Craftsman At Work

 Our hearth is going in today and the master mason has left the exterior work above the roofline to others while he brings his talent inside to create the hearth. It is fascinating to watch him working out the math, the mass, the material, and the aesthetics of this. 

To complicate his life, we have a vintage slate surround that will be mounted to his brickwork and so he has to keep that in his mind as he works out dimensions and cuts. To further complicate his life, we are having our cat, Dolly's, cremains placed in a niche and the hearth will be built around her. He is being so sweet and kind about this, making sure she is as close to the firebox as possible, and front and center for every fire this fireplace ever sees.

I really admire the talent and care he is using, and it makes me happy that this is the energy that is being built into our hearth.

More Than a Fireplace

This is the year we took the leap, and tackled some long overdue massive projects at our house. Both were exciting, but the project that is the most emotional for me is replacing our pre-fab Heat and Glow zero clearance fireplace with a real masonry-built fireplace.

We are on day seven of active building and the firebox is complete, today the hearth goes in.  To these men building the fireplace, this is a job, and while it is clear to see the pride they take in there job, to them this is just another fireplace, and just another day at work.  To us, it is so much more than a fireplace.

Our fireplace is truly the heart of the home. It is where we gather, where we dream, where we rest.  It is the center of our family life, and a source of comfort in times of sorrow or stress.  It is where we hang our stockings at Christmas, carefully toast marshmallows for s'mores, toss foil-wrapped potatoes to roast. Our cats stretch in front of its warmth and dream of the hot sun of Summer. Our child perches on the hearth after a shower to dry off and stay warm. It is the background to a thousand memories and more.

These men, craftsman that they are, are building us something so much more than "just a fireplace."  They are leaving a small part of themselves behind in the mortar and will become part of everything this fireplace means to us.

I've heard them today talking about being disrespected and called "just a bricklayer" but I want to call out and tell them they are so amazing BECAUSE they are bricklayers and build homes and hearths that shelter and warm us. Their work is so much more than bricklaying, or maybe bricklaying is so much more than work.

The Difference 21 Years Makes

 It was April 20, 1999.  I was working at a local middle school as an Interventionist, basically a hall monitor/lunch room chaperone/student outreach staff member. It was a pretty mundane day at work, but when I got home and turned on the television I learned that in Columbine, Colorado two boys had spent weeks plotting and planning a massacre at their school, Columbine High.

Fifteen people died that day, 12 students, 1 teacher, and the two perpetrators.  Twenty-four were injured.  The world watched as children fled the building, hands on their heads, streaming past armed police.  The news was full of footage of parents waiting anxiously to find out if their child was safe. There had been school shootings before this one, but at the time this was  the deadliest, and the planning and preparation was terrifying.  

The next day I screwed up my courage and headed to school for work. To say that the mood was tense and muted would be an understatement. Mid-morning the fire alarm was pulled by a student and we nervously evacuated the building.  It was a poorly timed prank, we got the all clear and went back into the building.

I finished the school year at the middle school having lived through a bomb threat between April and the end of the school year.  As I walked out of the building the last time, I had a job offer in my hand to teach at a high school in the Fall.

I spent a week in August setting up my classroom and thinking about Columbine.  I assessed our fire drill route, where my class was assigned to stand, what my classroom looked like, and how would I keep kids safe if a shooter came to our school. In the end, I came up with a plan that would leave my classroom locked, looking like we had evacuated out the windows, with all of my students hidden from the view of the classroom doors.

School started and in late September, I decided the day had come to talk to my students about my plan and to practice it to see if it would work the way I thought it would.  Each class that day walked in and we talked about safety, Columbine, and then I explained my plan, assigned students to open the windows, turn off the lights, overturn desks near the window, and showed the students where and how we would hide by pressing up against the wall of the classroom between the two doors. I always taught withe the classroom doors shut and locked during class.  

Each class practiced, discussed, and by the end of the day I was pleased that I felt like I had a viable plan, just in case.  As I was cleaning up and getting ready to leave, the assistant principal for my area of the school knocked on my door. I let him in and he said that he was concerned to hear about my activity that day.  He asked if I knew what he was talking about.  Since the shooter drill was the primary activity in each class I replied that I guessed that was the cause of concern.  It was.  he said that he felt it was too alarming to the students and other teachers and I should cease this activity.  If I did it again, I would likely be fired.  I promised not to drill again, but by then I was sure that if the worst should happen, my kids would know what to do.

That was 21 years ago.  Now we have live action shooter drills in kindergartens.  Children learn how to hide silently in dark closets, shelter in place, evacuate with hands on their heads. Teachers are given emergency kits with evacuation routes, class rosters, and Sharpie markers to write names on students injured or dead.  Sometimes the children are not warned it is a drill and they have to hide while listening to actors roaming the halls "hunting" them.  

I think back to my innocent little plan, which I repeated in the next school I worked in.   I was going to make sure I had a plan to do my utmost to keep my students safe. I had parents complain, I had administrators caution me, but I persisted.  I wonder how many people remember the reaction I got to those drills and wish it were that simple now.

