1930s Chicago suburbs attract upper-middles like magnets. They offer larger homes than do city accommodations. And some of the burbs, like Wilmette, have access to nearby private beaches. Wilmette is a bedroom community in the North Shore district. It offers a work commute to the city without having to face the glaring morning sun, which is of particular interest to money-making inventor, secretary, industrial engineer, and then-Entrepreneur Frank Weber. This writer's maternal grandfather.
Generation 2 Frank's downtown business starts with a $500 loan from his mother. She is a hard-working washer-woman. With it he purchases his first production machine, and he rents a room in a building for the initial start-up with a friend. The name Accurate Springs Manufacturing is strategically chosen for a top listing in the Yellow Pages. He is practical and ever the strategic one.
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Maple Avenue Home
(Just 2 blocks from my home today is a twinkie colonial brick) |
In 1934, Frank purchases a colonial brick home on Maple Avenue in Wilmette. Charlton Heston is raised just down the street from the Webers. And, the owners of Crate and Barrel will live in Wilmette (some time after her divorce from Frank, my Realtor Grandmother sells them a home and a business property). In early 1950's, the Dr. Scholl's family will purchase the Maple Avenue home. The opportunities for Businessman Frank's three young children (Mom was the oldest of the three) will be better than his so-so upbringing in the city.
Meet Weber Generation 1
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| Great-Grandmother Weber |
Frank Weber's parents' turn-of-the-century, long-distance
Match.com engagement (my Generation 1 great-grandparents) was like that portrayed in movies. Since the telephone's mainstream use was still on the cusp, Dr. Frederick and his betrothed Ada probably corresponded through brief telegraphs and/or snail mail. At least a few times before their face-to-face meeting. Somewhat like Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox's internet romance in
You've Got Mail. As Frederick anxiously awaited Ada's arrival, he regularly gripped the stiff tintype photo sent of his fiance. To stare at her features. Only a pure-bred German wife would do for his intolerant tastes.
Like a nervous tick, he may have regularly pulled a comb from his pocket, using it to slick back his worn hair. He imagined her walk and her talk. Ada bravely traveled overseas solo to New York's Staten Island, and he met her there to sign citizenship papers. She ended up being shorter than he expected, and a bit pigeon-toed, but sturdy enough. Their brief relational "tweaking" phase occurred while riding the train rails together to Chicago. (Oh, to be a bug on the wall during that long ride.) An official announcement was in the newspaper of her voyage and their marriage.
Frank knows that his German-born-and-bred middle-class parents tried their best. Family was important, even though an ocean separated both of them from their loved ones. Sadly, in their early years of marriage, the medical doctor and his wife (my maternal great-grandparents) experienced serious personal blows, like the deaths of five of their little ones. And one of his two surviving children, Frederick's namesake Freddy, had a slow mind (Frank's brother).
*
For perspective's sake, in some early-1900s cities, only 70% of infants survived to see their first birthday. Childbirth and childhood illnesses took their lives. And the statistics grew grimmer for making it to age 5; so, it was not uncommon to have a low-attachment to children aged 5 and under. To lessen the grief if a child was to become one of those somber statistics. Just two of Frederick's seven children grew to adulthood. In mathematical terms, a meager 18.6% survival rate. (My g
reat-Grandmother Weber was a washer woman, maybe at a young age. Experts were not yet aware that her tasks, with repeated lengthy exposures to fumes and soaking of her hands in toxic lye and detergents, could negatively affect the developing fetus.)
The gloomy household survival average was ordinary life for the downtown healing doctor and his wife, so maybe most times they weren't bothered by it. But maybe, just maybe, at times that statistic felt uncomfortable. With dismal reminders as he adorned the doctor attire of late-1800's medicine: a drab, black lab coat, the same formal color worn by clergy (2 decades later the coat's color changed to white for practical, sanitary reasons--white revealed the germs and dirt). After every successful or unsuccessful delivery of a patient's baby, or through hopeful positive interventions that he provided for sick children, there were vivid reminders of his household's many sicknesses and deaths. And maybe sole [healthy] surviving son Frank was pampered and overly protected.
The World War I Effect
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| My great-Grandmother Weber & my Grandfather Frank |
A decade later, WWI 1914-1918 had negative effects on both Frederick and his two teen-aged sons. With that war came the ugly shame of being pure-bred German. During that time, in various ways, being a U.S. German was hard. Like the big-leagues shame of having billion-dollar Swindler Bernie Madoff for a father. With the false belief that surely Bernie's adult sons' hands were dirty, too. Madoff's two sons died too young. The Madoff boys could only temporarily survive the association shame. Critics can be cruel. When choosing something as personal as a family doctor, maybe some patients preferred a background different from German Dr. Frederick's. His wife's thick accent was an unmistakable give-away.
For needed money, Ada picked up the slack as a type of washer woman. At times, the disillusioned doctor distracted his mind and philosophized in wine cellars about things like the universe, or possibly Hitler's infamous 1923 Beer Hall Putsch, or about the grandiose preparations for the then-spectacular 1936 Berlin Olympics. For affirmation's sake, around age 70, Frank's father put his name "out there," writing a self-published and deeply-thought 1920 astronomy book in reaction to the Nova Aquilae of 1918. Maybe with hopes of birthing a career make-over... an overall reputation do-over. He thrived on educated dreaming and deep thinking. Sadly, the book's conclusions never stuck and neither did his do-over. The doctor/philosopher's premise overly embraced the intuitive factor. Further striving was dismissed, because a strategist my great-grandfather was not.
Frank Marries
But Frank is the intuitive and
striving son who will make up for his down-trodden father and his
mentally-challenged brother. Being a struggling medical doctor and marrying a
pure-bred German are both noble, but Frank goes against the grain… he marries
over-doer Dane Hazel and opts for a competitive business career. To earn lots
of money that obliterates any shame his family has experienced. Frank believes
that his choices can be noble as well. He will produce strong family and
re-establish pride.
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| The Roaring 20's couple |
Frank's campus peanut-dispensing
vending machines during struggling college years made decent money for him.
Anticipating a need, before anyone else realized that need, benefited before
and it will benefit him again. World War I experiences intuitively prepared him
for the potential of another ugly war. His 1930s spring manufacturing company
will provide for the present, and hopefully for future needs, and maybe even
one day help to protect his country.
