Author: Barbara Serbinski Sipe

arbara Serbinski Sipe is a first generation Polish immigrant from a refugee resettlement camp in Great Britain. Barbara grew up loving history and this love became a passion especially when it involved World War II and specifically the European conflict. Ignited by the love of European history, the project, Letters from the Box in the Attic, a Story of Courage, Survival and Love is factually based on letters and documents discovered in the attic of her mother. Historical perspective is preserved when placing her mother’s letters and experiences into this narrative. Understanding why things happen in life and how they affect life are just as important as the events themselves, this is therefore the reason behind the extensive research and introspection found in this book. Letters from the Box in the Attic is told by her daughter, Barbara, tracing her mother’s journey from the Soviet invasion of Poland, to Soviet prison cells and eventual release from a Siberian labor camp.

Now What?

I have been pondering what my second book should be about and I can’t tell you how daunting that thought is.

The idea of writing a book and actually accomplishing the task has been overwhelming at times. The idea of book #two is more insane. So instead I will write this blog entry. The work of getting published is difficult enough, not having done it before; but now marketing the book is a whole other difficult task, not ever doing it before.

Cover 3 20 2018

I am excited that family and friends have embraced my book, but that does not make for a real marketing effort. I will be having a book signing/launch party on June 6, 2018 at the Wildbird Shack located at 854 East Northwest Hwy, Mt. Prospect, IL at 6 p.m. The shop is adorable, featuring bird seed, bird houses, yard ornaments, and many handcrafted items from local artisans. Please join me for a reading and enjoy some refreshments as well as the opportunity to browse through this well-appointed store. I will have additional events which are pending for summer and fall and they will keep me busy.

I have to thank Alyce Burman, the owner of the Wildbird Shack, who offered to open her store to me for this marketing opportunity. I will be forever indebted to her.

The Big Whine

Family early years

Me and Mom – photo taken probably a year after our family’s U.S. arrival – early 1950’s.

There is never a good time to come to terms about a relationship. The entire focus of Letters from the Box in the Attic is showing how brave, selfless, and wonderful my mother was throughout her life. This was all true, but how does a daughter live with that perfect person who was her mother?

Not always well. Adolescence and adulthood has a way of making that so. Any perfect person is still a human being, not without flaws or weaknesses. In writing the book, I thought about introducing a chapter about the ups and downs Mom and I had, or at least referring to them but decided it would come across as me whining. Therefore there are no references. I felt the need to hold her up on a pedestal, because she was the rock of our family and she needed to be treated with the utmost respect and love.

As with many mothers and daughters not all things were perfect at home with Mom and me, and even after I was married and moved away, that periodic friction continued. I even felt the need to read the book, My Mother Myself, by Nancy Friday.  After reading the book I felt more satisfied knowing that there is no sin to being similar to your mother. Some of a mom’s best traits may end up being your own. I shared with my own mom a love of nature’s beauty and color; a strong feeling of justice; and the strong bond of family. The conflicts which surfaced were petty in nature, and in my case it was simply communication, or the lack of it, which was my doing.

When I went away to college, my mother wanted me to call her once a week. But back in the day, a long time ago, college dorms had one pay telephone per floor, not in individual rooms, allowing for no privacy, and of course there were no cell phones. How did we exist! I really resented this exercise, because I did not like to be obliged to call and talk about things she did not understand. She did not go away to school and even if she had, it would have been in another country and during another time. How could she relate? A person should call when they wanted to, was what I thought. But how often would I have called? She knew she needed to stay in touch with her daughter.

Out of respect and love I did as I was told, I called every week. Even with keeping up this practice over the years, the looser was my mom, because there were fewer and fewer things we talked about. Once I moved away from her area and had children of my own the conversations did turn to those kids,  their actitivies and school progress which we talked about. I also blamed my deteriorating Polish language skills as the years went on as a reason for the created wedge between us. It’s hard to explain something in a language you only use once a week, so it was easier not to try. To my own discredit, I think I just did not like to be told what to do.

