My Story, FOR: There IS a Creative Power in Disintegration

Ending Thoughts

This is final Part VII of My Story. Mostly pressed-through after January 2016's learning of and reading through great-Grandfather Frederick's book about the 1918 Nova Aquilae. A solar system occurrence that must have effected him deeply. His theoretical astronomy book is titled: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration? Where he discusses the impact of that disintegrating Nova. In a way, the title was prophetic and helped to direct My Story's overall theme.

Great-grandfather Frederick's aged-late-50's deep fascination with and interpretation of the Nova might have been his hoped-for provision of family legacy. Instead, it seems to have become 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. My Grandfather Frank's entrepreneurial skills as well as other noteworthy accomplishments in my family tree resemble footnotes in this complicated blog.

My aged-late-50's 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 an exit, it is a return. Way back to Generation 1. I embraced critical feedback, tweaked and edited, kept on writing, massaged and edited, faced my demons, and finally feel closure and grounding.

If a nurse were to perform a heritage blood draw from my veins, you would see the people in My Story. They flow through me, especially after my research. Great-Grands Frederick and Anna, and Grands Frank and Hazel, and Parents Donna and Craig. They are infused in me, because I strongly take after Mom's side of the family. I 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 exit or fugue, running away with his mid-life "fling" 71 years ago. I understand why he ran, but I also understand the family's shame, to the nth-degree, because so many aspects of their 1940s divorce were shocking and socially unacceptable.

I identify with great-Grandfather Frederick's inspiration to write after the explosive June 8, 1918 Nova Aquilae. He was in the midst of experiencing a career that had disintegrated for various unlikely reasons. He received inspiration for his writings during the half-year while Son Frank was enlisted in the Navy, and just 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. Earnestly praying that his one and only "normal" child would survive the war. And then somewhat slumped with intensity at a make-shift writing desk, dipping his fountain pen and literally burning the midnight oil. Or maybe he hunted and pecked at a crude typewriter, searching for each letter. Adrenaline and coffee revved his mind to focus and "flow." To draw obsessively-detailed flowcharts, working like there was no tomorrow. With the hope of leaving a legacy. Believing his discovery was like no other.

Then great-Grandfather Frederick's "now-and-not-yet" moment arrived. A prosaic public review of his book likely discouraged him. He was sensitive and his thought-life was strong. It was like pulling teeth to pool his thoughts of disillusionment into words. Intuitive Son Frank or others might have tried to provide constructive input, to somewhat re-direct or massage the purpose of his father's book, but hit a brick wall. Frederick was rigid and intolerant to feedback. At that critical juncture, "not-yet" turned into never for re-working his writings.

But never say never. Because his book title and ideas have now flowed through four generations of heritage lines, way down to and through me.

Conclusion

In some ways, digging into ancestry stinks. To discover 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 one brief sentence, my reason for writing is: To open eyes and to share the healing balm: It is forgiveness.

After lassoing my world of words, I prefer to re-frame our decade. Our daughter's overseas emergency appendectomy meant more focused and flexible doctor's care that helped to discover an American girl's hidden and unusually located, appendix... before it burst! cancer was not a fatal death sentence for me, partly because of the care of three flexible-thinking skilled specialists! cars survived and our roof was repaired, by flexibly choosing the skilled services of our hours-away son! we are learning our strengths and our weaknesses! a job sabbatical can lead to a more rewarding job! a career setback, or two, or three, or four might, just might eventually lead to something affirming! and my intolerant side is tempering. Our personal struggles, or disintegrating experiences, encouraged me to look at Dad in a new, flexible light. To fully forgive him. And, to forgive myself for wrongly blaming him.

My memoir's inception, at the Wilmette Beach in 2012.
Generations 3 & 4 have had enjoyable times together.
In many ways, Aunts Bettye & Nancy, 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 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 and disintegration. 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.