His children will enjoy the healthy and open outdoor air of the booming Chicago suburbs. And attend schools with greater opportunities to fully develop their skills and talents. Maybe one of them will be an
accomplished doctor, and vindicate their Grandfather Frederick's name. Over-achieving and attention-to-detail Wife Hazel, raised on a struggling Wisconsin farm, will create tensions, exhibiting affluence to forward her three silver-spoon children.
USA's Only Bahá'í House of Worship, in Wilmette
And now, one of the initial springboards for this post. Frank's other attraction to Wilmette might be the on-going construction of an intriguing structure. Throughout the late-1920's, residents in Wilmette develop paranoid rumors and express displeasure with the site. With others' disdain of the structure, why is Frank instead drawn to live so close to it? It is located by the lake and just 2 miles from 423 Maple Avenue.
Because of the mid-1930s lingering hullabaloo, and his connections, maybe futuristic and ever successful, increasingly smug Frank gets a deal on the house. And maybe future plans are to flip the house for a profit, years later, when the hullabaloo subsides. He is a calculated risk-taker, but sadly, naive regarding the weakness in his heritage.
The nearby structure is the only United States Bahá'í House of Worship, and its size is impressive. At the time Frank moves to Wilmette with his family, it is still in progress. The ostentatious and ornate structure is eventually dedicated May 1953.
Frank's strategy lacks spiritual insight. He is more of an agnostic. So to him, one god, is like another god, is like another manifestation of god. Others' concern regarding the Bahá'í building might be seen as over-reacting. Within that building will be worship to the god Bahá'u'lláh. It will one day have symbols of many religions, such as the Christian cross, the Star of David, and the star and crescent. They will be found in each exterior pillar. The pillars will also be decorated with a symbol used by Hindus and Buddhists in the form of a swastika. At the top of each pillar a nine-pointed star, symbolizing the Bahá'í Faith will be prominent.
Inside the center of the dome ceiling, one will see an Arabic inscription. This is a Bahá'í symbol called the "Greatest Name"; the script translates as "O Thou Glory of Glories". The secretary of Shoghi Effendi writing on his behalf explained
: By 'Greatest Name' is meant that Bahá'u'lláh has appeared in God's greatest name, in other words, that he [Bahá'u'lláh] is the supreme Manifestation of God.
Post-World War II
Bahá'u'lláh is only 2 miles away, and the plot thickens. Like a modern-day dramatic soap opera. Agnostic Frank's family experiences noteworthy tensions, with dark times ahead. In 1944, a decade after purchasing the Wilmette home, socialite Wife Hazel and their three children begin to feel emotionally abandoned.
Although family is important to Frank, another ugly World War's end and the death of his father throw him into repeated territory. His futuristic thinking again kicks in. And Frank's basic nature is to have his way. He believes that nested Hazel will bash his ideas.
Freed of demanding work production and close paternal scrutiny, he has time and opportunity to dream again. Unlike Danish Hazel, Frank senses concern about tomorrow's uncertainties following World War II. Peace will bring with it change, a decreased demand for springs, and the difficult choice of either a lower bottom-line profit or letting go of a loyal employee or two. And again, Germans will be looked down upon.
Frank's "regurgitated thinking" brings up disturbing déja-vu. Doubled. A lifetime ago, both nightmares were shoved under the rug, but are forever etched: WWI's feelings of family shame are re-kindled; and, memories of Brother Freddy's many childhood outbursts* are re-ignited, with a hormonal teen-aged daughter's ugly outburst. "
Well then, just leave with her [the maid]. I hate you!"
In no way does his daughter's ultimatum give Frank license to flee, that very middle of the night. Brooding Rescuer Frank cannot fix the modern-day shame and disillusionment he creates. After
the fateful and heated father/daughter interaction, no closure occurs. Ever. And down-the-road situations make closure even more complicated, with residual effects that simmer.
Every aspect of Frank's life is tension-filled. Blinded and midlife aged 46
½, he skips town in 1945, driving to less-populated Florida. Maybe to prepare for a potential famine, or a wave of American health-conscious thinking similar to his own health regimen. He wants to create and grow hybrid, earlier-producing, peach trees. And also escape the judgment of his social community. To run from his ugly scandal. Heading towards a life make-over and do-over. He leaves behind everything familiar, except for the family's long-time live-in maid who accompanies him. She is pregnant with his second son. Frank's children and the maid know each other quite well.
Maybe she accidentally feeds his mysterious ego, encouraging his futuristic hybrid ideas. Or, was it a fluke and comfortable attraction? (Frank's Mother was a washer-woman... a type of maid rather than a socialite.) Whatever the passive symbiosis, in 1945, Frank demonstrates the Weber family's first official and dramatic schism. Frank is like a scolded dog with its tail between the legs, but believes that in years to come his ideas and actions will be validated. He will still provide financially for his family. And maybe
even better with his new Florida business venture.
His children, however, experience not only the sadness of loss, but anger and the deep shame of public scandal. He justifies that his family will be better off without him. His plan is that money will solve all hurts and shame. That long-distance and long-term financial grounding is the main support his three still-fledgling children need from him. Sadly, Frank refuses a redeeming faith, and he is in flaming futuristic denial. Legacy matters, and where shame thrives, family bonds and outlandish mercy, from every direction, are dire. In other words, they needed their Dad. "
The strength of the pack is the wolf; and the strength of the wolf is the pack" (
Jungle Book).
Crazy2
Frank's Wexit from the pack or family alliance more than ruffles family feathers. It makes them vulnerable, with a disintegrating family pecking order and years-down-the-road sad consequences. Great-Grandfather Frederick's five or more babies were lost to childhood illnesses, and spring-forward a couple of decades to Frank's grown children. Generations 3 and 4 continue the Wexit pattern during the years 1966 to 1974, when Grandfather Frank personally experiences tragedies with his two grown sons, who feel distraught in various ways.
Specifically, five family Wexits occur that are disturbing and sudden premature deaths. To protect the sensitive and impressionable, the specifics are listed later.