The Vanishing

My dad is dead. He's been physically dead since 9:30pm on April 6, 2020.  He died of Covid19 in the nursing home he had been in since October 16, 2019.  It was not the end I wanted for him, not the end he ever imagined.

While he physically died in April, I can say that he had been disappearing for a few years before that.  The father I knew began to fade and be replaced by a man who didn't make sense, became more and more unhappy, became unable to drive safely, work on cars with sense, began to fall for no real reason.  His ability to communicate constricted to a litany of complaints and paranoia.

It was hard to be around him and yet we had to do it nearly every day as he needed the grocery store, a doctor's appointment, the bank. Just keeping him feeling as in control of his life as possible after he wrecked his car in late 2016 and we had to find a way to make sure he never drove again.

I can't go through the litany of all the things, events, and moments that led to him being placed, against his will, in that nursing home.  I've done it in other, more private places.

What I will record here is that my father didn't die as much as he vanished.  First he faded and grew transparent in the world, then he faded more in the SNF, and finally, when Covid barred us from the SNF he just drifted away to a place I can never visit. 

I have to remind myself frequently that he is dead, not just sitting in his wheelchair in F3A, Greenbank Wing of Brandywine Nursing and Rehab on Greenbank Road in Wilmington, DE. He died in his room, alone. He was removed by our funeral director and cremated. I never saw him.

In a "normal" death there are rituals. We attend our loved ones as they die, we hold their hands, we stroke their hair. After they die, we wash their bodies, hand them over to the funeral home.  We have funerals, wakes, gatherings. We mourn in a collective, supporting each other and grieving together. There is a scattering of ashes, a burial, a stone, flowers.

In this, there is none of that. We were not allowed to be with him as he died. Didn't view his body. There was no funeral, no gathering, no wake, nothing.  A couple of weeks after his death we went to the funeral home to sign paperwork and pick up his ashes.  A quick drive home and now he is in my guest bedroom, waiting.

And so we wait. We wait for the pandemic to pass, though it feels like that is never going to happen. Should it pass and we can finally gather, he will be released into the Brandywine River, where he once fished, as he requested.  Further on we will have a memorial stone placed in the family cemetery in VA, but that is a long way off.  We sit in suspension, in the vanishing.

When It All Changes

When you do genealogical research so often it becomes like collecting sets of inanimate objects, like salt and pepper shakers.  You always want "the complete set," you need the person, their date of birth and death, who they married, their dates, if they had children, etc.  You want to look at a generation in your tree and see it full and complete.  It feels like an accomplishment, and it is.

Then there are those moments when you look at all those names and dates, lines and boxes and you start to hear whispering from  them.  Soft voices call out to be recognized, to be seen, to be known.  Some are more insistent than others and you begin to pursue the person behind the data.  You might look for pictures of the houses they lived in, pictures of them, newspaper articles that may reveal moments of their lives, mentions in books, anything to give you the chance to put flesh on the frame.

The most haunting pursuits are when you find an ancestor living through a life changing moment, probably one that led to your existence and you can't stop thinking about the emotions and the color behind that paperwork you have. What did that 13 year old girl feel when he feet touched the deck of the ship that would bring her to the New World in 1638? How did he feel as he walked through the gates of Point Lookout Prison Camp, sick and knowing the South was losing?  When the curtains caught fire in the Iroquois Theater, what thoughts ran through her mind in the last moments before mass panic?

Frequently even the mundane catches my fancy- Did they curse?  What was their favorite food?  Were they happy? Did they ever play in the rain? That whole crazy, messy, wonderful thing that encompasses a human life draws me in.  I want to know MORE than "this is my 4x great grandfather and he fought in the Civil War."

Lately I have been spending lots of time thinking about my great-grandparents, Jacob and Alvina. I had the good luck to have known Alvina, Granny to me.  She died when I was 9 and I have a handful of memories related to her in the last years of her life.  All my life their story drew me in.  They were born in Latvia, one of the Baltic countries that was under the control of the Soviet Union when I was a child.  They came here to the US in the early part of the 1900s in the great way of immigration that came through Ellis Island at that time.  They were in that tide of "tired, poor, tempest-tost" immigrants the Statue of Liberty stood as a beacon to.

That story in itself was amazing to me.  I was the granddaughter of an immigrant, my grandma Senta was 2 1/2 when they left Latvia.  In my growing up, it was a country which had gained and lost its independence but remained resolute in its identity.  We were LATVIANS, not "soviets"or "Russian."  It seemed a magical and haunted place that still resided in the hearts of my immigrant family.

As I got older I got more details around the departure of our family, more of the whys.  In 1905 workers across the Russian Empire rose up to revolt against Russian rule.  In Latvia they marched in the streets of Riga, demanding freedom and reform. There were riots, people were killed, Russia fought back to crush the revolt.  In the end, Russia prevailed and Latvia was once more under the control of Russia. For my great grandparents, this made life perilous because according to family lore, my great grandfather, Jacob, was among those fighting for Lativan freedom.

