Darlene Matule's Blog
January 12, 2013
Nasdrala Te Nova Godina!
Nasdrala Te Nova Godina!
(Happy New Year in Croatian)
New Year’s Eve always seemed the beginning of the new year for me, not January 1st.
As a kid: The Barnes and Johnson families went back and forth making holiday dinners. One year we’d host Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day. The next year we’d only have everyone at our house on Christmas. It was a good deal. Everyone was happy. We were best friends.
The Johnsons had two boys, Gail who was in my grade and Bob who was 7 years older. Gail and I were like brother and sister. It was fun getting together. As we got older, Bob had the job of baby sitting Gail and me. Lots of Monopoly, Chinese checkers, a bit of cribbage. Sometimes the big kids (Bob invited company) would let us play with them. Bob always won.
There was always lots of my favorite food on both New Year’s Eve and the next day. At our house, pies cakes, cinnamon rolls, Dream Bars, Matrimonial Bars. At the Johnsons, pies, cakes, homemade fudge, Divinity, Bird’s Nest cookies.
But, the year I was 14-years-old, my whole life changed on December 31st.
My parents always celebrated the holiday with the other couples in the group who got together for a one-a-month evening of whist, talk and eating. Not that night.
After dinner, I made the mistake of asking my father a question. “Whatever happened to my grandparents?” I asked, completely innocent of any malice. I just wanted to know. All I’d been told was, “You have no grandparents because they all died before you were born.” Short and simple.
Instead of grandparents on my mother’s side, I had an Aunt Emma and Uncle Henry.
They had raised her when her own mother died right after childbirth. Her father had a
heart attack when she was 14. They lived in North Dakota, but we visited back and forth
often.
All I knew about Daddy’s side of the family was that they were Norwegian and his siblings consisted of two brothers—James, a teacher (0 children, wife Lillian), and Levi, deceased—and two sisters, Inga (two sons) and Minnie (1 daughter). Not much to go on.
It seemed like such a simple question. I had theories: They were lost at sea, on their way back from a visit to Norway, when the Titanic sank. The gypsies had stolen them and then given the five kids away to neighbors who needed free labor. (Indeed Daddy had been sent to live at one such farm in the Red River Valley of eastern North Dakota when he was 11 where he stayed until he graduated from the 8th grade.)
But after Daddy heard what came out of my mouth, he seemed to disintegrate before my eyes. And with it my world shook. My always stoic, always good-humored father burst into tears and disappeared into his bedroom until the next day. He never mentioned the incident again and I never asked him.
I asked my mother who said, “I have no idea.” I asked my Aunt Lillian who said, “I asked Jim once and he said, ‘I just can’t talk about it.’ I never asked again.”
(I finally learned the secret—after my father’s death—just after I turned 40.)
But this story is not about secrets and sadness. It’s just about life. Memories. Choices. Now.
Memories: The New Year’s Eve I had my first glass of sparkling burgundy. I was 17 and I was at the home of my childhood friend, Gail with his girlfriend and my boyfriend and me. We each had one glass of the bubbly in a crystal flute provided by my boyfriend’s mother. We got into trouble (a little) when his mother discovered the cork in her otherwise pristine wastebasket (our parents were celebrating playing while playing white, chatting and eating). But it was a simpler time, an innocent time, a time of growth, a time of trust.
When I was 18 my boyfriend was with his folks in Spokane. Gail was in the Navy. Phyllis and I went to the Servant movie theatre in Glasgow and saw White Christmas with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen.
And then I was engaged. Rode all night on December 30th from Glasgow to Butte Montana to celebrate with my finance Steve. FUN! FUN! FUN! We dance ‘til dawn (he’d warned that was the custom in Butte), went to church at 7 a.m. at St. Patrick’s and then to Steve’s house where, to his mother’s disgust, I slept until 4 that afternoon. (I didn’t do well with two nights of no sleep)
My first New Year’s Eve as a wife: It’s snowing outside, big saucer-like flakes. The Christmas tree we drove to the woods to cut down because we couldn’t afford to buy one at the lot is sitting in the corner, decorated in cheap tinsel and the twelve glass balls we scratched up the money to buy at Sears along with the five choir boys that sit on the mantle of our fireplace.
