happy and humbled Grandma though, he'll always be Rocky.

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EY #12: Tell about your grandparents

The story of my grandparents is far more interesting now than it was ten years ago, but let's start with the basics...

My paternal grandparents were Reinhold and Martha (Staffeldt) Zielke. Both were born in the United States, children of German immigrants. Reinhold had been married previously to Martha's older sister, Louise, who died of pneumonia at childbirth with her 4th child in 1917. Reinhold's surviving children were George  (b. 1905), Henry (b. 1908) and Bertha (b.1911). (Aunt Grace, if you read this and I make any errors, please correct me!) As I understand it, Martha went to live with Reinhold after Louisa's death to help care for the children and married him Nov 20, 1918. Reinhold was born May 30, 1880; Martha was born December 18, 1890. Reinhold and Martha had five children: Helen (b. 1919), Raymond, my dad, (b. 1922), Grace (b. 1925), Marjorie (b 1927) and Dorothy (b. 1933). I don't remember too much about my grandfather, as he passed away shortly after my 6th birthday in 1961 after a fall down the basement stairs at my Aunt Marge's house. He had Parkinson's disease and I was always uncomfortable going near him because of his tremors, not understanding that he was ill. Grandma Zielke could be gruff, but she could be fun as well. I remember how she laughed and laughed when she tried to teach me how to hoot like an owl by whistling through a curled tongue. I could curl my tongue just fine, but when I blew, all I got was air. When she came to visit us in Wisconsin, I was expected to help her put on her support hose and to cut her toenails. I think of her now when I cut my own tough toenails and think "thanks a lot for that DNA, Grandma!" She was in a wheelchair the last several years of her life and sometimes on the weekends, grandchildren would go stay with her to make sure she was okay. She wasn't too fond of the late night giggling when my cousin, Beth, and I were the ones to stay there.I remember being fascinated with my parents' wedding portrait that was always on the chest of drawers in her bedroom. That was the only place I had ever seen their wedding picture before their 25th anniversary celebration.Grandma died during my Junior year of high school (a little more than a year after my mother died) in March, 1972.
(The following corrections were provided by Aunt Grace in Dec, 2019. I'm so thankful we still have her to share memories and a familial connection! Thank you, Aunt Grace! 
"I was just reading your blog of last May and did note a couple small changes (You've done a great job and can only rely on what you've been told I know).  To the best of my knowledge, Mom was living with Dad & Aunt Louisa prior to her death as apparently she had a difficult pregnancy, and Mom always always told me that she had promised Aunt Louisa that she would raise her children.  I can't say that she ever fell in love with Dad, but made the best of the situation.  That's not a correction - just FYI.  Next - Dad fell down the basement stairs at their house (not Aunt Marge's)  He was making toast as Uncle Bob was leaving for work and watching out the window.  He said the toaster threw some sparks and he headed for the door to try to yell to Uncle Bob and lost his balance and fell down the steps.  There were 3 steps before the landing, and from there he rolled and went down the rest of the steps landing at the bottom (in the basement) with a broken neck & back.  He was in the hospital then until he died.  He fell the morning of March 27th and died April 10, 1961.  You're right he had Parkinson's Disease and did shake.  I think he may have suffered either light strokes or reacted to medication (pain) as he did a lot of hallucinating during that hospital stay.  I remember the nurses had to cover the mirror in his room as he kept seeing things and thought someone was coming out of the mirror.  The only other comment, rather than grandchildren coming to stay with Grandma (which they did short term) but it was her step-children and children that cared for her.  She was in the wheelchair for 7 years (unable to walk) and we had a schedule for our turns to go and stay, which was primarily on weekends for us as George & Emily  and Henry & Emily were retired and could go during the week.  We had a caregiver for a short period of time, ,but Mom wasn't the easiest person to please and she caused that to end. We all knew something would happen sooner or later, and you might know I was the unfortunate one to be there when it  did.  Austin and I were with her that weekend, Austin had just left to go to Yorkville to see his brother and she told me she had to go to the bathroom and didn't want to use the commode in her bedroom, but wanted to go in the bathroom. It was a very small bathroom, neither she nor I were small women and she fell trying to get on the toilet.  She suffered greatly all day Sunday before being taken to the hospital by ambulance on Monday (Feb. 25th and she died at Copley Hospital on March 7.  Her hip was broken, but they couldn't set it and she suffered terribly all that time   as they turned her every few hours to keep from getting bed sores    Hope you don't mind my passing this info on.  I've always been thankful that neither one of them had Alzheimers and were "with it" to the end.  Hope I can stay that way.  You're right - they used to call it "hardening of the arteries"   and we'd hear of cerebrial hemorrages - today's strokes."


