Monday, December 1, 2008
Christmas traditions
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I've always found other traditions and religions interesting. Since this is the Holiday season, I'd love to hear if any of you have special traditions or ceremonies to celebrate your belief. I offer this in the spirit of togetherness and sharing, and hope no one will take it as an offer to demean or argue anyone's beliefs and traditions....
Toward that, I'll start. We do celebrate Christmas here, but we are Unitarian. Therefore, religion is not so much a part of our celebration as is spirit of unity. We HAVE to be that way in my family, as my own children married into different religions! But I was long used to such differences long ago, as in childhood, I had many and various belief systems among my cousins - including one Buddhist and a card carrying Communist. Talk about lively Holidays! LOL! But, there was one rule, and that was one of respect. We might not agree, but we had to allow that person wiggle room and not try to convert them to our beliefs. The number one reason I became an Unitarian.
When I was a child, Thanksgiving was ALWAYS at my Aunt Hall's house, but moved to our house as she grew older and more feeble. (She was 8 years older than mom and mom's only sister) Still, she would start the holidays with crafts, cookies and cooking. It was such fun to be at her house! No dishwasher - unless you count us kids - still living in a house with a dirt cellar and rudimentary modernization, Aunt Hall's house became the hub of our Christmas holidays. She might have been an old lady in her mind, but in mine, she was a beautiful spirit with blue hair. LOL!
We spent many holidays afternoons making huge paper balls with sparklies glued here and there and then hung from the ceiling, until her house looked like a cheap Saturday NIght Fever set. I remember being taught to crochet and hook rugs at her side. I remember thinking my younger cousins were total brats - save one. That was Darcy - my older cousin's daughter. She had deep blue eyes, dark brown hair and a ponytail that always bounced when she walked. I thought she was gorgeous, and loved her to bits! I'd happily help watch her with Aunt Hall - always hoping the others would just get lost somewhere.
While we didn't always spend those afternoons in the early dimness of winter, that seemed to be the norm following that one year.....That was the year when we went out to get a real tree. (Which we always did) But this year, we had a new puppy - and the puppy would NOT leave the tree alone! The pup turned out to be allergic to the tree and broke out in huge hives. Dad cut the tree down so it would sit on a milk crate. While us kids were upset at our huge tree being cut down to size, so to speak, dad was determined the dog would NOT mingle with the tree!
Mom was out shopping and dad was left with us kids to decorate the tree. We were to help, but my sister and I grew bored with that job. Once we had all the ornaments hung close to the ground, with dad trying to still put the lights on, we wandered into the bathroom where we decided to float some toy boats. The only problem was the drain....it allowed the water to leak out and not get as high as we wanted. So, being genius children, we softened soap in the water, plugged up the drain and then filled the sink. Apparently, we had no ability to turn off the water. Dad heard the steady flow of water dripping on the floor, made a run for the bathroom, with a puppy on his heels.
Only problem was puppy was still trying to sniff that elusive tree and was tangled in the electric wires...which caused the tree to follow as pup ran after dad. I still remember dad's roar of words which I won't repeat.....it did get my sister's and my attention, however. We ran out of the bathroom to find the tree fallen from its throne, bulbs smashed or rolling all about, the puppy running for cover, as dad turned this way and that, not knowing quite which disaster to deal with first. Mom came in just then and saved our lives....but we never were allowed to help dad decorate the tree again. Instead, we were off to Aunt Hall's house. That's how that tradition began....
It seemed to always be cold with bitter winds and snow during the holidays. We didn't have a lot of cars - just one that took dad back and forth to work. There was no need to drive anywhere we could walk.....walking distance being anything within 5 miles. Trust me, I walked a LOT when I was a kid!
There were buses, but those were considered luxuries. We took them for mysterious reasons I never quite understood. And Aunt Hall wouldn't be caught dead on a bus! Nope! Better to walk and save the dime passage cost than to spend it foolishly when feet were perfectly good....
But I digress....Christmas Eve would ALWAYS be spent in church. Not with my parents, but with Aunt Hall. She was a very religious woman who took me to see religious movies - and one risque movie she THOUGHT was a religious movie - only it wasn't. I remember that movie best of all, of course. Why? Because Aunt Hall let out a loud gasp, and rather than waste the money it took to get us into the movie house, covered my eyes with her hands so I couldn't see a thing. It was laughable, as I could clearly see between her spread fingers and couldn't figure out why the movie caused such an uproar in her Puritan mind....
Off to church with Aunt Hall, then back to her house to gather with the family and all the cousins - including the dreadful ones - to open presents Santa mysteriously left at her house long before ours arrived. I often puzzled over that as a kid. Believe me! But not to quibble! Aunt Hall would buy us the things mom and dad didn't seem open to, such as real puppets on strings, guns and badges (yes, we certainly played Westerns, even tho with cousins, my sister and I were ALWAYS the Indians because dad wasn't white...another story)
That evening was spent opening gifts while adults chatted. We would have hot chocolate and cookies and all was right with the world...even the year the tree took a dive....
Soon, we were taken home. As often as not, I believe my sister and I were fast asleep, for it seemed to be a magical time that we were at Aunt Hall's house and suddenly it was Christmas morning at ours. I can remember waking up, and if little sister wasn't up, she soon was and we were dashing off to see the tree with glistening silver strands filling the now sparsely decorated tree with presents underneath. Every year, without fail, we received new dolls. There was nothing better than the smell of new doll, in my mind. Come that night, I would be snuggled into bed with my new doll at my side and enjoying that smell the way some folk enjoy the smell of a new car...
Today, my family is much smaller. All those aunts, uncles, parents, even many cousins have died from one cause or another. I only have my two kids and their kids. My son lives far away. So, I generally spend Christmas at my daughter's house. I wonder what kind of memories Little Bird will have with such a small group and so many less interesting people than I grew up with. To me, the time seems so much more boring. I long for the days of a house filled with people, laughter, some arguments now and again....and my Aunt Hall challenging dad about his coffee - while dad would now and again say, 'Oh, changed the sock and bean today, eh?' |
Friday, November 28, 2008
Keeper of the Family
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I watched my daughter, SIL and granddaughter put up their tree last night. It was a rather sad time, as the tradition of putting up the tree means bringing out the ornaments. The ornaments have great meaning in our family, as they represent milestones in our lives. There is the ornament made when DD was a small child, not much older than Little Bird. There is the ornament bought for the newly weds first Christmas, the one for Little Bird's first Christmas, and the ones that represent those lost to us over time, including beloved pets.
Sue told me this morning that I was lucky to know so much about my family's history. Actually, I knew very little until after dad died. See, a milestone in my life occurred when I was still a small child - not much older than Little Bird - when my dad began to introduce me ever so subtly on my Native heritage. I was told about the 'Three Tribes' of my father. They were allied tribes, but one in particular was ours. I was told to remember that information.
As I grew up into an adult, my uncle told me I was the 'Keeper of the Family.' That was an important job, I learned. I was given things that belonged to others who went before me. I was to care for those things and pass them on to the next 'Keeper' in the family. I knew something important had been placed upon my shoulders, but my young mind still didn't fully grasp what I was given.
As family died off, I wanted to hear those stories. I wanted to Keep my heritage. I wanted to pass it down. When I learned dad had cancer, those stories pressed against me like a mountain of rocks. I now appreciated my role in the family, but with so many people gone, I turned to dad. But he was in no mood to discuss family history. Part of it was his illness - he was very tired. But part of it went all the way back into my childhood when I was told to remember - and I had failed to do so.
The day came when dad was released from his earthly duties. How many times had I heard him arrange funerals for others? I would listen to the cadence of his voice, for I loved to hear my father talk. To me, dad was stronger than Superman - but now he lay in a casket, readied for burial in a way foreign to his senses: It was the funeral my mother wished.
