Eugenie Spitzer Oswald

Eugenie Oswald, 89 of Des Plaines was born December 1, 1926 and passed away May 23, 2016. Visitation will be Friday, May 27, 2016 from 3-8PM at Lauterburg & Oehler Funeral Home, 2000 E. Northwest Highway, Arlington Heights where funeral service will be held Saturday, May 28 at 12 noon. Interment Memory Gardens Cemetery. Funeral info 847-253-5423 or lauterburgoehler.com.

Obituary & Tributes

Mom often contemplated the varied chapters of her long life. During these past two and a half years, while I visited her in Des Plaines, we would sit on her balcony amid the geraniums and reminisce. There were stories of school days, favorite high school classes and life on the farm in Deutscheneck, Germany with her loving parents, Edmund and Emilie Spitzer, her sisters and brothers, Else, Irma, Arthur, Edith and Menita. Stories of the flight from their homeland during the war and finding refuge in a small town of Braasche. Stories of travels to a new life in Chicago, a time filled with intense homesickness, yet anticipation and hope. In Chicago, she would take English classes in night school and it wasn’t long before a tall, dark-haired, handsome young man would carry her books, eager to walk her to class. One snowy December evening, Mom heard a knock at the front door and opened it to find an enormous Christmas tree fall into the room. There was no one in sight, and no explanation other than a long white envelope tucked in among the branches of the tree, a letter from Hans, declaring his love for her. They would be married a short time later and would raise their two children, Anita and John in their beloved home and neighborhood on Hatlen Avenue in Mt. Prospect. Their lives were filled with the love of a warm and supportive extended family and circle of friends.

Another snowy, wintry day comes to mind, this one in Waterboro, Maine. I peeked out the front door of our home in the woods to look for Mom and Ted driving through the 24-inch snowstorm one February day in 1989. Their travels together took them cross country over the years, from Alaska to Maine, from California to Florida. She enjoyed life on the road, especially the camping and shared many stories.

Mom was truly dedicated to her children, Anita and John, their spouses Gerry and Meg, and ten beloved grandchildren: Sarah, Katherine, John, Michael, Ryan, Nicholas, Danny, William, Madison and Zachary. She provided loving encouragement, advice and wisdom, and had an immense pride and belief in her family. Always independent and strong, she faced heartache in the loss of Hans, her beloved husband, and John, her cherished son. Her determination and faith carried her through.

Anita

For Oma ~

On Monday, I did what Oma loved best. I spent the afternoon working in the garden, hands and toes black and digging in the dirt, pulling out earthworms and tending to the bright red geraniums in the window boxes she gave me last summer. They were her favorite. Oma was always climbing trees and doing odd jobs she should have asked a man to do but always did better. She could make anything grow. Always kept everything alive. Some of my earliest memories of her were tending the yard with my mother behind her home at Hatlen Avenue. I was always more interested in the earthworms, but even then I marveled at how immaculately she kept her flowerbeds, how carefully she pulled every last weed. She never let a potted plant die. The violets in her windowsill are still blooming beautifully today.

Oma tended her garden like she cared for every one of us. She kept track of her grandchildren like prize roses. She knew our life stories by heart, every job, every title, every promotion or salary increase. Every boyfriend’s last name carefully written down so she wouldn’t forget. She knew how much our rent was and if the landlord was any good. She knew if we were stressed or traveling too much, if we were happy or sad. And when things got really hard, she always had the right thing to say, because she was the strongest and most independent woman I knew. Oma was a realist but she was a dreamer too. I think that’s what she loved about gardening. The outdoors was a place where those things could come together. It was where she could relive the past or daydream about the future, where she could think about the people she loved and lost. And it was a place she could make things new again, where she could conjure beauty out of the dirt. That was Oma. She never let anything die. She kept everything alive. And now we have to do that too.

Sarah

Letter to Oma, With Love from Katie. May 27, 2016.

I’ve crossed the Atlantic a dozen times now, flying between Germany and America, through cumulus clouds that look like floating islands, into the heady blaze of sunrise or sunset, across endless midnights, gazing down into the inky reach where sky and sea merge in inseparable darkness below. Every time I make that crossing, I think of my grandmother. Picture her below at the rail of an ocean liner in 1950, watching waves break along the hull, feeling the swells lift the ship and carry it forward, salt wind in her dark hair, air filling her lungs with that fresh sharp scent, a balloon of anticipation rising in her chest. The transatlantic crossing--six weeks of rolling green waves and sea salt--probably felt an interminable in-between, a gap between her Old World life and her new one. But she was no stranger to crossings: there had been the long horizontal tracks, she once told me, which she followed as an eight-year-old, stepping barefoot along the sun-warmed soil ridges behind her father’s plow, picking up potatoes and placing them in her skirt pockets. There had been the harried crossing from the switchboard operator’s station where she worked at age sixteen, to her village in the hours before dawn to warn of the soldiers’ approach. And then there had been the uncertain flight from her destroyed village to the relative safety of Braasche, hundreds of miles on foot. Finally, there was that single decision that changed her fate, the reason some of us are here. A decision made spontaneously and, in her usual way, decisively: to cross the Atlantic.

