So a few days ago my mom wrote me with some fascinating news. A man had contacted her. He is, it turns out, a fourth or fifth cousin, and was digging into family history. The guy’s 100-percent legit, and even came armed with the above photograph—my great grandmother Julia, immediately upon arrival into the United States of America, via ship from Germany, on Aug. 7, 1944. He also presented this dandy …
Now, a million things ran through my mind. I was emotional. I was riveted. I was elated. But, really, the first thing I thought of was my dog.
Norma is a cockapoo. Little and soft and very loving. For a long time she slept at the edge of our bed, or in her own little dog bed. One day, somewhat recently, I added something to her sleep area. It’s a towel, yellow and white, with the initials K.H.—for Kurt Herz, my grandfather and Julia’s son. The towel came over from Germany when my grandparents took flight from Germany. It’s ripped and shredded, but I didn’t want to toss it. So I gave it to Norma, and whenever I see her lying there, I think of my grandpa, who’s been dead for 25 years.
Interestingly, Norma is named for my wife’s grandma. Who is alive and well and 95. She was a Quaz a few months back.
So, really, we’ve got all the family history covered. And I’m sorta babbling …