That day was a terrible day. Not only had I lost my father, but I'd lost that connection to the past. I'd failed in my duties as the Keeper. So, I set upon a quest to learn about my ancestors. As I set about that road, a re-occurring dream entered my nighttime walks: It was a male ancestor trying to show me the path. In the dreams, he would tell me the stories, and I would try ever so hard to remember those stories come morning. But each morning, the stories were faint mists left in my mind.
So, my journey began. I began with what I knew: My father was born in Marshall County to Moncton and Harriette Lucinda Cox-Foss.....she carried the name of her grandmother, Lucinda Jackson-Cox. I drove to a small town called Winnamac, IN. I walked into the library and asked about the Cox-Foss lines. To my surprise, it wasn't the Foss lines I learned about, it was the Cox lines - and a new name in my quest: William O Taylor and a Mary Catherine Huitt-Taylor. She was the daughter of Solomon and Barbara Berry-Huitt. That's where I found Berry and Huit lines applying for Cherokee recognition in the 1840s from Knox County, IN. But there, the trail went cold until I put info out on search engines of the internet. Strange and wonderful invention, that internet thing! From there, the world opened to my heritage of Whitaker, Canady, Jackson, Taylor, Brewster, Riley and so many other names.
But with names, I knew little of what they looked like. I longed to know more and soon found my way into National Archives where important documents are kept. Ah! William O was a short man with dark skin and black hair, but green eyes. A Native researcher had noted his birth in Delaware County, OH - and his mother's birth in 1750. She believed William might be Delaware, as well as white. Indeed, his mother's people had arrived from the East Coast long ago - but I can't confirm more.
I learned through the same papers that William had a brother sent home with dysentery who died soon after arriving home and another brother who died in Andersonville Prison, GA. All those places that I'd ben and not known of my connection! Yet, I would always feel something stirring within me - whispering something in my heart and soul that I could not hear at the time.
In time, I learned of the Windeckers and Kitchens, who were British Loyalists during the Revolutionary War - and that I had a side connection to, of ALL people, George Armstrong Custer - someone I would always call 'Custard' as a child. I believe that came from my dad. Little wonder he thought so low of 'Custard,' as dad knew of his Native heritage.
I've found photos I can't ID, but I know they are my people, as I see my Aunt Helen's mouth and my curly hair.
This is a long and bumpy road, finding information about my heritage. But I am the Keeper of the Family. And this is an important job.... |
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Thanksgiving 2008
 Today is Thanksgiving. All my life, I've heard the story of the first Thanksgiving held in Plymouth Colony, Mass. I never gave it much thought, to be honest. I even visited Plymouth Colony recreation years ago and stepped on a rock painted 'Plymouth Rock.' Of course, it was a total creation, as historians uncovered the truth. But all that time, in all these years past, never did I connect Plymouth to myself. A few years ago, that changed. A cousin found me through an online service when I was searching for my Taylor ancestors. I knew very little, other than William was born in Ohio, married a Native woman who died in childbirth with his child. He left Ohio with his parents and siblings and made a new life on the 'frontier' of Northern Indiana. To make a living, William drove stage coach from South Bend to Vincennes, IN. That's where he met the woman who was to become my gggrandma: Mary Catherine Berry. She had been born in Vincennes - the first generation born in this wild state of parents who had grown up and married in North Carolina. They had Florence Huldah, who married Alfred Tailor Cox - born in Fulton County, IN to Daniel Alexander and Lucinda Jackson. He had been born in Bartholomew County, IN, while she had been born in North Carolina to Hiram and Mary Whitaker-Jackson. But I digress: What has this all to do with Thanksgiving? It's because a cousin found me online and told me more about my Taylor ancestry. Never before had I known that I was a direct descendent of the Mayflower pilgrims - William and Mary Brewster. Down through the generations, an Elizabeth married a Taylor, and that became my connection to the Mayflower. See, the pilgrims arrived here in the late fall of 1620 after 9 miserable weeks across the ocean from England. They were here to find religious freedom - something they didn't have under King Charles I - which interestingly enough played in my Whitaker ancestry as I descend from that William Whitaker who conspired to kill King Charles. Back to the Pilgrims: That first winter, they attempted to settled in Virginia, but the angry waters of the Atlantic scuttled them up to Massachusetts from Cape Cod. There, they began to build Plimoth Colony in the wilderness. This time, instead of annoying the locals, they found a friend among them. Samoset had been kidnapped to Europe, but found his way home again after spending two years in England. Now, history brought him and the Pilgrims together. Samoset was the pilgrim's salvation, as he negotiated between them and the Wampanoag tribe and taught them the Indian way of planting the 'Three Sisters:' Corn, squash and beans together in a single hill. But that was after their hard winter, when half of the Pilgrim population had died from winter illnesses and scurvy. Of the original 102, only 52 survived. Of those, five were women. To celebrate their first crop and their survival, in the fall of 1621, the Pilgrims held a feast. About 90 Indians joined them - not by invitation, but by design. To help with the feast, the Indians dispatched hunters to add 5 deer to that first celebration. That first Thanksgiving was held for three days of games, sharing, cooking, eating and singing. Meats served included wild turkey, geese, fresh caught fish and lobster and the deer. There was no pumpkin pie or other treats as we'd have today because the Pilgrims lacked ovens to bake such things. But it was a feast, none-the-less. Today is Thanksgiving, and I can't help but think back to that time in 1621 and an ancestor I can only wonder about. What did he and Mary look like? I've read enough books to learn he was a well respected man of his time and held honor back in England. He was a gentle soul, from what I've read, as he protected orphans on the trip here. That gentleness of soul and caring for others seems to have found its match in my Taylor ancestor, as well. I've read much about him and Mary Catherine and how they raised not only their own large family, but many of her orphaned siblings as well. My dad had that same quality about him. Did it come from that long ago Brewster ancestor? I don't know....what I do know is that Thanksgiving now has special meaning for me - but also brings me conflict. While some would protest this holiday, I won't join them. I frankly think my Indian brethren are idiots for protesting a holiday that began with sharing and friendly interaction. I'm part Native as well. But I won't protest a holiday that has its roots in friendship. I find it comforting, instead. And I'm grateful for all my ancestry. Without them and their hardships, I would not be here. I would not be who I am. I honor the spirit of those long ago people. They may not have been the first to celebrate a Thanksgiving on this continent, but they are the first to do it in a spirit of friendship, giving and caring. |
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Scamp's story
Scamp's story began on a cold December night, just before Christmas. Earlier that day, our beloved Basenji mutt died of diabetes. He was only four years old.
My son was the same age. See, I'd gotten Tiger right after we moved in and just as I learned I was pregnant. When Tiger was 9 months old, his 'Buddy' joined the household. From that moment on, Tiger took his duty of baby sitting seriously. No one passed the hall into the baby's room. When Tiger went out, the moment he came in, he located the baby and settled himself right under the crib or at the feet of any human who dared touch HIS baby!
So, it was with sadness that we let Tiger go. My son took the dog's death especially hard. When we took him to see Santa, he looked expectantly and then began to cry. I knew why. He thought Santa might have his special friend. I think even Santa shed a tear when he learned the reasons for a little boy's sobs.
That's why I decided to get another dog - as though one dog can replace another so easily. That simply isn't so, and I knew that. But I wanted my little boy to be happy again. For that reason, I called a number I saw in the paper giving away free puppies.
It seemed a sign to me that the neighbor turned out to live right down the block. I walked there with DS. I let him choose his new friend from the wiggling mass. But I knew which would be his choice - the pup who settled at his feet and quietly chewed on his shoelaces.
