My Story in Lists|Places I've Been

One of the places that I've been to that stirred me the most was Normandy, France. To understand the importance requires me to back up in time to my childhood. My grandmother was the oldest of seven children and she was close to her sisters and they loved nothing more than getting together and eating out talking in a mixture of English and Spanish at a rapid pace. We were in an era where children were seen and not heard so we would eat quietly, listening to the chatter and trying to understand everything that was being said.

Around the age of six, I began to understand through their conversations that my grandmother had a younger brother who fought in the war and tragically never came back. Grandma and her sisters would talk about how some friend had gone to France and thought she saw Richard, their brother. It was clear that they believed he had not died, but instead had become wounded and as a result had amnesia. It was apparent by their words and by the way their conversation would become hushed and subdued that there was a sadness there that time had not erased. He was the youngest of the children and I could tell that he was very much loved by his older sisters. Even at my young age, I found the whole story mysteriously fascinating.

So I was surprised just four years ago as I was talking to my dad about my brother's impending honeymoon to Paris when dad made a comment that Vic should go to Normandy and visit the American National Cemetery where his Uncle Richard was buried. How was that possible, I always thought he was missing in action, I replied, sure that my dad had it wrong. No, dad told me, his Uncle Richard had been killed in action during the invasion of Normandy. While Vic and his bride, Sharonda, made it to Paris, they never took the side trip to Normandy and I was left with some doubt as to whether my dad knew what he talking about.

France had not been a country in which we traveled to when we returned from Iran. Even though dad took French in high school, he had heard that the French were exceedingly rude, especially to Americans and as a result never had a desire to go. Being the obedient daughter, I adopted his mindset and never had a desire to go to France either. Until I saw the honeymoon pictures that Vic and Sharonda took. I wanted to step right into their photographs, never to return so when Brie told me that she wanted to go for her 16th birthday, I was in complete agreement. After I was diagnosed with cancer, she told me she wanted to go sooner rather than later, again, I agreed. If anyone was going to take Brie to Paris, it was going to be me. I also knew without a doubt that I was going to make the side trip to Normandy.

Coincidentally, sometime after we started talking about making the trip, my cousin Eddie sent me a link to the location of our great Uncle's burial site at the American National Cemetery. I looked up the information and saw that he was killed two days after the invasion. Even though I never knew him, I felt a terrible sadness. His life was cut so short that even though he had married before he shipped out, he never had any children.

Seven days after we arrived in Paris, we headed back to the airport to pick up a rental car and begin our trip to Normandy. I was more nervous than I wanted to admit to Brie, my best friend, Liz and Brie's best friend Megan. I knew once we left the city, I would be okay driving, but I did not want to find myself anywhere on the streets within the city limits. The French are crazy drivers and my eye sight at the time was poor from cataracts. I don't know what I was expecting because I didn't even have directions to Bayeaux the French city at which we would be staying.

Armed with a map, I made Liz the navigator with strict instructions....get us out into the countryside without the need to turn around until we pass the city. My heart was pounding. Somehow we managed to get on the right track, but it took a while to understand the map and the numbering system of the highways. The compact car I had rented didn't have enough room for more than one bag but luckily the rental agency gave us a free upgrade (that is a story within itself). Luckily France roads are filled with roundabouts so we would just circle around and around them, looking for arrows containing names of the cities we knew were in route and after several hours we found ourselves in Bayeaux.

We had made our way to the city, now we had to find the B&B I had reserved. I mistakenly thought Bayeaux would be a small little town where all we would have to do was ask some local where our hotel was and they would point the way for us. It was a small town, but not that small. It was a beautiful town and I fell in love with it immediately. We eventually found our B&B and the girls collapsed in their room for a nap, while Liz and I took off on foot for the town center. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. So much history, it was like stepping back into the 1940's. We walked the streets for hours until it was time to get the girls so we could go to dinner.

The next morning we got up early to head to the American National Cemetery. We had picked up some more maps at the town's visitor center the afternoon before and I was feeling pretty confident. We arrived there without any trouble. I had read that if you were visiting a family member's site that you should check in at the visitor center so we started there. The visitor guides were so kind and treated me with much more respect than I felt I deserved. I explained that it was my great Uncle and that my dad wanted us to come. Unbeknownst to me, Dad had asked Brie to make an etching of his grave marker. She had a mission of her own on this trip.

