You Aren’t My Kid I’m calling this week weird, even though the reportage spans from last Thursday to this Wednesday. Mainly two events stuck out: a German mother sort of shoving her son, aged,… More
I have to say, I like the Minions for sale with the Happy Meal lately. This week features a Minion whose tongue is so authentically red, like liver, and sticks out when you press a button on his belly, that it has led me to run around work, pressing the button and say things like, ‘Leck mich!’ (lick me) or ‘Ich will eine Eistüte’ (I want an ice cream cone) to my already preoccupied co-workers. Yes, I am 50 now but who says maturity must be a 24/7 thing?
Last evening, I came home to yet another envelope, with no indication of the sender, lying on my dining room table. I hoped it was from the German pension folks because I had filled out forms twice for them, earlier in the year, and some foreign-sounding woman on the other end of the line (I half wondered how she had scored the Beamter job), in Hamburg, had told me, ‘Maybe you will be able to retire at 63.’ These golden words had cheered me through at rough patch at McD, and I made sure to hurry up and mail all the forms back on time, just in case! However, last night’s letter wasn’t from the pension people but from the folks who run the Mammamobile. The what?! Yes, in rural Germany, you don’t always find a clinic or hospital equipped with the right mammography x-ray machine, let alone specialist doctors qualified to analyze the x-rays. In the town nearest me, there is only one doctor with an ultrasound machine. It was on the fritz last week. But to the Mammamoblie (why not MammOmobile?)!
What’s this letter about? In Germany, all women who are 50-69 get a written ‘invitation’ to go for a mammogram every two years. As I turned 50 last year, I finally got my first invite, just shy of my 51st b-day. I haven’t been invited to anything in Germany but two art openings in Cologne, and I went to those, but somehow I think there will be no finger food in the Mammamobile. Oh goodie, should I ‘accept?’
If I choose to attend, I already even have a scheduled day and time, which I can change, if I need too, though nobody even asked me about my availability. My work/life balance. I was just invited to show up with my health insurance card and a filled out form (name of local doctor to share results of mammogram with, etc.) There will be no doctor at the Mammamobile, just an x-ray technician, man or woman, no one knows. To be determined. Whatever they see when snapping the four x-rays, won’t be discussed, but a letter will arrive in my mailbox within a week, telling me if things look healthy or need further scrutiny.
But, I don’t have to go. In Germany it’s optional. And if I, down the road, need breast help, my health insurance will cover it, whether or not I ever mounted the steps of the Mammamobile, to be parked in the Sport and School parking lot (school is out, it’s summer vacation). If I change my mind in the future, I can sit in tepid anticipation, knowing another, identical invitation will appeart in my mailbox in two more years, and two more after that, and so on, until I am beyond mammo-needs I guess, around 70. Then, I guess, it’s too late, and I’ll have definately missed the Mamma-bus.
I wonder who will show up? Who else has that day of the work week off? Would I find myself standing with a lot of Germans or also other Immis (immigrants)? Are refugees invited? What cross section of the rural population will show up? Do Baptistin, married women with a chiffon scarf bobby pinned to their hair, attend? Aware that the ‘prep’ for the x-ray involves not wearing any deodorant, and realizing this takes place in a van or bus, parked in a parking lot where there is no shade, and the event takes place in early August, I’m thinking, this could get smelly. I reach for my tongue-poking Minion toy and push his belly button.
Knowing breast health is important and that friends and family have delt with cancer in my 50 years of lifetime, I am still not very motivated. I am more curious to see who shows up than to discover the state of my personal breast health. I tend to find women in the age group of 50 to 69 in Germany some of my most agressive, challenging, off-putting, negative and nosy customers. I vaguely worry that the rumors about fist-a-cuffs women from a local village down the road might be fullfilled should the line be long, the sun beating down, people short on free time and temper, let alone the bad stereotypes of peri- and menopausal women either suffering hot flashes or raging over nothing. More than a mammogram, I want to be the lady in the car parked in the shade across the street, with a drone, to observe, and maybe listen in on, what the heck goes on at a Mammamobile gathering and yet not have to be involved at all.
What’s on my mind? The angry older German man, who stood before me yesterday, complaining about the increased price of his Big Mac McMenu, the lack of an illusory ‘paper’ that used to envelope the large portion of French fries (back when?), and by the way, ‘Why are you SMILING so much?!’ He scowled, taking his fully loaded, tough, red plastic tray and seating himself opposite from the service counter, as if his itch to be pissed about something needed further scratching by observing what he considered the robbery, cheapification, and mockery of his memory of McDonalds.
I wish I had simply said something like I used to say in America, like: Smiling? Because I’m insane but apparently still able to hold down a job. Want ketchup with those fries in the snappy upgraded packaging? Instead I said: Well, the price has gone up but so has my salary. I’m smiling because I’m happy to be alive. Glad you came by today. Hope we see you again soon.
I soon lost track of him, as the mid-day crowd of school kids, and mothers in search of the right color out of four Smurf Cottage for their kids’ in Happy Meals came in. The line of glad-to-be-out-of-school children formed a barrier of random balloon waving hyperactivity mixed with mothers on the verge of exasperation. Random construction workers and truck drivers zippered into the line, requesting cups of coffee, Coffee Choc Frappes, Gitter Kartoffeln and the savvy sounding retro comeback 1955 Burger. After wishing so many strangers ‘Have a nice day,’ I noticed the empty table, where the angry man had sat, was vacant. He’d even politely taken his tray to the lobby wagon, unlike so many teens, who tend to leave tables strewn with trays, packaging and smears of mayonnaise mixed with ketchup. I wondered what about the sunny day, with mild temps and a gentle breeze, full of hints of spring fever just around the corner, and the excitement that comes with each fresh spring, had set the anger man off. I hope I see him again, just to observe if things are going better for him next time.
I have a regular customer, also an older German man. He has wispy red hair and freckles and wears large metal glasses frames a la 1980s. I first met him when our store was new. He came in during a slow time and stood at the counter telling his story about having lived in East Germany. When the wall went down, he went to a McDonalds in West Berlin and ordered a Big Mac. He said, ‘That was the first white bread like that I’d ever eaten! I’ll never forget it!’ He was referring to the white burger buns, sprinkled with pale toasted sesame seeds. Over the years, he’s been a repeat customer, telling his tale of the wall going down and the Big Mac buns to new waves of McCo-Workers that tend to come and go. I love his story. In one of my own ‘Mad Men’ inspired advertising moments, I wish McDoanlds Münich would use it, with some shots of him today and use some younger red haired actor for his 1989 self, show an older McDoanlds (digitized), the wall going down, this guy ordering his first Big Mac, then flash to him entering a modern McDoanlds and ordering the same. Some of my McCo-Workers are former East Germans themselves. I think they would appreciate the advertisement too.