My mother was adopted by Edward and Pearl (Haag) Hill after they had been unable to have children of their own. These were the grandparents who lived 3 blocks away from us at 415 North Ave in Aurora, IL. After they adopted my mother, they were blessed with one daughter of their own, Dorothy (DeeDee) who was born on the same day as my dad's sister Grace. By the time I was in kindergarten, I was allowed to walk to their house to visit sometimes. I never learned much about Grandpa's youth, other than his father Orlando had died and his mother had remarried Charles Watson. I don't know if it was due to his age or circumstances, but I was always of the impression that Grandpa didn't have a good relationship with his stepfather. I met his sister Ida a few times, but that was the whole of his family that I knew anything about. Grandpa loved Chicago Cubs baseball, Blackjack gum and chewing tobacco. There was always a nasty smelling spittoon on the floor next to where he sat on the couch. Grandpa would still occasionally drive his old Chrysler sometimes when I was quite young, but mostly, it just sat in the basement garage. He had diabetes, was on a regimented diet and took insulin shots. My aunt, DeeDee was pretty much his caregiver as long as I can remember. He passed away in November, 1970, just a few months before my mother. She was too ill to make it to his funeral, but they were able to take her to the funeral home the day before so she could say her good-byes.
My Grandma Hill was my favorite, just because she was the one I was closest to and she was the one who would tell me stories about her childhood. I learned how she didn't know how to speak English when she first went to school and how far she had to walk to get there. She'd tell me stories about playing with her cats on the farm when she was young and about how her hair was so long she could sit on it. I must have really loved her stories of the "kitties" on the farm, because one year for Christmas she gave me a hand-embroidered dresser scarf with a gray kitten embroidered on each end. I still own the remnants of that dresser scarf and have always thought I'd like to sew the kittens onto something else to pass on to one of my granddaughters. 
As the only daughter of William and Eleanora (Hansing) Haag, she inherited all of the properties that her father built and she worked very hard to keep the yards and the buildings well-maintained. There was another whole lot that butted up against the back of the house lot that was called "the garden." It had flowers and, at one time, I'm sure there were vegetables, but most of all I remember hearing about the drudgery of mowing the garden and seeing the evidence of her legs being chewed up by the chiggers in the process. I imagine that at one time, during my mother's youth maybe even in my brothers' youth, the backyard of the house was beautiful. There was an enormous weeping willow tree and a goldfish pond. Grandma Hill started to get sick shortly after we moved to Wisconsin. Back then, we were told it was "hardening of the arteries." Today, it would be better classified as Alzheimer's. She began to lose her memory, began to hallucinate and live in the past. She became paranoid that people were trying to break in and rob the house. In one fit of paranoia, she took the old Haag family Bible and tore out, and destroyed, all the pages of family history. As I've tried to work on family history,that part is the saddest part for me. At one point, she ran out of the house in the middle of the night in her nightgown and ran down the block to the church. The police had to bring her home. For a little while after that, my parents tried to bring her to Watertown to stay with us on the farm to give DeeDee a little break since she still had to care for Grandpa and maintain the apartment buildings by herself. I was responsible for keeping Grandma company and entertained and feeding her meals when I wasn't in school. It was after that, the doctor suggested they try shock therapy for her and they admitted her to the hospital. As you would expect, shock therapy did nothing to help the disease and after she returned home, she just continued to get worse and worse. I remember feeling heartbroken when I would hear her lying in bed and just crying out for her Mama. It was one of those times that I became rude to my grandfather the only time in my life. Mom, Dad, Bill and I were all in the living room of her house. They had pulled out the studio couch (aka  Hide-a-Bed nowadays) for her to lay on which meant Grandpa had to get off of his spot on the couch. Mom was trying to make sure Grandma was comfortable and kept asking her if she was okay, while Grandma just cried. Grandpa gruffly said, "She's fine!" Irritated at my grandpa for being so abrupt and, seemingly, unfeeling for my Grandma, I looked at him and rudely said "How would you know? You can't feel what she's feeling!"  At that outburst, I was on the receiving end of a reprimand of my own from Bill for talking to our grandfather so disrespectfully. I suspect I was sent out of the room at that point, as that's the end of my memory, although the rest of it is still vivid. Grandma passed away in April, 1965, just two years after we had begun moving to Wisconsin. Grandma, Grandpa and DeeDee are all buried in the Spring Lake Cemetery in Aurora, Illinois surrounded by other Haag/Hansing relatives.

