Browse Tag: family

They eat ants!

My grandmother, Erna Stecher Rameau, was a gifted and shrewd lady. She had to be: she had a long career in education as a teacher and as a principal of children’s schools–a trying task for anyone, anywhere, anytime. While masterfully navigating the waters of this challenging career, she managed to remain a devoted wife, a doting mother (and grandmother!), and a loyal, gracious friend. Admirably, she did it all without losing her fiercely strong sense of self, or her love of excitement and adventure. I found a wonderful photograph of her recently and thought I’d tell its story…

Two dear friends of hers, Leonce and his wife Annette, were both educators. He and his wife set about achieving that universally desired (and universally challenging) feat of giving their family a brighter future. Their route? They left Port-au-Prince for the newly independent Central African Republic, and he took a teaching position at the University in CAR. Far away in their new country of residence, husband and wife sat quietly for dinner each night, unable to eat, instead using many a mealtime to cry together. They cried every day for their five young children that they had left behind in Haiti with relatives. There was little hope of seeing their children anytime soon: all five were minors between the ages of two and eleven; they were too young to travel unaccompanied, and no airline was willing to take on the responsibility of ushering five little ones through such a long journey with so many layovers.

Skip back to the island in the Caribbean, fast forward to a later time…my grandmother was readying herself for a trip to France to visit her oldest daughter (my aunt) who was studying in Paris. Ever resourceful, dear grandmother phoned her friends Leonce and Annette in CAR and told them that she would be in Paris on Day X of Month Y (Year 1962), and that if they would be willing to travel to Paris to meet halfway, she would gladly bring their children with her. Annette, who now lives in New York, says she never forgot that day. Already painfully separated from her young brood for over a year at that point, Annette quickly accepted the offer, then soon after countered it with a fun raising of the stakes: “Erna, would you mind bringing the children the whole way to CAR? Come for a visit, we’ll send you a ticket for the Paris-Africa leg…” My grandmother, not about to pass up an opportunity to see Africa, accepted the offer. She made all the travel arrangements and when the big day arrived, set off for Central Africa, her friends’ five kids in tow. The youngest, two-year-old Georges, clung to her the entire trip and refused to let go of her even during her visit in Africa. After being reunited, the family remained in CAR for a decade. Today, the surviving members (Leonce passed away a few years ago, and sadly, exhaustive illness claimed one of his and Annette’s daughters last year) still fondly remember the trip that brought them back together.

After some weeks with her friends in CAR, my grandmother traveled to France for a month to spend time with her daughter. She finally returned home to a patient husband and three impatient adolescent offspring, the fourth remaining in Paris, not yet done with her studies. My aunt tells me all interested parties keenly felt the distance; she describes my grandmother as une mère-poule (a mother hen). I wholeheartedly agree.

The homecoming brings me back to the wonderful photograph, the inspiration for this blog post. This photo was taken the day that my grandmother returned to Port-au-Prince from her trip to CAR and France. Relatives and friends came over that evening to hear tales. She’s seated center stage in the adirondack chair, her aunt on one side resting her hand on the chair, my mother (smiling, arms crossed) and my youngest aunt in matching white dresses on the other side. Attention is fixed on my dear grandmother. Her body language is priceless: hands up gesticulating, the mouth smiling and open and surely telling an exciting story. My aunt and mother both tell me they vividly remember this enthusiastic statement my grandmother made about the Central African Republic: “I loved the markets! The marchandes sell ants in the marketplace by the bowlful! They eat ants!” Classic.

The correspondences that bind us

This is a photo-centric post, featuring pictures of my family. Many of these photos came to us in horrid condition, most likely a result of lack of care and Haiti’s hot, wet climate, but I’m excited to restore them in the coming weeks, and will probably do a post just about the restoration of the pictures in the future…In the meantime, try to see past their tattered condition.

Walter Stecher, my great-grandfather

I regret that I know so little about family that came before me. I’m always asking my mother question after question and she tells me everything that she can, but it’s never enough to fill in the large gaps of this passionate story. My grandmother, Erna, born in 1917, was a young girl when her father Walter Stecher died. His wife/her mother Simone died soon after. Once this happened, she and her brother Robert were quickly taken in by Simone’s family, and for reasons that are not known to me, contact with Walter’s family ended completely.