In May 1906, My great grandfather boarded the ship Northwestern and left his homeland for the very first and very last time.  He arrived in Philadelphia in early June of 1906 and stepped off the ship to create a new life from the wreckage of his old one.  The following year, my great grandmother, her mother Dora, and my 2 year old grandmother and her 4 year old brother, Roman, landed on Ellis Island and were met by my great grandfather, who by now had settled in Wilmington, Delaware and was working as a finish carpenter for the Rail Car Shops of Harlan and Hollingsworth.

Those years, 1905-1907 have been populating my thoughts quite a bit lately.  To be truthful, 1897-1907.  That would cover the time between when my great grandparent met, married, started a family, fled their home, and started a new life.  Not much, really?

I have a studio portrait of my granny taken in Riga in 1897.  She is in the center of the picture, flanked by two other young women.  It is labeled in my grandmother's distinctive hand, "Mom (center) and two friends." Just a wealth of information, not.  So there she is, my granny. Not the 90 something woman with braids wrapped around her head, a bowl of sour balls on the table beside her, and time to amuse small children that I knew, but a 20 year old girl with her friends. They are lovely, their waists fashionably pinched in corsets, leg o'mutton sleeves floating above their shoulders. Her hand delicately holds a card as it rests in a shell held up by a cupid statue, her other arm rests on the back of the chair one of her friends is sitting in.  Each of her friends look lik
e they have rings on indicating they may be married, but granny is 3 years from her marriage date.  All three girls are looking in different directions. One girl looks directly into the camera, granny to the left and above, the last girl looking directly off to the left, like someone has caught her attention.  I can see details- an errant wisp of hair, a peep of shoe toe, a faint herringbone pattern in the fabric of granny's dress. It's a moment in time and I almost feel like I am there.

She's so young, so beautiful and so on the cusp of an incredible decade.  She's going to meet and marry the love of her life, have two children, watch her life in Riga explode into uncertainty and leave her home to start a new life.  What was she like?  What did she think?  How did she feel?  So many questions.  I need to walk away for now, but I'll be back to write a few more posts related to this one.  In the meantime, here she is, on the cusp of when it all changes..... 

Mother's Day

This weekend is Mother's Day.  It is a day to honor, celebrate and spoil the mothers in our lives.  Those mothers may be birth, adoptive, heart, or ourselves.  Whatever the source, I say CELEBRATE the mothers in your life.

For me, 364 days a year are about my family, my home, my community.  You might find me covered in garden dirt, glue and glitter, tie dye, flour, or cooking grease on any given day of the year.  My hands are strong, my heart is true, my spirit is given in service to others.  Truly, it is difficult for me to think about myself before those I love, the causes I find worthy, or the help I can give to those with needs greater than my own.

Mother's day is one day every year when I can "force" myself to allow myself to be spoiled and cared for.  Instead of spending my day in the service of others, I can relax and allow myself to be served.  This year, I remind myself, and all mothers, that there is no selfishness in allowing yourself to be cared for, spoiled, gifted and loved.

Happy Mother's Day to all the fabulous and giving mothers I have had the pleasure of knowing.  Whether you came into my life as a mother figure, or an inspiration, thank you.  Moms of the world, let the world love you with all the love you show it on a daily basis.

Frazzled and Scattered

It's early January.  The holidays are over and all the rushing and flurrying is over. We only have to put away the tree and decorations and settle in for the Winter slog.  I'll admit it, January to March are about my least favorite months.  I don't like the cold, the stress of worrying about the oil in the furnace tank the icy roads, the bitter cold punctuated by the Spring-like teases.  If I could hibernate like a bear I would gather my little family around me and hunker down for a long Winter's nap.  Sadly, that is not possible.  So I am left frazzled and scattered.

I will spend January tackling large cleaning and organizing jobs I have put off for months because it was too hot or too busy to manage.  February will find me looking for more to do.  By March I will cheat Mother Nature and build a mini greenhouse for my front porch in the hopes of fresh greens for St. Patrick's Day.

The cold and isolation of January, February, and March leave me feeling restless and unsettled, frazzled and scattered.  Maybe this is why my grandmother spent so many hours with garden catalogs, notebooks, and seedling trays during this time.

sigh.....

Kitchen Art

I like to cook.  Seriously like to cook.  I love the smell of onions when they hit hot butter, garlic in anything, the soft scent of vanilla can calm me like few others.  I need to remember this everyday when I drag my feet over dinner.

I get it, the day is long, I am tired, I feel uninspired when I think of the meal.  I have been known to wail, "Do we need to eat dinner EVERY DAY?"  However, I need to remind myself that no matter how stressed out I am, how pressed for time, how tired and sore I am, the moment the cutting board is on the kitchen counter and my knife is in my hands poised to chop an onion I can feel my heart rate settle and my mind quiet.