Bold choices make for bold lives, and my grandmother never lacked for courage. She was fearless. And fiery. And stubborn as all heck. She had a will of iron and a body strengthened by it. When she set her mind to something--anything--it was as good as done. But she had a profound and deep vulnerability too. A rare empathy, a knack for growing things in hard places. She had an enviable intellect, an insatiable curiosity, a memory to put us all to shame, and an absolute focus in everything she did. Most live out a pale corner of their lives; most barely scratch the surface of their potential, too afraid to live, to step on toes, to give voice to their convictions or even have any to speak of. Not my grandmother. She had more heart, more fight, more wit, more zest in her pinky finger than most could hope to foster in a lifetime of trying. She lived fully, feistily, fearlessly.

Mid-flight, I imagine her at the bow of her ship, twenty-six years old. And from my vantage point in the sky, I can almost see her--a petite framed, blue-eyed beauty with that set look, that half smile and spark of mischief in her eyes, determinedly looking ahead. She didn’t know then what I know, could not have imagined the life she’d live. Could not have imagined that in a few short months my grandfather, sitting behind her in their language class watching her twirl her pen in her hair, would find himself breathless at the sight of her, would fall for her wit and her mysterious beauty, and woo her quietly and with purpose. That together they would grow a home, a garden, a business. Raise a daughter and son--my mother, my uncle--whose grace, warmth, and humour have touched so many lives. That she’d have such heartfelt long-standing friendships with so many. That she’d have ten grandchildren to love fiercely and without reserve, through every bump in the road. That fifty-odd years from the moment she stepped on that ship she’d be sitting on the couch with me, expounding the benefits of socks, comfortable shoes, and loose braids.

She was always full of advice--some of which I, who preferred bare-feet to socks, sandals to shoes, and tangled hair to braids, didn’t fully appreciate. But I marveled at her ability to care, to engage so fully with others and the intricacies of their lives. It’s a rare talent. Often people are so wrapped up in their own, they don’t bother to really look at you, let alone find out what you had for breakfast and why. My Oma cared so much and so deeply for others; her advice was an expression of it. She spoke above all of the value of education; the importance of newspapers for world engagement and language-learning; of the benefits of novels, histories, and genealogies; how to care for garden tools so they last three lifetimes; the use of reality shows for the study of relationship nuances and dance moves. She once invented a recipe for hair conditioner that involved me picking banana curdles out of our hair for hours after. For insomnia, she said, take an encyclopedia to bed. My grandmother, lifelong insomniac, read them, A-to-Z, I don’t know how many times. She spoke often and eloquently on the moral politics of waste, a subject she knew intimately from her wartime experience, and which I have only lately come to understand as key to healing in this grossly unjust world.

Not only advice, she thrived on discussion, never shying away from difficult topics: she spoke passionately and honestly. And she loved stories. She’d listen to every one of mine, from the time I was little, to the last decade when I began making my own crossings: she knew about my studies, my favorite books, my dreams, she’d listen to all my travel stories, want to know about every place I visited. She knew by heart the names of every crush, first and last, their personal histories and future aspirations. She’d even recall them years later, wondering what they were up to. When I came to her a heart-sore sixteen-year-old, bemoaning the lack of knights in shining armor, she--my practical, no-nonsense, spitfire of a grandmother--said, “Don’t worry about it dear. One day you’ll meet a dragon.” And when I eventually did meet one, only a particularly heartless one, she was there to pick up the pieces, to cry with me, to make me feel understood as no one else could. She was practical, but she had a poetic turn of soul and a deeply felt empathy. She knew firsthand the intricacies of love, of identity. “I’m an American, she told me once, “but my heart is German”. She opened up her own memory landscapes to me, one story at a time; and when once I videotaped her telling them, she watched herself onscreen and laughed so uproariously, so joyfully she couldn’t breathe. As I would sit beside her on the couch, faced with those remarkable eyes, or talk on the phone, hearing her soft voice, its tangle of sound so beautifully familiar I can hear it even now as clear as a bell, our conversations would cut across time and space. We’d make the crossings together from her stories to mine and back again, moving from the places she’d been to the places I hoped one day to go. And always--always--her wit, a well-placed joke would bring us laughing back to the present.