We’re poor. Steve graduated from college in May and is doing graduate study. But we were blessed with all the necessities and some luxuries in the forms of wedding presents. And I have a job that’s paying me a grand salary of $200 a month.
After a courtship of 16 months and an engagement of practicing a regimen of abstinence, we made up for it on our honeymoon. I’m pregnant. Not planned, but happily anticipated. Life is good.
He makes a fire with wood we scavengered in our Christmas-tree-cutting Sunday. Neither of us has ever lived in a home with a fireplace. We soak up the warmth, the ambiance.
“Let’s go for a walk so we can see the smoke come out of our chimney,” he suggests. We bundle up and off we go.
The beauty of the night is breathtaking. Our love surrounds us like a warm blanket as we watch the smoke curlicue from our chimney from a block away. Holding hands through mittens on the way back is as sensuous as our first intimate touch.
“I’ll never forget tonight,” I predict. He agrees.
We never did.
Choices: Years later, my father’s health deteriorated. We built a duplex three blocks from our house and moved them in. My mother assumed I’d take the place of her friend Del Johnson and we’d alternate holidays. Indeed we did. Except that she also assumed that I’d take her turn as well as my own. Except for a big dinner on New Year’s Day.
Steve and I had not celebrated New Year’s Day as a company dinner day since we’d left Spokane ten years before. We’d made a new life for ourselves. We celebrated—until the wee hours of the morning—at friend’s house parties or by going dancing to a live band and topping the evening off with an early morning brunch. Then I slept ‘til four o’clock and Steve watched football bowl games. We were very happy with our new routine.
So when my mother asked what time they should come over on January 1, I explained the facts of life to her. “We’ll host Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Easter and the 4th of July. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Everyone’s birthday. But NOT New Year’s Day.” You would have thought I’d shot my mother in the heart.
I could have agonized about my mother’s reaction. But I’d learned a lot about life since I was 14. A lot about making good choices. If I had that time to live over, I would have pursued finding out my father’s secret. Gently pursued. There may been tears, but there would also have been a richer bonding between us—my dear daddy and me.
But I would have not deviated from my choice of having a couples only New Year’s Day.
Now: Some people say time is their enemy. I strongly disagree. Time is my friend. Time has allowed me to learn to savor life. I am no longer the girl I was at 14. Thank Goodness!
This year—on December 31st—my dear husband and I will enjoy each other’s company—at home. We’ll make a gourmet meal (he’s turned into a Le Cordon Bleu cook), toast each other with fine wine (Steve) and champagne (me), eat by candlelight with romantic music playing in the background.
Then, when we hear the strains of I’m in the Mood for Love (the Rod Stuart rendition thanks to our expanded choice of dinner music—thank you Dorothy Jean), I’ll hear my dear husband ask, “Wanna dance?” And he’ll guide me to our personal dance floor (the tiled kitchen floor) and glide me around as he’s been doing for over 50 years.
I am blessed! I have so many memories of happy times!
On January 1st we’ll watch the Rose Bowl Parade and the two of us will part for our personal New Year’s Day delight. Steve will watch endless football. I’ll take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood (not the fast-paced variety I do daily for exercise). I’ll hope no one has stolen Mount Rainier during the night (sometimes the weatherman quashes this part of my day) and take ten minutes if I like just standing there, glorying in the sheer beauty before me. My mind will wander as I resume my walk. When I get back home, I’ll feel refreshed, almost reborn.
I’ve spent New Year’s Days reading. Remember turning the pages of a well-worn copy of Shogun and having each sheet fall off in my hands. I’ve done sewing projects. Painting (oil or tole painting—not walls). This year I’ll probably head for my computer and pull up my current novel in progress.
We’ll each raise a crystal goblet and say a heartfelt “Ziveli” after we clink our glasses together as we have so many times before. We will eat left-over’s from the night before. Prime rib? Osso Buco? I’ll have a special dessert already made. Sour Crème Raisin pie? Cheesecake?
And, as we relish the opportunity awaiting us in the New Year, we will say to each other our favorite New Year greeting: Nasdrala Te Nova Godina!
