Stories, stories, stories

I yearn for stories, the thirst to know to people to understand what motivates them, how they lived their lives, what they felt their purpose here was. Mostly, I want to know my family members, my grandparents, yet they are all dead, they mostly live on only in pictures and brief snippets revealed from older relatives. To have known them as a child with memories already quickly faded, leaves aching holes of sadness and regret. If only I had understood then what I know now, we all die, the legacies we leave behind are for those who love us and those we love. I look forward to being reunited in heaven, but for now, I seek stories.

I have been reading two books about WWII, in a bid to feel closer to my paternal grandparents who both immigrated to America from Germany. They were brave, moving to a country where they did not know the language, coming here with brother and sisters instead of parents who choose not to leave the old country. My dream is to someday travel to Germany and see the places they once called home. I often wonder if my ancestors are proud of me, if this seemingly easy life in comparison to the world they grew up in. Whole countries do not thirst to exterminate me because of my religion, I know no other language then my mother tongue, and have food and shelter without hardship. My parents have not been carted to the death camps for slaughter. And yet, that which they sacrificed so much for, their religion, I do not practice with fervor. For the most part, I am assimilated, my Judaism is my heritage, more culturally a part of me then a daily devotional religious practice.

My maternal lineage is all but a mystery to me. I know that my Nana and Papa's parents came from the Ukraine, but little more then that. It should be enough to know that they were good people, hard working ambitious and generous. My Papa was a tall man with a booming voice who called me "Missy" and held me on his shoulders high in the air. Nana would paint my nails and tell me that my hands looked like hers, a fact I hold close to my heart. Memories of them are growing ephemeral, every year a little more misty and obscure. I miss them all, and feel adrift in the large world without concrete stories of them to keep on paper, to know they won't fail when my own ability to remember has already begun to fade.

Work

Walking down to my car tonight, I felt astonished, had another day already passed me by? It went so quickly with no feelings of satisfaction, pride, or redemption. I know that there are people out there making a difference, actually devoting their time to bettering the world we live in and yet here I am, just earning a paycheck. What happened to the idea of a career instead of a job? Am I merely a cog in the wheel of the large machine that is the entertainment industry. I'm certainly not the first person to feel that they're just marking time until the weekend.

So, if I am a solution oriented individual (like my resume claims), what can be done? Where to go from here? Guess it might be time to take some classes, figure out what I'm truly good at and maybe even enjoy what I'm doing.

When it comes to career aspirations, I have hundreds, and I mean that sincerely. Since I like writing stories, I often place myself in heroic jobs, jobs that strike me as truly giving back to the community, you know, EMT, nurse, criminalist, forensic psychologist, sheriff's deputy, in all truth, I could never go back to the school for the amount of time and necessary to obtain a degree beyond the BA I already have.

That's when I get completely nuts and believe that I should be a chef. It sounds like a fun and creative profession, but the reality is that it is a crapload of workand repetitious as hell. A bookstore would be very cool, especially the discount.