Oh, aren't looks deceiving! That sweet-faced pup turned out to be a demon in disguise.
Mom dog was a small little black dog. I figured I was getting a little dog rather like her mother. But the pup, who DS named Scamper (Scamp) for short, was anything BUT her mother! That night, she howled on high. She was supposed to sleep in a crate by DS's bed. Instead, she chewed through the crate and in the morning, was sitting on the end of the bed, chewed rug in paw, looking quite satisfied with herself.
Floppy ears quickly grew into sharp points. The short, stub of a snout elongated into a pointed nose. Stubby legs gained length and strength and the tiny pup turned into a 45-pound monster! Obviously part German Shepherd and part whatever came down the pike, our tiny pup was more like a Sherman tank with muscles.
That dog was strong! So strong, that she took out two windows, pulled clothing off the line, leaped into the air - bent on defending her turf from leaves - and was more than once found hanging like an ornament from the limb of the maple tree out back.
And, believe it or not, the dog could not only leap any fence in a single bound, but could climb trees! She would run for a tree, take a flying leap and sooner or later, be grinning at us from the first crook in the old tree trunk. Not a squirrel DARED enter our yard! Not with a dog who could greet them eye to eye in a tree, for Pete's sake!
Scamp lived up to her name. She ate more coffee pots than I care to count, figured out how to open the refrigerator door and ate our Christmas dinner one year, knew how to open any drawer and get what she wanted. The vet didn't believe me. But he soon became a believer when it was time to spay Scamp. The dog was to stay two or three days. Instead, the next morning, I received a call from the vet with a terse message, 'Come get your dog!'
Now, I KNEW there was a story behind that call. I could hardly wait to get to there and learn what happened. The first words from the vet's mouth was, 'Would you like drugs?
'Ah, would that be for ME or the DOG?' I calmly asked. The vet didn't seem to have a sense of humor....
I soon found out why. Scamp had not only unlocked her cage during the night, but had managed to unlock other cages AND free the food. Soon, a party was ongoing and that is what greeted the staff when they arrived the next morning - a free-for-all hosted by MY dog!
Needless to say, not only was Scamp NOT welcome to stay at the vet's place when we left town, but she quickly managed to get herself kicked out of one kennel after another. Why? Because she was so deft at opening cages - and throwing parties during the night.
As ornery as she was, she was also the smartest dog I ever had. She learned commands very quickly. One error, one correction and she had her command down pat. Surprisingly, for a dog that would terrorize the rest of the animal kingdom and all vets and kennel owners, Scamp was very obedient when around me. She would heel on command and walk off lead without missing a step. She calmly sat when I stopped, stayed on command and kept pace as soon as she was told to heel again.
I knew the kids were safe if I wasn't around. I didn't worry. Scamp was on duty, and NO ONE would bother her kids! I knew that dog would give her life for her family. There was no doubt of that in my mind. I'd seen it! If she didn't like someone, they met her gaze first, and quickly retreated.
Scamp certainly lived up to her name. Although I was asked repeatedly if I was going to give the dog up, there was something about her. First, I didn't think anyone else would put up with her, but there was a bond there - a loyalty and faithful service I hadn't even seen in Tiger or any other dog I'd had. I felt we belonged together, and perhaps God knew Scamp needed us as much as we needed her.
Scamp lived with us for 13 years. As she grew older, like 10 or 12, she finally let go of her puppy ways. No more tulips were dug up; she gave up hanging from the tree like an ornament. Coffee pots, windows and boots were at last safe.
When the end came, it was quick and without mercy for those of us who had loved that dog. One day, she was walking beside me. The next, she simply lay down. Her heart, so large with love, had become congestive and was failing. Within a matter of days, she was gone.
There comes a time in our lives when we are blessed with great loves. They leave a large hole when they are gone. Scamp, even though she was only a mutt, was one of those beings. She's been gone for 20 years. But the pain of losing her is as fresh as the day she died when I think of her.
I've heard some animals have such a deep bond with us, they never leave us. They return time and time again. If that is true, then Scamp returned in the form of Emma.
Why would I say that? Because when I first met Emma, she quietly laid at my feet and began to chew on my shoelaces. When I whispered, 'Scampie, you've come back to me,' Emma gave me a knowing look and a large grin..... |
Monday, November 17, 2008
Plans
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Life. What can I say about it? Well, for one thing, my life has been nothing as I planned. I figured I'd become a nurse, get married, have 2.5 children, live happily ever after and so forth.
HA!
First of all, I hated school. Detested it. Thought getting a root canal was better. Anything was better. Ugh! School! Perhaps that's why I was sick so much. Better to be sick than in school. It was utterly boring.
Well, I did become a secretary. Hated that just as much. Totally bored out of my gourd working jobs like that.
Oh, and I did get married. But those 2.5 children? Never could figure out how we were to get that half child. So, I settled for 2: One boy; one girl. Keep things even. Yes, I liked that.
Had a great time being a mom. But can't be a mom forever, now, can we? Okay, there are those who make it a career choice, but not me. My goal was to raise independent kids. Boy, was I GOOD at that! The kids took off for the corners of the world. Literally! My daughter studied in Denmark and my son lived in Germany for a time. They are both stateside, but for how long? My son is due to work in England and in Spain....
Kids were growing up and leaving the nest before they even graduated from high school. Guess where I found myself? Yup, back in school. Who knew? Thought I'd try that nursing thing. Guess what else? I can't handle blood OR people moaning and groaning. Again, who knew? Out of nursing, thought I'd try day care. Ugh! Just got rid of my kids. I sure didn't want to be taking care of someone else's. Besides, kids are germ factories!
Thought about psychology, history, English major....ended up with a minor in psych, in World History and a major in Political Science. Oh, and don't forget all the credits I racked up in fine art, environmental science and computers. Sigh....it's hard growing up....
Worked for a newspaper for over 10 years. Was a freelance writer and eventually worked as a reporter/photographer and did page layout and design. Thought I'd found my 'career.'
Ha! Newspapers began to go out of business and before you could spell 'Daily,' I was out of a job. Worked for the Park Service. Thought that job was fun! Loved it! Thought that would be my career. Congress changed those plans. Danged old Congress! They voted me out of work. Wish I could have returned the compliment....
What next? What next? Went back to school. Took a job promoting a division of a local university. That was fun. They promoted me. That took the fun out of the job. Then I was promoted again...sigh....I was perfectly happy being at the bottom of the pile. Why did I have to 'move' up that ladder? But it happened, and I ended up taking care of a solo site for the university. Now, THAT was indeed fun! No one working with me. 'Course, when I got sick, there was that one small problem: No one working with me....I was 'it.'
Terrorist attack on the nation. My job was state funded. You guessed it! Outta work again. Sold the house, moved closer to my daughter, went into Americorps to serve my country for two years. Came out and guess what I do now? I'm an instructor. I teach people how to save lives. In all my years, never did I dream I'd be doing this job!
All those plans I made. For what? Life happened instead. What's that saying? 'Life is what happens while you're making plans.' So true. So true.
Well, at least I didn't grow into a bag of bones wiling my time away in a rocking chair, eh? |
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Haunting night
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What is it about those deep, dark evenings when the hours change and the sun sets earlier? It's evenings like tonight when the wind has a sharp bite to it that I hear 'them.' They are the leaves that blow about in the night wind, clawing at the ground with a thousand nails trying to find a nook or cranny to hang on to. It's as though the leaves don't want to take the free ride offered by the winds.
Overhead, limbs of trees bend and creak. Some clack together. Some sound like downright shrieks.
On the far corner of the porch roof, I've hung a wind chime. Normally, it is quiet and stands mute watch over the world. But on nights as these, it sings a soft song - nearly sounding as mist might sound, should mist be given a voice.