Simone, my great-grandmother

The Stecher family emigrated to Haiti from Germany. Haiti is a small island, and Port-au-Prince is smaller. Most of the Germans in Haiti knew each other. Yet for whatever reason, my grandmother wasn’t curious about the fact that she and her brother were growing up completely separately from closely-related family who no doubt lived closeby, frequented the same markets, attended the same schools, moved within similar social circles. If she was curious, she never let on about it to any of her children–my mother says she never mentioned these cousins/aunts/uncles.

Simone, to her left is Robert, my great-uncle, to her right is Erna, my grandmother

I’ve heard various things about Walter–that his life was hectic at times, that he didn’t get along with the other Stechers. My mother didn’t asked all the questions that I would have asked, but I can’t blame her for that; our minds work differently. Today, she is as interested, intrigued and excited about piecing together our history as I am. Fortunately for us, her cousin–my grandmother’s brother’s son– is well versed in my family history, and is a close friend. Fortunately, he is in good health. I feel an urgent need to sit him down for hours (or most likely for days or weeks) to pick his brain so that I can commit this story to paper before more knowledge is lost.

One thing we do know about Walter is that after settling in Haiti, he still traveled back to Germany often for work reasons. I’m blessed to have some touching personal correspondences between Walter and Simone. The postcards are mostly from 1920. It was a tad difficult to translate some of Walter’s words because his penmanship was hard to read at times. Also, being German, French was his second language; he tended to make certain grammatical errors and leave out key words every now and then–charming little mistakes that non-native speakers make. His wonderful sentiment is clear nonetheless.

I have four postcards and one photograph that has a letter written on its back. These five brief pieces are full of thoughtfulness, love, sadness, frustration, and longing. These beautiful, mysterious people have fascinated me since childhood, and they come to life through their own simple words. I share them below…

A card from Simone to Walter in Germany; she seemed to be helping him network. Translation below.

“A thousand kisses, Simone.

Dear Walter,

It is noon. I have but the time to tell you the names of two foreign ministers that I just met right now. The minister to France: Tertulien Guilbaud. Theramene Romain: Holland. A sweet embrace.”

A postcard from my great-grandfather in Germany to his daughter--my grandmother--in Haiti. Message below.

“My dear little Erna,

I hope you are as happy, just like this little girl [on the postcard]. And I hope that soon we can take walks together in Haiti. A thousand kisses from your father.”

A postcard from son to father--Simone writes to Walter in Germany on behalf of their infant son, Wilhelm. Message below.

“Dear papa,

My little heart tells me that soon you will be near your little boy who, each day, asks for the return of his dear father. To you I give my small caresses and happy birthday wishes.

-Wilhelm”

The response from father to son. Message below.

“My dear young Willy,

Well, my little unknown, wait a few months more, and we will get to know each other and I am sure that we will be good friends.

With a thousand kisses from your father,

Walter.”

***Unfortunately, the time that Walter and Simone shared with their young son Wilhelm was all too short– he succumbed to smallpox as a baby.

My great-grandfather; while in Germany, Walter sends a photo of himself to Simone with a heartfelt note on the back.

“Darling of my heart, my dear little Simone,

I’m sorry– I’m sorry, forgive me if my last letter was too abrupt, too brutal, even. I’m sorry my dear. Now I know that soon we will be in the same bed again. It affects me deeply, knowing how poor I am here. To this day, I don’t have any money and I am obliged to borrow cent after cent. It leaves me sad.

Thank you. Thank you so much for the gift.”

Beijos, minha irmã…

Last week, I watched my sister fly downwards towards South America, where she’ll undoubtedly paint Brazil a brand new shade of red as she makes her home there for the next four years. I’ve watched her travel the world for roughly twenty years, and whenever I could gather up the time and money, I followed her–to Europe, to Africa, to Haiti, to various places around the States.

My sister and I in her bedroom many moons ago. Note the beloved 'Pound Puppy' in her hands! Hers or mine? Can't say for sure...