Toward the end of her life, this last year, her geographic orbit diminished--apart from a daring mid-winter trek to Maine--until eventually her crossings extended from kitchen to bedroom to balcony, where she’d look out at the garden she planted below. Our conversations, too, followed smaller circles, although she was still startlingly clear on the important topics--love, family, history, politics. We’d trade stories still, but the ones we told each other were familiar, well-worn and comfortable, as if we could, in the span of a conversation, return home to the places and times we’d been together before.

And each time we said goodbye, we had a mantra. It would go like this:

Oma, I love you.

I love you more, she’d say.

I love you the most, Oma.

There would be a pause, and then I’d hear the wicked grin in her voice as she said it: I love you forever.

The first time she said it, she startled herself, discovering the exchange. Then it became a place to return to, with me and others. We’d make the familiar crossing. Seeking out the beloved track we might travel together for a few moments.

Now she is gone, and all I want to do is call her up and hear her say it. Tell her I am here, and where is she? Tell her I am wishing I could hug her once more. Tell her I am reading newspapers to better my German; I guard my heart but keep it open; I have taken to wearing socks because she’s right, who likes cold feet?; I wear comfortable shoes because I can walk further afield; I wear loose braids because I think of her when I wear them. I strive to trust my voice as she did hers, to be certain and true, to live fully and fearlessly as she did.

Oma, it is time for you to make your final crossing. Next time I fly over the Atlantic I’ll think of you below on that ship, think of what a beautiful, full, fearless life you lived. Imagine you at the start of it all, just setting out. Only this time you won’t be below but above, watching me fly over the sea and make my own crossing, wholly unaware of what is to come, and eager with anticipation--holding you close as I go.

Oma, I love you. I love you forever.

Katie

For Oma,

My first job brought me here to Chicago six years ago. Oma became one of my closest friends and she did everything to help me. The very first thing she did was to rent a 10-foot U-haul and, with Grandpa Ted, she moved all of my furniture from here to Hyde Park. I still don’t know how they did it. Oma chose to lead by example and I still see her bending down, picking up paper and cleaning up her neighborhood.

I was lucky, each weekend at her table she told me stories about her move to America and meeting Opa. She always talked about Uncle John and my mom and she had specific memories of each of us, her grandchildren. She gave plenty of advice which included, “never waste anything, buy what you need, find someone who loves you.” At the end of each weekend she would pack up all the food I could carry home with me and then she would walk me out to the train and wave goodbye. I love you and I miss you Oma.

Michael

For Oma Oswald,

There is a heavy cloud over our heads today as we celebrate the life of my loving Oma. I like to think this intense pressure we feel is proportional to all the love she had for us.

She would always ask about my day, my accomplishments, listen to the challenges in my life and offer advice both practical and from the heart.

We were blessed to celebrate Christmas with Oma in Maine this past year. One of my fondest memories was learning a song called “Nach Meiner Heimat" together, a melody she brought with her from Germany; we played it many times. As we sang accompanied by the piano, Oma would occasionally stop me to explain the German words or she would say “it’s Heimat, Hei…mat, good. Now let’s take it from the top.” We sang it many times. She also had a great sense of humor.

And so I would like to sing this song for Oma today.

Ryan

For Oma

One my earliest memories is Oma teaching me how to tie my shoes. The way she taught me just made sense. I still tie my shoes, just like she taught me, to this day. She was probably the first person to truly understand me, with all of my complexities; when I was still just a toddler. I had numerous people trying to teach me all of the different techniques on tying a shoe, but her instruction and advice just made sense. It was the first clue that my Oma and I shared more than just blood. She was an individual who did things the way she strongly believed things should be done. I realize now that this small event in my life truly was the first time I started to understand the very strong connection I had with her.

I wasn't the easiest young child. When I was around six, my parents went out of town for a time. My dad had my Oma come down from Chicago to watch my brothers and I. We were used to babysitters. But this was not a normal babysitter: This was my Oma. We were picky eaters as children. So what was her answer? Cook up the most German meal she could think of and not take 'NO' for an answer (a quality she had mastered at this point). Some of the pickiest of my brothers had reservations, but my faith in my Oma had already been established. I ate every last bite and even asked for seconds, just to impress her (not to mention it was quite delicious).

Skipping forward a bit. My Oma traveled even further south to our home in Houston. Oma was eager to meet her newest Granddaughter. We have these expansive paths through the wooded forest in Kingwood. Oma and I went on many walks while she was visiting on this occasion. I remember sitting down on these wooden benches, which are scattered throughout the wooded paths... When I think about the number of conversations that I have ever had in my life, somehow, the talks with my Oma, sitting on these benches, stand out the most... I passed these benches thousands of times growing up. I spent a lot of time in those woods, on those benches. With all of that, the thing I remember most about these benches is sitting next to my Oma as a child... Giving me advice. Advice I promised her I would listen to. Advice I still value and will continue to for the rest of my life.

