“True happiness is . . . to want what you have.” — Trudy Wells-Meyer

Coming to America

“We all harbor dreams of greatness; the size will be measured by our memories.” —  Anonymous 

At the airport in Kloten, Zürich, boarding a plane to London, from where I would travel to Southampton and embark on a German ship, the Bremen, for America, I hugged my father Adieu. He held me tighter than he ever had. His hug that day remains an unending feeling, and his words would linger in my ears. “Udi” — his nickname for me — “you will not come back.”

“Schgruna” (my nickname for dad), “I am just going for one year,” I whispered in his ear. I was crying now. A father knows. . ..     (Beginning of my memoir)

Reading this inspirational book, a memoir as a collection of essays, poetry, and prose, (with 180 pictures in color to fit the stand-alone stories), about the school of life, courage, adventure, trust in fate, joy, heartache, resilience and — love — may evoke feelings about what love is — can be — or, simply help someone to believe in love and trust. Inspiration laced with Love.

Coming to America . . . Living the elusive American dream. A belief something extraordinary is possible. Faith and Fate at work. A legal immigrant’s search for Love beyond the stars. A rocky road from Switzerland to find Gold in Arizona. 

Published in 10 books, Some Things Are Simply Meant to Be, the title of Trudy’s recently published dare-to-be different memoir is book number 8 (8, bolded throughout, my lucky and noteworthy number — there are many.)

When a reader finishes this book, it will be clear why the author chose the title.

My Wisconsin-born husband Lew’s words: “This book reveals the key to happiness.”

Swiss-born, starry-eyed I arrived in New York from England on a massive ocean liner, with 2 small suitcases, alone, fear a constant companion, speaking and understanding a little English. I was 23.

I live in Scottsdale, AZ with my husband Lew, on a lake and golf course where sunrises and sunsets are like prayers.

I am a successful, award-winning retired hair designer, and started writing late in life. I write in my second language.

Oh, how I cherish the gift of writing . . . a revelation of one’s personal reality. It feels like creating a world by the light of the mind and the heat of the heart finding music in words. Oh, and — poetry — the impossible task of making the absent present, like photographing the invisible.

Poetry is the most precise form of expression that language has given me — when emotions find words. Poetry . . . magic in words.

Handwritten . . . from Heaven

“The soul would have no rainbow had the eye no tear.” — John Vance Cheney

A groan of surprise, utmost joy involving language,
        a connection to the garden of souls, oh,
                 when she entered, they knew she was there.
A note from Heaven, handwritten and stamped,
        surpassing the ordinary, see and feel Love beyond — 
                Believing is like touching the hand of God.
Transparency of devotion to touch mind and soul,
        I stared in silence; I trembled in awe . . .
                Caryl, a client, my Chicago Mom,
                        a smile to follow her to the end of time. 
Eternal love on the road in the sky to
        the Swiss Miss in Scottsdale, Arizona,
                who cherished her calls, as far as Europe,
                        wherever she was, to remain in touch
                                until the age of one hundred and one.
Caryl  adored her hair for more than 35 years,
        once a week, every Friday at 10,
                a know-it-all lady, everyone looked up
                        to see what she’d wear. Unique,
                                domineering, a bit loud, yet kind.
During an Illinois family visit, a haircut,
        in the park in Glenview, Caryl’s idea to sneak out
                in a wheelchair, ignore the COVID visitor ban.
                        A faint chill in the air, no sunshine,
                                 at 98 she did not care — but her hair.
A last call on Friday, June 23^rd, a voicemail
        in Zürich, Switzerland, in the middle of night,
                unaware of the 9-hour change of time.
                        I called back in the morning to explain.
                                18 days before she passed — destination — Heaven.
                                         She’d know of my lifelong obsession, number 8.
A mind so clear to send one final momentous sign.
          Who mailed the note the day after Caryl died,
                 at the Classic Residence, the home for the ‘old’?
                          Melancholy surprise delivered by postal mail
                                 from Heaven — 4 days after I knew she was gone.
A handwritten note before she passed.
         A sky full of memories . . . what words explain
                 a heart of gold — a love affair beyond hair?
                         I am holding an envelope, a return address
                                  marked Heaven? Knowing how much she cared.
                                           In silence I weep, yet — what peace.