Growing up, I remember hearing a few expressions and superstitions in our larger family. Some of what sticks with me to this day comes from Aunt Edna, who at 15 married Mother’s brother, Frank William “Bubba” Fuchs. Aunt Edna has quite a store of superstitions and expressions from her Texas German (Rustenbach) family. Some of those come to mind any time I find myself doing something in violation of the rules of superstition, the rules that are forever absorbed into the marrow of my bones. It’s bad luck to rock an empty chair, lay a hat on the bed, sweep under someone’s feet. If you spill salt, throw a pinch over your shoulder. From someone I remember that it’s bad luck to tell your dreams before breakfast. I’ve had some of my own goofy little compulsive notions over the years—nothing rooted in tradition, just things that grew out of the fears that we were carefully taught, my own iteration of things to worry about. Trusting that things will work out surely comes from my Scots Irish Daddy. The worrying part absolutely comes from Mother, a product of the German Benfer/Fuchs clan.
What’s happening now in this land of opportunity, the great place of capitalism, this home where prosperity, according to many, is supposed to trickle down to those who, by any definition are without sufficient worldly resources, is cause for worry. Mother’s family didn’t really suffer during the great American depression, not like the Hollises, who did their own trickle, a third migration of sorts for our branch of this family of Scots Irish heritage—North Carolina before the American Revolution, Alabama before the Civil War, East Texas by train before the turn of the 19th century—narrowing, narrowing in numbers—to the family of Stephen Edgar Hollis heading to Houston, in search of resources and a more secure life, in the very throes of the depression. And those children—the members of what Tom Brokaw calls “the greatest generation”—all went on to prosper, in varying degrees. The Benfer/Fuchs clan had land in northwest Harris County from the time they disembarked from Prussia/Germany in the third quarter of the 19th century. To this day, that land continues to translate into other land, and sometimes into money. “They’re not making any more land,” you hear from those who insist on the importance of passing on this heritage.
My maternal grandmother, Lizzie Fuchs, the product of German stock that came to Texas just after the close of the Civil War—actually from the northern part of Germany that was Prussia until WWI—had a few choice sayings, a reflection of her rural heritage, characterized by hard work, grinding tenacity. “If you can’t listen, you have to feel.” “You made your bed, now you have to lie in it”. For all the value of much of this, I can see the source of the conflict of traditions between Mother and Daddy. Mother was the driving force in their marriage, and because of who they both were, they worked very hard, teaching us the value of being productive. Daddy lost his health to hard work, and cigarettes. Grandma Fuchs could work like a man and then fry up a mean steak. I remember her working until she couldn’t, just like my mother. Great industry translated into expectation that others follow suit.
Wikipedia, that treasure trove of interesting and useful information on the Internet, offers some history on my maternal ancestry that causes me to nod my understanding about some of the rules of life that became very familiar to me while growing up. “Many Prussians believed some specific ‘Prussian virtues’ were part of the reasons for the rise of their country, for instance: perfect organization, discipline, sacrifice, rule of law, obedience to authority, but also reliability, tolerance, frugality, punctuality, modesty, and diligence. In the eyes of non-Prussians who were forced to become subjects of that state, the culture of the Prussian state represented lack of freedom, personal repression and bureaucratic regimentation, blind obedience, cultural arrogance and amoral rationalism.”
And all this time, I’ve been blaming my ways on my Virgo birth sign. Apparently, at least some of my Prussian German heritage has had its way with me. Obviously the Scots Irish from the Hollis line has had is way, at least a little…Irish temper, for one. I chuckle as I think about lying in a bed at times uncomfortable, but I don’t chuckle so much at some of my hard-headed ways. Wait, there’s another expression: “hard-headed Dutchman” (Deutschlander). It gets so confusing at times, trying to figure out who we are. Yes, indeed, if you don’t listen, you suffer the consequences. The tough times are trickling down to the likes of me—I have plenty of company—to the likes of me. Oh, there’s another expression: “We’re all in the same boat.”
In a recent meditation from Forward Movement—a website devoted to reflections on the scriptures appointed for the day, based on the Revised Common Lectionary used in many church denominations—the writers include a quote from Kirk Byron Jones—“Shackles are shackles, even if they happen to be made of gold.” Also absorbed into my bone marrow, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson). From George Santayana’s The Life of Reason: “Happiness is the only sanction of life; where happiness fails, existence remains a mad and lamentable experiment.” And also from Mr. Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”. Listen up, I say to myself. I suspect that Grandma Fuchs’s spirit is saying, “I told you so.” But to that voice that wants to keep me mired in the past, especially those parts colored by regret, fear, blame, I say, “Shut up.” Well, truthfully, sometimes my language is a little stronger.
I’m thinking about the storied benefits of horseshoes, which, along with the Irish four-leaf clover, bring good luck. One theory has it that the horseshoe must be hung with the open end pointed upward. Otherwise, all of the luck runs out, and alas, you are without luck. In the hallway of my barn home is displayed a rack our daddy made back in the 50s for hanging tack—bridles and so forth—from our growing up days when we spent a lot of our leisure time riding horses. Daddy’s design causes the open end of the horseshoe to point downward, I guess based on the theory that this design allows the luck to flow out. Maybe it wasn’t a design choice, but instead a choice of practicality governed by the shape of the wood mount on which the bridles would hang. Back at the turn of the 20th century, when I first started working on converting this two-story barn to residential space, Aunt Edna pointed this out to me one Sunday, as she and Mother sat on lawn chairs in the hallway of the barn, visiting while I worked, productivity born and bred into me. Hmmm. Well, there’s another expression: “The die has been cast”…an irrevocable choice has been made. At least, so goes the expression.
http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/358600.html
The Die Has Been Cast—Normangee, Texas (September 25, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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