A day in San Francisco and a family reunion at the Marin Headlands

Last Thursday morning, Elisabeth, Aleks and I hopped on a plane bound for the Bay Area.  The purpose was two-fold: first we’d play in the City for a day and then we’d play with relatives at a family reunion at the Marin Headlands, a beautiful national recreation area just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. 

It would have been great if all six of us could have gone, but Peter had just used up all his vacation days on a trip to Ireland and Germany, Kat was at the tail-end of a month-long trip to Southeast Asia, and Tom… well, we unfortunately miscalculated when Kat would arrive home, thinking it’d be in the middle of our weekend away and we wanted someone to pick her up and be home with her on her first days back, and Tom volunteered to do that since he is also saving vacation days for our upcoming family trip to Europe (details on that to come!).  BUT, as it turns out, she arrived home on Monday morning so Tom stayed home and worked on the house bought a Ducati motorcycle.

I digress.  Already!

(Yes, he really did buy a new fancy-shmancy Ducati motorcycle… and no, I don’t want to talk about it just yet.)

Going on a trip with just Aleks and Elisabeth turned out to be great fun.  It’s not unusual that the twins are paired together, or kids are paired by gender, or even oldest two/youngest two.  But THIS pairing was one that had never really taken place for a big excursion.  Turns out it was a great pairing and we were all a great trio!

I had landed a great deal for a night at the Palace Hotel, a San Francisco luxury hotel that normally would have been out of our league.  Look at this dining room!

Aren’t  you just thinking, “How do you take your caviar, sir?”  Or “Jack, draw me like one of your French girls.”

The hotel -- built in 1875 and then renovated after two earthquakes, in 1909 and again in 1991 -- is stunning!

(The linens were absolutely decadent!)

On Friday morning, the three of us set off to do some exploring.  First we hit Chinatown.

At one point, Elisabeth insisted that we follow her down a slightly creep alley, saying she knew of something we might find interesting.

It’s a fortune cookie factory!  (The term “factory” is definitely used loosely.)

I paid the 50 cents, which allows me to show you this:

This is how a fortune cookie is made!

After that, we did some tea tasting and then looked for a place to eat, which we found in North Beach.  Funny thing -- on one side of the street you’re in China, then you cross the street and you’re suddenly in Italy!

A bit more walking…

… and then we boarded a ferry for Sausalito, where my aunt Ulli picked us up and brought us to the Marin Headlands where we met up with the rest of the whole fam-damily. 

I lived in the Bay Area for my first 25 years and would you believe that I had never done this boat trip?!  I had, however, spent many a day and weekend on a boat in the Bay, as my parents always owned a sailboat and most weekends we’d spend at least one day sailing on the Bay.  It was a love-hate relationship for me because I would have rather (at that time) spent the weekends with friends.

When we arrived in Sausalito, my aunt Ulli and her husband Michael picked us up and drove us westward over the hills.  This is what you see as you start to drive along the road from Sausalito to the Marin Headlands. 

And once you go through the tunnel and around that first curve, the view looks more like this:

Finally the Golden Gate comes into full view.  Amazing! (And I grew up there.  Still, amazing!)

Ten minutes later we arrived at the Marin Headlands Hostel, the site of our upcoming family reunion.  This entire area was once  an old army settlement. 

And then, the onslaught.  Heumanns everywhere!  Siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws…die ganze Mishpocheh!

 

And that big crowd around the table was only a partial clan! (All this from a couple of German immigrants!)  Quite a few cousins were missing – my brother’s two girls, Niki and Dawn, my Peter, Kat, and some others.  Imagine if we’d all been able to go!  (Stay tuned for Niki’s wedding in September.  We will ALL be there!)

On the first evening, my father (“Opa”) did something that will always put a lump in my throat and tug at my heart.  He continued to bequeath upon his family things that have been meaningful to him in his life – each one with a letter that begins “I have decided to pass on things that mean something to me and that come with a story that must be told (…) and I want to do so ‘with warm hands’.”

Each gift has significant personal meaning for him and was chosen specifically for the person to whom it was bequeathed.  First Dad gave my younger brother Chris an apron from the days when my parents owned and ran the Neil Creek House Bed & Breakfast in Ashland, Oregon.  That logo, and the picture on this apron, features the bridge over Neil Creek, which Chris had helped Dad build in the 80’s.

Next, Opa handed a box to Chris’ three daughters, Hannah, Abbi, and Olivia.  In it were many of Omi’s favorite textiles, mostly tablecloths and mostly Bavarian.

