tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33933829657371748192024-03-12T19:07:18.508-04:00Remember... a family history blog"The distinction between the past, the present and the future is a stubbornly persistent illusion." ~Albert EinsteinBetsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-48463832371677721632012-04-04T05:08:00.000-04:002012-04-04T05:08:34.250-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jACCO1d6BT4/T3wPZEgKoJI/AAAAAAAAAhc/FdRtzvvy4tw/s1600/Knocking_On_Your_Door_by_guitargirl94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jACCO1d6BT4/T3wPZEgKoJI/AAAAAAAAAhc/FdRtzvvy4tw/s320/Knocking_On_Your_Door_by_guitargirl94.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">New post:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">"You? Again...?"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">at: <a href="http://weforgotyounot.wordpress.com/2012/04/04/you-again/"> http://weforgotyounot.wordpress.com/2012/04/04/you-again/</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Remember to subscribe at my new home!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-21286021727838982522012-03-19T09:29:00.001-04:002012-03-19T09:31:23.024-04:00Moving Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">betsycross.blogspot.com</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">"Remember..a family history blog"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">is moving to</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://weforgotyounot.wordpress.com/"><span style="font-size: x-large;">www://weforgotyounot.wordpress.com </span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This site will stay up indefinitely, but all of the posts and comments were exported to that site.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">You can subscribe all over again over there.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">No new posts will com from this address.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Go check it out and let me know what you think on the "Contact" page.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">See you soon!</div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-43252065465043501332012-03-15T08:30:00.003-04:002012-03-16T06:05:57.988-04:00Wanna Go Spelunking With Me?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.globotreks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/cave6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://www.globotreks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/cave6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Image from Globotreks.com. Applause for me..I added this picture using the prong of a fork!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">I first heard about spelunking, cave exploring, in college. I don't like small spaces, so I never joined my friends on their nightly Saturday outings. But there's something intriguing about the adventure to be had in the dark when there's a possibility of getting lost. When do you turn around? When is enough enough? How deep into the hole do you dare go?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Today we're going to have some fun. I'm going to tell the story of one of Edmund and Elizabeth Rich's daughters, Addie, and later, after the sun comes up and I'm sure most people have eaten their breakfast, I'll make a phone call to see how the story really went. Or better yet, you tell me what you think happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You see, I have been researching Addie and her husband Thomas for a while. I got up at 4am today, and now it's 7. And I'm stumped. I have a ton of facts and one huge gaping hole. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Come into the hole with me. Let's go 'splorin'!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Addie Rich was born down the road from me in Truro, Massachusetts, Cape Cod, in 1865. She was the third girl of three, sandwiched between Lizzie and Mertie. In her mid-teens she left the Cape with her family and moved to Somerville, and in 1883 married Thomas T. Belyea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know very little about Thomas except that he was born in Nova Scotia to Charles and Mary Belyea and became a citizen in 1896.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I also know that in 1900 he took his wife and kids to farm land either with Addie's brother-in-law George Washington Johnson, or next door to him, because they are neighbors on the 1900 census.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here's where I take out my flashlight and try my darndest to make sense of what I have found and the bulb goes out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I found Addie with three of her children ( Ethel moved out) in the 1910 census, still married, with "none" crossed out for the line where you get to see what someone did for a living, and added over the top of that was "own income". None of the children worked even though they're in their late teens. But I can't find Thomas. Well I can, but the facts have holes. Big ones.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He's in Maine with Mary Macgillivary in 1910. And I know it's him because the facts match. But there's no marriage or divorce records for Thomas and Addie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Little Helen is in the sitting room playing marbles on the floor when one flies across the room and under the couch. On her belly reaching, the dust bunnies are actively itching her nose and blocking her view. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Someone answer the door!" bellows Forest from the back of the house.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I always get it! You get it!" cries Helen. But the knock repeats itself because now it knows someone's there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Opening the door cautiously, hoping to return to her game, Helen grips the knob nervously as she wedges her dusty body in the small space she has left between herself and the strange man on the stoop.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Bless you!" the man says wiping his coat and taking half a step back as he looks down to the next to the last question on his clipboard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"What?" asks Pencil Man census-taker because he, like me at times, doesn't have a filter between his brain and his mouth, and is perplexed even though it's not his job to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Nobody in the house is working?" Helen shrinks a foot and swallows, trying to save face as she wonders what the real question is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Wait! Wait! Erase that! My mum doesn't have to work. She has money of her own." Pencil Man's eyeballs look up coldly, stopping midstream.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Money of her own? What does that mean?" Eyebrows furrow and send 12-yr-old Helen into a panic. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Tell him it's none of his business!" yells 18-yr-old Forest from the other room. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Helen, sweating and exhausted with keeping secrets, cracks. "Dad sends her money." Unibrow squints as the story unfolds in his mini brain and he softens a bit, rewrites some information, and leaves with the door just skimming his nose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Who was that?" Addie-Mom asks as she swishes through the room, breaking the tension. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Census man." admits Helen with a sigh.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"She told him Dad sends money, "complains Forest. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Don't worry, Dear," Addie says trying to comfort Helen when 11-yr-old Edwin walks in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Worry about what? What's wrong with her? Mom, I'm going to Charlie's," he announces as he pries Helen off the door before he gets an answer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The remaining three resume life at #7 Avon St. in Somerville. It's Friday. Thank Goodness. The weather has turned mild, even warm, too warm to keep the windows shut. So Addie starts to open them, letting in a refreshing breeze.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, Mary Belyea is answering her door in Maine to find their very own census-taker standing pencil in hand on their stoop, grinning from ear to ear. And Thomas is breaking out in a sweat as he sits in his parlor in front of the open window, hoping and praying that he doesn't have to dig his hole any deeper today...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So what do you think happened? Is Thomas a bigamist? Was the separation mutually agreed upon? Are my facts not facts at all?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To be continued...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Update (Thursday, March 15, 2012, 5:40 pm): I made the call. So far all of my facts up to a certain point are right. But there's no family knowledge of a divorce or a separation. They are making more calls on their end to cousins (old ones!) to see if anyone knows something about Thomas. Addie was buried up in New Hampshire with a lot of other relatives.</span><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-71528970451278965672012-03-14T05:34:00.000-04:002012-03-14T05:34:52.716-04:00It Matters to This One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7l9K--PmHwY/TwAKZnZsOmI/AAAAAAAAEnk/GtQW2pY76h0/s640/starfish_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7l9K--PmHwY/TwAKZnZsOmI/AAAAAAAAEnk/GtQW2pY76h0/s640/starfish_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The Starfish</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">An old man was walking down the beach just before dawn. In the distance he saw a young man picking up stranded starfish and throwing them back into the sea. As the old man approached the younh man he asked, "Why do you spend so much energy doing what seems to be a waste of time?" The young man explained that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun. "But there must be thousands of beaches and millions of starfish," exclaimed the old man."How can your efforts make any difference?" The young man looked down at the small starfish in his hand, and as he threw it to safety in the sea he said,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"It makes a difference to this one."