A heart wrenching, sad love story:

Posted on 2015/08/04 by gmroeder

My sister Ingrid

Maybe it’s not my place to tell it. But who else can tell it? The two people involved cannot tell it and the others old enough to know the story have died and the younger ones don’t really remember the way it was. The story is about my third sister, Ingrid, who was such an easy going baby and child of whom people said: “Yes, later children are much easier.” I was six years old when Ingrid was born and had decided right then and there that I would only have “later children”. Our mother always admonished the others of us: “Look at Ingrid! She is never ever sick! And you come up with something all the time.”

We were four girls, each one born with our father’s hope to have a boy. It wasn’t meant to be. After the war he stated “I am so glad for my girls. At least they won’t be cannon fodder in the next war.” I, the oldest and the third, Ingrid, had Mother’s hazel greenish eyes and the second, Christel, and the fourth, Edith, were born with our father’s deep blue eyes. There also was a deep connection within the two pairs. That’s why I know Ingrid’s story. We were very much alike in our looks, our likes, our thinking and our love of books.

It was at my nineteenth birthday party with twenty of my canoe club friends plus our family. We were having fun, cooking pancakes on my new camping stove, flipping them over in the air, and a lot of laughter caused by some homemade wine. Late in the evening I started to “read palms”, telling fortunes and Ingrid was the last one who asked: “Can you read mine too?” Naturally I took a look and without thinking told her “For a start, you won’t have a long life. Your lifeline is very short…” She was only thirteen at the time. I shut up, shocked by my insensitivity. I could not shake a weird sense of premonition.

“Will I still marry before I die?” I knew what I saw but told her little white lies. At least I saw it that way. After all, this was just fun, I really didn’t know much about the “science” of telling fortunes. It wasn’t much later when the party broke up.

Ingrid was fifteen when my parents told me that she was seeing Benno, a boy of whom they did not approve. Benno was a year or two older than Ingrid but he was into drinking and always into fist fights with other boys. His parents could not handle him but he loved his grandma who lived next door to us. He often came to stay with her. I asked Ingrid “Why Benno, there are so many more nice boys around?” but she said “He needs me. With me he is nice and he talks and he wouldn’t drink. Nobody else understands him. I see no reason why I should not see him. We are good friends.”

Ingrid the swimmer

In the summer next year she was sent to a children’s camp as a “sport teacher’s assistant.” Ingrid was an athlete; her fortè was swimming and diving. After about a week she was sent home because of terrible pain in her right shoulder. She could not even lift her arm to comb her hair. She was told by the family doctor not to train, not to swim, rest the arm and in general not to overdue anything. The pain did not go away, it got worse and at the end of August Dad took her to a private doctor. After a thorough examination his diagnosis was a shock: youth sarcoma. He told my father to immediately take her to the Charitè in Berlin, a special famous hospital. Within three days her whole arm was amputated. More tests revealed that the cancer had already gone into the shoulder blade and collarbone. She refused to have those amputated as well. Her statement was “I am already crippled enough; no boy will ever love me and I know I have to die anyway.” Six weeks later she returned home. Aunt Irene, a former army nurse came daily to renew the bandages and make sure she had enough painkiller pills. Ingrid refused morphine. “I want to die with my mind intact. I don’t want to be a vegetable.”

Ingrid without her right arm.

Benno had given up drinking and my parents allowed him to make regular visits. In early December Ingrid’s cancer had grown out of the shoulder cavity as if a new arm was growing up to the elbow. The pain grew worse and she had to go into the local hospital. When Christmas was just a week away my parents asked her if she had a special wish. By this time I already lived in the west of Germany and kept sending items they could not get in East Germany: Chocolate, oranges, lemons; my parents would send a telegram with what Ingrid would like to have. I cried a lot during those weeks and once almost caused an accident with a bus and a car because I biked right into them. I couldn’t see for tears… Ingrid had only one Christmas wish: To come home, lie in her own bed to die. The doctors warned my parents, advised against it because it would be the hardest thing they ever did in their lives, they might not be able to stand it. They were adamant and wanted to grant Ingrid’s wish. They did.

Benno gave her a beautifully wrapped present, a long fancy night gown. It made her happy and sad at the same time. He told her he would wait for her and marry her when she got well, it didn’t matter that she only had one arm, he still had two and they would manage. My parents were upset about the fancy night gown Benno had given her, thought it inappropriate but there was nothing they could do about it. Ingrid had several good days during which she read a book I had sent her. I don’t remember the title. I had read it as well; it was something about five lives we each have of which the last one was about the afterlife. I had been impressed by its sensual spirituality. Mother wrote “Ingrid told me it gave her hope and she is not afraid of dying anymore.”

During January her pain was so bad that Aunt Irene, when injecting her pain medication mixed in a little morphine without telling Ingrid. It helped to ease her plight a bit without clouding her mind; yet sadly, the cancer had taken over her whole body.

Life – love – lost

On February 5^th her fight with this horrible cancer, the same as one of the Kennedy boys had, was over. She died and was buried dressed in the night gown Benno had given her. He was totally devastated, started drinking heavily and three weeks after her funeral hanged himself.

