Winnie the Witch

by Jeanette Kahwaji

My Aunt Winnie was a riot and a witch (so she thought, she was born October 30th 19??.)  I would never tell her age, she may come back to haunt me. She and my Uncle Alvin, God bless him I don't know how he did it, lived in the house behind us in Chicago. Winnie always had a scary story to tell us kids and she loved every minute of it as we stood there fixated on her every word, eyes wide open, there was always a "got ya!" moment that sent us running and screaming and left her laughing hysterically. 

Aunt Winnie

It was a warm summer evening and our parents had gone out, my sister and cousin were watching me and my siblings. Aunt Winnie came over and told us about the "Witching Hour." If I remember correctly it was around 9 or 10 p.m.; the little garden fairies were going to visit her gardens and she wanted us to see them. We were so excited and anxious we watched the clock counting every minute waiting for 9 o'clock to arrive so we could tip toe over to Aunt Winnie's yard and wait and watch for the garden fairies.

My brother, me (2nd from left),
my two sisters (middle and right),
and our cousins in the backyard.

Well, finally the time had come and my sisters, brother, cousin and I all huddled together squeamishly, anxiously, nervously laughing. We hung onto one another as we headed out across our backyard to Aunt Winnie's yard. There she stood on the back porch waiting with that serious look on her face, ready for the kill. She made sure we all stood in a very specific area of the yard in the grass then the wait began. She told us about the fairies and how at witching hour they will come out of the flowers and dance around the garden but we had to stand very still and quiet. We watched her, listening, not wanting to scare the fairies off as she counted down the minutes. It was dark and quiet, we were in a trance, waiting, waiting, waiting. Just then, she turned on the sprinklers in the grass! We jumped and screamed and ran as she stood on the porch uncontrollably laughing. Damn, she got us again!

 

We ran home soaking wet and had a good laugh ourselves. It made our night and has given us memories to talk about with each other and our children.

Aunt Winnie was definitely my favorite - our favorite - Aunt.

Uncle Alvin and my dad, Chris Shaw

Senior Share Project in Vital! Magazine!

Eileen and I would like to thank Maureen Kuzman and everyone at Vital! Magazine for including us in their March issue!

Vital! provides both a print and online version of their monthly magazine. It's a specialty publication for active older adults. Each month, Vital! features content on health, finance, fitness, technology, travel, leisure and more.

Look to Vital! to keep you healthy, wealthy and wise with their local articles of interest, local event information and local advertisers.

Best of all, just like Senior Share Project, Vital! Magazine is FREE! Look for the print edition at Senior Centers in New Castle County, Delaware, the Triad area of North Carolina, and the Phoenix, Arizona Metro areas. You can also subscribe to get this exciting new publication mailed directly to your home or online mailbox, free! Click here to subscribe to Vital! Magazine for you or someone you love.

Look for us in the March issue (available March 20, 2011), on page 13, thanks again for reading, and send in those stories!!

Heidi and Eileen, editors, Senior Share Project

Do you have any questions or comments about Senior Share Project?

Click on "Comments" below, and let us know!

Mom and Dad

by Nancy Hallock

Looking back, I realize how God-like my mother was.  She planted seeds.  No, not so much in a garden, although her baby iris flowers were stunning, but in people.

She would plant a seed in our Dad's brain.  It would nurture and grow, and after awhile, it would give birth to an idea.  HIS idea!

Then a doorway would be moved to a more sensible (for her) location.  A wall would come down and a dining room would be created.  A half-door would be built to protect that precious little baby, who had come ten years after the rest.

The story about that little seed is for another time. 

Dad was born in Fargo, North Dakota, in 1913, of Norwegian parents.  He didn't speak much English before he went to school, which probably was common in that part of the country, in those days.  He made up for it by becoming a star scholar, who could recite rules regarding English usage until the day he died at age 92. 

Ragnar (his friends called him "Rags"), had five younger sisters, so there was always a full house.  However, there always was room for "boarders," including two "old maid" school teachers, who were sisters.  They stayed for many years.

A few years ago, we saw an article in a local home and garden type of magazine from the Fargo area.  It had an article about an old house that was the original farm house on that side of town.  It would have been in the country at the time it was built.

Imagine our surprise, when we realized it was nothing of the sort!  It was the house that Dad had helped his father build when Dad was fifteen years old.   Our grandfather's flower gardens were well known at the time, and there are lovely pictures of the house and gardens from when Dad's family lived there.  We also have pictures of the house being built.  It looks different now.  Some creative and beautiful changes have been made, and two of our family members have been able to visit and take pictures.

The moral here (if there is one), is that the "official" records are not always correct, and are sometimes created by repeated media misperceptions - some things never change.

What is important is to listen, listen, listen to those stories.  Grandpa has already told you this ten times?  Listen again.  You might hear something new in the telling.  As the present becomes less important, the past becomes more vivid.  Listen!

Some stories you just can't tell.

by Heidi Horchler
Yesterday I was in the grocery store and a man came buzzing down my aisle in one of the store-provided electric scooter carts. He had a friendly face and I smiled a greeting at him. The cap he wore had insignia showing that he had served in the military. As he passed me and stopped to look at the greeting cards, I noticed the back of the cap read "WORLD WAR II."

Ever since we started this blog, I've been trying to break the ice with Seniors I meet, to see if they'd be interested in sharing a little slice of their lives with us.