</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>original story by Loren Eisley</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I think of all of the things that I could be doing with my free time, and how I feel compelled to find my ancestors, research their lives, and tell their stories, I think of this story. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I think about love.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">What greater expression of love is there than to give a voice to the one who has none, and to be a champion of he who seemingly has nothing to give you?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then to find out that when you serve with no hope of receiving thanks or rewards, you are blessed ten-fold. To wake up every day knowing that my cache of friends is growing larger and larger and calls to me from another realm, is one of those blessings. Connecting heaven and earth for me and everyone else who reads one of their stories is another.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Funny how it matters to "This One", too. It matters to me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why would I stop?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">How can I help you start?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-6979374847994633352012-03-08T05:34:00.001-05:002012-03-12T20:30:21.311-04:00You Can't Take It With You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://stonefieldcellars.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/chocolate-truffles-300x233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="496" src="http://stonefieldcellars.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/chocolate-truffles-300x233.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Mommy? Where's the Chocolate factory? Did we pass it, yet?"</span><br />
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</span></div><div></div><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Look left! Out Kenny's window!There! With the flag on top. See the clock?"</span><br />
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</span></div><div></div><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"There it is Madeleine! The Chocolate factory!" I watch the silent dreams oozing through the little ones' eyes as the Schrafft factory, alive and functioning only in a child's hopeful imagination, slips away as we make our way through Boston and head towards Cape Cod. Home. That building is the one bright spot on our trip every time until we reach the Bourne Bridge which signals the last 15 minutes of our journey.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For the next hour and a half some of us daydream about chocolate. How to get it and how to hide it. Me? I freeze it. Nobody else in my house eats frozen chocolate. </span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Once upon a time, in the mid 1870's, there were three little girls who were uprooted from their home in Truro on the Cape and forced to put down roots in Somerville, Massachusetts with their parents, Edmund and Elizabeth Rich. Lizzie, Addie, and Mertie lived on Washington Street, right down the street from the 16 yr-old Scrafft candy factory on Cambridge Street, Boston.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For 200 years there had been Riches on the Cape eking out a living as seamen. But one Rich family left one year and never came back.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I don't know about anyone else, but I've found that moves are hard on children. If you have to move make sure there's at least a candy store down the road. Makes missing the sand and the salt air (or anything that yours have left behind) a bit more bearable.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">George West's Market was a frequent stop for any of us kids who managed to find a quarter to exchange for a small brown paper sack of penny candy. That habit fueled my dream to someday own a candy store where all the candy would be free. Every time I pedaled my bike the mile to the store, crossing one bridge and a set of railroad tracks I thought,"Grown ups just don't get it. Candy is important."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The only thing that ranked up there with the frequent trips to the candy store were the 4am wake-up shakes from my dad to go fishing and lobstering in his Boston Whaler. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Please Daddy!" Addie Rich would beg her father Edmund. "Just a couple of pennies. Please! I'll share with Mertie even! And I promise to eat your vegetables at dinner tonight!"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"They aren't MY vegetables. I just sell them. And, yes, you will, by golly. You'll eat every bite! You know it wasn't that long ago that you were complaining about all the fish you ate and 'Couldn't I please bring home something else for dinner every once in a while?' Well I gave you your wish. You got vegetables and now all you want is candy!" </span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With a sigh and a grin he handed the coins over to his princess. And off she'd run, salivating all the way to town, leaving Edmund to his daydreams of his days on the water, salt air beating on his face.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first move is the hardest. Roots are strong and deep. After that the heartstrings aren't wound so tight and feet get itchy for new scenery pretty routinely. After about six years selling veggies from a cart on the streets of Somerville, and for reasons only known to Edmund and Elizabeth (I actually think they were bribed), the two packed up and followed their oldest daughter Lizzie to New Hampshire where they'd mingle with cows and vegetables up close and personal, and enjoy watching their grandchildren play on the farm.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm feeling their joy and their claustrophobia. Feeling land-locked is hard to shake. Cobbett's pond was across from the farm, and that was something I guess. Maybe it was the house busting at the seams with grandkids, or perhaps they missed being closer to the shore, or the hustle of city life that one needs when they retire to keep their mind active. Whatever their reason, by 1900 Edmund and Elizabeth moved back to Massachusetts and in with their youngest daughter, Mertie, now married to Ralph Smith, in Somerville.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Guess what Ralph did for a living? He wasn't a fisherman, or a vegetable cart pusher. He was a pusher of a different kind. He was a candy man! A confectioner. My dream came true. It was for somebody else, but it still came true. Honestly, I think that's what lured Edmund and Elizabeth away from the farm and into their home.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Edmund was a widower in 1920, Elizabeth waiting for the census to be taken that year before she died. For 14 more years Edmund aged in a childless house without his beloved to help pass the time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But he had candy.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For a week I haven't been able to shake the image of him sitting in his rocker, eyes half-way closed, right hand pulling a chocolate ever so carefully away from his lips, desperate to catch the stretching band of caramel before it lands on his lap, never noticing his daughter Mertie standing at the corner of the room watching her dad savoring a moment with some chocolate. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At 97 I'll bet Edmund was wondering about his beloved chocolate and if perhaps there would be an exception to the rule, "You can't take it with you", as he was approaching the bridge to his next life? </span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Maybe that's why he lived so long. He realized he couldn't.</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-60023124174342677562012-03-01T10:18:00.009-05:002012-03-03T06:00:54.155-05:00He Reached the End of the Line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XfR6gOIRMB4/T0668Oalk7I/AAAAAAAAAhA/palMAQiNocQ/s1600/street+car.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="392" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XfR6gOIRMB4/T0668Oalk7I/AAAAAAAAAhA/palMAQiNocQ/s640/street+car.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture by O.R. Cummings' "Street Cars of Boston". Volume 4<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Where am I?" I asked every other night, having awakened suddenly because of a nudge or a cough. A group of fellow travelers watched me collect my thoughts. I guess I was their chosen nightly entertainment because the group got larger every time. I was so disoriented from all of the traveling we'd done that I never knew where we were.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The one thing I did recall was the feeling of being on a train.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"We're in Paris," a friend would offer, hoping to help me out or confuse me more. "Go back to sleep."</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"How long have we been here?" More laughing. I didn't get much rest that summer. But I assume nobody else that was with me did either.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know if I'm the best traveler. And what about those who deal with travelers? They pick people up and drop people off day in and day out. Imagine the lessons they could learn as they watch people and how they carry themselves, and interact with family and strangers? </span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I often wonder about those people who are in the service industry. My sister use to make me laugh so hard when she said she would often find herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night having scanned toiletries over the sink for an hour. I don't know what woke her up, maybe a roommate who heard the telltale sounds that didn't fit bathroom noises? She was a checker in a grocery store in college and was one of those who "brought her work home with her"!