I always thought of myself as a serious career oriented person who needed to work to be fulfilled. At this time in my life I don’t feel as emphatic about that. My little family had the opportunity to move several time while my children were young, and that caused my career paths to change a few times. Each time I found employment and a purpose at these destinations, Mom brought up the fact that it’s good that I was contributing to the household, but my feeling was that I really wanted to work because it was important to me. Maybe all I was doing was contributing a bit financially,  but at the time, I felt so misunderstood.

The strong bond of family is also what I shared with my mother. Doing what it takes to keep family together is important to me. There were times I would think of my mom as a door mat becasue she wanted to please everyone. I felt that she did not stand up for herself when criticized. Despite initially blaming my dad for causing Mom not to defend herself especially when he would verbally abuse her while drinking, I believe I was the best at projecting that image on to her. She was a genuine giver. It was important to her that she give of herself to her family. The door mat syndrome is a by-product of being a giver, of wanting to please. When you care about your family it’s easy to become a door mat. The idea of a parent’s unconditional love is quite compelling. The unconditional love of a parent is a gift to her children and then there is the hope that the love goes both ways. I was blessed to have had my mother’s unconditional love and it was returned, despite any ups and downs of life.

To learn more about my mom read Letters from the Box in the Attic, a Story of Courage, Survival and Love – Available on Amazon.

 

It’s Published

My last two months:

The last two months have been an interesting time for me. I feel like I have taken two steps forward with my new venture, the book, only to take three steps back.

Letters from the Box in the Attic, a Story of Survival, Courage and Love is ready to launch! There are a few bugs that still need to be ironed out, but nothing major.

The last two months have been a journey which took me from ecstasy to tremendous self-doubt. The first printing of the book did come out in late February, which prior to it going live, the thought of the book actually being printed was an enormous high for me. But when it actually happened, I got panicked. The idea of being an author scared me. The idea that there may be some mistakes in the manuscript, some errors in the book, frightened me to death.

I had spent so much time researching the book, taking the time to find out as much as I could about my parents, but now I even regretted taking on the job.

So there I was, the night when my complementary copies from the publisher came to my door, I could not sleep. Thoughts of problems emerging crept into my head, of putting myself out there and being questioned. I doubted and had reservations about the whole project, thinking why did I do this?  Why have I tried to tell Mom’s story? I was overwhelmed with self-doubt.

So I had Alan, my husband, read the book to find errors. I then submitted three corrections. Then I started to read the manuscript again and found more. So I did a re-submission of the whole book. In the meantime, I could not market the book; sales on Amazon were suspended. The book was originally edited, but the editing process is huge and not easy.

At the present time, I have taken a leap of faith; the book is in its present state; it is what it is. It’s finished and it’s on Amazon. God forbid there are any corrections needed. If there are, I can’t do anything about them. The book is worth reading. The story is beautiful and its message is compelling.

Letters from the Box in the Attic now has a Facebook page:

Please like the page and share it with your friends.

The book is available for purchase on Amazon:

It is also available on Barns & Noble:

Or on Balboa Press:

Thank you!

Excerpt from Chapter 3 – Dealing with her Past

I would like to introduce you to Letters from the Box in the Attic, a Story of Survival, Courage and Love, my labor of love. This book chronicles my mom’s war experiences as a young adult and how it changed her life. My first book is to be published next month and here is an excerpt from Chapter 3.

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While mom was alive and living in a nursing home in Illinois, my brother Andy and I decided it was time to sell mom’s house in Pennsylvania and deal with her possessions. There was a life time of stuff which she accumulated.  So much of what was in her house proved to be either in disrepair, or have no real value to worry about. Andy insisted that he did not want anything out of the house. Mom was proud of Andy’s art work which dotted her walls. They represented much of his portfolio from his college days at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. He did not want any of it back. So knowing this, my daughter Stephanie and I drove to Sewickley, Pennsylvania, mom’s picturesque town along the Ohio River where I grew up. We pulled a small trailer, ready to deal with and take away what we needed to keep from the house.