Frank's death in early 1974 allows him to miss the grief of three of the five tragedies. But the remaining family members, head-on, feel the grief. Grief that is like repeating figurative car wrecks, leaving unseen internal wounds and injuries. And busy police and medics naturally attend to the patients who have visible or gaping wounds, but the internally wounded ones receive no closure. Septic Shock takes hold within some of the less-attended victims and deceptively within Frank's ancestry. Trust-intersection breakdowns run rampant. With misdirected and skewed finger-pointing blame, upon blame, upon blame. Causing disintegration. Some of that misfired blame went towards my Grandmother Hazel Weber. The same grandmother who introduced B-12 deficiency into our Generations 3 & 4 genetics.
The "Now" in an Historical Context
The next few paragraphs that I share are personal. With a spring-forward, to early 2000's, to yours truly. A middle-class, boomer-aged educator's wife, with two young-adult children who are, at the time, recent college-graduates. Frank's Generation 4 granddaughter. My family's decade is what I call crazy-cray because many, many figurative hurricanes occurred. It is included with hopes of revealing helpful insight. To pull back the curtain. To reveal a pattern. It is the underlying perspiration of this "Debbie Drowner" post.
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| The Generation 4s - @ 1963 with our "Blamed-Grandmother" |
Back in 2005, life goes haywire, with different intense seasons of distracted focus, which span a decade. On-and-on-a-thon chaos begins with our healthy daughter's frightening emergency overseas appendectomy and lengthy overseas recovery. In ways, the experience feels like low blows in a grueling heavyweight boxing match. And the match intensifies with this health-conscious writer's fastest-growing grade 3 of 3 breast cancer, surgery, sickening chemo, and 2-year season of depression with mild paranoia; and more below-the-belt boxing punches with on-and-on crazy-cray accidents (
5 random back-to-back car wrecks in 18 months); mega-health issues arise because of various toxins (multiple deer tick issues multiple times, negative reactions to medications, and Generation 6 food sensitivities); rare nature wallops occur (mile-radius localized, century flooding with roof-replacing hail and deer infestations); vocation blindsides with salary decrease after decrease; and more madness. In other words, we experience One.Crazy.Decade.
At decade's end, we feel dizzied, punched, and jerked-around in almost every way. With a hefty portion of career disintegration. Like raised dough overly pounded and flattened. We were basically hung out to dry or moved to the time-out corner. In reality TV terms, we were "up-on-the-block" or vulnerable for eviction. And clueless to why.
But shame and fragile egos are secondary when, one way or another, someone could have died in a car wreck or from health scares. Our heads spin. Enough so that others, including the insurance company, notice the crazy
2. We feel like scolded and confused puppies with our tails between the legs, and we want to respond dramatically. If our financial investments were equal to Grandfather Frank's, we would have moved immediately. Hoping for a random jump start to resuscitate our careers.
But for some reason, particularly for us, running from or avoiding our troubles would have been a cop-out, like taking the AWOL escape route. We were guilty of nothing except for hard work. No job offers were coming our way, so hanging on and pressing through were our only options. To put one foot in front of the other and keep on keeping on. To prayerfully work through career sadness, paranoia, and confusion. Like
Gone With the Wind Scarlet O'Hara's tearful mantra: "
Tomorrow is another day"... we blindly embraced that mantra, too.
And I continued to write and blog. It was and is my cathartic thoughts-outlet. Three compelling experiences drove me to isolated "Island of Patmos" writings: One strong impression in my young 30s, one prophecy in my mid-40s, and a word picture given to me in my 60s. Writing, in my mind, was a given. The idea was invariably "written on the wind." The actual seed for blogging came after viewing the August 2009 movie
Julie & Julia. Where real-life, struggling Julie Powell blogged every day for a year, writing about each recipe she prepared every day, from Julia Child's classic cookbook. Julie vicariously survived through baking, blogging, and an inspiring book.
My daughter's urging in 2012, early in my sabbatical, finally kicked me in the rear, to initiate
DeoVolente, but what would I write about? Personal struggles at that point in my life weren't glaring or unusual, except for working through my childhood home's mega-dysfunction. Somehow, it turned into
3 1/2 years of blogs.
Dad's. Supreme. Court-case
Forgive me for being somewhat frank regarding the past. And, for taking a few editorial liberties. Direct and "out-there" writings are my acting-out of choice. Great-Grandfather Frederick's deep and intellectual book addressed disintegration; and my writings address the same subject, in a literal and more tangible way. Others may mock, courteously, behind my back, hinting heritage hypochondria: "She's our Debbie Downer sister.... aunt... friend... mom. She won't let go of a past that makes no difference today."
I identify with adopted children who unknowingly lack crucial family blood-line data. Four generations in my heritage
experienced rare and intense situations, which I know made a huge impact on my
parent's marriage relationship and their parenting. And the details were kept quiet
for decades, until both of my parents' deaths. I experienced...
One.Confusing.Childhood.... in need of closure. And, too, I am learning that
history sometimes has an uncanny way of repeating itself.
When the present becomes jumbled and disturbing, to be able to build a sequenced past provides a helpful reference point. I needed direction to gain exclusive admittance, or a backstage-pass perspective. To help see the unique, kindred quirks and similarities that relatives provide. To glean from their positive strengths and choices and even from their weaknesses and slip-ups. After our career aspirations randomly disintegrated, I desperately grasped. Like searching Julie Powell grasped for a cookbook... Particularly in 2015 I desperately needed firm heritage identity, direction, and
The Book.
My amateur writing ventures have all attempted to face reality and fear not. In ways, I admit to qualities that are nope, noper, and neurotic. I lack social intuition and am not the most positive person on the planet. I am also not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. In some situations, insight can trump bright. And a more accurate adjective for me might be quirky... passionately quirky.
A segued purpose of this writing is to present Dad's
. Supreme. Court-case. Shedding eye-opening light into early-1900's family history. To glean from early Act I of my play. Adding to the heritage cocktail a heavier shot of maternal great-grandparent and grandparent influences; to be an advocate for my engaging, intelligent, and book smart father. Who greeted his young children after a long day's work, with gifts of candy, and he playfully swung us by our hands and feet, like circling airplanes. Dad accepted me even though my scholastic scores were average and at times low, and even when I dissed him during normal teenage breaking-away years; he somehow trusted me to work in his law office; he loved my husband; and, he connected with my children. Admittedly, Dad was not always steady, but I sensed his steady Unconditional.Love.
And yet, I also blamed Dad unnecessarily, for many things.