August 4^th is her birthday. She loved gladiolas. I always buy a bunch and think of her. There is no grave I can take them to – they are on my coffee table. She would be seventy-five this year but I cannot imagine her as an old woman. She is forever the young seventeen year old girl.

Paddling the ‘Broken Islands’

Posted on 2015/07/28 by gmroeder

I have to share a very much appreciated review of my book “We Don’t Talk About That” from my good old friend, one who has written books and many essays himself, one who has started the first kayaking club in eastern Canada and tried to teach me to ski on Grouse Mountain on the west coast; one who has started and established architecture courses and taught at the university, involved in building an opera house and did all kinds of other incredible things. One thing we did together was a weeklong kayaking trip through the ‘Broken Islands’ starting in Ucluelet, B.C. on the west coast of Vancouver Island.

I will never forget how I carried all our supplies to the boat close to the ocean where we were to take off. Gerhard had left to find a parking place for his car. Returning on my second trip with another arm full of ‘stuff’ I saw hundreds of seagulls ripping into our food bags, nuts and dried fruit was all over the place. I had to fight them off while I saved what I could. When I finally had everything piled up next to the boat the ocean had left, – the ebb tide had set in and I stood next to the kayak on the sand watching the water retreat farther and farther. Quite a helpless feeling!

I will also not forget how we had a fishing line attached to the kayak and all of a sudden the paddling seemed harder. Wow! A good sized salmon was on the line and fighting to get off. As my friend started to reel it in it took just a moment and an eagle dove down and stole our supper. We had to cut the line, we had no choice. Camping on different small islands we harvested mussels and oysters, cooked them in ocean water and sometimes shared them with other campers.

Paddling towards a huge big rock off the coast we heard the howling of sea lions. As we came close one giant stood up and apparently gave a loud order and at least a dozen of them dove into the ocean and stood like a wall in front of us, bobbing up and down in the waves but never taking their eyes off us. I was scared and wanted to paddle away but Gerhard kept his course and only just during the last moment steered away. I am sure those beasts would have capsized our kayak and we would have drowned.

It was my most exhilarating and exciting kayak adventure in the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes we had to fight huge waves but we made a terrific team as we were both experienced paddlers. Gerhard, an Austrian by birth knew the ways of the ocean while I was used to paddling on the Baltic Sea even though my kayak competitions were mostly on lakes and rivers of Germany.

Memories. And now Gerhard read my book. I was anticipating some critique from this widely read and educated man. I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart for what he had to say:

Giselle,

Finally I purchased your book. I started reading and couldn’t put it down. It isn’t just good it is very good. It is gripping, even though I have heard much of the story from you over the past twenty years. It is good to see the story did not change. It is well organized so that one knows who is who as we meet them over the years of age, old rural bliss, looming disaster, cataclysm and redemption.

You may have started a new genre with this book. It is not often we encounter a book showing fortitude and heroism amongst the despised losers of a bitter war, together with kernels of humanism remaining amongst the unspeakable brutality of vengeful victors when they encounter the only ones left: the innocent. Everyone should read it.

Gerhard S.

A Tasty Treat: Rhubarb, Apple or Plum Cake

Posted on 2015/07/21 by gmroeder

In my book “Healing with Water” I added a section ‘Simple Healthy Recipes’ (pages 45-62) but I did not give the readers any taste of ‘simple healthy deserts’! We need to change that because everybody has a somewhat sweet tooth.

Let’s bake a cake that will simply disappear from the plates and everybody is looking for more! There is no other cake as refreshing as one decked with rhubarb. And if you ask me there is not a more delicious one as with fresh prune plums when they are ripe and available. If you are short of either you can always trust some apples to help you out. It’s simple and is a low calorie treat. I learned that one should eat rhubarb only during the months without an “r” in it, best in June and July. Try the recipe and you’ll be ‘hooked’.

Here is what you need:
500 gram/2 cups of flour, optional 3-4 tablespoons of wheat bran to give it fibre
1 tablespoon baking powder
125 gram/1/3 cup of sugar, optional a tablespoon of vanilla sugar or vanilla concentrate
125 gram/1/4 pound of butter
2 eggs
¼ liter of milk (I use 2%) or more if needed to get a good dough consistency

Now let’s start:

Ready for baking

Wash, dry and cut up the rhubarb into one-inch pieces. Or, if it’s plum time, cut those into half removing the pit. If you use apples, use a juicy type and cut into 1/8 or ¼ slices depending on size (see photos).

Cut butter into pieces and place in a mixing bowl. Add the 2 eggs and the sugar and vanilla if you use it. Using a hand mixer, mix together until smooth.

Either mix or sieved flour, baking powder and bran together in a second bowl. Using a hand mixer add a heaped spoon full at a time to the liquid mix until it gets too thick, then start adding milk to keep it smooth. Should it be too stiff when you have used all the milk just add a bit more until you can lift the mixer and the dough falls off easily. It should not be runny.

Prepare a cookie sheet (about 13 x 18”) with raised sides by brushing it with either liquid butter or oil and sprinkle generously with bread crumbs. Add the dough, use a spatula repeatedly dipped into hot water to spread it out evenly.