I stand on the porch of my house, shivering in the cold. I long to go back inside, where it is warmer. I watch as my old Lab sniffs about, now and again, ears cocked to hear the whistles, clawing and shrieks of the night. And I shiver from an entirely different set of circumstances - not of cold, but of a voiceless dread.
I don't like the early nights that stretch far into the dark. I long for the long, warm and sunny days of summer. I try not to listen to the groans of coming winter, but think instead of daffodils and tulips....which won't be seen around here until after my birthday next year.
On nights as this, when I stand on my porch, I know of which I listen to in the wind. But I can easily imagine, those ancestors of long ago, when they curled up tight against the dark in dim cabins, hearing things that might be spirits or witches or perhaps something worse.
The crickets of summer have sung their last songs. The leaves and wind and creaking limbs have taken over with a winter melody. I call Emma. I want to go inside. I don't like this dark, cold and strange sounds that give no comfort. Time to tuck myself deep under the warm quilts and blankets of my bed and grab a book to read. Oh, and no Agatha Christie, if you please..... |
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Rusty cat
 Once upon a time, in a more innocent era (or so it seemed), there lived a young boy of 9 or 10. He had blond curls and eyes so deeply blue, it seemed one could jump in and take a swim. The problem: It often seemed those liquid eyes were as vacant as the vast seas. One day, the mother took the boy and his sister to a combo plant-pet shop. That's because the food needed for their menagerie of animals (dog, guinea pig, hamsters, fish, gerbil and cockatoo) was available there. This day, it was very cold and gloomy - a day much like today. The boy, girl and mom were quiet as they traveled past the stubbled corn and soybean fields. Each lost in thought, they barely noticed the cows and horses here and there in various fields and paddocks. All that changed inside the store. As the mom and girl passed by a silver cage, the boy followed behind. Where the mom and girl were given safe passage beyond the cage, the boy was stopped by a tiny paw with claws latching deeply into his jacket. A plaintive and small 'mew' followed. All eyes came to rest on the two green eyes peering through the thin bars of the cage. Or were those amber eyes? It was hard to tell as the kitten locked eyes with the boy. The kitten gazed deeply into those blue pools and small mews told the boy, 'Take me with you. Oh! Please take me with you! I want to live with YOU!' The boy's hand moved toward the cage and the kitten's black ears and head quickly moved to press against the bars. There was little doubt about the kitten's happiness over attention. His small paw still firmly entrenched in the boy's brown coat, loud purrs rumbled from the furry black throat. 'Can we take him home?' a small voice said softly. A clerk's voice sparkled with anticipation. 'We found him in the road out front,' the clerk said quickly. 'He's free to a good home. It's obvious this kitten loves your son. It would be wonderful if the kitten got a good home after being thrown from a moving car. Can you imagine? It's lucky he's still alive. Such a sweet kitten, don't you think?' the clerk continued - obviously hoping to 'close' this deal. The mother hesitated, thinking of all the animals at home. What about the dog? Would the dog kill the cat? And what about the gerbils and hamsters? Would the cat EAT them? But those liquid pools of blue found their mark in the mother's heart. The kitten was already performing miracles - the boy was looking right into his mother's eyes! It had been a very long time since he did such a thing! Needless to say, a small black kitten was snuggled inside a little boy's coat on the ride home. As darkness fell, and the boy readied for bed, the kitten mewed in excitement. As soon as the boy curled up into his usual ball to sleep, the kitten curled up into his own ball - right next to the boy that night, and every night there after. The next day, the kitten had a name. The boy called him 'Rusty.' It seemed a rather odd name for a totally black kitten, but the mother wasn't really concentrating on the name. She was concentrating on how her son now made more eye contact with her own eyes. She was concentrating on how those blue eyes were less vacant as he babbled on about 'Rusty.' As the days passed, Rusty showed his true value. A boy who couldn't grasp another's feelings could easily understand another's pain through Rusty. Rusty became the pathway to other humans, doing what therapists and all manner of help had been unable to give to the boy. The mother marveled that a small, throw-away kitten could accomplish in days what others could not do in years. Rusty was the boy's cat. For the boy, Rusty would sing in loud purrs. For others, they were greeted with a quick swat of a paw and a no-nonsense hiss. When the boy went to school, Rusty would roam the house, leaving loud and plaintive howls in each room. 'Where is my boy? Where did he go? I can't find him! Help me look,' Rusty would yell. Come three o'clock, on the dot, Rusty was perched on a chair or table by the back door. He knew his boy was returning. Upon the turn of a knob, Rusty would happily meow and then softly plop to the floor, racing for the boy's bedroom. Loud purrs would fill the air as cat and boy greeted each other. As soon as the boy's jacket was off and tossed on the bed, Rusty would turn three times and finally settle down, curled up inside the coat and purring loudly. It looked, really looked, like that cat was smiling! Alas, boys grow up and kittens grow old. Rusty lived on for 19 years, keeping the boy company as he became a man, moved out on his own and eventually married the girl next door. Not long after their marriage, and just when they were aware of new life growing into a baby, Rusty seemed to give up and give out. He died in the young man's arms. Deep tears streamed down the former boy's face as his dearest friend left this earth and his newest dear friend tried to comfort him. Rusty, frail and in kidney failure, waited until he could turn his boy safely over into the hands of a new, attentive love. That boy is now approaching 40. He has two sons and he and his wife are awaiting baby number four. They are the couple who lost a baby this past summer. You see, I can tell this story because it's true. The boy is my son. As a very small child, my son was diagnosed with Autism. But a small black kitten came into his life to help him find the pathway to adulthood..... |
Sunday, November 9, 2008
not much to say
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It has turned cold here. We had a brief rain, but not as much or as long as predicted. With the cold tonight, the garden will decidedly be kaput. I've had tomatoes still coming in, but it will likely produce nothing else.
There's little else going on around here. I had Little Bird most of Friday, and got her again last night and all night - into this afternoon. Boy! I was pooped! But enjoyed here visit...just very tiring trying to keep up with a two-year old, on top of working all day yesterday.
The camper is still undone. I'm getting disgusted. I just want the window fixed and let me put the danged thing down again for the winter. Most other things, I can take care of on my own. I just no longer want the leaks going on.
Relying on others sure is annoying....
The trees are quickly losing their leaves. The bright blue skies of fall are giving way to dark clouds of winter. And I have no clever things to write about or to say today. Too tired, I reckon, and have a full week to face beginning tomorrow. I did manage to get the kitchen floor scrubbed good, the bathroom clean and the vacuum run in the busy days past. But still much to do.
I had to laugh, however, with Little Bird. She remembers EVERYTHING! She told me last night I would make her a special blanket to keep her 'warm and toasty' this winter. It seems everything I do for her is 'special,' in her mind. I bought a book on clearance with crayons and stickers - things she loves - and gave it to her. She said it was 'special,' just for her. I made pancakes and sausage for breakfast - again, it was something 'special,' just for her.
I decided if she wants to think everything I do is 'special,' just for her, why not? It costs little to make a small child happy and to make them think they are the ends of the earth. But, of course, in truth, she IS the ends of the earth to me. How precious are grandchildren! |
Friday, November 7, 2008
Gloria, my essay
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Gloria was a regular pain-in-the neck from the moment I met her in church. I didn't like her sharp tongue. I didn't like how she glared at me when I spoke. I certainly didn't like being on the same board with her....but there I was and there she was. My strategy was to ignore her.
My strategy didn't work very well. At every service, every board meeting, and every Wednesday night discussion there she was. Geez! Didn't the woman EVER get sick?
Being a small, lay-lead church, I guess it was inevitable I'd be asked to give a service. I always figured when I gave a service, I'd pick the content. That didn't happen the way I envisioned. I guess when you leave things to chance, they get planned for you. But I still wasn't prepared for the subject: Easter Sunday, give a service about bread.