The truly crazy, interesting part of the story of my grandparents has begun to unfold since 2013. My mother had always wanted to find her birth parents, but never wanted to look while her parents were still living. At one point, she started to write a novel beginning with her vague memory of the orphanage she lived in. She was told the following about her pre-adoptive life: 

• She had a twin brother who passed away of whooping cough in the orphanage
• She had several older brothers and sisters
• Her father was a traveling minister who died trying to catch a train to go to his second parish on a Sunday between services
• She and her twin were put in the orphanage to be cared for while their mother worked to be able to better care for her family
• When the orphanage informed her mother of the boy's death, they told the mother that they had both died
• Every year, Grandma Hill took Mom on the train into Chicago to visit "a lady" until the day she asked who that lady was. They never went again, but she had a book of Cinderella that was given to her by the lady that was signed "Virginia."
• She was actually a year older than she had been told her whole life up to the time she married my father and had to get a copy of her birth certificate!

Some of that is truth. Other parts are false. Since 2013, Josh, Brooks and I have been working whenever we can to try to unravel pieces of my mother's past. Here's what we've learned

• Mom was indeed a twin; the second born; Baby #5 of 5 born to Alice Gustafson Voorhees. Her twin brother, Elmer, died on his 2nd birthday (according to Illinois Deaths and Stillbirths Record) and was buried in Arlington Cemetery.
• There were 3 older siblings. Eleanor (Johnson) appears to have been born out of wedlock to Alice and was listed in census records as a border. (Not an uncommon thing for illegitimate children, I've been told). After Alice married Ted Victor Voorhees, she had 2 more children before the twins on May 1, 1921. The twins' birth certificates have only Voorhees and the word "Deceased" for the father's name.
• Ted had varying occupations in census records, one being a minister. We have a photo of a newspaper article about Rev. Ted Voorhees and I have a copy of a book he wrote. He used magic to teach about God...quite a different take on religion!
• Using census and selective service records, Ted was still living in the east until he died in the 60s. He had a second marriage and on that marriage license he claimed his first marriage ended in divorce in March of 1920.
• No divorce records have been located. Were they really divorced and accurate records weren't kept? Did Ted walk out on Alice in 1920 and consider that his divorce? Did Alice get so upset with Ted when he left that he was "dead" to her? Did Ted come back and have a final fling with Alice five or six months after he left? Or, did Alice produce two more illegitimate offspring, give them Ted's last name and put them up for adoption? I know Alice is my true grandmother, but is Ted my true grandfather???
• A man named Bernard Ward reached out to me after finding that I had Ted Voorhees in my family tree on MyHeritage.com . Ted was his grandfather and told me that there were family rumors that he had a first marriage, but the family never spoke of it. His mother had passed away, but her two sisters were still living, but he refused to give me any contact information for them, as he said they are elderly and it would be too upsetting for them.Census record!s show Ted having three daughters (Virginia, Jolinda and Marilyn) which fits the information Bernard gave me. Time to try to track down the sisters myself!

Family History. Such a fascinating topic with so many different directions to take to learn about ancestors. In addition to the confusion with the Voorhees line, there is much to learn about the Staffeldts, the Zielkes, the Hansings and the Haags with their eastern European connections; and then what of Orlando Hill? What was his story? So much to learn and it doesn't seem like there's ever enough time to dedicate to it! When I was younger, I wondered how "old people" could spend so much time on their genealogy! Now, I know!!!