Now place the rhubarb side by side in rows across the dough. If you have green and red pieces, you may want to use your creativity to place the red ones to make some kind of design. But this is not necessary for the cake to taste good, simply a matter of ‘beauty’!

My specialty: Plum Cake

If you are using plums, stand them up against each other at a slight angle. If you use apple slices, lay them kind of half onto each other. In any case, the dough should be covered with fruit, no matter what kind you use.

Preheat your oven to 350 F; when ready, place the cookie sheet into the oven and bake for 55 minutes. Now open the door and sprinkle sugar generously over the cake and broil for maybe 5 minutes but be careful that you don’t burn your cake, just caramelise the sugar. When it looks good and you are happy, switch off the oven and open the door just for the few inches it needs to stay open (not fully) to allow the cake to slowly cool.

I usually leave it for about 20 minutes in the quarter or half open oven before taking it out. Let it cool down some more on your counter and then cover it with clear plastic wrap. Be careful that it does not touch the cake. If your cookie sheet is very flat use tooth picks. This way the cake will retain all its moisture and will not dry out before you serve it.

I love it warm and swear it is never better than “right now”! I claim I have to “test” it and cut myself a small piece…or two…and am tempted to have a third…and I don’t mind skipping dinner as a consequence.

Rhubarb – Plum Cake

You can serve it with whipping cream or with vanilla ice cream. Either way, hot or cold it is delicious!

Did I hear you say “Yaah, a moment on your tongue, a lifetime on your hips.” What? This cake has no calories (just kidding) it’s that good. And think about it: Those ingredients spread over such a large cookie sheet, how many calories could a small normal piece have? No, I eat it ‘guilt-free’!

Bon appetite!

Hot weather and cold water

Posted on 2015/07/08 by gmroeder

Is it warm or hot enough for you when the thermometer reaches more than 30°C/86 Fahrenheit? Do you still feel energetic and go about your day with enthusiasm? Is the sweat not yet running down the side of your face, from the hairline above your forehead and, when getting into your eyes, cause a burning sensation? Can you still sleep comfortably without air conditioning? Are your ankles swollen and hurt? Do you suffer from light-headedness or do you have constant headaches? Here are some tips from my book “Healing with Water”:

One solution for many of these problems is COLD water. Simple ‘treatments’ like a cold arm bath, a cold leg rinse or wading like a stork in cold water will provide some relief. Always do just one of the following, never several of these ‘treatments’ one after the other. There should be at least 4 hours between them:

Arm bath

Fill a sink with COLD water. Bent over it and insert your arms (right one first) covering from hands to over the elbows. Keep the arms covered with water to the slow count from 1 to 30 or even 40. Lift the arms out, stroke the water off, swing them dry. This ‘treatment’ is refreshing and relieves pressure in the head and upper body. If you have access to a garden hose use it to rinse your arms all the way up to the shoulder, (right one first) hold for 15 seconds, move back down and do the left in the same way.

Water stepping

Fill half the bathtub with COLD water to knee height. Walk in there on the spot by lifting one leg after the other completely out of the water so that you have an exchange of air and water. Do this until you feel “it’s enough” or 2 – 5 minutes. Carefully get out of the bathtub, stroke the water off your feet and legs and walk on a towel until they are dry. This has a fantastic effect on the circulation, helps with the lymph flow/swollen legs, and is very refreshing. If you want to save water you can keep it in the bath tub and add ice the next time you want to use it. You could also use a large pail filled with water, sit on a chair in front of it, insert the legs and lift one after the other out and back in as if you are walking.

Instead of the bathtub you could also just let cold water run over your feet and ankles when suffering from swollen legs. You will know when it’s long enough. Again, just stroke the water off and let your feet air dry, possibly elevating them by lying down.

If you have a garden and a garden hose available, use it to run the water slowly up your legs, starting with the right foot and go as high as possible above the knee. Move the stream of water around on the leg so that it is totally covered with a ‘water mantle’. Move the stream of water down and then up the left leg. If you cannot stand, sit on a chair and do the same.

For swollen legs and a better sleep you can wrap both calves in COLD towels and cover with a thicker dry one to keep the bed from getting wet. Should you fall asleep take the wraps off when you wake up, otherwise take them off when they feel hot since they will absorb the heat from the legs, usually after about 30 minutes.

Another way to treat hot feet/swollen ankles at night is using “wet socks”. Take a pair of knee high cotton socks, soak them in ice cold water, wring out slightly so they don’t drip, pull them on, right leg first; take a pair of larger dry socks to pull over the wet ones. Take them off when you wake up or when they feel warm/hot. Your body will tell you when it’s time!

Should you be one of the lucky ones to live close to a stream, lake or the ocean, try to walk in it at least once every hot day. If the ground is covered with pebbles wear a pair of cheap plastic sandals.

It’s important to stay well hydrated. If you normally drink about one and a half litres of liquid go ahead and almost double it. You lose a lot of moisture through perspiration. You may not even be aware of it since it evaporates into the hot air. The more evaporates, the more likely your skin will dry out and form a lot of wrinkles…

I wish you a good and enjoyable summer, stay coooool…..it’s better for your heart!

