Lessons From Life

The crumbs and how we love them

2008-07-06T17:12:00.000-07:00

I love my crumbs.
It's a stage of life that I understand on an intellectual level. When your kids go off to college and beyond, you get the crumbs but boy do we love the crumbs. Their absence doesn't mean they love me any less. They have lives of their own. (She says over and over again to convince herself. :-))

But when they are here, like they were this weekend, we thoroughly enjoy it. We're old enough to tell stories and laugh -- about ourselves, our family and just about anything else we can think of.

What would anyone write in their family history? The stories that we love to tell time after time and seem to have a life of their own.

A new leaf

2008-07-05T07:51:00.000-07:00

An entry a day. That's my new leaf.

Having written so infrequently this year that I can't even call it a sporadic, I am turning over this new leaf.

It has been an incredible six months since I last wrote, give or take a few weeks. My daughter was married and I learned a lot about life from the experience, particularly about the importance of sharing the joy in life. Not only will my telling this story be important for savoring and remembering Maggie's wedding, I think it is an example of how personal history is important to record, keep and share.

It was overwhelming to me how kind and generous those were who chose and were able to be with us for this event. Maggie and Mike's wedding was in Mike's hometown, not ours. Our family and friends had to travel at least 450 miles to be with us in a time of gas prices out of control.

But as one friend said, "We attend funerals. We should also attend the simchas." Simcha is the yiddish word for celebration or happy event. And, incidentally, the rabbi who married our daughter is called Simcha.

In our lives we have had simchas and we have had sadness, like anyone has. Both are opportunities for learning and of course feeling many emotions.

So in order to jumpstart this blog, I'll write about the wedding.

I hope you discover it and stick around, although until I am in the swing of things I can't expect folks to be regulars. I mean how regular have I been in the last few months? Not.

P.S. Did I mention Mazel Tov?

OK, I've gotten over it

2008-01-28T08:39:00.001-08:00

I just noticed that the last post that I've made was in anticipation of the Green Bay Packers expected victory over the New York Giants and then expected participation in the Super Bowl.

Now this is a topic for a book about the Green Bay Packers that I'd love to do. And something that illustrates the power of personal history...

I'd like to write fan stories about the Packers. I'd like people to send me their stories of what it means to be a Packers fan.

Knowing the passion that people feel for the Packers, I'd suspect the stories would be intense and at the risk of duplicating my words, passionate.

For all of us who are trying to get over the loss or have, there's always next year.

Packer Mania and Personal History

2008-01-17T07:33:00.000-08:00

These are the days when everyone in the state of Wisconsin (with a very few notable exceptions) wear green and gold and considers cheese headgear. "Go Packers!" is how we begin and end conversations during this week leading up to the NFL championship game on Sunday with the Giants.

It's a good time to mention my work on The LeRoy Butler Story: From Wheelchair to Lambeau Leap, co-written by LeRoy and Jim Keller. I was the editor, but LeRoy gives me lots of credit for this inspiring book, something about which I am quite proud.

"In doing my book, Sue Hessel helped me share the lessons of my life--that perseverance, dedication, loyalty, and strong family ties will lead to success," he said.

It's hard to imagine an All-Pro NFL football player once in braces and a wheelchair, but that was LeRoy Butler. He literally broke out of his leg braces (much like Forrest Gump), started running and never stopped until injury ended his career with the Green Bay Packers.

I was certainly honored and inspired to help with this book because of how far he came.

Since then, you may have seen LeRoy in the area working to raise money for breast cancer research. He uses his foundation to help others.

I-Wish-I-Knew-Syndrome

2008-01-16T06:06:00.001-08:00

Meet my parents.

I drove from Wisconsin to Arkansas last summer with my daughter to see my Aunt Irene, a woman I had not seen in more than 30 years. As the last surviving sibling of either my Mom or Dad, I went to her seeking to cure my case of I-Wish-I-Knew-Syndrome.

I coined this condition, which refers to having my desire to know more about my family history coming too late to get the information from them. Like so many people, I was bored to smithereens when my parents tried to tell me about it. At the time, my eyes glossed over and I had drool coming out of the side of my mouth.

And then one day, after I had developed a passion for history and become a personal historian, I realized I was like the cobbler's children who have no shoes. That's why I urge other people to get started on their own family histories. Now.

So, with a smidgen of hope in my heart, I went to see Aunt Irene to learn what I could about my dad by driving with Maggie to Hot Springs, Arkansas. It turned out to be great fun getting to know Aunt Irene again.