The quiet and interesting thoughts that wander through my mind as I chop, peel, slice, and arrange are nearly meditative.  It is a way to clear all the clobber out that has built up through the day, or puzzle at a particularly sticky situation I am facing.  That moment when I hit a rhythm and my movements become more like a dance is pure magic for me.  Of particular joy is that spot in time when a little voice in my head will begin to whisper ingredients I hadn't thought of that are the perfect addition to what I am working on.

I don't draw, paint, write poetry or compose music.  I cook.  It is my art, my expression of love, the way I show my care and they way I find peace in a noisy world.

Music of Midlife

I can't remember a time when I wasn't enthralled by music.  I gravitated toward it, savored it, desired to make it.  I was the kid that agonized through elementary art and beamed through music class.  I couldn't wait to get the little plastic recorder and learn "Go Tell Aunt Rhodie."  As soon as I could make a choice in my extracurricular activity at school, I dropped art and joined the choir.

So I think I have made it clear I love music.  What should also be clear is that I play no instrument other than my own voice.  I have always wanted to play an instrument.  I begged for a guitar for Christmas, which I got, and then was given no lessons and the strings were cut to render it silent.  I tagged along on my friends piano lessons, constantly hoping to get my own.  My mother bought an organ and told me I could figure it out on my own, but yelled when I got near it.  That plastic recorder I got each year would last only until a part went missing, or it was "accidentally" broken.  In the fifth grade we had the chance to get free lessons on a musical instrument and I settled on the flute.  My grandmother arranged to rent me one and for the next 9 weeks I lived in a state of torture.  If I practiced with the flute my mother berated me, if I didn't practice she screamed at my lack of effort.  When time came to renew the rental she yelled about the cost, never mind that it was my grandmother paying for it.  No, when the time came to renew I silently let it go.  Silently.

That is when I learned that the one instrument I had, that cost nothing, that went everywhere with me, that never needed tuning, never broke a  string was my voice.  It was mine, all mine and nobody could take it from me.  That is when I settled on singing.  It made me happy.  It made me free.  It healed my insides.

From 6th grade, until I was well into my twenties I sang in one choir or another.  I sang in the car.  I sang in the shower, I played records on my stereo and sang into my hairbrush.  I sang with my friends and we recorded it on our tape recorders. I sang on stage, I sang in the hallways, and I sang in the woods at home.  I sang Christmas carols, classic choral music (thanks to Mrs Smith), rock and roll, country, mountain music, operettas, rock operas, folk music, bird song.

Singing continued to be something I did with gusto for many, many years.  Long after the last practice with a church choir I still sang in the car or while I cleaned the house.  Then, in my mid-thirties I had my first son, lost my first son, and lost my voice.  Suddenly singing, any singing caused me such pain my throat would close.  For the first time in my life I had no music.  I had no song.

It took years for the song to return.  I had Connor, and singing to him was a joy that closed my throat and brought tears to my eyes.  Slowly, oh so slowly, the song returned to me.  I began singing again.  Only for Connor or myself, but singing all the same.

The music has expanded for me with Connor's arrival.  He and I whistle with each other.  We whistle all the time.  We whistle together, we whistle between, and we whistle at each other.  He loves music too, though he professes to not like to sing.  I see myself in his young desire to fiddle with music.

Now, at the age of 46 I find myself wanting an instrument to accompany myself with.  For years a secret desire has lived in my heart.  For 42 long years I have wanted to own and learn to play an autoharp.  Crazy, silly, and will not let me go desire to learn the autoharp.  So, this week, on Friday, November 8th I will drive to New Jersey and buy a used autoharp to see if I can learn.  Will this become another instrument, all my own, that cannot be taken from me?  Only time, and my determination can tell.

Capable Hands, Lazy Nails

For the last couple of months I have been taking the time to paint my nails and take better care of them than I am usually likely to.  The regular manicures, with filing and cuticle treatments and polish have been nice moments of relaxation in which I focus on myself, and enjoy the results of the rest of the week.  I have an ever expanding selection of nail polish, and am forever on the hunt for new and different.  I'll pain my nails anything from the candycorn-style I attempted for Halloween, to traditional pink, red, purple, green, blue, silver, lavender.  I like them all!

However, as this habit has reasserted itself after a few years of neglect, I find myself remembering something my mother used to yell at me when I was in high school and in my early 20s.  See, back in those days I spent a lot of time on myself, what girl that age doesn't??  I styled my hair, put on make up, painted my nails.  My mother ridiculed the make up as trashy, the hair as overdone and the wrong color, and the nails as lazy.

Yes, that's right.  I had lazy nails.  According to my mother, if you had the time to care for your nails, paint them, and not have them torn to shreds as you worked, you must not be working hard enough.  When I first got a job as a secretary, she swore the days of "lazy nails" had to be done.  No employer would take me seriously if I didn't take myself seriously and ditch the "lazy nails" for "capable hands."