The Creative Power in Disintegration

There are those with somewhat the same heritage 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: The Creative Power in Disintegration (John 3:16-17).

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.

If my world of words can open even one set of eyes to bring heritage clarity, in any tiny way, every family member wins. My direct and frank liberty motto, mashed into a Frederick-like diagram, is:

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 plan. No escapes.

“FOR I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope
and a future”

(Jeremiah 29:11)

BOOM!

My Story, Tree.2: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

Father Knows Best

After our many and varied declines over the course of a decade, another career decline felt like the final straw. "We" were demoted. Egos were pierced, and I felt heart-broken. Crushed. Despondent. I knew that we had a large "L" branded on each of our foreheads. "What if everyone thinks we're losers?" haunted us.

For months it was like a part of me had died. I felt much the same way after my Mom's 1990 sudden and premature death following a car wreck. A part of me died then... when I was still seeking my identity. And with our career setbacks, the same. We had little explanation and no closure. Some days, after walking around the house in a fog, my husband I and would quietly stand and just 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 career dreams. And no one could ever make it better. I was blown away. It felt like disintegration. I had nil hope for good endings. Ever. 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 to be loyal. I wanted steady to win out and strengthen my spirit. Dad felt what I 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. During our difficult family years, 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 and "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 today are wealthy, developed properties; one has a nice Westin hotel and spa on it. And one of his dreams that never actualized 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 versus 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 on which to fall back.

Their parenting styles at times severely clashed, especially during some of our teenage years. In Dad's family tree there was a shameful unwed pregnancy, so he valiantly attempted to prevent his four daughters from a similar fate. Dad tried, but his manhood and fatherhood strategies were held hostage by an intangible force. The "Weber Curse." And, most importantly, during all of his 20s and 30s, he was desperately running from his overly-strict religious upbringing. His family presented God as highly critical and unreachable.

My husband and I are reality TV fanatics, and so are my corny superlatives. Big Brother did not evict Dad. 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, so he was the survivor. I am glad he was spared of my cancer nightmare. He passed into eternity a month before my diagnosis, when my fight began.

Legacy Matters

My spiritual focus is like 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 it comforts me as well.

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.

(Exodus 20)

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 is bringing us out and He covers 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. Any and all criticisms are carefully filtered through God's perspective. I have an openness to Truth, which helps to surface perceptive feeling that brings healing.

Now, we desire more. Promotional opportunities are not opening up to my husband, but we can focus on a strong generational hand-off to our children. To pass a positive baton. 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, a "holier than thou" blamer, and when it comes to defending our competence, a pinch spiteful and intolerant.

Intolerance or discrimination is subtle. Like the prejudice-factor in Pride and Prejudice. Budding-spinster Lizzie met Prince not-so-Charming... Mr. Darcy. His initial hoity-toity pride and blatant refusal to ask her to dance blinded stubborn Lizzie to his intrinsic goodness. She almost missed out being courted by Mr. Darcy due to her contempt for his initial display of arrogance on the dance floor. Lizzie experienced it: Blinding. Prejudice. She all but brushed off chances for what she dreamed of. A Cinderella-like life. Until her family's demise or disintegration. Her youngest sister's unwed relationship with a man pulled her family's reputation down to rock-bottom. Lizzie's eyes were opened because Mr. Darcy rescued her family, through a generous act of kindness.

Intolerance seemed to hurt Generation 1 great-Grandfather Frederick. I hypothesize that he closed himself off in many ways. Maybe even from Son Frank's honest input and career dreams. Generation 2's vengeful divorce and then Generation 3's alcoholism helped to create mountains out of molehills. Mom and I both could not see past our respective parents' marital dysfunctional and destructive Argentine Tangos. When Hazel Jensen's family tree B-12 deficiency was added to the gene pool, hopelessness spiraled in. Mom blamed her Mom for her family's demise, and I blamed Dad for my family's dysfunction. Until my husband and I lost our career identities and with it our pride. Disintegration. When God finally helped me to see Dad's goodness.