Over my lifetime, I have had the privilege of talking to her for many hours at a time. She has known me my entire 27 years of existence. I regret not having a million more conversations. She surprised me, every time we talked, at knowing exactly what I was feeling and had an 'Oma Solution' to all of my various life situations. I found her to be one of the most influential people in my life. I would give anything to spend one more afternoon walking through those woods having one more conversation.

Our family has been through a lot and she represented so much strength to us all. But we will continue to live with the memory of my amazing Oma.

We will miss you.

Nick

For Oma,

I don’t think I can stand here and effectively convey just how special Oma was as a person or what she meant to me in my life, but I’d like to share a couple of stories about Oma that helped me grow and mature as a person.

There was one time when I was little where Oma came to visit my family in Houston. One of the nights she insisted on cooking dinner for me and my siblings. She cooked rice-a-roni, a seemingly safe dinner option that everyone would love. After one bite, I knew I had to throw in the towel. To be fair to Oma, it was the mix that was horrible and I was a much pickier eater at the time, but regardless, I knew I couldn’t eat another bite. Without a word, I got up and snuck my food into the garbage bin. This was a foolish and reckless mistake on my part because I should have known that even at her age, Oma saw everything. This ignited a fuse that sparked an hour long lecture that my young, impatient self had to endure on why throwing away food was so bad and that I should respect what I have been given. Looking back, she was absolutely right and my actions weren’t only wasteful but probably pretty rude.

So lesson one, don’t be wasteful and appreciate what you have been given in life.

Fast forward a few years, probably about 8 or 9 years ago, and I learned an important aspect of life regarding family relationships. After my Dad’s stroke, he made it a point to call his mom more often. It was to the point where every time we were hanging out on the couch watching football, he would be on the phone with Oma for at least an hour. Now, I think we all know Oma can talk about anything forever—I mean at 90 years you have that kind of perspective on things. But let me paint this picture for you: so my Dad was a big guy, big enough to when he reclined in his chair his gut created a small tabletop for him. So several times, while on the phone with Oma, my Dad would turn and start talking to me. When I looked over, the phone was face down on the said man-table with Oma still talking to what she thought was my Dad’s ear. After a few minutes, my dad would pick up the phone, throw in a “Mmhmm” or a “Yeah” and the conversation wouldn’t miss a beat. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t listen to your parents, because you absolutely should. But, I think tuning into the Bears game is a viable excuse.

The frequency of communication between my Dad and his mom was admirable to say the least. I think it helped both of them cope with my Dad’s stroke and get even closer in their later years. So lesson two, try to keep a very communicative relationship with your family because they are the best support system you have.

These lessons are just a couple of an infinite bank of knowledge Oma conveyed to her children, her grandchildren, and everyone important to her. You can beat yourself up over the calls you didn’t make or the letters you didn’t send, but those are just memories that didn’t happen. Instead I think you should embrace the time you had, the memories you shared, and the lessons you learned from our Oma. So Oma, in your infinite wisdom and gentle ways, thanks for all you have taught me and most importantly thank you for being you.

Will

My Oma,

The last time I was here in Illinois, I remember sitting in her wonderful, orderly kitchen. She would be there making us all coffee or happily cooking up delicious potato pancakes. She was never one to willingly sit down and take a moment for herself, but would rather continue to cook for us until we finished our meal, before considering to sit down at the table herself. I was reminded of one of my fondest memories of her when I returned to Des Plaines a few days ago. When we walked into the condo, everything was still and quiet, except for a small bird knocking against her window. I went out to the balcony and looked down at the garden that Oma loved so much. Just a few years ago, we were down there together digging up a couple Roses of Sharon, which we took back to our home in Maine. She was so careful and focused on a task that I, as a young teenager would have otherwise taken for granted. That’s what I remember most about Oma: her ability to be present and keep you present in the moment.

During the past couple years, I started practicing my German with her over the phone. Because I was a beginner, I had thought she would speak slowly, but instead she got excited and perked up. She rapidly questioned me about school, my career aspirations and her favorite topic, any possible girlfriends. When we said goodbye after our first German phone conversation she said “Auf Wiederhören”, which means "until we hear each other again". At Christmas time, Oma made the trip out to Maine, where we had a wonderful time together, but unfortunately, she didn’t get to see her beautiful flowers bloom. When I go back to Maine, I’ll go water your flowers, Oma. Auf Wiederhören.

Zack