That really hurt. I thought my hands were perfectly capable.  I wasn't one for the ultra long nails, just nicely painted and cared for. I worked as hard as the next person.  Still, the site of my nails, freshly painted was enough to set her off on a tirade.

My mother died when I was 25, so she never got to experience the years in which I indulged in artificial nails and regular pedicures.  Nor was she there to comment on  the months during my pregnancies when I went for twice a month mani pedis.  She also wasn't there to nod smugly when my nails spent years brutally trimmed and unadorned while Connor was a young child.

So now, as I have periodically over the last 5 years or so, I am on a kick of painting my nails.  Each time I do it, I hear my mother shrieking at the laziness of it all.  Yet, when I see my neatly painted nails encrusted with dirt from the garden, gloppy with the meatloaf I am forming for dinner, dripping with soapy water from the floor washing, I silently tell her to stuff it.

These days, I see that my "lazy nails" rest on the most capable of hands.  Those hands deserve to be cared for as they care for others.  Why shouldn't my strong and capable hands be pampered and decorated?  I paint my nails because my hands work so hard.

Mean Girls

If you are a female of the human race you have been a mean girl or been a victim of one.  They are inevitable and unavoidable miseries that dot the landscape waiting to wound and main the unsuspecting.  You can tell yourself any number of little white lies to make them seem like the walking wounded, or something to be pitied, but that allows them to behave in hurtful ways with no responsibility for the damage they do.

I had hoped I had left mean girls long behind me when I left school.  For a few years it truly seemed that way.  It wasn't that I didn't have conflicts with women, of course I did. But a mean girl, that is a particular creature capable of so much damage.  How sad to find that some girls never outgrow being mean.

Grown women who are mean girls fall into a couple of categories.  There are those who were mean as children and never outgrew it.  Then there are those women who were victims of mean girl in their younger years and now they have found themselves an opportunity to claim perceived power and be mean girls themselves.

These days I am dealing with the later breed of mean girl.  A woman I have come in contact seems to so clearly have been one of those girls in school victimized by mean girls. I can picture her being teased, picked on, embarrassed, humiliated.  I can see it when I look at her because I was her once. I can see it in her eyes the same that I can see it in mine sometimes.  Unlike me, she wants to make others hurt the way she hurt.

This woman is toxic, to herself and all those around her.  I watch her belittle others, frighten others into being her "friends" and generally making any situation she is in all about her.  I have no patience for this crap, none at all.  I spent so much of my youth victimized and crying because of girls like her that I have no intention of fannying about with it now.

So, mean girl, you are on notice.  You aren't frightening me and I won't stand silently by as you tear others down.  The day will come when you will find that those you think are your friends are really just frightened of you.  When they realize that others feel like they do, they will join together and you will be powerless to stop them.  You will be alone in your meanness and we will be happier to be free of your nastiness.

Mean girls suck.

Phone Home

When I was younger and I went on a trip my mother always insisted that the first thing I do on arrival was call to let her know I was there safe and sound.

As a very young child, I didn't think anything of it and happily checked in on arrival, and sometimes once or twice while I was away depending on the length of the trip.  I even have a picture of me, freshly showered and in my nightgown in the Polynesian Hotel, phone to ear and my suntanned face glowing as I fill mom in on all the fun.

As I got older, it got a little more trying a promise to keep.  How embarrassing to be on a choir trip and have to walk in the hotel and pick up the phone.  Irksome and I felt unnecessary, after all I was FINE. Of course, I called anyway, I didn't dare not to.  Mom insisted and if I wanted to make any more trips, I'd better make that call.

Well, as time went by the habit became ingrained. I keenly felt the need to check in with someone on arrival at a vacation destination.  I would walk in to an number of hotel rooms, and walk to the phone to make my check in.  I shudder to admit it, but I did it on my honeymoon too.  It meant the world to my mother, just to hear that we arrived and were happy and safe.

Of course, now my mother has been gone for nearly 20 years.  Yet, the habit remains.  I walk in to a hotel room and I itch to pick up the phone and tell her we are fine.  Honestly, to tell someone we have arrived and are fine.  I have bewildered many a person with that call to say, "We're here!"

It happened yesterday as we walked in to our hotel room in Washington D.C.  I just wanted to touch base with home, to say we were here and all was well.  It still seemed crazy to not pick up the phone and dial my mother's number.  An empty feeling in my heart and my hand.

Maybe because with the passing of my mother some essential sense of home is lost forever.  My home, the place where they watched me grow up and made sure I was safe and sound (on occasion) is gone forever.  I have a wonderful and full home now, but it is different.

I can never arrive at a destination and phone home again.  Miss you mom.  By the way, we got here safe and sound, the hotel is lovely, and Connor is loving Washington D.C.

Like August

Here I am, at the end of July. ACRA is ended and August yawns before me, the last hurrah of Summer before the onset of Fall. The air is heavy with humidity, but tinged with the promise of cooler days to come.  August is the down slope of Summer, the relaxation of everything before the harvest to come.