Bread? Why not just ask me to fly? Or maybe I could jump 1,000 feet in the air and land on a single toe upon returning to earth....but bread? Who in her right mind would do a service - an ENTIRE service about bread, for heaven's sake?
Apparently, I wasn't in my right mind because I found myself agreeing. Thwack on the head!
Well, after some research, what do you know? There's a LOT to say about bread! Bread requires a lot of work to be, well, bread. It begins with seed in dirt and rain and sun to help the grain grow. After being picked and ground, it has to be baked to create bread. That requires flour, sugar, yeast, water, milk, maybe eggs, maybe spices to add flavor and, before I knew it, bread was doing more than taking shape in a pan. It was taking shape into a service.
Brain storm! I decided to 'mix' bread during the service. Slips of paper would go into the mixing bowl. Each slip would have an 'ingredient' needed to create bread. Parishioners would take a slip from the bowl to represent their part in the 'bread.' Some would be dirt, some rain, some the seed, some the ground flour, some the spice and so forth.
Easter Sunday arrived warm and sunny. I looked out as I began to give my carefully prepared sermon and there in the back, glaring at me, was Gloria. Guess she couldn't get sick on Easter, either. Sigh....
The service went well. As it ended and people sang, they came to take 'ingredients' from the bowl. Near the last was Gloria. She read her slip and looked at me - a smile forming on her face. Was the woman SMILING at ME?
'I am the spice that adds flavor to the bread,' she read out loud.
What was creeping across my face now? A smile? I saw Gloria in a new light. Gloria wasn't evil. She was simply....spicey! |
Thursday, November 6, 2008
One Community
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Election day has passed. Thank goodness! I was so sick of the mud slinging and stupid commercials run by the candidates. I was proud of how McCain handled his campaign, as he didn't dig up dirt and toss it around, unlike others. I am so disgusted by political going ons. Who, in their right mind, would want to run for office in this country? I really think you either have to have skin like an elephant or be flat out nuts!
Today is the 3rd anniversary of our killer tornado. The day is much like that day, as well. Warm now, but storms moving in. I don't think anyone around here can help but to be a bit nervous about the anniversary weather today.
In other news, an essay I wrote for our One Community; This I believe, has been chosen to be read on public radio. I spent quite a bit of time trying to read my piece flawlessly for the program. It was difficult, especially considering I am vexed with asthma and a chronic cough. I will try to dig up a copy of the short essay to post here. Meanwhile, you might be able to access it at WNIN.org or at EVPL.org. I haven't tried either of those sites, and of course, I didn't save a copy. It was one of those things I worked up from another essay I wrote long ago about Gloria. I didn't work long on it, as I really didn't think anything would come of it. I was surprised to learn I was one of five chosen to read their essays on the radio.
I believe WNIN will have my voice reading the essay, while the library has a copy of the written essay. This is rather exciting, as long ago I was a paid writer, but deaths in my family took my heart out of my craft. Blogging has helped me regain that part of myself once more. I thank this community for the opportunity. Hats off to all of you! Thank you! |
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Well done Indiana
A mist forms in front of my eyes. Like a moving, undulating wave, soft and dark grays move in and out of focus. What is in that mist? I swear I see faces forming just beyond the boundaries of the fog....
I rub my eyes and look again. Yes, it IS faces....faces of my Hoosier ancestors who fought, died, and supported a war effort - This is the Civil War....
Not that Indiana was wholly and totally pro-Mr. Lincoln and the war against the Confederacy. There were the Copperheads - people who supported South, who believed in slavery and didn't think a black could possibly be equal to a white. But if you really search and look, you'll find that Mason-Dixon line was blurred in the South, too. As school children, we were taught that somehow the line was in concrete. If you were North of the line, why you were Yankee and a Federal, of course! South of that line, you were pro-South and provided for the Confederacy.
It simply did not work that way. Just like in all other wars, there are those who believe and fight, and those who don't support the cause - and others who simply want to stay home and not get involved...
But Indiana - us Hoosiers - answered the call to Federal Arms far heavier per capita than any other state in the Union. We were proud and strong and fierce in our belief of righteousness for the North. Why, some of our people were so strong and fierce, they became known as those Indiana Iron men, and with just cause. They were stubborn, standing their ground no matter what - and would fight beyond anyone else's fight. Iron. Yes sir! Iron....
Just as we answered the call, we paid the highest price as well. Of the approximate 210,000 men who stood with other Union troops, 25,000 were killed in battle. One in 65 recruits could expect to never come home again....like John Clapper, who died a mere two months after joining in 1863. Others would be sent home, but so sick and weakened by dysentery or other diseases, they died soon after returning - like my ggg-uncle James Taylor.
Oh yes, my family was there....We represented Indiana well....my ggg-grandpa, William Taylor fought for the North late in the war. His Civil War papers tells of a sturdy man, short in statue, dark of skin with black hair and green eyes. He wasn't in long, but long enough to see battle - and long enough to come home broken and crippled - unable to work as he did before.
Already in his middle years, what possessed my ggg-grandpa Taylor to join? That wasn't written for history. But I note he joined soon after James died at home and another brother died in Andersonville Prison - deep in the heart of Georgia. I rather think loyalty to his brothers created a fire in his heart that could not be put out any other way, but to serve.
But that just might be the Romantic in me thinking and speaking...
While 1 in 65 recruits could expect to die on the battlefield, 1 in 13 could expect to die from illness. Disease took more lives than the battle wounds themselves. Medicine was far from what we know today. Doctors might - MIGHT - have two years of medical training. Or, they could be a political appointee - given the right to be a doctor simply because a politician said so. I can't help but wonder how many doctors, like government census takers of the era, got their 'degree' work in a tavern and maybe couldn't even read and write. Of the 3,000 Confederate doctors at the beginning of the Civil War, only 27 were actually trained surgeons....
Medical doctors of the day didn't know about germs. They didn't know about sterilization. They didn't wear gloves. Typically, they would go from patient to patient, using the same bloody tools they used on the soldier before - and maybe - if there was one around - dipped his hands in a basin of water to clean off some of the blood. Yes, by some miracle, it wasn't battle wounds that killed....it was illness. Poor food, poor hygiene, poor housing and improper dress for the weather weakened more men than anything. And there was no such thing as removing the ill and weak from battle. If you could stand and were still breathing, you were good to go to the front....
Who were these people who served? Although the age of recruitment was set at 18 years of age, boys as young as 9 served. Women served, too. What? How can that be?
Well, in that era, there was little opportunity for a woman who wanted excitement, adventure, a paycheck.....some women corrected that by transforming themselves into boys and even men who could be drummed into service. Some were caught when they were wounded or, oops, gave birth. But there were those who pulled the whole thing off and retired with a military paycheck....
But there were women who served in the war in other ways. Wives sometimes came with their husbands. Women were nurses - although discouraged from such duty because women were deemed such a fair sex, they couldn't possibly survive the reality of war. Nursing for women in those days, and maybe up to 5,000 women served as nurses during the Civil War - records are incomplete - consisted of changed bedding, bandages, clothing - oh, and singing a lovely song was among her duties....
And women died, too. Hoosiers sent 210,000 men. Of those, 2,500 were 'colored' troops - an old term for Negro. Aaron Hopewell Knight was among those 'colored' troops. At age 22, he joined in Vincennes, Indiana and served in the 6th US Colored Brigade. Seriously wounded, his wife rushed to his side to nurse him. She became ill and died. He survived, but never over came his wounds fully.
Blacks served, hoping if they served proudly and strong, white people would see they deserved better. White people would understand and agree those black troops deserved citizenship. But that would never be - at least, not in, during or long after the Civil War ended.