Yellow Submarine
The yellow submarine is surfaced, docked, and prepared for a final deeper dive. Background information has already been provided for clearer understanding. And key family history was included for compelling [Dad] reasons. Random footnotes are inserted (way below). With some slowly-evolved theories that trump all of my previous heritage posts. A cup of strong black coffee a support on which to prop your weary head's chin might help, IF the choice is made to read even further through curving trains of thought.
On a personal-strengths level, I create manuals for jobs that I take on. To share the big and the small picture of things. And, from time to time, a task or two is simplified. Those are some of the not-so-bright things I do. I divulge my secrets and throw to the wind any thoughts of job security, and I eliminate the job silo. Those who follow rave about the helpfulness of my manuals, which are basically simple, yet transparent in nature.
So, it makes sense that a diverging purpose of my blog is to break down and also to create. To break down generational silos and to create and pass on a transparent family-matters manual. Which in heritage terms means:
- To add color and provide healing for closure. In WWII movie terms, to first submerge into the mire like a submarine, and then "up-periscope" or raise the periscope and merge miry-realm events with healing daylight;+
- to "...now see through a glass, darkly..." (I Cor 13:12); and,
- to overshadow the conclusions of my blog-a-thon 3-1/2 years ago, named DeoVolente, by connecting an additional, key generational dot.++
+ Or, preferably... indirect DeoLight, pronounced day-o-lite
++ DeoVolente means: God be willing. Because only our omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent Creator could have
navigated us safely through the past fragile decade.
Tomorrow is Another Day
Regarding my "career," over 4 forever years ago, a shaking work consolidation compelled me to leave my long-term, stable job. Like Grandfather Frank, I chose to escape an unstable situation. An unsettling work-quake. For what turned into the ignoble purpose of researching my family tree and writing its history. Ignoble because what I learned was different than what I expected, in a re-defined posthumous yet healing way.
Rather than a perfect-ending Cinderella Story, my family history more resembles turbulent Gone with the Wind. The dignified and intolerant 1770's O'Hara family had to learn, the grimy way, reality through the eyes of the South’s bloody Revolutionary War. Idyllic happily-ever-after did not seem to be Daughter Scarlet O'Hara’s destiny. For me, sheltered girlhood slammed into adulthood and left me reeling. No complaints from me, after all, in the words of Scarlet: Tomorrow is another day. I have learned many things, the persistent way.
If I possessed the courteous gene, like my five other siblings, ancestry bunk could have remained hidden or swept under the area rug. But the bumps were growing larger, as was cancer in 2006. Everything punctuated to me that time was ticking. Facing decades-old dust bunnies, food crumbs, and dander could no longer be avoided.
Old family matters and genetics continue to affect me today. To claim otherwise is living blindly or embracing indifference. When unprepared, a family weakness seems to ooze from the seams, from one generation to the next, and to the next. And it can escalate. My DNA contains flaws, but most everyone's does. We can never predict what fickle middle-life hormones and crazy circumstances will do to our minds. Heritage awareness = self-awareness.
Both of my parents had passed years earlier, so I couldn't pull anything from their memory banks. The information I received was convoluted; revealed to me in backwards-order; in mysterious Stars Wars trilogy fashion. It turned into a layered search, like the many clicks required on an ad-filled Internet site. Many times a fork in the road would bring an aha-moment, where I believed I had discovered a root family issue for a final writing.
But now, I realize that one critical piece, from which most every other family issue experienced stems, comes from Mom's side of the family tree. I refer to early Act I of III of my play, scene Generation 1 maternal great-Grandparent Weber's reaction to sadness and shame. And its ultimate effect on Generation 2 Frank. And, too, I have learned of shame on my paternal Grandparent side of the family. In other words, shame2.
Dad knew the root family issue. In fact, at least once I heard middle-aged Dad quietly murmur the specific Weber matter under his breath... Brooding. Frank. To which I add: ...and his 1945 exit from the family. I call it "The Wexit" (Weber Exit). It is an exit that was sudden. It was unexpected. And it left unsettling, serious internal injuries. Like seat belt injuries from a jolting car wreck.
I experienced a surreal moment while reading an eye-opening book during Christmas 2015. The writings in the book pierced me within. I literally trembled as it sent my mind way back to 2005, when a seemingly harmless souvenir from a missions trip to an indigenous land entered our home. We unwisely decide it is a simple and sweet gift. We are clueless to the vulnerability
2 in my heritage. It sat in our Ozarks' home office like an undermining Trojan horse for 10 years. During the same 10-year time span as our crazy-cray decade. Random fluke? or rad connection. The souvenir actually represents, in miniature form, a ceremony to an indigenous land's god.
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(Top) Proposed 1940s "Germania" worship dome
&
(Bottom) Wilmette's Bahá'í House of Worship to Bahá'u'lláh
Both attempt to, but will never...
NEVER, especially in our home, upstage
my God
whose only Son Jesus
willingly wore a crown of thorns
& died on the ╬ for me
(John 3:16) |
Prayerful hindsight has been revealing and especially healing for me. Age and life's jolting circumstances drove me to look at the past. To see "now" in an historical context. My experiential nature
needed context. Despite no physical resemblance, our souvenir was actually an akin-idea to the Bahá'í House of Worship that was located so near to Grandfather Frank's home years ago. And, too, many of our household's nth-degree feelings were somewhat similar. Confusion, shame, and disillusionment.
Years earlier, exasperated Dad's specific label for legacy matters was: The "Frank Weber Curse." The chain of events that dramatically effected Generation 1, to ignite Frank's Generation 2 Wexit, and abandoned Generation 3's responses of blame and schism. This Generation 4 granddaughter finally says:
Stop the presses. Face the music.
Step back and take note ...that Frank's choice to move very near to that Bahá'í House of Worship is similar to my welcoming an indigenous idol into our home.
And also, I can't help but return way, way back. To re-visit Weber Generation 1 Frederick. Only one of Frederick's seven children, my Grandfather Frank, survived physically healthy enough to carry on the Weber name. Frank became vulnerable throughout WWI. And sadly, it seems that rather than the father/son bond that teenager Frank needed to shoulder the shame, great-Grandfather Frederick distracted himself deeply with Nova Aquilae writings, its self-publishing, and possibly wallowed in the criticism that followed.