This morning I stepped out on to my porch and the chorus of lazy crickets sang the song of late Summer.  Too tired to play individual parts in a square dance, they lazily droned a dirge in unison.  I could feel the moisture in the air,and yet just a hint of chill that wanted me to pull my robe closed.  It smelled of the tired green of the yard, the fading flowers of the garden.  We aren't quite to the reckless abandonment of Autumn, but past the blowsy fullness of Summer.

August is a month for the pool, the beach, day trips, and afternoons in the hammock.  It is the scent of chlorine and sunscreen, the sound of surf, and the grit of sand underfoot.  The trees sag under the weight of Summer dust, the flowers droop for want of water.  Nights are devoid of the magic of fireflies, and the crickets sound frantic in that late Summer way.

I feel the lazy, slow, dying in my bones.  I want nothing more than to dig my toes in the sand and meditate on the ceaseless waves, or to stretch out and listen to the sounds of the local pool.  Gardening holds little allure, cooking even less.  I want to relax, stretch out and soak in the last moments of Summer.

I feel like August.

Moonshine and Murder

I always knew that there was moonshine in my father's family background. I even got tricked into tasting some when I was younger. (Word to the wise, when a crowd of guys gathers in the backyard and passes a mason jar around, it is NOT spring water.) Stories of uncles, grandfathers, fast cars, product hidden in beehives, and thump barrels silenced in a creek were told and listened too over and over. One story I was told seemed too fantastic to be real.  It goes like this.....

According to family legend, as told by my father's mother (who was just over a year old when it happened), her father had a contract with the federal government to produce moonshine for the military and the government during WWI.  Now, Prohibition being the law of the land, this made local producers who didn't enjoy this protection jealous. They joined together, ambushed the cabin one night and shot her father, gravely wounding him.  They took off into the night and she was placed in the dying man's lap, where she remained all night long as he died.  Two men were eventually tried and convicted of murder and were executed for the murder.

So, what did this give me to go on?  A location, a time period, a potential individual, and a story that must have made local news.  I decided to start with the individual, trying to pin down a name for my grandmother's father. Not as easy as it would sound.  There is no father listed on her birth certificate, nor on that of her older sister.  Hmmmmm..... I kept plugging away and finally I had a name, John White.  The only name more mundane and difficult to confirm would have been John Smith, but still how many John Whites married to Delia Easters with daughters Bertie and Annie could there be?  Only the one as it turns out and he appears marrying Delia in 1914 and by 1920 she and her daughters are all shown in the census as "Whites" and living with her widowed mother, no John in sight.  This was promising, he disappears at the right time. I "googled" everything I could think of to track down the story from there and got nowhere, for years.  Then I had a flash of insight, maybe somebody else had another part of the story.

I was off to my ancestry.com account looking for someone else that had John White in their tree.  Lightening struck and I got in touch with a lovely lady living in North Carolina who's MIL is actually my relative, a cousin counted and removed (I haven't quite worked it out yet, but my great-grandmother Delia and her MILs mother were sisters).  This lady's MIL was actually friendly with my grandmother when she was a young woman!  From here the story resolved quickly.

Turns out, it wasn't my great-grandfather John White.  Nope, it was Delia Easter's father William Riley Easter who was the victim of the story told so many times.  My new friend/family in North Carolina sent me the newspaper articles and a couple of pictures and here is how the story really goes.....

William Riley Easter was a man who made stills, really good stills, and he repaired stills that law officers had attempted to destroy. He was also an exceptional producer of shine.  According to the newpapers his son (and maybe he) had a loose aggrerment with the sheriff in Mount Airy, NC (of Mayberry fame) in which he would turn in stills for bounty money.  In July 1918, William Riley Easter's son, Jim turned in a still to the local sheriff, Belton that belonged to the Cain brothers.  The sheriff confiscated the still, and the Cains took serious exception to this.  Threats were leveled about the return of the still or else violence would be done.  William Riley walked into town and further inflamed things by turning in the product of the still that had already been destroyed.  That sealed his fate.

On the night of July 22, 1918 he was hosting a family party at his "small mountain home" with children and grandchildren in attendance.  His wife, my great-great grandmother Margaret and her daughter, my great-grandmother Deelie Easter WHITE were in the front yard when a large group of men appeared in the moonlight.  William Riley Easter, thinking they were revenuers came to the door and asked them in, and then the shooting started.  Riley was struck in the stomach and was dragged into the home while fire was returned from inside the cabin.  A woman screamed that the men had killed "her pap and her baby" and the gunfire stopped, the men melting back into the night.

The law was fetched and a doctor brought to tend to the wounded and sort out the story.  The doctor, insisting that Riley would not die, was contradicted by Riley, who insisted otherwise. He gave testimony and identified those that had shot him.  Gut shot and in pain, he lingered 13 hours, with his granddaughter (my grandmother), Annie Easter White on his lap.

The Cain brothers were caught quickly, along with several others identified by Riley as he died and confirmed by other family members.  They were taken to jail, tried for the crime and the two Cain brothers became the first men electrocuted in Surry County, NC (hanging having been the method until then).