(Happy New Year in Croatian)
New Year’s Eve always seemed the beginning of the new year for me, not January 1st.
As a kid: The Barnes and Johnson families went back and forth making holiday dinners. One year we’d host Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day. The next year we’d only have everyone at our house on Christmas. It was a good deal. Everyone was happy. We were best friends.
The Johnsons had two boys, Gail who was in my grade and Bob who was 7 years older. Gail and I were like brother and sister. It was fun getting together. As we got older, Bob had the job of baby sitting Gail and me. Lots of Monopoly, Chinese checkers, a bit of cribbage. Sometimes the big kids (Bob invited company) would let us play with them. Bob always won.
There was always lots of my favorite food on both New Year’s Eve and the next day. At our house, pies cakes, cinnamon rolls, Dream Bars, Matrimonial Bars. At the Johnsons, pies, cakes, homemade fudge, Divinity, Bird’s Nest cookies.
But, the year I was 14-years-old, my whole life changed on December 31st.
My parents always celebrated the holiday with the other couples in the group who got together for a one-a-month evening of whist, talk and eating. Not that night.
After dinner, I made the mistake of asking my father a question. “Whatever happened to my grandparents?” I asked, completely innocent of any malice. I just wanted to know. All I’d been told was, “You have no grandparents because they all died before you were born.” Short and simple.
Instead of grandparents on my mother’s side, I had an Aunt Emma and Uncle Henry.
They had raised her when her own mother died right after childbirth. Her father had a
heart attack when she was 14. They lived in North Dakota, but we visited back and forth
often.
All I knew about Daddy’s side of the family was that they were Norwegian and his siblings consisted of two brothers—James, a teacher (0 children, wife Lillian), and Levi, deceased—and two sisters, Inga (two sons) and Minnie (1 daughter). Not much to go on.
It seemed like such a simple question. I had theories: They were lost at sea, on their way back from a visit to Norway, when the Titanic sank. The gypsies had stolen them and then given the five kids away to neighbors who needed free labor. (Indeed Daddy had been sent to live at one such farm in the Red River Valley of eastern North Dakota when he was 11 where he stayed until he graduated from the 8th grade.)
But after Daddy heard what came out of my mouth, he seemed to disintegrate before my eyes. And with it my world shook. My always stoic, always good-humored father burst into tears and disappeared into his bedroom until the next day. He never mentioned the incident again and I never asked him.
I asked my mother who said, “I have no idea.” I asked my Aunt Lillian who said, “I asked Jim once and he said, ‘I just can’t talk about it.’ I never asked again.”
(I finally learned the secret—after my father’s death—just after I turned 40.)
But this story is not about secrets and sadness. It’s just about life. Memories. Choices. Now.
Memories: The New Year’s Eve I had my first glass of sparkling burgundy. I was 17 and I was at the home of my childhood friend, Gail with his girlfriend and my boyfriend and me. We each had one glass of the bubbly in a crystal flute provided by my boyfriend’s mother. We got into trouble (a little) when his mother discovered the cork in her otherwise pristine wastebasket (our parents were celebrating playing while playing white, chatting and eating). But it was a simpler time, an innocent time, a time of growth, a time of trust.
When I was 18 my boyfriend was with his folks in Spokane. Gail was in the Navy. Phyllis and I went to the Servant movie theatre in Glasgow and saw White Christmas with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen.
And then I was engaged. Rode all night on December 30th from Glasgow to Butte Montana to celebrate with my finance Steve. FUN! FUN! FUN! We dance ‘til dawn (he’d warned that was the custom in Butte), went to church at 7 a.m. at St. Patrick’s and then to Steve’s house where, to his mother’s disgust, I slept until 4 that afternoon. (I didn’t do well with two nights of no sleep)
My first New Year’s Eve as a wife: It’s snowing outside, big saucer-like flakes. The Christmas tree we drove to the woods to cut down because we couldn’t afford to buy one at the lot is sitting in the corner, decorated in cheap tinsel and the twelve glass balls we scratched up the money to buy at Sears along with the five choir boys that sit on the mantle of our fireplace.