Amazing Grace

I muse over legacy matters and the lasting effects they have had on me. And how difficult it was for me to see my walls of intolerance. A strength can also be a weakness. But, I want to embrace the strength, because I think I can prayerfully manage it. Over 40 forever years ago at an altar I received forgiveness and a seed of hope. The Amazing Grace lyrics of 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 one of the venues where intolerance is needed and beneficial. To embrace belief in a firm spiritual foundation: 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 B'hai's Bahá'u'lláh or any indigenous gods. Jesus is a descendant from God's chosen: The Jewish people.

God's only Son, my Savior, helped me to see my specific shackles that He threw into the sea. God created me, knows how I tick, and He knows what I can handle. Seeing is freeing. It is now clear. He set me free years ago, when he humbly hung on a tree. It was not a nut tree. But rather a cross made from pine, cedar, or cypress. Sinless, He hung on that tree. He, too, experienced the pain of disintegration. He did it for modern-day Jesus-followers, and for those in my family tree who were followers. I will see them again.

What Not to Fear? My Story. Because There IS a Creative Power in Disintegration.

My Story, Tree.1: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

Yellow Submarine

The yellow submarine is surfaced, docked, and prepared for a deeper dive, into Part V. Background information has already been provided in earlier posts for clearer understanding. And key family history was included for compelling [Dad] reasons. With some slowly-evolved theories that trump all of my previous heritage posts.

If a draw was done of my blood and then tested, it would reveal 5 years of immersion into family history. So I had to share in words what I learned. Like my Great-Grandfather Frederick, days, hours, and years were spent writing. He wrote about the dramatic 1918 Nova Aquila; I write about my heritage.

A cup of strong black coffee and a support on which to prop your weary head's chin might help, IF the choice is made to read further into curving trains of thought. They are un-chartered trains of thought.

 The Root of the Problem?

During Christmas 2015, an eye-popping experience occurred while I was leisurely reading what ended up being a revealing biography. Events in two of the chapters startled me. I felt the earth move under my seat. I literally trembled. And, no exaggeration, shock waves passed from the book and ricocheted through my hands, arms, shoulders, and then to my mind. If my many hairs could stand on end, they would have. That book's world of words finally slapped me out of a brain fog.

I instantly experienced a flashback to a gift we received in 2005. We unwisely decided it was a simple and sweet gift, somewhat like a foreign nativity set. A seemingly harmless souvenir from a missions trip to an indigenous land. The figures, all black, about 1-inch tall each, with an animal or two, and one central figure that was unique and distinctive. Over the years, I even studied it a few times while dusting it.

The souvenir was displayed in our Ozarks' home office like an undermining Trojan horse for 10 years. And was received a month before our crazy-cray decade began. Random fluke? or rad connection. That evening while reading, I finally realized that the souvenir actually represents, in miniature form, a ceremony to an indigenous land's god. I instantly shot from my seat, heading to our home office, and pointed: That has to leave our home. And it cannot be thrown into the Lake.

Within less than 30 minutes, "that" was thrown into the garbage can outside of our nearby Walgreens. What happened at the city's landfill 7 weeks later is either coincidental or unsettling. So, to protect the impressionable, I omit it, but will certainly not forget what I heard on the news.

What Not To Fear?
Spooky trees
We have the creepiest front-yard tree in our neighborhood

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. It represented idol worship. And, like Grandfather Frank, our downward spiral started in our home office. And, too, many of our household's nth-degree feelings were somewhat similar to Mom's after her father escaped to Florida. Confusion. Disillusionment. Shame.

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 frustration, 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.

Impossible? but I have learned: Father. Knows. Best.

