Last night I told Mike I was going to bed early. I'd taken a late nap and I didn't want a second wind. Just go to bed around 9 and that would be it.
But then I remembered: Halloween. Not trick-or-treating Halloween. We have that already set. Sophia will be a witch and Maeve will be a black cat. Costumes have been created and improvised and all of that is done. No. I remembered school's Halloween.
They don't celebrate Halloween at City Garden. They celebrate International Children's Day. Subdued. Interesting. I think this is brilliant from a former teacher's point of view. It's the WORST DAY TO BE A TEACHER. The last day of school is never a problem--anticlimactic, but never a problem. Last day before spring break/Easter break sometimes gets a little bit jittery, but you counteract that by giving tests on the last day. Last day before Christmas/Winter break is touchier, but at the schools where I taught, moms were usually involved and there was a little party, etc., at the very end of the day (and the day was usually a half-day anyway). Valentine's Day can be fraught with danger when you teach middle school, but really, no big deal in first grade (the note always reads: send in 24 valentines signed by your child but not addressed).
But Halloween. Maybe because it's the first candy holiday of the school year, or maybe because of the mysterious nature of costumes and night time encounters with strangers with candy, but whatever the reason, it is the worst. Children in first grade, fourth grade, middle school--they all start vibrating at a higher and higher pitch as the day drags on. Don't you dare try to throw a Halloween party. Don't pass out any candy. Your best bet is to pretend it doesn't exist. Like City Garden does--in a good way.
Last year, City Garden did International Children's Day as well. The premise then, and now, is to dress as a child in another country. This can be simple (Maeve last year was from England, wearing a smocked dress and tights. That was it). Or it can be elaborate. One classmate of Maeve's came in some sort of African ceremonial dress, complete with white and black paint dots and lines on her face. Sombreros are common. So are international soccer (football) uniforms. Some families send their children to school dressed traditionally, and others stick to what kids really look like in today's National Geographic magazines.
Sophia went dressed as the oldest daughter in a Swedish family celebrating St. Lucy's Day last year. This meant her white ankle-length nightgown and, essentially, an Advent wreath on her head. We even lit the candles just to show (and then replaced flames with yellow paper cut out flames). Sophia LOVED this. She didn't wear the headgear all day, but put it on when they went to sing songs at the nursing home (the same one where I vote, in fact).
This year, she said "Irish Dancer" before I could make any suggestions. Now, Sophia, as you know, does Irish dance. But there's no way I'm sending her to school in her pristine white blouse with blue piping and her $25 sash and her uncomfortable headband. So we compromised. School blouse, Clarkson skirt (it's made of polyester double knit, it will be fine) and green "spankies" and an old pair of poodle socks. Soft shoes, if and only if she wore clogs when she was outside. A regular headband, hair gelled and blown dry in the morning (no spikes overnight). And I told her three weeks ago I'd "think about" the sash.
Maeve wanted to do the same thing. Even easier. Skort, one of Sophia's school shirts, headband, and her fake gillie shoe socks (they are white socks that look like black gillies are on your feet--very cute). I thought I was set, back three weeks ago when we talked about it.
But no. I never figured out what to do about the sash. The Clarkson school sash, which beginner girls wear with the shirt and skirt, etc., is expensive and would be easily damaged on the playground or by a careless boy holding a marker and running around the room (I don't think this happens in Ann's room, but you never know, it's Halloween). So last night, ready for bed, I realized I was going to have to fashion something.
I had navy broadcloth. I doubled it and cut out the shape of the sash (a 20-70-90 right triangle). Hemmed it. Found pink, yellow, and baby blue bias tape (originally gathered at Leftovers, the sadly shuttered recycling "store" in south city). Came upstairs and started pinning and sewing it on in some sort of semi-recognizable Irish/Celtic knotwork pattern.
Didn't do so bad if I do say so myself. When she's home today I'll take a picture. From across the room, she looks ready to go on stage--although up close you know the sash is a costume, not a uniform. Still, though. Not bad for what it is. Better than it deserved.
So I got to bed around midnight, but that's ok. Halloween costumes (or whatever costumes) for school are a mark of a mother who has it all together. I didn't send her to school in jeans and a t-shirt ("tell them you're German"). She had something to say and something to show. Whew.
Sometimes it feels like motherhood, marriage, and home ownership are simply checking things off a list and hoping you don't forget something.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
My Final Thoughts on the Election
Note: reprinted from my Alphabridge blog, which has, I think, 7 readers. After I posted it there I realized that I might as well have just told my cat. If I'm really going to say something and mean it, and have the folks I know and see every day hear me/read me, I was going to have to suck it up and post it here. Do I want a bunch of comments smacking me down? Not really. Am I going to publish them anyway? Yes, if I've ever heard of you before. Please know that in all my bluster, all my opinionated statements and knee-jerk reactions, I never want to assume that someone agrees with me (in fact, when other people assume that about me, it makes me crazy). This is not a rah rah we're so wonderful kind of thing. At least that's not my intention. I'm also not trying to convince anyone--the idea of the undecided voter at this stage baffles me. I know many of you; I know you are good-hearted and intelligent folks. This isn't about you. It's about a change inside myself that I still cannot believe has happened.
From Alphabridge: R is for Reasons
I think because of Lisa S, I wrote a 50 before 50 list earlier this year. Some of them are tangible things (pick up piano, Spanish). Some of them are things I suddenly realize I'm starting to accomplish (for instance, the genealogy project I'm working on; I have my own atrium; I have learned the rudimentary beginnings of weaving on the loom upstairs).
The last category on the list is entitled, "Hey a Girl Can Dream." While most of the items on the list as a whole are things that are up to me (with the exception of becoming a godmother, perhaps--all the others have me as at least a minor actor in the accomplishment), these things are simply hopes for the future. Go to more baptisms and weddings than funerals, for instance. But looking at this the other day, I saw the number one thing in this category is "Vote for a candidate I really believe in."
Every other vote I have ever cast has really been against the other person. When I voted for Harmon for mayor, it was out of deep suspicion over Bosley. When I voted against Harmon in the next election, it was out of fear that the vote would be split between Slay and Harmon and Bosley would come through on the other end. Unfounded, I realized later, but I wasn't just dying to see Slay as our mayor. I voted against Bush, I voted against Talent for Senate. Some folks I just grudgingly vote for, not because they've wowed me, but because they probably aren't as bad as the other guy. I don't vote in unopposed elections. I write in my neighbor Brent's name a lot. I vote against most judges just out of spite or something.
But I'm voting for Obama and I'm finally ok with saying that. Not that I would be ashamed to vote for him. But because of something about me that doesn't want to give anyone any ideas about what I might be hoping for--for myself, my family, my kids, my neighborhood, and so on. I don't like to be wrong (who does?) and I don't like to be triumphalist. I never want to be caught doing a victory dance, and when I'm the underdog, I don't want to have false hope.
And these are 10 of my reasons:
1. When crowds start booing in Obama rallies, Obama says things like "none of that, just get out and vote." Both sides are not dirty this time.
2. I have lost my faith in my church's leadership being able to truly tell right from wrong in a reality-based political scenario. Mike was radicalized in the 2000 election SNAFU. I wasn't. I was radicalized by my bishop and so many others. Not that I've ever been a "Yes, Father, whatever you think, Father" kind of Catholic. But the audacity of these bishops, the ultimatums, the anger--it made me start reading and finding my own way by my own conscience.
3. When you watch that video of "Joe the Plumber" asking Obama about the taxes he would or would not have to pay, Joe tries to walk away from Obama several times. Obama, very decently, very calmly, tries to continue to engage him. He does not dismiss him even though he must have seen him as someone who would never vote his way. He does not try to simply rally the folks around him with slogans. He gets into an explanation of his tax plan with the caveat that he doesn't know Joe's situation for sure. We all know now that this was simply a ploy. But Obama still gave him the time of day and didn't talk down to him. Or us.
4. When I was watching the first debate, my friend Rachel turned to me and said, "When I listen to him, I know what he's saying, I can stay on his level. My fear is that isn't true for all Americans and he loses them." I'm tired of lowest common denominator politicians. I think I want someone smart. Educated. With a plan.
5. During the Kerry campaign, every negative ad from the other side filled me with despair and worry. I worried for them. In the beginning of the campaign (post primary), I worried about the Obama campaign responding the right way. But they did. Every time. With calm, reasonable statements. They didn't just assume that people would do the right thing. I realized they knew how to play the game, and this made me relax. Trust me--I was going to vote for the Democrat simply because of the last 8 years. But these sorts of things made me decide that yes, I could mean it with my heart. I could trust him to pick good advisers, and his advisers to make good decisions.
6. Listening to Obama, listening to his speeches for the first time (I didn't pay much attention during the early primaries because, like I said, I would have voted for a can of Pepsi if that's who the Democrats would have put forward...because I'd be voting against the Bush/Cheney/Rove/etc. machine), I found myself turning my head towards the TV or the computer screen to pay closer attention. I read later in Mother Jones, I think, that it was like being in an abusive relationship and finding a boyfriend who really wasn't going to lie and cheat on me and beat me up. I was so used to politicians doing evil, horrible, or even just slimy things and laughing at the American people while they did them. This was a different language. New.
7. The Will.I.Am video. I kid you not. I can't believe you haven't seen it, but if not, you can find it at youtube right here. I did have it up but youtube was taking too long...
8. This specific quote: We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope. This is the America I was raised believing in. Not in the America that tortures prisoners and invades pre-emptively and cynically laughs at its critics. America is great because America is good? Let's be good again.
9. Because in all the dirtiness, all the half-truths and outright lies and hideous viral emails (umm, ever heard of snopes.com?), all the insinuations and last-minute attempts to paint him as unready, dangerous, and "not like us" (we all know what that means), he has never lost it. He's never fought back--he's defended himself, his past, his campaign, his ideas. But he has never lashed out. The collected, even-tempered responses, the appropriate humor, the responses that stay on target--it washes over me when I lie in bed unable to sleep the past few weeks and I know that this is someone I would want next to me in the church pew, in the house next door, on my daughter's school's board. This is someone like me, only even better. I know that voting for the person "like me" isn't really valid in and of itself, but when the other campaign is saying that he's not like us, all I see is that yes, he is.
10. Because I watch my sister tear up when we talk about the rally in St. Louis. Because I started to cry watching Colin Powell's endorsement. Because this isn't about us vs. them, or about winning for the sake of winning, scorched earth policy style. It's because of that poem by Marge Piercy I've quoted on a micro level about my neighbors and my city so many times on my blogs--"The Low Road"--and suddenly I realize I'm part of another "We" that I never thought I'd claim for myself. Here's the end of Piercy's poem:
It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.
For the first time, I'm not modest about my support for a candidate. For a cause. For change. I hope that you join me, and I really hope that if you don't, that the upcoming months prove to both of us that this was the right choice for our nation.
From Alphabridge: R is for Reasons
I think because of Lisa S, I wrote a 50 before 50 list earlier this year. Some of them are tangible things (pick up piano, Spanish). Some of them are things I suddenly realize I'm starting to accomplish (for instance, the genealogy project I'm working on; I have my own atrium; I have learned the rudimentary beginnings of weaving on the loom upstairs).
The last category on the list is entitled, "Hey a Girl Can Dream." While most of the items on the list as a whole are things that are up to me (with the exception of becoming a godmother, perhaps--all the others have me as at least a minor actor in the accomplishment), these things are simply hopes for the future. Go to more baptisms and weddings than funerals, for instance. But looking at this the other day, I saw the number one thing in this category is "Vote for a candidate I really believe in."