We’re poor. Steve graduated from college in May and is doing graduate study. But we were blessed with all the necessities and some luxuries in the forms of wedding presents. And I have a job that’s paying me a grand salary of $200 a month.
After a courtship of 16 months and an engagement of practicing a regimen of abstinence, we made up for it on our honeymoon. I’m pregnant. Not planned, but happily anticipated. Life is good.
He makes a fire with wood we scavengered in our Christmas-tree-cutting Sunday. Neither of us has ever lived in a home with a fireplace. We soak up the warmth, the ambiance.
“Let’s go for a walk so we can see the smoke come out of our chimney,” he suggests. We bundle up and off we go.
The beauty of the night is breathtaking. Our love surrounds us like a warm blanket as we watch the smoke curlicue from our chimney from a block away. Holding hands through mittens on the way back is as sensuous as our first intimate touch.
“I’ll never forget tonight,” I predict. He agrees.
We never did.
Choices: Years later, my father’s health deteriorated. We built a duplex three blocks from our house and moved them in. My mother assumed I’d take the place of her friend Del Johnson and we’d alternate holidays. Indeed we did. Except that she also assumed that I’d take her turn as well as my own. Except for a big dinner on New Year’s Day.
Steve and I had not celebrated New Year’s Day as a company dinner day since we’d left Spokane ten years before. We’d made a new life for ourselves. We celebrated—until the wee hours of the morning—at friend’s house parties or by going dancing to a live band and topping the evening off with an early morning brunch. Then I slept ‘til four o’clock and Steve watched football bowl games. We were very happy with our new routine.
So when my mother asked what time they should come over on January 1, I explained the facts of life to her. “We’ll host Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Easter and the 4th of July. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Everyone’s birthday. But NOT New Year’s Day.” You would have thought I’d shot my mother in the heart.
I could have agonized about my mother’s reaction. But I’d learned a lot about life since I was 14. A lot about making good choices. If I had that time to live over, I would have pursued finding out my father’s secret. Gently pursued. There may been tears, but there would also have been a richer bonding between us—my dear daddy and me.
But I would have not deviated from my choice of having a couples only New Year’s Day.
Now: Some people say time is their enemy. I strongly disagree. Time is my friend. Time has allowed me to learn to savor life. I am no longer the girl I was at 14. Thank Goodness!
This year—on December 31st—my dear husband and I will enjoy each other’s company—at home. We’ll make a gourmet meal (he’s turned into a Le Cordon Bleu cook), toast each other with fine wine (Steve) and champagne (me), eat by candlelight with romantic music playing in the background.
Then, when we hear the strains of I’m in the Mood for Love (the Rod Stuart rendition thanks to our expanded choice of dinner music—thank you Dorothy Jean), I’ll hear my dear husband ask, “Wanna dance?” And he’ll guide me to our personal dance floor (the tiled kitchen floor) and glide me around as he’s been doing for over 50 years.
I am blessed! I have so many memories of happy times!
On January 1st we’ll watch the Rose Bowl Parade and the two of us will part for our personal New Year’s Day delight. Steve will watch endless football. I’ll take a leisurely walk through the neighborhood (not the fast-paced variety I do daily for exercise). I’ll hope no one has stolen Mount Rainier during the night (sometimes the weatherman quashes this part of my day) and take ten minutes if I like just standing there, glorying in the sheer beauty before me. My mind will wander as I resume my walk. When I get back home, I’ll feel refreshed, almost reborn.
I’ve spent New Year’s Days reading. Remember turning the pages of a well-worn copy of Shogun and having each sheet fall off in my hands. I’ve done sewing projects. Painting (oil or tole painting—not walls). This year I’ll probably head for my computer and pull up my current novel in progress.
We’ll each raise a crystal goblet and say a heartfelt “Ziveli” after we clink our glasses together as we have so many times before. We will eat left-over’s from the night before. Prime rib? Osso Buco? I’ll have a special dessert already made. Sour Crème Raisin pie? Cheesecake?
And, as we relish the opportunity awaiting us in the New Year, we will say to each other our favorite New Year greeting: Nasdrala Te Nova Godina!
September 6, 2012
Darlene's Diary
Chapter Two - We Won the Trip
.