Generation 1's responses to World War I gloom, critical feedback regarding his book, and maybe even normal father/son differences of opinion were seeds for the Wexit Syndrome. Frederick escaped, emotionally. Years later, middle-life Frank escaped, physically, while taking the mid-term Wolf Pack 101 exam. With little or no closure, Frank's abandoned "pack" was left even more vulnerable.
Rambling about Myself
Unaware of legacy matters, I was ignorant and prone to drowning, like an untrained 3-year-old who thinks that beach water is like floating in his or her own little bathtub. I felt invincible. But some beach waters are deep; and hungry sharks or alligators are in other beach waters (certain actions and reactions come back to bite in the long run). Fortunately, a saving Lifeguard was always watching.
I approached early 20s believing I was like most. With many learning curves to tackle. But actually, I was naive, to the max, about big-picture life strategies. The sayings, "
Father Knows Best" and "
This, too, shall pass" were foreign concepts to me, as well as embracing the quirky ebb-and-flow of life. Like knowing that a Boomer who is blindsided career-wise can eventually work out an acceptable alternative, or maybe even a better one, was also foreign. I felt overwhelmed about so many things. With little life preparation, let alone bigger-picture perspective, and playing catch-up was always the name of the game.
Adulthood for me was like taking on a new and responsible position that effects many other inner workings in a company. Keeping up with daily tasks alone was enough to stay plenty busy because of learning curves and lack of an adequate manual. But add complicated stacks of past-due work to the mix, that have fingers to other people's work and deadlines, and unfinished business is the name of the game. Otherwise known as unfinished family matters.
The deadline factor and playing catch-up felt like standing at a chocolate factory conveyor belt wrapping individual chocolates that pass. The belt speeds up little by little, and chocolates pass by faster and faster. The belt suddenly jumps to hyper speed. "
Stop the presses!" is an impossible option, so escape-and-hide becomes my preferred method of choice. Specifically, to hide as many chocolates as possible that would otherwise fall off the end and to the ground. They are rapid-fire crammed into the mouth, the shirt, and into pockets that all begin to overflow. Rather than treading water, the comedy routine, and speeding-up life in particular, left me frazzled and emotionally bulging at the seams.
Some women seek testing for the breast cancer gene, to learn key health information for their children's sake. This past year I sought that type of health testing, for my daughter's sake, and happily received a negative test result. It accidentally dove-tailed a different direction. Into an intangible type of genetic data gathering, for both of my children's sake, delving even deeper into heritage research.
In 2010 I learned of two [now-preventable] Pernicious Anemia deaths experienced by great-Grandfather Jensen Generation 1. A daily sub-lingual b-12 tab under the tongue for 5 minutes, then spit and rinsed out thoroughly, helps me to manage depression... but off that random medical rabbit trail and back to present.
I randomly noticed that cars repeatedly played a prominent role in our heritage's Wexits and likewise within my decade of crazy. Which turned my attention to the recurring and similar generational responses to middle-life disillusionment: Prideful "
woe-is-me." And, this common thread emerged: To over-react to setbacks, and then act-out with simmering distractions; either in passive-aggressive ways, or, to escape, sometimes with flare and other times with emotional walls. Specifically, fearful Frederick walled himself into futuristic-like writings; Frank's futuristic thinking flared his Wexit; and Frank's son #1 and that son's son both silently fought bi-polar challenges that weighed down their deep, futuristic paranoia-filled thought patterns. They chose to exit, a generation apart.
Those actions, with lack-of-closure through the generations, nurtured biting self-blindness. Which created a tension-filled three-act play. What goes around comes around. Karma. Boom!erang. The bonds of unconditional love were weakened. Those bonds may have been initially compromised in the 1800s, when Generation 1 immigrated from simmering Germany to the United States, with key family separations.
 |
Grandmother Hazel
received varied & toxic
blame
unfairly directed her way.
Her birth-month pin
is quite fitting.
Justice & Mercy |
Gravity is one of the laws of nature, and reaping what one sows is, too. That which one or two generations believe is logical to respond with... escaping schisms, that create blame and finger-pointing, and inadequate bonding... naturally boomerangs back to, or visits, one or more of the subsequent generations. History repeats itself. And Weber's experienced more than the normal share of dramatics and tragedies, that I now sadly suspect were repeating boom!erangs.
Family history matters. And mine includes two generations of synchronized and epidemic "holier-than-thou" discrimination and blame, and sometimes closing off those to whom they should be closest... devoted spouses, parents, and siblings.
Basically, we misinterpret and mishandle criticism.
My great-grandfather was like an educated "blue-blood" who may have believed in his own intellectual enlightenment. WWI, his wife's thick German accent, and doctoring all brought criticism his way. His coping mechanism was to escape into futuristic thinking which distanced himself emotionally from his wife and his sons. And when his penned thinking was reviewed, it received critical feedback. Which was yet another blow to his pride. But possibly, if he had tweaked his writings, embracing that reviewer's feedback or feedback from others, and/or sought guidance from "the Creator," his writings might have gained helpful insight. The link to his book and the review are below in the Endnotes section.
Father Knows Best
After our many and varied declines over the course of a decade, another career decline felt like the final straw. Egos were punctured and I felt heart-broken. Crushed. Despondent. For months. It was like a part of me had died, much like the way I felt after my Mom's 1990 sudden and premature death following a car wreck. I had little explanation and no closure. Some days, after walking around in a fog, my husband I and would quietly just stand and hug each other. The only words I could manage to speak were, "I feel so sad. I just feel soooo sad."
Today, I still more than well up with tears as I write those words. The self-worth that comes from significant relationships and the pride of work accomplishments vanished, from one moment to the next, along with our dreams. And no one could ever make it better. I was blown away. In a way that felt disintegrating, with nil hope. Ever. For good endings. I wanted to blame.
Heritage hindsight is 20/20. To see and assess damage after the storm. I dizzily reached for a bigger-picture perspective. For grounding from somewhere or someone within my family tree. Grandmother Hazel and Dad were both long gone, but their memories are still alive in me. They were the loyal ones... I wanted loyalty and steady to win out and to strengthen my spirit. Dad felt what I re-re-name, the "Frank Weber-Effect," and I know that I know that "
Father Knows Best."