“In My Own Words” #memoirs #books #writers

Posted on 2015/06/28 by gmroeder

A special event to chronicle four memorable memoirs at the West Vancouver Library

“We are always excited to celebrate literary talent” said Information Services Department Head, Pat Cumming. “For this panel we gathered an entertaining range of personalities, adventures and stories. Having the always enigmatic Eric R. Brown (author of the Edgar nominated novel ‘Almost Criminal’) on hand to moderate the panel is the icing on the cake. It’s going to be a great night.”

And ‘in my own words’, it was, so much so that I was not able to sleep the following night. There was so much to process, so much to digest and so much to think about. It was exciting to meet the other writers, first for me was Judy McFarlane, a calm and quiet pleasant woman, then I was startled by the gorgeous long-legged creature Cea Sunrise Person and, luckily, meeting former Judge David Roberts brought me back to earth. The room slowly filled up, the four of us were seated facing the audience and after Eric’s welcome address and the introduction he explained the program of the evening. Each writer had to read a 5-6 minute piece of their book after which he would ask the reader questions relating to the memoir for 15 minutes. At the end of the over an hour long program there would be time for questions and answers, interacting with the audience.

I was appointed the first to read because “your memoir goes back the longest time”. From my book “We Don’t Talk About That” I had chosen the story about the miller who had no flour but my family was hungry and I decided I should go and ask him anyway. He must have felt sorry for me because he told me to crawl under the millstones and sweep up the powdery dust. He told me that one has to eat 400 pounds of dust anyway before one dies and this stuff would still be good with the bran in it to cook soup or bake bread. Then he asked me if I was hungry. Hungry? What a question! I was always hungry. He invited me into his house to have a sandwich. I was apprehensive because if my experiences with the Russians during the invasion but he seemed so nice I wanted to trust him. While he busied himself he asked me to tell him about me. I couldn’t. He kept prodding and all of a sudden it all came tumbling out of me, it was as if some flood gates had opened. I told him about the Russian invasion, what they did, how we lost our home, the walk to nowhere next to the Russian war machinery towards Berlin, the diphtheria and the sleep in the strawberry patch, the train and the murder of the young woman and her daughter, what the murderer did to my mother and how the next morning she pushed us out of the moving train and more of the cruelties to which we were subjected. The miller had one hand on the bread, a knife in the other, stared at me and just said: “Oh my God…”

The questions from Eric, who apparently had read all the books, were about writing a memoir like this, how I remembered, how we dealt with and survived the horrors of rape and murder and starvation and how years later my life took a different turn.

The next one to read was Cea Sunrise Person, the youngest of us. Cea was born into an unusual family consisting of grandparents, aunts and uncles, grew up in the wilderness and in teepees living from the land and nature during the so-called counter culture. I assume it is safe to call it the hippie time with its sexual freedom, nudity and drugs. For me a look at a totally new way of life I had never been able to comprehend. I also had never met anyone who was involved in it. She mentioned several times that even as a child “I always felt I did not fit into it”. In my mind remains the question how she, as a very young child, would know that and how and when or at what age was she able to compare her life with another? Reading several chapters of her book “North of Normal” online I was intrigued by her memoir and it was mainly “SHE” and her story that had kept me awake that night. To really understand I guess I’ll have to read her book. As a writer of a story I never told for seventy years I know it must have taken guts for her to tell all and open herself up to judgement. She says “it took me seven years…” Yes, Cea, I believe it. She read a story from her book about being invited to a birthday party, had no idea that she needed a gift and decided to give away her most beloved item, she also had no dress and on arrival naturally felt totally out of place. By chance she happened into the room of the birthday girl, saw a dream dress on the bed, took off her t-shirt and tried it on. It was too small but the picture she saw in the mirror took her breath away….It was sad how the story ended. She went home in her old outfit and took her unappreciated ‘gift’ with her. For a child of about five (?) it must have been heartbreaking. But let me tell you, Cea went on to become a model at thirteen, lived in New York, Los Angeles and Paris, she modelled in Munich and even then “I felt like a freak, never fit in.” Now she is married, the mother of three and people who read her memoir wonder “how were you ever able to become so normal?”

David Roberts, a former judge and attorney wrote “Letters to His Children from an Uncommon Attorney”. Cea was a very hard act to follow but within minutes David had the attention of the audience. He had picked a humorous story to read and there was not a person in the room who did not join in the laughter! Let me try to somehow piece it together. For some reason David had to go to a liqueur store and as he entered he glimpsed a man standing not too far from the entrance holding out a cup. He briefly thought of the people needing to beg and avoided looking at him. When he came back out with a huge bag with bottles in his arms he pushed the door with his backside and then dropped the change of three quarters he had received, into the man’s cup. He was surprised and shocked when he heard a splash and now, glancing at the man, was told “My goodness, I am just holding my coffee and waiting for my wife…” The voice sounded familiar and the man was also known to him: Another judge! The 15 minute interview by Eric following the laughter was surely a release of tension in the room caused by the previous readers. It revealed that David had four children, three boys and a daughter. He often told them stories from his life and it was the daughter who had told him “to write it all down before you die.” The result is this at times humorous and at times harrowing memoir of a father, a husband and an attorney.

