Celebrating Pearl and Otto

By Linda Grupp Boutin

My parents' names were unusual to my ear as a child. They were both born in 1914, Mom on August 8th and Dad on May 7th. They both would have turned 100 this year had they grown to that venerable old age. However Mom returned to the Lord in 1976, aged 61, and Dad in 2001, aged 87. An even dozen of their children grew to be adults, but they lost one son and one daughter in infancy.

Otto and Pearl Grupp 1935

Mom told me the story of how she and Dad met at Crystal Beach. She was with her sister, Dorothy, and Dad was with his brother, John. The two brothers conspired, one choosing the blonde and one the brunette. Apparently they all spent the evening enjoying the theme park and the Grupp brothers drove the two sisters home in their truck. Mom skipped all the middle part, but always jumped to the end of the story. My grandfather had kept watch for his 2 daughters that night and saw them as they departed from the truck. She said that she and Aunt Dot were in big trouble when they arrived back inside.

Somehow my dad overcame this rough start with Grandpa Rohlmann and by Thanksgiving Day in 1936, Otto and Pearl were married. Because I am their tenth child, everything I know of those early days of my family I learned from someone else, many of the stories told to me by Mom. I have been collecting family stories for my whole life. Because my parents have a legacy of over one-hundred forty grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren, I will share these stories on Celebrating Your Voice.

Bertha and Joseph Rohlmann, my grandparents

This post will share one of my favorite stories that Mom told me over and over. It is written from her perspective, so when "Dad" and "Mom" are mentioned below we're talking about her father and mother, my Grandpa and Grandma Rohlmann.

     Her parents named her Pearl.  Being the eldest of eight, she learned domestic skills early while her mother labored with the younger children.  Her mother suffered with too many pregnancies and the added demands of breast feeding.  Frequently her daughter covered for her because Pearl knew the depths of Mom’s illness.  She knew how to light the wood-burning stove, how to whip up a pie for dinner’s dessert, how to swing a cloth quickly enough to virtually chase the dust away before it landed.  And in her Dad’s eyes, she truly was "a pearl beyond price."

     Occasionally he took Pearl with him on his train trips.  Being a superintendent for the railway, he traveled every day for his job.  Early on she recognized the corn fields of Indiana from the smokestacks of Detroit.  It was an adventure leaving the station and guessing where they would go that day.  Always they returned home to St. Louis, crossing the Mississippi in the caboose behind the chugging steam engine.  When they returned, it was back to the heavy responsibility of being the oldest daughter in this large and growing family.

     Each day she worked her way through the early morning chores, daydreaming about arriving at school in time for Music class.  Pearl couldn’t sing and didn’t even attempt it, but her heart danced with the music in her head and she found time to study every instrument she could find.  There was the piano in the parlor and the banjo in Dad’s closet.  But when she went to school, she had access to drums, a guitar and an organ.  She might have arrived tardy at school each morning, finishing chores before starting studies, but she also stayed as late as she thought she could get away with.  Her slender hands lovingly caressed the drumsticks, fingers and feet flew in unison on the organ and although she loved the twang of the guitar, there was only so much time for practice.  Her teacher encouraged her and she often accompanied the choir on the organ.

     In the evening, her blue eyes flared as she assigned the dish cleaning to her younger sisters, while she went over to the piano to play.  She tossed her long blonde hair behind her slender shoulders sitting on the piano bench.  She felt grateful when her legs grew long enough to easily reach the pedals at the bottom of the instrument.  Before the time of television and with no radio in the house, she entertained the family with music after supper and lulled the babies to sleep.  She thought about the College of Music in Detroit she had seen from the train window and dreamt of studying, and maybe even teaching, there one day.  Pearl envisioned herself spending her life immersed in the music she loved and sharing it with others.

     One fall evening, Dad arrived home later than usual.  He poked his head in the back door and bellowed for the family to gather outside; he had something to show them.  He held an impeccable white handkerchief in his hand and rubbed it in circles on the bumper of the brand new Model T sitting outside the barn in the back. The leather seats were a creamy tan and he excitedly showed them all the details of the family’s new mode of transportation.  As soon as supper was complete, they all piled into the car which Dad cranked vigorously to ignite the engine. 