We were taken in a little cart to my Uncle's site. The guide had brought a bucket of sand which she used to fill in the engraved name. This they did so the name would stand out for pictures and for others to know that someone came to visit this site. She also brought an American and French flag which she planted at his cross for us to take pictures and told me we could take those and some sand back home with us if we would like. 

What moved me the most was the peacefulness that surrounded the area. There was the slight wind blowing so the trees were rustling and the songs of birds filled the air. On top of that was the fragrance of flowers and the sea.  It was so hard to imagine that this place was once the scene of one of the most ferocious modern day battles and that so many men gave their life so long ago. 

The only thing I could think was perhaps if they knew that years later this place would be so lovely, so peaceful that maybe they would be glad. Perhaps if they knew that because of their efforts, the tyrannical reign of Hitler came to an end. It was not for naught. I was proud of not just my uncle but of all the men who were brave enough to sacrifice their lives, regardless of whether they came back or not.

I went to bed that night dreaming of my Uncle, a man I never knew, but wished then more than ever that I had. I wished I would have brought my grandmother here when she was still alive. I wished I could have come with my dad. I hoped that it would have made a difference to him that although it had been more than 60 years since he had given his life, he had not been forgotten. 

My Story in Lists|Memories I have as a Child

This isn't so much of a specific memory of a specific occasion, but instead this is a memory of an object, my dad's Argus camera. If you aren't familiar with an Argus, it's an American camera that was a box shape and took 620 film.

Instead of holding the camera to your eye, you would hold it near your chest and look down into the view finder. Dad's camera was in cased in a leather holder designed to protect it which also allowed you to strap the camera around one's neck. I always loved it when dad would allow me to "carry" the camera for him, walking around carefully with the camera close to my stomach. If the camera was devoid of film I would pretend over and over again that I was taking pictures, snapping pictures and rewinding the camera.

Back then things hadn't changed as far as the joy that children feel when getting their pictures taken. I wonder why children aren't just uninhibited about getting their pictures taken, but they love it. We were no different. Back then there was something so exciting about getting our picture taken. Perhaps it was because it only happened for special occasions.

You didn't have the luxury of looking at the back of the LCD screen on the camera to see if you liked the shot or uploading to a computer deleting bad shots left and right. You paid for every shot good and bad. You kept every shot good and bad.

Mom lovingly glued the photos into albums she bought and we would look at these over and over again. For me, I associate the camera with those days, those times.

And unlike many possessions of we have these days, dad had and used his camera for years. I knew from the way he took care of it that it was special to him and for that reason, it was special to me. I was afraid that it was gone, but I recently found it tucked away in our guest closet along with his first film 35MM, a Pentax K1000 and his Super 8 movie camera.

I know my love of photography came first from him. From those days of pouring over the photos that he took. I hope one day these cameras will go to someone who loves them as much as he did, as much as I do.

My Story in Lists|Places I've Been

I've been pretty blessed. Because of my parents, because of my jobs, but mostly because of God, I've been able to travel a lot. When TripAdvisor's put out the list of the top 25 places to visit, I could tick off 11 on the list. And so, in no particular order, here's some of the places I've been.

Athens, Greece

The summer of my junior year we were planning to come back home for R&R from Iran. Things were getting pretty tense there. There were stories of women who were not wearing shadirs getting acid thrown in their face, there was a sudden presence of military at major roundabouts, while visiting Tehran a group of men followed me and some friends, throwing rocks at us. Even as a teenager, I knew something was wrong, something was brewing. Unbeknownst to me, dad was wakened from his sleep one night to the sound of machine gun fire and shortly after his driver told him that it was time for dad to leave Iran.

Instead of heading back home for a visit, we headed back home for good with a stop in Europe. The plan was to go to Greece, Italy, Spain and Germany. Our first stop was Greece.

Although I was heartbroken to leave my friends and the country, there was a sense of freedom I felt as soon as we were in Athens that had been missing in Iran. The job had been wearing on my dad. When overseas, he worked 6-days a week, 10-hour days at a minimum. While we enjoyed a type of freedom we would have had in the states, there were restrictions that were always there. We had to be careful about what we wore, what we said, what we did. And suddenly it was gone. Perhaps for that reason, Greece was one of our favorite countries that we visited.