From 1860 to 1865, our nation fought a Civil War. It wasn't about ending slavery, as many believe, but about state's rights. Men, women and children died. The stronger industrial and better equipped North won - The North and The South were to remain one. We are not one in culture, however....and that will have to be another blog. But we are one Nation. Indiana contributed heavily and heartily to what we are as a nation today.
In the end, President Abraham Lincoln and many members of his cabinet had brief, but strong, messages for Indiana people....'Well done, Indiana.' Well done....
My information came from volunteering for the Indiana State History project called The History Train. For three days, the Civil War and Indiana's role will be brought to life for those of us who reside in Southwest Indiana. It was a sobering experience. It was an enlightening experience. But most of all, it was exciting to be a part of Hoosier History.... |
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Individuals
Well, here we are again....not only in the falling of leaves, but in the fall of mortal man in politics. Sigh....I'm SOOOO sick and tired of hearing how this or that politician is going to help ME! That's not what I think is good for the country.
I believe this country was founded not on what is good for ME, but what is best for the country as a whole. In these 200 plus years, however, the country has moved further and further away from that concept to appealing to this or that person as an individual. Huh?
It makes me angry to hear a politician proclaim how he/she is going to make things better for ME. Who on earth does this mere mortal think he/she is? Sounds like he/she is making him/her to be a God/Goddess...Emperor of the Universe...all powerful, all seeing, all disgusting - if you want my opinion. But you probably don't...
I remember the words, taught to me in elementary school: We find these things to be self evident.....and then words about the pursuit of happiness. I mull those words and not once, do I read or think it means the PROMISE of happiness.
Yes, I do believe in the individual, but not in the collective individual. I believe we are each responsible for our own happiness AND our own lives. It's not the collective soul that makes us decide upon the right or wrong path: to take or not take someone else's property or money or life.....
It IS our responsibility to choose that pathway for ourselves. If we don't, it's up to the collective conscience to park our butts where it belongs - in jail or prison. Therefore, someone else didn't make the individual go in this or that direction....that individual CHOSE to go down that pathway.
My parents were good or bad parents. They were who they were. They didn't have maybe what I needed from them, but should I blame them and then go the dark path? Or maybe that teacher in 5th grade traumatized me to the point of 'forcing' me on the dark path? History kept some of my ancestors in slavery and didn't treat them right....aha! THAT must be the reason I can't stay on the right path!
Hog wash! Poppy cock! Garbage! Pure, unmitigated JUNK!
I think this thinking that the government must care for the individual and owes the individual happiness is the reason our government grows weaker and politicians grow less effective and able to think for what is good for the country....
Ah, but of course, if they told that truth, they might not get elected...and so the carnival goes on..... |
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Fred the flat fly
I have been off most of the last two weeks and fall has settled in at last. We have nights in the 30s, but no frost yet. While summer tried to hang on with her very fingernails, when she let go, we didn't go into a slow downward spiral so we could adjust to the lowered temps. Just like spring when we seem to go from freezing rain to 90-degree days, in the fall, we have gone from 90s to the all time high today of (drum roll please) 67! At least, that was the prediction. We'll see, as it is nearly 11 AM and still feels like the temperature MUST be in the 30s at this time! Just as the temperature has taken a dive, the trees - green just a bit ago - turned overnight into dusky reds, yellows and purples. Wow! The show has begun!
Well, while being home, I've been as busy as ever. Between my usual chores of watching Little Bird and such, I've added tackling cleaning the carpet, hoping I'm doing the final mow of the season, cleaning out the fridge and freezer and clearing the house of those pesky flies. I am PROUD to say, I do believe I've killed the LAST fly off! But it wasn't easy! I've been hunting that final fly since the last blog on flies. There was one I swore had 9 lives. No, lets make that more like 900 lives! Grrrr! He'd sit right there by me and laugh! I'd swat and somehow, each and every time, I missed. The fly would disappear and I'd see the danged thing fly about my head or cross in the light - but NEVER OVER into the light. Pesky thing!
I envisioned tiny fly footprints all over the kitchen and was possessed with making sure everything was clean and clear of ALL possible food! I did NOT want to eat or drink ANYTHING that possibly had been enjoyed by that fly fiend! I don't think I ever wanted anything so dead in all my life! I did NOT want him enjoying the pleasures of central heat and my hospitality over the holidays and winter.....grumble, grumble....
Every morning, I'd wander out into the kitchen and see that fly. He was singing morning songs as he cleaned his wings! Or he'd lurk on the corner of the bookcase - right where I wouldn't see him - and tap me on the shoulder as I walked by. The fellow was soooooo devious!
Well, at long last, he is DEAD! Yes, for a second or two, I thought about all the fun we had. But the mourning period was a short one. I looked at his flat body on my newspaper and briefly thought about a fine funeral for the fellow, but it was ONLY a thought. Really! I said a quick farewell, wished him to have fly fun on the 'other side' and dumped him in the trash.
Now I can turn my thoughts and energy to other things - such as finishing cleaning out the fridge and freezer, those pesky spots that remain on the carpet, the final (I HOPE) mow of the season, decorating for Halloween, going on that Ghost Walk over in Newburgh, volunteering for the History Train this week (I can hardly wait!) and other things that were put off by summer tomatoes, fruits and such.
I'll keep myself busy. I'll be plenty busy. But gee, I do miss that fly...... |
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Great Fly Hunt
Each Fall, the Great Hunt begins. Some folk are deer hunters. Others go for elk or angle for the 'big one' in the rivers and streams. Not me....I'm the 'Fly Hunter.'
It's not by choice. It seems every year when the sun dips a bit lower to the South and the nights grow cooler, the flies gang up on me. They decide my house is a great place to wile away the winter months and hold their large fairs and family reunions. Is it the garden out back? The choice garbage tossed out? What attracts them HERE???? That's what I want to know!
Whatever the reason, the flies arrive and I become 'The Hunter.' I pace the house, fly swatter in hand, searching for the winged creatures. I find the best times to hunt is early morning when the sun stretches into the kitchen and laundry room. With white, bright colors, the flies lounge about on their 'sun decks' and stretch their wings in lazy fashion. I'll see groups of them gathered here and there on the washer, the freezer, along the cabinet walls. I can clearly hear their glasses clinking and their tiny fly voices rising in laughter as they chat.
The hunt is on! I have many ways to approach the flies: From stealth to outright tennis swings. But they often as not scatter, likely laughing hysterically at my awkward swats. They begin to taunt me - flying about my head or dancing a jig on the furnace front. Some will call out to me from the recesses of a door jam, somehow knowing the swatter will be ineffective as I try to smash them to dust as they happily cocoon themselves into the cracks and crevices. Or, they will land on the side of the kitchen cabinets, chuckling as I blithely walk by - unaware of their camouflage against the cabinet sides.
Just as I think I've finally broken the back of the invasion and sat down to drink my coffee and enjoy the morning paper, what do I feel? The tiny feet of some lurker dancing about on my arm or hand! They'll land on the phone - no doubt calling for back up! They'll tease the cats - buzzing their heads and causing chaos as the cats jump and swat and try to catch the beasts. No doubt, the evil creatures are hoping I'll swat myself or kill off a cat....they are SO devious!
Of course, I don't fall for the ploy. But it isn't long before the fly swatter isn't allowed to rest. I carry it like a six shooter - on my hip ready for the kill at all times. I search for any black dots - moving or not - and take a swing. I've killed off a few flies, but I must admit, a couple of screw heads and a fleck of dust have also felt the sting of my swatter.
Lo, what is that I hear and see? The devils have begun a barn dance in MY living room! Okay, what now? If you can't beat them, join them in a jig?