I hoped to discover she had photos of my dad as a child. He was the youngest in the family and she was the next in age to him. Before this one, the youngest photo of him was one that I think was taken in his 20s when he was with my Uncle Al on a business trip to Mexico.

She only had the photo above of my parents taken in San Francisco during World War II. But it was a delight to bring it back with me and put it in a frame. I had no idea that my parents ever did the carnival photo thing but from seeing it, I realize that I come by my love of corny photos naturally. Need proof? Look to the right.

What's interesting about family history is it mostly consists of tidbits like the discovery that my parents did fun things prior to my existence (imagine that). Mostly, our parents' or grandparents' stories are not important because they inspired world peace or cured cancer (although I certainly wish they had).

But they explain why we are the way we are. That information is important. Memories and stories about our families can help us understand ourselves, give us strength to go on with life when the going gets rough and amuse the heck out of us.

One day my grandchildren (I don't have them yet and that is NOT a nag) will look at this photo and others of me and think, "Grandma was once that nuts?" And hopefully my kids will say, "She sure was."

Finding Your Voice

2008-01-09T15:20:00.000-08:00

How could I possibly connect Personal History with the New Hampshire Presidential Primary results? Well, the results are so yesterday ...

This is not an endorsement for either John McCain and Hillary Clinton, but I think they shared victories Tuesday because they showed who they really are (keeping in mind that they are politicians after all).

Hillary Clinton referred to "finding her voice" in New Hampshire. What does that mean? It means she said what she really felt. In today's political world, honesty is groundbreaking.

Showing who you really are is exactly what personal history is about -- sharing your story so future generations will know who you are. In a sense, you define yourself so others will know you -- the real you.

Want to know more about personal history? Check out my website, www.lessonsfromlife.com.

Impeached in the Fourth Grade

2008-01-08T05:46:00.000-08:00

I always tell this story in my Write Your Life classes. It certainly makes me approachable to the students who may have uncomfortable stories to tell. And the main concept behind writing your story is to move from facts to memories to meaning from the memories.

But it was not until the second round of teaching Write Your Life that I gleaned meaning from one of my most telling life’s experiences – being impeached in the fourth grade. Like Bill Clinton, I was not removed from high office, but that is getting ahead of my story.

There I was in Mrs. Portnoy’s fourth grade class in Old Bonhomme Grade School in Olivette, Missouri, in the early 1960s. And yes, my teacher’s name really was Mrs. Portnoy. I was very awkward at the time, overweight and frumpy in that fourth grade way. What I wanted most was to be liked.

How was that going for me?

In Mrs. Portnoy’s classroom, we held regular class meetings as part of our study of government and had changing class officers picked periodically by elections, probably quarterly. I was not among the first, to say the least. Late in the year, I was finally chosen for vice president, a role that usually has little or no power (present vice presidents of the U.S. excepted).

I had observed one of the jobs of the class president was to write on the board the names of the kids who were talking while Mrs. Portnoy was out of the classroom. When the president was not there, this smartypants wrote names down as well. I figured it was my job to take over for the president, after all.

One day in our weekly class meeting, the president asked me to lead so he could make a motion. The expression, “Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely,” could have been all about me at that moment. Once I had the control of the meeting, I did not want to give it up. Instead of calling on the president, I instead called on another kid, who said, “I move to impeach Susie Hessel as vice president.”

I have no idea what happened next, although Mrs. Portnoy said we would not be impeaching anyone. I’m sure I cried in my mom’s arms later. It was a devastating moment that is quite laughable now.

So what meaning did I get from being impeached? First, squealing on your classmates is not the road to popularity. Second, I was unhappy with Bill Clinton’s relationship “with that woman,” perhaps because I had a daughter at the time in high school whom I knew would have internships in her future. I felt at that time that he should have resigned, but not be impeached.

Why was I so fervently opposed to his impeachment? Perhaps because he and I shared that painful memory from our government service.

When did you know you were up?

2007-12-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

At what point did you know you were up? You know, grown up?

Some are quite obvious, such as getting a first job after college, getting married, having children of your own or burying your parents. But some are more subtle, and if you think about the cycle of life. more amusing.

Among these indicators for me are:
* When Aunt Bertie no longer reminded me to put suntan lotion to protect myself when swimming at her family pool. Her concern had moved on to far younger people than me.
* My mother stopped buying me bras, leaving me to make my own purchases.
* At Christmas parties at Aunt Bertie & Uncle Bart's house, a new generation was hanging out in Jean's bedroom. That had been our hiding place when we grew tired of adults asking us pointless questions about what we wanted to be when we grew up.
* I now ask young people pointless questions about what they want to be when they grow up.
* Going to Thanksgiving at the home of our adult child.
* My brother telling me that they had spent Christmas morning at the home of his son, daughter in law and grandson.