EY #11: Tell about special experiences you remember with your parents

How does one choose the "special experiences" to write about? When your parents have been gone as long as mine have, EVERY memory is a special experience. There were far too few of them and I think they're reflected in many of my other posts.

A special experience with my dad was generally something that I did with him; like sitting on his lap while we watched TV, learning to ride my bike, trying to help with the milking. Those little things mean a lot. One memory does stand out; My father had arranged a fishing trip with some friends on Lake Superior; an opportunity to catch some big fish and just hang out with friends. I'm not quite sure how Lanie and I ended up going along, but I'm certain it involved some begging and pleading on my part, because they were TOTALLY unprepared to have two teenage girls along. I know I  had no interest in actually fishing, but I loved being on the water. There wasn't much in the way of food to eat for a day on the boat and the only beverage available was beer! That didn't stop Lanie; she liked beer. I had never developed a taste for it; at least at that point in my life. The cabin on the fishing boat was rather small and we had no desire to be inside anyway, so we spent most of the day out in the wind and sun; enjoying the day. Until Lanie got seasick. Whether it was from the rocking boat, the beer or the lack of food to go with the beer, but she was SICK! And I got sunburned! My arms, my face, even the part in my hair was beet red and I was in pain. I also don't remember much sympathy for either of us from my dad. He never said it, but was probably hoping I'd learn a lesson from it; that sometimes it's just better for a kid to stay "home," which in this case would have meant staying at our cabin in Corny where I would have had food, drink and been able to get in the water whenever I wanted... It was a special experience though, 'cause it was with my dad and it definitely created a memory for both Lanie and me.

One more "special" memory of my dad is of the bookcase he built me. Now, mind you, he was a carpenter. He built houses, not furniture. But, the summer after my freshman year of college as I was preparing to move into the Zeta house for the first time, I  asked him to build me a bookcase, because every room didn't have one and I knew I'd NEED one! So he built one. Out of solid oak 2x6s with a sheet of paneling nailed to the back. He tried to stain the wood to match the paneling, but the stain was too dark, so he painted the paneling to match the stain. It was sturdy. It was heavier than I could move by myself. And, it was ugly as sin. But it was mine. He built it for me and I moved it from room to room in college, with me throughout my married life and after my divorce. Barton's daughter Abigail is now the proud owner of my bookcase, although Emily painted it white to match her bed, so it looks better now; still as sturdy as can be. The thing that made that bookcase all the more special was the fact that it was the last thing my dad ever did for me. He delivered it to me at Millikin in September of my sophomore year; he passed away six months later.

One memory of my mother minimizes every other memory I have of her. It was Christmas eve and my mother wanted to attend the candlelight Christmas Eve service at church, three blocks from our 4th street home. It was a pleasant winter evening; not too cold; no snow, so we decided to walk. The service began at 11:00 pm and got out at midnight. The service was beautiful, the spirit was strong and when we exited the church we were greeted by a beautiful snowfall! Nice big flakes, gently falling from the sky. The night was quiet; no sound except for the church bells playing Christmas hymns. As we walked home, we didn't talk much; rather just enjoyed the time together, the spirit that followed us after the service, and the beautiful snowfall. That memory has stayed with me through the years and every Christmas Eve, I long to attend a traditional candlelit worship service. Unfortunately, it's hard to find a church that offers that same tranquil, reverent feeling of that Christmas so long ago. I remember the Christmas Eve after Mom passed away. I was driving by then and had come home from someone's home (probably Lanie's) and as I pulled into the garage, I realized that our driveway needed to be shoveled. I got out of the car grabbed the shovel and as I began to go to work to clear the drive, the churchbells began to chime. I stopped and listened for a few moments as tears filled my eyes with the memory of my special Christmas Eve with my mother just a few years before. How I wished she was there with me that night, when suddenly I knew that she was and I returned to my task with peace, joy in my heart and a smile on my face.