The first couple of days we stayed at a hotel on the outskirts of Athens, enjoying the beach just unwinding. Dad had commandeered a travel book called Europe on $5 a Day. Yes, there was an actual book with that title and, yes, it was a best-seller for quite some time.

The first hotel, The Hotel Rondo, at which we stayed was a little nondescript hotel. What I remembered most was that for the first time ever, we had three hotel rooms which meant Eliz and I didn't have to share a bed, a very happy event for her since she always accused me of kicking her in my sleep. Greg also got locked in the bathroom which made Eliz and I laugh hysterically. It was rather funny, but then, again, I wasn't the one who got locked in.

We spent time at the beach which was hot, but still enjoyable. I remember the sand being much coarser than the sand than California. It was just wonderful to be able to go out in shorts again when it was hot outside.

We took a day cruise to see some of the surrounding islands where the water was blue as blue could be and the towns were picture book beautiful.

After a few days of relaxing and acclimating to our new found freedom, we moved to a hotel, called the Adonis, inside the city so we could do some sightseeing.

The first night in the city, dad was determined to eat at a restaurant recommended in his trusty book, Europe on $5 a day so we roamed the streets of Athens on foot for what seemed like hours, stomachs growling, feet hurting. Once dad has his mind set on something, it's pretty well set in stone. We finally gave up complaining and starting singing to the Ant's Go Marching a song with our own lyrics that went something like this:

The Medina's go marching one by one, hurrah, hurray, the Medina's go marching one by one, hurrah, hurray, the Medina's go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb and they all go marching down into the street to get food to eat. 

We finally did end up eating, but I have no idea if it was the restaurant dad was looking for. I remember the restaurant was empty which was a bad sign to us and that dad tried some olive concoction. The food was okay, but nothing impressive to me. One of our best meals there was the night mom and dad went to the market, bought fresh baked bread, cheese and fruit and we ate like kings. 

We spent time exploring the Acropolis, which I thought was magnificent. I truly could not believe I was there. 

I also could not believe that tourists could walk around the ruins as we did. 

 One afternoon dad gave us all free time and Eliz and I roamed the streets of Athens together, arguing (of course) about where we were. I (of course) was wrong, but I wouldn't admit it. She (of course) was right and wanted to be sure that I knew it. If I could go back in time, I would embrace more the time we had together. I wouldn't care if I were right or wrong. I would just be happy spending time with my brothers and sister, mom and dad as we marched into the street to get food to eat.

My Story in Lists| People I Love

There is hardly a memory I have, good or bad, big or small, in which she is not there. She knows most everything about me, good or bad, big or small, and loves me in spite of it all.

My very first childhood memory is of her. I am standing in our room, watching as she and my cousin, Eddie, are jumping on the bed. I know that they aren't supposed to be doing that and in my early toddler brain, the right and wrong is like black and white. I'm trying to understand why they are doing this when they know it's wrong and at the same time, I'm partly in awe that they would be so blatantly naughty. When the bed breaks, my sister Elizabeth and Eddie are scolded by my dad and my aunt and get sent to time out. I'm relieved that I didn't join in.

For our first twelve years, we shared a room. At night, we talked, sometimes argued as I was afraid of the dark so I didn't want the door shut all the way so the light from the hallway can come in. She is the brave one, wanting the door shut tight so the dark can send her into dreamland. 

I was always in awe of her bravery, even though it often led to fights between us. She paved the way, the one who knew things before I did. She stood up to mom and dad in ways I never could and could be frustratingly stubborn.

When we were little and would get into the kind of trouble that meant a spanking, we would stand in front of dad as he handed down his verdict. Then he would inevitably ask "who wants to go first"? I would stand there tight lipped, my tears running like Niagra Falls, quiet as a mouse, hoping beyond hope that mercy would be granted. Eliz would stand there, stoic, until at last she finally would volunteer to go first. I was the crybaby, she was the rock.

Being so close in age, we would annoy each other to no end and there came a time when she would tire of having a little sister around so she would instruct me to pretend that I didn't know her and that I wasn't her sister, so of course, I would pester her even more and let everyone know that she was my sister. It also meant that we often had the same friends which was both good and bad.