What are your indicators? They all make wonderful bits of family and personal history.

www.lessonsfromlife.com

National history and your life

2007-12-24T06:19:00.001-08:00

Wow. I just saw a story on Good Morning America about a letter that an 8 year old girl wrote to President Kennedy in 1961.

Michelle Roshon was so worried that the Russians' testing of a nuclear bomb would kill Santa at the North Pole that she wrote to the one person that she felt could prevent such a disaster.

Kennedy wrote back that she need not worry. Santa would be protected and that he would make his yearly rounds on Christmas Eve. The exchange resulted in national coverage for the girl. And, several years later when some tried to tell her there was no Santa Claus, she showed proof from the President.

Caroline Kennedy included that exchange of letters in her new book, A Family Christmas. I have not read it but saw a meeting of Kennedy with that now very grown girl on Good Morning America.

I was about that girl's age in 1961 and while I had not written to Kennedy, I was certainly scared about the Russians. One month after the President announced formation of the Peace Corps in March 1961, there was that botched U.S. attempt to invade the Bay of Pigs in Cuba.

In 1962 would come the Cuban Missile Crisis and I remember standing with three teachers and being worried about World War III starting. I found a picture of the three teachers that I talked with that day in the very spot where I remember being so scared.

Instead of including that picture in this post, I've upload a photo of myself as that dorky sixth grader standing on the playground of Old Bonhomme Elementary School.

Kennedy was right about Santa; he did make his rounds on Christmas Eve 1961 and every year since (although I'm writing this on Christmas Eve day so it has not happened yet. But I am confident about tonight, too.).

When I teach Write Your Life classes or work with a client on his or her history, the major events in history resonate very deeply with them.

Michelle's story, mine and yours are examples of history not just happening to soldiers in war (as few as possible please), but to all of us. We are all shaped in one way or another by local, national and international events. History is always very personal.

Want to learn more about me? Visit my website www.lessonsfromlife.com

Alphabetizing in elementary school

2007-12-19T16:51:00.000-08:00

It is amazing what your mind can come up with when you begin thinking about your past. Often you find great meaning from a memory, even something that seemed so unimportant at one time. You can have an aha! moment and realize why you are the way you are.

Today's story is for amusement only, although I am open to interpretation from anyone who thinks it explains why I am the way I am.

My two best friends in first grade were Shelly Levin and Debbie Donohue. We sat near each other at Old Bonhomme Elementary School, where we were incredibly giggly when we discovered how our names were alphabetized. From that moment on we called each other Donohue Debbie, Levin Shelly and Hessel Susan.

One other important note in first grade is that our trio had a very serious rule about our artwork -- dark coloring only!

I have completely lost track of Donohue Debbie and only have contact with Levin Shelly on occasion, but fifty years later I would hate to learn that either one of them has not maintained our dark coloring pledge. If they have not, it would be one more cherished belief shattered -- or I mean shattered.

We were silly and rigid.

The Grand Inquisitor has a sense of humor

2007-12-18T10:35:00.000-08:00

One morning at the Godly hour of 5:30 or so when I met several of my walking buddies at our accustomed staging area, one held up a sign to me that said something like:

"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Maybe."
"I don't know."

Her message was aimed at me because of the constant barrage of questions I ask each day. She didn't welcome early morning inquisitions so she made up universal answers to whatever questions I might ask.

Where did this come from? Somewhere in my past I was told that young ladies (this is a very old message) ask others about themselves. This was advised as a helpful tool for getting boys to like me. (Do you want to ask how well that worked?)

Add that to my being a journalist/writer/personal historian and you can see I am more accustomed to asking questions than answering. I honestly don't know how to make conversation without questions.

Do you? What do you say? Could I learn to do that too? Will you teach me how? (A joke.)

My mom used to sparkle in the morning and be really chatty. She'd make us a full breakfast -- whatever we asked for -- each day. Then she wanted to talk, something that my brother and I did not. We preferred to read the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, the morning paper, than to talk to our mother.

One morning after my brother was away at college, Mom wore a dress, high heels, earrings and pearls to breakfast. I looked up, or perhaps growled up, and asked what was going on.

"I thought if I dressed like Donna Reed you'd pay attention to me," she said, referring to one of the great moms of '60s television. I laughed. For one day she got me. I'm not sure about the next.

Incidentally, in my family we have a joke about "Precious not wanting to sweat." It's funny because I'm not exactly the Precious type.

One day at a book fair at our kids' elementary school, that same friend who had held up the sign made a great find, the book, Who Killed Precious?

Apparently that Precious asked one too many questions.

I, on the hand, continue to ask questions, something that is critical for a personal historian. If you don't ask, you don't hear the stories. And unquestionably, I love a good story.

Hopefully, it won't kill me.

Colorful black and white photos

2007-12-17T12:28:00.000-08:00

No this is not an endorsement of colorizing old movies or photos. Instead, it is a tribute to black and white photos.

I don't know about you, but when I look into a black and white photo, whether it's a client's or my own family's, I dream in a way that I simply do not with color. These photos spark memories and feelings of an earlier time.

Two stories about black and white images continue to amuse me. My daughter loved to look at old family albums quite a bit when she was young. One day she asked, "Was the world in black and white when you were little?"

On another occasion she called to me upstairs that I should come watch television with her. "It's your favorite," she said, "black and white."

Yup, that photo is of little me when the world was black and white. I love this photo, my all-time favorite of me, because of the clear sense of style that it shows in little me. Note the contrasting stripes, boots on my feet in what appears to be very dry conditions and, of course, the hat in my hand. You've got to admit I was a snazzy dresser even then. Now I wish this photo went further so I could see which family car was in the driveway in our neighborhood. I'll remember rides in the 57 Chevy that Mom drove or 61 Impala.

So pull out your black and white photos and send them to me. I'd love to see them. Every photo like every person tells story.

www.lessonsfromlife.com

Alienated street sweepers?

2007-12-15T15:48:00.000-08:00

Back when I interviewed for my first job as a reporter, I suggested one story that would be interesting would be street sweepers or snow plowers (this is Wisconsin, after all).

I told the editor that these men would be fascinating because they had to be alienated since their work was alone in large machinery far from the people transversing the roads or sidewalks. He argued with me that I could not assume such a thing. Having spunk, I fought on for the concept of alienation. I was a mere 21 years old at the time and clearly I knew everything. And I actually got the job.

Now many years later, I have no idea if these workers were alienated. The editor was right about that.

What is clear is that I was taking a personal history approach to reporting without knowing it. I was validating the truth that every single person has a story, including the street sweeper/snow plower.

Incidentally, I know their work is important. One comment that my mother made frequently after moving to La Crosse, Wisconsin, to be closer to family was how clean the streets were. So way to go guys. Thanks for your work.

Any street sweeper out there need to hire a personal historian?

When will you make a beginning?

2007-12-14T06:18:00.001-08:00

Now, isn't that an awkward sentence? I'm talking about collecting your family history, of course, but the sentence is a play on a line from a movie that I saw as a kid, "The Agony and the Ecstasy." In that 1965 movie about the making of the Sistine Chapel, the Pope asks Michaelangelo "When will you make an end?" throughout the movie. He does with increasing frustration as more and more difficulties and delays occur. Michaelangelo always answers, "When I am finished."

I'm not getting religious here, although I think there is a spirituality to writing your story or your family's story because it does connect the generations.

The point is you begin when you begin just as Michaelangelo finishes when he finishes. So begin. Now.

Getting together at the holidays is a great time to start asking some questions that stimulate memories about family life. It does not have to be a formal session, but a few questions here and there can get people talking and comfortable with the idea of sharing their lives.

Dates and locations are important, but the stories are the real meat of family histories. Record memories shared at the holidays, take notes and laugh and cry together. A single story can create both responses.

Let me give you some holiday conversation starters:

Christmas

When you were little, who helped decorate the tree? Was it a family activity or did just a couple of you do it?
In some families, getting the tree up and standing straight is a challenge in itself. Can you recall any special trees like that in your family? What happened when things didn't go right? Any funny stories here?
What other family traditions did you have around the holidays? Where did you celebrate it and what special treats were part of the celebration. How did your house smell at this time of year?
What are your fondest and saddest memories of Christmas?
What did you think and feel about those who did not celebrate this holiday or were having a difficult time around this period?

Hanukkah

What were your traditions? How important was Hanukkah in your family, considering it is not as big a religious holiday as others in the Jewish faith.
What kind of excitement did you have about lighting candles each night. When were you were old enough to be the one lighting them for the first time?
What were the foods and smells associated with Hanukkah?
What was the relationship of Hanukkah with others celebrating Christmas?
What are your fondest and sadest memories surrounding Hanukkah.

Kwanzaa

With Kwanzaa a newer celebration of African American culture, when did you begin to observe this holiday and how did you celebrate it?
How do you observe the seven principals of Kwanzaa? Unity, Self-Determination, Collective Work and Responsibility, Cooperative Economics, Purpose, Creativity and Faith?
What foods and smells are associated with Kwanzaa in your life?
What are your happiest and saddest memories related to Kwanzaa and/or this holiday season.
How does this week-long event relate to Christmas if you celebrate it as well?

So take advantage of this opportunity to be together with family or, if you cannot go home, to remember your own experiences with holidays.

Feel free to share them. I love to hear other people's stories.

Don't forget to visit my website, www.lessonsfromlife.com

When a story says Wow!

2007-12-13T06:47:00.001-08:00

In every project, if I've asked the right questions, I hear a story that says wow! (And I don't use exclamation points easily.)
I felt that when I started the memoirs of a Major General in the Air Force with this story that I felt more than anything illustrated this man's lifelong values of — honesty, honor, integrity, patriotism, dedication, commitment and loyalty.

Harry was just four or so when the first of these values, loyalty, was put to a test. It was a time when families ate what they raised and what they grew. Young Harry already was a part of the family’s food production, having the responsibility of feeding the chickens, including his favorite, Old Dick, a rooster.
“He was really a pet, but in those days people would buy live fowl for the table and butcher it. I thought I was going to keep Old Dick,” he said. “I’d go out and feed him and pet him.”
The family gathered for Thanksgiving 1914 in Detroit, where his father, an Army master sergeant, than was stationed at Fort Wayne. The table was filled with the bounty for the meal and the family, including young Harry, ate happily.
“Yeah, that was Old Dick,” someone said, matter of fact.
Down went Harry’s fork. His mouth fell up and his head hung down. “That was when I didn’t like chicken anymore,” he said in 1998. “Eighty-five years later I still don’t like chicken. It got to be a habit, I guess.”
Until the day he died on September 18, 2001, Harry would not eat eggs, chicken, turkey or any other kind of fowl. If the extended family had a Thanksgiving turkey, a ham or red meat dish was cooked for him.
Of his lifelong swearing off of chicken, Harry said, “It’s not loyalty. It’s stupidity.” The reality is the story says a lot about his loyalty, steadfastness and conviction. It’s about never wavering against absolute dedication to something that he believes in.
The story of his experience in World War II will be told later, but his loyalty was tested again when he flew back from Australia after surviving the harrowing experience of Bataan during World War II. True, he’d had a few months to recover from the near starvation conditions that dropped his weight from 220 to 140 pounds, but his loyalty to Old Dick was still somewhere in the crevices of his heart, mind and stomach.
It was Thanksgiving time when he made the trip by air back to the States. And as is tradition wherever the troops are, an all out effort was made to feed them in a manner they would have experienced back on the Home Front. “They always had Thanksgiving for the troops,” Harry recalled.
Because of the course of the journey back to the United States, Harry was in the unusual position of two Thanksgiving meals, not just one. “We had to go from island to island across the Pacific. We had Thanksgiving in Fiji and then we crossed the International Dateline on the next plane and had another Thanksgiving,” he said.
Did he enjoy it after being in such dire circumstances for so long? “As far as I could like it. They always have turkey,” he said, quickly adding: “Of course, they also have ham and plenty of vegetables and pie.”

Want to know more about me and personal history? Go to my website, www.lessonsfromlife.com

I see stories everywhere

2007-12-11T19:28:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a story. Everything is a story. I can't help it, but I see them and hear them everywhere. And, I mean everywhere.

It's an occupational hazard. Or an occupational gift. Or simply a fact of my life.

As a personal historian, someone who specializes in helping individuals, families, businesses and even communities preserve and share their stories, it comes naturally.

And the problem is that when I see or hear a good story, I want to write it. I want to write it now. It's so much fun and I learn from the impressive people I meet. I always say that if my jaw hasn't dropped at least once during an interview, I haven't asked the right question.

In my own family, there is too much that I don't know. Much to much. By the time I was interested in my family history, it was too late. I have what I call I-wish-I-knew-syndrome. That makes me like the cobbler's child who has no shoes. I'm a personal historian who doesn't have the stories that I spend so much time preserving for others.

But enough about me. With this blog, I want to talk about the people whose memories and lessons from life I've been honored to hear from them and preserve.

It will be an incredible ride. Hang on.