Mom was a saver; not to be confused with a hoarder however. If there was the possibility that something could be reused, she kept it. If there was anything sentimental, she kept it. There was stuff everywhere! Mom’s living room was full of newspaper clippings, books and magazines, pretty much as she had left it the year before. She saved all things that represented family or a connection to her past.

My daughter and I found ourselves looking through everything, piece by piece, and found many old bound calendars and day timers filled with mom’s journaling; her written commentary about her life and life in general, covering every page. She never wasted any piece of paper while writing about this or that. Stephanie and I each spent hours pouring over stacks of materials, laughing and crying over what Grandma had saved and written.

Stephanie and I continued to look through the photos both loose and in albums, books and other recently saved memorabilia – deciding what we wanted to bring back with us. We then tackled the kitchen, dining room and her personal bedroom items and clothes. The kitchen, as small as it was, contained scads of paraphernalia as well, including small appliances, pots and pans that she had not used in years. Mom had no longer used the old Amana gas oven range, which was original with the house in 1963 the year my parents bought it. She used only one burner and never used the oven for fear of blowing up the house. The rest of her cooking was done in the little microwave or toaster oven, which Andy bought her years prior.

Stephanie laid claim to all of Uncle Andy’s art work, while I decided to keep some of her china pieces and a particular curio cabinet, as well as her old treadle Singer sewing machine. That sewing machine was the life blood of mom’s sewing business and it gave her many years of use, even after she was given a brand new machine one year for Christmas. The new machine would break down periodically, but her mending and sewing for others needed to continue forcing her to use the old reliable one.

Before Stephanie and I left that weekend, I went up to the attic which had been neatly organized over the years. I was drawn up there, somewhat as an afterthought, because Stephanie and I really needed to get on the road to drive home. Once up there I knew there was something I needed to find. We stumbled on additional clothes which we added to all the bags ready to give away. I began to open some of the cardboard storage boxes and there they were, the two boxes of precious memorabilia that mom kept. I knew she kept letters and documents from the war because she would often refer to some of the keepsakes, handwritten letters, documents, medals, photographs and books.

Those two boxes were full of precious items that needed to be in my custody, since I could not possibly abandon or discard them. To this day I can’t fathom how I almost left without mom’s treasures. They represented who she was. Had I abandoned the boxes, it would have been like throwing away pieces of her life, her youth, her heart and soul — saved for more than 70 years. In good time I would explore the contents.

Christmas Memories

Now that yet another Christmas celebration has come and gone, which Christmas memory is your favorite? From all of them, is it a childhood memory or one more recent?

These questions got me thinking. Actually my memories have become a blur especially when remembering the ones when my kids were little. They seem to all blend together. Thank goodness for photographs which validate my memory of some of the events, such as the strolling minstrel – one year my one daughter receiving a guitar from Santa.xmas KC2

When I think of when I was growing up, I do remember Christmas Eve dinners, which is when my family celebrated Christmas. That dinner was steeped in Polish tradition. Christmas Eve is called Wigilia in Polish and my mother even helped us celebrate it when she was at the Lutheran Home in Arlington Heights. Her first year there was memorable when we brought her to the house for lunch and some pierogi, our little Wigilia. mama LHThe idea of having her with us for dinner in the evening was going to be too much for her and certainly for me, having to care for her. Therefore lunch was perfect. The first year was good and very celebratory; the second year was difficult. She was so weak and fragile, and the time at my house had to be a burden on her. She really did not know where she was.

I remember some of the Christmases growing up, when my brother and I were very small. We always wrote our letter for personal wants, to the Christmas Angel, not to Santa. The Christmas Angel would come via the window which my parents would crack open in the living room. During the evening before our dinner began, we would go for a drive around town to see all the Christmas lights. Before we all got on the road, my mom would excuse herself because she had to check to make sure she turned the oven off before leaving. This is when she would place the presents under the tree, as if the angel stopped by. She did confess to doing this many years later. Then of course my brother and I were absolutely wide-eyed with wonder when we got home to see all the presents under the tree.

xmas 1054

I don’t remember having a conflict with any other children about Santa versus the Angel. I guess it may have been that I just played along since I did not want to be different, but yet the Angel was what we believed in. We also did believe in Swienty Mikołaj, or Saint Nicholas, who some call Santa Claus, but he came on December 6th every year. If you leave your shoes out in front of your bed, Swienty Mikołaj would bring you a toy. It’s just that for us he did not come on Christmas Eve. It may seem that all these Polish traditions are rather confusing. You need to understand that the Polish traditions come from a strong Catholic belief system which is why things are done that way.