Dad was a defender, and my parents were true-gold. Dad neither quit, nor did he
physically Wexit. The key male figures that have been and are in my life ooze from their beings the trait of loyalty. It is their essence. I never heard sobered Dad embrace the mulligrubs "
woe is me." Dad was not intrinsically strategic, nor was he tactical. But he was the one, workday-after-workday, who was at the law firm and there for his clients. He had opportunities to purchase suburb-area fields, that are now developed properties; one with a nice Westin hotel and spa on it. And one of his dreams was in the arena of politics. Instead, my parents did subtle things like showing kindness to the disabled and disenfranchised. In other words, they displayed the first intentional blindsides to our toxic heritage, which is something of which I am hugely proud. Because people matter.
Dad's unhealthy addictions were a casualty of bearing many unbearables. Wrong-side-of-the-tracks Dad knew of poverty and the uncertainties of war all too well. My parents were raised in polar-opposite class worlds. Wealthy and poor. But there was one key similarity: They were both basically fatherless when they married. With two highly-needy "widowed" mothers who both sought Dad for help. In other words, Dad had no financial fail-safe to fall back on.
Their parenting styles at times severely clashed, especially during some of our teenage years. Dad's family tree experienced an unwed pregnancy, so he vehemently tried to protect his four daughters. Dad valiantly tried, but his manhood and fatherhood strategies were held hostage by an intangible force. And, most importantly, during all of his 20s and 30s, he was desperately running from his overly-strict religious upbringing and invariably from his family's presentation of a highly critical, unreachable God.
My husband and I are reality TV fanatics, and so are my corny superlatives. Big Brother did not evict him. He was never told, "
You're fired." He is now dancing with the stars. After running an amazing race, Dad received God's Amazing Grace. Dad outlived Mom, the longer survivor. I am glad he was spared knowing of my cancer nightmare. He passed a month before my diagnosis and fight began.
Legacy Matters
My spiritual focus is like my dear Dad's in his later years, and opposite of Grandfather Frank's. I am a 40-year follower of Jesus Christ. So now, the "because" of the scripture below uncomfortably crushes me, but in comfortable ways.
And God spake all these words, saying,
2 I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.
3 Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
After experiencing our haywire decade, my husband and I have felt a bit desperate and intensely humbled. I admit it, paranoia might even be added to the trail mix. And yet, we know that God's bigger plan for us includes mercy and grace. He covered us. We experienced merely one decade of crazy, and our sanity as well as our lives were all spared. And, an even greater miracle is occurring. My eyes are opened to heritage, and any and all criticisms are carefully filtered through God's perspective. An openness to Truth leads to perceptive feeling and to healing.
Now, we desire more. A strong generational hand-off. To pass a positive baton to our children. Like the Olympics, we're goin' for gold. And we want Liberty. Paul (formerly Saul) writes in the Gospels of being fools for Christ. I first embrace my "fool" as well as my deserved shackles:
I confess to: Anal futuristic
thoughts + blinded idolatry. I am hypersensitive (too too) to many things including constructive feedback from others, a "holier than thou" blamer, and when it comes to defending our
competence, a pinch spiteful. I am intolerant and rigid. Add Jensen heritage B-12
deficiency to the gene pool, and hopelessness spirals in.
The rigid intolerance I mention is subtle, like the discrimination or prejudice-factor in
Pride and Prejudice. Budding-spinster Lizzie met Prince not-so-Charming... Mr. Darcy's initial hoity-toity pride blinded Lizzie to his intrinsic goodness. She almost missed out on be courted by him because of her Blinding. Prejudice. She all but brushed off chances for what she dreamed of. A Cinderella-like life. In similar ways, rigidity seemed to hurt Generation 1 great-Grandfather Frederick. I hypothesize that he closed himself off in many ways. Particularly from valuable input.
Generation 2's messy divorce and then Generation 3's alcoholism helped to create mountains out of molehills. Now, I muse over those legacy matters and their lasting effects. Over 40 forever years ago at an altar I received forgiveness and a seed of hope. Now, the Amazing Grace lyrics of remorse-filled and physically blind former Atlantic slave ship captain; the elderly John Newton, can be penned by me also: ♫I was blind, but now I see♫.
I have found at least one avenue where intolerance is beneficial. To have
firm spiritual beliefs: My God created all things, and there is only one way to my God. It is through His one and only Son. His name is Jesus;
not Bahá'u'lláh. Jesus is a descendant from God's chosen: The Jewish people. God's only Son, my Savior, helped me to see the specific shackles that He threw into the sea for me. Seeing is freeing. It is now clear. He did it years ago, hanging on the cross.
What Not to Fear? Legacy matters, because legacy matters.
Don't Forget that Indigenous Souvenir
And now back to our indigenous souvenir matter. We will never know when or whether our literal crazy
2 decade (or figurative crazy-cray "cold bug") would have continued similarly or left on its own without extra measures (or "antibiotics"). But, when Mother Hen believes she is more than vulnerable
2 (we could actually be vulnerable
4), pride takes a second fiddle, for my legacy's sake.
The naive decisions of early forefathers may have made four generations vulnerable and might also make my family vulnerable. I have read Exodus 20, and no idol-worshiping souvenir, whether proved harmless or otherwise, is welcome in this home. We removed it from our lives.
4 Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.
5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;
6 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. (Exodus 20)
Over 40 years ago, I was....
brought out of the land of "Egypt," and mercifully guided
out of the house of bondage. The Bible's King David and Saul of Tarsus both ordered innocent people to be killed. My sin is equal to theirs. And when they repented, God mercifully forgave.
My faith is in a God who does not create trials. But, in His infinite wisdom, God does allow them. For my good. I feel the abundant good. The much-needed humbling that comes from setbacks and feedback, combined with God's glory revealed through sanity-saving blogging. God showed me the way. Legacy and seeing matter to me. I have....
Liberty! ♫ I'm.Going.Free♫
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Conclusion
All I can do is speculate, but I do not believe it is coincidence that Agnostic Frank, combined with his possibly calculated attraction to live near that Bahá'í House of Worship, wreaked havoc for not only himself, but also for his children and others. I know that, for example, a Jewish or Irish family living so near to that identical structure would not have been negatively affected.
But German Frank, with his pure-bred heritage, who in various ways may have benefited during WWII, could have unknowingly opened himself and his vulnerable family to deceptive heartache after heartache. Creating confusion. With blame game after blame game.