Every other vote I have ever cast has really been against the other person. When I voted for Harmon for mayor, it was out of deep suspicion over Bosley. When I voted against Harmon in the next election, it was out of fear that the vote would be split between Slay and Harmon and Bosley would come through on the other end. Unfounded, I realized later, but I wasn't just dying to see Slay as our mayor. I voted against Bush, I voted against Talent for Senate. Some folks I just grudgingly vote for, not because they've wowed me, but because they probably aren't as bad as the other guy. I don't vote in unopposed elections. I write in my neighbor Brent's name a lot. I vote against most judges just out of spite or something.
But I'm voting for Obama and I'm finally ok with saying that. Not that I would be ashamed to vote for him. But because of something about me that doesn't want to give anyone any ideas about what I might be hoping for--for myself, my family, my kids, my neighborhood, and so on. I don't like to be wrong (who does?) and I don't like to be triumphalist. I never want to be caught doing a victory dance, and when I'm the underdog, I don't want to have false hope.
And these are 10 of my reasons:
1. When crowds start booing in Obama rallies, Obama says things like "none of that, just get out and vote." Both sides are not dirty this time.
2. I have lost my faith in my church's leadership being able to truly tell right from wrong in a reality-based political scenario. Mike was radicalized in the 2000 election SNAFU. I wasn't. I was radicalized by my bishop and so many others. Not that I've ever been a "Yes, Father, whatever you think, Father" kind of Catholic. But the audacity of these bishops, the ultimatums, the anger--it made me start reading and finding my own way by my own conscience.
3. When you watch that video of "Joe the Plumber" asking Obama about the taxes he would or would not have to pay, Joe tries to walk away from Obama several times. Obama, very decently, very calmly, tries to continue to engage him. He does not dismiss him even though he must have seen him as someone who would never vote his way. He does not try to simply rally the folks around him with slogans. He gets into an explanation of his tax plan with the caveat that he doesn't know Joe's situation for sure. We all know now that this was simply a ploy. But Obama still gave him the time of day and didn't talk down to him. Or us.
4. When I was watching the first debate, my friend Rachel turned to me and said, "When I listen to him, I know what he's saying, I can stay on his level. My fear is that isn't true for all Americans and he loses them." I'm tired of lowest common denominator politicians. I think I want someone smart. Educated. With a plan.
5. During the Kerry campaign, every negative ad from the other side filled me with despair and worry. I worried for them. In the beginning of the campaign (post primary), I worried about the Obama campaign responding the right way. But they did. Every time. With calm, reasonable statements. They didn't just assume that people would do the right thing. I realized they knew how to play the game, and this made me relax. Trust me--I was going to vote for the Democrat simply because of the last 8 years. But these sorts of things made me decide that yes, I could mean it with my heart. I could trust him to pick good advisers, and his advisers to make good decisions.
6. Listening to Obama, listening to his speeches for the first time (I didn't pay much attention during the early primaries because, like I said, I would have voted for a can of Pepsi if that's who the Democrats would have put forward...because I'd be voting against the Bush/Cheney/Rove/etc. machine), I found myself turning my head towards the TV or the computer screen to pay closer attention. I read later in Mother Jones, I think, that it was like being in an abusive relationship and finding a boyfriend who really wasn't going to lie and cheat on me and beat me up. I was so used to politicians doing evil, horrible, or even just slimy things and laughing at the American people while they did them. This was a different language. New.
7. The Will.I.Am video. I kid you not. I can't believe you haven't seen it, but if not, you can find it at youtube right here. I did have it up but youtube was taking too long...
8. This specific quote: We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope. This is the America I was raised believing in. Not in the America that tortures prisoners and invades pre-emptively and cynically laughs at its critics. America is great because America is good? Let's be good again.
9. Because in all the dirtiness, all the half-truths and outright lies and hideous viral emails (umm, ever heard of snopes.com?), all the insinuations and last-minute attempts to paint him as unready, dangerous, and "not like us" (we all know what that means), he has never lost it. He's never fought back--he's defended himself, his past, his campaign, his ideas. But he has never lashed out. The collected, even-tempered responses, the appropriate humor, the responses that stay on target--it washes over me when I lie in bed unable to sleep the past few weeks and I know that this is someone I would want next to me in the church pew, in the house next door, on my daughter's school's board. This is someone like me, only even better. I know that voting for the person "like me" isn't really valid in and of itself, but when the other campaign is saying that he's not like us, all I see is that yes, he is.
10. Because I watch my sister tear up when we talk about the rally in St. Louis. Because I started to cry watching Colin Powell's endorsement. Because this isn't about us vs. them, or about winning for the sake of winning, scorched earth policy style. It's because of that poem by Marge Piercy I've quoted on a micro level about my neighbors and my city so many times on my blogs--"The Low Road"--and suddenly I realize I'm part of another "We" that I never thought I'd claim for myself. Here's the end of Piercy's poem:
It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.
For the first time, I'm not modest about my support for a candidate. For a cause. For change. I hope that you join me, and I really hope that if you don't, that the upcoming months prove to both of us that this was the right choice for our nation.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fun with Flickr
I love Flickr. I always upload all my photos with a creative commons license so that people can play with them like I did with the current title above.
There's a new Flickr search engine that searches creative commons photos BY COLOR. Perfect. It is located at Idee Inc. and Mike told me about it the other day. My first thought was, "why?" and then I tried it. It's kind of mindlessly addictive for those of us avoiding cleaning up the house from the weekend.
And of course, I used Mosaic Maker to put some of the photos from my search together.
To be fair to those who are so generous to let folks play with photos, here are the links to the original files: 1. babyren2, 2. the Benchamabophit buddha, 3. LearJet, 4. Autumn Blues, 5. dsc_5151.jpg, 6. Bananas are good stuff, 7. IMG_3990, 8. Tree at Night, 9. Yellow!, 10. Forty-six Degrees, 11. Mckinley Park Morning, 12. Hidden Treasure, 13. cerro vray!, 14. IMG_2649
There's a new Flickr search engine that searches creative commons photos BY COLOR. Perfect. It is located at Idee Inc. and Mike told me about it the other day. My first thought was, "why?" and then I tried it. It's kind of mindlessly addictive for those of us avoiding cleaning up the house from the weekend.
And of course, I used Mosaic Maker to put some of the photos from my search together.
To be fair to those who are so generous to let folks play with photos, here are the links to the original files: 1. babyren2, 2. the Benchamabophit buddha, 3. LearJet, 4. Autumn Blues, 5. dsc_5151.jpg, 6. Bananas are good stuff, 7. IMG_3990, 8. Tree at Night, 9. Yellow!, 10. Forty-six Degrees, 11. Mckinley Park Morning, 12. Hidden Treasure, 13. cerro vray!, 14. IMG_2649
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Bokko Dance (aka the world is bigger than we thought)
Just because I was going over distractions this evening to send along to my brother:
Monday, October 27, 2008
Next Year in Montpelier
Power's on. We're home. Mike's snoozing on the couch. We both need to go to bed: our bed, our new bed that doesn't move when the other person moves.
Catching up on all our internet addictions (the blogs I read, the various news sites), we kept saying "well, they still do that in Vermont." All sorts of things. Things we aren't even sure they do in Vermont. Really. No idea. We've never been there. But we hear things about Vermont, sketchy things that sometimes seem nigh impossible in this day and age. Just their...independence...impresses us and makes us kind of hold them up as a banner of what a state could be.
Disclaimer: I really have no hard facts. My experiences of Vermont are based completely on rumor and the gleanings I can get from Indigo Bunting's Rte 153. And please, if you are a new reader, please do not go crazy assuming things about me from this post. Seriously: I just spent the weekend holing up in my parents' house because I had no electricity and I think I've gotten a little crazy.
But it's just the feel you get when you say "Vermont." You get a certain feel when you say Georgia. Think about it. Iowa. California. Oh, Texas. Not every state carries this sort of first impression. I can't discern, from where I sit, the difference between South and North Carolina. It baffles me how the polls are going in those two states: aren't they the very same? Obviously not. But I have no impression of them. Kansas. Nebraska. Montana. They're mostly flat. I've driven through some of them. But I don't get a feel for them based on "in other news..." broadcasts. But I get a feel for Vermont.
I mused to Mike, "I wonder if we could convert to Vermontism. Be some kind of Vermonters in Exile. We could live here in Missouri as missionaries, perhaps, bringing the good news of Vermont to the benighted."
Mike turned from the computer and gave me one of those looks.
"No, really. Like, 'Next Year in Montpelier.'"
Where's that maple syrup? I want some pancakes.
Catching up on all our internet addictions (the blogs I read, the various news sites), we kept saying "well, they still do that in Vermont." All sorts of things. Things we aren't even sure they do in Vermont. Really. No idea. We've never been there. But we hear things about Vermont, sketchy things that sometimes seem nigh impossible in this day and age. Just their...independence...impresses us and makes us kind of hold them up as a banner of what a state could be.
Disclaimer: I really have no hard facts. My experiences of Vermont are based completely on rumor and the gleanings I can get from Indigo Bunting's Rte 153. And please, if you are a new reader, please do not go crazy assuming things about me from this post. Seriously: I just spent the weekend holing up in my parents' house because I had no electricity and I think I've gotten a little crazy.
But it's just the feel you get when you say "Vermont." You get a certain feel when you say Georgia. Think about it. Iowa. California. Oh, Texas. Not every state carries this sort of first impression. I can't discern, from where I sit, the difference between South and North Carolina. It baffles me how the polls are going in those two states: aren't they the very same? Obviously not. But I have no impression of them. Kansas. Nebraska. Montana. They're mostly flat. I've driven through some of them. But I don't get a feel for them based on "in other news..." broadcasts. But I get a feel for Vermont.
I mused to Mike, "I wonder if we could convert to Vermontism. Be some kind of Vermonters in Exile. We could live here in Missouri as missionaries, perhaps, bringing the good news of Vermont to the benighted."
Mike turned from the computer and gave me one of those looks.
"No, really. Like, 'Next Year in Montpelier.'"
Where's that maple syrup? I want some pancakes.
Power to the People
Or maybe, speak truth to power. Power corrupts. Whatever.
We have no power. We had our electric service drop line disconnected Saturday morning so my Uncle Glennon could hang out in our tree all day cutting pieces of it off. This worked fantabulously, but he didn't finish by 5:00, so we couldn't have the power turned on that day. We were expecting that. So we spent Saturday night at my parents' house, and then Sunday. I called this morning, Monday, and requested that our drop line be reconnected so that we can continue normal life. Sure, we'll send somebody out.
Long story short, 7 phone calls to Ameren UE later, and nearly 12 hours, we still are without electricity. This is just about enough for me. My house is 54 degrees inside and the cats are looking at me like they plan to smother me in my sleep, next opportunity. The house isn't that big of a mess--nothing electricity couldn't fix (vacuuming, garbage disposal). And since it was a planned outage, all our frozen food is in the neighbors' freezer and all our refrigerator food is at my mom's.
And, to be fair, the fruitless mulberry is down. It was a successful weekend.
The worst part is that my neighbor's house next door is still without electric as well--they knew the weekend was going to happen, but I don't think they were betting on Monday as well. This makes me the Bad Neighbor and I will have to make amends. On behalf of the electric company. So annoying.
All the operators, after the oaf I talked to at 11:30 this morning, have been incensed that we are still without power and keep telling me they're going to put a rush on it. Or they're going to call the district manager. Or put a spell on the trucks to magically fix the wires like something out of a Disney movie. Whatever. They are all nice and so reassuring and so so completely powerless themselves. Or perhaps they're just lying to me to make me feel better.
The girls, of course, think it's a vacation. I, on the other hand, know all too well that it is not. I do not like to camp in my own house, and I know we're cramping my parents' style hanging out here all the time. Sigh.
I still have hope that one day the power will return.