Then my older brother Stephan’s children, TJ (Opa’s only male Heumann hier) and Isabel, received the silverware, engraved with a German scripted “H” (), which my dad so carefully protected after the war and which he brought to America in 1953. 

And then this happened:

THIS one deserves its own post, which I’ll try to write tomorrow.  (Here it is.)  Suffice it to say that it’s intense and poignant and even historically significant.  Here’s a tease from the letter Aleks is reading: “In official papers, (my father) was called “Der Jude…”  I took this ID from his body which I found in the basement of the ruins of our house in March, 1945.”

(Deep breath.)

Later that evening, we were treated to this incredibleness from Hannah, Chris’ 16-year-old daughter (yes, you can say you knew someone who knew her when):

(Deep breath.)

10-year-old Isabel, Hannah was absolutely mesmerized by Hannah’s singing!  Hannah noticed and so sweetly spent at least half an hour working with Isabel to explore both the words and the music.

A few minutes later, Isabel was at the piano, playing and singing the same song!

Our two days at the hostel of the Marin Headlands were spent reconnecting, cooking, eating, and exploring.

The hostel’s large kitchen allowed our group to prepare delicious meals which we then ate in the hostel’s large dining room.

Even cleaning up was fun, and a total team effort!

The Marin Headlands are beautiful, and we explored the area fully. 

First we took a short walk along the lagoon, re-connecting with relatives we hadn’t seen in a while.  My dad and Lou live in Southern Oregon and my family lives in the Seattle area, but other than us, everyone lives in the Bay Area.

I loved watching Aleks and his Opa reconnect.  Those two really understand each other.

The kids (kids and “kids”) found a gorgeous tree to climb.  Much frivolity ensued!

After lunch, we all hiked to the Point Bonita Lighthouse.  I’d lived in the Bay Area for my entire childhood and had never been here!  Unforgiveable!  (Well, maybe forgivable, since this was military land during that time.)

The views along the way were stunning!  They would have been even more stunning had it not been such a hazy day.

…and of course there were lots of photo ops with people in front of the stunning views. 

Aleks and Elisabeth…

Opa and Lou…

Kids ‘n’ me…

My “little” brother Chris (fabulous organizer and project manager of this entire reunion escapade – thanks Chris!) and his beautiful wife, Amy…

…and various cousins, aunts, and uncles:

See that bridge?  That swinging, moving bridge way up high over treacherous ocean and rocks?  Yeah, that.

This girl was like a puppy dog – skipping back and forth across the swinging bridge.

“Ya coming, Mom?”

She might kill me for posting this adorable picture of her…

…but I’ll redeem myself by posting this one:

Chris and Amy’s girls brought bubbles.  It was delightful!

That evening, Chris called out, “I’m leaving to watch the sunset on the beach in 30 seconds.  Anyone who wants to go, pile into the car!”  Some of us did.  It was wonderful!

And then a bit of silliness took over.

Can you tell that I adore my “baby brother”?  (Yeah, my 50-something-year-old baby brother.  Ha!)

On our last morning, before heading our separate ways again, some of us took a last hike together.

Thanks Chris, for making this family reunion so wonderful!  Your organizational skills are second to none and I’ll bet that, had you not chosen to be a junior high school teacher (and we’re so glad you did because you ROCK at it!), you could have been a fabulous PM at Microsoft.  Er, I mean Google! 

Until we meet again (which will be this September at Niki’s wedding, the first of Omi and Opa’s grandchildren to marry!), I love you all!

Once upon a time, a pretty dang long time ago…

…30 years, to be exact, this happened:

Er, I mean this happened:


It was an amazing day and I just knew with such certainty that it would lead to an amazing life!
It had all begun six years previous, when Tom was an RA at Santa Cruz dorm at UCSB, where I was a lowly sophomore.  I had such a crush on him that I did things like sneak pictures of him when he was doing his laundry.

Eventually, I convinced him that he should ditch that other broad and be with me.  Thank goodness for my powers of persuasion!


…and by the time I graduated two years later, he had relented and was beginning to get used to the idea of “that redheaded girl” being his g-g-g-irlfriend.


A year later we went through some turmoil that would, in the end, “seal the deal” and then this happened:

Since then, it’s been (mostly) the amazing and wonderful ride that I had predicted.  Sure, we’ve had some rough patches; what couple doesn’t?  But for the most part, this journey called marriage has been fulfilling and happy and a whole lot of fun.  It helps when you’re best friends from the start and I was lucky to have chosen a man who is absolutely deep-down good and kind and compassionate and caring.  (Most of the time… sheesh – he’s not perfect!)
And hey, look at the four characters we created together!