For some, McDonalds is a temporary job, an after school job, a weekend job for university students, a job you don’t plan to hold for long. It’s a goofy job that you shouldn’t take too seriously and feel half ashamed to admit you hold, just because, McDonalds, in America at least, is the place you put in this sentence: See that homeless guy? Why does he just sit there all day under the viaduct? The least he could do is get a job at McDonalds! No one as readily suggests that a homelss person in America should apply for unemployment because (at least back in 2009) unemployment was only available for 18 months, after that, you had no more financial help from the U.S. government. You may have found yourself under a viaduct.
Hmm. No one says: a job at Kentucky Fried Chicken, Chili’s, Hooters, American Sports Bar, Hard Rock Cafe, Starbucks, or Burger King even, no, the place to go is: McDoanlds. In America, at least. So, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, don’t tell anyone where you really work, ok? Now why is that?
Oh please. Lighten up! ‘It’s a job.’
A wise Turk told me this very thing not so long ago, when I was feeling, well, strangely ashamed of my job, having been told by a nosy German woman in an optical shop, who asked, ‘Where EXACTLY do you work’ (think Stasi) and following up with ‘but you need something for your BRAIN!’ She wasn’t offering a job. She wasn’t offering hints or connections. She was gloating over my apparent misfortune. Somehow this optician had found my shame button and punched it.
After eight years in Germany, having passed the basic language tests, having struggled in no state funded unemployment for two years after that, having tried tutoring English for a few Euros a month in pay, for having applied to libraries and bookshops and having intervews at a university and a cafe, a video store and even a taxi service that didn’t hire me, in my third year in Germany, I was working at my last and I admit, humiliating option: McDonalds. Internally, I deflated. Perhaps that was her goal, but it didn’t work, at least I didn’t let her see that it had worked in that moment. Until the Turk came along, and hearing the optical shop story, asked, ‘Are you ashamed of your job? Don’t be! It’s a job! I like coming here because you are the only friendly person who serves us here.’ That may be true. But I find myself not feeling at all friendly towards the 50-something generation, of German, middle class, with a snobby attitude about service workers. Come to think of it, I never liked people who treated service people with contempt, whatever country I was living in. I assume half of them are regularly insulted service workers themselves.
My day began as usual: a cup of coffee, a slice of soft brown bread spread with strawberry jam. My day is ending as it typically does, around midnight, in front of my computer. But what happened between 3 and 6 p.m. today was kind of unusual.
Though a gray and grumpy-maker day for some, today originally felt optimistic. I drove to the train station with a plan to pick up my first ever pair of progressive lens glasses. I’d received an e-mail a few days before, stating the new metal and tortoiseshell plastic frames and hopefully lenses I could read with were ready to pick up. Yippee! Or not. The day I’d gone to the optic shop, 20 minutes down the train tracks from my home station, I’d had a rude encounter with a big brunette German optician who was more interested in my age and occupation than expounding on what comfort and joy the right progressive lenses might bring to my daily life. She didn’t like my job. In fact she sat there going on and on about the bad pay, hours, products even, although that all had nothing to do with my ability to pay for the glasses I had selected, or her, even, really. But I needed better lenses, so I tried to change the subject and had a bit of success there, so I went ahead and ordered the new glasses.
Entering the train, which appeared empty, I noticed, as the wheels started to turn, a one way conversation emanating from an unseen passenger’s unseen cell phone in a kind of monotone. I felt I was privy to a ‘day in the life’ of some bored human talking in a echo chamber, maybe a bathroom with tile walls. I got up and moved to a seat about twenty rows away and found relief in the marine blue plaid surroundings that spell Deutsche Bahn interior design.
A few stops later, a guy carrying a handful of magazines for homeless people hit me up for some cash. The magazine said 1.50 Euros, so I dug in my coins and paid him with all but the shiney one Euro I had left. But he saw that extra Euro and wanted it as well. ‘No, sorry, I need that for a stamp for my mother’s birthday card. I have to mail it overseas,’ I said, flashing a pink addressed envelope, fished out of my shopping bag, at him. He tried a few more times, with words like Pampers and kebab and family. I said, ‘No. I need a stamp. I don’t have any other money. Only plastic.’ He got up, shook my hand and took the magazine I had bought with him. What? ‘Wait, I would like to read that,’ I really was curious what it said inside. I’d seen a similar magazine selling scheme on a trip to England and also in a train and not had the courage to buy one back then. Now was my chance! ‘No. Pampers.’ Ok. Later I thought, what if I had invited him to get out at my stop and just bought him some food? Or a package of Pampers with my plastic card?
A few stops later, having posted my mother’s birthday card, and now on a blustery day’s stroll through a bustling small city in the pedestrian zone, I saw a man in a bright red hand knit cap struggling with a bike and cart. The bike without a kick stand was falling over, the cart attatched to the bike was chock full of die Linke (communist) Party posters,and a grey bearded guy was trying to chase down one of these sandwich posters that was blowing down the walkway. ‘Do you need help?’ I asked, reaching to balance his bike. ‘No!’ the garden gnome replied, righting the bike against the lamp post. I turned to try and catch the flying poster but he shooed me away. Ok. Later I thought how my red bandana scarf might have at least made him feel I was potentially also a communist, maybe I could have helped him if I’d just said, ‘Comrade, do you need help?’ instead? But I left him to his task of strapping posters about raising the minimum wage to 12 Euros on lamp posts and arrived at the optic shop and felt lucky. The brunette wasn’t in sight.
A woman who had served me a few years before stood at the counter, I remembered her because I’d liked her comfortable looking and also stylish shoes and asked where she’d found them. She’d given me the name of the store and later I’d gone shopping there. This time I thought, ‘Yeah, no stressful service. I get the red haired lady!’ Everything went fine until after the fitting. As the service lady folded my insurance papers and receipts together, she opened her mouth again and asked, ‘What country do you come from?’ Hmm. She hadn’t asked that two years ago, when my German was worse than it is today. I piped up, hoping the conversation of last week wasn’t about to rear it’s bizarre head, ‘America.’ It could have stopped there, but no. Oh no! ‘And will you be staying here?’ What? What does that have to do with my glasses? ‘Sure.’ Then like an unseen phantom, the big brunette was suddenly standing to my left, smiling. Ugh. I took my glasses, said, ‘Thanks!’ smiling, and left before my luck could totally wear off.
