86

by Zinta Aistars
Copyright 2013

My father in a work photo during his graphic art career

Happy birthday, Teti! Tetis (tevs) ... father in Latvian ... my father, artist Viestarts Aistars, is celebrating his 86th birthday today. And that's a big deal. To me, my family, and, of course, to my father.

My father's father, writer Ernests Aistars

Thankfully, we have terrific longevity in my family, and my father's father lived to just a year and a few months shy of his 100th birthday. Another relative, a woman on my mother's side, lived to 105. To my knowledge, that is the family record, and knowing that, I have been declaring to my family that I intend to be the new record holder at 106 ... at least.

I wouldn't mind, however, if my father becomes the new record holder. He is our family patriarch, and we adore him. A gentle man, deeply creative, painting and drawing since his boyhood days in Latvia, he has molded a legacy of art over his lifetime. He was born in Dobele, Latvia, the eldest of four brothers, the son of Latvian writer, Ernests Aistars, and lifelong teacher, Lidija Sulte-Aistars. The Aistars family escaped the country in 1944 as the Soviet armies invaded, killing Latvians in horrific numbers, destroying property, leaving a trail of blood and destruction.

That's one of the reasons I so treasure the few photos we have of my father and his family from those long ago years. On foot, through forests, boarding small boats in the night on the Baltic shores, jumping on trains, taking along only what the family could carry, I imagine those photographs being carried through that nightmare to safety. Finally, the photos, with the family, traveled across the ocean from the displaced persons camps in Germany to the United States.

My great-grandfather and grandfather

My father graduating from Art Institute of Chicago

My parents on their engagement day, my maternal grandfather in back

My parents' wedding day, May 12, 1951

That's me, with my father's self-portrait

My father, about 1 year old

My father holding his granddaughter, 1980

Now, here they are. Lately, as my father underwent various health issues, we younger generations found ourselves drawn to these boxes of black and white photos. We sorted through the images again and again, my sister and I taking some of our favorites home with us to frame and post in historic collages on our walls. They deserve to see the light again, the images once again becoming a part of daily life. Those faces, those faces from the past brought into our present.

We find a few photos from as far back as the days of my great-grandfathers, although we find no images of my great-grandmothers. Perhaps we still will. There are more boxes hidden away in closets, under other belongings, and it's a treasure hunt to find them again.

My paternal grandmother's father

My great-grandfather at far left, wearing a dark cap

My great-grandfather at center, back to camera

The younger generations have asked to see them, too, and over this past weekend, I drove my parents to Chicago to visit my sister and her family, and my daughter and her husband joined us as well. It was wonderful to see the young faces leaning over the images of their elders, spanning centuries, and my father across the table from them, sharing his stories of a lifetime well lived.

My brother-in-law prepared a wonderful meal for us, and we sat around the table honoring our patriarch, lighting candles on his cake. We are where we are today in great part due to him. It is fascinating to me, today to look through the images of my father as a child, as a young man, as a man with two small daughters, changing over the years. How handsome he was, and still is, now with white hair, using a walker, but still and ever with his delicious sense of wry humor, and a playfulness that shows itself when he invites his bride of more than 63 years to take a seat on his walker as he scoots her, giggling like a girl, across the kitchen floor. He cheers us all.

My father with his youngest brother

I see my son's face in my father's face, sometimes a remarkably strong resemblance. In one photo, where my father wears a fedora jauntily titled, leaning on his kid brother, I see my nephew Alex in his expression. In that moment, they look almost exactly alike. Elsewhere, I see my own features mirrored. Growing up, people always told me I was "daddy's girl," and I never minded that label. He was, and still is, my hero.

I see my father in his father, and my grandfather uncannily similar to his father before him. So we move from generation to generation, carrying our ancestors along with us, a part of us. Their blood runs in our veins today, and will flow in the veins of the yet unborn.

My father during refugee years, with sketchpad

My mother and sister with Dad during his military service in France

Four brothers (l-r): Viestarts, Raits, Janis, Aivars

My paternal grandmother

I take great comfort in that. The more birthdays I celebrate myself, the more I have grown to cherish my family. When we are young, we crave independence, we crave a chance to blaze our own path, develop our own personalities and lifestyles and find our own place in the sun, and that is as it should be ... but as we pass into higher years, we travel that circle back again. We need to explore the beyond, but as maturity settles in, we come to understand the treasure we have at home, right where we started. It's what matters most: family.

It has not been easy, these past few weeks, helping my parents as their medical needs and growing years called for more assistance. My father has been advised not to drive by his doctors, at least for now, until he regains strength from his recent health issues. That means transport has been up to me, and it has taken a bite out of my time and my ability to keep up with my workload. I've had my moments, admittedly, of panic, wondering how I will keep everything together. I was at full capacity before, working most every day, including weekends. How to manage this now?

Yes, some things have been forced to the side. My garden is full of weeds, some of my vegetable plants have died of neglect. I have had to reschedule work assignments, although I have not yet, thankfully, missed any deadlines. I have even worked on my computer while sitting in doctors' waiting rooms, while my father was undergoing various tests. And I've happily acquired several new clients. It's been a challenge.