Not bad for a couple of kids in love, eh?
On our 25th anniversary I posted about the “25 things I’ve learned in 25 years of marriage.” Do I have five more for our 30th?  Sure, and they reflect where we are in that marriage:
26. Make new traditions together.  We’re talking about getting an RV and doing some traveling, just the two of us.  We’re done with raising kids and remodeling houses!  Let’s PLAY!
27. Plan for your own financial future.  For so many years, “planning for the future” meant saving for four college educations.  Now that that’s behind us, we’re putting considerable effort and resources into planning for our own future.  It’s not exactly romantic, but it’s important.
28. Perish the pettiness.  I’m not sure why, but petty arguments tend to get nipped in the bud these days, by both of us.  Whereas we used to each feel a need to win and earn one-upmanship, we now let things slide a whole lot more.  The little things just aren’t as important anymore.  I wish we would have learned this years ago.
29. Appreciate each moment together.  More than ever, I am cognizant of the possibility that I could lose Tom suddenly and without warning at any moment.  It is a terrifying thought. And that’s all I want to say about it because it is THAT terrifying.
30. Keep the romance alive.  Toward that end, look what Tom gave me last night!  (OK, in truth, I actually saw it first and asked him to come back to the store with me…)

As I told Tom this morning, I’d marry him all over again.  Of all the decisions I’ve made in my life, the decision to marry him (after I persuaded him to ask me!) was the best one I ever made.
Happy anniversary m’dear (which is about as pet-namey as we get).  Here’s to (gulp!) 30 more years together!

Two days before our 30th wedding anniversary and I can finally say it: we are DONE remodeling houses!

Tom and I have owned three houses since we’ve been married and I can honestly say that most weekends in those (almost) 30 years have been spent “working on the house.”  Our first house in Oceanside, California was brand new, so most of Tom’s work in that house was spent outside, building a yard.  It was his first big project and everything he did, he did alone (I was inside wrangling four kidlets!), just figuring things out as he went along.  Here’s the yard a few weeks after we moved in (look at preschooler Elisabeth and toddler Peter!):

(That’s Tasha, our only non-Golden Retriever dog.  We eventually ended up giving her away because she couldn’t be completely trusted with the kids… probably because we were too busy with said kids to train her properly.)

And here’s the yard just before we sold the house in 1993, five years later (and yes, it took the full five years to create this):

(Kat!)

(Aleks!)

I loved that yard and that house and that neighborhood and our neighbors and all of it.  I think I’ll always be able to say that some of my happiest years were spent in that house.

From there, we moved to another brand new house in another brand new neighborhood, this time in Richland, Washington.

Tom did plenty of work inside, but it was mostly of the “make-it-feel-like-ours” variety.  I don’t even have any “before” photos of our back yard, but imagine a whole lot of dirt, dust, and sagebrush – because that’s what Eastern Washington consists of! 

When we sold the house in 1995 a mere 18 months after buying it (Tom hated his job at Hanford and hated the area, calling it the “arm pit of Washington State), this is what the back yard looked like (and that’s Aleks, Kat, and their cousins Tina and Barry):

…and this is Peter supervising the moving process:

In summer of 1995, we bought this house in Woodinville, Washington:

It was the first “old” house we’d owned(if you could call a 1978 split-level “old”) and it needed massive amounts of work, both inside and outside.  We would have loved another new house, but the market sucked in both Richland and Seattle and this (gag) split level was all we could afford.  Neither of us liked it all that much (except for the to-die-for yard and forested acre), and Tom insisted all along that “you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”  But we took a deep breath in 1995, started in on the process and did all this (13 years of house renovations in one blog post)!  As I exclaimed at the end of that post, the only things left to do at that point was to replace the god-awful front door and paint the house.

Both have now been done and this is what our house looks like today:

And today I can say that, except for the typical “home maintenance” stuff, we are DONE!

Done, I tell you!

Ha!  Ironically, Tom just kibitzed  this post and he insists, “Oh, no we’re not done!” 

I have forgotten, it seems, that his plan for this summer is to create in this backyard space beneath the new deck…

…a babbling stream that meanders around big stepping-stone boulders which lead to the flagstone patio with new fire pit.  (He’ll remove the fire pit and patio that he and Kat built years ago and replace that area with the new stream with boulders, and he’ll put flagstone on the slab where the hot tub used to be and build a new fire pit there.)