EY #10 Part II: Tell about the political background in your home

Politics were not regularly discussed when I was growing up. At least I don't remember it. It is obvious to me, however, that my parents were staunch Republicans. My earliest recollection of any kind of a discussion about politics was in 1960 when Kennedy was running against Nixon. I still remember being in the living room and hearing my father's raised voice as he was talking to someone in the kitchen. I don't recall the specifics, but I do remember reference to Kennedy's 1) religion (Catholic vs Dad's Lutheran upbringing), 2)his nationality (Irish vs Dad's German-Polish ancestry) 3) his family money buying his way into politics and, 4) worst of all, his reputation and disloyalty to his wife. I don't particularly recall Dad's endorsement of Nixon, but I DO remember his vehement opposition to Kennedy.

I doubt that Dad cared one way or another when Kennedy was assassinated, except from the standpoint that it put Johnson into office, who was apparently EVEN WORSE!

I doubt that my dad was very pleased when five years later I showed my first interest in the presidential election and Bobby Kennedy was my candidate. Racial inequality and the Viet Nam war were the hot topics in the country and Bobby made sense to me. I liked the things he said, I was probably a bit sympathetic to him since his brother had been assassinated and I may or may not have had a little crush on his second son... After his assassination in June of that year, my obsession with him continued, but my interest in politics dwindled.

When the Watergate scandal broke and President Nixon resigned, I pretty much gave up on politics all together, deciding that they were all a bunch of criminals; it was just that some got caught while others didn't. That's pretty much still my philosophy about politicians....

I remember being an advocate of the right for 18-year-olds to vote since they could be sent to war and I registered to vote as soon as the law passed and I turned 18. I've been a registered voter ever since. That doesn't mean, however, that I've always voted. 

In 1976, I was in college, three hours from home and Gerald Ford (who had inherited the presidency from Nixon) was running against Jimmy Carter (who I really didn't like). Going back to my philosophy that they're all a bunch of crooks anyway, I decided I was not going to go home to vote or apply for an absentee ballot. As the election drew near, Randy (my fiance at the time) asked me if I had done an absentee ballot. I told him no and got a lecture about how it was my civic responsibility to vote, even though he wasn't even registered!!! When I told him it was too late to get an absentee ballot at that point, he told me I needed to go home on election day. Nope. Wasn't gonna do that! Dad was gone. Al was living at home with his witch of a second wife and I had no desire to run into her just to vote for a presidential candidate I didn't even like! We debated this fact all the way to election day when Randy showed up at the Zeta house and DROVE ME all the way to Aurora to cast my ballot. I was so irritated that when he asked me which candidate I was going to vote for, I told him that since I didn't like Ford or Carter, I guessed I'd just vote for the communist candidate. That earned me another lecture! When we pulled up at the neighborhood polling place, he asked me once again who I was voting for. My response was that I had already told him. As I slammed the car door, I heard him yell to me that I couldn't do that!!! When I came back out, he asked me once again who I had voted for. I smiled at him and replied that a person's vote is their personal privilege and I didn't need to tell ANYONE who I voted for. To this day, I've never told him or another soul.

EY #5: Tell about places you lived

Since this post is to reference my "early years," there aren't a lot of places to tell about, but there is plenty to tell about them. I lived in exactly two houses before I left home for college. I don't have access to my pictures of either house right now, but at some future date, I'll add photos of them to this post.

My first home was one built by my great-grandfather William Haag, my maternal grandmother's father. I never really heard it said, but I'm of the impression that the Haag family was fairly well off, at least prior to the depression.While I know Grandma (Haag) Hill was raised on a farm, at some point they moved into "town" (Aurora) and great-grandpa Haag began building houses. They were multiple family dwellings and whether they were built with the intent of income as rental units or to keep the family close together, I'm unsure.
There is a great deal of history behind the houses at 415 and 425 North Avenue and 450 S 4th Street in Aurora, but for the purpose of this post, I'm to focus on the one I lived in.