We have no power. We had our electric service drop line disconnected Saturday morning so my Uncle Glennon could hang out in our tree all day cutting pieces of it off. This worked fantabulously, but he didn't finish by 5:00, so we couldn't have the power turned on that day. We were expecting that. So we spent Saturday night at my parents' house, and then Sunday. I called this morning, Monday, and requested that our drop line be reconnected so that we can continue normal life. Sure, we'll send somebody out.
Long story short, 7 phone calls to Ameren UE later, and nearly 12 hours, we still are without electricity. This is just about enough for me. My house is 54 degrees inside and the cats are looking at me like they plan to smother me in my sleep, next opportunity. The house isn't that big of a mess--nothing electricity couldn't fix (vacuuming, garbage disposal). And since it was a planned outage, all our frozen food is in the neighbors' freezer and all our refrigerator food is at my mom's.
And, to be fair, the fruitless mulberry is down. It was a successful weekend.
The worst part is that my neighbor's house next door is still without electric as well--they knew the weekend was going to happen, but I don't think they were betting on Monday as well. This makes me the Bad Neighbor and I will have to make amends. On behalf of the electric company. So annoying.
All the operators, after the oaf I talked to at 11:30 this morning, have been incensed that we are still without power and keep telling me they're going to put a rush on it. Or they're going to call the district manager. Or put a spell on the trucks to magically fix the wires like something out of a Disney movie. Whatever. They are all nice and so reassuring and so so completely powerless themselves. Or perhaps they're just lying to me to make me feel better.
The girls, of course, think it's a vacation. I, on the other hand, know all too well that it is not. I do not like to camp in my own house, and I know we're cramping my parents' style hanging out here all the time. Sigh.
I still have hope that one day the power will return.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Widdle Fing
Maeve woke up complaining of belly hurts and a cough. I decided it wasn't worth pushing it, taking her to school--I mean, it's preschool. So I had her crawl into bed next to me (Mike is home and took Sophia to school so I could sleep in, which didn't actually happen, but not his fault). She lay next to me and coughed. For a half hour. I got up, got dressed, gave up on the idea of sleeping in. She stayed sleeping, but I was starting to think, wow, she's really getting sick...
Ann called and we chatted a while, and Maeve got up while we were talking. Ann could hear her over the phone. Commented that she was sounding bad. Fall crud. But the cough, it wasn't the typical cruddy cough. Completely unproductive. Shallow. I got off the phone with Ann and took her back to bed. I gave in and turned on the heat--her feet were so dang cold. But something just didn't seem right.
I don't jump the gun with the doctor. I wait till the third day of fever, for instance. Health care is expensive and I'm not about to go take a kid to the doctor just because she seems off. But this wasn't just fall colds. This was starting to worry me. I grabbed a bunch of books to read aloud and crawled in next to her in bed. That's when I noticed how her belly went in and out as she literally panted. I grabbed the phone. It's Friday. I don't want to be in the ER Saturday night.
The nurse and I chat. But she can hear Maeve next to me and tells me that they probably need to see her. That's fine, I answer.
"How fast do you think you can be here?" is her question.
"Ten minutes?" I guess.
"We'll fit you in."
That sort of response is unnerving to hear as a mother. We were there, from my bed to the front desk of the office, in 12 minutes. They didn't have us go sit in the waiting room. Do not pass go, do not collect $100.
She was wheezing. I was envisioning lots of complicated medical equipment to feed and care for, but Dr. Whiteside shook her head. "No. She's old enough to use an inhaler. And this might not be the introduction to asthma proper--it might just be a wheeze."
I told her that I'd had some exercise-induced asthma in my past (running, not swimming or biking--track season and soccer did it, off and on, especially in the cold). I told her Mike, as a child, had a yearly bout with what was called "asthmatic bronchitis." Dr. Whiteside is so dang calm. She said that, yeah, maybe. You just never know. Mine was completely under control with a rescue inhaler, and Mike never used one as a child--as an adult, he did for a couple of autumns, but then we had the ducts cleaned and that was that.
So the nurse came in and taught Maeve how to use the inhaler (and me, obviously, this isn't something she's going to carry in her pocket). It made an immediate, magical difference. She stopped coughing every exhale. Her breathing slowed. Her heart rate slowed. She started playing with the pegboard on the wall. Dr. Whiteside came back in and took a look.
"That's all we need to do," she reassured me. She wrote out the prescription and told me the low down. Every 4 hours for the weekend, then every six until Tuesday. If she worsens or isn't better by Tuesday, call. Otherwise, she should be all better, over the underlying cold, and ready for trick or treating. And then we do get to keep the inhaler (feeding and caring of objects: my favorite) in case she gets a cold this winter or spring. If we have to use it for more than 3 days, call. Otherwise, no worries. We'll revisit it next fall (at her 5 year appointment).
We went over to Target and got what we needed, and they had a coupon, somehow, which made the prescription free. That was fabulous news. Came home, watched cartoons and rested on the couch. She's asleep right now, breathing pretty much ok. She's due for more albuterol, and it's still amazingly better.
Poor widdle fing.
Ann called and we chatted a while, and Maeve got up while we were talking. Ann could hear her over the phone. Commented that she was sounding bad. Fall crud. But the cough, it wasn't the typical cruddy cough. Completely unproductive. Shallow. I got off the phone with Ann and took her back to bed. I gave in and turned on the heat--her feet were so dang cold. But something just didn't seem right.
I don't jump the gun with the doctor. I wait till the third day of fever, for instance. Health care is expensive and I'm not about to go take a kid to the doctor just because she seems off. But this wasn't just fall colds. This was starting to worry me. I grabbed a bunch of books to read aloud and crawled in next to her in bed. That's when I noticed how her belly went in and out as she literally panted. I grabbed the phone. It's Friday. I don't want to be in the ER Saturday night.
The nurse and I chat. But she can hear Maeve next to me and tells me that they probably need to see her. That's fine, I answer.
"How fast do you think you can be here?" is her question.
"Ten minutes?" I guess.
"We'll fit you in."
That sort of response is unnerving to hear as a mother. We were there, from my bed to the front desk of the office, in 12 minutes. They didn't have us go sit in the waiting room. Do not pass go, do not collect $100.
She was wheezing. I was envisioning lots of complicated medical equipment to feed and care for, but Dr. Whiteside shook her head. "No. She's old enough to use an inhaler. And this might not be the introduction to asthma proper--it might just be a wheeze."
I told her that I'd had some exercise-induced asthma in my past (running, not swimming or biking--track season and soccer did it, off and on, especially in the cold). I told her Mike, as a child, had a yearly bout with what was called "asthmatic bronchitis." Dr. Whiteside is so dang calm. She said that, yeah, maybe. You just never know. Mine was completely under control with a rescue inhaler, and Mike never used one as a child--as an adult, he did for a couple of autumns, but then we had the ducts cleaned and that was that.
So the nurse came in and taught Maeve how to use the inhaler (and me, obviously, this isn't something she's going to carry in her pocket). It made an immediate, magical difference. She stopped coughing every exhale. Her breathing slowed. Her heart rate slowed. She started playing with the pegboard on the wall. Dr. Whiteside came back in and took a look.
"That's all we need to do," she reassured me. She wrote out the prescription and told me the low down. Every 4 hours for the weekend, then every six until Tuesday. If she worsens or isn't better by Tuesday, call. Otherwise, she should be all better, over the underlying cold, and ready for trick or treating. And then we do get to keep the inhaler (feeding and caring of objects: my favorite) in case she gets a cold this winter or spring. If we have to use it for more than 3 days, call. Otherwise, no worries. We'll revisit it next fall (at her 5 year appointment).
We went over to Target and got what we needed, and they had a coupon, somehow, which made the prescription free. That was fabulous news. Came home, watched cartoons and rested on the couch. She's asleep right now, breathing pretty much ok. She's due for more albuterol, and it's still amazingly better.
Poor widdle fing.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Mah Jongg Adoption
The summer of '07 was spent teaching mah jongg at Janine's store. I don't miss the time commitment, but I miss the play. This year's card, I don't know it nearly so well, since I'm not focused on it every week. We play once a month and it's here and there. I didn't go to the tournament this year because I'm pregnant and I couldn't bear facing those scary women without being able to drink afterward (or, frankly, during).
I've mentioned before that I have a mah jongg problem, meaning, I have too many sets. A set is a full grouping of tiles (152), at least 4 racks to put them on (think scrabble racks on steroids), a pair of dice, and a case that looks like it would contain a clarinet.
My first set is a white resin basic set, given to me at Christmas many years ago by supportive non-mah jongg playing friends (who then were quickly pressed into becoming mah jongg players, even if only a short while). It is the standard set. Matches the one I learned on with Jody. Matches, except for the jokers, the ones we played with at the tournament.
My second set, my favorite, is a butter yellow true bakelite beauty. I found it at the South County Antique Mall a couple years ago, cheap for what it is. I got little happy lucky kitty stickers for the jokers and it became my standard set very quickly. And then I was hooked on sets.
I then was given a bamboo and bone set by my neighbor Sharon. It is incomplete but is nearly ready. It's been in her husband's family since it was new (1930s).
I bought a black resin set off ebay, which I like well enough due to the novelty of black tiles, but it's hard to use in the evenings under a dining room light. Or a camp lantern light. So it doesn't come out very often at all.
Lastly, two identical catalin/bakelite butterscotch yellow sets. One in a green case, one in a red. Otherwise, same age, same condition.
Last summer, the red case stayed at Janine's (even though she had her own sparkly pink set with silver trays) and the green case lived at Trisha's. That summer, too, saw Mary's totally fantastic find of a bakelite set from a Mrs. Solomon who just wanted it to go to a good home.
The red case set came home last month and was stacked in the dining room under the church pew. I'd forgotten it existed, frankly. And it got me wondering: how many sets do I need, anyway? One, really. Maybe two or three, actually. One for Sunday best and one for camping trips. A third because it's pretty or different or whatever. But 6 sets?
So last week, we were at Trisha's house playing mah jongg. By the end of the evening, I'd sold the green case catalin set to her. For about what I paid for it on ebay a couple years back. It had come to the point in my house and life that I knew I'd never be looking for this set to come home--and it has come to the point on ebay that people are realizing what they have in their hot little hands and even the catalin sets (which, in my opinion, are not quite so nice as the true bakelite sets) go for over $100. Some for astonishingly more, in fact.
Is this to say that if I find a bakelite set with the right number of tiles for less than $150 at an antique mall, I won't go for it? No. I will buy it, if only to rescue it and restore it to use instead of to jewelry (I own mah jongg tile jewelry, but a complete set should be left alone). And then I will go home and sell my remaining catalin set on ebay. Or to one of my other fellow players on the street??
So now when we play at Trisha's, the green set gets used--otherwise, it would sit languishing under the church pew in my dining room while the prettier sister got to go on all the dates. I'm glad of this. Sometimes I fall into a pagan belief system of the spirituality of objects--it's actually not too far removed from rosaries and votive candles and all that hoo-ha. Sometimes in my gut, I feel like things that get left behind or unused are somehow neglected, that they know this. I know, it's a crazy thing, but it still makes me happy that the green set has a new owner who will let it see the light of day (well, the light of evening in the dining room).
I've mentioned before that I have a mah jongg problem, meaning, I have too many sets. A set is a full grouping of tiles (152), at least 4 racks to put them on (think scrabble racks on steroids), a pair of dice, and a case that looks like it would contain a clarinet.
My first set is a white resin basic set, given to me at Christmas many years ago by supportive non-mah jongg playing friends (who then were quickly pressed into becoming mah jongg players, even if only a short while). It is the standard set. Matches the one I learned on with Jody. Matches, except for the jokers, the ones we played with at the tournament.