When I was 12 years old, I cried, completely inconsolable, when she moved to Italy. When she came home for Christmas that year, and left again after the holidays, I cried harder than before. Eventually, I stopped crying because I realized that all her travel abroad meant wonderful things. New homes abroad for her meant exciting trips abroad for me. In turn, exciting trips abroad to visit my sis meant quality time and good adventuring with her. So began many fun and memorable trips all over the place…

When I was fifteen years old, I went to West Africa on my own to stay with her for three months, and celebrated my sweet 16th during that time. I went back the next year for two months. Even at that young age, I knew better than to take such an experience for granted. This time spent in a quiet part of Africa, in the presence of my sister whom I admired and adored unabashedly, remains a uniquely formative and unforgettable time in my life.

My sister styling my mane back in the day. Sacred duty!

Long and scenic road trips, elegant train travel, not-so-elegant train travel, funny airplane rides, spine-rattling clunker taxis with herds of goat strapped to the roof–we’ve experienced it all together. She is–and will always be–my favorite travel partner. We haven’t done a big trip together in a longish while, so I think about Brazil with great excitement, thinking of the good times to be had when I go visit (often!) in the coming years.  The anticipation doesn’t fully make up for the heavy heartedness that I felt at her leaving, but it levels the emotional field a bit.

Me, my sister, Venice in 2004

So off I go to work on a little Portuguese, and to add people, places and things to my South America bucket list. And to my dear sister– happy trails to you; até logo!

My sister-- dressed as a traveling marchande, gazing out towards distant lands during the late 1970s.

When the kids malfunction…

Why did you make me play second base?”

The quote above is from the 1989 film ‘Parenthood,’ directed by Ron Howard. ‘Why did you make me play second base?!’ is what young boy Kevin cries out to his father Gil (played by the masterful Steve Martin) after he causes his baseball team to lose the game. Gil, a staunch fan of America’s favorite pasttime puts his unskilled boy in the position of second base and Kevin plays rather badly, causing an embarrassing loss for his teammates.

I was at Chuck E. Cheese recently, watching a toddler relative ball her eyes out in horror as she saw the live Chuck E. in front of her for the first time ever.

Relatives at Chuck E. Cheese. Supposed to be every child's favorite place...

It got me thinking about how often adults put children in situations that the children themselves hate. And we just don’t seem to get it. We assume they’ll love it. Or we feel like said situation is a milestone, and we have to snap a picture of it for posterity.

Ohh, so the tears and the frown mean he's NOT thrilled to be in the Easter parade...
My husband (in green), not behaving according to plan.

When I was at the mall once years ago, I walked into the Disney store and saw an awesome Incredibles-themed Halloween costume. My nephew was a baby at the time but I bought the costume anyway for next Halloween. It hung in his closet patiently. I waited impatiently for next Halloween to come, knowing he would be so unbelievably excited about wearing that costume. Boy was I disappointed. He hated the damn thing. In fact, he cried miserably the whole time that he had it on. Cried miserably until we took it off him and dressed him in his—get this—Incredibles pajamas. So he wore Pjs for his first trick-or-treating, and was as happy as a boy could be.

Mr. Incredible...feeling not so incredible.

Why do so many of us psych ourselves out about these perceived milestones in kids’ lives? Many of us react with sadness, disappointment or even anger when the kids don’t react how they’re “supposed to.” I’ve been guilty on a few occasions of building up of emotion and excitement before an event—imagining the expression on my beloved nephew’s little face the first time he enters the gates at Disney World, imagining how he’ll react when I take him trick-or-treating for the first time, imagining his reaction when I introduce him to larger-than-life Mickey for the first time at the Magic Kingdom. I’m now convinced that my nephew (and most kids for that matter) can sense it and reacts with anti-excitement just to show me who’s boss. Rightly so too—I’m not master of his emotions, nor will I ever be.

You may think he's about to take a math test, but it's actually his 6th birthday. He never smiled once during the Chuck E. show. Or when we sang happy birthday. Or when we cut the cake.
One of my husband's earliest memories: trying to move AWAY from Donald Duck.

So in this post, I’ve including some pictures of these milestones-gone-awry. There are teary faces. There are eyes squeezed shut and mouths wide open, and you can hear the screams coming out of the photographs. These pictures make me laugh really hard and there’s something I admire about those upset faces, whose defiant expressions read, ‘nope, I don’t like it and I’m not gonna like it, no matter what you say.’ Kiddie protest, if you will; the precursor to armed struggle.

Hope these tears bring a smile to your face!

My all-time fave. Crying at the park. Love it.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

– Kahlil Gibran