My Oma gave me my nickname.
She used to call me Lorilei when I was little.
It wasn’t until I was much older that I looked it up and learned what it meant: a siren of Germanic legend whose singing lures Rhine River boatmen to destruction on a reef. Oh my.
Oma, what were you thinking?
Anyone who knows me knows I can’t sing.
My dad once said I couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it.
But I digress. This isn’t about me.
This is about Elise Barbara Herzog, born December 3, 1915, to Therese Herzog.
A single mother, my great-grandmother came to the United States seeking work—first as a railroad conductor and later cleaning houses for wealthy families along Millionaire’s Row in Buffalo, now known as Delaware Avenue. During the Depression, one family couldn’t pay her, and instead started offloading their prized possessions, offering an English walnut drop-leaf table as compensation. My mother still has it today.
At age 16, Oma made the journey alone to the United States aboard the SS Bremen.
Her mother, Therese, later married Henry “Butch” Seifried from Guelph, Canada, and they settled on Shawnee Road in North Tonawanda. From a roadside stand, they sold sausage—the first chapter of what would become Shawnee Meat Market.
Oma met her husband, Andrew, through mutual friends, at a German social club.
They married and went on to have five children. Their youngest, Christopher, died from cancer at just 21, after enduring painful experimental treatments at Roswell Park Cancer Institute in Buffalo. This was at a time when people didn’t say the “C-word” out loud, instead it was whispered in hushed tones and never in front of others. Private people, Oma and Opa rarely spoke of that time in their lives. But the silence was its own kind of testament.
Oma loved to garden.
She collected flat rocks from Zoar Valley, spending hours building retaining walls and winding paths at their cabin in the Southern Tier. They carved out a slice of paradise: 55 acres of hardwoods surrounded by State land. The cabin is still in the family for all to enjoy in its simplicity and return to nature. Her handiwork still lives on today, etched in the path from the cabin to the spring fed well and pump.
She was an active member of Home Bureau; a popular women’s organization rooted in home and community life. We thought it was just a bunch of ladies getting together to share ideas and crafts. Turns out, it might’ve been the original Pinterest.
Oma kept the business side of the Meat Market humming—balancing books, tracking inventory, staying organized. Later in life, she volunteered her time and energy at the DeGraff Hospital gift shop.
Oma and Opa both detested seat belts. They used a clothespin to jerry rig them as being “fastened” and avoid the warning bell from dinging in the car.
She insisted they wrinkled her freshly ironed blouses.
Opa said that if the car crashed, he wanted to get out—not be trapped inside.
Stubborn Germans.
Oma left her earthly home 34 years ago today, July 22 at age 76.
Opa lived 15 more years without her, though he spoke of her fondly, often pausing to wipe his eyes mid-story. His constant companion, a German shorthair named Heidi, brought a little life back into the house, but his 4-legged German girl could never fill the space his first love, his sweetheart, my Oma left behind.
When I look at this image of them together at the cabin—their happy place—it’s all I need to know about love.
Ruhe ruhig, liebe Oma.
You are loved, and you are missed.