Sigh...... |
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Community garden
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Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Fall rains
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We haven't had decent rains since sometime in July. It has been dry. With the dry time, many trees have begun to react by losing leaves - not because Fall has arrived, but because they are starving for water.
Clouds began to arrive yesterday afternoon. The weatherman promised rain today, but we've heard all that before. We've seen the clouds and hoped for rain. We've heard the words and searched for rain. But no rain came, over very little fell.
Today, the rains finally arrived! It was a downpour for maybe an hour or so. The trees are dripping. The air has changed. This time, the weatherman didn't use the term 'cool front,' but used the term 'cold front' arriving with this rain. Instead of lows overnight of 50s and 60, we may be seeing 40s. That means that frost will soon be arriving.
I look forward to frost. That will mean no more danger for me from stinging yellow jackets. No more mosquitoes. We can put a jacket on, build a fire in the fire pit and sit next to the warmth. The garden work will come to an end and indoor activities, abandoned for so long, will take on importance and welcome.
It's funny, isn't it? In winter, we think of summer's warmth and spring and look forward to working in the garden once more. In summer, we think of cool temperatures and not having all that garden and yard work. We are such a fickle people. LOL!
But today, I am joyous about the arrival of rain. I will be moving the blackberry canes and planting the trees that have been waiting for the rains to arrive. I'll remove the river grape covering the fence line and the elderberry tree and maybe fashion something with it to decorate the shed with and add interest to the garden area or to grow something vining next summer upon. Even the cat is excited about the changing seasons - she keeps getting into my knitting and dragging it all about the house...... |
Friday, October 3, 2008
Little Bird's Visit
The cool, clear night has arrived. Little Bird was here earlier. She's not spending the night, as she usually does. Her mommy decided this night, she wanted her baby home. So it is just Emma, I and the cats tonight.
Little Bird and I had a great visit. After her mommy left for her class, Little Bird and I went for a walk to the local fire house. I baked bread earlier today and took a still warm loaf to the firemen. Little Bird was interested in the big red trucks, but too shy to talk to the firemen. I told her my grandpa - her ggrandpa - was a fireman. He was also the local police and sewage guy. Small town. What can I say? LOL!
When we returned home, we went to the garden and picked some tomatoes and a pumpkin for her to take home. She has now taken off with two or three of my pumpkins, but she's my granddaughter and when she pleads with those sky blue eyes and says, 'peas,' what can I do? I melt!
She also went home with much of my old jewelry. After we made chocolate pudding for our desert and she had her bath, I took her into my room and brought down my jewelry box. Inside, she found rings and necklaces and bracelets and earrrings. She oohed and aahed over each item she pulled out. Soon, her neck was heavy with necklaces, large rings were stuffed onto each finger and bracelets and old watches lined her arms to the shoulders. She sparkled and gleamed and loved the dangly earrings I hung from her ears. She bent her head so they would sweep across her shoulders and would giggle with great, good laughter about the 'sparkies' that she wore.
I brought down another, smaller jewelry box her mommy brought back to me from Europe. It's a hand carved rosewood box with inset mother-of-pearl. It's lovely and Little Bird found it stunning! She quickly opened it, then looked about the room and boldly asked, 'What else do you have for me, Nannie?'
I chuckled. I only have those two boxes and no more. The larger one is from my own childhood and the rosewood box from her mommy.....but when I looked into those blue eyes, didn't I wish I had a billion boxes to bring to her? Didn't I wish for a pirate's chest or two hidden beneath my bed?
I do have treasures safely tucked away for future gifts. I bought her a small child's tea set made of real china. It is contained within a case and holds small tea cups, saucers, desert plates and tiny spoons and forks. That's for her birthday next May, when I envision her and I spending long summer afternoons enjoying tea parties with her dolls in a sunflower house I hope to grow. I also have an artist's easel for her budding skills....it's painted in bright colors and has all manner of supplies to keep young hands busy. But tonight, I only had costume jewelry from long ago when I cared about such things. Now, I'm more of the earth and sky - not one taken with do-dads color coordinated with whatever dress I might wear that day. Now, I'd much rather wear a sea shell that still smells of the ocean or capture a bit of this or that flower for added color in my hair. If I could tuck bits of bright blue sky about my neck, I'd be much more pleased than those colorful beads I once took such stock in.
Little Bird has taken up that old mantel of mine and is welcome to it. She is young and loves the jingle of things clicking together and rings that sparkle within tarnished metal. If we're lucky, she'll have a life of balance, as maybe she'll adopt my love of nature and fishing and other things that cost nothing in life, but fill our lives with beauty. Only time will tell, but I'm showing her the ways of the woods and nature. I'm picking the herbs and things that smell good and taste better and maybe...just maybe, Little Bird will prefer a bit of sky about her neck - if only she could - rather than silly beads and things that jingle....
Meanwhile, happy Fall, everyone...
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Thursday, October 2, 2008
Heritage and religion
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My blog today was going to be about the last hummingbird, or perhaps Scamp - a mutt we had when I was young - or maybe about the challenges of knitting with cats in the house. Instead, it's going to be about heritage - specifically, my heritage. It comes out of conversations with an internet friend in Ireland.
My mother was of Scots/Prussian descent. Her mother was born in Scotland. Her father was born in Prussia. My Scots grandmother came here because the industrial pollution had made it hard for her to breathe in her native land. Legend says she came to American in the late 1800s to find cleaner air and a better way of life.
Meanwhile, my Prussian grandfather was a German speaker, who I always said not just kissed the Blarney Stone, but likely stole it on his way to America. He told people here he was of Native American descent. I always wondered if Americans bought the story - told, most likely, with a German accent....
When mom's Scots kin picked on us for not being 'pure,' I would run to dad crying - asking him what I was. When he questioned where that idea came from, I told him the tale of the cousins who were picking on my sister and I about our ancestry. (Apparently great talk among that side of the family.) Dad would grow irritated and inform me I was an 'American!' That was the end of the subject at that time. But other times, he would say we were 'whatever came down the pike.' He told me of our Native ancestry, alluded to our African ancestry, and said little else. His sister would just say our ancestors played their heritage 'close to their vests.'
It was after dad died that I began to dig into my heritage. I was mostly interested in finding that Native American info, but along the way, I got invited to an African family's reunion in Atlanta, GA. When I mentioned the 'mistake' to another cousin, I was informed that WAS my ancestry....that particular line was inter-racial.....and then he told me about slavery and indentured servants and Irish heritage.....I was a bit stunned at the moment, to say the least. But it made sense, as I thought back to dad's comments and teachings as I was growing up....
Anyway, back to the Irish....Irish here in American fared little better than black slaves early on. Often, they were lumped together with Africans. In the South, in particular, they were considered 'less valuable' than black slaves. I can't even begin to imagine....and indeed, some of my Irish heritage came from the South to the North in the early 1800s.
To be sure, I'm not just Irish in heritage....I'm not just African nor Native American. I'm also of early German stock, early English stock - have kin on both sides of the American Revolution War AND the Civil War. I'm directly descended from not only those who fought against the British, but also those who fought FOR the British...something I just felt within my genetic structure, even as a child. I can't explain it, but I often told people I was of both sides of the fence....therefore, I was a 'Mugwump.' That's someone who sits with his mug on one side of the fence with his wump on the other. LOL!
Back to the Irish now...I was doing some internet searches on early Irish immigration to America and learned the Irish were particularly suited for life on the American frontier. Life was hard and a constant struggle. It was a life I like to recreate, but still, can't begin to imagine living day to day. For example, they grew the very fabric on their backs, grew all their own food, made everything they used and lived within from scratch and did it without modern heating, cooling or medical care. Many lost their lives. I find ancestors who died young - right after giving birth or fathering a child. I find ancestors who lost children, and some who were simply 'lost' along the way - perhaps taken by Indians, perhaps taken by slavers, perhaps simply lost. Know one knew...ever.