So there it is, a story that belongs in a book or a movie, but not my history. It is surreal to me that my grandmother was a baby in the middle of all of that, that my great-grandmother had to be a witness to the murder of her own father.  I have seen pictures of Delia, she seemed so stoic and grim, she had good reason to be. My Grandmother Annie Easter White Secrest Prazzo could have her moments of deep negativity, and who can blame her?

Moonshine can have such a romantic and daring aura about it, but this story shows the underbelly of it all. Rivals, cheats, anger, retribution, gunfire, and women and children screaming and cowering in the midst of it all.

I am still researching, still reading and still digesting, but I wanted to get this out on the blog to begin sharing it with others in my family who will want to know.

The Power of Memory

Last week I got to go to Disney World with my family.  It was literally a dream-come-true visit because we got to stay at the Grand Floridian, something I have been dreaming of since they announced they were building it.  I could write, a probably will, a ton about what we did and how much fun it was, but today I am going to focus on the power of memory and its effect on me every time I find myself at Disney.

Many years ago, when I was about 9, and Disney was a much younger park, I was surprised by my grandmother with a trip to Disney World with her.  I couldn't believe my good fortune.  As excited as I was to be going on a plane (my first), staying in a hotel (another first), and of course seeing Disney World, what really had me happy was the chance to spend four whole days alone with the person I loved best in the world.  The idea that for that entire vacation I would would be with my grandmother and that the shifting sands of my life would be solid was more than I could hope for.

It was an amazing trip.  This was before deregulation of the airlines and you dressed up for a flight and got fancy food during your flight (my first experience with honeydew melon).  Nobody frisked you or irradiated you prior to flying, and it all seemed so glamorous.  We visited Disney World when there were only two hotels and both were on the monorail, there was only the Magic Kingdom, and there were still e-ticket rides (and e-ticket had nothing to do with e-mail, electronics, or technology).  We stayed at the Polynesian long before Lilo and Stitch checked in and indulged in a luau with Polynesian dancers and entertainers.  I woke up early, swam in the pool in the afternoons, wandered the park in bliss, and was dazzled by the Main Street Electric Light Parade.  One night, we watched fireworks from the monorail as we returned to our hotel for the night.  It was bliss, the entire time.  What a glorious time we had, enjoying each others company and making each other laugh.

I knew then it was important to me, that I would remember it the rest of my life, and that it was an incredibly large gift from my adored grandmother to me.  What I had no way of knowing is that it would be so important to me that every time I go to Disney World I am left weeping tears of joy as I remember and relive that gift from so long ago.  Yes, even today, 35 years since I went with my grandmother I dissolve into happy tears when I arrive and do it regularly until I check out.  I cry when I see the Polynesian, the monorail, the Castle.  I cry when I ride the Haunted Mansion (my favorite), the Pirates of the Caribbean (grandma's favorite), the People Mover, or the Carousel of Progress.  Now that they have reinstated the classic Main Street Electric Light Parade, I watched that through a blurry haze of tears too.

Make no mistake, these are tears of pure and unadulterated joy and gratitude.  For me, the "happiest place on Earth," is just a little more happy, a little more full.  The power of my memories of how happy I was on that trip amplify the happiness I feel whenever I am there.  There are moments when I am sure I feel my grandmother's arm on mine, her hand on my shoulder, her smile on my face. 

I don't think she had any idea of the magnitude of her gift that summer.  To her, I am sure, it was a chance to see a place she really wanted to see and to share it with a beloved granddaughter.  She knew it meant a great deal to me, but neither of us could foresee how the gift would just continue on and one through the years.

This last trip proved no less powerful.  Here I was, staying at the most beautiful resort Disney has to offer, a dream come true and I was most enchanted by the view out our window.  If you haven't guessed, our window perfectly framed the Great Ceremonial House of the Polynesian, along with a view of the sandy beach I watched the water parade from with my grandmother.  Every night, I could hear the call and music of the luau drift across the lagoon.  It was as if the staff of the Grand Floridian knew just how to make my dream-come-true trip just a little dreamier.  In case you are wondering, I cried.  Soft, happy tears full of memory and love.

Thanks grandma and thanks to Disney....

Light and Dark on April 5th.

Today was really good and really rough. Nine years ago today my first son died at 2 days old. He was born with brittle bone disease, we had no idea of it until he was born and I didn't get to even hold him until after he died. The worst thing a mother can go through, ever. As hard as it was, as hard as it still is, time has healed us and while it can still hollow us out and make us cry, we seem him as a great gift.

We have a beautiful, happy, healthy 7 1/2 year old son. The day he was born, everyone in the delivery room cried there eyes out, including our doctor. He is the light of my days, and the peace in my nights. I tell him all the time that I am simply the luckiest mommy, because I was born to be his mommy and it is true.