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Benjamin Franklin Johnson, the last for Uphard and Elizabeth Johnson, the caboose if you will of nine children, worked on a street railway in Massachusetts from 1900 until he died in 1923. Street railways transformed into the bus systems we now use. First he was a brakeman. Years later he was elevated to conductor. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Gimme a kiss." he'd say to his little girls Annie and Edith, and finally to his wife Agnes as he would prepare to leave for work. A deep breath of fresh air first thing and a long exhale would ready him physically and mentally to weather the moods of his passengers. Would he be able to strengthen them with his countenance, demeanor, and easy banter as they travelled with him to their destination? Or was he a grump that grunted and barely made eye contact as they stepped on board?</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Every day. Routine stops. Scenery and passengers whose lives would become as familiar as his own. The smallest changes would be noticed. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When Mr. Black Hat didn't show up one day he would wonder and wait for news from him in a few days that he'd been sick, or from a friend of a friend that he'd passed away. The seat he'd sat in would be freed up for someone else from then on.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He looked forward to a personal lift that Mrs. Big Hair gave as she lumbered up the stairs of the railway car. She was a delight. Always cheery with a "Helloooo, Dear! How is the family today?"</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Benjamin took on Mr. Red Bulbous nose as a personal mission, distracting him as they approached the stop near the bar downtown on Fridays when he got his paycheck. The stories he would tell were priceless. He was the life of the car. No distraction ever worked. He had a sixth sense of where they were no matter how deep the conversation with Benjamin got.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh how he wished he could help Mr. Cigar Man! He smiled and greeted him every morning joyously. But that man never smiled back. Children instinctively knew to steer clear of him. They were anxious to find a spot far from him so as not to get the evil eye if they misbehaved.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Miss Secretary was a looker and was uneasy, not knowing how to handle Mr. Dapper Dandy who was new to the route. Ben tried to help her out by saving her a spot behind him at the front of the car. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The children were a hoot on a good day, nerve wracking on others. Incorrect change and little legs maneuvering up and down stairs </span><span style="font-size: large;">alternately </span><span style="font-size: large;">tried his patience or stretched his heart strings.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Every day out he would watch his charges jump on and off, into and out of their busy lives. His job was to show up consistently, rain or shine, and make sure everything went smoothly and on schedule, making conversation and hopefully lightening the burdens of those who passed through his life on their way to wherever.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Did he miss them when he took a vacation? Did he get disoriented or dream of his route while he slept? Did he awaken late thinking he'd let them down only to remember he was on holiday. I'll bet they were like a second family to him and he was like a son, father, and brother to many who would be missed and would miss him during his respites.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Christmas was coming in 1923 and his brother George Washington Johnson had invited him with his family up to the Johnson farm in Windham, New Hampshire. Now he was going to be a passenger on the train that would drop them off in Salem where family on that end would pick them up. They were going to spend a brief holiday with family and then head back to the routine of their lives after Christmas. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Goodbyes, See you soons, and Happy Holidays were had on Friday the 22nd, and Benjamin Franklin Johnson walked out of one life in Somerville, Massachusetts and started the transition into his next, unsuspecting.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Doesn't it always happen that something goes wrong before your vacation starts? You get that flu bug or your car breaks down...or if you're Benjamin Franklin Johnson, 59 years-old, you get a head injury at work and are sure that your blasted headache is going to put a damper on the festivities.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turns out that was an understatement.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On December 23rd, two days before Christmas, Benjamin stepped off the train and dropped dead of a heart embolism. That was the end of the line for him. I can't imagine the shock of his sudden death.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Family in New Hampshire and Massachusetts would slowly get accustomed to him being gone. Agnes and the girls would travel back home to Somerville without husband and Daddy.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So apropos for a man in the service/transportation industry was one of the last pieces of paper to document his travels in this life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> It was the application for disinterment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> You heard it right. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He was buried and was being dug up and moved! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, it appears they moved him within the same cemetery, Cemetery on the Plains. But I don't know why. How fitting! A man whose job was to get people from one place to another was finally resting, but in the wrong place. HA! </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I can hear him the moment he wakes up on the other side of his life. And the scene just cracks me up. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Where am I?" Laughing all around. "You kidding me? It's over? I'm done? That's it? No more? Wow. That wasn't on my schedule today!"</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Hey!" says Mr. Black Hat guy. "Been missing our chats. Welcome home!" </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And as he familiarizes himself with his new surroundings and the last stop for his body, he hears, "Hey Ben! Lookie there! Off you go! HA! Guess you got dropped off at the wrong stop!" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Guess there's always someone </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>who provides entertainment for the <b>rest</b>!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i> (pun intended)</i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Wouldn't it be perfect if his epitaph read "The Bus Stops Here", or "He Reached the End of the Line"???</span><br />
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</span></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-16360687041109783192012-02-28T04:30:00.003-05:002012-02-28T13:19:38.324-05:00Lost in Time in Baltimore: Guest Post by Craig McBreen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyvm-IQ6oVRiwrVa0rP2xVzM73uRFuclGMb2uwUdKyHPfnOGd8" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyvm-IQ6oVRiwrVa0rP2xVzM73uRFuclGMb2uwUdKyHPfnOGd8" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div></div><div><br />
</div><div>Instead of writing about my lineage and the clan on the deliriously crazy, Irish McBreen side, I thought I would focus on my mother's side of the family. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I would like to drill-down even further and describe a typical Thanksgiving Day spent at my grandmother's Civil War era home.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Yes, I said Civil War era.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We arrived around 11:00 a.m. Smells emanating from the tiny, worn kitchen were quite a mix. The largest bird available, taking up the entire space of the pocket-sized oven was the cause of much fuss. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The old lady loved to baste, and boss. A four foot eleven octogenarian with less-than-drill-sergeant-like qualities, but possessing an amazing ability to command quiet respect. Orders were obeyed, for there was work to be done. Grandma Walsh was in charge.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This was the house where my mother grew up, as one of nine children. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A seasoned old house, built to last, and almost bunker-like in solidity. Sturdy construction with substantial walls of large stone, crafted in a bygone era. Imposing and large from the outside, tiny and timeworn inside.</div><div><br />
