I was the fifth child of Allyn Francis Streur and Emily Ann Huxtable Streur. They were married in July, 1919; my mom was 20 and dad was 19 and they were married in my paternal grandparents home in Holland, MI. Dad liked to say, "Our celluloid collars were melting."
As part of Rebecca's dia de los muertos the art of remembering project for the month of October, I wanted to recall an event I did not attend but just loved to hear about. Mom died in 1968 and dad in 1979. This wedding picture hangs on a wall near the foot of my bed, so I see them every day just as you see them here. My parents had a tumultuous marriage, to say the least, but they stayed together and I like to remember them this way.
My maternal grandmother made my mother's dress and it hangs in my closet. I periodically put it on a mannikin so I can see it's beauty and feel what it might have been like on that long ago sultry Michigan day. We had my parents 50th wedding anniversary at our house in Torrance in 1967. Some of mom and dad's relatives, including my uncle Russ, who was my dad's best man, came from the east for the party.
Life was very hard for my parents, as it was for so many people who met and married in WW I and then faced into the depression. They had five daughters and I am the "baby," age 74, and my mom always introduced me as "her baby," even when I was a married lady with kids myself.
This is a SoulCollage® card I made for my parents for the community suit several years back.
I always put my parents wedding photo on my own ofrenda each year. Though they were of Dutch heritage and to the best of my knowledge never heard of dia de los muertos, this day has become part of my own tradition and I've got lots of my Dutch relatives placed in honor there.
Now here's a slight change of subject, but in a comment last week on Stephanie's blog, I mentioned a book I recently read that was so relevant to our own celebrations this month, so I want to share it here, too. A few people have e-mailed me to say they have read it, too. It is called The Butterflys Daughter by Mary Alice Monroe, and reading it as I began my own remembering time, it was a very special read.