I do remember with my own kids trying to remember December 6, and falling very short of the mark some years. It’s because you need to remember on December 5th at bedtime to put the shoes out, and then remember to have candy canes or a toy handy to put in the shoes. Many years it was a struggle to keep that tradition alive. But I did keep the Polish Wigilia alive and we still do it today, even with my kid’s spouses participating. It’s all about the food. My one daughter and I go to the Polish grocer to get the fresh fish and marinated herring. My cousin from Poland sends me dried mushrooms for the barszcz, a beet soup. And it would not be Christmas Eve of we did not make pierogi from scratch.

I suppose my favorite Christmas is a compilation of all my Christmases as happy celebrations with family. These memories are a blend of one memory after another, no matter where we lived at the time or who else entered our life. This may be why they are all a blur, because every Christmas is about family and they are all celebrations.

A Tribute to my Father

My memories of him come alive when I think of my dad and see photos of him both as a young man and older. Because so much time has passed since his death, I have to spend more time processing memories of him.

My dad, mój tatuś, in Polish, was a larger than life person when I was a child, as most fathers are. My dad was not tall, but was a large man, a steel worker. He was strong and able to do manual labor in a steel mill. He was also a survivor of World War II and was the head of our household; so he ruled the roost. My brother and I knew that and we knew our place.

This time of year brings a flood of memories back because his Feast Day has come and gone, November 28, 1979, and the anniversary of his death is coming up. As is the custom for many older Polish people, and it certainly was when I was growing up, feast days or name days were more important than birthdays. It was on your feast day that you received presents. Feast Days in Poland, imieniny in Polish, were the days on the Catholic calendar commemorating the day of a saint for which you were named. Dad’s was St. Zdzisław, his patron saint. Now on a non-Polish calendar, Zdzisław, would not be there, but on a Polish Catholic calendar, it’s there. And it’s important to note that on any given day on a saints’ calendar, your name may share the day with other names. Living in the United States, my brother and I did not celebrate our feast days, but our parents did.

I do remember when dad was very sick, a few days before he died, which was also a week after Thanksgiving that year, he only wanted turkey and rice for his feast day meal. He used to have quite an appetite, but not that year. He was so sick from receiving weekly dialysis treatments, and he was getting weaker every day. I also remember the morning of December 4, 1979, which was the feast of St. Barbara, my feast day. Since my husband and I lived near my parents they often watched our little miniature Schnauzer during the day. I don’t remember the circumstances, but it was agreed upon that Spanky, the dog, would go down to grandma’s house that day and I would go on to work. I vividly remember that morning when dropping off the dog. My dad was on the second floor at the top of the landing in his pajamas and robe, saying that he was not doing well and that my mom needed to call an ambulance to take him to the hospital where his doctors were. Now the beauty of where my parents lived was that they were a block from the local hospital, but the hospital where he needed to go was in the city, on the north side of Pittsburgh. The morning traffic was a problem and complicated because one of the bridges was under re-construction, consequently the ambulance had to make a detour.

Going on to work, I stood by the phone to get a status call from my mom about dad’s condition. The hospital from downtown where I worked was very close and I would go over at a moment’s notice.

Well the call came but it was with mortal news that dad had died and I needed to get over there right away.

I immediately prayed to St. Barbara, my patron saint, to welcome dad into the afterlife. When I got to the hospital, I found him lying on the emergency room table, no life left in his body, as I walked over to say good-bye. This indeed was a surreal experience. He needed to get up off the table and tell everyone that he wanted to go home. But I realized that was not going to happen. The whole experience was awkward. I did not know what to do or say or think. I had never had anyone close to me, especially someone I loved, die before. I did realize I needed to say good-bye, feeling that his spirit was still in the room. I do think I was numb to what had just happened.