     Mom sat up front with the baby in her lap and Pearl squirmed straining to maintain her position beside the window.  Before they knew it, they were bumping down the rutted dirt road, engine chugging grandly and moving at a respectable 25 M.P.H.

     The following weekend everyone once again bundled into the vehicle and they set off to visit relatives who lived deep in the Ozarks.  They climbed the mountain roads built for wagons, not Model Ts, and found themselves surrounded by tall trees lining an increasingly difficult ascent.  Dad spotted a small mercantile along the road.  A large red and black sign advertised Coca-Cola and he pulled into the small space in front of the store. Mom instructed the children to stay in the car, that she and Dad would be right back.  “And all of you listen to Pearl. She’s in charge while we’re away.”

     Pearl glowed under her mother’s command, but nothing stopped Bud and Ray from jumping from the rumble seat into the front over their big sister’s protests.  They were examining everything, touching the smooth leather, testing the toot-toot of the horn.  Suddenly Pearl saw the forest begin to slide by ever so slowly.  Somehow now they were rolling down the hill.  Panicked, the children began crying, yelling for their parents to come and help. 

     Luckily Pearl had been a quick study and remembered the lessons Dad had shared about using the hand brake to stop the engine on the train from rolling.  She reached into the front seat and pulled the handle hard that she hoped would bring a halt to their swift rolling down the hill. The car was picking up speed, but as she pulled the handle she felt the tug of the brakes trying to slow down the car. She glanced up for a moment and saw a canyon fast approaching through the windshield. She pushed her brothers out of the way and jumped into the driver’s seat. Now she stepped on the foot brake with all her might. But though they slowed down a bit, she still saw the cliff looming ahead.
     She whispered a Hail Mary and prayed as she stomped with both feet one last time and heard the gravel grinding under the wheels as the nose of the Model T topped the edge of the cliff.  She heard her siblings howling around her, but had no idea of the commotion behind her at the storefront. Her parents stood slack-jawed staring at their brand new Model T barely hanging onto the edge of the cliff, all their children but the youngest sitting inside.  The majority of the Rohlmann clan sat in the Model T and only Pearl had the good sense to quietly breathe to her brothers and sisters, “Now, no one move one bit!”

     The fear-frozen adults sprang into action. The storekeeper grabbed a large coil of rope. Dad ran as fast as possible towards the car. Clamping his arms around the nearest rear wheel, he held on with all his strength. Other men arrived and tied one end of the rope to the rear axle and the other end to a large shade tree beside the store. They pulled in unison and soon had all 4 wheels back on solid ground. They accomplished this wordlessly until the car and the children inside were safe. Soon the shopkeeper’s wife passed out cold bottles of Coke all around and everyone laughed nervously telling silly jokes and regaining their collective breathes. “Going to have to install parking brakes on these old tin lizzies or they’ll all be taking off on their own!” Everyone guffawed together with a sense of pride in the team effort that had saved so much from the bottom of the cliff. There were still some kinks to be worked out in this new-fangled technology.

    

Celebrate His Guidance: Launching the Aspiring Writers' Forum

By Linda Grupp Boutin

Recently our small group leader at church asked me to send him the goals for the Aspiring Writers' Forum for the 2014/2015 season. At first, I began to formulate a new set for our sixth year. But then I remembered that we had written all this out when we proposed the group before our first year. So I started searching for the documentation for that time that now feels so long ago. A sense of time can be such a tricky thing to keep track of, time can float by so quickly while I am caught up in the dramas of the day.

After a not too lengthy search, I found the original proposal formed the summer before our very first meeting. The more I read of this document, the more astonished I became about how clear we were from the very beginning in our purpose and plan. I had attended many writers groups while living in San Diego County in my earlier life. Some had been larger, some smaller, some a collection of students, others with published members working on their second books. The weakness of them all came from the fact that everyone was consumed by their own projects and the competition between the writers scared some from ever considering writing (or sharing) anything again.