When I was born, my family was living in the 4th Street house. It was about 3 blocks from Copley Hospital where I was born and my mother walked there. The 4th Street house was a huge 2-story building with one upper and one lower flat, a full basement and a walk up attic that went the full length of the house. Each floor had an entryway, a living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, 2 bedrooms, a sun porch off the kitchen and a huge front porch off the entryway. The house had beautiful oak cabinets, flooring and trim. Each level also had a gorgeous colonnade. On the lower floor, it separated the living room from the dining room; on the upper floor it separated the entry from the living room. The upper flat also had an oak staircase that went down to the lower front porch.

For my first few years, I slept in my parents' room of the lower flat and my brothers had the second bedroom. I'm guessing I was around 4 or 5 when my dad did some remodeling and turned the back porch into a bedroom for my brothers and I moved into their old room. While doing the remodel on the main floor, he added a cement block foundation under the boys' room and knocked out a "doorway" into the original basement. That new room in the basement became the "train room." My brothers had a huge train set with buildings and "trees" to create a whole community. You had to crawl  under the table to get to the middle operating section of the train. I don't remember ever being allowed to run the train, but I remember enjoying being with my brothers while they did. The steam engine and the hand car were especially fascinating to me.

Before the remodel, we had a good-sized fenced in backyard with a big old tree, my swing set and a bunny hutch. My brothers had a couple of rabbits: Copper and Snowball. One day, they found Copper dead in the hutch with a bee bee in her head. Someone had purposely shot her. They suspected it was the ornery neighbor boys, but there was no proof. Snowball was donated to the Phillips Park Zoo shortly thereafter and the following year a visit to the zoo had a large number of pure white rabbits hopping around! In addition to the tame rabbits in our yard, we had a squirrel named Skippy. Why Skippy? Because I could take a Skippy peanut butter sandwich out to the yard, put it in the tree and then step back and watch as Skippy came to eat it.

Another phase of remodeling at the 4th Street house involved tearing down the old 1 car garage and replacing it with a 3-car garage where the backyard used to be and pouring a large driveway from the alley to the garage. (That driveway is where I learned to ride my bike.) Now there was plenty of parking available for both apartments.

I also remember being in elementary school and noticing a hole in the dining room wall that was about 2" in diameter. I asked my mother why there was a hole in our wall and she told me that I had done it. I was appalled! I couldn't imagine that I would have done anything to create a hole...she must have been mistaken! Then she told me the story. Apparently, when I was still in my walker, I had gotten hold of a spoon in the kitchen. As I've mentioned before, I was a quiet child and by the time my mother came looking for me, the damage was done. She caught me with my feet propped up on the wall, sitting on the seat of my walker and digging away at the plaster with the spoon. Since my dad was a carpenter by trade, I know it would have been an easy fix, so I'm not really certain why the hole was still there years later, unless it was to just be able to show me what I had done and tell me the story of it later!

My dad always wanted to return to farming; to have a farm of his own and when I was in 2nd grade, he bought a farm in Watertown, Wisconsin. The farm was still owned by the original family, the Mullens who also owned the dairy in town. Dad and Al moved to Wisconsin right away to start to build the herd of cows and to do the spring planting. Mom stayed behind with Bill and me as Bill was finishing his senior year of high school. Weekend trips were the norm until school got out and we moved north to join Dad and Al.

The house on the 160-acre farm was a cape cod style house that replaced the original old farmhouse that was destroyed in a fire. The front porch of the house was still from the original house and a partial wall around the back patio was also a wall of the old house. The patio was actually poured over all the remnants and debris of the fire. The house had a living room, kitchen, 2 bedrooms and a bath on the first floor with 2 bedrooms and three small walk-in attic spaces off the bedrooms upstairs. I claimed the largest of the attic spaces to be my Barbie room. It had the two windows from the front of the house for some natural light and was off my walk-in closet.

We had a huge barn, with a great hay mow and grain bins. The hay mow was complete with generations of bats that gave my brothers and dad plenty of opportunities for target practice with the "22." The barn had an electric barn cleaner for the manure, 3 pens for calves and a stinky silo that had the most amazing echo! My sister-in-law, Marcia, recently told me that the barn has been torn down. Other buildings on the farm were a large tool shed (large enough to store the tractors), a couple of corn cribs, a chicken coop and brooder house, and a hog barn. The barnyard was surrounded on three sides by the barn, the hog barn and the chicken coop/brooder house/garage. There was a small pasture behind the hog barn for the pigs and ponies and a large pasture a ways from all the buildings, surrounded by the fields. The pasture area wasn't suitable for growing anything except grass as the soil there was boggy and it housed a knoll that my mother swore was an Indian burial ground. 