Between my first visit to the optic shop and my return today, my husband had stopped in himself, again, having decided to take advantage of a half price sale before it ended. He reported back that the big brunette had come over to him to ask if I was ‘ok’ meaning, she’d thought a bit about her previous grillng behavior, in Germany called ‘discrimination’ about my legal, socially insured, part-time, fast food job (though I do mostly work at the cafe there, I am pround to be part of the multi-cultural team), and extended an appology. He came home and said, ‘That lady apologized for her behavior last week.’ Ok. Somehow I was still irked though. But I needed the on-sale glasses still too.
What is going on at my old beloved optic shop? Over the five times I’ve been there before, about once a year actually, I was usually served by a mellow German guy named Ralph, who was kind and stuck to the job at hand. He’d once admitted he had a friend who also collected glasses and he collected watches, he’d admired my retro glasses frames and never asked where I come from, my age or my occupation even. So, what’s with the new grilling of foreign customers? A new policy? I’m hoping my new glasses work out great so I won’t need to go back for adjustments. Maybe I should call ahead and ask for Ralph?
The afternoon took a happy turn when I got to H & M and found some super soft denim overalls, the last pair in my size!, on sale and a robin egg blue button front sweater to enjoy this spring and summer. I paid for those with a special plastic shopping card my employer gave all of us as a ‘thank you’ at a party last week, for doing good work and jumping some corporate hoops. My employer’s logo is stamped on the card and it seemed to take the card reader a long time to read my card, so I piped up and said, ‘Many of my co-workers got these cards last week too. Maybe you’ll see a lot of us for a while.’ Maybe she was tired. It was almost 5 p.m. Maybe her feet hurt, like mine do, after working on my feet for a long shift. Maybe her employer never gives out shopping cards with a value of around 40 Euros. Who knows but her originally friendly cashier face turned sour. I took my bag of happy finds and left,wondering: is it me or is this town nuts?
Back on the train, heading home, I had to sit on a fold down seat, as the comfy ones were occupied by rush hour commuters. I chose to sit near a young guy in a black jacket, felt Frank Sinatra style hat and glasses. He looked intelligent and reminded me of a Jewish guy from back home, something of a rarity in Germany. One stop later, three beery young men got on board and flipped down seats opposite us.
While I tried to admire my reflection over the shoulder of the guy with a can of beer and a ponytail across from me, I tested the range of my progressive lenses and, passing through a skewed view of lens transition, found my eyes landing in the prison green cross tattooed on the neck of the beery guy in the middle. Oh. Oh no. A neo-Nazi? How bizarre that I was thinking I was sitting near a Jew and here comes a tattooed neo-Nazi to sit across from us. Having worked with a few of those, surprised at the time that they were in my workplace at all, I smiled, half scared and half thinking maybe this one is like the two who, likewise tattooed, worked with me and were, towards me at least, very polite. I liked to think those two guys were trying to reform themselves, hence their dive into a multi-cultural workplace. But I never knew for sure. Don’t ask, don’t tell seemed a wiser route to take. Beery guy stared back blankly. The blank faced stare back is, by the way, an art in Germany. I don’t think I’ll ever master it, I am just an animated faced kind of person. Perhaps I look crazy here, but at least I register as ‘alive.’ I raised an eyebrow at the neo-Nazi, like Spock raises his brow, because I can, and glazed my new lensed view back over the shoulder of beer can guy instead. At the next stop, I got up and got another seat in the train. A forward looking, blue plaid, comfortable seat with a frontal view towards blue plastic: the back of the seat in front of me.
Arriving back at my home station, I disembarked and noticed a policeman idling on the platform. What a uniform! I know that the color of the German police uniforms and cars changed from green to blue in the time I’ve lived here. The blue color scheme looks good so I smiled, since he seemed to be staring at me, and kept walking along but said, ‘Hallo!’ No reply. Ugh.
Maybe I’m an alien and just don’t see my own antennea. Maybe I project happiness that no one is currently in the mood for, which is sometimes more obviously the case, but this week, yesterday even, I did decide to more actively find allies in Germany, online or in my daily life,who can still find the motivation to look for a silver lining in a gray weather day at least. Meanwhile, I am enjoying listening to Motorama, a Russian group I ran across on a tv show called ‘Tracks’ last week. I’m lovin’ it.
My spirit animal is the raven. There are many reasons I name this bird, among them the poem by Edgar Allen Poe where the raven says, ‘Nevermore!’ I believe I’ve been known to say that a few times myself, only to, sometimes, go and do whatever it was all over again.
On my walks, I love watching the smaller relatives of the raven, crows, sitting on trees and electricity lines or flapping and calling over the fields in every season. I like that they are a year-round bird that flies in a group, landing on snow, dry August grass stubble, spongy wet spring moss, or sitting on the chimney tops of various village homes. Although they might best be described as ‘blue-black,’ or even a bit brown, they are also glossy, like patent leather shoes and black licorice, two things I adore. They are blackish as the sooty chimney sweep that shows up once a year to plunge his ball and chain with a prickly brush attachment down our chimney. The sweep’s soot brings luck. I like to think the ravens, who sweep the air with their feathery wings are also luck bringers. I tend to bring others luck, so, there again: like the raven.
Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest also see Raven, the Creator’s assistant, as a luck bringer. I prefer being an assistant on projects rather than the boss too. I’m a pretty adaptable person and in my youth I was a self-described chameleon, in a good way, able to drift in and out of all kinds of groups of people without causing any real waves. Raven could change himself, like the god Zeus, into various things and creatures. Raven even put the sun in the sky. I’ve been known to try to put a sunny smile on people’s faces. A real challenge in Germany but it’s still been known to happen!
I like to think, had I wings, I’d fly with ravens or crows. A film on German tv, called Krabat, based on a folk tale from old old Saxony, contains some wonderful scenes where several boys involved in black magic turn into ravens. When I first watched this film, I didn’t know much German but the images of boys turned into ravens transcended the need for words. When I take my lone walks, and see the crows overhead or perched nearby, I like to pretend they are enchanted boys from long ago. And why is that village by mine called Crow Corner? Well, there are always crows around there.