My second set, my favorite, is a butter yellow true bakelite beauty. I found it at the South County Antique Mall a couple years ago, cheap for what it is. I got little happy lucky kitty stickers for the jokers and it became my standard set very quickly. And then I was hooked on sets.
I then was given a bamboo and bone set by my neighbor Sharon. It is incomplete but is nearly ready. It's been in her husband's family since it was new (1930s).
I bought a black resin set off ebay, which I like well enough due to the novelty of black tiles, but it's hard to use in the evenings under a dining room light. Or a camp lantern light. So it doesn't come out very often at all.
Lastly, two identical catalin/bakelite butterscotch yellow sets. One in a green case, one in a red. Otherwise, same age, same condition.
Last summer, the red case stayed at Janine's (even though she had her own sparkly pink set with silver trays) and the green case lived at Trisha's. That summer, too, saw Mary's totally fantastic find of a bakelite set from a Mrs. Solomon who just wanted it to go to a good home.
The red case set came home last month and was stacked in the dining room under the church pew. I'd forgotten it existed, frankly. And it got me wondering: how many sets do I need, anyway? One, really. Maybe two or three, actually. One for Sunday best and one for camping trips. A third because it's pretty or different or whatever. But 6 sets?
So last week, we were at Trisha's house playing mah jongg. By the end of the evening, I'd sold the green case catalin set to her. For about what I paid for it on ebay a couple years back. It had come to the point in my house and life that I knew I'd never be looking for this set to come home--and it has come to the point on ebay that people are realizing what they have in their hot little hands and even the catalin sets (which, in my opinion, are not quite so nice as the true bakelite sets) go for over $100. Some for astonishingly more, in fact.
Is this to say that if I find a bakelite set with the right number of tiles for less than $150 at an antique mall, I won't go for it? No. I will buy it, if only to rescue it and restore it to use instead of to jewelry (I own mah jongg tile jewelry, but a complete set should be left alone). And then I will go home and sell my remaining catalin set on ebay. Or to one of my other fellow players on the street??
So now when we play at Trisha's, the green set gets used--otherwise, it would sit languishing under the church pew in my dining room while the prettier sister got to go on all the dates. I'm glad of this. Sometimes I fall into a pagan belief system of the spirituality of objects--it's actually not too far removed from rosaries and votive candles and all that hoo-ha. Sometimes in my gut, I feel like things that get left behind or unused are somehow neglected, that they know this. I know, it's a crazy thing, but it still makes me happy that the green set has a new owner who will let it see the light of day (well, the light of evening in the dining room).
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Come Back, Mike
Mike left on Sunday. No, not like that. He went to Virginia and then to North Carolina on a business trip. He's been doing a lot of this sort of thing lately, which is great because
a) all his expenses are paid for when he's gone
b) he gets paid for travel time
c) he earns commission at those jobs.
But I don't like it, not one little bit. I don't complain or try to, laughably, put my foot down, because work is good right now and baby's coming and I'm not too interested in money being so tight I can't breathe. And also, he seems to like his work and is really cut out for consulting (I would burn so many damned bridges it wouldn't be funny).
Back when he went places like Peoria for an overnight, or even Chicago for 3 days, it wasn't such a big thing. I can single parent for two or three days. Easy. And I am not jealous of trips to Peoria. Tulsa. Rolla. I started to get jealous when he started going to Portland, Oregon. But that was only like two or three times. And don't get me started on the week he went to Orlando.
This week hasn't been that bad. For one thing, it isn't 9 degrees outside. It is beautiful fall. I've managed to care for and feed my children. But it was one of those typical busy weeks--book club, parish council, the Great Migration (girls to the third floor playroom, now their ROOM), canning, getting ready to take down the tree, my glucose tolerance test, etc.
I'm just done. My left ankle is puffy because I'm not drinking enough water (or something), Sophia lost her scooter (probably stolen after she left it out all night, oh well...), and tomorrow we go to the pumpkin patch with Maeve's preschool. And then atrium. At least Irish dance and piano are cancelled this week. I can just come home and crash until Mike gets home. Sort of. He's not due home until midnight or so. But I think I can hang in another 24 hours...
a) all his expenses are paid for when he's gone
b) he gets paid for travel time
c) he earns commission at those jobs.
But I don't like it, not one little bit. I don't complain or try to, laughably, put my foot down, because work is good right now and baby's coming and I'm not too interested in money being so tight I can't breathe. And also, he seems to like his work and is really cut out for consulting (I would burn so many damned bridges it wouldn't be funny).
Back when he went places like Peoria for an overnight, or even Chicago for 3 days, it wasn't such a big thing. I can single parent for two or three days. Easy. And I am not jealous of trips to Peoria. Tulsa. Rolla. I started to get jealous when he started going to Portland, Oregon. But that was only like two or three times. And don't get me started on the week he went to Orlando.
This week hasn't been that bad. For one thing, it isn't 9 degrees outside. It is beautiful fall. I've managed to care for and feed my children. But it was one of those typical busy weeks--book club, parish council, the Great Migration (girls to the third floor playroom, now their ROOM), canning, getting ready to take down the tree, my glucose tolerance test, etc.
I'm just done. My left ankle is puffy because I'm not drinking enough water (or something), Sophia lost her scooter (probably stolen after she left it out all night, oh well...), and tomorrow we go to the pumpkin patch with Maeve's preschool. And then atrium. At least Irish dance and piano are cancelled this week. I can just come home and crash until Mike gets home. Sort of. He's not due home until midnight or so. But I think I can hang in another 24 hours...
Monday, October 20, 2008
Mistakes and Kidneys
My father is Terry. His father is Richard M. His father is Edward R (married to Anna, or Carrie, whom I posted about earlier). In my notes from 1988, his father is listed as Unknown Blake, and his mother is Jennie Unknown. Easily proved she's Jennie Dawes (there was a hint in my earlier notes), mother of 11 children, but only 4 surviving infancy. Only one is a Blake (Edward R)--the others are Etters, from her first husband Leonhard. I find her and Unknown Blake living on Chambers Street in north St. Louis, which I believe places it smack dab in Kerry Patch. Unknown Blake is actually another Edward, this time Edward D.
Can't do much with Jennie. She has a brother named Edward and possibly a sister named Lizzie. Don't even know their parents' names. Or where they might be from past a birth in Illinois. Jennie's kind of a mystery all around anyhow, a self-proclaimed witch who put curses on people for money.
But Edward D, I thought I had some hope for. I figured he was probably the son of another Edward, frankly, or maybe a Richard, since there seem to be quite a few running back through their line. I worked on birth records a bit, and found one for Edward R., that stated that his father was born in Kansas. Well, I knew that was a load of BS--but it intrigued me and I wondered if I were to tweak Edward D's vital stats a bit...and lo and behold, there are Richard and Edward Blake, living with the Cronin family in Kansas City. Birthdates check out. Why the heck they're living with the Cronins, I could only guess--was Ellen the sister of their unknown mother, probably deceased? That's what I guessed, and I filled Ellen in as their aunt, with the elderly woman Mary Dwyre who lived in the household as well as Ellen's mother (it said as much on the census form).
Then I hunted for Ellen Dwyre. Nothing. No immigration record at all. Pat Cronin, well, there are too many Pat(rick) Cronins to do much with there. But I fussed with Mary Dwyre's last name a bit and found her--living with Edward and Bridget Blake in Kansas City. This time she's Mary Dwyne, but I figured it's a handwriting error. Or bad Irish accents and an intolerant census taker. Baby Edward D is there, too. I've figured them out.
I basked in the glory, and enjoyed the fact that I'm a Bridgett Blake descended from a Bridget Blake (both of us married to Edwards, as well, but that's a side note). I called my mom and told her what I'd found. Talked to my sister Colleen about the Irish Diaspora. She's so glad I'm working on this; the Blakes were this big question mark for all of us.
My mother calls me the next day--she was in Columbia visiting Colleen--and she's been to the Missouri Historical Society.
"I found Edward and Bridget's marriage license. Guess what--her maiden name is Kidney."
"Kidney?"
"Kidney."
Repeat those last two lines about a dozen times. What kind of name is Kidney? Why is Mary Dwyre/Dwyne living with her? Who are these dang Cronins who took in her kids? Kidney?
I kept my records on the Cronins and Mary Dwyre, but disconnected them from the Blakes, at least for the time--I figured the connection would find its way back if there was one. Maybe Edward D and Richard stayed with friends of the family who liked to pass their mother-in-law around for census takers. I couldn't reconcile it. So I slept on it.
I found the same record the next day. Edward Blake and Bridget Kidney. Huh. And it only makes complete logical sense that they become Edward D's parents. And then drop off the planet between census years. Richard, I know, stayed behind in Kansas City his whole life and was a teamster. And Edward moved to St. Louis and married a witch with 4 kids. So yeah.
I found some records of Biddy Kidney coming over from Ireland, with a birthdate that makes sense. Those dang Irish, always naming their kids the same names: Mary. Bridget. Ellen. Maggie. Where are the Dakotas and the Kiara's?
Then a death record for Edward Blake, also with a matching birthdate, in East St. Louis. A saloon owner. Based on that, I learn that Bridget dies in East St. Louis as well, later on. Then I find the census record that proves it, where, of course, they have a niece living with them named Mollie Touhey, but no Edward D or Richard. Obviously.
Leaving the Cronins and the Dwyre/Dwyne/whatever connection behind, I started to work on Edward's immigration, when my mother sent me an email. Guess what? Kidney is an Anglicization of the Irish surnames Dwane, Duane, Dwynn, and Downes.
Bridget let her name get bastardized somewhere along the way from Dwyne to Kidney. Her mother Mary refused. Maybe in 1853, you've seen enough and you could give two shits what they decided your name was as long as you got to leave Ireland, but by the time you bring your mother over, it doesn't matter so much.
This has made me melancholy in a brand new way. Who knew how fraught with danger personal history could be. Words like democide, refugee, and diaspora I somehow never applied to the Irish migration--those are words we use down at my parish in describing the Vietnamese and Sudanese--but Colleen and her boyfriend Tim (Donaho) started to fill me in a bit on this. And it's too much to sink into this late in my pregnancy. I don't need dreams about starvation and hopelessness. I think it's time to let the Blakes, Kidneys, Dwynes, and Cronins rest a while and focus on the Wibbenmeyers, who came over with a plan, bought up a whole chunk of land in Missouri (which I hear resembles Germany quite a bit geographically), brought money and resources with them, and were still using only German at the turn of the century in their churches and schools. From what I remember, they were economic migrants looking to spread out and make a good life.
I can relate to that. But I'm still related to the other.
Can't do much with Jennie. She has a brother named Edward and possibly a sister named Lizzie. Don't even know their parents' names. Or where they might be from past a birth in Illinois. Jennie's kind of a mystery all around anyhow, a self-proclaimed witch who put curses on people for money.
But Edward D, I thought I had some hope for. I figured he was probably the son of another Edward, frankly, or maybe a Richard, since there seem to be quite a few running back through their line. I worked on birth records a bit, and found one for Edward R., that stated that his father was born in Kansas. Well, I knew that was a load of BS--but it intrigued me and I wondered if I were to tweak Edward D's vital stats a bit...and lo and behold, there are Richard and Edward Blake, living with the Cronin family in Kansas City. Birthdates check out. Why the heck they're living with the Cronins, I could only guess--was Ellen the sister of their unknown mother, probably deceased? That's what I guessed, and I filled Ellen in as their aunt, with the elderly woman Mary Dwyre who lived in the household as well as Ellen's mother (it said as much on the census form).