“Dubrovnik? Why not Paris or Rome or London?” I complained. “Or Norway for heavens sake? I’d love to start looking into Daddy’s family history.”
My husband Steve—the guy who’d done all the hard work selling the insurance policies that earned our agency the trip to Yugoslavia—said patiently, “I didn’t choose the trip destination—settle down and enjoy it. This is the chance of a lifetime. I hear they’re extremely generous. You’ll love it.
“Next time. We’ll go to Norway and pay our own way. Promise.”
I settled down.
Almost simultaneously, two things happened—both involving Yugoslavia and spending money.
First we took a short weekend trip down the Oregon coast to Salishan. While there, on the way back from a bus trip to see the local sites, the driver stopped at Depoe Bay. “One hour,” he said. We cruised the antique shops. Found nothing I couldn’t live without. With ten minutes to wait, we got in line to catch the bus back to our condo. It started to pour. “Tell the driver to wait for me,” I directed my husband. I had a fresh hairdo and we were going to a gala that night. The last thing I needed was sopping wet hair.
I ran toward the nearest building, dashed in the door, and found myself in the Channel Book Store surrounded by books. I was in heaven.
As if an angel guided me down the rows of books, I ended up in the back of the store. I swear I heard a voice coming from a particular book on the shelf immediately to my left saying, “Buy me.” I picked up the gray volume that seemed to be bouncing on the shelf. Opened the cover. Saw the words, “The Native’s Return, An American Immigrant Visits Yugoslavia and Discovers His Old Country”—and pictures galore. Photos of romantic Dubrovnik nestled at the edge of the Adriatic, fishermen in their boats at Split, and a man plowing a field at the foot of the Slovenian Alps—a view just like a the opening scene in The Sound of Music. My imagination went into fast-forward. I turned the pages quicker. Saw a Catholic cathedral in Zagreb, a Moslem Mosque in Sarajevo, houses with thatch roofs in the Bosnian countryside.
I picked up a second book. A third. Ten minutes later, I bought not one but three first editions, all by Louis Adamic: The Native’s Return—copyright 1934; From Many Lands—copyright 1940; and My Native Land—copyright 1943. For $32, I changed my life. I fell in love with Yugoslavia, sight unseen.
The next Monday, I was the first person at the door when our local book store opened. I purchased a wall-sized map of Yugoslavia (one that folded up to purse-size for traveling), a Berlitz Serbo-Croatian For Travelers dictionary, a guide book for Dubrovnik (with 120 color photos and a large, fold-out city map), and a 287 page travel planner titled Croatia.
The planning began.
.
“Dubrovnik? Why not Paris or Rome or London?” I complained. “Or Norway for heavens sake? I’d love to start looking into Daddy’s family history.”
My husband Steve—the guy who’d done all the hard work selling the insurance policies that earned our agency the trip to Yugoslavia—said patiently, “I didn’t choose the trip destination—settle down and enjoy it. This is the chance of a lifetime. I hear they’re extremely generous. You’ll love it.
“Next time. We’ll go to Norway and pay our own way. Promise.”
I settled down.
Almost simultaneously, two things happened—both involving Yugoslavia and spending money.
First we took a short weekend trip down the Oregon coast to Salishan. While there, on the way back from a bus trip to see the local sites, the driver stopped at Depoe Bay. “One hour,” he said. We cruised the antique shops. Found nothing I couldn’t live without. With ten minutes to wait, we got in line to catch the bus back to our condo. It started to pour. “Tell the driver to wait for me,” I directed my husband. I had a fresh hairdo and we were going to a gala that night. The last thing I needed was sopping wet hair.
I ran toward the nearest building, dashed in the door, and found myself in the Channel Book Store surrounded by books. I was in heaven.