I always felt that setting up this group was inspired by the Holy Spirit. First came a desire on my part to reconnect with the writing community after a 10-year hiatus. A fruitless search in January led to frustration for me and writing in solitude with no feedback or fellowship. About that time I was invited to join several others at a weekly study called The Truth Project. At the end, we were each challenged to take what we had just learned and apply it somehow in our lives. Immediately upon hearing this, I felt compelled to start a Christian writers group. Now mind you, this is 100% out of my comfort area, I never initiated the beginning of a group of anything!

The first people I dared to share this tiny flame of a dream with were my small prayer group sisters and there I found my first encouragement. Everyone loved the idea and we all prayed for the success of the endeavor. But not only support, even better my fellow writer and friend Coleene VanTilburg agreed to partner with me in leading the group. Next I brought the idea to our ministry leader at the church and to my amazement, she liked the idea as well. Each discussion brought the inevitable question, what is a Christian writers group? None of those I spoke with had heard of such a group before.

At that time I didn't know of anything like this, only an online group called Faithwriters.com that Coleene had told me about. Since that time 6 years ago, I have learned of other Christian writers groups, but none that met on a weekly basis as we planned. We wanted to build some writing habits in our members and meeting weekly became pivotal to exercising those writing muscles.

Most importantly to me however was the creation of a safe harbor, where we could together as writers build upon our shared Christian values, express those deep and protected spiritual beliefs, and receive feedback to enhance both our creative and faith-built voices. But how could such an idyllic plan become a reality? Would anyone even want to come to such a meeting? Coleene and I discussed our fears and dreams and hopes coming to absolutely no conclusions. She traveled that summer to the Faithwriter's conference for writers and came home even more excited about our shared desire to build this little group.

With mounting trepidation I gathered decorations for the sign-up table assigned to us for four August Sundays we would man before, in between and after our regular church services. We prayed together, we consoled ourselves that it would be great if only one or two signed up to join us, we sweated through the final July days with only the heat that a Southern California sunny day can produce.

We rendezvoused together that first August Sunday before first service, just enough time to set up our combined decorations, join hands and pray one last time. The sun pored down as it is wont to do on hot mornings and beads of sweat gathered on our foreheads as our congregation began to arrive and see the commotion of Small Group Leaders sitting behind tables, sign-up materials close at hand. I felt so completely out of my league surrounded by others who understood so much more and better than me.

Linda Boutin and Coleene VanTilburg at AWF sign-ups

Time went into warp that morning and before either of us could get any more nervous, we both found ourselves answering questions to people we had never met before. Each answer clarified even more clearly just what we were attempting to do. And before the clock had turned from 9 a.m. to noon we found ourselves counting our sign-ups and astounded that so many had signed up the very first day! By the end of the four weeks a dozen people planned on joining us every Wednesday night for an hour and a half to share our love of writing enveloped in our love of the Lord. And not any one day since has ever been the same in my life because of this little dream that ignited a bonfire in my life.

So I encourage each and every one of you reading this, to listen carefully to those quiet whispers from the Holy Spirit. Allow some space and silence in every day for His Voice to speak directly to you. And when it prompts you to speak to someone you see who is shy, or buy a coffee for the car behind you at Starbucks, or asks you to do some other outlandish act you have never considered before in your life--run, do not walk, to do His Will. There is a plan so perfect and incomprehensible to you at that moment, so do not shrink back, but Celebrate His Guidance.

A Father's Voice: When Will This End?

By Linda Grupp Boutin

I heard an anguished father's voice. Deep in the throes of grief over his son's death last Friday night at UCSB, my heart broke as he spoke. All his inhibitions were turned off. He spoke his mind with force and truth. He demands a solution to the problem our society faces. On why we as a culture accept more and more shooting sprees. On why students just days away from graduation must fear for their lives and dive for cover as the shooting starts. On why the NRA and our politicians keep allowing those obviously unable to cope with daily life encouragement to buy and keep automatic weapons that they can then use to wreak havoc on whomever they choose.

So once again we must ask ourselves why a troubled young man legally owned 3 automatic handguns. Once again we must ask why did he have more than enough ammunition in clips of 10 shots each to have taken out over 400 people. About why he was allowed to put one of his roommates in jail for stealing $22 worth of candles, but when his family reached out to law enforcement to check if he was okay, almost nothing was done. It is carefully explained that he was polite to the police when they checked on him. That he did not qualify as a 5150. That he was legally competent to buy the weaponry and clips and ammunition that he took with him in his shiny, black BMW. REALLY?