Then I hunted for Ellen Dwyre. Nothing. No immigration record at all. Pat Cronin, well, there are too many Pat(rick) Cronins to do much with there. But I fussed with Mary Dwyre's last name a bit and found her--living with Edward and Bridget Blake in Kansas City. This time she's Mary Dwyne, but I figured it's a handwriting error. Or bad Irish accents and an intolerant census taker. Baby Edward D is there, too. I've figured them out.
I basked in the glory, and enjoyed the fact that I'm a Bridgett Blake descended from a Bridget Blake (both of us married to Edwards, as well, but that's a side note). I called my mom and told her what I'd found. Talked to my sister Colleen about the Irish Diaspora. She's so glad I'm working on this; the Blakes were this big question mark for all of us.
My mother calls me the next day--she was in Columbia visiting Colleen--and she's been to the Missouri Historical Society.
"I found Edward and Bridget's marriage license. Guess what--her maiden name is Kidney."
"Kidney?"
"Kidney."
Repeat those last two lines about a dozen times. What kind of name is Kidney? Why is Mary Dwyre/Dwyne living with her? Who are these dang Cronins who took in her kids? Kidney?
I kept my records on the Cronins and Mary Dwyre, but disconnected them from the Blakes, at least for the time--I figured the connection would find its way back if there was one. Maybe Edward D and Richard stayed with friends of the family who liked to pass their mother-in-law around for census takers. I couldn't reconcile it. So I slept on it.
I found the same record the next day. Edward Blake and Bridget Kidney. Huh. And it only makes complete logical sense that they become Edward D's parents. And then drop off the planet between census years. Richard, I know, stayed behind in Kansas City his whole life and was a teamster. And Edward moved to St. Louis and married a witch with 4 kids. So yeah.
I found some records of Biddy Kidney coming over from Ireland, with a birthdate that makes sense. Those dang Irish, always naming their kids the same names: Mary. Bridget. Ellen. Maggie. Where are the Dakotas and the Kiara's?
Then a death record for Edward Blake, also with a matching birthdate, in East St. Louis. A saloon owner. Based on that, I learn that Bridget dies in East St. Louis as well, later on. Then I find the census record that proves it, where, of course, they have a niece living with them named Mollie Touhey, but no Edward D or Richard. Obviously.
Leaving the Cronins and the Dwyre/Dwyne/whatever connection behind, I started to work on Edward's immigration, when my mother sent me an email. Guess what? Kidney is an Anglicization of the Irish surnames Dwane, Duane, Dwynn, and Downes.
Bridget let her name get bastardized somewhere along the way from Dwyne to Kidney. Her mother Mary refused. Maybe in 1853, you've seen enough and you could give two shits what they decided your name was as long as you got to leave Ireland, but by the time you bring your mother over, it doesn't matter so much.
This has made me melancholy in a brand new way. Who knew how fraught with danger personal history could be. Words like democide, refugee, and diaspora I somehow never applied to the Irish migration--those are words we use down at my parish in describing the Vietnamese and Sudanese--but Colleen and her boyfriend Tim (Donaho) started to fill me in a bit on this. And it's too much to sink into this late in my pregnancy. I don't need dreams about starvation and hopelessness. I think it's time to let the Blakes, Kidneys, Dwynes, and Cronins rest a while and focus on the Wibbenmeyers, who came over with a plan, bought up a whole chunk of land in Missouri (which I hear resembles Germany quite a bit geographically), brought money and resources with them, and were still using only German at the turn of the century in their churches and schools. From what I remember, they were economic migrants looking to spread out and make a good life.
I can relate to that. But I'm still related to the other.
What I have learned thus far
Genealogy Update: I have 8 great-grandparents. This is not what I've learned. I knew that. Could have simply deduced that, in fact. Anyway, on my mother's side: Mazie and William, Theodore and Emma. On my father's side: Paul and Odelia, Anna and Edward. I've done a little work on Mazie, William, Anna, and Edward this far. Theodore's family is already traced for me by another Wibbenmeyer (my mom owns the bound copy), and I just haven't made it over to
Emma, Odelia and Paul yet, although it holds great promise for me. But here's what I've learned thus far.
Mazie: I can trace back her line to her grandparents, the Waltons, in the early 1800s, still living in Missouri. The thought had been that her line was Irish, but I'm thinking, just a hunch, that they're actually English and have been here a while. The Aikens on her father's side disappear from records much earlier. They could be the Irish. Or German, though. What kind of name is Aiken anyway?
William: Mazie's husband, a Broadhead. I knew they went pretty fast (moving backwards through time) to Virginia, and I was right about that much. Lawyers and land owners and suddenly we're the Carrs and the Swanns and there we are in Jamestown. Jamestown, being an English colony, is well documented. And a lot of folks claim heritage to a certain Thomas Swann, which meant I easily plugged into lines already traced. I followed them back as best I could and found myself in the pre-Chaucerian England when people didn't speak the same English I do. But wait, there's more. Minor English royalty (meaning landowners) leads across the channel and we're in Alsace and it's 2 in the morning my time when I realize that a Basina of Thuringia shares DNA with me. It's only a few more steps to the Byzantine Empire--at this point, you don't trace people via census records, but via history books. I believe we date to Jamestown--I can prove that myself. And I believe that minor royalty in England cross the water and hook into ancient roving bands of Franks. What I'm having a hard time swallowing is the 150+ years of seemingly solid connections in England. I don't have the proof (and my family's been in Missouri a looong looong time, I've learned: show me).
After that, I was kind of disappointed. The genealogy report I had to do in 8th grade was detective work and kind notes to parish secretaries in Apple Creek, Missouri. Not this weird "click to add to your tree" kind of stuff. I almost walked away, but instead, I pulled down my notes, which my brother then used for a similar project in high school (and did not a whit of his own research, surprise, surprise). I flipped to the biggest mysteries, the lines that ended the earliest for me, my dad's dad's family, Edward and Anna.
Anna: My mother actually met Anna. She died within a year or so of my birth. So you'd think we'd know that her given name was actually Caroline. You think it might have come up. Or, perhaps, how to spell her maiden name (Vorberg, not Vohrburg). I think that my grandchildren will know that my grandmother is Penny and she lived in St. Louis and so on--but I'm a talker. Maybe Anna wasn't. Or Carrie. What I did learn, though, is that she's as German as the day is long, and her family is from the Illinois side of the banks of the Mississippi River--Prairie du Rocher, Red Bud, Honey Creek. There's a lot of promise there for detective work on her mother's side (Eilers), but her dad's, well, I found his burial record at Calvary Cemetery here in town, learned his name was George. Typed that into Ancestry, and the 1880 census turned up. George, age 6, was living at the German St. Vincent's Orphan Asylum just north of downtown. He was there with his brother William--and it's likely that they were dropped there by destitute immigrant parents with no family support (and no day care, obviously). This bothered me more than the copious amounts of "Infant dec." records I see with all sorts of last names. Don't know why.
Edward: But the most intriguing bits are on Edward's side. Next post.
Emma, Odelia and Paul yet, although it holds great promise for me. But here's what I've learned thus far.
Mazie: I can trace back her line to her grandparents, the Waltons, in the early 1800s, still living in Missouri. The thought had been that her line was Irish, but I'm thinking, just a hunch, that they're actually English and have been here a while. The Aikens on her father's side disappear from records much earlier. They could be the Irish. Or German, though. What kind of name is Aiken anyway?
William: Mazie's husband, a Broadhead. I knew they went pretty fast (moving backwards through time) to Virginia, and I was right about that much. Lawyers and land owners and suddenly we're the Carrs and the Swanns and there we are in Jamestown. Jamestown, being an English colony, is well documented. And a lot of folks claim heritage to a certain Thomas Swann, which meant I easily plugged into lines already traced. I followed them back as best I could and found myself in the pre-Chaucerian England when people didn't speak the same English I do. But wait, there's more. Minor English royalty (meaning landowners) leads across the channel and we're in Alsace and it's 2 in the morning my time when I realize that a Basina of Thuringia shares DNA with me. It's only a few more steps to the Byzantine Empire--at this point, you don't trace people via census records, but via history books. I believe we date to Jamestown--I can prove that myself. And I believe that minor royalty in England cross the water and hook into ancient roving bands of Franks. What I'm having a hard time swallowing is the 150+ years of seemingly solid connections in England. I don't have the proof (and my family's been in Missouri a looong looong time, I've learned: show me).
After that, I was kind of disappointed. The genealogy report I had to do in 8th grade was detective work and kind notes to parish secretaries in Apple Creek, Missouri. Not this weird "click to add to your tree" kind of stuff. I almost walked away, but instead, I pulled down my notes, which my brother then used for a similar project in high school (and did not a whit of his own research, surprise, surprise). I flipped to the biggest mysteries, the lines that ended the earliest for me, my dad's dad's family, Edward and Anna.
Anna: My mother actually met Anna. She died within a year or so of my birth. So you'd think we'd know that her given name was actually Caroline. You think it might have come up. Or, perhaps, how to spell her maiden name (Vorberg, not Vohrburg). I think that my grandchildren will know that my grandmother is Penny and she lived in St. Louis and so on--but I'm a talker. Maybe Anna wasn't. Or Carrie. What I did learn, though, is that she's as German as the day is long, and her family is from the Illinois side of the banks of the Mississippi River--Prairie du Rocher, Red Bud, Honey Creek. There's a lot of promise there for detective work on her mother's side (Eilers), but her dad's, well, I found his burial record at Calvary Cemetery here in town, learned his name was George. Typed that into Ancestry, and the 1880 census turned up. George, age 6, was living at the German St. Vincent's Orphan Asylum just north of downtown. He was there with his brother William--and it's likely that they were dropped there by destitute immigrant parents with no family support (and no day care, obviously). This bothered me more than the copious amounts of "Infant dec." records I see with all sorts of last names. Don't know why.
Edward: But the most intriguing bits are on Edward's side. Next post.
Q is for Quotes
There are two quotes on my fridge. Both are cut from magazines or newspapers. The first is from NCR (National Catholic Reporter), which is one of the things that keeps me hanging on in this astonishingly bigot-led church. I cut it out a couple of years ago, and there it remains. It is a quote from a southern minister, about the public display of the 10 commandments:
Where I need the 10 commandments is in my heart. It does me no good to be hanging in the Montgomery County Courthouse.
The other I put up last month. I get Mother Jones, mostly because I want to support them. I can usually barely stand to read them because it is one depressing expose after another. But someone needs to fill that role...anyway, I was flipping through last month's (or the month before) and ran across a question asked of Jimmy Carter: What will the next president have to do in the first 100 days to restore goodwill internationally? And Carter replied that it won't take 100 days. It will take 10 minutes, and he needs to say something like this:
'My country will never again torture a prisoner. We will never again attack another country unless our security is directly threatened. Human rights will be the foundation of our foreign policy. We will act on global warming. We will honor international agreements. We will bring security and peace to Israel and all its neighbors and treat them all on an equal basis.'
I actually started crying as I read it. I ripped it right out of the magazine and put it up on the side of the fridge next to the pharmacy magnet and a watercolor doodle of Maeve's.
My grandmother's bathroom mirror was edged with clippings, too. Prayer cards to Our Lady of Perpetual Help and the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A hand-typed copy of the Serenity Prayer.
The ones on my refrigerator, in their own way, are my prayers.
Where I need the 10 commandments is in my heart. It does me no good to be hanging in the Montgomery County Courthouse.
The other I put up last month. I get Mother Jones, mostly because I want to support them. I can usually barely stand to read them because it is one depressing expose after another. But someone needs to fill that role...anyway, I was flipping through last month's (or the month before) and ran across a question asked of Jimmy Carter: What will the next president have to do in the first 100 days to restore goodwill internationally? And Carter replied that it won't take 100 days. It will take 10 minutes, and he needs to say something like this:
'My country will never again torture a prisoner. We will never again attack another country unless our security is directly threatened. Human rights will be the foundation of our foreign policy. We will act on global warming. We will honor international agreements. We will bring security and peace to Israel and all its neighbors and treat them all on an equal basis.'
