Heat of July

Yesterday I gave up or I like to think gave in. I sent my 2 1/2 year old son out-of-doors in the pajama shirt from the night before, a diaper and sandals. He is at the stage when he is exploring his new found independence and does not like me to dress him. He just says, 'I do myself", legs flailing.

It was a hot day. My four-year-old spent the entire day in his swim trunks so why bother putting shorts over an already hot, sticky diaper on the toddler. Giving in-yes. I always saw it as low-class when parents wouldn't bother to cover a baby's diaper. Just think, how many times have you been in your local Wal-Mart (one reason I boycott the store) only to see that family lead by the screaming mother as the older kids run up and down the aisles and the half-clothed, dirty baby sits in the front of the shopping cart sucking on a toy, or soda or maybe the mom's lighter.

Improper. But we were home and playing in the dirt and sprinkler all day. Why bother? I'm a mother of two rowdy boys and run a daycare from our home. I'm tired and it's hot as the devil outside. I gave in, but that's okay.

Hungarian Jews

I opened The Washington Post today to see an article in Style section dedicated to the saving of most likely 30,000 Hungarian Jews during the Holocaust. It was a weird occurrence and you'll just have to read the article or see the new documentary "Glass House". It is how a Salvadoran diplomat gives out 9,000-10,000 nationality papers at the Glass House (Üvegház) that freed Hungarian Jews before the Nazis were able to destroy them.

So why does this resonate with me? My father was born to a Protestant family and grew up in Budapest in the 1940s-1950s. In 2001 my husband and I had the privilege to travel to Hungary, with my parents as our tour guides. It was an incredible journey for me. It not only opened my eyes to my heritage, but also helped me connect the pieces of a puzzle of my past. My father, Zoltan Bagdy, was never like the other dads, just a little off-beat, is one way to describe him. So my trip to his homeland suddenly solidified a lot of his quirks/idiosyncrasies. Finally it all made sense (I did say that the entire trip).

My father and his parents, Laszlo and Elizabeth, and his sister, Hedy, escaped Hungary on foot when the Iron Curtain fell in 1956. That in itself is such an incredible story, one that my father needs to put in writing. The fact that my grandfather decided that the family should leave their homeland and a lucrative construction business in order to live freely says a lot about their beliefs. This is where the Hungarian Jews come into play.

Early in his life my father lived with his family in a comfortable house on the Pest side of the city. The home was located on a tree lined street in a pretty neighborhood layed out in city blocks. When we visited his first home, it must have looked much like it did when my father was a boy, except for the height of the trees. This was the house, I assume, that my grandparents made the risky decision to hide a family of Jews in their attic during WWII. My father, even though a young boy, has memories of the time period. I am not sure how long they lived in my grandparents home in hiding, but I know it happened. I can only hope and assume that the family were able to escape the horrors of the Holocaust due to my grandparents generosity. Generosity, is that even the correct word to use in the case of saving another's life?

I am not writing this because I am trying to turn my grandparents in martyrs, even though I too believe in their cause of freedom for all regardless of religious beliefs. I am putting this in writing because I think it is a story that needs to told and remembered. I am not the best person for it, that would be my father, but at least this is a start.

Keeping it all in order

When I was about 11 I started keeping a diary. It was pink, with a couple of little girls on the front cover and had a lock and key...as if anyone really wanted to break in to read it. I began writing on mundane things such as what I did that day in school, about my 6th grade friendships and silly dreams and ideas. It was really very dull. The following year I entered 7th grade and quickly became obsessed with a particular British rock group....my second diary became filled with thoughts of these men and snip-its of my friendships of that time. Again, possibly not too intriguing, yet I thought I was the next Anne Frank. Writing as if someone would surely publish these entries long after my death these volumes kept increasing....I think I ended up filling about 13/14 journals. I wrote on a daily basis until I became an adult, got a job and became distracted with life . Once I became pregnant for the first time I did a great job journaling and tracking the pregnancy so that my first born son has detailed description of my growing girth and thigh size as well as memories of certain cravings (breakfast foods of all kinds). After he was born I tried to keep it up in some form and then became pregnant again. As a second born child ,I know that each subsequent child has less in that memory box than the first born. So my journaling tapered off again until it finally came to a standstill after the baby was born. Looking back (it took me a year to figure this out) I think I was suffering from postpartum depression, yet I somehow managed to keep a calender of the little events/milestones for both of my sons.

So here I am a 35-year-old mother of two who has finally unearthed the box of old journals from the basement storage room. It all started last year when I broke a ten-year long silence and reconnected with my first REAL boyfriend. We spent five tumultuous years together through the end high school and he even followed me to college only to break my heart by leaving me for a freshman girl. Of course there was more to it then that, but that is the jist of it. So after contacting him I was forced to pull out the diaries and all the letters he ever wrote me. I am very anal so each letter was kept in order from the time we first began dating up until he moved far away to Seattle with the girl he left me for. Thrown into the mix are little love notes on scraps of paper and numerous photos of us as a couple. I spent about a month combing through these letters and diaries only to find out that it wasn't all his fault. Yes, he should have been more respectful, and yes I should have left him before he had a chance to leave me, but after re-reading everything describing our life together, I realized that my memory over the past 15 years had downplayed all the mistakes I made and amplified all of his shortcomings.

A year later I have put that section of my life away in the basement boxes only to rediscover another time in my life.....middle school. While this was probably not as exciting as re-living all the "firsts" with my first boyfriend it has been strangely comforting to read what I was like at 13. All my hopes and plans for myself that had been long forgotten....I was going to move to NYC, become a famous interior designer and marry a rock star....what happened to that plan? The good news is that I have not only re-discovered myself, but also reconnected with some very special people from that time in my life. Some of these friends were my very best friends at the time in middle and high school whom I just lost track of ,while others were with me for only one very happy 8th grade year. It has had a domino effect in who is getting in touch with who and we are now planning a reunion 20 years later. I have re-read and copied certain passages from my diaries and shared a few. It offers a snapshot of that time and place and also sets the record straight on what really happened and how it occurred. Yes, memory is a funny thing. It plays tricks on you, blocking out the bad and remembering the good.....but my diaries hold the truth. Now if only I can find that key.