"I see you're a veteran," I said.

"Oh, yeah," he replied, "WWII."

He told me he was 93 years old.

I said I'd bet he'd have a lot of stories to tell. 

He paused and nodded, "We were there on Omaha beach, not D-Day, but a couple days after. We couldn't be there on that day because we were a tank unit and needed more time to get on land."

"Wow," was all I could say. I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone who'd experienced that battle firsthand. 

"I lost a lot of good friends that day," he continued, "that's why I wear this hat," and he reached up, touching the brim of his cap.

At this, he started to get choked up. His eyes watered for a second, then he composed himself.

67 years ago, he lost friends in one of the most intense battles in our nation's history. And by the look on his face; remembers it like it was yesterday.

I wish I could have talked to him more, gotten his name, asked him about his kids or his wife or where he grew up. But I didn't have the heart.

At that moment, he wasn't in a grocery store, in a 93-year-old body, confined to an electric scooter. He wasn't looking at greeting cards and talking to a young lady in the magazine aisle.

He was on Omaha beach with his buddies. 

Thanks, Dad

by Heidi Horchler

My dad, 1976

Since Eileen and I started this blog, I've been bugging my parents to send me stories. My mom's parents were from Norwegian, Irish and German descent, and Dad comes from a very colorful and interesting Italian American family. My ancestors from both sides came from the Old Country, mostly in the 1800s and settled in the Midwest. My mom's side in Minnesota and North Dakota, and my Dad's side to Chicago. I know that one of my mother's grandmothers came here as an indentured servant (what must that have been like!) and one of my father's grandfathers came the long way - by steam ship,  around Cape Horn, South America, and all the way up to San Francisco. He was there for the great Earthquake of 1906, and later made his way across country by working on the railroad, baking bread for the workers. Such stories!


Last week, while talking to my dad, he mentioned that he had been working on something for the site. I was pretty excited, and couldn't wait to see what he came up with. When he sent it to me, I had to laugh. When asked to tell about stories from the old days, and a memory of his family, for a website by, for and about Senior Citizens, my dad chose to write about his kids; me and my brother John:


by Art Giovannoni

This is for my daughter, Heidi. I am a retired tool & die maker, and I live with my wife of 27 years in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Heidi has been after me to write an article for her latest blog. I want to relate to her readers a little bit of her and her brother’s earlier years.

A totally awesome picture of us, 1981

  I became a father in August of 1967. My eldest, John, is a son to be proud of. He is a musician, teacher, and partner in a thriving music store in northern Ilinois. Oh, but when he was a teen, the drums, the DRUMS! Then he put himself through college, earning a degree in music, wow! Yes, as you can surmise, I’m a proud father. He also loves the outdoors. We spent every summer vacation camping and fishing. Once he even caught a large-mouth bass that I had lost. I know this because my hook was still in the fish’s mouth!

 In 1969 on another August day, God saw fit to bless my former wife and I with a BEAUTIFUL child. Heidi. A name, by the way, I chose. She was always, and still is, full of energy! She has always loved the outdoors; camping, fishing and since her marriage, hunting. She has a passion for acting, writing and horses. She is an excellent cook, no - chef and a fine mother of two great boys. (This from a proud grandfather)

Well, Heidi, I hope this qualifies for your blog.

Love ya, Pook. Dad

Thanks, Dad

Childhood Summers in Northern Michigan

by Holly Klapper

The constant beckoning of the outdoors was almost too much to take when you had chores to do inside.  Just the second our chores were given mother’s approval out the screen door we ran; with a loud slam.  Usually this was followed by a faintly heard reprimand from mother.  We were already halfway across the yard.  There were so many things to explore in the outdoors.  There were streams to cool your hot feet in, perfect trees for making  rope swings, beautiful Mayflowers and sometimes mushrooms or wild berries to proudly take back to mom.

The air was always filled with the smell of fresh cut grass in the summer.  My favorite times were when the Aunts and their children came over.  We had long picnic tables in the yard and would help our moms shuck bushel after bushel of corn.  It was canning time.  After a few complaints they would usually let us stray off and play hide and seek or kick the can.  Red Rover was another favorite.  We also enjoyed taking one of Grandmother’s strong old quilts and holding the edges carefully, while tossing one of the smaller children in the air.  Oh the giggles caused by that!   A good wheelbarrow could keep us entertained for a good while, taking turns pushing each other.

On special occasions we could persuade mom to take us to the lake for a swim.  I always liked to go in slowly, as it was very cold.  The tiny fish would come and nibble on your toes.  My, how that tickled.  We would have contests walking on our hands and doing flips in the water.  My favorite lake had a few logs floating in the water for our amusement.  We, of course, had to see who could stay on the longest.  Not an easy feat.  The most fun of all for me was when we got to stay until it was dark and make a fire.  Usually the marshmallows were brought out.  The search for the perfect stick could last 20 minutes!  Everything was a competition.

A couple times in the summer we would have company over and dad would make homemade ice cream in the yard.  This was no small endeavor.  I don’t know for sure how long it truly took him.  But, to a child waiting for ice cream, it seemed like five hours.   There were wild strawberry patches and rhubarb grew wild too.  But, the best picking was out of my dad and Grandpa’s garden.  They  grew grapes, raspberries and blackberries.  Summers always meant sticky fingers and red stained t-shirts.  We were truly blessed.