I actually started crying as I read it. I ripped it right out of the magazine and put it up on the side of the fridge next to the pharmacy magnet and a watercolor doodle of Maeve's.
My grandmother's bathroom mirror was edged with clippings, too. Prayer cards to Our Lady of Perpetual Help and the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A hand-typed copy of the Serenity Prayer.
The ones on my refrigerator, in their own way, are my prayers.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The reason I have no house plants/update
From I can haz cheezburger:
more animals
I know this is how Bleys sees grass.
Sick again--achy, I would think it's just allergies except the achy part. Have you seen the commercial with the girl and her mom going over flashcards while mom has allergic symptoms? I wish I could find it to show you, because IT IS MY LIFE. The flashcard reads something like "3+5" and in the mom's brain you see an office worker stuffing the flashcard into a vacuum tube marked URGENT. Then it gets sent from office to office until it gets all clogged up in a central location. Then there's stuff about sinus pressure and I don't even know what product it was (I'm a terrible consumer). But this is me. My jaw hurts. My brain is slow. My shoulders and back hurt and I just want to sleep. Which I can't do because breathing is difficult. This compounds the hurting and slowness and so on. I played mah jongg tonight and couldn't remember names of tiles. Dork. I've been playing this game for 10 years. I almost wrote 19 years. And then thought, no, that can't be right...can it?
Plus my typical pregnancy complaint is back. Super.
OH! Next month's appointment, we pick this baby's birthdate (unless he comes early on his own, which, given my track record, ain't happening). I'm having a scheduled repeat c-section due to, umm, 37 hours and 52 hours of labor with each of the girls, each followed by emergency c-sections--well, the first was a true emergency, but the second was kind of a "you know, I've given it the ole college try and I Think I'm DONE." Anyhow, this one, I take a shower, kiss the girls goodbye as my mother-in-law drives them to school, and drive to St. Luke's. The only thing that makes me queasy is the epidural--the other two were just fine, but by the time I got them, I was so ready for some kind of pain relief, and this time, I'm going in without labor and it's starting to make me feel creepy--anyway, the point of this paragraph was supposed to be THIS BABY IS COMING SOON. REALLY SOON.
more animals
I know this is how Bleys sees grass.
Sick again--achy, I would think it's just allergies except the achy part. Have you seen the commercial with the girl and her mom going over flashcards while mom has allergic symptoms? I wish I could find it to show you, because IT IS MY LIFE. The flashcard reads something like "3+5" and in the mom's brain you see an office worker stuffing the flashcard into a vacuum tube marked URGENT. Then it gets sent from office to office until it gets all clogged up in a central location. Then there's stuff about sinus pressure and I don't even know what product it was (I'm a terrible consumer). But this is me. My jaw hurts. My brain is slow. My shoulders and back hurt and I just want to sleep. Which I can't do because breathing is difficult. This compounds the hurting and slowness and so on. I played mah jongg tonight and couldn't remember names of tiles. Dork. I've been playing this game for 10 years. I almost wrote 19 years. And then thought, no, that can't be right...can it?
Plus my typical pregnancy complaint is back. Super.
OH! Next month's appointment, we pick this baby's birthdate (unless he comes early on his own, which, given my track record, ain't happening). I'm having a scheduled repeat c-section due to, umm, 37 hours and 52 hours of labor with each of the girls, each followed by emergency c-sections--well, the first was a true emergency, but the second was kind of a "you know, I've given it the ole college try and I Think I'm DONE." Anyhow, this one, I take a shower, kiss the girls goodbye as my mother-in-law drives them to school, and drive to St. Luke's. The only thing that makes me queasy is the epidural--the other two were just fine, but by the time I got them, I was so ready for some kind of pain relief, and this time, I'm going in without labor and it's starting to make me feel creepy--anyway, the point of this paragraph was supposed to be THIS BABY IS COMING SOON. REALLY SOON.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
My "Vacation"
I'm not going anywhere. But a few days ago I asked the question, anybody want to go on vacation? In reference to the current political situation....well, have I mentioned that I'm pregnant? I tend to get weird when I'm pregnant. Obsessive. The first one, I obsessed over rule-following at the school where I was teaching. The second one, I obsessed, more appropriately, over drug dealing on my corner.
This time, I think it might be politics.
So I'm going to stop. I mean, not stop--I'll vote, I'll read up on the local things (propositions, for instance, that are just showing up on my radar). But the horse race, the BS, the angst...I'm done.
Where am I going? Genealogy. Dork, I know. In 8th grade, my second semester English project was my family's genealogy. We had to go back as far as we could and prove that we'd tried several things to go further. Some sides were rather simple, but the Blakes, for instance, were mostly a mystery past the point of living people remembering their grandparents. It was a fascinating project and I made an A.
Back then, it was all book reading and writing letters to churches in Perryville, Missouri, hoping for baptismal or marriage records. But now, yikes, the Mormons are online all over the place. And I'm going to let myself get totally sucked in. To the exclusion of all those blogs and websites and feeds and youtube clips.
Just on a casual search on ancestry.com, I found that we've been spelling Jennie Blake's name wrong. And just based on the 1900 census, which wasn't available to me back in 1988 in the same way, I learned that yes, her maiden name was Dawes. And yes, she had been married to Joseph Etter first. The next steps? Don't know. Wibbenmeyers, Broadheads, Blakes, Lohrums, Donellys, Buchheits, Aikens, and so on. Some is already solved (the Wibbenmeyers are tracked, by someone else, all the way back to the 1600s in northern Germany). Most is still a mystery. A mystery that I'm going to solve. Right. Now.
This time, I think it might be politics.
So I'm going to stop. I mean, not stop--I'll vote, I'll read up on the local things (propositions, for instance, that are just showing up on my radar). But the horse race, the BS, the angst...I'm done.
Where am I going? Genealogy. Dork, I know. In 8th grade, my second semester English project was my family's genealogy. We had to go back as far as we could and prove that we'd tried several things to go further. Some sides were rather simple, but the Blakes, for instance, were mostly a mystery past the point of living people remembering their grandparents. It was a fascinating project and I made an A.
Back then, it was all book reading and writing letters to churches in Perryville, Missouri, hoping for baptismal or marriage records. But now, yikes, the Mormons are online all over the place. And I'm going to let myself get totally sucked in. To the exclusion of all those blogs and websites and feeds and youtube clips.
Just on a casual search on ancestry.com, I found that we've been spelling Jennie Blake's name wrong. And just based on the 1900 census, which wasn't available to me back in 1988 in the same way, I learned that yes, her maiden name was Dawes. And yes, she had been married to Joseph Etter first. The next steps? Don't know. Wibbenmeyers, Broadheads, Blakes, Lohrums, Donellys, Buchheits, Aikens, and so on. Some is already solved (the Wibbenmeyers are tracked, by someone else, all the way back to the 1600s in northern Germany). Most is still a mystery. A mystery that I'm going to solve. Right. Now.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Gustine
Ok, so over in Tower Grove South, there's a street called Gustine. It's my easy cut-through to Gravois, avoiding South Grand whenever possible, if I'm heading south-west (like, to the pediatrician, or to Target, and so on). About three years ago, probably because it was everyone's easy cut-through, the neighborhood had cobblestone pavers put in at every stop sign. Essentially, rumble-strips made of cobblestones to slow people down and make sure they thought about stopping.
They didn't bother me one way or another. I drive a mini-van that went over them just fine. But for whatever reason, this week, they've been paved over. Taken out and repaved completely. Did the neighbors hate them due to the noise as junky cars ripped over them? I don't know. But I wonder...what was the cost of this little experiment, anyway?
They didn't bother me one way or another. I drive a mini-van that went over them just fine. But for whatever reason, this week, they've been paved over. Taken out and repaved completely. Did the neighbors hate them due to the noise as junky cars ripped over them? I don't know. But I wonder...what was the cost of this little experiment, anyway?
New Quilt Project
I've joined a quilt block exchange group on yahoo groups. Most of the time, you make 8 blocks, send them to a central clearing house (aka another woman's living room), where workers (that woman) collects everyone's blocks (which are usually themed by color, type of fabric (Christmas) or pattern, and definitely all the same size), and deals them back out so that everyone gets different ones than what they swapped. I've done this off and on since the internet became available to me (can you believe it, 1994??). I did a long series of Ugly Swaps, which was 2 yards of fabric that you deemed to be ugly--it had to be high quality cotton for quilting, but ugly. And then Judy cut the yards into fat quarters (quarter yard pieces but cut in a way to give a quilter more to work with instead of just 9 x 44 inch strips which is a traditional quarter) and sent the series back to all the participants. Then I did a Christmas churn dash swap, which I still haven't put together--I have the blocks, that's all. A purple and blue batik swap--all 12" blocks--this is the only time that I actually finished projects based on the swap: my girls' bunk quilts.
I participated in a crazy quilt round robin several times. I made a base block and sent i to the next person on the list, who added embellishments of whatever kind and sent it on to the next person. While this was happening, I was receiving other folks' blocks and adding to them. I have a set of 12 or 15 of them now, which should really be put together and hung on a wall, but life has intervened.
The last swap I participated in demonstrated to me that I was done with swaps (except for fabric ones, round robins, or perhaps another Christmas themed all-the-same-block types...). I'm a much better quilter than many of the other swappers, and I've gotten a bit snotty about fabric along the way. But this one, anyway, was a 12" anything goes swap--any block that measured 12" finished was fine. Any colors, any pattern. You had to sign up ahead of time with the name of the block. No duplicates. I should have known not to join when "9 Patch" and "Rail Fence" were the first two blocks chosen. I love 9-patch blocks. My first hand quilted bed-sized quilt was a beautiful 1950s vintage fabric 9-patch on point. But they are tres simple. And Rail Fence?
The easiest block possible with any sort of patchwork to it at all. Seriously. I should have just picked something snoozy like those and whipped up a bunch to share. Or, even better, opted out instead of trying too hard. But what I did was a series of spiderweb quilt blocks with foundation piecing. Each block averaged about 60 pieces. They aren't hard--just a lot of seams, but with foundation piecing it's easier than handling them as tiny bits...anyway, they do take a lot of time. When I got my swaps in the mail I knew this was the last one. The very last time I was going to swap with 50 year old women who liked cat applique blocks in calico.
After making those blocks, I coveted them. I wanted them back. I wanted to make a whole quilt of spiderwebs. A giant quilt with tiny pieces and visual busy-ness that would drive everyone crazy. I missed them. But I let them go, since there was no going back anyway. I vowed that some day, I would make a quilt for myself and it would be a spiderweb (since quilting is something I can do rather simply, it just takes time, I tend to make quilts for other people--my kids, my siblings, new babies, church--and neglect myself. I think Maria Montessori has something to say about my maturity on this point, but I can't recall what that might be). Anyway, it's been on my list since Sophia was a baby. I have other quilts that I love--including a Rail Fence, in fact, in brown corduroy, ha, and the one that's usually on my bed is a black and red kaleidoscope quilt that is my first walk through the machine quilting door (which I will never walk back through). There's a double knit polyester Around the World that Mike's great-aunt made (and will never fall apart). Denim blankets, those two beautiful batik quilts on the girls' bunks, the aforementioned 9-patch, and so on. But no spiderweb. The undertaking is just too huge. The amount of time, of seaming, of sitting hunched over a machine watching DVDs of TV shows...I didn't figure I'd ever get to it, that it would always be at the bottom of my list.
