Krista writes for daily prompts on August 5, 2013 at writing challenge – “remember”: “We blog for a million different reasons, but in the end, we’re all storytellers. Creative Writing Challenges are here to help you push your writing boundaries and explore new ideas, subjects, and writing styles. To participate, tag your post with DPchallenge and include a link to this post, to generate a pingback and help others find the challenges.”
Frizz-version, trying to push writing boundaries:
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I remember, when I visited my mother on the isle of Ruegen, Baltic Sea, East Germany, she was proud to show me her old stove and garden house. One sunny Sunday morning she put a chicken on my bed to wake me up, another morning the cat. Church bells were ringing there often and the air smelled after cows’ & pigs’ poops. My children loved to visit the horse nearby – but I always had a big fear to open that old chest: Pandora’s box somehow.
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When I was born in 1945, my mother, a German armed forces helper on the way from Prague (deep South) up to an island called “Ruegen” (in the very North, Baltic Sea), in the middle of her long journey through a breaking down Germany: she gave birth to me and, after one day in a hospital, she passed me on to a children’s home (in a town called “Wuppertal”, West-Germany) – and left me to my fate.
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So I did not learn anything about socialism, communism, STASI (the secret police) or summer camps of young “Pioneers”. In the Western hemisphere I grew up, drinking Pepsi Coke, receiving American Care packages, later on: listened to the Beatles, noticed the students movement in 1968, had no Walter Ulbricht or Erich Honecker, but chancellor Willy Brandt and Helmut Kohl.
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But I tried to find out the place, where the woman could live, who had born me in that dark year 1945. After 40 years of persistent search, 1985, before the Berlin Wall fell (1989), I found out: She was living behind the “Iron Curtain” on the island “Rügen”.
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I took my OPEL car and drove from West-Germany (crossing the “Iron Curtain”-frontier) to communist’s East-Germany, the “GDR”, motivated to take a look at this lost childhood, which I did not enjoy: She (after hugging) showed me her photo album: summer beach near “Kap Arkona” at the north-point of the island, snowy winters on Hiddensee, flight ducks, cranes – but on the other hand coal heaps on washed-out sidewalks. Bad colour films (Orwo), trivial books, Trabi (the typical GDR-automobile) substitute parts: only hard to get.
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I wanted to start a new life with a job as teacher there in the GDR – when (in 1990) the Berlin Wall was fallen: A schools inspector on the island Rügen pointed into a corridor, filled with former Stasi employees (security police) and informed me in this manner in an almost dumb “cadre conversation”, he unfortunately (thanks to the “reunification” of East and West-Germany) would have to hide many people in the teaching profession now (the former STASI persons). I should return please to West-Germany, where I just had come from. The direction of my journey seemed to be absolutely atypically, out of character, and not recommendable. No “Ossi” (vs. “Wessi”) – no job.
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As a result my mother, noticing, that all her dreams collapsed, joined an acute epidemic disease at that time: She committed a so-called “balance sheets / summary suicide” by hanging. But she used a wrong technique with a thin rope; she struggled more than half an hour (the doctors said) till she was dead at last…
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I could add many autobiographical fragments, for example related to the second parents who adopted me – but who of my readers would be interested? Maybe only the results are bridges of interest for my blog followers: the results in the term-systems of psychology or philosophy, politics or social sciences, photography or – guitar music … – [I studied Lutheran theology: I learned there, that it is important, to have the courage to resist and protest; I found in the bible also the story about the PRODIGAL SON: yes, I could tell stories, how I found my father as well; but in a first step I only managed to play the PRODIGAL SON BLUES on my guitar; my father was a baker, and when we found us – after 40 years of my intensive criminal search – he was glad, danced with my little daughters like an old Indian tribe chief and then every morning brought bread to my house door…]
background music: me, playing on my guitar the PRODIGAL SON blues:
A very sad memory FT, but beautifully told. You have become someone special despite all of the challenges. Good for you!
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Sad but very interesting Frizz. The pictures are wonderful, the story well-told. I can never help but notice that some of the people with the most difficult backgrounds are some of the most interesting!
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to your blog with poll and questions:
My family and friends never read my blog – after a time I accepted that fact: they have another bridges to understand me. On the other hand I am very lucky, that people, who never saw me, are able to understand me! So I have a 200% feeling of beeing not misunderstood!
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A sad memory – and yet it was interesting to read an experience that is so different from mine. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you for sharing this.
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Thanks for giving us another look back into your early stories.
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Thank you for sharing your story. It takes a lot of courage to do so.