Tomorrow is Another Day

Regarding my "career," over 4 forever years ago, a lengthy and shaking work consolidation compelled me to finally leave my long-term, secure job. History does repeat itself, because like Grandfather Frank, I fled a work-icane consolidation that was about to swing back with an unpredictable path. He chose to flee work to research peach trees, I chose to flee work to research my family tree that was white-washed. I needed to write our true heritage history.

What I learned was different than what I expected. I learned a deeper identity, and I now choose to embrace the good and the not-so-good of it. 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.

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. For the sake of health and family, facing decades-old dust bunnies, food crumbs, and dander could no longer be avoided.

Old family matters and genetics, or my family walnut tree, 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 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. Information seemed to come to me rather than my seeking it. The revelations were layered, 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.

Dad suspected that he knew the root family tree issue. Remembering his quiet, under-the-breath murmur years ago of the specific matter was the beginning of my first concrete clue. He believed Frank was the problem. To which I add: ...and his 1945 exit from the family. I call it "The Wexit" (Weber Exit). It is an exit that is sudden. It is unexpected. And it leaves unsettling, serious internal injuries. Like seat belt injuries from a jolting car wreck. With generational consequences.

Yet now, I somewhat modify Dad's theory. I realize that one critical piece, from which most every other family issue experienced stems, comes earlier on, deeper within Mom's family tree. I refer to early Act I of III of my play, scene Generation 1 German maternal great-Grandfather Frederick Weber's reaction to World War I events and possibly shame. Around aged 60, during Son Frank's critical and vulnerable teen years, Frederick's 1918 immersion into writing rather than communicating about critical family issues negatively effected his family. I theorize this because Generation 2 Frank avoided critical issues and then ran. Generation 3, Frank's seed, did similarly, but in more creative ways.

My Story, TOO.2: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

Crazy²

Part IV of my story begins after Grandfather Frank's Weber Exit (Wexit) from the pack or family alliance. It more than ruffles family feathers. Like turning on a fan in a room with neatly stacked piles of papers. It stirs everybody and everything up, and makes the family vulnerable. With a disintegrating family pecking order and years-down-the-road sad consequences.

Like Great-Grandfather Frederick's five or more babies that were lost to childhood illnesses, spring-forward a couple of decades to Son Frank's grown Generations 3 and 4 children. During the years 1966 to 1974, they end up mimicking or modifying Frank's exit or fugue pattern. Specifically, Grandfather Frank personally experiences tragedies with his two grown sons, who feel distraught in various ways.

Five family tragedies occur that are disturbing and sudden premature deaths. To protect the sensitive and impressionable, the specifics are omitted.

The Generation 4s - @ 1963 with our "Blamed-Grandmother"

Grandfather Frank's death in early 1974 allows him to miss the grief of three of the five family tragedies. But the remaining family members, head-on, feel the grief. Grief that is like repeating car wrecks, leaving unseen internal wounds and injuries. And, naturally, police and medics must figuratively attend to patients who have visible or gaping wounds. But the wounded ones who show no outward signs receive little attention and no internal closure.

Septic shock takes hold within some of the less-attended victims and deceptively within Frank's ancestry. Pre-mature deaths create trust-intersection breakdowns. Second-guessing "what-ifs" and fault-finding run rampant, for years, and for various and flaring reasons. With misdirected and skewed finger-pointing blame, upon blame, upon blame. Causing relational disintegration. Some of that blame misfired to my Grandmother Hazel. (The same grandmother whose heritage passed elusive 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's family.

For perspective, both my Dad and my Father-in-law saw their career bubbles burst, for various reasons. I saw the disappointment in their eyes as they walked through those trying years. A brief journal entry or two was written about them many years ago. I also wrote in my journal about the hopes I had for my husband's career aspirations. I prayed that he would have a steady follow-through into his 60s and beyond, to end his career on a positive note.