How many grieving families do we witness before we arise in protest? How close does it need to come to your neighborhood before we decide ammunition clips of 10 to 50 rounds are meant for soldiers defending our shores, not for the average person walking on the street? Do you allow it just because the NRA says it must be so?

I can tell you that it has come way too close to me for comfort. I am plagued by memories of a gunman opening fire in a McDonald's less than 2 blocks from my home. I am exhausted wondering  which of my nieces of nephews is at which college around the country when a young man reaches his breaking point. My niece just graduated from UCSB last spring. Thank goodness he didn't decide to open fire a year earlier when she walked those very streets. Yet just because she is safe, still there are 6 other young people dead today along with the gunman himself. One of those who died was 22 years old and from the very city where I live! And why in the world do we tolerate our elementary schools becoming the killing grounds for disenchanted and sick young mens' discontent?

These are not the values that have made America great over the centuries. And so many of these shootings wind up with the troubled person shooting themselves! Why do we allow this to continue? When we as Americans make up our minds to do something about a problem, we are strong standing together. The majority of Americans no longer even own guns. Most of us feel that gun laws must be strengthened, but what have you actually done to help with this problem? Have you picked up a phone and called your representative? Have you sent an e-mail to your senator? Have you signed a petition calling for stronger background checks before guns can be purchased?

Listening to that anguished father admit that he did nothing when he heard of Sandyhook illustrates the problem. Now he is speaking out, do each of us need to lose a loved one to a gun before standing up? Let's get proactive and realize we too are just one gun away from his pain. Can you hear his voice and empathize?

Celebrating Submissions and Rejections

Last December I submitted a personal essay to the Ladies Home Journal Personal Essay Contest. Out of 4000+ entries, I did not win. But I did receive an invitation to join their Readers Panel and as Robert Frost said, way leads onto way...Please enjoy my take on the impact decisions can make on your life. Set a pattern of making decisions for positive reasons and maybe you will find something special in Every Day Decisions!

The Smallest of Every Day Choices

     I stared down at the thick, heavy psychology text book lying open on the table in front of me. I chided myself again for procrastinating and waiting until just 4 hours before the test to read the material assigned. After all, the class met just once a week on Tuesday nights and I really enjoyed the new things I was learning in it.

     I disregarded the many excuses that flew through my mind; just because I only moved last week was no excuse. Well sure, it was the fourth move in a year and a half since my dad had served divorce papers on my mom. First a flight across country from Fort Wayne, Indiana to Los Angeles via Chicago when I was just 19 years old; then into a studio apartment, and then into another one and finally back home when Mom moved back to LA that fall. And even though I had gotten used to living by myself, it really was no hardship to move into the tiny condo shared with Mom, one older brother, one younger sister, and another younger brother. No, I should be able to concentrate…Linda, you should be studying. Really!

     I went back to marking the text with a thick, yellow highlighter. I thought about the force of the words in the book. A scale measured the amount of stress events place on a person’s life. I began counting up the number of points Mom had accumulated over the course of the last year. She was way over the number of points that indicated she would be at risk of developing a severe illness in the next 12 months. Do I really want to know what psychologists study in an effort to understand the human mind?

     The words transported me from my circular thoughts that had kept reminding me that I was missing the family birthday party tonight for my nephew and niece, born the same day to two different sisters-in-law; missing evening events was a real drawback to attending night classes this first semester of college for me. I knew I had to focus in or risk flunking this psych test in a few hours and attacked my studies with renewed resolve.

     I reached the Summary and Key Terms at the end of the chapter, sighing in relief. Then I felt all the hairs at the back of my neck stand up in unison. “Someone is watching you.” I felt it and knew it at the same time. This was my quiet, secret place; the satellite cafe on campus open only during the off hours when the day students had gone home and the night students not yet come in. The place had been empty when I arrived, dropped my burger and fries on a table with seating for 6.  I placed my books around me with notebook and pens handy.