Last, but not least, it was former lawyer Judy MacFarlane’s turn to read from her book “Writing with Grace”. One could be under the impression she had written guidelines to write with ‘grace’ and be surprised to learn that it was a twenty-four year old girl with Downs Syndrome named Grace Chen who had come to seek help with a poem. The mother of this girl was in the audience and was introduced. It was heart wrenching when Judy read about Grace telling Judy “My real truth is too scary, I like to hide my real truth” when talking about her poem and Judy is taken in by the earnest desire of this girl to become “a famous writer”. When Grace was born the grandfather had told her parents ‘put her away and forget about her’. Judy traveled with Grace when she gave her own book to this grandfather. Judy read a piece about Grace’s memories about the Titanic, what happened, her fears, a helicopter coming to save the people.

The book Judy wrote about her involvement with Grace is an account of her own and others prejudices and the often dark history of Downs Syndrome. The book is called inspirational, exceptional and I am sure of great interest to all people having to deal with this disease that is no disease and not a birth defect but, according to the Canadian Down Syndrome Society ‘a naturally occurring chromosomal arrangement that has always been part of the human condition’. I could tell by Judy’s tone of voice that the story of Grace is still deeply troubling her and close to her heart.

Check out the books on Google by name or title. I think reading any one of them will enrich your life. The evening when all of us writers came together will long stay with me and I am extending a big THANK YOU to the West Vancouver Library to making it possible.

Upcoming Special Event

Posted on 2015/06/18 by gmroeder

I am proud to be included in this event at the West Vancouver Memorial Library

For immediate release
In My Own Words to chronicle four memorable memoirs at Memorial Library
Thursday, June 11, 2015, West Vancouver, B.C. – One grew up off the grid in the wilds of BC. Another helped a woman with Down’s syndrome write her Cinderella story. One spent her formative years in East Germany during the Second World War. Another wrote lovely letters to his children about his experiences as a father and lawyer. Join us for these and other stories at 7 p.m. on Wednesday, June 24 at In My Own Words, a memoir panel featuring four eclectic and fascinating local writers, moderated by celebrated author E.R. Brown.
“We’re always excited to celebrate literary talent,” says Information Services Department Head Pat Cumming. “For this panel, we gathered an entertaining range of personalities, adventures and stories. Having the always enigmatic E.R. Brown on hand to moderate the panel is the icing on the cake. It’s going to be a great night.”
– In North of Normal, Cea Sunrise Person recounts the story of her wilderness childhood, her unusual family and how she survived both.
– David Roberts wrote Letters to His Children from an Uncommon Attorney after his daughter convinced him to write his stories down “before he dies.” The result is this at times humorous, at others harrowing, memoir of a father, husband and attorney.
– Writing with Grace, by Judy MacFarlane, explores the challenges and perseverance of an aspiring writer with Down’s syndrome as she tries to fulfill her dream of writing a book.
– In We don’t Talk About That, Giselle Roeder tells the often hushed story of growing up in Second World War Pomerania and her post-War move to East Germany.
– Moderator E.R. Brown is the author of the Edgar-nominated Novel Almost Criminal.
All of the authors participating in the panel are available ahead of time for interviews and photos. Please contact David Carson at the phone number or email address below to make arrangements.
More information about the Memoir Panel is available on our website.
-30-
Media Contact David Carson, Communications and Event Coordinator 604.925.7407 dcarson@westvanlibrary.ca

“A letter to Cindy:” #Dog #Poodle #Grief

Posted on 2015/06/08 by gmroeder

For a long time you have been on my mind so I just have to write about my thoughts and maybe even feel a little closer. I won’t ask you the typical question: “How are you” because I know that you cannot answer it. But sharing my memories is another cup o’tea. Memories are the only way to connect and not let somebody you loved so much, die. I will not go into believes about an “after-live” and the hope to see everybody again: My granny, my parents, my sister Ingrid who had to die so young and several of my dearest friends. But I do have to admit: I have had moments when an almost wild joy flooded my veins that it might just be possible.

I will never forget how much you loved me. You were always there for me. I still wonder how you knew when I needed you most – but you always did. My tears were flowing copiously when I read the book about the two brothers sailing, their boat had keeled over and one held onto the hand of the other and finally the hand slipped away and only the younger one survived, sitting on top of the boat. The elder boy was the darling of his mother, she blamed the young lad and never forgave him, the marriage broke up, the boy needed counselling, – it was heartbreaking.

Cindy, my dear little Cindy, you sat close to my legs, kept cuddling closer and then you put your little head on my knees and when I did not stop crying you pushed it up between me and my book, looked at me and stopped me from reading. Another day, I came home from work, totally exhausted, made it up the stairs and lay down on the blue Tunisian carpet in the fetal position to ease my back. You lay down next to me and looked right into my eyes. When I turned around to ease my other side, you walked around me and again, lay down and looked at me. We did not need words.