So as I think of my dad these days, not having him in my life for 38 years, what could have been had he lived? He would have been around for the birth of my first child, Christopher, who was born three months after his death. He could have been around for his two other grandchildren, granddaughters, Stephanie and Samantha. There would have been so many other events, but none of that was to be.

He was my father and he was the only dad he knew how to be during his time on earth. He loved me, that I know. Was he hands on? No. He would get reports from my mom about what was going on in my life, but actually asking me? No. Was that normal when I was growing up? Maybe. I feel that is totally immaterial, since he was my dad and that’s the way he fathered. He put food on the table, paid his mortgage, and walked me down the aisle. And he loved me.

 

When is a House a Home?

What is a house? Is it just shelter?

For some people who may be homeless, an apartment is shelter. It can be a one room rental and still be home as well as shelter. What makes a house special? I think it all depends on who lives there – a roommate to share the space for company, a significant other, a spouse, a pet or family members.

During my early life I lived in a variety of places which took me from England to our first apartment in the United States. We then moved to a series of walk-up apartments before my parents bought their first home. This one and only house is where my parents stayed, never to move again. For my parents living in that house meant that they had arrived; they had their piece of the pie. They owned it and had stability and security. Sewickley home (2)

My brother and I did not live there long, but still called it home. After going away to college, neither one of us returned to that house to live. During my married life, I experienced living in several apartments, eventually we bought our first home, then built a house and sold the first one. We then transferred to another state, found a rental house until we sold the one we built. We then bought a house in the new state only to be transferred several years later. The saga went on. There were multiple moves after that. When do roots become important to promote that security and stability? One might say once children are born; yet we moved three children multiple times.

Each of those moves was traumatic for my kids and for us as parents because we left friends, but not so much because of the houses themselves. We left several really nice houses behind, but that’s what they were – houses, just shelter. Don’t get me wrong, leaving each of the houses was hard because they each had some unique feature. We do get attached to things. But the memories that were grown in those houses we take away with us when we leave. I have to remember this now as we contemplate downsizing and moving!

I suppose feeling that human connection in life is what makes us happy or leaving them makes us sad. What makes a house a home is the people in them or around them. This is what I found important in my relationships with houses. For my parents, they moved around a lot as well. Yet for them, finding an anchor was important, since their lives had been so unstable and disrupted during and after World War II. They also wanted to feel rooted to a community since they had no family around.

My mother lived in her little house for twenty-eight years, all by herself, after my dad passed away. She kept up with the house repairs and yard upkeep because that property was hers and ultimately too important to neglect or sell. It was only after her stroke when she could no longer live alone did she move out. It was very sad to have to sell the house after she was in a nursing home for over a year. I was sad for her; my attachment to it was only that it was her precious house. All she wanted to do was to go home.

The Clean Plate Club

Have you ever spoken the words “finish your dinner, or… else – some consequence directed at one of your kids or grand kids? Or do you remember hearing those words growing up?

There are many phrases about meal time struggles with parents and children each having an opinion about what foods the kids need to eat before having dessert or leaving the table. One favorite one comes to mind is “Eat those peas or beans – you can’t leave the table until you do.” To this day my husband won’t eat a pea or a bean. Power struggles between parents and children produce no winners but they do produce vivid memories.

I grew up with food being precious and the edict in my home was you have to eat everything on your plate. It was sacrilegious to waste food. I was raised to be in “the clean plate club”.

If you knew my parents you would understand why they felt this way. The mere fact that they had no money may be reason enough, but also knowing that they were starved during the early years of World War II, would be the better reason for their strong feelings on the subject.

I recently read this about the starved Polish population from Siberia during the war – “Once they were starved in Siberia by the Soviets, they were always obsessed with food.” My dad in particular showed his propensity for weight gain more than my mother. These are some before and after shots of him – the one of the left was after he was released from a Soviet prison and the one on the right was a couple of years later when he was in the Second Corps of the Polish Army, eating well and when not training or in battle, enjoying life.

before and after tatus (2)

My mom had an interesting relationship with food. As I mentioned there was no food waste in my house growing up. If it was on your plate you ate it. Later in life we would have these lively discussions when I visited Mom. We discussed the pros and cons of not eating when you were not hungry.