Then I joined this quilt block swap group, like I said at the start. They do something called Row Robins. The person who will eventually own the quilt makes a row of quilt blocks (in this case, 5 - 12" blocks). She sews them into the row and sends them to the next person on the list. Then that person adds a second row of either the same block, or the same color scheme, or the same genre--whatever the originator has decided (and written down in a notebook that travels with the rows). If you want specific fabric for the background, for instance, you include the fabric, but otherwise you can just say what sort of fabric you're looking for. One woman in my group is doing simple blocks, but all in Christmas fabric. Just as an example. I was going to do a flying geese in turquoise, brown, and pink. I really was. But then I remembered the spiderweb. I asked the women in my trading group how they felt about foundation piecing. About easy but time-sucking blocks. They didn't seem alarmed. So yesterday I sat down and made this row:
I'm including the blue background fabric so that they fit together on a fixed background. Each woman has a month to add her row and send it along--there are 5 in my group, which means when I get it back next spring, it will be 60" square. There are provisions for the what-if cases of lost packages in the mail (the woman who mailed it has to start it over and send it along again) and everyone has to list tracking numbers and phone numbers and what-not. Yes, it's always a risk, I mean, there are creepy people on the internet, right? But I'm not too worried. In fact, I'm thrilled and hopeful that sometime before Easter comes along, this lovely thing will show back up at my house ready for some pretty border work and finishing.
I participated in a crazy quilt round robin several times. I made a base block and sent i to the next person on the list, who added embellishments of whatever kind and sent it on to the next person. While this was happening, I was receiving other folks' blocks and adding to them. I have a set of 12 or 15 of them now, which should really be put together and hung on a wall, but life has intervened.
The last swap I participated in demonstrated to me that I was done with swaps (except for fabric ones, round robins, or perhaps another Christmas themed all-the-same-block types...). I'm a much better quilter than many of the other swappers, and I've gotten a bit snotty about fabric along the way. But this one, anyway, was a 12" anything goes swap--any block that measured 12" finished was fine. Any colors, any pattern. You had to sign up ahead of time with the name of the block. No duplicates. I should have known not to join when "9 Patch" and "Rail Fence" were the first two blocks chosen. I love 9-patch blocks. My first hand quilted bed-sized quilt was a beautiful 1950s vintage fabric 9-patch on point. But they are tres simple. And Rail Fence?
The easiest block possible with any sort of patchwork to it at all. Seriously. I should have just picked something snoozy like those and whipped up a bunch to share. Or, even better, opted out instead of trying too hard. But what I did was a series of spiderweb quilt blocks with foundation piecing. Each block averaged about 60 pieces. They aren't hard--just a lot of seams, but with foundation piecing it's easier than handling them as tiny bits...anyway, they do take a lot of time. When I got my swaps in the mail I knew this was the last one. The very last time I was going to swap with 50 year old women who liked cat applique blocks in calico.After making those blocks, I coveted them. I wanted them back. I wanted to make a whole quilt of spiderwebs. A giant quilt with tiny pieces and visual busy-ness that would drive everyone crazy. I missed them. But I let them go, since there was no going back anyway. I vowed that some day, I would make a quilt for myself and it would be a spiderweb (since quilting is something I can do rather simply, it just takes time, I tend to make quilts for other people--my kids, my siblings, new babies, church--and neglect myself. I think Maria Montessori has something to say about my maturity on this point, but I can't recall what that might be). Anyway, it's been on my list since Sophia was a baby. I have other quilts that I love--including a Rail Fence, in fact, in brown corduroy, ha, and the one that's usually on my bed is a black and red kaleidoscope quilt that is my first walk through the machine quilting door (which I will never walk back through). There's a double knit polyester Around the World that Mike's great-aunt made (and will never fall apart). Denim blankets, those two beautiful batik quilts on the girls' bunks, the aforementioned 9-patch, and so on. But no spiderweb. The undertaking is just too huge. The amount of time, of seaming, of sitting hunched over a machine watching DVDs of TV shows...I didn't figure I'd ever get to it, that it would always be at the bottom of my list.
Then I joined this quilt block swap group, like I said at the start. They do something called Row Robins. The person who will eventually own the quilt makes a row of quilt blocks (in this case, 5 - 12" blocks). She sews them into the row and sends them to the next person on the list. Then that person adds a second row of either the same block, or the same color scheme, or the same genre--whatever the originator has decided (and written down in a notebook that travels with the rows). If you want specific fabric for the background, for instance, you include the fabric, but otherwise you can just say what sort of fabric you're looking for. One woman in my group is doing simple blocks, but all in Christmas fabric. Just as an example. I was going to do a flying geese in turquoise, brown, and pink. I really was. But then I remembered the spiderweb. I asked the women in my trading group how they felt about foundation piecing. About easy but time-sucking blocks. They didn't seem alarmed. So yesterday I sat down and made this row:
I'm including the blue background fabric so that they fit together on a fixed background. Each woman has a month to add her row and send it along--there are 5 in my group, which means when I get it back next spring, it will be 60" square. There are provisions for the what-if cases of lost packages in the mail (the woman who mailed it has to start it over and send it along again) and everyone has to list tracking numbers and phone numbers and what-not. Yes, it's always a risk, I mean, there are creepy people on the internet, right? But I'm not too worried. In fact, I'm thrilled and hopeful that sometime before Easter comes along, this lovely thing will show back up at my house ready for some pretty border work and finishing.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
A quote for today
"Every believer in this world of ours must be a spark of light, a center of love, a life-giving leaven amidst his fellow men. And he will be this all the more perfectly, the more closely he lives in communion with God in the intimacy of his own soul. The world will never be the house of peace, till peace has found a home in the heart of each and every man, till every man preserves in himself the order ordained by God to be preserved."
--Bl John XXIII
Pacem in Terris
11 April 1963
--Bl John XXIII
Pacem in Terris
11 April 1963
Friday, October 10, 2008
Anybody want to go on vacation?
Ok, the last few days of hate spewing from the folks running for the presidency for the Republican Party have actually brought me to the point that I can't shut up anymore. This is funny, because in my household, Mike is the radical. Mike is the one that reads all the information and knows all the political commentators and knows how to debate and keep facts in his head and has had over 8 years of practice doing this. He can talk macroeconomics and social justice. Most of the time it makes my head spin, or at least makes me tune it out, but not recently.
Bomb Obama? Kill him? While the first one at least has amusing poetic alliteration--or is it just simply rhyme?--you know, they both have the -om sound in them, how inventive; the second one, I mean, isn't that what we repeat on Good Friday? We want Barrabas? Kill Him? I'm not trying to make a messianic comparison here, not in any way, but it strikes me that these are words that we as Catholics (and probably many Orthodox and Protestants, but I've never attended Good Friday services anywhere else) repeat to remind us, among other things, that mob rule and frenzied hatred are not Christian. They are not the way things should be done.
And yes, crazy people exist. Crazy fear-driven people. And they say things that are crazy. Astonishing. Wrong. So be it. It is not McCain's fault that some lone nut says something at a rally. But it is his problem. How disarming it would be to simply answer someone with "That's not the way we do things here," or something more eloquent, which I'm sure politicians could come up with better than I could. But instead, essentially agreeing? Ignoring it with a grimace?
I fear what happens next. When George Will shakes his head at McCain and compares Sarah Palin to Sancho Panza, when northeastern Republicans can no longer in good conscience support this campaign, one must really consider what is going on. Scorched earth policy? Win at any cost? Is that what we need, really? Is that just? Is that right?
Bomb Obama? Kill him? While the first one at least has amusing poetic alliteration--or is it just simply rhyme?--you know, they both have the -om sound in them, how inventive; the second one, I mean, isn't that what we repeat on Good Friday? We want Barrabas? Kill Him? I'm not trying to make a messianic comparison here, not in any way, but it strikes me that these are words that we as Catholics (and probably many Orthodox and Protestants, but I've never attended Good Friday services anywhere else) repeat to remind us, among other things, that mob rule and frenzied hatred are not Christian. They are not the way things should be done.
And yes, crazy people exist. Crazy fear-driven people. And they say things that are crazy. Astonishing. Wrong. So be it. It is not McCain's fault that some lone nut says something at a rally. But it is his problem. How disarming it would be to simply answer someone with "That's not the way we do things here," or something more eloquent, which I'm sure politicians could come up with better than I could. But instead, essentially agreeing? Ignoring it with a grimace?
I fear what happens next. When George Will shakes his head at McCain and compares Sarah Palin to Sancho Panza, when northeastern Republicans can no longer in good conscience support this campaign, one must really consider what is going on. Scorched earth policy? Win at any cost? Is that what we need, really? Is that just? Is that right?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Atrium Review
It went well. Only three girls there today--two are out of town, one is sick, and one I don't know what the reason was. So it was an easy start for Alicia and me, although the time was hard to fill--one new one, but the other two were already experts. Definitely a learning experience. Next week will have more going on--more girls will be there, we'll start to delve into some catechism instead of focusing on getting to know the atrium, and the new one will have some works she can do independently.
The place is so durned cute. It's set up really well--even Therese said so when she visited to check it out. And the girls had a good time, didn't misuse materials, etc. But it felt awkward with just the three of them.
So next week we'll go over the liturgical colors using miniature vestments, present the articles of the altar, and teach them how to polish brass and take care of candles and plants. The following two weeks will have more liturgical season work, more altar, how to dress/set the prayer table, and a tour of the sanctuary and sacristy of our church--since besides Maeve, none of them has probably been close to any of that in real life.
It can be pretty awe-inspiring to touch that cold marble, I hear. One of the students in my teacher's atrium ran her hand down the white marble of the altar in her parish and said, "Oh, it's beautiful. It's just like...plastic!"
The place is so durned cute. It's set up really well--even Therese said so when she visited to check it out. And the girls had a good time, didn't misuse materials, etc. But it felt awkward with just the three of them.
So next week we'll go over the liturgical colors using miniature vestments, present the articles of the altar, and teach them how to polish brass and take care of candles and plants. The following two weeks will have more liturgical season work, more altar, how to dress/set the prayer table, and a tour of the sanctuary and sacristy of our church--since besides Maeve, none of them has probably been close to any of that in real life.
It can be pretty awe-inspiring to touch that cold marble, I hear. One of the students in my teacher's atrium ran her hand down the white marble of the altar in her parish and said, "Oh, it's beautiful. It's just like...plastic!"
Ready Set Atrium
In a half hour, I leave the house for the Atrium. Basement of the church, a little room that's been known by many names: Fish Fry To-Go room and the Head Start Cafeteria are the two that come to mind. Now it is turned over to Good Shepherd Catechesis, level one (ages 3-5). Alicia and I have no idea how today will go. But I think we'll do something like this:
*How to walk, talk, and be in the Atrium
*Handwashing
*Flower arranging
*Care of the Atrium (how to clean up a spill, water a plant, dust a shelf)
*Finding things you need in the Atrium
*The prayer table
*Decorate your folder with art
And maybe we'll review the sign of the cross.
I'm suddenly very nervous. But we have 7 or 8 girls coming--and that's it--all but one having attended the Atrium before. Not mine, but almost all the same stuff. I think I'm most nervous about having my mentor come see the room before we start. I need to gather up my last bits and pieces (food coloring, bar soap) and buy some flowers so I can teach flower arranging.
It will be fun.
*How to walk, talk, and be in the Atrium
*Handwashing
*Flower arranging
*Care of the Atrium (how to clean up a spill, water a plant, dust a shelf)
*Finding things you need in the Atrium
*The prayer table
*Decorate your folder with art
And maybe we'll review the sign of the cross.
I'm suddenly very nervous. But we have 7 or 8 girls coming--and that's it--all but one having attended the Atrium before. Not mine, but almost all the same stuff. I think I'm most nervous about having my mentor come see the room before we start. I need to gather up my last bits and pieces (food coloring, bar soap) and buy some flowers so I can teach flower arranging.