</div><div>This is also the place where I spent many days, weekends and holidays. We always came here for Thanksgiving. I remember the enclosed porch and the coal shed. The deserted upstairs bedrooms inhabited by ghosts of Baltimore's past, I was convinced of that.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The venerable stone building was on Clipper Road, in an aged part of Baltimore City. It honestly felt like the land that time forgot, with the rows of 120-year-old homes, the stone walls and the old London Fog factory just down the way. A lost world in the middle of the city.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My mother's mom was a woman who grew up poor, never had a driver's license and lost her husband — the grandfather I never knew — when my mother was a young teenager.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'll always remember her quiet, but sturdy presence.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As my aunts, uncles and cousins arrived the atmosphere became more jovial. The crack of beer tabs, the squeaky oven door, my uncle's jokes and the old boss at the helm.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Before dinner there was much commotion and traffic between the pint-sized kitchen and the living room, where my uncle Jim always used to fall sound asleep beside the age-old coal-fired stove, in a room that often seemed to exceed 80-degrees fahrenheit. We always needed more coal and my job often involved a coal bucket. This was the early 1980s, but it often felt like another place and time.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Dinner would commence at 2:00 p.m. sharp, but the show began shortly after.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My aunt loved to do one thing in particular, I kid you not. Take that old carcass to the back yard, with scraps aplenty. The cats would soon descend upon it. I was often amazed at how many there were. Undomesticated mousers coming out of the woodwork it seemed, tearing the cooked bird to shreds and in the end leaving nothing but a few thin bones. </div><div><br />
</div><div>This piranha-like crush of felines was a sight to behold, and my mom was always embarrassed. Although for a kid, this was the ultimate spectator sport, an event which happened just one time every November.</div><div><br />
</div><div>With Irish-American traditions of Jameson, more Jameson and plenty of jokes and singing, this soon became a very happy place. More uncles, aunts and cousins arrived after dinner and into the evening.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As a kid I remember my uncle Pat's guitar playing. His baritone, his strumming, and all the singing along.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I think back to being relegated to the kid's table, on the cold, enclosed porch.</div><div><br />
</div><div id="yui_3_2_0_8_1330420052520408">I treasure the homemade noodles that eventually became a tradition at my house.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I recall the cats, my sleeping uncle, the coal, and the sauna-like living room.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The haunted upstairs I always had to dare myself to check out.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The squash of family in the tight kitchen, which felt kind of special and overwhelming to an only kid.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But most of all, I'll remember my kind, old grandmother and the house she inhabited. This was her special time and those late November days of the past will forever be etched in my memory.<br />
<br />
More from Craig's blog:<br />
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<div><i style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><a href="http://www.craigmcbreen.com/why-dont-we-take-a-journey-together/">Why Don't We Take a Journey Together?</a></i></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.craigmcbreen.com/so-youre-the-introvert-lurking-in-the-blogosphere/">So You're the Introvert Lurking in the Blogosphere?</a></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.craigmcbreen.com/so-whats-stopping-you-late-bloomer/">So What's Stopping You, Late Bloomer?</a></span></div></div><div><i style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</i></div><div><i style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1488342685/cm4b_reasonably_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1488342685/cm4b_reasonably_small.jpg" /></a></div><b style="color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>Craig McBreen owns and operates <a href="http://www.mcbreendesign.com/">McBreen Design</a>, but you can also find him at <a href="http://craigmcbreen.com/">craigmcbreen.com</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/CraigMcBreen">Twitter</a>. A student of social media, Craig is originally from Baltimore, Mayland, but now resides in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two sons.</i></b></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-41927991506170023312012-02-24T18:55:00.002-05:002012-02-24T20:14:25.474-05:00Lucy, Forever In the Sky With Diamonds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="tr_bq"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://justaddrum.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/shooting_star.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="470" src="http://justaddrum.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/shooting_star.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was sitting in church watching my friend and her family, knowing that they were visiting briefly, and still mourning the death of their 22 yr.-old son who'd died the year before. Every old friend they hugged must have made the grief unbearable. We cried and I told her I had an idea for a poem about a shooting star because that's who Devin was to everyone. I have miscarried once and that grief was impossible. But having never lost a child I'd given birth to, I did my best with this poem to express what must be unfathomable pain. Today I dedicate this poem and post to Lucy Lenore Johnson, an ancestor of my husband, and her parents Uphard and Elizabeth, who may have welcomed Devin home. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: center;"><a data-mce-href="Image via derrickwrites.wordpress.com" href="http://www.weforgotyounot.com/wp-admin/Image%20via%20derrickwrites.wordpress.com" style="color: #1b8be0; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;"><br />
</a></div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;"></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">When I was young and full of hope, and dreamed how things would be,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Of how you'd brighten up my life, and how much you'd mean to me,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">I thought of times still future bound, filling holes I never knew</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Existed in this mother's heart, until I witnessed you.</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Then I looked up. </em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And much to my surprise I was aglow!</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And I believed n</em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">o one in the world would ever know,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">The feelings of one tender heart, </em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">stretched to let in blazing light,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Changed forever in one cloudless, starry night.</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: left;"><i> <span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Then you were here so suddenly, I'd hardly time to breathe,</span></span></i></div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">To take in all your beauty, all the mystery you'd leave.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">But now you're gone, the light grows dim.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Alone I'm left to feel... your presence in my memory</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Though far away so real.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Oh, I never knew the emptiness that you would leave for me</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Would never leave again, or how hard life now would be.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">To live and breathe without you, knowing you're no longer here,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">But brightening anothers sky in some far distant sphere.</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">But I'll look up,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Remembering you crossed my life one night.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And I will wish</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">For strength to make it through another night.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">I'll wish upon five million stars</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">That you could stay with me,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Knowing that's a wish that for now cannot be.</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">You are my shooting star for now, although that's hard to bear.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">I'll hold onto what I have of you, and with each breath I'll dare</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">To risk to live another day with a leaking, rusty heart,</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Holding everything together while it's falling all apart.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">I'll hope a little longer that the day won't last too long.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Because the nighttime waits for me. I've known it all along.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Each tear I shed makes clearer stars that quietly appear.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Your name I'll whisper once again with hope that you are near.</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><blockquote style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And I'll look up, t</em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">o trails of glory left as you were passing through.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And I'll believe</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">In future worlds where all the shooting stars I knew</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Will someday stay</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></em></span><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">And seeing me will start</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Passing to me pieces of my broken heart.</em></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><em style="color: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Betsy Cross</em></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Does everyone matter to you no matter their age? Seems like an innocent, straightforward question. No? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">This afternoon I looked at the next in line of Uphard and Elizabeth Johnson's nine children when I was completely surprised by two thoughts.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I saw the birth and death dates of Lucy Lenore Johnson, child number eight. There were no records of her life other than those that documented those two universally shared human events. She was born in September of 1860, and died 16 months later. I was shocked that I wanted to skip writing her story.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But I looked at her name for a second time and was bombarded by the chills that warm you from head to toe along with every hair on your body at the same time. And for hours those sensations stayed with me as I concentrated on Lucy.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Lucy matters. Her story matters. The experience I had with her today compels me to tell it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Her brothers and sister, ages 3 to 19, and her two parents spent time with her, held her, watched her roll over for the first time, and tried to cajole contagious belly laughs out of her. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Did they laugh as she threw food at them and bathed herself in it before Mom caught on? Was it fun watching her navigate her way up the stairs and tumble back down landing in a heap of pillows? How many times did her chubby fingers grasp one of theirs when she was learning to walk? How many baths and diaper changes did they share?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">For almost a year and an half her parents rocked her, walked her, burped and soothed her, never assuming there was a reason not to have another day with her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Every day her curiosity and joys would reawaken them to a world they'd gotten used to. The swooping and chirping of birds, barking of neighborhood dogs, wind, rain, snow, thunder and lightening, and grass between toes and teeth would all be experienced for the first time through the eyes of their little girl. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">How many cheers were there over milestones like the Army crawl, the first tooth, or the moment she let go of nearby security and stepped precariously on her own for the first time? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And who would ever forget the slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept angelically with clenched fists resting under layers of chin and rosy cheeks? And those legs? Could they be any fatter? What kind of hilarity did they enjoy trying to dress her as she flipped and squirmed to be free?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But one day she was gone and all they would have were memories.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Why come for so short a stay they must have wondered? A few of them were hit harder than the others because they'd already said goodbye to Edward who had died ten years earlier when he was four. Why another one taken so young?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What could Lucy, barely talking or walking, give to anyone during her brief stay here besides joy? Anything? Is that enough?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I heard and felt the answers to those questions as I asked them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">While I washed dishes contemplating Lucy, turning periodically to watch my children wrestle, cry, rest, and recoup in the living room behind me I understood better as Lucy's presence seem to radiate through me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Her gift was to come and to leave suddenly, leaving people to ask those questions and answer them for themselves. Her life was filled to overflowing with meaning and purpose. Bright, pure, innocent, unscathed, and submissive to the flow of Life, willing to be the cord that would bind the dead to the living, her need and desire fulfilled being assigned the blessing of being the messenger. Her life was never in need of time to become more. She came and left embodied in perfection and love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Some would dig deep and receive her gift. But not everyone. They would struggle to overcome the sadness that took her place at the table. But hope would always be extended as an option..,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">...as long as they could be reminded to look back, look up, to remember, and to believe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am grateful to Lucy Lenore Johnson who waited 150 years to be thought about by me and to have her name spoken aloud again. To know that she came to give a gift to more than those who lived with her and enjoyed her way back then is something I am sure of now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Her present to me today was to let go of the future grief that I will inevitably feel as I say goodbye to those I love or the life I have personally lived, and to know that I mattered. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">How I mattered will depend on who you talk to. But that I was enough, even if I'd lived just a single day, is a miracle and a comfort that I understand for myself now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Thanks to some time with Lucy.</span></div><blockquote style="font-size: 15px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.625em; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div></blockquote><br />
</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-23501854623346645922012-02-21T04:28:00.001-05:002012-02-21T08:34:06.373-05:00Surf Meets Turf<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/rtOvBOTyX00?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~Anatole France~</i></div><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><i>The grandfather clock that sits across from me has been silent for a while. It's my job to wind it. No one else thinks of it. Maybe I'm the only one who enjoys its chimes. I contemplate getting up to reach for the key, open the glass door, and getting it going again. But I go back to bringing the dead back to life instead.</i></span></blockquote><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For more than 200 years generations of the Rich family lived and worked as seamen off the shores of Truro, Massachusetts, just about an hour down the road from me. And one day in the mid 1870's Edmund and Elizabeth left Cape Cod and settled their family in Somerville, Massachusetts. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Once a thriving community of seaman, the Cape started a slow decline in the mid 1870's because of technological advances in steam engines and railroads that would decrease the need for trained and experienced captains who were no longer required to travel to foreign ports. And when time stood still for them in those few years they were forced to make serious life changes and do what no ancestor in anyone's memory had to navigate: life away from the sea.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><i>I've made the trip over the Cape Cod Canal many times. Three times it was to say goodbye through grief and tears and a touch of fear of the new adventure. And three times it was to return home to the familiar sights and smells of home. Each move opened new doors. I don't regret any of them even though they brought their share of pain.</i></span></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file00/objects/4/8/d/048d2072-2502-4a0f-aaea-b59cb59c57d8-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file00/objects/4/8/d/048d2072-2502-4a0f-aaea-b59cb59c57d8-1.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">But fate is sometimes kind to the courageous. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Their daughter Elizabeth met George Washington Johnson, seventh child of Uphard and Elizabeth, also living in Somerville, Massachusetts. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">And the clock, a new one, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">starts ticking for the couple</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file12/objects/d/d/3/cdd328a9-9f3e-4599-822b-30f7570d667d-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file12/objects/d/d/3/cdd328a9-9f3e-4599-822b-30f7570d667d-1.jpg" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Uphard, the dad</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Your father, Lizzie? What does he do?" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"He owns a vegetable cart in town. He used to be a seaman. But that dried up. So here we are. Landlubbers, now."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file09/objects/a/3/b/9a3bb9ce-f22e-4fde-bc1e-9bf92446b51d-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://d2.o.mfcreative.com/f1/file09/objects/a/3/b/9a3bb9ce-f22e-4fde-bc1e-9bf92446b51d-1.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Elizabeth Johnson, George's mom</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;">The two had their first child, Alta, in 1880, two years after they got married, while living with Uphard and Elizabeth in Somerville, Massachusetts. Now that had to be fun. Living with the parents has its challenges and blessings. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>(The first weight of the clock hits bottom.)</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Especially when the Riches came to visit. Three Elizabeths under the same roof?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"You be Lizzie and I'll be Elizabeth. Your mum? Maybe she won't mind Liz, or Lizbeth." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><i>My name's Elizabeth, but I've always been Betsy. I sign my name both ways. My kids think it's time to stick to one of them. HA! Easier said than done! People deciding for me who I am never works for long. Strong people like to make decisions that appear smart, but rarely check in with the heart for its say. And hearts are funny when not listened to. Pay attention to the first sound of a fissure forming and spreading or deal with the consequences forever.