So here we had a woman, my mom, who was not only obsessed about having to eat everything on her plate but also obsessed with her weight. I think she realized that because she was no longer being starved, she had a tendency to gain weight when she ate too much or made bad choices. She then ate other “non-fattening” foods like popsicles that had 10 calories or the no fat whipped cream that comes in a container which helped to keep her weight down. She loved her sweets and enjoyed them because they had few calories. Even with this license to eat, she would pace herself and only eat the sweets for dessert or in the evening as a treat.

When the grand kids were at her house for a visit, Mom had many snacks in the house and they knew where to find them, like bread sticks, cookies, and all sorts of crackers. She was known for her popsicles because they were the brand that had a joke on every stick. She loved to tell those kidly knock – knock jokes; many of which she learned while eating the popsicles.  These are some of the memories my children have of their grandmother.Mama and kids

We all have an individual relationship with food, either as a panacea for an emotional or physical ill or as a bribery weapon against someone else. Eating your feelings is a good example of how some react as opposed to eating to live. Living to eat is more fun but then eventually life catches up with that choice.

Unknowingly this phrase “Clean Plate Club” actually had an origin. After the two major wars and the Great Depression, when food was scarce, our government instituted the club to help people realize that when they had food, not to waste it. The government drew on the public’s patriotism from during the wars and knew people wanted to help. The concept primarily focused on school children with a pledge that read, “At table I’ll not leave a scrap of food upon my plate. And I’ll not eat between meals, but for supper time I’ll wait.” This idea grew impractical over time as lifestyles changed and people became overweight, as our portion sizes grew.

As children my brother and I struggled with being overweight in a time when society did not have its current weight issues.Sunday at the creek

Most of my adult life, I have been obsessed with watching my weight just like my mother. So much for the “Clean Plate Club”, but in my house there is very little food waste. If you don’t cook as much food, you won’t have to eat it all, and if you don’t put as much food on your plate, you’ll have left overs.

It’s all About the Letters

So far my blogs have focused on growing up Polish and remembering my mother and how she influenced my life and my family’s. But now it’s time to talk about all the letters she left in the attic.

I have vivid memories of my mother both from the early years and as she grew older as well as her modest life, sometimes too modest in my estimation. She tried to add a positive spin to whatever was going in her life while being frugal. I remember when she said her heating bills were too high in her old, drafty house and how the new thermostat reading needed to be 65 degrees on some of the coldest days. She simply wore an extra sweater to keep warm. When I came to visit the thermostat went up a few degrees. I don’t think I am holding her up to be this perfect person, but she was able to tackle adversity with grace. She was someone who could make lemonade out of sour lemons, when she had to, and she had to make lemonade quite a bit.

My greatest accomplishment, next to giving birth and rearing my children has been memorializing my mother’s World War II experience. This period in her life was when her survival skills, making lemonade out of sour lemons, were the most useful. The art of tackling adversity head on served her well the rest of her life also. The project, Letters from the Box in the Attic, a Story of Survival, Courage and Love” is a tribute to this woman I called mother. My book is a work of love, which will be published sometime in early 2018.

The book’s genesis began in the fall of 2012, shortly after I resigning from my job. Because I am a one track minded type of person, there was no time for two major undertakings in my life. I needed to focus on researching the book and gathering as much information as possible. Later another job found me, which took 18 more months away from the project. Eventually I got to where I am now.

I always thought I knew so much about European World War II, only to find out that I knew only some of the basics which are taught in school. There was so much more that I needed to know to begin the writing process. The learning curve also involved needing to know more about my parents’ lives during the war; however, they were both deceased when I started the project.

This was when the letters became the dominant focus of the project, the heart and soul of the project once the letters were translated. Revelations were learned, the inner most feelings between two people, and family members were exposed. After digesting all the translations I was left with trying to make sense of it all. Eventually I was able to connect some of the dots between historical events and what my parents experienced.