And yet ... in a recent conversation with my sister, who lives too far to help on these daily runs, I found myself saying: "I'm the lucky one." Spending more time with my father has been precious. Helping both of my parents has been a challenge, but also a privilege. I watch him across our family table, sitting in the place of honor, blowing out candles shaped as the numbers 8 and 6, and my heart swells with love for this dear man.

None of us will be here forever. How precious are these days, each and every one. I can't imagine my life without my parents as a part of our family gatherings, coming by to visit me at Z Acres, calling me on the phone, being a presence in my days. Peering into those faraway faces in the boxes of family history, I can only think how quickly time races by, and how lucky we are, how richly blessed, who have the chance to grow old, have our hair turn white, and watch our younger generations blossom and take their turn.

Daudz laimes, Tetin. Happy birthday to my dear father. Many more.

Mama and Dad, reading a birthday card

BC Pulse strengthens the heartbeat of Battle Creek

by Zinta Aistars
Published in Southwest Michigan's Second Wave
Thursday, July 11, 2013

BC PULSE IS FROM L TO R: ANDREW TYUS, KATHY SZENDA WILSON, MARIA DRAWHORN, AND LYSSA HOWLEY - ERIK HOLLADAY

BC Pulse is a new organization whose organizers' deep experience in the nonprofit world is helping other organizations become stronger. Zinta Aistars reports.

Kathy Szenda Wilson and Maria Drawhorn are in recovery.

"I'm a recovering funder," Wilson says.

"I'm a recovering service provider," Drawhorn says.

The co-executive directors are undergoing their recovery nicely under the auspices of BC Pulse in Battle Creek, Michigan, a non-profit organization that the two refer to as a community resource.

"People talk about what's wrong with our community," says Drawhorn, "but what we need to do is spell out what's actionable."

That is what BC Pulse does. Call it a mediator, call it a liaison, call it a go-between. BC Pulse is an organization that ties up loose ends and makes connections where connections are needed. The goal, the two co-executive directors say, is to build a compassionate, engaged, vibrant community.

"We are an organization in our infancy," says Wilson. "Our current funding is a grant to Michigan State University (as our fiscal sponsor) from the W.K. Kellogg Foundation."

BC Pulse was born in July 2012, although Wilson insists there are no founders. Four people are currently on staff--along with the two co-executive directors are Lyssa Howley, associate, and Andrew Tyus, program coordinator.

"We're still working on our elevator speech to define who we are." Wilson smiles. "But the message we most want to convey is that BC Pulse is not about developing new programs. There are plenty of good programs already in place. What we do is help people to strengthen how they do their work."

Wilson worked for 17 years at the W. K. Kellogg Foundation, she says, and during that time, she learned about supporting residents of the community for better outcomes in their neighborhoods. "But I saw a disconnect. Voices were not being heard. Somebody has to pay attention to those voices. So a group of us started talking sometime in 2010. What would it take to develop a group that pays attention to these voices?"

"And I spent the last 15 years in nonprofits," continues Drawhorn. "Always putting out fires. I saw restraints in funding while there was increased need. It's difficult to think about making improvements when you are constantly putting out fires. For me, BC Pulse is a great opportunity to ..."

READ THE COMPLETE ARTICLE AT SECOND WAVE. 

What flows through generations

by Zinta Aistars

My paternal grandmother and my father, 1928, Ventspils, Latvia

A couple of events recently have opened a vein of curiosity and even a need to go back in time. One was an email that showed up in my inbox a couple weeks ago with the subject line of "Aloha Zinta." I had no idea my cousin was now living in Hawaii. How had we lost touch? So long since we had seen each other, yet we had been inseparable in our childhoods, spending all our summers together as little girls. Her father was my mother's much beloved brother.

Odd, that I've visited at some point all 49 of our 50 United States, but never been to Hawaii. Now, she lives on the island of Oahu. Will this at long last be my reason to make the long journey to our 50th state? I find myself giving it serious consideration.

Meanwhile, she is planning to visit the Midwest sometime this September, and we are now planning to spend some time together at Z Acres. She can stay at the Cottage on the Hill, and we can catch up on all those lost years ... and vow to never lose time like that again.

Time passes so quickly, so quickly. The second event that inspired me to wax nostalgic and feel once again a deep appreciation for family was my father's recent health issues. He's recovering nicely, but it was a scare. My sister came out, too, to check on him. With the help of visiting nurses and therapists, we are on the road to recovery ... and it is we, not just he, because when one of us ails, all of us care.

Family. How to put into words its importance? Last evening, my sister and mother and I gathered around the kitchen table in my parents' home and opened boxes of old photos. My father rested in the next room. I couldn't get enough. Many, if not most of these photos, I'd seen before, but some were a fresh discovery.