     Dare I glance up and see who was staring? Years of training in my family of 11 siblings warned me to be cautious. The Key Terms I stared at blurred as curiosity grew inside me, to look or not to look, what should I do? A quick glance up made me groan inwardly, my eyes darted back down to the page. First impressions mean everything right? And that momentary look told me all I needed to know—a veteran, short hair, jeans and a t-shirt, a broad grin smiling down at me. But my look up provided all the invitation he needed. Long, lanky legs strode over to the edge of the table, “Anyone sitting here?”

     Nope, just me and I am invisible right? “No,” I mumbled as inaudibly as possible.

     “Okay if I sit here?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but set his tray down on the table, sat down and slid into the booth. Do I even have a choice in this? There are only a dozen more empty tables scattered around the room. I noticed the cup of coffee and slice of cake resting on his tray, chocolate. Hhhmmppphhh!

     Aren’t I supposed to be at a birthday party for LeAnne and Matthew? Now what am I going to do? I started gathering my supplies and books for a quick retreat to the library. I scarfed down the last huge bite of burger and decided the fries were a lost cause; I could drink the cola on the way to the library.

     “I’m new to this school and checking things out today. How do you like it?” the jovial man asked.

     “It’s fine; it’s my first semester too. I have to go and study for a test.”

     “What’s your major?”

     “Nursing.”

     “I’m thinking about taking guitar. Do you know anything about the music department?” Another guitar-playing guy back from the war…It was 1975 and no one appreciated the sacrifice our service men and women had made.

     “Don’t know a thing about the music department, all my classes are in math and science,” my curt reply did nothing to dissuade him from his cross-examination.

     “How about the art department? I saw some signs on the way over here. There is some kind of an Art Gallery around here.”

     “I know there is a sign pointing the way over by the library,” I wished he’d read my signs that I did not want any more of this conversation. I plastered my eyes on the Chapter Summary and tried my best to ignore him.

     “I just got out of the Air Force and did a bit of ceramics while I was in Arizona. I’d like to teach ceramics or art someday. Could you show me the way to that sign pointing to the Art Gallery?”

     Oh yeah, I sure can. “Of course, I’ll show you the way to the library. But then I really need to study.”

     “Let me just finish up my cake and we can go,” he said before demolishing it in a few bites.

     With nothing left for me to eat, I studied the face across from me; dark hair, brown eyes, a thinner version of my dad. He continued to ply me with questions and amazingly I continued to answer. Before I realized the time was passing, I found myself laughing and forgetting all about my test. The missed birthday party fled my thoughts as we walked across campus to the side door of the library.

     We found the sign which pointed up a staircase. “I guess that is the way to the Art Gallery.” I lingered at the door just a bit longer than needed.

     “You think you could walk up there with me?” He paused momentarily at a loss for words.

     What could one flight of stairs hurt? After all, I never had been to an art gallery in my life. Well okay, maybe I could take just a few more minutes. “Oh, all right.”

     “Oh, and by the way, here’s my phone number. Could you give me your phone number?” he miraculously materialized a slip of paper with his phone number on it. Do guys just carry these things around in their pockets?

     Of course, I had already memorized my new phone number for the condo! “Sure,” and I gave it to him which he carefully recorded in a small, green book he produced from his back pocket.

     So we climbed the first flight of stairs and reached a landing. At the side there was another sign stating Art Gallery with another arrow pointing up. So I looked up this flight and realized that there were many, many more flights of stairs up the hillside before a person would reach some trees at the top of a mountain with some buildings peeking from behind. What have I gotten myself into? And yet, now I didn’t want to let this conversation go. So we climbed up what I counted to be a dozen flights of stairs to finally reach the top and follow another sign into a shady grove where the Art Gallery stood, closed!

     Yep, they were between shows and if anything this part of the campus was even more deserted, probably because it involved climbing a mountain to get up here!

     “Hey, since the gallery is closed, would you like to see my car?”

     See his car, why in the world would I want to see anyone’s car! And so we walked off in another direction on campus for me to see his beautiful, to him, dark blue, 1974 Mustang. It was pretty and my 1967 Comet didn’t look like much beside it. I studied his pride in showing me his car. I thought of cars as utility vehicles to get me where I needed to go. What was I missing?

     “I’ve gotta go now, so I will give you a call sometime.” He hopped into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. A little more small talk and then our first parting from one another was over.

     Somehow I floated down the mountainside, found a place in the library, and focused back on the task of preparing for the multiple choice test in psychology. Thankfully we started the class with the test because I don’t think I absorbed much of the lecture afterwards. The next week I learned that despite the distractions, I did okay pulling a 90% on the test. By then, Gary and I had already had our first date and were making plans for him to come out and meet my family.

     Sometimes the small choice of looking up and giving a random stranger a moment or two of your time can have profound effects. Some of the walks we’ve taken together have been easier, other very difficult. Just 6 months after meeting, one of the hardest walks we took together was attending my mom’s funeral after inflammatory breast cancer robbed her away from us. Yes, all that stress she endured plus the rejection from the divorce did turn into serious illness for her. The psychology test had predicted correctly on that one.

     Another 6 short months later we became engaged, planning our wedding for July of the next year. We have been climbing mountains together for almost 40 years since the day I chose to look up. The world around us has revolved and now our country welcomes our veterans back home and thanks them for their service, unlike when Gary came home and veterans were reviled for fighting in Vietnam. This choice seems to be much better than blaming the men and women we send overseas for the results of war.

     And it is in those small, everyday choices when we decide to be there for one another, understanding our human foibles and enjoying our shared humanity that we set the patterns for our lives. Whether we grow a spirit of friendliness and generosity or become embittered over life’s difficulties is a result grown from those very choices to look up with a smile or keep our eyes shuttered from our fellow human beings. And yes, one day about 2 years into our marriage I asked Gary if he knew the Art Gallery was closed that day with his car parked so nearby. “Of course I did,” he said with a grin, “I just wanted to see if you would bother or not.” And I am so glad that I did because it turned into the best decision I ever made.

Delighting in the Day

By Linda Grupp Boutin

I find myself blooming into spring with thoughts of writing and speaking and traveling crowding my thoughts. When did winter fly away, I wonder while I watch a hummingbird quarreling with another? Here in SoCal, it feels like winter never stopped by. Last week temperatures hit 90 degrees and I searched my shorts drawer for cooler clothes to don. Sun drenched on our back patio, my two dogs are shedding warmer winter fur and putting on bright new coats for summer.

Cleaning closets and sorting books on the shelves gives me time and freedom to think while I work. I know I've kept these clothes too long, out of style and no longer fitting properly. They remind me of younger days when I dressed in layers for the vagaries of San Diego weather. Books, oh yes books, they have taken me places all my life. My fingers run over the dusty copies of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Austin and Ingalls. Here is one by Bill Moyers, this one explores the Vietnam War. Old clothes, old books, way too much dust, suddenly I sneeze.

Last night in the Aspiring Writers' Forum we discussed writer's block learning about how to overcome the yawning abyss of a blank white page. Stark and empty, this author advised us to write a letter to our mother. After all, you can pour out your heart to your mom and in the process tell her all about your troubles writing, how you don't fit your chosen career, frustrations and traumas; she will doubtless make it all better. And by the way, share with her the details of what you must write about and in the process share your story. Then delete the Dear Mom, the whining and doubts, and in the end you will discover what you were trying to write.

My coleader Coleene (left) and myself at the Aspiring Writers' Forum

I didn't do that, but in rummaging through my past, I discovered that I finally am content in my today. Though I no longer spend days on end reading books, still I love everything about story. Now I find my delight in one of my fellow writers reaching a goal. This week it was a friend finally launching a blog. I beam when one of the speakers I have worked with stands before our church's women and shares the story of her life and walk with the Lord. It gives me purpose to encourage and cajole, plead and prod, nurture and demand. I feel like I have been preparing for a lifetime to be just right where I am right now.

So tonight I am simply thankful. Grateful for a sunshiny day, for the love I feel, for the provision allowing me to pursue my passions. That contentment in the day is something I have pursued a lifetime and to finally find it brings pleasure that is hard to express. My life is not perfect, but now I spend my life immersed in story and loving being just where I am. Thank you Lord for this very day!