Remembering Lon Holupko

Lon Holupko grew up a block away from me, and he and my older brother were friends. They were in the same Scout troop and played football on the same team. Lonnie was three years older than me, and I think he might have called me “squirt” or some other name one gives to little kids.

My brother and his friends, including Lonnie, were “cool” kids. Other than playing football, I am not sure what made them “cool,” but everyone knew that they were.

I, on the other hand, was a nerd. I loved to read and most of my free time was spent reading. The Laura Ingalls Wilder Branch of the Detroit Public Library was my home away from home on summer days.

When I wasn’t reading, I was sewing, and from the time I was eleven years old, I sewed my own clothes—not very cool.

I was an embarrassment to my brother, and he instructed his friends not to talk to me—as if some of my uncoolness might rub off on them, or if his friends were seen talking to me, his reputation would be tarnished.

Knowing how strongly my brother felt about his reputation and unwilling to incur his wrath, I would not acknowledge his friends in public, and when they came to our house to see him, I would answer the door and say, “He is downstairs.” Then I would go back to my book.

Growing up as the younger sister of a popular boy was unpleasant most of the time.

When Lonnie came to the house, though, he always stopped and talked to me. He would ask about the book I was reading or exchange some pleasantries. I would become anxious, fearing my brother might come in and see me talking with Lonnie, but Lonnie never seemed to notice. He was so polite and kind.

I felt seen by Lonnie, which was significant since I lived in my brother’s shadow and mostly experienced myself as invisible.

I thought of Lonnie as someone who made the world a better place, and I imagined he would do great things in adult life.

But Lonnie died in Vietnam soon after I graduated from high school. He was twenty years old. He was the kindest, most thoughtful person I had ever known, and then he was dead. I was heartbroken.

I thought of all the things Lonnie would not get to do, all the people whose lives he would not touch, all the invisible girls who would not be seen by him. Such a loss.

I decided that I would live my life for him, that I would try to do what I thought he would do—that I would see people who were invisible, be kind to people others ignored and be accepting of anyone who came into my life.

My life has been much smaller than I imagined Lonnie’s would have been, but I have tried to honor his life by keeping his spirit alive.

My self-care plan

In January 2021, after a couple of years of increasingly serious health challenges, my mom went on hospice. She was ninety-four years old, her heart was getting weaker and she had other health issues. I was still working, and I spent much of my after-work time at my mom’s. I was already a bit worn out, and I knew the most challenging times were ahead.

I worked at a cancer support center and continually encouraged people to take care of themselves, especially those in the care-giver role. I decided to take my own advice.

One self-care plan for me is to have something to look forward to, something exciting to plan for and anticipate.

Several years earlier, I had been to Paris, and I wanted to see more of France, but I don’t speak French, so I booked a land tour of France with Overseas Adventure Travel (O.A.T.) for March 2022. It was more than a year away, and I bought insurance so I could postpone if need be, but once it was booked, the trip dangled in front of me like a sparking gem.

I began to read books set in France, particularly books related to World War II and the actions of the French government and the resistance movement. I love history and especially enjoy reading historical fiction.

My mom’s care became more consuming as the weeks and months went on, and my dream of traveling in France helped sustain me.

My mom died in June, and grief replaced dreaming; France settled somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

And then one day last November, I remembered my trip to France. I called OAT and asked where I was in the process. Yes, I had booked the trip; I still needed to do some administrative tasks and book my flights. Once those were completed, I began again to dream of France.

Since I was going to Europe, I decided to add a week at the beginning of my trip to visit friends in Ireland. It was great to see them again after five years, and we had a wonderful time. Then I was on to France.

On the way from the Charles De Gaulle Airport to Fontainebleau (the first stop on my tour) I noticed trees along the highway which had things that seemed to be huge nests in them. I asked the tour guide, and he said they were mistletoe.

He explained that mistletoe is a parasite and if left untreated, it kills the trees.

I had never given any thought to where mistletoe grows or that it might be harmful. This is going to be an adventure of learning, I thought—beyond my expectations or hopes or dreams.

Sure enough, there were surprises almost every day. We traveled for three weeks, from Fontainebleau to Normandy in the north, south to Carcassonne, and north to Paris—the mistletoe in the trees along the highways serving as a reminder to let go of my expectations and be open.

Keeping perspective during challenging times

I love to read novels and mysteries. Last month, I read American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins. I had requested it from the library before the pandemic, and when it finally came in and I started to read it, I found the subject matter quite difficult.  

American Dirt tells the story of a woman and her son fleeing a Mexican drug cartel and joining other migrants coming to the United States. It is a harrowing story of riding atop trains, making snap decisions about whom to trust and the deep desire to stay alive.

After American Dirt, I needed something lighter and so I read one of David Rosenfelt’s books about Andy Carpenter, a lawyer who also happens to be a dog lover. Rosenfelt’s writing is laugh-out-loud funny, and I appreciated the break from the seriousness of American Dirt. I recommend Rosenfelt’s books for some light reading (and an inside look at life in New Jersey).

Then another book I had requested before the pandemic was ready for pick up at the library—The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. A few pages into this book, I realized it was about a family in France during World War II.

Normally, I like to read books about that era because they remind me of how evil can take root and grow in a society.