Then in 2005 began what I call our on-and-on-a-thon decade of chaos, with our healthy daughter's frightening emergency overseas appendectomy and lengthy overseas recovery. In ways, the experience felt like low blows in a grueling heavyweight boxing match. And the match intensified 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 occurred. We had on-and-on crazy-cray accidents (5 random car wrecks in 18 months); mystery health issues arose because of various toxins (multiple deer tick issues multiple times, negative reactions to medications, and Generation 6 food sensitivities); rare nature wallops occurred (mile-radius localized, century flooding with roof-replacing hail and deer infestations); vocation blindsides with salary decrease after decrease; and then more madness. We experienced One.Crazy.Decade.

At decade's end, we felt dizzied, punched, and jerked-around in almost every way. Enough so that others, including the insurance company, noticed the crazy². Our heads were spinning. So when the last straw, my greatest fear, career disintegration, occurred, it felt like a living nightmare that wouldn't end. My husband was given what was labeled a lateral move at work. But we knew better. He was demoted. We hit rock bottom emotionally. We felt like scolded and confused puppies with our tails between the legs, and I wanted to respond dramatically. If our financial investments were equal to Grandfather Frank's, we would have moved immediately. Hoping for career and ego boosts.

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, and we were left clueless. No job offers were coming our way, so hanging on and pressing through was our only option. To put one foot in front of the other. We prayerfully walked through a career blindside, paranoia, and confusion. Like Gone With the Wind's mantra, breathlessly stated by a tearful and despondent Scarlet O'Hara: "Tomorrow is another day"... we embraced that mantra, too.

And I continued to write and blog. It was and is my cathartic thoughts-outlet. My husband and I were metaphorically on the deserted, biblical "Isle of Patmos." Three compelling experiences drove me to isolated writings: One internal, strong impression in my young 30s, one prophecy in church in my mid-40s, and one age 59-2/3 insightful and timely word picture or metaphor that was spoken to me by a friend.

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. Portraying real-life, struggling Julie Powell who 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 into my sabbatical, finally kicked me in the rear, to initiate DeoVolente. But what would I write about? Our decade's personal struggles hadn't yet actualized to crazy. But I did want to work through my childhood home's mega-dysfunction. So I did that, through writing. And somehow those cathartic writings turned into 4 years of random blogs, concluding with "My Story" in 7 parts.

Dad's. Supreme. Court-case

I identify with adopted children who unknowingly lack crucial family blood-line data. Until now, I never fully grasped that my great-Grandfather was a doctor/author, and I knew only minuscule information about goings-on in Generations 1 and 2. Four generations in my heritage experienced piercing 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 after both of my parents had died. 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, a moment of crisis, like it did immediately following my husband's career set-back, 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 the 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 during the holidays 2015, I desperately needed firm heritage identity, direction, and The Book.

My amateur writing venues have all attempted to face reality. Unfortunately, I have never been one of the docile "sheeple" (one who is easily led). In ways, I admit to qualities that are nope, noper, and neurotic. Breaking social norms, I have been compelled to post my transparent writings. I am not the most positive person on the planet nor the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. But in some situations, intuition and insight can trump bright. A more accurate adjective for me might be quirky... passionately quirky. My son-in-law says that I married the only man on the planet who could put up with my intensity, and right he is. Miss Faithful married Mr. Faithful, and I married up-up-up.

A segued purpose for My Story 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 mix 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 had a sense of humor. He 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 during high school years; he loved my husband; and, he fished with my son, took him to a White Sox game or two, and enjoyed sandbox fireworks with his grandchildren.

Admittedly, Dad was not always steady on his feet, but I always sensed his steady faithfulness and Unconditional.Love. Yet, I blamed Dad unnecessarily, for many things.

My Story, TOO.1: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

USA's Only Bahá'í House of Worship, in Wilmette

And now, Part III, and one of the initial springboards for My Story. Frank's other attraction to Chicago suburb 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, the death of his father in 1939 provides the beginning seeds of a tail spin. World War II's official end September 1945 throws him into familiar territory. First, he is responsible for his brother mentally-challenged brother. Second, he remembers what it was like in World War I times and the whispers about Germans. His futuristic thinking again kicks in.