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Beautifully written. Sad but with a happy ending, due to the person you’ve become. We go through so much. We question. We feel – anger, shame, sadness, joy. We choose a direction, and we grow. Thank you for telling us this memory.
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Precious memories, Frizz… bitter, yet precious my friend.
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“precious” (adjective)
kostbar = precious, valuable, sumptuous, luxurious
wertvoll = valuable, precious, useful, worthy
edel = noble, precious, fine, aristocratic, gallant, regal
schön = beautiful, nice, good, lovely, pretty, precious
preziös = precious
hoch-verehrt = precious
heiß geliebt = precious
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“πολύτιμο” (επίθετο):
πλούσιο, πολυτελές, χρήσιμο, αξίζει, ευγενείς, πολύτιμα, λεπτή, αριστοκρατική, γενναίος, βασιλική, όμορφα, ωραία, καλά, πολύτιμος
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Exactly, Frizz, all these words!!!
🙂
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You are understood Frizz, and appreciated, loved and valued.
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I love your 200% not misunderstood, Frizz. I think many of us bloggers feel this way. 🙂
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What a story: sad and beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
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such a lot of hurts! a poignant narrative where forgotten and remembering meet and rather beautifully illustrated
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I once went to Rostock back in the late 90s to meet and visit with a great aunt who had lived in the same apartment she grew up in as a child. Walking into her place was like taking a trip back in time. She still used a wood burning stove. She still had wood burning heaters. She spent most of the time showing off and complaining about the new windows the city forced her to install so that her apartment would meet safety codes. It was something see for sure.
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oh, when you say ROSTOCK – I remember that I stranded in that coastal city with my car in a snowy December night, after midnight, the streets were icy and I had a little car accident. 1985. Hotels refused to let me in as a stranger from the wrong part of Germany. So a teenager at a bus stop picked me up, brought me home to her parents – and they allowed me to sleep there, made a breakfast for me. There was a great difference between the official administration and the private persons …
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Sad memory…. I tried not to be sad in the same exercise ( https://icezine.wordpress.com/2013/08/06/i-remember/ ) but there’s something similar. Very beautiful pictures !
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yes, grandparents for sure are worth a story to write about – or a cartoon to draw …
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a very moving story, Frizz.
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Touching story of a sad time … I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for posting.
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What a story, surely a novel there? I can see your mother had some terrible choices in her life but it’s your courage and good sense that shines through.
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I could add many autobiographical fragments, for example related to the second parents who adopted me – but who of my readers would be interested? Maybe only the results are bridges of interest for my blog followers: the results in the term-systems of psychology or philosophy, politics or social sciences, photography or – guitar music … – [I studied Lutheran theology: I learned there, that it is important, to have the courage to resist and protest; I found in the bible also the story about the PRODIGAL SON: yes, I could tell stories, how I found my father as well; but in a first step I only managed to play the PRODIGAL SON BLUES on my guitar; my father was a baker, and when we found us – after 40 years of my intensive criminal search – he was glad, danced with my little daughters like an old Indian tribe chief and then every morning brought bread to my house door…]
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As sad and traumatic as it is, your past is part of who you are today Frizz. So I would certainly be interested in reading your stories.
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beautiful
I would say the tears are sepia tinged
your words were necessary to put to the page so others could see you better as well as to give their own memories a place to abide
thank you
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“the tears are sepia tinged”
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yes, maybe – but the writing decision is new. At first in my focus: all the negative meetings with him. The horror when I dared to introduce him my biological mother (and his one night stand) after 40 years of ignorance etc. – but then my daughter helped me to remember the happy moments too: so I tried to describe the moment of first meeting, described it for the first time – the story was buried under the concrete cement of sad experiences. You inspire me to mention a second nice meeting: when I organized a holiday camp for little children he suddenly appeared with some gifts: leather soccer balls and several big boxes with liquorice …
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healing starts when we reach out our hand (even if from under a concrete block)
this poem inspired by your words
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I’m happy, that my writing inspired you to this poem:
http://moondustwriter.com/2013/08/10/sepia-tear-poetry-photography-loss/
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you’ve chosen interesting tags:
child, East Berlin, Frizztext, history, honesty, moondustwriter, pain, Poetry, separation, sepia, story, tears
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I hope none are offensive…
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your description presents an interesting point of view – created by lyrical language – and lyrical mind!
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That we somehow survive our stories in order to tell them is testament to the human spirit and all that it is capable of, through the depths of despair, endurance and making it through with hope to spare. And indeed to share. Stories need to be told and thank you so much Frizz for letting us into your world.
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thank you Patti for:
“Stories need to be told…”
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