Distinguished Dad felt the invisible "9th-Larson" blame in our home. He sensed the huge pink elephant in most every room. There was the undefinable brass ceiling and his love/hate relationship with Ethereal Mom's guarded mysterious. (And, my dear Grandmother, the mid-1940's schism-ed one, experienced it, too)...
The guarded cold shoulder. The diverted and toxic blame. From varied directions and people. I now understand that Dad, my Grandmother, and my Aunt (the blamed ones) married vulnerable Webers who were casualties of an invisible war.
 |
My memoir's inception, at the Wilmette Beach in 2012.
Generations 3 & 4 do have enjoyable times.
In many ways, Aunt Bettye, thank you! |
Now, finally, a mini-challenge on which to chew: To repeatedly avoid the past, drink it away, and shove it under the rug creates bigger and more dangerous bumps. And, potentially, hurtful middle-life shame with dramatics and schisms. It sounds overly simplistic, but seeing an invisible and deceptive family pattern, and realizing it, and then taking ownership brings freedom. It creates opportunity for genuine peace and hope when facing troubling or vulnerable times.
I fully embrace a faith in God's sovereignty and renewing grace. Seeing helps me to respectfully face everyday life rather than avoid it, through good times and through dry, desert times. And especially through a stormy thorn-a-thon decade that ends in disillusionment. To accurately aim for my years-down-the-road, future Finish Line. No intentional or planned escapes allowed. The blame starts here and the buck stops here.
There are those with somewhat the same start as mine. And still, no two experiences or lives are exactly the same. One may take the pressurized lead as well as the spotlight immediately out of the Starting Gate; others are ever in the middle-of-the-pack; another holds back and patiently follows, like a thief in the night, stealing the lead in the race's last few determining yards... and maybe even raises a coveted trophy.
Other's jumbled pasts are different from mine and uniquely theirs. That is why, for puzzling pasts and presents, and for closure and accurate sight and insight, by all means seek amazing grace and love... through Jesus Christ. He is the one and only Savior of the world. And, He leads us to clearly see the awesome: Our Creator (John 3:16-17).
Ending Notes
Great-Grandfather Frederick's middle-life, aged 40s, deep fascination with and interpretation of the 1918 Nova Aquilae might be an overshadowing metaphor for his life and 2.5 generations of legacy matters. Sadly, their brightness blinded them, and their accomplishments all too quickly disintegrated. They are merely footnotes in this complicated blog.
My 4-year fascination with blogging was a crude attempt to figuratively interpret sign or body language... for family matters lessons-learned. To find a zero gravity base. Instead of a Wexit, it is a return. Way back to Generation 1. I embraced critical feedback, tweaked and edited, kept on writing, massaged and edited, and finally feel closure and grounding.
In some ways, however, it stinks. To dig up the dirt of heritage footholds... intolerance, escape, and misdirected blame. To face confusing and divisive matters head-on; and to tiptoe around others who don't get it, or who quietly blow off my eccentricities, or who feel comfortable with the same denial that literally tried to take me down.
In other words, I identify with great-Grandfather Frederick's inspiration to write after the explosive June 8, 1918 Nova Aquilae. While Son Frank was enlisted in the Navy, and just 5 months before turbulent World War I's end on November 11, 1918. I imagine his lengthy ponderings (maybe prayerful ponderings), staring at the same stars and constellations that his far-away son could see. And then somewhat slumped at a make-shift writing desk, dipping his fountain pen and literally burning the midnight oil. Or maybe he used a crude typewriter, hunting-and-pecking for each letter. Adrenaline and coffee revved his mind to focus and "flow." To draw obsessively detailed flowcharts, working like there was no tomorrow. Believing his discovery was like no others. And, too, I feel his discouragement and shame after a prosaic public review of his book. Expressing his sensitive-side was impossible for Frederick to do in words.
I also identify with Grandmother Hazel's intensity. And her knack for small detail and the desire for her children to have better opportunities. I feel the tail-end effects of Grandfather Frank's Wexit 70 years ago, the shock and disillusionment. I, too, have judged and blamed. The stories are all spread out on the table. Been there. Done that. Felt that. All of that. Yellow Submarine and Captain Obvious. We are related.
I prefer to re-direct those patterns, to worlds of wordsmith. Which I have probably overdone. I lasso from within a positive spin or two on our crazy-cray decade. In some circumstances, an overseas emergency appendectomy means even better doctor's care; cancer is not necessarily a death sentence; cars and a roof are repairable; I can learn from mistakes; a career setback, or two, or three, or four might eventually lead to something affirming; I am learning to creatively deal with a sensitive side. Disintegration encouraged me to look at Dad in a new light. To forgive, and to forgive myself for wrongly blaming him.
When it feels like the world turns its back, and criticism runs rampant, our faith trusts in a good God. Whether or not He provides for us a silver-lining take-over, roll-over, do-over, or make-over.
If or when a make-over occurs... His timing, His will, and His way. Disappointment is a fact of life. The main thing I can attempt to control is my response. In other words, my direct and frank do-over liberty mottoes are ...
For emotional stability, [sublingual] B-12 it! B-12 it!
Then, to my regurgitated ways of thinking, muse:
Stop it! Stop it!
Own it! Own it!
Quit the TOO TOO sensitive!
Humble myself. Humble myself.
And, most importantly, rather than
blame, blame. And then quit, quit
Live Love! Love! Love! Love!
&
Faith
Close your eyes, believe in each other, and stick to the God-plan. No intentional escapes.
Family, and legacy, and loyally tolerant Dads really do matter (my Dad was definitely a gem). I rest my case, and:
Thank-you, Daddy, for a miry yet healing mode of escape and acting out.
Create in me a clean heart, O ["Daddy"] God
(Psalm 51)
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Footnotes
* It is speculated that Frank's brother Freddy was sporadically locked in a closet for disciplinary reasons, and he might have experienced a damaging fall. For one reason or another, Freddy's mind was slow, and Frank in later years ended up supporting his brother. The three Freds in Generations-3 are:
- Great-Grandfather Frederick (Generation 1);
- Great-Grandfather Frederick's son (Grandfather Frank's brother) my great-Uncle Freddy (Generation 2); and,
- Grandfather Frank's Son #2 (from his second wife, the maid), my step-Uncle Freddy (Generation 3).