</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> (The second weight of the clock joins the first.)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Time to close up George. Go home to the Missus and youngun," announces Mr. Manager. " When's the baby due?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Any day now," George answers as he slips his arms into the sleeves of protection over the two shirts and one armadillo-like layer of skin thickened by repeated exposure to nerve endings. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A few days later, sometime in 1884, Chester is born in the Johnson home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>( weight number three reaches bottom and time stands still.)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Decision-making time. Either they keep on keepin' on or...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">...."Let's be farmers! Come on Honey. I HAVE to get out of here. I love my folks. They've been great. But I need to have a place of my own. I've saved us some money working at the store. But I CAN'T go back there for the rest of my life. I can't! Please don't make me. I want to have cows and maybe some pigs and chickens..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"But...the children. I'll have nobody to help with the children. And our parents. What about how they'll feel? We can't just take the children so far away. They'll never remember them!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"New Hampshire isn't THAT far away! We'll build a big enough house for them to come stay at for a good long visit. They'll love the country!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He did it! He convinced Lizzie to start fresh in New Hampshire with the two kids who would have four more siblings by 1904. They finally had a place of their own. Land, a working dairy farm, and a pond across the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Time started fresh. Life had come full circle. Sure, they could have stayed put. People do all the time. But it's okay to try something new, too. Spice things up a bit. 'Cause life is short and only what you make it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And no matter what, some things will change and others will always stay the same. That's how it was for George and Lizzie.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They left George's parents, melancholy and breaking hearts on all sides, and started a new adventure...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">...with Lizzie's parents moving in with them in New Hampshire!!</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">...now it's time to wind my clock. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">because fate awaits.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>And I have the key.</i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-68391179597409896462012-02-17T03:56:00.001-05:002012-02-17T07:33:25.347-05:00Zoltar! I Need You!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTEtn3ywd5Dhw2cAkafMRMgCj5iozEPto1GmkvfTCsR4rFpccdLQg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTEtn3ywd5Dhw2cAkafMRMgCj5iozEPto1GmkvfTCsR4rFpccdLQg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just the other day my husband said to me, "We just didn't know." He says that a lot. Probably to comfort me as he watches my eyes when asked for another drink of juice when everyone should be in bed. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wonder about that statement. What if I HAD known? Would I have unchosen any of my 9 my children? It's an interesting question. Especially if you're asking a woman who hasn't slept through the night for 25 years. Not that I care about my comfort. Just my sanity and common sense that has leaked out like the transmission fluid of our car that sits unused in the garage. Some things add to the quality of life and the ability to make decisions. Sleep is one of them.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I let this question marinate with the facts that I'd gathered about Edward Everett Johnson, Uphard and Elizabeth's fifth child; facts that were conflicting at best, confusing at worst. I've concluded that I need another pile for difficult people alongside the RTE (Roaming the Earth) pile for people I can't prove died: The FTN (Fortune-Teller Needed) pile. Only he'd have to look back in time, too.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because I need help!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But don't give me any more help if you're someone who collects Aunt Millie's stories and tells them to all of the relatives at Sunday dinners, and family reunions as if they're true. Or if you're that someone who puts that information on Ancestry.com BECAUSE SHE SAID IT WAS TRUE! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">How would you feel if you found out people were saying you died when you were eight and you're still leading a happy and productive life (for a dead person that is) at the age of 80 in the 1910 census?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We don't do that people! That's just bad math, science and social studies. If they're older than 110 I assume they're dead. Otherwise I believe they could be thriving somewhere on the planet, possibly under the Witness Protection Program or partying in the Amazon under the influence of amnesia. THAT'S why there are no records.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to Uphard and Elizabeth.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ky1bf81QrMw/TOAfiP6s9lI/AAAAAAAAA2w/UsjrRrW3Mh4/s1600/crystal_ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ky1bf81QrMw/TOAfiP6s9lI/AAAAAAAAA2w/UsjrRrW3Mh4/s1600/crystal_ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ky1bf81QrMw/TOAfiP6s9lI/AAAAAAAAA2w/UsjrRrW3Mh4/s1600/crystal_ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></a><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine, if you will, that it's Saint Patrick's Day, March 17th, in Boston, Massachusetts, 1847. You are ready to deliver your fifth child and are nervous because your almost 4 year-old son passed away 8 months earlier and you're not coping well. Your husband decides to distract you with a visit to a fortune teller just because he's nice like that and you agree to go because you're curious like that. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The three of you sit down in front of a clear crystal ball sitting on a red velvet-draped table with comfy matching chairs. After asking why you're there and if there's anything you want to know you watch Mr. Man as he transfixes his gaze on the globe and you wait, barely breathing.</span></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"You'll have a boy. And you'll name him after his brother." Yes, he knew your little Edward died last year, two weeks shy of his fourth birthday. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"He'll marry and support his wife and three children driving a team of horses." You clap your hands and do a jig with your feet under the table.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Oh, Uphard! I feel so much better! Thank you!" Uphard is disappointed. He hoped he'd have a carpenter's son.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mr. Fortune-Teller Man reaches across the table to grasp you by the wrist, subduing and scaring you to silence.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Hush! I must warn you! I see a WOMAN!" Beware!" </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thoughts of betrayal, infidelity and danger settle like a pall on the room.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"She's wringing her hands and shouting out random, incoherent frustrations. Her children are laughing at her."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Her facts are all wrong. Your boy and his wife will die on the same night leaving their three children orphans. Albert, your grandson..."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"More grandchildren Uppie!"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"...Albert , she thinks, will be twelve and alone after his two sisters die. He'll sleep in barns every night and continue driving teams for the same livery company as his father."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Please tell his father, your son, to tell him to write very legibly on his WWI draft papers because that WOMAN won't wear her glasses and she will let her children melt as they wait for dinner as she peruses records for hours only to realize Gertrude wasn't resurrected or in another Witness Protection Program. She was very dead. But Albert is going to marry a Gertrude. And she's NOT his sister!"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This poor WOMAN gets confused so easily.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"So it's not true? Not a bit of it? How dare she write such untruths?!" you stammer to The Man. "What DO you see?"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At which point my fantasy has become a delusion, and I want to reach through the computer screen, grab The Man by the turban, bending him close to my threatening eyes, and promise to pluck his eyebrows slowly if he doesn't spill the beans.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But he's not talking. So I open a new tab and start piecing together a help wanted add for Craigslist, Cape Cod and surrounding areas. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Zoltar (aka fortune-teller) needed ASAP, full-time. Turban optional. Must be a backwards-thinker and immune to all Aunt Millie-like voices. Call for interview. Leave a message. The phone is buried in the couch. Call back. Messages are never returned. Room and board is payment. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Extra pay for diaper-changers: brownies. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Boarding starts immediately and ends when the WOMAN says so. Must not oppose being tied to a computer and chair for long periods of time."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Cause I need help.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-1006090130029064572012-02-15T22:30:00.002-05:002012-02-19T18:02:36.113-05:00What's in a Name?Act 7:Ulysses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/164833_495179278414_704673414_6087248_3860683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/164833_495179278414_704673414_6087248_3860683_n.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 29px;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 29px;"><i>Guest post by Stan Faryna</i> </span></span><br />