My dad planted alfalfa, oats and field corn and we usually had about 40-50 head of cattle. I had my own Ayrshire cow named Ada. She was a homely thing; actually mixed Ayrshire and Holstein. She gave me my baby bull, Bambi who my dad told me he had sold. I was distraught the day I learned we were eating him, but in retrospect, he was some pretty good eating. Dad was patient with me and let me name a lot of the calves that were born; most memorable being Valentine (born on Valentine's Day, of course) and Venus, just 2 days younger than Valentine. I only remember one pig's name: Skunk. Not exactly sure why my dad named him that. It's not like one pig smelled any worse than another...

I got to host a Halloween party two of the four Halloweens we lived in Wisconsin. I invited all the kids from my class in school and played all the typical games like bobbing for apples with a grand finale of a hay ride. That was a lot of fun until my brother got annoyed with one of the girls who kept horsing around on the wagon so he hung her upside down by the feet off the back of the wagon!

Friends from Illinois always came to visit for a weekend, since we were just 2 hours away from Aurora.And some of our friends would come stay for a week or more. One of my brother's friends, Steve would spend the whole summer with us! His dad was our milkman in Aurora and since "Oleo" (margarine) was illegal to sell in the "dairy state," he would bring the contraband for my mother to put in our freezer whenever they came to visit.

The last couple of years we were in Wisconsin, Dad gradually got away from the dairy/livestock and focused on crops. He purchased a combine and a sprayer and hired himself out to spray and then harvest crops for other farmers in the area.

I loved living on the farm; being surrounded by animals and fresh air. I cried myself to sleep the night I found out my parents had sold the farm, 2 days before my 12th birthday. Grandma Hill had Alzheimer's and had passed away about a year before and DeeDee was having a hard time taking care of Grandpa and all the rental properties alone. So, back to Aurora we went.

Back to the same house. Although, this time we lived in the upstairs flat as my brother Al and his wife Marcia were living in the lower unit. Shortly after moving in, Dad began to remodel the small upstairs kitchen. He tore out all the old original oak cabinets as well as the wall to the sun porch. The porch became a dining nook and he ordered all new modern kitchen cabinetry with built in stainless steel appliances. He also carpeted the back stairs with a new phenomena: indoor/outdoor carpeting!!!  Each floor also got a new remodeled bathroom which, sadly, meant the removal of the claw-foot bathtubs on each floor. The upstairs front porch was a great place to spend a hot summer night and with the security/privacy it offered, was a great place to sleep on those really hot nights.

Living back in the same house with Al, gave me opportunities to "play" with my big brother again; all the games he made up with balloons or kicking a tennis ball through the holes in the block on the front porch. It was great having Marcia there too. She was the big sister I never had and she always treated me well. Their children were born there, Gail, literally, was born in the house and I loved being able to run downstairs to see my niece and nephew or hear them coming up the back steps on a Saturday morning yelling for me to make them breakfast!

I truly loved that house. I loved the memories and I loved the tradition. I never returned "home" anymore after my dad died. Al had gotten divorced and lived there with his new wife, Ellen, Dad was gone and it just didn't feel like home anymore. We sold the house in 1980 when I was living in Utah, Al was in Florida and Bill was in Michigan. It just didn't make sense to hold on to it with no one there to take care of it or appreciate it. Whenever I have the opportunity to return to Aurora for a visit, though, it always includes a drive by the old 4th Street house where I shed a tear or two as I remember my life there and the rich family heritage that went with it.

EY #4: How did you contribute to the family, financial or otherwise?

As the "baby of the family," I was actually pretty spoiled without many expectations other than to do my best in school. On the other hand, I was a pretty quiet child who didn't particularly like messes, so I didn't create many. My bedroom was generally well organized because I liked having things in their proper places.