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 brings 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 moment of "now-and-not-yet" is staring him square in the face. And he does not handle it well.

Grandfather Frank's "regurgitated thoughts" bring 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 in Frank's home office. His normally quiet teen-age daughter Donna turned hormonal, with an ugly face-to-face confrontation that hit him hard: "Well then, just leave with her [the maid]. I hate you!"

Donna strongly resembles Frank's Mother. The names Donna and Anna are pronounced similarly, her brunette hair lightens with sun exposure, a petite height and frame, and a tendency to walk pigeon-toed, were all like Paternal Grandmother Anna. Donna's features, like her gangling arms, fine hair, and her pigeon-toed feet all bothered her. For a petite 5'2" height, a size 8 shoe seemed huge when compared to her friends' shoe sizes. What Donna saw in the mirror was like the image in an amusement park's curved mirror, disproportional and gawky. Even so, she was budding into a quiet and beautiful 16-year-old.

So that evening's outburst and ultimatum from Donna shocked Frank and hit him hard. After all of his years of hard work and providing amply for his family, Hazel and his daughter were aligned against him. In no way did it give Frank license to flee, that very middle of the night. Brooding Rescuer Frank could not fix the modern-day shame and disillusionment he created. After the fateful and heated father/daughter interaction, no closure occurs. Ever. And down-the-road legal 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 fugue or run, escaping the ugly scandal he created. Heading towards a life make-over and do-over. He leaves behind everything familiar, except for one person who accompanies him. The family's long-time live-in maid. 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, is 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. His escape or fugue resembles a scolded dog with its tail between the legs that scampers far away.

Frank believes that in years to come his ideas and actions will be validated. He will still provide financially for his family. Hazel's brother Bub will manage his Chicago Accurate Springs Manufacturing Company, and maybe Frank's risky Florida business venture will provide extra needed money.

I swing forward with a segue, for perspective's sake. For just a moment, to the 2000's. In 2005, we were on the community-end of a fugue-type situation. A highly-respected father in our close-knit community unexpectedly disappeared overnight, leaving his wife and two children (one of my daughter's closest high school friends). The father's disappearance was on the local news, and for days we feared for his life. Ultimately he was found alive and somewhat well, except that to everyone's bewilderment it was discovered and reported on the news that he had a girlfriend and escaped to be with her, out-of-state. His family, my daughter's friend, had to face community whispers and embarrassment.

Because of the 2005 fugue that I personally witnessed, I understand the humiliation that my grandmother and my mother felt. Grandfather Frank's children (my mom was the oldest of the three) first experienced confusion. Then the sadness of loss. And then anger and the deep shame of public scandal. Donna even felt guilt, that maybe if she hadn't yelled at her father he wouldn't have left. My Mom believed that her father's mid-life escape was her fault.

Frank justifies that his family will be better off without him. His plan was for money to solve all hurts and shame. And long-distance and long-term financial grounding would be the main support his three still-fledgling children needed from him. Family counseling was not prevalent, so they dizzily floundered.

Sadly, Frank refused a redeeming faith. He was in flaming futuristic denial. He was a gifted entrepreneur, and a starter of ideas, but a weak maintainer. Legacy matters, and where shame and disintegration thrive, family bonds and outlandish mercy, from every direction, are dire. Simply stated, the family needed the strength of a Dad, but in their eyes his strength had disintegrated: "The strength of the pack is the wolf; and the strength of the wolf is the pack" (Jungle Book).

My Story, Won.2: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

The World War I Effect

My great-Grandmother Weber & 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 and paranoid. When choosing something as personal as a family doctor, maybe some patients preferred a background different from German Dr. Frederick's. His slight accent was a give-away. For needed money, Anna continued to pick up the slack by earning money as a type of washer woman.