Looking in the Internet, I find that in Germany, ravens were considered damned souls or Satan himself. Hmm, what does that say about the middle aged inhabitants of Crow Corner? Was it a pagan settlement or site of a witch hunt back in the Inquisitional days or what?
Up in Scandinavia, Odin’s two ravens, whose names translate to ‘thought’ and ‘memory’ flew around the world to gather info and report back to Odin. Sounds like spy work or just surfing the net for interesting bits and bobs these days.
Ravens take a mate for life and those flocks of crows that I see around my village are probably teens because at least the adult ravens only like to go around as a twosome. I prefer a lonesome or twosome myself, whether a coffee meet up with a friend or just hanging out with my guy, or my cat, for that matter.
Ravens can mimic human voices and a whole lot of other sounds too. As a child I was a great mimic of the New Zealand and Australian accents but my Ü-40 learned German accent is not native German sounding at all. I call it ‘my German,’ as if all the native German speakers around me are speaking incorrectly. Did I mention that ravens can be quite cheeky?
Lastly, ravens are known to feed on just about anything. I’ll adjust that quality to ‘able to find almost any topic of interest, given a bit of background research.’ The raven in me is always looking for inspiration and always learning along the way. If something doesn’t suit me, I just move on to find something that does.
Coming up with something to say about ravens (and crows) was inspired by Be Kitchig’s post, take a read!
Several years ago, I came to Germany with a suitcase, a small backpack and a cat carrier. The cat carrier contained my cat. The suitcase contained 10 pairs of Hanes men’s comfort waist knit boxer shorts. Allow yourself to visualize Vin Diesel as the Navy SEAL, efficiently, with no-fuss, packing baby diapers in a bag in the funny film ‘The Pacifier’ /’Der Babynator.’ Then read further. Every Hanes boxer shorts had a fly opening stitched on the front, so my German guy, who likes to stand rather than sit to take a leak, could do so without any drop-trou to do. Last year, while hanging the now threadbare, no more elasticity in them boxers to flap on the clothes line, I firmly resolved to buy my guy another 10 pairs of boxers to tide him over the next five years with the same degree of comfort he’d enjoyed every since the Yankee Doodle Hanes arrived in his neck of the village.
Something’s In the Way
I started my search at the local grocery chains and drug stores, which carry underpants in a men’s clothing line called ‘Der’ or a small range of optional underwear designers like the knowledgeable sounding ‘Watson.’ As I sorted through piles of black briefs and virgin white boxers, sorted through rows of hanging striped shorts, I noticed something strange: formerly fly front boxers and Walter White ‘tidy whitie’ briefs had lost their flies. Only the puffy, culotte, wide legged boxer shorts still sported a button front that actually opened. The formely flyfronted boxers and briefs were stitched completely shut. What was with the seemingly sudden restricted access?
Looks Like an Elephant Bum
Further weeks of hanging the wash out on the clothes line, noting the ever sagging seat of the boxers, reminded me of an elephant’s bum not Jason Statham’s, I went to the internet, scrolled through the Amazonian jungle worth of men’s boxers and briefs, only to find, the fly on the desired style was still missing. Now, not to belabor the search too long, on a whim I did type ‘Hanes’ and almost instantly found what I’d been searching for, however, had I not known about this brand, I would still be hanging elephant pants on the line.
There Is Nothing Like a Hanes
Why Hanes, an American brand, is found in Amazon.de takes little imagination, as American soldiers, namely ones formerly stationed in Iraq, had led me to this particular brand and style all those years ago. Reading men’s multiple star ratings for their underwear was a whole new view of the male species for me actually. One soldier wrote how his wife sent him packages of Hanes comfort waist knit boxers and how they ‘make my ass look great!’ I never considered that men might turn sideways and assess the shape of their buttocks in such an appreciative, to the point, and succinct way. I laughed as I read the reviews. A kind of relieved laugh. Suddenly I realized there were self-conscious men, concerned about the fit, cut, style of their underpants. I ordered 10 pairs of the same old Hanes, noting that the ‘no fly’ underpants for men showed up in this week’s grocery store advertisement, again. What inspired this stitched up look for men in Germany?
My Ideas: A Laundry List to Flap on Your Line
Saves Money: A fly-free pair of men’s underwear takes less fabric to construct. The stitching is easier, takes less time and you can actually sew from the back to the front in one accelerated thrust over a sewing machine arm. So, maybe the flyless underpants are a money saving venture. However, the finished product still costs the same as men’s underwear that formerly had a fly. So only the product distributor might be saving some cash.
Women and Control: Are German women behind the lack for fly for a guy? Angry about having to drop their own pants to squat or sit to pee, maybe women, in a new move for equality, are demanding that men squat or sit too. Maybe the inner Hausfrau rage got tired of swiping the floor around the bottom of the toilet to rid the room of summertime campground au de urine? Or maybe it’s a gender equality move in a different way, e.g. sometimes I wear my man’s briefs, and the extra pouch like layer of fabric where the fly is stitched seems/is useless for me. Maybe women are taking over the men’s underwear and claiming it all for themselves.
Politics or Religion: About two years ago, the underwear fly said ‘bye-bye’ while Germany said ‘hello’ to a lot of Muslim refugees, many of them young men. I’ve never inquired but perhaps Muslim men wear no-fly underwear in their countries of origin and this is now reflected in the German mainstream men’s underwear fashion? Is this stitched shut look something to do with ‘stitched shut, don’t touch’?
Ask Men: I don’t know Joop, Lagerfeld or Glööckler and Co. but maybe someone should approach male designers and ask for input. I asked German men (20-somethings) at my work if they’d noticed the fly missing from their underwear of choice and they just looked embarrassed or flabbergasted. I guess it’s a taboo topic. Especially when the lady asking is old enough to pass for Stifler’s mom. That or I worded it incorrectly somehow in German. My German guy says: ‘Underwear with no fly is a form of emasculation.’ That’s from a former Kreuzberg Punk, so you know it came out of his now grey stubbled lips with an undertone of injustice revealed. Now that’s the kind of response I want to hear. It’s a statement that inspires action!
We Want Fly!
Go commando. Wear no underwear and just unzip your trousers and spout off like a statue on an Italian fountain. Switch to those baggy boxers that still sport a fly front, just go with the silent crowd and allow yourself to be herded into a style you’d rather not wear.
Buy Hanes men’s underwear, or a similarly constructed brand of fly front products online.
