My childhood memories are sparse. When others recall detailed stories from age three or four, I’m amazed and a little unnerved. Did something happen that I’ve blocked out? Or did I just grow up in the kind of uneventful Midwest childhood where days blurred into one another? Scientists call it “childhood amnesia,” when the brain’s memory systems aren’t fully developed. But I sometimes wonder: was it boredom? Or was my brain protecting me, quietly choosing to let things go? Maybe it was the underage drinking in cornfields later on that scrubbed the early memories clean. All I know is, before I was about 16, I don’t remember much. What I do have I am holding on to by retelling the stories to my kids, old pictures and my writing.
Most of my childhood memories are scattered and sensory: the thrill of May Day basket chases and innocent kisses, building snow forts and stagecoaches out of furniture, the smell of burnt coffee at the library where the janitor taught my brother and I chess. One early morning at a lake’s edge, I stumbled into a stare-down with a deer taking a drink, so close I could hear it breathe. We locked eyes for a second before she pranced away. Left in charge in the middle of the night, I was proud of the responsibility and wildly danced on my bed to Niel Diamond while my mother gave birth to a new sister at the hospital. My parents took me alone to see The Carpenters and the Ice Capades, complete with shrimp cocktail and a Shirley Temple. Those brief sparks made an imprint.
But one summer day has never left me. Nothing dramatic happened, yet it endures. It was less than a minute, but over half a century later, I still grin when I go down those stairs and see them there.
It was Stoltenberg Reunion Week at my grandparents’ red brick home in rural Nebraska, the high point of summer. My mother and her many siblings had grown up on the farm my great grandpa, a German immigrant, had built in 1925 after receiving many acres of prairie to develop thanks to the Homestead Act. We were the only family that had stayed in Nebraska. Every two years my six aunts and two uncles would return with spouses and kids in tow. I had 23 cousins on my mother’s side and was the oldest girl. I relished that role, corralling them all for games and putting on skits.
My aunts and uncles were the coolest in my eyes. They gave me loving attention, were funny, dressed different. Besides books and movies, they were my only connection to the outside world.
Reunion week, at the height of hot and humid summer, was a whirlwind of joy. On Saturday, my family and subsequent arriving cousins kept vigil at the window until we spotted a car and guessed who was driving down the dusty gravel road. “California plates it’s the Burches”, or “It’s the Brantley’s VW van, Florida’s here!”) arriving after a long drive. We bounded out the door as each family pulled in, leaping into hugs and guessing about who was next.
The official beginning was on Sunday at the Baptist Church two miles away. The church was never so full as that week, the Stoltenberg’s filling up the church with our boisterous exotic families hailing from shore to shore. Wearing our finest duds we were the talk of Chapman (pop. 600). We sang hymns full throttle and fidgeted in the heat. The minister would have us stand and say who we were and where we were from as my grandparents beamed.
Each day had a theme: water-skiing at the lake, relay races and volleyball, pool and pizza, picnics, talent shows, line dances from our hip aunts, a fancy dinner in town, and one full “work” day for repairs or cleanup.
Since we lived nearby, my mother organized and kept things running behind the scenes. Each family took a turn managing a day’s activities, and everyone chipped in for food and those who could, contributed more. A couple families slept in the basement where my aunts slept all their childhoods. Some nights, I got to sleep over and some nights, there were epic thunderstorms where we could dance in the rain and scream at the lightening – there were no safety protocols. The lucky ones were those who got to stay at the Ramada Inn in town with a poolside room.
There was Pool Day at the Ramada, splashing around, playing games, sunning ourselves while waiting for an uncle to show up with pizza and a big box of Snickers or Buster Bars from the Dairy Queen. The smell of chlorine and pepperoni, the fizz of icy Coke tasted like heaven after sun, tag and Marco Polo.
Game Day meant water fights, relay races, and volleyball. Uncle Ronnie famously cheated, and no one dared call him out. Competition among the uncles was often passive-aggressive, but I didn’t notice any real conflict or drunken behavior, just the occasional brag or joke that landed wrong, especially toward the women. Misogynistic and bigoted jokes passed unnoticed back then. It was a part of the culture, and only much later did I realize I was raised to play along.