It will be fun.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
I Hate Bedtime
Kids go to bed. But in my house, they don't actually go to bed. They get a drink. They want a snack. They get sad because they think of the cats we visited at a friend's house 2 years ago. They make me crazy.
I'm not watching the debate tonight--I'm letting my completely already decided husband do that (I'm decided too, but this means I don't need to see it...since I have no one to talk about it with tomorrow anyhow). I am Bedtime Patrol tonight. Which means I'm sitting in the library (the small front bedroom that's now open to the stairs making a sort of loft above the front hall) reading meta information from other bloggers who are, get this, blogging while they watch the debate. Anyway, nothing to do with the topic at hand: Bedtime.
It started at 8:00 with teeth brushing and changing into pajamas. Then the time-stalling hugs for mom. Desire to go down to say goodnight to Dad.
At 8:10 I announce that story will be in 5 minutes and they must already be in bed or they will miss that train. Literal Sophia doesn't get it and asks too many questions about train travel. Mama Snap #1. Go to bed. That's what it means.
At 8:12 Maeve appears in the doorway. Is it time for story yet because I don't want you to read Redwall but I can't find the book I want you---Mama Snap #2. I'll be in there in 3 minutes.
At 8:17 I appear in their doorway. Maeve is dancing on her bed, Sophia is pretending she hasn't just hid under her blankets. I go sit in the papasan chair left over from our days in the dorm and announce that since it is Maeve's buhfday (birthday) she gets to pick story. She immediately picks Llama Llama Mad At Mama (going to the shop-a-rama: it is very cute). I dutifully read. Then we read another picture book. It's going ok.
Then suddenly it's 8:35 and Sophia's mouth is an upside-down U shape. "But we have that book on tape," she explains without explaining.
"What are you talking about?"
"We should have read from a chapter book. We can listen to that book anytime."
Deep breath.
"Sophia, it's Maeve's birthday. Give me a break. I read the book she wanted. I'll go back to Redwall [which will never ever end] tomorrow night."
Pouting from the top bunk but she gives in. Hugs and prayers and I leave the room.
8:46, Sophia has to use the bathroom.
8:47, Maeve wants a snack. You just had cake. Go. To. Bed. Not quite a Mama Snap.
8:48, Maeve wants a drink. She stands outside the bathroom door yelling at Sophia to hurry up.
8:52, both girls go back to bed.
It is now 9:16 by my clock. Sophia is whining at Maeve about a book she's "messed all up." Maeve is saying that she didn't do it, that she's telling the twoof.
9:19, Sophia goes to the bathroom AGAIN. Maeve is thirsty AGAIN.
I'm tired. Pregnancy is wearing me out. I am going to go brush my teeth and wash my face and close both doors to my room and pretend no one else lives here for a little while. Good night.
I'm not watching the debate tonight--I'm letting my completely already decided husband do that (I'm decided too, but this means I don't need to see it...since I have no one to talk about it with tomorrow anyhow). I am Bedtime Patrol tonight. Which means I'm sitting in the library (the small front bedroom that's now open to the stairs making a sort of loft above the front hall) reading meta information from other bloggers who are, get this, blogging while they watch the debate. Anyway, nothing to do with the topic at hand: Bedtime.
It started at 8:00 with teeth brushing and changing into pajamas. Then the time-stalling hugs for mom. Desire to go down to say goodnight to Dad.
At 8:10 I announce that story will be in 5 minutes and they must already be in bed or they will miss that train. Literal Sophia doesn't get it and asks too many questions about train travel. Mama Snap #1. Go to bed. That's what it means.
At 8:12 Maeve appears in the doorway. Is it time for story yet because I don't want you to read Redwall but I can't find the book I want you---Mama Snap #2. I'll be in there in 3 minutes.
At 8:17 I appear in their doorway. Maeve is dancing on her bed, Sophia is pretending she hasn't just hid under her blankets. I go sit in the papasan chair left over from our days in the dorm and announce that since it is Maeve's buhfday (birthday) she gets to pick story. She immediately picks Llama Llama Mad At Mama (going to the shop-a-rama: it is very cute). I dutifully read. Then we read another picture book. It's going ok.
Then suddenly it's 8:35 and Sophia's mouth is an upside-down U shape. "But we have that book on tape," she explains without explaining.
"What are you talking about?"
"We should have read from a chapter book. We can listen to that book anytime."
Deep breath.
"Sophia, it's Maeve's birthday. Give me a break. I read the book she wanted. I'll go back to Redwall [which will never ever end] tomorrow night."
Pouting from the top bunk but she gives in. Hugs and prayers and I leave the room.
8:46, Sophia has to use the bathroom.
8:47, Maeve wants a snack. You just had cake. Go. To. Bed. Not quite a Mama Snap.
8:48, Maeve wants a drink. She stands outside the bathroom door yelling at Sophia to hurry up.
8:52, both girls go back to bed.
It is now 9:16 by my clock. Sophia is whining at Maeve about a book she's "messed all up." Maeve is saying that she didn't do it, that she's telling the twoof.
9:19, Sophia goes to the bathroom AGAIN. Maeve is thirsty AGAIN.
I'm tired. Pregnancy is wearing me out. I am going to go brush my teeth and wash my face and close both doors to my room and pretend no one else lives here for a little while. Good night.
Almost Forgot
My kid's in the paper again--just her picture, with a couple of classmates, in an article in the South Side Journal about her school. But she's still cute.
Waterfalls, vistas, and bears
Ok, photos from the trip for real.
Cade's Cove is an abandoned settlement in the middle of the park. There aren't many houses left, but three churches (including two separate flavors of Baptist). And, surprisingly, it was somewhat of a Union stronghold. Here's a bit of evidence that this wasn't always appreciated.
There are bears in the park. Bears. Bears. Bears. Yeah, whatever. Not that I was lackadaisical about it, but I figured we were about as likely to see a bear as to see a troop of clowns wandering across the street. I was wrong. These three walked right in front of our van while we were in the Cade's Cove loop. Later, a ranger told me that an 8 year old boy had been mauled by a bear in August. Guess what--on the next walk, we saw yet another bear, but this time without the safety of our van right there. That one made me a little nervous. These just looked cute.
Grotto Falls. One of the vertical hikes we took. But look where you wind up. You can walk behind this waterfall, too, which was very popular with small children of mine. Note that no one else is here. The park was empty, although traffic still existed nearby. The walks, though? Occasional passers by. That's it.
In front of Grotto Falls
Sophia behind Grotto Falls
Gran with the girls on the way to Grotto Falls--there's a wandering trail called Trillium Gap Trail, and we were on bits and pieces of it. Like here.
From Newfound Gap--now I've been to North Carolina--and yes, this is what it looks like. Like some sort of 80s era watercolor painting.
View from the Laurel Falls Trail
Cute girls in the park.
Tired, anyone?
But happy.
We did not take this trail--we stood on it at Newfound Gap and were glad we didn't have 1972 miles to go. I love how they've bothered to even mention how far it is to the end.
So that about sums it up. Had a good time. Sophia became a junior ranger, to match her Sequoia/Kings Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, and Yosemite accomplishments. I pushed my pregnant self probably way too hard but it was nice to be exhausted at bedtime from exertion instead of from, like, commuting and running errands.
Cade's Cove is an abandoned settlement in the middle of the park. There aren't many houses left, but three churches (including two separate flavors of Baptist). And, surprisingly, it was somewhat of a Union stronghold. Here's a bit of evidence that this wasn't always appreciated.
There are bears in the park. Bears. Bears. Bears. Yeah, whatever. Not that I was lackadaisical about it, but I figured we were about as likely to see a bear as to see a troop of clowns wandering across the street. I was wrong. These three walked right in front of our van while we were in the Cade's Cove loop. Later, a ranger told me that an 8 year old boy had been mauled by a bear in August. Guess what--on the next walk, we saw yet another bear, but this time without the safety of our van right there. That one made me a little nervous. These just looked cute.
Grotto Falls. One of the vertical hikes we took. But look where you wind up. You can walk behind this waterfall, too, which was very popular with small children of mine. Note that no one else is here. The park was empty, although traffic still existed nearby. The walks, though? Occasional passers by. That's it.
In front of Grotto Falls
Sophia behind Grotto Falls
Gran with the girls on the way to Grotto Falls--there's a wandering trail called Trillium Gap Trail, and we were on bits and pieces of it. Like here.
From Newfound Gap--now I've been to North Carolina--and yes, this is what it looks like. Like some sort of 80s era watercolor painting.
View from the Laurel Falls Trail
Cute girls in the park.Tired, anyone? But happy.We did not take this trail--we stood on it at Newfound Gap and were glad we didn't have 1972 miles to go. I love how they've bothered to even mention how far it is to the end.
So that about sums it up. Had a good time. Sophia became a junior ranger, to match her Sequoia/Kings Canyon, Dinosaur National Monument, and Yosemite accomplishments. I pushed my pregnant self probably way too hard but it was nice to be exhausted at bedtime from exertion instead of from, like, commuting and running errands.
Ok, some stuff from our trip finally
I say that, but I lie...today is Maeve's birthday and I have to go downstairs and make that cake. So anyway, a bit.
We stayed at Pioneer Guest Cabins, which was lovely. Far more rustic than the Gatlinburg cabins we saw online, but clean, comfortable, and quite large. Townsend is known as the "quiet side of the Smokies" and it is. Nothing opens before 9, really, and everything closes soon after dark. There isn't much there, in fact, which was perfect for us. We drove through Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge and whoa, we were glad we stayed in Townsend.
A pony ride every morning for the girls--the hired man there was more friendly than that photo shows. The girls had a great time. And, a petting farm hidden in the trees.
Friendly resident pets and the owners stayed out of our way unless we had questions. They recommended good coffee and good pizza. They gave us free pears they'd grown. If we went back to the Smokies, I would try to stay there again.
Ok, I have got to get that cake going. I know this is a teaser entry. More later.
We stayed at Pioneer Guest Cabins, which was lovely. Far more rustic than the Gatlinburg cabins we saw online, but clean, comfortable, and quite large. Townsend is known as the "quiet side of the Smokies" and it is. Nothing opens before 9, really, and everything closes soon after dark. There isn't much there, in fact, which was perfect for us. We drove through Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge and whoa, we were glad we stayed in Townsend.
A pony ride every morning for the girls--the hired man there was more friendly than that photo shows. The girls had a great time. And, a petting farm hidden in the trees.
Friendly resident pets and the owners stayed out of our way unless we had questions. They recommended good coffee and good pizza. They gave us free pears they'd grown. If we went back to the Smokies, I would try to stay there again.
Ok, I have got to get that cake going. I know this is a teaser entry. More later.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Totally off topic
Ok, I'm back in town, as of last night. But before I put up a few pictures from our trip, mostly because I'm swamped this week with atrium and girl scout work, I wanted to link to a provocative page.
Whispers in the Loggia is a blog I read (well, scan, more like) when I'm looking for Catholic primary sources. Like, instead of sound bites about what the pope said, Rocco gives the full text. It's been useful over the past few months. But this entry, about the Society of St. Pius X, is kind of astonishing. It's called Guess the Anti-Semite.
It bothers me that we're trying to come to some sort of agreement with these folks.
Whispers in the Loggia is a blog I read (well, scan, more like) when I'm looking for Catholic primary sources. Like, instead of sound bites about what the pope said, Rocco gives the full text. It's been useful over the past few months. But this entry, about the Society of St. Pius X, is kind of astonishing. It's called Guess the Anti-Semite.
It bothers me that we're trying to come to some sort of agreement with these folks.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
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