Create your own line of fly front men’s underpants, decorate them how you will, make them from recycled T-shirts even, and set up a table at your local German market. If they sell well, branch out!
Petition your local stores, demand the return of the fly front underwear for you/your men!
Much of my late teen years were spent working on an image. I lacked substance. Some people spend a lifetime caught in this phase of life. Others emerge with a ‘look’ all their own and a unique personality that effortlessly emanates beyond the threads they wear.
How It All Began: High School ‘Cool Kids’
In eleventh grade, Vanessa wore a metal upper body brace for scoliosis correction under her loose plaid flannel shirts. In my opinion, the brace passed perfectly with her metal tooth gear. Her sallow skin, too short, self cut, immobile curly hair and body brace restriction passed perfectly to stiff pogo moves at high school dances.
Kris, last year’s originally shy, chubby, blonde girl in pinstriped, pegged jeans with no stretch, appeared willow thin in autumn with a baggy Boy George look, safety pin earrings, and yellow tinged skin. The skin color came from her new hobby: epoxy glue sniffing. From time to time, she spontaneously passed out in Chemistry or creative writing class.
Matt, with his short buzzed side hair and asymmetrical swath of curls dangling over one eye, squinted and pouted in English class. His single, self-pierced ear, looked hot and angry most of the time.
In contrast to my ‘cool’ classmates, through 1984 and 85, I remained vaguely chubby cheeked, my self-cut hair frizzed to a proportion that gave me the uncool nickname ‘Poodle.’ Though I wanted a ‘Pretty In Pink’ Molly Ringwald red bob, my efforts to apply red tinted mouse over brown frizz neither straightened my hair nor tinted it any shade of red.
My father, disgusted and distressed by the ever shorter ‘short back and sides’ but stacked, verging on David Lynch’s ‘Eraserhead’ or poet Ezra Pound proportions of poof, once snarled that I should go to a salon rather than cut my own wild locks. The one time I did so, I got a gay stylist who pursed his lips together, signaling his own distaste with my later fad: the rat tail. He wouldn’t cut my mullet narrow enough to really look like a braided rat tail, so, when I got home, I got out the further ‘Pretty In Pink’ inspired sewing kit and took a good snip or two with my shiny scissors.
Floppin’ at the Hop
My pleated front peged leg jeans tended to unroll over white socks. The socks flashed a Michael Jackson inspired glittery diamonds over the ankle that scratched. Toughing out the no-stretch jeans and glitter scratch was nothing compared to the sweaty, hot turquoise, puff sleeved angora top. My chalky, honeysuckle scented, roll-on deodorant would cake in my armpits as I took to pogoing with the ‘cool kids’ on Fridays. I felt like a fourth wheel on a tricycle.
Sweaty angora itches like crazy and smells like a wet cat. Cheap perfumes like Coty’s Emeraude and Chantilly only gave me an extra powdered waft wavering on ‘granny worthy.’ My white with black velvet polka dot tights, paired with a short gathered pinstriped pink and white, drop waist skirt and patent purple pumps with equally flashy bows led my father, decades later, converted to Catholicism, to admit, ‘You looked like a whore.’
I never had any whore action in those high school years though. I had crushes that didn’t remedy my secret longings. The best I ever got was a slow dance to REO Speedwagon’s DJ spun ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore,’ where Bruce, the willowy boy, whose locker had stood as alphabetically-by-last-name-assigned next to mine for years, bent down close enough to my shoulder, that my lips could kiss his neck, once. Almost out of earshot, he later boasted to friends in the parking lot that he’d ‘French kissed’ a girl. My first, not even returned, kiss.
The ‘cool kids’ skipped class. They smoked in the smoking court between classes and at lunchtime. They tried LSD and smoked joints while I drove to the shopping mall and knitted model sweaters for manikins in a craft shop. I came home to endless homework. I got good grades, took up jogging and went to the midnight screening of Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall, ‘ a few times. I watched ‘Brideshead Revisited,’ read E. M. Forster and William Faulkner books, listened to operettas of Gilbert & Sullivan, wished I could step into ‘A Passage to India,’ and stared and day dreamed through lots of MTV videos.
A crush on a guy in theater class led me to listen to what he listened to: Queen. My older sister took me aside one day, when my parents were out of the family home, and asked if I was using drugs. She thought anyone who listened to Queen had drug issues. I told the truth: I don’t do drugs. Or glue. I just like music that you apparently don’t. My older sister was a Gordon Lightfoot fan. Of course I liked Brian May’s hair. Living in a humid state in the American South, I could almost poof my do into a May-worthy mop.
High school required reading in eleventh and twelfth grade English leaned heavily towards depressing: ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ ‘The Bell Jar,’ ‘The Sound and the Fury.’ Craziness. Suicide. Family Secrets. Themes that a teen can really obsess about. Music that fit the anxiety, failed dream and unfulfilled longings of teen life appealed to me.
The Bands Beginning with ‘The’
The ‘cool kids’ found their music some other, mysterious way. Vanessa listened to ‘Rock Lobster’ from the B-52s on a Walkman. Her music source was a guy from another high school in our county. He looked a bit like the lead singer in Simple Minds. I wished he was my guy. But, no. I thought the B-52s were corny and obnoxious. I liked them as much as I liked ‘Little Shop of Horrors,’ which was not at all.
U2’s ‘Boy’ and ‘October’ jangled, echoed and clinked with empty glass milk bottle sounds that appealed more than their more successful album ‘War.’ I gave them up and went in search of other bands. Soon the albums in my small collection included groups like The Alarm, The Waterboys, ‘The’ being THE quintessential first part of so many bands in those days. I never did buy anything by The The though. ‘Til Tuesday , Talk Talk and Thompson Twins carried the ‘a band beginning with T’ theme further.
College: She’s (Maybe Not) Got the Look
My younger sister, three years my junior, hip with thin dishwater blonde hair, buzzed asymmetrical and a moody, acne scarred boyfriend on the track team, was kind of an idol for me. She sewed Japanese kimono inspired over-sized shirts and listened to The Smiths, 80s era David Bowie and Modern English. When she chucked clothes and shoes into the charity box in our cellar, I’d fish out everything that appealed, even though the shoes were a size too big for my feet. I took them to my first year of college, stuffing toilet paper in the toes.
I left home for a small college in the desert south west. At Christmas break, I came back from my first semester at college with Lucille Ball colored hair, a Boy George black felt hat, a vaguely shaggy black 50s swing coat from a thrift store which sported ‘wings’ stitched in the shoulder blade regions and three huge round plastic buttons up front. Upon seeing the coat, my mother wanted me to throw it away. I refused. The red hair success was a mishap. One Friday, I drank a bottle of cheap white wine like it was lemonade, colored my hair, donned a plastic bag on the goop, and slipped back to my dorm room for a short snooze. Something like an hour later, I woke and hurried to the dorm bathroom to puke. As I wretched over the toilet, I noticed I left some red dye marks on the white toilet bowl because I’d forgotten to remove the plastic gloves, that were still damp with dye. What a mess! Several shampoos later, my hair turned out a fried yellowish orange.
My black, side laced oxfords, stretch leggings and long Cindy Lauper skirts, slouched riveted vinyl black belt, somehow failed to produce the kind of edge I wished I could project. My face, still pale and round looked so babyish. If only I’d known about Yazoo, or Robert Smith of The Cure, I might have felt my round faced look ‘passed’ ok, but my mullet was still too wavy and heavy.
The 80s types I admired were borderline anorexic and borderline personality disordered youth. ‘The Breakfast Club’ girl combing her hair over a table, creating a kind of oily snow out of her dandruff comes to mind. In my youth, the depressed girl, buns parked on a hard floor, drawing nonsense with a crayon on a wall in The Car’s video ‘Drive’ looked worth imitating as well. I drew better than that but I must be a bit crazy, even my mother called me ‘eccentric’ after all. I wanted my locks to stand as stiff as the curly headed guitarists in The Alarm. I never found the proper hair product. My hair always flopped.
A one-time accessory disaster of mine was wearing real razor blades as dangle earrings to a dance. After a few hours of jumping and spinning around, I felt the sharp pricks and nicks on my neck. Mingled with sweat, the nicks itched like crazy. Why I didn’t hang the silvery blades with the safety side towards my bod, I’ll never know.
Dark Waves in the Desert: We All Make Mistakes
A ‘cool kid’ moved in on my dorm floor, a petite girl with a standing, dyed black, hair sprayed, shag hairdo, raccoon lidded and lined eyes, who always looked sleepy. The ‘Vegas girl’ was my first real encounter with a cutter. The razor slits, scabbing over her pale arms made her look tough and vulnerable at the same time. Rumors of ‘Vegas’s porn photos with empty beer bottles raised her questionable status further.
Taking my cue from ‘Vegas girl,’ who once painted my eyes with raccoon rings of fat black eyeliner grease for a dance she didn’t attend, I privately took my cast off razor earrings and took to slashing my arms as well. At Easter break, seeing my latest seemingly ‘petty attempts to shock and disgust,’ my furious, tight lipped mother’s response was to buy me an electric shaver. Parents just didn’t get it.
Naturally, the result of showing up at the college dances, cafeteria or any class with my sleeves rolled up was mainly to put people off. It didn’t win me any boyfriends either. It earned me a new nickname: Cutter, shouted from a second storey window off campus as I walked by. I guess it could have been ‘cool’ had I a personality that could carry such a name with a kind of dry humor. Instead, it drove me into a rather studious shell. I resolved only to cut in long sleeved seasons. My new fun was hanging out at the college library, drawing medieval inspired pictures, while tucked away in a wood study carol rather than spend long lonely nights in my boring cinder block dorm room.
At the library, I’d also scroll through early 1900s New York Times articles on microfilm, reading the tragic, usually melodramatic style, tales of disaster and crime. Sensational journalism was par for that era and totally appealing to a youth in search of something exciting an a tiny college town, but not knowing exactly what or where to turn to get it.
After a boring summer back home, working up to my elbows tubs of mint and bubble gum ice cream, at an ever-sticky ice cream parlor, I found myself back at college with unwanted groupies. Though I only went alone to dances and usually danced alone or on the edge of groups, that autumn a small group of freshmen started tagging along, dancing in my periphery. Later they showed up on my dorm floor, hanging about like moody flies, hovering around, usually angry or depressed.
Mort, once a squeaky clean farm kid, giggled he’d taken to sniffing glue. He showed up to share his razor art: cuts under his finger nails. His girlfriend, Sissy, cut words on her arms and thighs. Once, after listening to ‘October’ together at dusk, my face in profile to the fading light, the Sissy said, ‘I just have to shiver. I get the feeling of overwhelming sadness off you.’ I had no clue what she was talking about. Maybe the central heating in the dorm building was on the fritz. I never understood why they idolized me. Their self-indulgent cutting habits verged on an out of control that massively eclipsed my few quiet moments of pain.
No surprise: I grew weary, tired, sick of these kids who seemed to find me ‘cool.’ The ‘cool’ I’d unwittingly created, through a few years of fashion mishaps, exploring music not always found on the radio, by quietly imitating dysfunctional youth in books, films, on my dorm floor. How had I encouraged what could only be described as creepy little imitations of a darker, mainly private, side of a not-yet 20 year old me? With some difficulty, I disowned the groupies, earning their spite and sarcasm. I admit, at first I envied their more outrageous antics and fashion creations. Then I just took a deep breath and turned completely away from them.
Winter gave way to a bright desert spring. When I left college in summer, walking the wide tree lined streets late at night, my black winged coat swept around me, blown by the cooler canyon wind. I longed for a more silly, even positive audience. I may never have been a punk, the girl every guy dreamed of, a great artist or dancer, but, without realizing it, I was on the verge of developing into a rather well-adjusted, eternally eccentric, wonderfully human being.
At the end of summer, I came home from a book shopping spree at the local second hand shop run by the Lutheran Church in Germany, toting Thomas Mann’s novel ‘The Magic Mountain.’ As soon as he saw the title, my German husband said, ‘Oh no! Not THAT book.’ I wondered what was so offensive about a book full of rich characters staying at a tuberculosis (tb) clinic. Somehow the themes, gleaned from the back cover lent themselves to the tale of my grandfather, an Iowan who spent time, as did his father, combating the symptoms of tuberculosis via protracted stays at sanatoriums in Arizona, California and Iowa. In those days tb was often referred to as ‘the captain of death.’
Great-Grandpa and the ‘City of Hope’
My great grandpa, a first generation American, born to Welsh immigrants, found work as a farmer in his youth in Illinois, then as a stoker or ‘fire man’ on a train and was eventually a railroad engineer for the Chicago and Northwestern. He contracted tuberculosis while living in the mid-West. Toward the end of his life, he stayed at sanatoriums in the desert regions of Winslow, Arizona and Los Angeles, California. His treatment at those early American sanatoriums most likely consisted of a special diet (emphasizing fruit, vegetables, eggs and milk),and plenty of fresh air and rest, as these were among the few ways in which tb patients were handled in his lifetime. Patients knew they were simply biding time before ‘the captain of death’ handed them their permanent leave papers.
His last stop was the Hotel San Gabriel in the then sparsely populated, pre-Hollywood, Los Angeles, California. His departure from the ‘City of Hope,’so named because of the tb sanatoriums sprouting up there, and his return to rural Iowa, are marked on the 1900 Census where the census taker drew a line over all the pertinent information columns and simply wrote ‘left before enumeration.’ Enumeration day was June 6, 1900. Today his homeward journey would last 24 hrs, driving long highways through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska. In his day, railroad tracks carried not just freight but passenger cars across those states. He returned to Iowa and died a few days later. Gone at 39, he missed leaving behind a rail worker’s pension, as the C & NW only started a pension plan in 1900, and a home in Sutherland, Iowa for his wife, two daughters and my grandpa, who was 3 years old at the time.
What is Tubeculosis
Tb is a contagious disease which, when caught, can lie dormant or inactive for a lifetime or suddenly activate, usually when a person’s immune system is compromised by another illness, drug abuse or alcoholism. Though also referred to as the ‘white plague,’ in America, it affected people of all colors and ethnicity around the world.
In the early decades of the 20th century, America’s various states passed their own laws and came up with their own standards for how to try and stop the spread of tb. Early on, many states passed ‘no spitting’ laws, after considering that chewing tobacco spit flying from a mouth to hit the slime in a brass spittoon might even splash and spread the contagion. There were many mishaps along the road to a cure for tb.
Thinking isolation was the answer, some states created space in existing state mental hospitals or built add-on space to house tb patients. This led to a stigma about tb patients somehow being crazy. In the 1920s, chest x-rays were the standard method of tb detection and unfortunately gave out a high dose of radiation to the potentially already compromised lungs. The practice of collapsing a lung to let it ‘rest’ and ‘heal’ from tb proved worthless. In the 1940s and 50s various drugs, thought to cure tb, led to a rise in drug resistant tb. Last resort surgeries to remove part of or all of a lung,sometimes along with as many as 6 to 8 ribs, were drastic and prolonged a life of suffering.
In my youth I thought of tb as ‘the artists’ disease’ as many famous writers and artists of the past lived with tb and died of it. Two of the better known are Aubrey Beardsley and D.H. Lawrence. Only D.H. Lawrence set foot in America. In the 1920s, he moved to Taos, New Mexico, a high arid desert with hot summers and cold winters, the recommended climate for ‘consumptives.’ He later died in France, having sought treatment in a sanatorium there. We have his poems, short stories and novels to read, his letters and many photos of him exist. I have no such literary mementos or photos of my great grandpa, but I do have a few photos of my grandpa and, through digitized Iowa newspapers, I discovered my grandpa had a bit of a creative streak himself.
Grandpa and Oakdale Sanatorium, Coraville, Iowa circa 1950s
A family story suggests my grandfather contracted tb from a tubercular corpse he embalmed in the small town basement of his home, which served as a family run, rural area funeral business for several decades. I never quite bought this macabre story and my life-long curiosity about my grandpa, who was rarely mentioned and whose photos remained absent from our home when I was growing up, led me on a quest to try and at least discover him through news articles.
Reading 1910s-1930s newspapers, I certainly got to know my grandpa from a perspective of youth, activity, creativity, humor and adventure. In his youth he played high school football, baritone in a uniformed small town cadet band of 40 members, and he tripped the lights in small roles in the junior and senior class plays. In 1917, as a member of the Iowa National Guard’s Machine Gun Troop, he shipped out by train, first in Camp Dodge, Iowa, then Camp Hancock, Georgia, the farthest East he would ever travel in his lifetime. At Camp Hancock he became a machine gun instructor, and later served along the Mexican boarder at Camp Cody in Deming, New Mexico, where he advanced to Battalion Sargent Major. Though he never saw action abroad, he lived in a fascinating microcosm of a tent city in the desert of south west America.
A highly detailed WordPress blog documents life at Camp Cody with articles and photos, offering many insights into daily life which my grandfather would experienced. Among the news from Camp Cody was the spread of tb, pneumonia and influenza. Soldiers returning from overseas duty brought the latter disease, sometimes called the Spanish Influenza, with them.
50 years after his father died of tb, my grandfather’s tb became active. He’d seemingly escaped the diseases at Camp Cody, returned to finish high school at age 23. In his mid-20s, grandpa struck out on his own, leaving Iowa for Oak Park, Illinois, to further his interest in auto mechanics, only later to return and live with one of his sisters and her husband, working in his brother-in-law’s auto shop. A family story claims he and a WWI pilot friend built their own airplane. In the late 1920s, grandpa met my grandma, whose own father and several brothers, were funeral directors in Iowa and Minnesota. A family story goes that my grandma’s father would only allow her to run a funeral home if she married. Another story is that my grandpa fell head over heels for my under five foot tall grandma, who played incidental music at the local cinema, and wrote her love letters. Letters lost to time.
In marrying my grandma, my grandfather had to change careers. The auto mechanic re-trained and became a licensed embalmer as well as director of a family run funeral home. My aunt once said he disliked the business. I imagine he still tinkered on cars in his spare time.
Through the 1930s and 40s he ran the funeral business as well as a county ambulance service but in 1951 he took a long pause when he entered a prairie sanatorium called Oakdale, located in Coraville, Iowa, just outside of Iowa City. His first stay of 18 months saw him living at this sanatorium along with a two neighbors from home. Once a week, my grandma traveled, alone or with neighbors, to visit the patients at Oakdale, a four hundred mile, one-way, journey. My grandpa missed a few Christmases at home but one year his family visited him for a special Thanksgiving dinner for patients at Oakdale.