Historical context is so important to put events into prospective – why things happen, not just that the events themselves occurred. Knowing what my parents experienced needed to be put into an understanding of why. As a history nerd, this was the most fun!

Then there are the personal revelations that come from doing some introspection about family. We are all interesting human beings, who suffer from human failings along with some burdens we carry both good and bad. All families have issues.

This has been my first attempt at writing a manuscript. I thoroughly enjoyed the research portion of the journey. Collecting the data, intertwining the letters with all the historical facts was fascinating. A non-fiction author once gave me a bit of advice; he said that at some point you have to start writing. You cannot just keep doing research, was his advice. As difficult as it was to follow his advice, I took it to heart. I was nevertheless convinced that I could find more information if I just tried. As I began to write, I did pursue archived information from the Polish government, which did reveal interesting facts. I was so excited to add them into the narrative. But for me the reality is that there are facts I will never know.

The idea of becoming an author is crazy to me. I am sure my high school English teachers are rolling over in their graves if they are deceased. As with other new ventures, I will have to buy into the fact that I did write the book. This next phase of my life will be exciting.

Weddings and Anniversaries – a Tribute

Recently I attended two weddings. The first one was my own daughter’s wedding, my youngest, which was in the planning process for months and the other one was  my niece’s wedding. Both were well organized and each was a distinctive celebration. Each wedding had a beautiful weather day, with a striking setting, and both receptions were good parties. But I must admit my daughter’s was by far the best. I may be a bit partial, however.

Anniversaries are time honored milestones in a marriage and recently my son and daughter-in – law celebrated their 8th anniversary. Remembering my own wedding 46 years ago feels like it was not that long ago. Then I recall the day my parents celebrated their anniversary every year, October 3rd, which is today. They would have been married 74 years had they lived. My dad predeceased mom by 30 years and every year when October 3rd rolled around, mom would count the number of years they would have been married had he lived. Many people seem to revel in the numbers as if it were a badge of courage they wear surviving so long with their partner.

Getting back to the two weddings I recently attended, I can only speak to the preparations for my daughter’s wedding. She painstakingly made sure all her details were nailed down. As the saying goes, “the devil is in the details”. Her wedding was perfectly orchestrated and simply lovely, a fairy tale wedding. She was a radiant bride who also had fun at her own wedding.Samantha and Braden 162

The wedding planning process seems to change over time as new concepts and fun activities for guests or wedding party members enter into the planning. Being married almost a half a century, at the time of my wedding, there were no bachelorette parties. Comfort items for guests now include goody bags at hotel check in for out of town guests.  Receptions are usually elaborate to keep guests entertained and well fed.

My thoughts now go back to when my parents were married. It was October 3, 1943 in an army tent, in the Palestinian desert. Their life was in the middle of World War II. They were both in the Polish Second Corps which was the reorganized Polish fighting force made up of both men and women, many of whom were once exiled to Stalin’s Siberia. In Stalin’s Soviet Union they were slave laborers deported out of their homes, political prisoners, or POW’s following the invasion of Poland in September 1939. My parents each had their horror stories from the invasion of their country and all the repercussions that followed.

They had met each other the winter before the war started in mom’s home town, and somehow miraculously found each other during the war, after each was released from captivity and then struggled to make it to where the army was forming. My mom was able to join the protection of the army by becoming an auxiliary support person, a nurse. She received nurse’s training in Tehran, Iran and my dad became a fighting soldier again, as a light artillery specialist, which was his training before the war. Many of their stories I share in my upcoming book, “Letters from the Box in the Attic, A Story of Courage, Survival and Love”.

Their many post-war struggles kept them together for 36 years, until my dad died in 1979. It amazes me that I’ve been married 10 years longer than they were. I am very fortunate to still have my spouse and to keep clocking up those years. Wedding vows usually say, for better or for worse and my parents kept their devotion to each other alive during their married life, even though some of the time their relationship was rocky. Here’s to devotion and for better or for worse!

Happy Anniversary, Mama and Tatuś! I hope you are able to celebrate 74 years on this your anniversary.