So I guess I was wrong.  On our 30th wedding anniversary in two days, Tom will still be building and remodeling!  I have a feeling Tom will always be building and remodeling – and as much as it seems I might complain, I am actually extremely grateful to be married to such a handy, talented, creative, hard-working man who has made many a house a true home for his family.

Opa’s bequeathing “with warm hands”

My father recently sent this ring to Peter…

…accompanied by this letter:
“Dear Peter,
I have decided to pass on to some of you grandchildren things that mean something to me, and that come with a story that must be told. As “Muttchen,” my pseudo-mother used to say: I want to do so “with warm hands.”
It was in March of 1945, just weeks before the end of the war.  I was 16.  My mother had already died.  I was put into a slave labor camp for “half-Jews,” as they called us.
Now Chemnitz, my home town, had just gotten the same kind of “terror attack,” as the Nazis called it, as Dresden had suffered weeks earlier.   My boss, where I had been assigned from the labor camp, was most understanding, if most secretive, about it.
“Go,” he said.  “Check out what happened.  Just be back by Tuesday at the latest.”  Of course there was no telephone, no other news, no transportation.  Only chaos everywhere.  One just had to make do, somehow.
Our house had been burned out, turned from a burned ruin into mostly rubble.  I found my father’s body in the boiler room, caught in the space between the floor and the furnace, one leg dangling, clearly broken.
My father’s body was the only one in the big ruin.  I was told later that when the house was on fire everyone got out, including him.  Then he had to crawl back into the basement to retrieve a small suitcase with Romanticist art that he was working on.  His whole life now had been his art collection; he just HAD to get those pieces.  In that moment an explosive bomb hit the house, ending his life, making the three of us orphans.
After escaping the Nazis for a dozen years, now, two short months before the final defeat of Nazi Germany, he was killed by an Allied bomb.  Just what the Nazis had always wanted.  But any war does that: produce tragic ironies like this, a thousand times over, everywhere.
My dad was wearing a suit, vest, and tie.  He was a very formal person and would not be seen in anything but “proper dress,” not even at night in the air raid shelter in his own basement.  When I found him, he still had his metal-rimmed glasses on, one side broken.  His fingers were apart, indicating that he had not suffered.
I knew there must be one thing he was forced by law to always have on him – his ID card, with the big letter “J” to identify him immediately as a Jew, with the forced name of “Israel” added.  I took it and I still have that infamous ID.
He was wearing his diamond tie pin so that his tie would be orderly and in place where it belonged.  I took it.  Years later, in Munich, in peace, I designed a ring for myself and had the diamond of my father’s tie pin mounted in it.
That ring is what I give to you today.  Today, when wearing it, I know that what had meaning to me was not my father’s dying as much as his death.  I knew then that his most romantic, often-quoted motto would somehow follow me: Goethe’s most utopian idea that “life, however it may be, is good.”  He, a Jew under the Nazis, persecuted, with two sons in Nazi slave labor camps, through all the chaos, kept this idealized faith.  And for years it gave me the strength I needed to shape the path of my own life, without parental guidance.
With love,  Opa”
I read the letter first because Peter happened to be in Munich, of all places, when the package arrived.  As I read the letter to Tom, tears welled in my eyes and a lump in my throat, and I couldn’t finish it, handing it to Tom to read the last paragraph for himself.  I could tell that when Peter read it upon his return from Germany, he was equally, though less overtly, touched by it.  Later Aleks said to Peter, “I think Opa gave you the diamond from his father’s tie because you’re someone Opa would have been really proud to introduce his father to.”  The lump returned to my throat when I heard that.
With the ring and the letter came some official documents for me, as the executor of my – perfectly healthy (for an 85-year-old) father’s will.  Maybe it’s his own very formal, very organized, very…well, German father coming through in him, but my father’s almost obsessive attention to “getting his affairs in order” have been somewhat annoying to me.  Once every few weeks he sends another document for me to read and file, many focusing on his adamant wish to be allowed to die without any heroics when it looks like the time is coming – and to let him go if the time comes suddenly.  “I have stared death in the face repeatedly as a young man,” he insists,”and I have no fear of it now. But I DO fear being kept alive by those damn doctors…”  I think some of that comes from watching my mom go through something like 28 separate chemo treatments and slowly wilting away in front of us.  He doesn’t want that for himself or for his family.  I’d be honored to be at his side for any length of time, just as I was for my mother.  But I only visited as my mom died slowly over four years while my father spent what he refers to as “a thousand sleepless nights” during those years, and he doesn’t want that for Lou, his adored new wife, or for us.  I respect that.  But please, Dad, don’t be so busy organizing and preparing for your death that you forget to live your life! 
(It feels good to write again.)