As if an angel guided me down the rows of books, I ended up in the back of the store. I swear I heard a voice coming from a particular book on the shelf immediately to my left saying, “Buy me.” I picked up the gray volume that seemed to be bouncing on the shelf. Opened the cover. Saw the words, “The Native’s Return, An American Immigrant Visits Yugoslavia and Discovers His Old Country”—and pictures galore. Photos of romantic Dubrovnik nestled at the edge of the Adriatic, fishermen in their boats at Split, and a man plowing a field at the foot of the Slovenian Alps—a view just like a the opening scene in The Sound of Music. My imagination went into fast-forward. I turned the pages quicker. Saw a Catholic cathedral in Zagreb, a Moslem Mosque in Sarajevo, houses with thatch roofs in the Bosnian countryside.
I picked up a second book. A third. Ten minutes later, I bought not one but three first editions, all by Louis Adamic: The Native’s Return—copyright 1934; From Many Lands—copyright 1940; and My Native Land—copyright 1943. For $32, I changed my life. I fell in love with Yugoslavia, sight unseen.
The next Monday, I was the first person at the door when our local book store opened. I purchased a wall-sized map of Yugoslavia (one that folded up to purse-size for traveling), a Berlitz Serbo-Croatian For Travelers dictionary, a guide book for Dubrovnik (with 120 color photos and a large, fold-out city map), and a 287 page travel planner titled Croatia.
The planning began.
August 27, 2012
Darlene's Diary
I’d always wanted to write a book, but I needed a seed—an idea—implanted in my brain. This is the story of the journey that led me to discover that seed, plant it, and begin the germination process that would result in the creation of the flower-of-my-life—my first novel, Under the Gallus Frame.
Chapter One – On the Creek and Beyond
“You’re what?” yelled my mother-in-law.
I could tell she was upset. Why? I had no idea.
“I’m going down to Tigard, just south of Portland, to meet Daddy’s first cousin Jennie for the first time next week. I’m really excited. Steve’s taking the day off work to come with me.
It was a warm—80 degree—day in July. We were sitting on our patio, just three feet from the gently flowing waters of the Chambers Creek I loved so much, sipping cold drinks and catching up on family gossip. My in-laws were visiting from Butte, Montana, an unusual experience as this was only the sixth time in almost 21 years of marriage they had made the short trip to Washington State.
My dear daddy had died just five months earlier and I was on a mission to find out the secrets he had never revealed about his family background. Secrets he had hidden behind stoic Norwegian ice blue eyes and guarded with copious tears the New Year’s Eve I pressed him for information about my grandparents. I knew only their names—Ole and Lena—and that they had “died before I was born”.
“Don’t go!” she ordered. “You only find out BAD things if you try to open closed doors. VERY BAD!”
Fast forward four years...
“You’re what?” yelled my mother-in-law. The phone vibrated at the intensity of the sound waves.
“We’re going to the old country—Yugoslavia. I won an all-expense-paid-week-long trip to Dubrovnik,” my husband told his mother. “We’re going to take two extra weeks and find our family.”
“Nobody’s ever gone back. Don’t go!” she warned.
Chapter One – On the Creek and Beyond
“You’re what?” yelled my mother-in-law.
I could tell she was upset. Why? I had no idea.
“I’m going down to Tigard, just south of Portland, to meet Daddy’s first cousin Jennie for the first time next week. I’m really excited. Steve’s taking the day off work to come with me.
It was a warm—80 degree—day in July. We were sitting on our patio, just three feet from the gently flowing waters of the Chambers Creek I loved so much, sipping cold drinks and catching up on family gossip. My in-laws were visiting from Butte, Montana, an unusual experience as this was only the sixth time in almost 21 years of marriage they had made the short trip to Washington State.
My dear daddy had died just five months earlier and I was on a mission to find out the secrets he had never revealed about his family background. Secrets he had hidden behind stoic Norwegian ice blue eyes and guarded with copious tears the New Year’s Eve I pressed him for information about my grandparents. I knew only their names—Ole and Lena—and that they had “died before I was born”.
“Don’t go!” she ordered. “You only find out BAD things if you try to open closed doors. VERY BAD!”
Fast forward four years...
“You’re what?” yelled my mother-in-law. The phone vibrated at the intensity of the sound waves.
“We’re going to the old country—Yugoslavia. I won an all-expense-paid-week-long trip to Dubrovnik,” my husband told his mother. “We’re going to take two extra weeks and find our family.”
“Nobody’s ever gone back. Don’t go!” she warned.