In high school, I became jealous. Jealous of her beauty, jealous of her confidence, jealous of her smarts. We were both friends and adversaries. I knew that underneath it all she loved me because she had the strength to take me out anytime she wanted, yet she never did.

As we got older, my admiration for her grew and I stopped trying to compete with her. When she got married, I was so happy and so sad. I knew that meant that our house was no longer her home and I was a little lost at first. It helped that she always opened her door to me and I would often go to her apartment and later home as a place of refuge. It was then that our bond really tightened and it has been that way ever since.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, she was right there by my side, my strength, my pillar...some things never change. She is the one I still look up to, the one I want to approve of my choices, my life, my decisions...some things never change. She is the one I call when I'm happy, when I'm mad, when I just feel like talking...some things never change. I hope they never do.

My Story in Lists|Memories as a Child

Even though I was only a toddler when we moved to Brazil, I remember pockets of our life there.

It is here that we first met the Yoder's. I don't remember their daughter's name, but I did remember Darrell, the eldest son and I believe, Carl, was the name of the youngest. I don't know if it was on this day in particular, but I do remember being in just a t-shirt and training pants on one of their visits and feeling embarrassed by it. I also remember wishing I could say something to my mom, but just suffering in silence. It made me feel like a baby.

I also remember vague parts of a trip we made to the beach. It was here that I learned that you can't take food into the ocean and expect it to taste good. I don't know how it was that I was able to go into the water with a peanut butter sandwich in my hand because at this time, any parent worth their salt strictly adhered to the 20 minute rule.

For those not in the know, the 20 minute rule was an agonizing rule thought up by someone who obviously did not like children which said that you must not go into the water until 20 minutes after you eat. Go into the water any earlier than 20 minutes and you would get cramps and drown. I suppose I should be thankful that mom and dad abided by the rule which was an indication of their love for us at the time.

Being a lover of the water and the beach, the 20 minute rule was, for me, horribly torturous so it may have been that I tried to circumvent the rule by sneaking a peanut butter sandwich into the water with me. One giant wave later, and I quickly learned that one cannot take food into the ocean and not expect that it would become nothing more than fish food.

My Story in Lists| Favorite Toys I had as a Child Part II

It was Christmas morning. I remember waking up with such excitement, the kind that only a child who went to sleep listening for Santa could have. We must have been very very good that year because wrapped in big boxes (the best kind!) was a Suzy Bake Oven and Sink.

A thousand times better than an Easy Bake Oven, the Suzy Bake Oven was to me a real deal. It looked like an adult oven, except that it was just the perfect height for a child and was a beautiful color of aquamarine. I could not believe my eyes. Santa had never been so generous to us before. Sure I had to share it with my sister, but I didn't care. From the moment I had set foot in a kindergarten room where there was a toy stove & oven, I wanted one of my very own. But with this one I didn't have to pretend I was making cakes and cookies, with this one I would actually be doing it.

I could have played for the rest of the day with the oven, but that would have to wait because we had grandparents to go visit where we were showered with love and presents.

Something happened a day or so after Christmas. I can't remember what I did, but dad got angry at me and asked me what gift I liked the most. I was so afraid that he was going to take whatever I said away from me as punishment so I lied and told him the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls my grandmother had given me. Even as I said the words, I knew there was no way he could believe me. I loved my grandmother, but the dolls couldn't compare. I could see in his eyes he didn't believe me and he asked me again. I insisted, holding my breath, waiting for the consequence. Instead he pursed his lips and let it go. I felt so horrible, I took the special care of those dolls to show her how much I liked them. Funny enough I still have those dolls and they are even more raggedy than ever.

Unlike my beautiful Blaze, I have no pictures of my Suzy Bake Oven, but I did get one off the internet. To my six-year old eyes, I swore the oven was real, not just some light bulb doing the trick.

The sink was pretty cool, too, with the ability to have running water really come out of the facet. Eliz and I baked many delicious cakes and cookies in the little oven. I never grew tired of it. It was one of the toys I mourned leaving behind when we moved to Puerto Rico, taking consolation in the fact that it was going into storage in the little shack behind my grandfather's house and would be there when we returned. Unfortunately for me, the shack was exactly that, a shack, and most of our toys were ruined from rain by the time we returned two years later, my Suzy back oven, included.