As I got older, my mother did teach me how to help with some household chores. I loved running the vacuum, but probably didn't do a very good  job of it. I believe I only ran it in the open spaces. I still remember the day she taught me to dust. I was in kindergarten. She taught me to aim the Pledge at whatever I was going to dust, push the button on top of the can and then wipe it with the dust cloth. What she DIDN'T teach me was to make sure the hole where the spray came out was pointed at the object I was dusting. (Cans didn't have the safety caps they do now to direct the spray.) As you've probably guessed, I sprayed the Pledge directly in my eyes! I don't think I finished dusting that day...but I learned to be much more cautious the next time!

When we moved to the farm in Wisconsin, I joined 4H. Not being too enthused about raising animals to take to the fair, I took the homemaking route and learned the "proper" way to do dishes: glasses first, silverware second, then plates and bowls and finally cookware (with the greasiest/messiest pans last). I still get twitches if I see someone wash glasses after the messy plates!

I also began to learn to sew under the direction of my aunt, Miem. I got better at sewing after 1-1/2 years of sewing classes in Jr. High and began to make a lot of my own clothes. I suppose that was a financial contribution to the family as it was pretty cheap to sew your own clothes. I even made myself a coat in high school!

On occasion, I would try to help in the barn at milking time. I would try to carry the milk pails from a cow to pour into the milk can, but unless the cow was a poor milker, the pails were generally too heavy for me to carry and then lift to pour into the can. My dad taught me how to scrape the manure off the barn floor into the trough that cleaned the manure out of the barn, but I think I purposely didn't do a very good job of it so he wouldn't ask me to do that anymore. I mean, I loved being close to my dad and feeling like I was helping, but let's face it. Manure STINKS  and I did NOT want to scrape and shovel manure on a regular basis. So, the best way I learned to help at milking time was feeding the cows. We had a rolling bin that had ground feed in it. Each cow received a specific amount of feed and I had to know which cows got 1, 1-1/2 or 2 scoops. I had some good conversations with the cows as I walked to each one and they said "thank you" with their beautiful, big brown eyes. Maybe that's when I fell in love with brown eyes....

Long about 6th grade, when I actually started to worry about what my hair looked like and I learned how to wash and "set" it, I also started to do my mom's hair for her between visits to the beauty parlor for a perm.She had thin, really straight hair and when the perms faded, it could be quite the challenge to make it look good. When I would try to curl my daughter, Sami's hair when she was little, I was always reminded of doing my mom's hair. That same thin, straight hair was best just put into a ponytail!

My real family contributions came later than that though, when I was around 14 and my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I didn't realize she was doing it at the time, but my mother began to train me to take over for her. She taught me how to keep the books for my father's construction jobs, how to pay the bills and how to balance the checkbook. She taught me how to do the laundry and clean the bathroom. She taught me how to babysit my niece and nephew (Dan & Gail) who lived downstairs, which really taught me how to be a mom. She taught me about responsibility for my Grandpa and aunt, DeeDee who lived three blocks away. As she got sicker, I learned patient care as I had to help her to the bathroom or change the bandages covering the holes in her breast that burned through to her back from the radiation therapy.

By the time Mom passed away, 8 days before my 16th birthday, I was effectively running the house and when I got my driver's license a few short months later, I was also doing all the banking, weekly grocery shopping and other household errands after school and on the weekends. As I mentioned responsibility for Grandpa and Dee, I also made sure DeeDee  got to the grocery store, her bank and doctor appointments. (Grandpa passed away three months before Mom did.)

It's funny. Writing all this makes it sound like I did a lot; like I had a lot of responsibility and contributed a lot. It never really felt like that though. It was my home. It was my family. I can't imagine NOT doing those things that I did, especially after my mom got sick. But, now as I look at my grandchildren, I can't imagine them DOING all the things that I accepted as a part of life. Comparing ages with my granddaughters, I can't imagine Abigail scraping manure in the barn or feeding the cows. I can't imagine Soni doing Sami's hair. And I can't imagine Andi, Cari or Sarai being responsible for running the household or maintaining the family budget. I have no doubt that they could, I'm just thankful none of them have to...