Story Snippets

Over-Night-Oats

In the summer I like to make myself overnight oats for breakfast. Actually, mine are more like make-first-thing-in-the-morning oats, since I often forget the night before. I mix up the oats with fruit, nuts, milk, and chia seeds, put the concoction in the fridge for a few hours, and voila — a lovely breakfast! A couple of days ago I made them with the sweetest juiciest peach of the summer and placed them in the fridge. I was looking forward to my breakfast a bit later.

I went about my morning chores, which included cleaning out the fridge. Much to my dismay, there on the top shelf was a jar of moldy oats that I must have forgotten about the previous day. The fruit looked dark and bruised. I scolded myself for not remembering them and proceeded to throw them out. 

But here’s the thing: The oats were not moldy. The fruit was not bruised. It wasn’t until an hour later, when I opened the fridge to get my breakfast, that I realized I had thrown away the very oats I had made a couple of hours earlier. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t tell a soul—until now.

For some reason, my subconscious had concocted a story about rotting oatmeal in my fridge, and my conscious mind believed it. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I have early dementia, or maybe I am a clean-freak psychopath who values the potential of an empty shelf over a full belly. Maybe it’s just that I am perpetually preoccupied. but truly what I can’t get over is in that moment, I never once questioned the story I had imagined about the old oats—even though it really made no sense at all. What chemicals connected in my brain to concoct such a bizarre tale?

All week I’ve been asking myself: What other stories is my brain relying on to make sense of the world? Stories that may not make any sense at all.

Carl Mendel

My mom, Joe, and Jan are visiting in October. Our first stop is going to be Germany. The plan is to visit Aldekerk to see the Mendel family Stolpersteine memorial, visit my great-grandfather’s grave, and my great-great grandmother’s grave. Last fall, a German archivist contacted me because she was researching the Mendel family. She was writing a story for the local history yearbook and providing information for an online platform that allows users to learn more about the people behind the Stolpersteine Memorials. This week I finally read the archivist’s story and spent time on the Stolpersteine website. 

There were many details about the Mendel family’s experience that I did not know. Particularly the story of my grandpa’s younger brother Carl. I knew that Carl was murdered along with his wife, daughter, and son, but unlike his family who immediately went to the Auschwitz gas chamber in 1942, Carl survived until February 1945. Towards the end of the war, he was beaten to death by an SS officer. This story haunts me for all the obvious reasons.

All week I’ve been asking myself, what other stories exist about the Mendel family that I don’t know about? The German archivist found this information in a book written by Elischewa German. Elischewa’s father, Hermann Jülich, was a Holocaust survivor who knew Carl because Carl was married to his cousin. I recently sent an email to the author hoping for more information. I am hoping she can add more details to the Mendel family story.

Carl and his wife Paula on the donkey. To the left are my great-grandparents, to the right are Paula’s parents.

Wilma and Fred

I make the drive between Koukouleika and Milina almost daily. For the past two years, there have been two dogs living on the road. They seem to keep close to one particular house. When I asked my neighbor, who lives nearby, she assured me that they were getting scraps from them—end of story: two stray dogs I did not have to worry about. 

Fred

Ever since we moved back into the Koukouleika house two months ago, I couldn’t help but notice how rough the two dogs were looking — skinny, dirty, sickly. So I stopped last week to check on them. They are not doing so well. The female has a bad cough and both of their eyes are filled with gook. I guess that was not the end of the story. Now I will do my best to feed Wilma and Fred daily, get them the medicine they need, and overall make their stray life better.

Wilma

Ripples

There have been half a dozen events in that have made a significant impact on my life. I imagine them as pebbles being thrown into the sea creating ripples—some pebbles are bigger than others, creating large ripples that for a time dominate all the other ripples. As they make their way toward the shore, the ripples become gentler. My approach to the pebbles, and the corresponding ripples, is to get to the shore as fast as possible, and casually observe how the ripples change course. The latest pebble, the flood, has me wading in the water longer than usual, getting to the shore hasn’t been so easy. I think it is time to learn a new swimstroke . . .

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