My paternal grandparents

My grandparents and my father

My father, holding the leash to the pup, with his cousins in Latvia

My father

My paternal grandmother

There were photos of my parents as infants, as toddlers, as children, then blossoming into youth. These were photos from Latvia, black and whites and sepia toned with latticed edges. My paternal grandmother in her youth, her long hair hanging like a dark curtain around her hips. I once saw her open that bun, unweave that long braid, until her gray hair hung below her knees. My grandfather collected rain water in barrels in back of their little house on Grove Street, and he helped her wash its amazing length.

My grandmother

How beautiful she was as a young woman. How handsome my grandfather. But then I found an even older photograph: my grandfather's father, Ernests Ansevics, holding a firm rein on three glorious horses. I can just make out his big, bushy, bright white mustache. Tall and lean, like all the men in the family, he kept a farm on the shore of the Baltic Sea where my grandfather was born, where my father spent his summers, where I have many times now driven by to walk the grounds, run my fingers across what's left of the old stones where the outbuildings once stood, in Sarnate, Latvia, feeling the spirits still present.

And still in me.

I peer closely at the old photos of my father as a child. Already serious. My grandmother pushing him in a wonderful white child cart, laughter on her face. I see him on his first tricycle, my grandfather watching over him. Fathers, always initiating their sons on first wheels. I see my father holding the leash of a tiny white dog with one black eye. The brothers, then, four of them. More family members, growing years, graduations, then photos of my parents' engagement, a few wedding scenes, unposed. There I am, an infant in my parents' arms. My sister, her long blonde braids, and the two sisters already forming their bond.

The four brothers, my father the eldest, and my grandparents

My father's graduation from Art Institute of Chicago

My mamma in bobby socks

A candid photo at my parents' wedding, Chicago, 1951

Just Married 

What stuns me, though, are a handful of photos I don't remember ever seeing. Or maybe I had seen them, but did not recognize who it was that I saw in them. Even now, I handed that handful to my mother and asked, who are these people?

"Tava Vecmamite," my mother smiles. My grandmother, her mother. My grandfather I could recognize more readily. Oh, how I had adored them ...

My maternal grandparents

My maternal grandmother

I gasp. Really? Why did I not recognize her? I bring the photo even closer, staring.   Little by little, I make out my grandmother, the older woman I knew and dearly loved, who cared for me and spoiled me. There she is, yes. I am stunned to realize I have never seen her as a younger woman. Because my parents' families, both of them, came to the United States during WWII, all refugees escaping the Soviet occupation of Latvia, they had with them only what they could carry. How many photos can one carry alongside a few pieces of clothing and other necessities? Each and every one of these photos was to be cherished, rare treasure.

My grandmother in Latvian folk costume

My father on his first tricycle, with his father

With more members in the family and more pairs of hands, the paternal side of my family had been able to save more photographs than the other side of my family. I hold these few photos carefully in my hands, overwhelmed by the journey they have taken to this kitchen in Michigan. There are so few ...

My maternal great-grandfather

My mother and her brother

A bombed-out house in Germany where my mother's family, with many others, found shelter in refugee years

My mother in Germany

I study the photos for details, gleaning the stories told by the furnishings in rooms, items on a desk, book spines on a bookshelf, paintings on walls. I study the clothing my ancestors wore, and the expressions on their faces. I look long into their eyes.

Eyes not so unlike mine. I am looking into mirrors. A little hint of me here, a spark of me there. All come together, and then somewhere in there is me, and then after me, my children. On it goes, the passage of time and the passing of the family flame across generations.

My family in our first house in Kalamazoo (I am in my father's arms)

That would be me

There was a time when I was young that I longed to be, oh, utterly unique. I bristled at anything to tie me to others. I wanted to be Z and Z alone and ... oh, I don't know, the silliness of youth and rebellion and forging independence. Now, all these decades later, pouring over these photos, my heart near weeps at the resemblance I find here, there, in a smile, in the gesture of a hand, a tip of the head, a demeanor. This is my family, this is me, in a million upon million shards, coming together and then passing on again into the next series of mirrors. All connected. I can only marvel. And my heart swells at that sweet connection.

At my confirmation, age 16, with my father in background

I look forward to renewing the connection to my cousin. I am grateful beyond words at my father's recent recovery. We have strong genetics in my family, both sides, and our chances at a healthy longevity are good.

I take a large envelope of photos, begging them off my mother, pondering how I might display them in my home. These beautiful photos don't belong in dusty boxes, tucked into a dark back corner of a closet. I want to see them, look deep into them, again and again, and let them live with me in my every day.

I don't ever want to forget the gift of these faces and the lives behind them, making mine possible. This is my family. This is me, and who lives in me now.

My parents

Left to right, my mom, grandmother in front, uncle Aivars in back, my then husband, me, my father

My grandparents

My grandfather, writer Ernests Aistars

My baby girl in our Kentucky home

Z and Mama

My sister at left, and me

Z and my cousin Ray

Z in chair, sister Daina with doll

My son in his great-grandfather's arms, his two great-grandmothers

My daughter's first day home, with our cat Podzina