Lake Day was my favorite. We’d load up early and drive two hours to Lake 20, where we slathered on tanning oil instead of sunscreen and water-skied all day. My mom couldn’t swim but could ski gracefully, waving at us like Jackie Kennedy as she came around the bend sinking into the water on her last round, fluid as a ballet dancer. Aunt Carrie could jump-start from shore and ski like a skitter bug cutting waves without getting her hair wet. Maury brought sandwiches from Irv’s, for me a ham and Swiss on dark rye. I looked forward to that sandwich all year. They taught me to ski too, patiently and with joy. I treasured cutting across the waves on one ski and feeling powerful, getting cheers as I passed the family and signaled for another round. Near the end of the day, the lake would calm down, and we skied on glass. Driving home full of sand, we’d crash into sleep, mouths open like fish out of water, crushed against each other. At home we took vinegar-wash showers to soothe our sunburns and fell asleep into a cool bed with crisp white sheets.
Evenings ended outside with talent shows, line dancing and horsing around. One year the sisters performed a Bonnie Raitt number in matching outfits and laughed so hard some had to run to the bathroom. Carrie brought cassettes loaded with all the latest dance music and taught us the Electric Slide and the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. The ladies did all the food work, and no one ever complained, because they made it fun.
Carrie and Maury were the couple I adored. She was a bonified beauty queen turned physical fitness coach, radiant and strong, with an energy that filled every room. He worked for IBM, calm and steady, laughing at her jokes with affection. They both treated me like someone worth their time. Carrie was a Jehovah’s Witness but never pushed us about it unless we asked. For years Maury resisted her religion, until a car accident and heart attack nudged him toward faith, too. They were devoted to wellness long before the rest of us knew why it mattered. I remember how they gazed at and laughed with each other, respected each other, and how even their stillness felt sacred.
Uncle Doug and Lorita were pure sunshine. Doug was a Vietnam vet, movie-star handsome, always tan, laughing, a drink in hand, arm around his young wife. They had four kids in five years and never seemed to stop flirting. Their physical affection was constant, playful, and real. Even now, at 81, Doug wears a ponytail, drinks Crown Royal, and never turns down a chance to laugh or ask a question. They were joy in motion. Watching them made me believe that staying in love wasn’t just possible, it could be a party. Their chemistry didn’t fade with time. If anything, it deepened.
Grandma Edna was the glue. She’d married Grandpa at fifteen, raised nine children through dust storms, lean times, and long absences when my grandpa disappeared on benders. Everyone in that family had to work hard and they did. Grandma hosted church groups and was a dedicated member of the Babtist church, sold Avon like a queen, led the Eastern Star Masonic club, and knew each of her dozens of grandchildren by voice alone. When I called from Germany, even at ninety, she’d recognize my voice and say, “Tell me everything.” When I asked her to give a piece of advice for a newsletter I wrote, it was, “Don’t give advice.” She didn’t lead with emotion or make grand declarations, but she held on in the truest sense – holding family together, holding stories, holding space.
In 1974 I was eleven going on twelve, and that year we had Paint the Fence Day. The men left early for supplies; the women laid out doughnuts, sliced fruit, and gathered sandwich orders. As the sun climbed, we got to work – and the bugs did too, an entomologist’s dream: stinging, smelly, and relentless despite our layers of Deet.
We scraped and painted all day under the blistering August sun, humidity melting away enthusiasm, the endless fence stretching like a border around our shared childhood. Cousins got into paint fights then hose fights, aunts scolded and sang folk songs, teasing and giggling till they cried. Each aunt has their own unique laugh I swear, even today in their 80s. My uncles, trying to one-up each other, postured over the best techniques of the job at hand. Grandpa supervised, leaning on a rake, grunting approval or irritation depending on his mood. Grandma minded the babies.
Eventually, flushed and thirsty, I ducked into the cool, dank and dark basement to grab a pop from the extra fridge. I skipped down the stairs, already thinking of the frosty can I’d pull from behind the watermelon and stacked casseroles.
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped.
magical light from the basement windows streamed through the dark as dust particles danced in the rays. Around the corner bathing in the light, stood Carrie and Maury – naked, wet, and holding each other.
They didn’t see me as far as I could tell, and I didn’t make a sound. I froze and watched, transfixed, as they stood silently, wrapped in one another. They weren’t in motion. They were simply being – still, close, and connected.
And it didn’t feel shameful like I’d learned in church. It wasn’t sexual in the way I’d heard the word tossed around by older kids or hinted at dirty jokes my uncles made, much to my aunts’ chagrin. This wasn’t a punchline or a secret.
It was natural, it was love.
That’s what I saw – or what I think I saw. They were younger than my parents and so full of life. Here, in the quiet, they held each other like the world had narrowed to just the two of them. I turned back up the stairs and silently skedaddled, no pop in hand – but satisfied all the same.
It was the first time I’d witnessed intimacy that felt mutual and whole. Not awkward or desperate. Their moment in the basement had no audience, no agenda. It wasn’t performative. They were just standing there, their sports sculpted bodies skin to skin, holding on. And I remember thinking: This is different. This is real on both sides. I didn’t know exactly what it meant, but I knew I wanted to feel that way one day.