<i style="font-size: large; line-height: 29px;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A gifted writer, Stan has written an inspiring, genealogy-based historical fiction for you. Sit back and get transported back through time to his ancestral home of Poland. Enjoy!</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 29px;"></span></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">This is a continuation of the story that I had originally written for Betsy Cross' genealogy writing contest.</span><br style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">Click the linked text to read Act One of </span><a data-mce-href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/12/19/whats-in-a-name/" href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/12/19/whats-in-a-name/" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">What's in a name</a><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">? Or, if you read Act One, check out </span><a data-mce-href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/whats-in-a-name-act-two-christmas-in-kaczyka/" href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/whats-in-a-name-act-two-christmas-in-kaczyka/" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Act Two</a><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px;">.</span> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 29px;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was another loud knock. It startled Ania. She buttoned her blouse quickly.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div><div><div><div><div><div><div id=":jm"><div><div><div id=":jk"><div id=":jl"><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">...</span></div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">Her 50th birthday was just a few days before. But she was still a beautiful woman. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ania felt nauseous and dizzy as she moved to the door and opened it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Contempt and anger was written across the red-flushed face of the landlord's son. Behind him stood two of his friends. Bullies - no more or less.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Get you, murderous witch, and your murderous family off of my land!" he said between clenched teeth as he waved a paper at her face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Be gone in a week. And leave it clean and in good stead that we may feed, hoard, and sleep here at our leisure."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Tomasz, Henry's cousin, helped Ania's father into the room. Her father was 82 but clear and quick of mind. He asked Tomasz to inspect the document.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Tomasz took the paper from the landlord's son and read it.<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"It says that Ania has failed to pay the full amount of the lease agreement and therefore she and her family shall evacuate the land within one week," explained Tomasz. "It is signed and stamped by a judge."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I have the receipt of Henry's payment!" exclaimed Ania. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You'll see!"<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" /><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Ania went to the cupboard and took out a paper registering Henry's payment to the landlord. It was signed by Henry and the landlord and witnessed by two men. It was dated twenty four years before. She showed it to her father and then to Tomasz. Then she defiantly presented it to the landlord's son.<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" /><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The landlord's son took the receipt and ripped it in half. Without looking at it. Then he handed the torn receipt to one of his friends standing behind him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"What receipt?!" asked the landlord's son with a broad smirk.<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Tomasz leapt past Ania and landed a fist on the smirk of the landlord's son - he staggered back from the blow. One of his friends stepped forward, however, and brought down an iron bar on Tomasz' forehead. Tomasz slumped unconscious to the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Ania's father yelled out for John.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />John came running from the barn - carrying an axe.<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />...<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />In a tavern next to the town hall, just a few hours earlier, three older gentlemen were quietly discussing a confidential affair.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />A court clerk approached their table with a yellowed and ragged dossier.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Your excellency. Gracious Sir. Signore Faryna. I'm sorry to keep you waiting. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">I know the Signore must be tired from your long journey, but I have just now collected all the records that you requested in your correspondence. They weren't easy to find. They were misplaced, in fact."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The clerk handed the dossier to Signore Faryna. Satisfied by the contents, Signore Faryna put a purse of coins on the table and the clerk snatched it greedily like a starving rat taking a scrap of cheese that had just fallen to the floor<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I have also arranged your meeting with the Mayor as you requested," he said expectantly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Signore Faryna put a second purse of coins on the table. And the clerk snatched it up just as greedily.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"The meeting is in an hour."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Signore Faryna glanced at the hands on his silver pocket watch.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Thank you," Signore Faryna told the clerk. "Come back in an hour and you will shine in good use."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Your Polish is fantastic, Signore Faryna. Do they speak much Polish in Rome?!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"The Signore is tired from the long journey. Let us not tire him further. Come back in an hour. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will tell you all about the wonders of Rome. After our meeting, I will tell you things that will amaze you" said the Bishop sitting at Signore Faryna's right hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Yes, your Excellency. Forgive me," the clerk replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Only allow me to say that I am surprised by the beautiful blue of Signore Faryna's eyes. I thought this was a Polish treasure. Alas, Rome has everything! And I have nothing here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"You only having nothing, young man, if you do not give yourself to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield," replied Signore Faryna in perfect Polish.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"No, John!" Ania yelled out to him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />John stopped short of the landlord's son and his friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"History ever wants to repeat itself," laughed the landlord's son. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">"But a good student of history will make friends in high places, and together they outsmart her. For history is a woman and she will be bedded.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />That is how destiny is borne and fate negotiated by ambitious sons."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Looking to his friends, the landlord's son spoke:<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I have waited six years to seize upon this land for which my unlucky father was murdered. My mother, ashamed and weak like a woman, failed to press the case against this widow and her son.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The widow, I fear, may be too old to mount. Maybe!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Maybe, if we could turn the clock back five years, I would have followed in my father's pursuit of interest and satisfaction. But, perhaps, my friends, you enjoy a woman like you enjoy good wine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Every man must judge a wine for himself!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />One of the friends of the landlord's son licked his lips. The widow, he thought, was beautiful. Her long silver hair rolled like a river of moonlight. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">More importantly, he thought to himself, a good appetite needs no sauce!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;">John raised the axe above his head and he meant to bring it down. But two policemen stepped out from behind a tree in the yard and they took John forcefully by each arm. The axe fell to the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Let my son go," Ania shouted at the policemen. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">"These men, they attacked us, they've destroyed an official document, and they have just now threatened to harm me."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"What receipt?!" asked the landlord's son with a broad smirk and bloody nose.