But my life feels heavy enough right now, and once I realized the subject matter of this book, I was tempted to stop reading. But I didn’t because I think it is important to remember what people have endured, how they survived, and how some can even thrive after enduring horrific atrocities.

The Nightingale tells of two sisters, each facing the invasion of France in her own way—the younger sister joins the resistance movement while the older sister remains in her home waiting for her husband to return from the front. Her home is sequestered, and her life becomes one of daily challenges for food and safety.

Although I was resistant to reading about the difficulties of these life situations, these books were just what I needed to read during this time when my usual routines have been interrupted. There have been times when the grocery store shelves were fairly empty, but that inconvenience lasted a few weeks—not the four years of the German occupation of France.

The requirement to keep social distance and to wear a mask can feel arbitrary because the virus is an unseen enemy. I would know to hide from an invading army driving tanks through our streets and not complain that I was being inconvenienced by having to stay inside if I saw my neighbors dragged from their homes and shot.

These books remind me that most of my challenges are really inconveniences that can be managed. Torture, starvation, and other atrocities of war are real problems. I am grateful that I have not had to face those kinds of trials.

I will gladly stay home or wear a mask to stay safe.

Resiliency

My Dad had two talks with me, the first was when I was about ten and the second was when I got my driver’s license.

The first talk coincided with my starting to venture beyond my immediate neighborhood, going to the library and the movies, which were both a half-mile from home. I always went to the movies with friends, but visiting the library was a solitary activity.

Library time was sacred, and I wanted the freedom to do what I wanted for as long as I wanted. The library had the same allure as church, drawing me into its silence, scents and rituals.

At the library, I could freely live out my love of reading, and I was even praised for it. The librarians engaged me in conversations about what I had just read, asking if I had liked the book, which was my favorite character and what was my favorite part of the story. They encouraged me by offering suggestions for what I might read next.

Their encouragement made me feel normal, as if escaping through books was what one did. They inspired me to read more and to expand my horizons. The library was the place where my imagination and curiosity were unfettered. Through books, I explored other countries, peoples and cultures.

I used to wish I could live at the library, surrounded by silence and books.

My dad’s talk was about getting to and from the library.

My dad was a cop, and he believed that if his children were going to survive in the city, we had to figure things out on our own. He knew he and my mom would not be able to protect us once we left our neighborhood.

I had no curfew growing up and no defined boundaries; the whole city was mine to explore.

The advice my dad gave me was this: Always walk facing traffic—on the left side of the street—making it more difficult to be abducted. My dad explained that most children who were abducted were walking with traffic—on the right side of the street—so they did not see or hear someone approaching from behind. If I walked toward traffic, I would see who was approaching, and I would also make it more difficult for someone to snatch me because I was going in the opposite direction of cars.

Good advice.

The second talk, when I got my driver’s license, was this: While driving alone, especially at night, don’t stop if you see flashing lights approach from behind; it might not be a police car. Slow down, put on the blinker and drive to a public place (gas station, convenience store, etc.).

My dad knew what could happen to a woman alone in a car at night.

I’ve not had the flashing-lights experience, but I still follow my dad’s advice and walk facing traffic.

My dad would not have used these words, but his talks were building my resiliency toolkit, and I am grateful.  

An act of kindness

I was introduced to the treasures of libraries in elementary school. Our school library was paneled in dark mahogany and was, of course, very quiet; just walking into the room calmed me.

The nearest public library was a half mile from home and as soon as I was able to walk there on my own, I became a regular patron. By the time I was twelve, I was taking the bus downtown to the Main Branch of the Detroit Public Library.

Main Branch, Detroit Public Library

Fine Arts Reading Room, Main Branch, Detroit Public Library

The libraries in my young life were havens, offering me peace while there—and then adventures through the books I carried home.

I think it was no accident that my neighborhood library was named after Laura Ingalls Wilder; her books opened my eyes to a different way of life in a different era.

As a teen, I volunteered at my local library and was entrusted with re-shelving books. My reading list was influenced by which books repeatedly appeared on my cart.

Looking back, I can see that those early library experiences formed not only my love of reading but also my sense of adventure and love of travel.Libraries are a world I inhabit comfortably—no matter where they are.

In England last summer, I checked emails on the public computer at the Chipping Campden Library. A large jigsaw puzzle caught my eye. It was half finished, and the librarian told me everyone was welcome to help finish the puzzle. I brought that idea back to the cancer support center where I work, and we now have a puzzle in process.

Last week, doing research at the Wayne State University Library, I passed by their community jigsaw puzzle and wondered if the librarian there had also been to Chipping Campden!Libraries continue to offer new books, new programs, new ways for communities to come together and new resources. Although my relationship with libraries spans sixty years, I can still be surprised when I visit the library.

When I was checking out some books at my local library the other day, the woman at the counter said, “Just a minute,” and she walked to the far end of the counter. I wondered what was going on.

“You left this in a book you returned,” she said, handing me a bookmark with the Doors of Dublin printed on one side. It had been a gift from a friend who had visited Ireland. “How did you know it was mine?” I asked.

She explained than they flip through books before re-shelving them, and when they found the bookmark, they looked up who had most recently checked out the book.

The kindness of that gesture surprised me.

I realized that I expect library staff to be informative and helpful, but this was an act of kindness beyond anything I had expected. It was a pleasant surprise, and the positive feeling has lingered.

I feel so fortunate that I became acquainted with the library so young and grateful that I feel at home there.