Or all those mornings, when I would sit at my office desk, dealt with letters that my secretary had placed there, phone calls that came through, – and you were close to me, next to the radiator, sleeping or maybe pretending to sleep. Never failing, at 10.30 you put one of your little paws on my knee. I pretended not to notice, until after a while you put a second paw there, I still did not notice and then, with a deep sigh, you pushed your little head through under my arm and looked straight into my face. “It’s time to stop, – let’s go out for a bit.” This game became a daily occurrence and I still miss it.

Another thing I relive in my head seeing you sitting in my car at the steering wheel, your eyes fixed on the door into the bank where I had gone. One day there were about 10 people around the car and I almost had a heart attack seeing them all looking into it. I rushed across the street, expecting something terrible. But as soon as you saw me you jumped to your place on the old blanket on the back seat and assumed an air of innocence. You were not allowed in the front seats! I ask the people why they were standing there and they exclaimed:

“It was so damned cute seeing that little doggie with the paws on the steering wheel! But she never even looked at us, no matter what we did. Her eyes were fixed on that door across the street.”

Ohh yaah, Cindy, you were quite a character. When I came back from my annual trip to Europe after three weeks and my family was happy to see me, hugging me and I was looking at you, talking to you, and you would walk away several steps, sit down and put your nose into the air, not looking at me. I admit, the first time this happened I was really hurt. But then, after a few hours, when the excitement of the family had died down, you came to me and showed me sooo much love, you couldn’t even help yourself, wiggling, cuddling, making little noises- oh my God, it brought tears to my eyes and I felt bad to have left you for so long. I miss you to this day.

I was awful when I was called to the vet. My seven year old boy, Eric sat there crying, holding you on his lap. You lifted your head just a bit, looked at me, giving a big sigh to say: “I am so very sorry.” Then the doc came, carefully took you from Eric. You looked at me with very sad eyes and after not even another minute doc came back out and said: “She is gone. Do you want to take her body or should we look after it?”

Cindy, I cried for six weeks. You were my best friend. The best I ever had. You gave me so much love, unconditional love, during a time when my life fell apart. Without you – I honestly don’t know how I would have managed.

One thing I learned: “TAKE MORE TIME” for what is most important…
Just sitting there.
With big brown eyes you looked at me
to tell me – you are mine.
And I – pretend not seeing you,
because
there was no time.

Because there was no time?

You loved the car. You want to come?
One step – you stopped, then ran,
you couldn’t resist to be with me;
One nod was all – oh man!

When I lay down – you did that too,
you were so close to me.
Oh little dog, where are you now –
I want you here, you see?

I want you here. Just sitting there.
I’ll tell you, you are mine.
I’ll love you unconditionally
as you did all the time.

It is too late..

The car hit hard,
your eyes, they closed forever.
I’ll never see your wagging tail
invite for play me, clever.

You were all mine..

It will be quiet in my house,
no welcome bark nor whine –
Oh Cindy, why, oh Cindy why
did I not take more time.

Did I not take more time…

Learning to Kayak #Kayaking #EastGermany

Posted on 2015/06/01 by gmroeder

Getting that balance right

It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me: Afred, a young man in charge of the kayak racing team, came to my office to get the permission stamps for the team to go to a regatta taking place in a different city. As I asked him questions he invited me to come to a training session and see if I would like to join the club. Well, I said ‘yes’ right away and his girlfriend Christa showed me how to get in and out of a kayak. Balancing wasn’t easy as I was trying to sit in that narrow nut shell. When I mastered it without tipping over I was in love, – in love with the novelty of it and in love with the water. Christa also let me try out the KII. I became obsessed with kayaking, I was determined to be in the top group and secretly even promised myself to become better than all the other girls. And, you know what?

It was only a year later that I won the District Championships in the KI over 500 and over 3.000 meters. Mind you, after the 3.000 meter race I fell out of the kayak as soon as I crossed the finishing line. Christa, my trainer and also my KII partner was disappointed because up to now she had won all the races. But we won the 500 and the 3000 meters in the KII, it made up for it.

We became very close friends. Even now, more than sixty years later we are still close but mostly in telephone contact since we live on different continents. She saved nearly forty five years of the letters I wrote to her from Canada after my emigration. She gave them to me last time I saw her. To read them again was quite a revelation for me. In my memoir “We Don’t Talk About That” you’ll enjoy reading about my kayaking and the great love I had for my own paddle boat “Max”. The best years within my first 30 years I cover in that book have to do with the water, my boat and my desolation in leaving it behind when I had to escape from East to West Germany. As it happened, my racing abilities helped me to find a job in West Germany. I am sad to say that I never reached the top groups again. I just had to work too many hours and did not have as much time for the necessary training.

You might find it interesting that in East Germany every sport was very highly promoted and financially supported, it hardly cost anything for either memberships or competitions,– but in West Germany you were on your own. And as I made very little money I could not really afford to participate anymore either. When I was 5^th once at a competition I dropped out. I thought it was better if people remembered me and said “oh, she was good” rather than “yaaah, she got too old and had to drop out”!

Start ’em early!