Still wondering about the family story that he’d contracted tb when embalming a tb victim’s corspe, as part of the funeral business, I scrolled through newspapers and found a bit of gold. Or maybe a bit of brass. From 1937 onward, the Iowa Department of Health sponsored a county nurse to investigate any possible cases of tb in Iowa. People who had been in contact was tb patients or who were suffering various lung issues, were encouraged to allow the nurse to visit their home, create a case history, and suggest appropriate follow-up, as needed. Follow up included, visiting a doctor, having a chest x-ray and possibly staying at a sanatorium for treatment. Perhaps my grandpa had the nurse stop by, as in 1950, there were 10 cases of tb discovered in his county between July, when the survey began and November, when the survey ended. Ironically, a family friend, who hosted dinners for my grandparents, and my grandparents returned the favor, also had tb. She was several years older than my grandpa but joined him for three months at Oakdale and went on to live a long life, never returning to Oakdale. She was ‘cured’ of tb. Did contact with my grandpa infect her or was she the carrier who infected him? Perhaps. Another reason for so much tb was noted in a report about the tb surveys in Iowa, which revealed that for some unknown reason, tb was more prevalent in Iowa than in any other part of the United States. Why? I haven’t found an answer yet. Tb still exists in Iowa but these are few cases when compared to the number of tb patients in the 1950s.
Daily life at Oakdale consisted of a special diet which emphasized whole grains, vegetables and fruit, eggs and milk, and lots of fresh air and rest. The fresh air treatment meant patients sat or lay on bed arranged on poaches year round, whatever the weather for part of the day. Occupational therapy and physio therapy kept patients busy, and enforced rest and silence for several hours a day as well as lights out at 9:30 p.m. It was a highly regulated lifestyle punctuated by visits from medical staff, and, when one was lucky, family and friends. In those days, local newspapers gave updates on who visited who, keeping neighbors informed about friends at the sanatorium.
In pamphlets about life with tb, emphasis is placed on the importance of keeping patients’ spirits up via hobbies. Understandably, famous creative tb patients drew or wrote their time away but less talented or resourceful patients must have found the long sedentary lifestyle trying. Knowing my grandpa had been a sportsman and mechanic, I wonder what his hobbies were when the sparkling deep prairie snow of winter fell and refused to melt for weeks on end. In two news articles, one written during his second stay at Oakdale and the second after the removal of his lung and some ribs, the journalist shared his request that friends write to him, his address was provided for Oakdale and later for a Veteran’s Hospital in Minnesota. I wonder if anyone wrote to him and where those letters are now.
After almost two years at Oakdale, the doctors gave grandpa a ‘clean bill of health.’ Less than a year went by, then his health went downhill again. A second stay at Oakdale led to the last resort treatment of the 1950s, removal of a lung at a Veteran’s hospital.
Tuberculosis and Suicide
As if living with a then fatal disease wasn’t struggle enough, and the removal of part or all of one lung, another factor leading to exhaustion and depression, a blog article, ‘Cycloserine, Suicide and TB’, reveals that one of the drugs used in the 1950s, and still used today for treating tb, has known side effects of ‘anxiety, confusion, irritability, depression, nervousness, nightmares, mood changes and thoughts of suicide.’
While reading Iowa newspapers, I was shocked to find details of my grandpa’s suicide published on the front page of his former hometown’s newspaper, including the type of gun he used, how long it took him to die, and a letter he had left for my then 16 year old father. My father says he never saw that letter, nor the news article, which was published in an aunt’s town paper and not in the town paper where my grandpa died. Today such an article would probably mean suing the newspaper and/or firing the journalist due to its insensitive nature. In 1955, the letter slipped by my grandpa’s business hometown news journalists, who focused on his upstanding character and decades long involvement in the local chapter of the American Legion. I am grateful for the tacky jounalistic expose as it enabled me to share the unknown letter with my father this month, who was grateful to find more closure and who, in turn wished his sister, who passed away last year, had had the same chance to read their father’s last words and find some kind of peace.
Besides his illness and the nature of his latest treatment for tb, my grandpa had recently lost his mother, age 91, a longtime single mother, who had raised him and his sisters from 1900 to the mid-1920s. A creative woman, she won prizes at county fairs for her pastel paintings and craftwork over the years.
His mother later lived with him and his family from 1940 to a year before her death at a local nursing home. In 1944, my great grandma, then living in her son’s home, fell down a complete flight of stairs, mistaking the door to the stairway for the door to the bathroom, and lay in bed some days recovering from her injuries. In the 1950s, she helped raise my teenaged father and aunt, while my grandpa was in and out of Oakdale and Veteran’s Hospitals. My grandma kept the family funeral home afloat with the help of a brother and later a hired assistant.
The loss of a parent with whom he had shared a creative sensibility and amiable relationship was most likely a heavy blow to him. His lack of health also meant he could no longer work with embalming chemicals, and though he could have dealt with the paperwork and social requirements of the funeral business, perhaps it seemed his second career was also at an end. Though his wife was a highly capable busninesswoman, it seems her husband’s deterioration led her to claim he was ‘no longer a real man,’ or so another family story goes. It casts a shadow on a realtionship that started so seemingly full of potential, sheds light on the strain of an almost four year commitment to a long distance relationship, and makes me wonder about another family story, grandma’s alcoholism.
When I consider his years of sanatorium life, extended distance from everyday family and neighborhood life, witnessing fellow patients not surviving tb, loss of his father to tb, recent loss of his mother, potential loss of a career he may never have wanted anyway, I can imagine his sense of hoplessness. In 1955, a month after his latest discharge from the Veteran’s Hospital, he took a gun, bought a gun at a local pawn shop, got drunk, fought with my grandma, then locked himself behind the bathroom door and never opened it again. My aunt once said she later met the pawn shop owner, who told her how much he regretted having sold her father the gun. The neighbor lady, who had spent three months at Oakdale with my grandpa, lived to her late 70s, but after a dinner with my grandma, two weeks after my grandpa’s suicide, the local Iowa newspapers never mention the families having anything to do with one another socially again. Did my grandma consider the friendly hostess the cause of my grandpa’s demise? We will never know.
The story of tb can be found in Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Sick Child,’ government pamphlets and newsreels, medical and historial articles, statistics, films like ‘Heavenly Creatures,’ novels like, well, ‘The Magic Mountain,’ Puccini’s opera ‘La Boheme,’modern documentaries, publications for tb sanatoriums, and numerous biographies.
Special thanks to James Conway, whose blog article ‘Suicide must be a vocation,’ unwittingly inspired me to research my grandfather’s life and suicide.
Using Newspapers for Family Research
Free online access to Iowa Historical Newspapers helped me find my grandpa, whose struggle with tb ended so tragically a life begun with the kind of small town, mid-West talent and adventure that so often goes unsung, because, by today’s standards, it looks seemingly ordinary if not extraordinary at all. It’s the extraordinary in his ordinary life that makes him, for me, unforgetable.