Maybe 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, titled, "Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?" Maybe with hopes of birthing 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. He based his writing on an introduction that included no fact-based scientific premise. His ideas were merely assumptions. 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. His death in 1939 was at the ripe old age of 89.

Frank Marries

But my Grandfather Frank is the intuitive and striving son who will make up for his down-trodden father and his impaired brother. Following a brief mid-1918 Navy enlistment, Frank returns home having gained a bigger perspective. He wants to create a better life. Being a struggling medical doctor and marrying a pure-bred German are both noble, but Frank goes against the grain… he obtains his degree and marries over-doer Dane Hazel, opting 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. Danish blood will produce strong family and re-establish pride.

The Roaring-20s couple

Frank's campus peanut-dispensing vending machines, purchased 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. His father's philosophizing and World War I experiences had intuitively prepared him for the potential of yet another ugly war. With a $500 loan from his mother, in the 1930s he purchased a spring manufacturing company, to provide for the present, and hopefully for future needs, and maybe even one day help to protect his country.

Frank's 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 German name. My attention-to-detail Grandmother Hazel, raised on a struggling Wisconsin farm, will create tensions, exhibiting affluence to forward her three silver-spoon children. Over-achieving was Hazel's middle name.

Hazel wanted more for her children, and the Socialite Webers had the money to make it happen. While other Americans struggled to survive through The Depression, boats, horses, vacations, and high-style were all theirs. Her stringent ways (think of the relationship between proper Matriarch Emily Gilmore of "Gilmore Girls", and her against-the-grain Daughter Lorelai) communicated to her husband and her three children unreachable expectations, in no uncertain terms. Bedding was pressed and top sheets were crisply tucked, in proper fashion. Towels were carefully folded and stored to exacting specifications. A live-in maid was hired to achieve pristine perfection in the household.

My Story, Won.1: Is There a Creative Power in Disintegration?

Introduction to Weber Generation 2

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. My maternal grandfather.

Generation 2 Frank's downtown business starts with a $500 loan from his mother, Anna. 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.

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

Great-Grandmother Anna Weber

In 1856, 7-year-old Frederick C. Weber emigrated to America, travelling with his mother, Annie. His then-47-year-old father, Christopher Weber, had come ahead of them. Frederick grew up in Chicago and eventually became a doctor.

The turn-of-the-century, engagement (my Generation 1 great-grandparents) was ordinary. Dr. Frederick and his betrothed, Anna, met in Brooklyn. As he anxiously awaited his marriage to Anna, he regularly gripped her stiff tintype photo. To stare at her features. Only a pure-bred German wife would do for Frederick's 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 recalled her walk and her talk. Anna was shorter, and a bit pigeon-toed, but sturdy enough. A small, official announcement appeared in the newspaper of their marriage and return to their Chicago neighborhood.

Frank knows that his German-born-and-bred middle-class parents tried their best. Family was important, even though extended family lived states away or overseas. 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 many of their little ones. And Frederick's namesake Freddy had a slow mind. Finally, when my great-grandfather was 39 years old, his second son, Frank, was born and he lived. He was 17 years younger than is older brother Freddy and surpassed Frederick's and Annie's dreams.^* 

Childbirth survival rates were low 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. (Great-Grandma Anna Weber was a maid or type of washer woman, maybe throughout her 20s and 30s. Experts were not yet aware that her tasks, with repeated lengthy exposure 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 healing doctor and his wife. It took 17 years and too many of their children's deaths to produce second son, Frank. The dismal reminder of death was felt 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 was the vivid reminder of his household's many sicknesses and deaths.

Maybe sole-surviving healthy Son Frank was overly protected and pampered. His mentally-impaired older brother would never pass on the family name, so the heritage baton passed through Frank. In later years, Frank felt responsible for and compassionate towards his older brother, and helped provide for him financially. After Frederick's death in 1939, Frank purchased his childhood home for his brother's continued residence.