Did you know they now have real racing kayaks for kiddies? And train them very early? Just like Austrian kids start to ski as soon as they can walk, at the Baltic Sea where I lived the kids can start at two or three years old getting into a kayak. Amazing! Start to train early for future Olympics? Yes, the children are our future in more ways than one. Kayaking is healthy, you breath fresh air, develop muscles but mainly around the upper body. So training included running, all-body exercises and during the winters we went to gymnastics and played competitive table tennis. One more thing: The comradery. I give it ten points out of ten. It’s wonderful and becomes a big part of your life. I just LOVED it.

Hope You Are Not Superstitious #Ghosts

Posted on 2015/05/25 by gmroeder

My new home

Waiting in front of the elevator door I heard people talking a floor below in the parking garage. The elevator door was being held open and made rattling noises as it tried to close itself. When it finally came up to the lobby I entered and said “Hi” to the friendly looking lady already on board.

“Hi, Miss”, she smiled, “my name is Marge and I am the caretaker of this building. Are you visiting?”

”No. I bought Mr. Bailey’s suite. I want to take some measurements before I move in.”

”Oh! Congratulations! It’s a nice place. I hope you aren’t superstitious. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

With that she exited on the fourth floor. Apprehension built within me as I continued up to the eighth floor. I had just come from the lawyer who had handed me my keys. MY DOOR! While I was still trying to fit the right key into the lock the door beside me was opened rather abruptly. It made me jump. A tiny, pale white haired lady peaked around the corner and stared at me:

“Oh,” she said, “I thought someone was breaking in. Are you the new owner?”

”Yes”, I replied. She looked at me with her steel blue eyes and exclaimed:

“Congratulations! You bought a beautiful place. I just hope you are not superstitious.” She was about to withdraw when I stopped her: “Wait a minute, why did you say that? You are not the first one to make that comment. What is this about?”

Coming a step closer she confided in a low voice: “Two women died in there, mother and daughter, first the mother, then a year later the daughter, in the master bed room in the same bed, on the same day, at the same hour.”

She explained that the widower, a man of over ninety, had never used the room again and had slept in the back bed room. A grandniece was his only family now. For several years after moving into a care home he did not want to sell the apartment which held so many memories for him. His grandniece brought him to visit it occasionally. When he was ninety-four and not well she persuaded him to let it go.

So that was it! I had met the grandniece when she sold all the furnishings. Her aunt had been a painter. The walls had been covered with her work. All the paintings were sold except for one, a rather large one of oriental lilies in soft pink, green and lilac tones. I did not think it valuable enough to pay the price she was asking but told her to just leave it so something of her aunt’s beauty loving soul would remain.

View from the balcony

With mixed feelings I entered the apartment. I walked up the long hallway towards the kitchen, stood a moment in front of the sink and enjoyed the view out of the west facing window. I turned and went into the living room. My heart soared! The room was bathed in sun light. It was large, very bright and absolutely gorgeous. The front wall was glass from floor to ceiling. To the left was an oversized sliding glass door to the large balcony. I stepped out and felt as if I was in a dream. The ocean shimmered and glistened, a light breeze curled the silvery water slapping against the rocks of the Seawall. Tug boats, sail boats, fishing vessels and the cries of many seagulls enchanted me. The outline of Vancouver Island was barely visible.

To the west a lighthouse at the end of the mountain range on a high rock jutting out to sea looked solid, trustworthy and eternal. It blinked at me. At least I thought so… I inhaled the salty sea air deeply and understood why the old gentleman could not let go of this place after he lost both the women he loved.

“No”, I said aloud, “I am not superstitious.” I thought it kind of him to let them die at home and not in the hospital. The daughter, sick already when the mother died, might have cried herself to death on the first anniversary of her mother’s passing. I wandered into the front bedroom, the room in which they had both died. There were the lilies, the painting that did not sell. I looked at it, talked to it, promised to love this place just as they did. The flowers seemed to grow towards me, reach out to me. Yes, I thought, I can handle this, it is alright. I’ll respect their spirits.

It was fall. I had lived in the apartment for more than a year. One dark evening, I decided to bake a cake. Standing in front of the sink I was mixing the dough with a hand mixer when I heard the happy laughter of two women behind me in the hallway. A cold chill ran up my spine. I just knew I was not alone. I slowed the mixer and turned it off. Ever so carefully I turned around and willed myself to walk down the hall to check the entrance door. The dead bolt was in place, the safety chain was on. Nobody could have come in. I opened the closet doors when it dawned on me: “It must be them.” So I started talking to them, soothingly, and hearing my own voice helped me to calm down. I felt terribly alone, yet not alone. On unsteady feet I went back to the kitchen and continued mixing. After all the ingredients were added I filled the cake form and put it in the oven.

There! There it was again, this time close to my kitchen entrance. Now it was more like a giggle, a secretive chuckle and I heard quick running feet right behind me. I hunched my back and felt my hair stand up, I wanted to scream. Heavens, I was a grown woman. “Come on, Giselle, be realistic! Your mind is playing tricks. You are overtired.” Again, I willed myself not to lose control of my actions. Slowly I turned and tip-toed towards the living room where they had gone. I talked to them again before I switched the light on. There was nothing, absolutely nothing. But the room seemed grey, strangely quiet and empty. The painting with the lilies now in the living room appeared darker than usual. The clock on the book shelf showed nine thirty. My heart was racing. My skin had goose bumps, my scalp prickled.