Today, we told him that we had Liam, that he has an older brother, and that he died. Now we start the journey with our son as he explores what that means to him and how he incorporates that into his life. We never meant it to be a secret, but the time was never right to talk about it until now. I think it was a good choice, he is already asking good questions and seems thoughtful but not devastated.

So tonight, we will pick some branches from the redbud tree we planted in Liam's memory on the first anniversary of his death and put them in the center of the table as we eat dinner.

Thinking

I feel a blog post coming on, stay tuned. I am ruminating over it.....

Still Cleaning

Well, the week has worn on and I am still cleaning. Now I have progressed to the point where the floors of the house are ready for cleaning. Unfortunately for me, I am not a fan of mopping, it just seems to push dirt around on my nice wood floors. That means that at least twice a year I am left with two big buckets of boiling hot water (one for washing, with Pine Sol and one for rinsing), a couple of towels (for sitting the buckets on and drying the floor to prevent streaking), rubber gloves, and a long couple days of crawling around. Yep, that's right, I crawl on my hands and knees and wash the floor with sponges and towels. Exhausting, but really effective. By the time I am done I am sore from head to toe, but the floors of my house are clean enough to eat off of.

So, here I am, end of day one of floor cleaning and I am halfway done. As I went this time I tried to be really mindful of all the things that have gone on in my home since I was last able to do this. There has been my thyroid operation, physical recovery, mental slogging, mom's broken hip, so much drama and upheaval. As I cleaned I visualized sweeping all of that stuff up with the dust and dirt. It felt good to wipe it up with the steaming hot sponge, scented with Pine Sol, and squeeze it into the bucket. Better still to watch the dirt and bad memories splash into the yard.

I swear my bare feet are tingling when I walk in areas I am done cleaning!

Now, let me spend a moment on what Pine Sol means to me. Pine Sol is what my grandmother used to clean the floors in her house. I can remember running into her house after school and smells the resin-y sweet smell hanging in the air. It usually signaled that her brother, my beloved Uncle Roman was visiting and they had gone grocery shopping that day as well. That meant that behind the overwhelming smell of Pine Sol there would be the background of oven fried chicken, what was always served when Uncle Roman and Aunt Emily came to visit. Pine Sol represents safety, love, security, warmth, family, home, and hearth to me. Having my house reek of it feels like my grandmother is surrounding me with her love still.

As I continue my task I am trying to picture the happiness of those days with my grandmother. I am asking that happiness like that live in my home today. I hope that someday, my child will clean his floors (hopefully these floors) and have wonderful and comforting memories like mine.

Don't get me wrong, I will be glad when the floor cleaning is done and I can relax a little. Don't know what has possessed me for the last several weeks, but it feel really good to reclaim my home and rediscover the light inside it. May it always have the lingering scent of Pine Sol......

Cleaning Cobwebs

For the last several weeks, I have had this crazy cleaning energy. It has been a great change after 18 months of the miasma surrounding my thyroid "episode" and aftermath. The house never looked awful, but a ton of pent up bad mojo has accumulated in the corners and needed cleaning. I have been addressing this and I honestly can say that I feel the house getting lighter and brighter by the day.

There is a new energy in my life, and I am riding it for all it is. I am enjoying seeing a deeper purpose in those things that bring me joy and fulfillment. I am loving seeing my home as my cathedral, altars strewn about with abandon.

As the Winter continues on its splintering journey toward Spring I am reclaiming all the corners of my home. It is nice to see the progress, to feel the shift in energy, to ride the uplifting wave of it.

I am using my mental broom to clean the cobwebs from the corners left too long in the eddies of life. Can't wait until Spring, when the windows will be thrown open and the last staleness will be swept away.

Out there

Did you ever notice how some people can really put it "out there?" You know, the ones who proclaim their religious bent, personal values, or rules for living from the mountain top so to speak? Sometimes I can truly admire these folks, especially when the proclamation is from a position of tolerance for alternate views. Kind of like "hey, this is how I feel, what moves me and I want to share, even though it may not be your thing."

Recently, I have had something of a reawakening of a personal spirituality that I thought long gone. Many years ago, I was very intrigued and drawn to Wiccan practices, but as I grew older, I felt I grew away from them. In the depression and strife of the last 18 months, my interior dialogue about beliefs and soul was silent. Then, quite suddenly, in the course of a month it was revealed to me that I had been walking a path I thought long abandoned.

Since Thanksgiving of 2011, I have been exposed to the ideals of kitchen/hedge witchery. Here, I find that so many of the things I had been doing which gave me joy and inner peace are actually things others are practicing. Who knew that I had been spell casting, circle casting, and practicing? Who knew that my feet never left the path, my mind just got distracted from it. I suppose the Universe knew, the Goddess knew.

So, here I am. All hepped up with nobody to talk to. I am singularly alone in this journey. There are those I can reach out to online, by phone, by e-mail, however, my daily walk is a solitary one. Thus, my envy of those who can post it on Facebook, wear it on their sleeve, put it on a bumper sticker.

Maybe I just need more time to explore this new/old stuff. Guess it as good a place to begin as any.