The Irish here often became 'Mountain people,' as I descend from. I am a Riley, who later appear on the Appalachian Mountain Heritage roster. I am a Jackson born of Rowan County, NC - a county that no longer exists. I am a Berry....
Today, the mountains contain many of those families still. I have kin there who would not trust me any more than another other outsider. I've gone to the mountains to visit cousins who told me not to wander alone in the backroads, least I run into the wrong person. They are a private people, who keep to themselves - and likely run stills. LOL!
Another thing I noticed when searching the internet just how many of the Irish immigrants were Catholic. That reminded me of a friend who visited quite a while back. I had another friend over at the house. After that friend left, my visitor pulled me aside and commented my other friend was 'Catholic.' I nodded.
'Do you let your children play with her children?' I was a bit taken aback, as I responded 'of course.'
In her world, at that time, Catholics and Protestants didn't mingle. In my world, I had an uncle who became Catholic upon marriage and a cousin who became Protestant upon marriage....we long intermingled and intermarried in our heritage. My Prussian grandfather was a Lutheran with a Jewish heritage who became a Presbyterian upon marrying my Scots grandmother. He later became Lutheran with another marriage and Latter Day Saint after wife 2 died and wife 3 appeared. LOL!
I don't know if I come from the Catholic Irish, but looking at the stats, would say it's highly likely. I really can't say that I care. Perhaps it was an ancestor talking to me that prompted me to go to Mass with friends, or to dance the Hora at my friend's celebration or become an 'honorary' Greek at another friend's home. I found all that intensely interesting and adding color to my ordinary life.
Or, maybe, I was just trying to cover all my bases in Heaven. LOL! |
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Bright blue skies
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The storms that came in during the night brought in cool, clean temperatures today and skies the color of Little Bird's eyes. Fall hasn't just arrived on the calendar now...but it has arrived in the Tri-State region as well, and it feels as luscious on my skin as creamed coffee does on my tongue.
It has been warm during the days and cool at night, but last night was heavy with humidity. I could do utterly nothing and be dripping wet from sweat. I stayed up until well after 2 am just because it was too hot and sticky in the house to sleep. Although it was cooler outside, no matter the amount of fans placed in windows made much difference within these walls. Finally, I took a hot bath, thinking that once I got out, I would feel cool for a brief period, and it did work long enough to get me to bed where I tossed and turned into the wee hours of the morning. Finally, a coolish breeze seemed to seep into the house, and I fell asleep.
Along about 6 or so, I awoke to cold. The comforter was no longer going to be used as a prop for my knee, but now as a cover to hold out the cold. Before long, I was wrapped up like a cocoon awaiting morning and emergence into a new person - a sparkling person because it was cool and would stay this way all day. This morning, a cool breeze fluttered the light-weight summer curtains about. I thought about the changes coming soon and how I would need to put heavier curtains up to keep out the cold, making the house into a rather cave-like place and me wanting to hibernate like a bear until Spring arrives once again.
Today, I passed by those summer shorts - worn thin by nearly daily use - and pulled out longer pants, an undershirt to be covered by a denim shirt heavily decorated with African scenes. Isn't it odd? A heavy denim shirt, worn only in the chillier weather, is coated with scenes of a hot African savannah? Did the maker think we would stay warmer thinking of these things in the cold of the days and evenings?
Whatever the reason, it's a favorite shirt of mine, both for the scene and for the warmth it offers me.
The rains last night washed the dust of the dry season away. Colors that were dusty and dull now shine bright with a sparkle. Overnight, the trees fairly pop with colors: Gold, red, purple mixed with greens that hang on for dear life - knowing soon their end will arrive.
It's as though the rains not only washed the skies and everything on earth clean, but me as well. I breathe easier with the dust and pollens knocked down. I feel as bright and clean as those blue skies above.... |
Monday, September 29, 2008
Walking and dreams
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Emma, my old girl, and I took a long walk today. We walked about a mile, which is a very long walk for her. I pooped her out good. She did well, but I’m reminded of her blindness. She walked into a fence and stuck close to my side - I think she was afraid I’d walk too far from her and she wouldn’t be able to see me. At my daughter’s house, she couldn’t get up the steps. Unlike here, which has handicapped access, my daughter’s steps are steep and high. When we got home, I gave Emma a pain pill, as I know she’ll have pain from that walk - but we both enjoyed it, I think.
Besides, you can see things while walking you'd miss while driving. It's a slower pace of life and something I always did with my aunt and mother when growing up. We didn't have cars then. It was either the bus, which we only took on occasion, or walk. We walked for miles! We walked downtown, for groceries, or just to cool off in the evenings - no AC, either. LOL! We'd walk no matter what the weather. I can remember walking on several feet of snow left on un-shoveled walkways, too. No one began to sink in that snow until thaw season arrived.
While walking yesterday, I saw many interesting things. Bits of metal, pretty flowers, people out to say 'Howdy' to. I found two pennies. I guess that means I got my two cents worth, eh? While it was a bit warm, as we waited until afternoon to walk, it was pleasant in the shade. Thankfully, there was lots of shade!
I decided to walk more. One reason is due to high gas prices. Although they are coming down, it still cost me $75 to fill that tank Friday. The other reason is because I need to lose weight. I’ve gained weight since the accident. Although I still have pain now and then, it doesn’t seem as bad as before. I decided to walk more, as I’m sure the weight I’ve gained isn’t helping my back any. So, when possible, I walk. When possible, I take my old girl with me. I’m not sure how many more walks we have time for together, so it’s best to take advantage of the time we have here and now.
Speaking of time, I had strange dreams last night. Isn’t it odd how dreams can wipe out miles and time? With a short drive, I’m back home where I raised my kids and walking the streets - looking for things to do about town. A brief walk from there and I’m home again - where I grew up. I can see my mother once more and talk to her. In my dream, she doesn’t feel well and I can feel her life force draining from her frail body...but she knows it is me and can talk as well as she ever could before she became sick.
There are people who tell me how they detest spending time with their parents. I never did. I knew our time was growing short as they grew older. Still, I thought they would be a fixture in my life forever - rather as though they had such strong life lines, nothing on earth could break those ties to life. But of course, that isn’t how life is. Dad developed cancer and mom developed Alzheimers. Dad was sharp as a tack, but in pain, to the end, while mom thought she was a child with her brothers, sister, mom and dad, I don’t know which way is worse: To know your life is ebbing, but to feel the pain of cancer, or to not know a thing and be obliviously happy....
In dreams, sometimes, I easily drive to my Uncle Ernie’s house for a visit. The distance between life and death is erased and the miles are easy drives. I feel the joy of being back in the mountains and finding their white house on the mountain - little changed, save the addition of a red brick porch.
Not so in life, but in dreams, moving about is so simple! Other times, I’m taken to the great Southwest United States - I can see the mountains of the dry Southwest from the car. Again, an easy drive from where ever I am.
I wonder why I am called to the Southwest in dreams? I’ve only been there once. I know, my Crow friend would say my Totem is speaking to me. She would tell me something about the great rising about to happen and how we will gather and be together for survival, as tribes once were in the old days....
I listen. I keep an open mind and heart, but I don’t know about such things....
The hour grows late. It is time to think of bed once more. I wonder where I’ll journey tonight? I wonder if I’ll wander once more or see someone who’s gone from my life but not forgotten. There are those who believe in ghosts. Again, I listen and keep an open mind and heart. Whatever it is, I enjoy those visits of the night with those I’ve loved. I enjoy going ‘home’ again - even if only in my dreams.... |