An hour later when the cake was done I went to bed in the room in which they had died all those years ago. I had a water bed and I was happy it had a box under it tightly hugging the floor. Did you think I felt safer because nobody could hide under the bed? You betcha!

When I left my apartment to go to work in the morning, my neighbor with the steel blue eyes yanked open her door:

“Giselle, have you heard? Mr. Bailey died last night around nine thirty.”

I felt faint. “Oh my God”, I whispered more to myself than to Mrs. White. She stared at me “Why are you so shocked? You didn’t even know him!”

It seemed impossible but she turned even paler than she was when I told her about my experience the night before, exactly at the time he died. She whispered: “I told you. I warned you. But you thought you were not superstitious. You even told me you could handle it. You see? I always believed there is more between heaven and earth than meets the eye.”

They never visited me again. I lived peacefully and happily in the apartment where they died for nearly twenty-five years. The painting with the lilies has been with me ever since. I had tried to sell it, but it never sold. I am looking at it while writing this…

“Too Bad It’s Canada” #Vancouver #Travel #Cruising #Alaska

Posted on 2015/05/18 by gmroeder

Leaving Vancouver bound for Alaska

One of the most beautiful cities in the world is Vancouver in British Columbia, Canada. It offers everything: Mild winters but high enough mountains for the ski aficionado and situated only about 100 miles from the town of Whistler, the world renowned ski resort. If you like water sports you can hardly ask for a more beautiful setting than Vancouver at the blue Pacific Ocean for any type of boating, sailing, paddling, windsurfing, motor boating, fishing and even swimming for many months of the year. You like ships or bigger boats better? Vancouver has one of the most gorgeous inner harbours and it hosts many cruise ships during the summer months since it is the gateway to the Inside Passage to Alaska. I can hardly imagine what Captain Cook or Captain Vancouver must have thought or felt when they happened upon this hidden gem in the late 18^th century. All along the coastline were old growth forests, wildlife was plentiful and it surely didn’t take long for settlements to appear after it was discovered.

Fishing and saw mills and later the arrival of the railway brought hundreds of new settlers. Many warehouses were built. The story of “Gassy Jack” is interesting, (use your imagination why “gassy”) a Yorkshire man who noticed that there was no saloon available for the many men. He was smart enough to offer to start one. With eager help from all the thirsty men it was built and finished within a few days (some say overnight) and soon women appeared to add to the fun. The area, originally known as Granville was later renamed after “Gassy Jack” and became “Gastown”. Nowhere could you find more drinking establishments than right here. Over the years and as the city of Vancouver grew this area went into decline and the warehouses were falling into disrepair. Squatters, hippies and many artists had taken over. The area with its architecturally interesting old buildings was rescued in the 1970s when Gastown was declared the most historic part of Vancouver. Tourists now flock to Gastown because of its quaint artsy flavour and it surely is one of the most beautiful parts of Vancouver. It has many wonderful and diverse restaurants and “Gassy Jack’s” statue is a popular photo stop.

Glacier calving

River of ice

Here you will also find the beautiful new cruise ship harbour. An unforgettable sight is the castoff of cruise ships and their sailing towards the Lions Gate Bridge, along the rich and very beautiful coastline of West Vancouver, the most expensive real estate and retirement place in Canada. You sail through a dreamland as the ship finds its way through the Salish Sea (formerly Strait of Georgia) with majestic snow cupped mountains turning red with the sunset. Unbelievably lovely views greet you while passing Haida Gwaii, a collection of islands at the most westerly point on the North Coast of British Columbia. Most people are more familiar with these islands originally known as the Queen Charlotte Islands.

I was asked once if I knew how God created certain areas on planet Earth. “Tell me”, I replied and this is how it was explained: The different tribes had to line up and when it was their turn they were asked to give their reasons for what kind of land and how much they wanted. Most of them got what they asked for within reason. The Bavarians where very shy and stayed behind until there was hardly any land left when God noticed them. “You get a beautiful region” God told them, “because you are not pushy and you waited. I kept the best for last” and therefore Bavaria and adjoining Switzerland is so beautiful that many people travel there just to see the landscapes and experience the joyful and friendly people who live there. If you ask me I must say that the British Columbia coastline and a sailing experience from Vancouver to Alaska is an incredible feast for the eyes. God must have had more surprises to hand out because this area is wider, grander and totally unforgettable. Yes, somewhat different because of the Pacific Ocean and it has nothing of the dollhouse prettiness you find in Bavaria or Switzerland. Once,

Inside Passage

coming back from Alaska I was sitting at a large table indoors with a group of about eight or ten Americans. Everybody had admired the glaciers and the calving when large sections of ice break off and crash into the sea. They couldn’t believe the mighty ice rivers and the ice floats with some seals or seabirds on them and as we were floating on the still waters along the shores of the Queen Charlotte Islands one of the gentlemen said, while dreamily watching the ever increasing loveliness of the surroundings:

”I can’t believe how beautiful this all is. Too bad it’s Canada.”

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

A special event to chronicle four memorable memoirs at the West Vancouver Library

Share this:

I am proud to be included in this event at the West Vancouver Memorial Library

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: