Memories, coming and going

Every time we visit the Matka Ginka in Clinton Township, north of Detroit, I try to gather up some old photographs she has in drawers, deteriorating albums and in dusty stacks on the bottom shelves of tables. Few snaps are labeled. When I ask my mom for the details she doesn’t always have them.

I bring the pictures home and, one by one, scan them into the computer. My OCD insists I label and date them, now, can’t wait. With the scanner has going morning to night for the last few days, I needed facts. My lofty plans for getting my mom to Adrian for a few days of light interrogation never materialize so I call her often for information. Like, “Mom, when was you mom’s mom born?” or “When did dad go when he was in the army?”

Somedays she can’t think of names or dates, and somedays she remembers what she ate on the train when she went snuck off to visit my dad at an army camp in North Carolina. Yesterday she couldn’t remember what countries my dad toured in Europe, but she did remember his Army Serial number (36584747) along with both her brothers'.

She remembers the street numbers of all the houses she’s lived in, but the dates are fading. More obscure details change a bit from time to time, sometimes during the conversation, but the stories don’t. She can tell me about some slight an aunt disrespected her with in the 50’s or what my dad said to her at my sister’s wedding in 1986. Ginka may be 84, and she might not remember everything, but she is full of some fantastic tales. So this is what we talk about. And though I do hear a lot of repeats, occasionally I get a new one.

I was on the phone with her yesterday asking about my dad’s WW2 experience, I had the photo of my dad in front of an army barrack (top) on my computer screen. She thought it might be Camp Butner, or that it could be “in that state that’s just below Seattle?” When I zoomed in on a sign on the barracks, HQ HQ DET 303rd MED, I asked what it meant. “303rd Medical Battalion, he was always in that unit” I googled, as usual I was led to Wikipedia, I read her the Lightning Divisions movements during the war in Europe, they were intense. “Oh my god, that’s what he was doing!” she said, “No wonder he never wrote, and that’s why I broke up, I didn’t know, I was a fool!”

My dad’s unit sailed to England, then landed in France on November 22, 1944 and crossed into Belgium and then Germany. There was heavy fighting against the Nazis through the winter, taking bridges, saving dams and on VE Day, May 7th, 1945 they were stationed near Marburg. After that he was mainly in Germany, and France. (that’s Mickey at an army club on the beach in Nice.)

So my dad didn’t write, and my mom didn’t like that. My mom broke off their romance, which had started in High School, and then she married another man. His name was Gerald R., he went to school with my parents, he was the best man at my uncle Larry’s wedding, he was fun. So, my mom married him. But the man never touched her in the years they were married. My mom dressed like a babe, but was a sheltered Polish-Catholic girl. He didn’t make a move, she told no one, for years. One night her brothers came over with a truck when Gerry wasn’t home, they took the furniture and moved her out, back in with my grandparents on Mitchell Street in Detroit. Scandal. The wedding photos were destroyed. 4-1/2 years after the wedding, Divorce.

My dad’s unit stayed in Europe until 1946, and sometime after that he went into the reserves. He was reactivated and was sent to train men for the Korean Conflict. When my dad got out of the army, he and my mom still had mutual friends, who all gathered at my mom’s parents’ house. My dad was practically family. Love conquered all and he and Ginka eventually got back together. And although it got them both kicked out of the Catholic Church, in April of 1952, they got married. My mom’s stories are gold to me, so I listen to them for hours. In the end I just guess the dates the best I can.

I didn’t find out about Gerry until I asked my mom if I could go on the Seminary tour when I was 12 and getting ready for High School. She told me why she thought I could never be a priest, in the eyes of the vatican I was a bastardo. (Explains a lot, doesn’t it.)

There are a few old photos my mom must have gotten from relatives, because my mom almost never labels them. Some have names and dates penciled in cursive on the back. I actually came across a BABY picture of my father, something I never knew existed.

“Who’s this?” I wondered, flipped it over and there was his name, penciled, in cursive. I thanked the gods I found it, I said a little prayer for whoever it was that wrote his name on the back.

May I suggest to all of you that you get your pencils out right away and start labeling your old photos while you still remember. Someday some distant future relative might say a little thank you prayer that helps get you out of limbo and into heaven.

- - - David

I have started posting old photos on another Mac site.
If anyone cares to look, you can find them at http://gallery.me.com/brockowskiofmichigan#gallery