Today I still wonder what I saw in that dim basement. Maybe it was a moment of reconciliation. Maybe it was spontaneous affection, or just a pause in the chaos of the family and action of the week, a sacred pocket of stillness. I can’t say. One thing’s for sure: they definitely weren’t painting the fence!
What I do know is that it left an imprint. It was real connection. For a love that lingers, quietly.
I grew up in a world where touch, especially loving, sustained, compassionate touch – didn’t happen. My father would reach dramatically for my mother, hopeful she might respond. But she never did, not with warmth, not with a kiss or an embrace. It left him fumbling and me confused. Everything to do with sex or nakedness was cloaked in silence or jokes, or awkward sounds behind closed doors. Maybe that’s why what I saw between Carrie and Maury stood out. It was something new – still, safe, and good.
At home today in Germany with my husband, children, and close friends, loving affection flows easily, something I cherish. I still flinch when my husband surprises me for a deep kiss or fondle in front of others. But we hold hands, and kiss or pat each other with every passing, and I miss it when we don’t. With my Nebraska family, hugs feel stiff – more ritual than real. I hug them because I’m supposed to, but true tenderness, the holding on, is absent for me. Watching my sister and niece with my mother, naturally affectionate, makes me quietly envious, feeling like the odd man out. I think it’s just I’ve been gone for so long – left Nebraska when I was still a teenager and they’ve lived a whole life together since then.
After surviving a violent assault, my sixteen-year-old daughter couldn’t bear to be touched at all. The sweet girl I’d once held constantly, as a fragile preemie, always in my arms, now recoiled from any touch. Walking by I would forget and absent-mindedly stroke her hair, making her jump and shudder. We honored her request and with time she’s healed, mostly. Still, the ache of not being able to hold her when she was hurting shifted something deep inside me. Now, I don’t take for granted that I get to hug her and stroke her hair again. Her hugs seem more natural with her dad and once I asked her, trying my best not to sound needy, why that was. Ethereal and sensitive, she told me I can be too assertive and not soft enough, so I try to soften. Her therapist once told me my daughter knows I love her, and to let go. It’s difficult for most mothers to let go of their young adults to make their own way, but it’s been a struggle for me to let go of my suffering child. I’ve done my best and hope I’ve hit the groove of “not too much, not too little.” We have a different level of connection which is good and strong. We hold on too, in our own way.
Perhaps that’s why I still see them there, Carrie and Maury, standing quietly in the basement, reminding me that presence, not performance, is what lingers.
Love, at its most real, doesn’t need to be loud or seen. I show my love by being thoughtful with small things like notes when I leave or when someone comes home, giving individual small gifts that say I see you or I was thinking of you. Making favorite meals, sending a meme only my loved one will appreciate. Wearing my husband’s favorite perfume, buying a book I think we will enjoy reading together, practicing active listening. (and not giving advice unless it’s asked for!) Sharing these things is connecting. It shows that I know you, I think of you, you are important to me, I need you, I appreciate you.
When my dreams have a setting, they almost always take place at the farm. Though I never lived there full-time, it’s my emotional anchor. It’s been almost thirty years since we were married in the yard, surrounded by the whole family. After my grandparents passed, I bought it from the others and renovated it with care. My parents moved in to care for my grandmother, and after she died, they stayed. Now my mother lives there alone, content in the quiet. When the time comes, my sister will move in.
Last August the farm celebrated its centennial, so I hosted a reunion. So many of my relatives have passed, but 35 of us showed up, and had a blast. We rehashed the old times, even played some of the same old games and made a memorial for those we’ve lost.
Someday, I imagine living a part of the year there too. Caring for a vegetable garden, flowers blooming by the porch, the sound of locusts and meadowlarks in the evening air. I picture myself writing at a desk near the porch window, watching cattle graze beyond the windbreak. When we’re visiting my children compose music there. Maybe we’ll buy back some acreage, grow farm-to-table produce for the locals, or turn it into a studio retreat for musicians. The farm, to me, is not just memory – it’s a treasure worth preserving.
We hold on in the ways we can: through memory, through meaning, and through the quiet choice to keep showing up for love. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we carry forward a single still moment – like that day in the dim Nebraska basement – cupped in our hands like light.
That moment may have lasted only seconds, but it gave me a lifetime’s worth of knowing:
That intimacy can be silent, even unseen.
That love, in its most enduring form, lives not in grand gestures, but in the small, steady ways we choose again and again…
not to let go.
