All Good Things

Frau Peycha lives on the third floor of our building. Every day she goes down the stairs backwards, very slowly, gripping the banister in one gnarled hand and a plate of pungent canned cat food in the other. She moved into this building with her husband right after it was built by the communist government in the '80s. Her husband has died, and her mobility has diminished, but she has stayed. She was the first person in the building to talk to us. The day after we moved in we bumped into her around the front door, and she was small and friendly and sweet with her white cloud of hair and her floral print house dress. And she seemed delighted to learn that Americans had moved into her city.

A couple of months ago, Jethro and I were returning from a walk, and we bumped into Frau Peycha in the yard behind the building. She had just fed her cats. She cooed at Jethro in his kinderwagen and asked me what his name was. I told her and got the reaction I normally get from Germans: a furrowed brow and wordless question mark. I repeat the name, and usually they attempt to say it. The thing is, "Jethro", in addition to being a name most Germans have simply never heard, contains two sounds a lot of them tend to struggle with. In German, the "j" sound is usually pronounced like a "y", and the "th" sound doesn't exist at all. Usually it comes out like "Jessro" or "Jeffro", and occasionally "Yetro". But in cases like Frau Peycha's, the older, especially staunch Germans, no attempt is made. She just looked at me like she'd smelled something bad and said, "That's going to be a problem when he starts school and no one can say his name."

"Oh," I said, "we won't be here that long. My husband finishes his Ph.D. at the end of 2010, and then we will go back to America."

She nodded. "You don't like it here."

We are often asked by Germans with smiles and expectant nods if we plan on staying in Germany forever. And when we say no, they always seem caught off guard and hurt, like we'd just slapped their wrists. They take it personally, which I find interesting, and they usually assume that the reasons have something to do with Germany failing us somehow — we don't like living here, we don't like the culture or the people, we don't fit in, we don't have friends. When we try to explain that that's simply not the case, that we love it here, they nod like they understand, but I can see that they don't believe us. And I can always see that, despite their aversion to patriotism, they are fiercely proud of their country and their culture. They love their home. They can't imagine anyone immersing himself in it and then wanting to leave.

But Germany itself has nothing to do with why we can't stay. In the two years we've been here, we've had great experiences and developed great friendships, but we've been absent from another life, one that has barreled on without us, seemingly at a quicker pace than before. Jake and I had been married for 4 and a half years before we came here, and in that time nothing happened. Well, a few things transpired. My brother Ford went on a mission and came home. People got married. Babies got born. But in the time that we've been gone, we've missed out on more than we participated in when we were there.

For starters, there have now been three deaths. Jake's grandmother passed away last year, and earlier this month, her husband, Jake's step-grandfather, Glen Lewis followed suit.

Glen Lewis

He was a salty, tough, decorated World War II bomber pilot who had been married to Edna since Jake's dad was a young man. He was so much like Jake in so many ways, it sometimes shocked me that there was no biological connection between them. He was the only grandfather Jake ever knew on that side of the family since his biological grandfather died young. And since Jake's other grandfather died when Jake was a kid and both my grandfathers died when my mom and dad were 12 years old and a baby, respectively, Grandpa Lewis was the only grandfather I ever knew. He was buried in the Logan, Utah, Cemetery on a gloriously beautiful summer day, and Jake was listed on the program as a pallbearer. But we, once again, were only able to experience the events of that day through e-mails and tearful telephone conversations with Jake's family, unable to embrace Jake's dad and uncle who had now lost all their parents: father, mother, and step-father. And for the second time we had to hear Jake's mother tell us that, "Everyone was there. Well, except you, of course."

My mom (second from left) and her siblings in 2005. Lanette is the one in the orange jacket.

The third death was that of my aunt Lanette Shindurling who died last December far too young from cancer that came fast and hard and from nowhere. Lanette was my mom's older sister. She had an easy, contagious laugh and a charming, crooked smile. And in that massive family (my mom was one of 12 kids), Lanette somehow managed to make everyone feel that he or she was really her favorite. She convinced me, even though I didn't see her as often as I wish could have. She'd pull me aside at a wedding or Thanksgiving meal, put her arm around me, and, surrounded by the loud laughter and horseplay that inevitably accompanies any Manwaring family event, we'd quietly share a joke or she'd ask about my life. I would feel an instant intimacy with her, certain that she saw something really special in me and liked me best. It wasn't until her death that I realized everyone felt this way. I loved her and I admired her. But I wasn't there. Not that I was needed. In a family that big, things and people always get taken care of. But I think I needed it. Because, since the last time I saw her she was as beautiful and vibrant as ever, I keep forgetting that she's gone. I still can't seem to process it.

My grandmother, Viola Erickson, and me at 90th birthday party

In addition to the deaths there have been other things, like my mom's accident last summer. Or my 93-year-old grandmother, my only surviving biological grandparent, who was experiencing some minor forgetfulness when we left, but who took a nosedive last year. While physically, she's still remarkably healthy, her memories have vaporized. And her kids, my dad and his three brothers and sister, had to make the gut-wrenching decision to move her from the small country home she's lived in for over 70 years to a care facility for Alzheimer's patients. And then there's Jake's sweet and beautiful younger sister, who, earlier this year, went through a heartbreaking divorce. And babies were born and people grew and changed. And we weren't there.

The party after our niece's baptism in Las Vegas last year

We can write and we can call. With Skype, we can even see each other when we talk. But we haven't been there. And that's the hardest part of living here. Harder than learning a language or assimilating into a new culture or making new friends. For 3 and a half years, for the payback we're getting in life experience, I believe it is worth it. But it just can't be like this forever. We can't be the no-show pallbearers. The ghost aunt and uncle. The absent sister and brother and daughter and son. We love Germany, and the day we leave will be one of the saddest of our lives.


But, no, we won't be staying. And I hope Frau Peycha and the others can understand why.



JEM