Frank Dewey Weber (November 21, 1898 - January 1974)... (mother and father Dr. Frederick C. Von Weber, Graceland Cemetery. C stands for Clarence, and his last name was changed to Weber)
and Hazel Rose Jensen (October 19, 1904 - March 18, 1977) (mother Mary Luedtke Jensen and father Charles Jensen) married in Neenah, Wisconsin May 17, 1924.
 |
Grandfather Frank Dewey Weber @1944,
vulnerable & mid-life aged 46.
Pre-schism (fleeing secretly to Florida),
Frank owned a lucrative company
that directly benefited from WW II:
Manufacturing springs for U.S. submarine torpedoes |
Frank lived until I was aged 19. He is the grandfather I never knew and met just once as an 11-year-old. I now know him because of both of my kind aunts' recollections contained in this blog. It seems his genes majorly effect our lives. 1914-1918's WWI made it hard to be German. At age 19, in mid-1918, U.S. German Frank was drafted into the Navy (we have his draft card). He never actually fought in WWI because the war ended soon thereafter in November 1918. He thought futuristic and was a successful entrepreneur and a benevolent employer, with a company bowling league and bonuses. Frank's aged and impoverished parents (my great-Grandfather Frederick) temporarily moved in with the family at the Maple Avenue home, which was difficult for perfectionist Hazel. Could that be one of the reasons why they hired a live-in maid?
Frank dutifully supported his children financially until they graduated from college. Fledgling Lawyer Dad, with Mother-in-law Hazel's insistence, took Frank to court to defend her (my Grandmother's) ownership rights regarding the divorce settlement. Bright Frank quickly studied up on law and beat Dad in court. Frank and Dad were never provided ordinary circumstances under which to warm up to each other. He wasn't invited to his daughter's (my Mom's) wedding ceremony; and also, Frank never forgave Dad for Hazel's lawsuit.
All of this, along with Dad's religious widowed Mother's strict and uninvited input, helped to form my Act II (a/k/a Generation 3) burning drama, drama, drama.
A German/American ophthalmologist's 1970s examination of one of Frank's grandson's eyes gave interesting information. Unsolicited, he verbally noted to his Mother (one of the "blamed" ones) that her son had unique and distinctive German eye-color shades. (The doctor's specific "compliment" is toned down).
Grandfather Frank's father, my great-Grandfather Frederick, attempted to make his mark on the world. In 1920, aged early 70s, he wrote and published a short vanity press book. A philosophizing astronomy essay about the universe, which intellectually responds to the burning Nova Aquilae of 1918: "Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration in the Universe?"
The Nova Acquilae of 1918 was the brightest nova recorded in the era of the telescope. It was brighter than all stars bar Sirius and Canopus. Tycho's and Kepler's supernovae were brighter, but both occurred before the invention of the telescope.
A 1920 book reviewer claimed that Frederick's title was inaccurate and that his conclusions had no logical development of his proof. After Frederick's 2 years of earnest thinking and writing, it must have been a hard blow. Were his grandiose ways of writing and thinking somewhat "off"... like this writer's many blogs over the past 3-½ years...?? Here are 2 links to the book and also to its review:
Dr. Frederick C. Weber's Book & a profile shot before Intro
1920 Book Review of Dr. Frederick's writing
Appendix
or
CAR-azy2
Continued from way above (PG-13)
Great-Grandfather Frederick's Nova Aquilae disintegration theory is a word picture for his son's life. Frank shined.
And then his pernicious 1945 cross-country CAR-1 Wexit to Florida spawned various delayed chain reactions
that, in my eyes, created a fizzling legacy:
Son #1. May 1966. With horse race Triple Crown wagers filling the air and Father's Day looming, (50 years ago to the month this May) his years-abandoned, aged mid-30, bright Son #1 is deeply scarred. With high school memories of being stripped of any ounce of pride by a cruel pack of college-aged bullies. No male support was there for him afterwards. For various reasons, including un-diagnosed manic-depression, he determines that his self-worth is low. He re-enacts what it felt like when his otherwise-absorbed Father intentionally vanished overnight from his life. Son #1 vanishes from his family. To him, do-overs are over-rated, so he drives his fast CAR-2 very near to Frank's Florida home, to Wexit not only family and his young children, but life, permanently.
Son #2. 1974. Frank's aesthetic and artsy Florida Son #2 also escapes, little by little and for years, through alcohol. He dies the same year as his father, a feeble aged-30 alcoholic.
- Daughter #1. Spring forward to 1990 and Frank's distraught oldest daughter (my Mom). She dies from Septic Shock following a mortal car wreck. She and her same-aged kindred cousin, on the Hazel Jensen (pernicious anemia) side of the family, both tragically die, young-aged 62, within months of each other, in separate CARS-3&4 accidents. Mom permanently vanishes from my life, too young and way too quickly. I was left motherless, carrying a meager life manual. Aged 35, with an age-25 naiveté.
Grandson #2. Spring-forward to 2004, to Frank's ever-lamenting, aged 50, bright educator, Generation 4 grandson. He has an increased obsession with his father's 1966 suicide. The residual shame and tensions it still generates are unbearable. His manic-depression reaction resembles his father's. His fear of a potential career slump causes him to escape. After all, the quiet thinkers in his heritage already modeled that career do-overs are over-rated. He drives CAR-5 to the location where he was last with his father. He dramatically vanishes and exits life, permanently.
Frank's Wexit, and then back-to-back generations of suicide, create blinding distraught for all of the Generation 3 remaining loved ones. Feelings of family shame and guilt, and I repeat it again to emphasize what it felt like for close loved ones: Wexit.Upon.Wexit. Upon.Wexit. With nil closure. But Great-grandfather Frederick's book reminds me that the Power in the universe is in the business of creating beauty from disintegration...
Nil closure,
until now.
I sense the perfect combination of God's extravagant love and mercy.
Girded with God's Truth, the heavy curtain is pulled back to uncover the pattern.
To share invisible strongholds: Slow-maturers→Proudly intolerant→Blind-sides→
Over-reacting to critical feedback→Blinding Hopelessness→Escape
Closure is finely constructed with
DeoLight: God-be-willing Light
The Way,
The Truth, &
The Life
Jesus Christ
(John 14:6)
So be it
DeoVolente
Creator God be willing
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Link to Wiki info. about a random Germany Weber
Link to various pics. of a random Germany Weber