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Yes, it was a receipt," argued Ania. "I just now said it was a document. You see, he knows what I'm talking about. Arrest him!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I will testify against these men," said Ania's father as he stumbled out of the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"We will testify against this family," said the friends of the landlord's son. "They have failed to pay the rent for twenty four years and they intend to murder again."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The senior of the two policemen nodded his head in concern and then spoke to all:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I have seen this strong, young, and violent man raise an axe against these men who came to serve an eviction. We will take him into our custody. Peace and security require this.<br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />His fate belongs now to the Rule of Law and the imprudence of an esteemed judge."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Nooo!" shouted Ania in tears.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />She fell to her knees, tears flowed down her tired face, and she bowed her silver haired head and it swept the earth. Her father stood by her side - shaking in his rage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I have lost my husband twenty one years, seven months, and three days ago. And now I will lose my son!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Heaven help me. Lord, hear my prayer. Hear my prayer, help a widow in her affliction!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Give me my husband back. Give me my Henry back! And, Lord, let my son by my side."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">"And if not this, pour out the wine of God's fury upon the earth! Unloose the angels at the four corners of the earth. Send forth the horseman. Unlock the gates to the dead lands. Let the trumphets blow and the seven seals be broken. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="font-size: large;">For nothing good can be. Or grow. Or fruit. No hope. Nor love. Nor a heart be written upon by the gentle finger of God!" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Above Ania's sobs, all heard the sound of pounding hooves coming up the country lane.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Three carriages pulled by eight horse teams each and their escort stopped at the yard.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />His eminence, Andrzej Stanisław Załuski, the Bishop of Cracow, alighted from the first carriage and asked the policemen what foul scandal was afoot. The mounted Jesuits eyed the policemen suspiciously.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The senior police officer knelt before the Bishop and nervously explained that they had arrested a young man, who was about to commit murder upon the men who had come to serve the papers of eviction. His mother crying on her knees was protesting the arrest.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The Bishop spoke loudly to all:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Religion, James writes, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction - not to visit affliction upon widows and orphans!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The mayor alighted from the second carriage with the captain of the police on his heels.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"I declare the eviction a forgery and a fraud," the Mayor shouted at the policemen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"The judge has sworn that he did not sign and stamp the eviction. I have just come from the courthouse.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Let that man go free!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Still on her knees, Ania pointed to one of the friends of the landlord's son.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"That man has the receipt of payment which was torn by the other."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The captain of the police nodded to the policemen to check the man Ania had pointed out. The young man ran but was caught quickly by the mounted Jesuits. The two halves of the receipts were found in his pocket.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Thank you, your excellencies. Thanks be to God!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Ania and her father wept in joy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The bishop helped Ania to her feet, he blessed her, and then he whispered to her to thank Signore Faryna in the third carriage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Ania went to the window of the third carriage and asked for Signore Faryna. One gentleman pointed to another whose face was covered by a hood.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />"Thank you, Signore Faryna," she whispered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Henry pulled the hood back from his face - tears streaming from his blue eyes. He put a finger over his lips.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />Shhh...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" />The other gentleman in the carriage with him, who was known to Henry as Moise, blubbered and snorted uncontrollably. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Epilogue:</span><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" /><span style="font-size: 15px;">My name is Stan Faryna. The name, Faryna, comes from my father's family - Polish immigrants to America. To be sure, Faryna is a most unusual Polish name. This is a story about my family name.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;" /></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://stanfaryna.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/bluesky_100.jpg?w=100&h=100" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #660000;"><img border="0" src="http://stanfaryna.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/bluesky_100.jpg?w=100&h=100" /></span></a></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><div style="font-size: medium; line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: medium; line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">Stan Faryna, Daddy, Author, Servant Heart, Online Strategist, Entrepreneur, Blogger, Mentor, Design Wonk, and- yes, suspected Galafreyian.</span></div><span style="color: #660000;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Stan's Blog: <a data-mce-href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/" href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://stanfaryna.<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>wordpress.com</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Twitter: <a data-mce-href="http://twitter.com/#!/Faryna" href="http://twitter.com/#%21/Faryna" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://twitter.com/#!<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>/Faryna</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Facebook: <a data-mce-href="http://www.facebook.com/stan.faryna" href="http://www.facebook.com/stan.faryna" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.facebook.<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>com/stan.faryna</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">FB Fanpage: <a data-mce-href="http://www.facebook.com/Faryna.FanPage" href="http://www.facebook.com/Faryna.FanPage" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.facebook.<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>com/Faryna.FanPage</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Linkedin: <a data-mce-href="http://www.linkedin.com/in/faryna" href="http://www.linkedin.com/in/faryna" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.linkedin.<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>com/in/faryna</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">About.me: <a data-mce-href="http://about.me/faryna" href="http://about.me/faryna" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://about.me/<wbr style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625;"></wbr>faryna</a></span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Twylah: <a data-mce-href="http://www.twylah.com/faryna" href="http://www.twylah.com/faryna" style="font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.625; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.twylah.com/faryna</a></span></div></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 29px;"><br />
</span></span></div><span style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">Some of my personal favorite posts: </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #660000; line-height: 24px;"><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/07/09/a-day-in-the-ordinary-life-of-stan-faryna/">A Day in the Ordinary Life of Stan Faryna</a></span></span></li>
<li><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2012/02/15/wednesdays-women-angelamaiers-ardath421-lisapetrilli-tobeydeys-dabneyporte/"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Wednesday's Women:@angelamaeirs @ardath421 @LisaPetrilli @tobeydeys @DabneyPorte</span></a></li>
<li><span style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/didnt-we-almost-have-it-all-rip-whitney-houston/">Didn't we almost have it all! RIP Whitney Houston</a></span></li>
</ul><div><span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue',Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">and Podcasts:</span> </span></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://wp.me/pbg0R-la">If Tomorrow Your Last Day</a></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/07/21/the-first-duty-of-love-is-to-listen-5-minute-therapy-faryna-podcast-ep4-nicheamnesty/">The First Duty of Love is to Listen</a></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/07/25/are-you-ready-for-love-and-other-social-media-dohs-faryna-podcast-ep5-nicheamnesty/">Are You Ready For Love?</a></span></li>
</ul><br />
</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-51693716810362288812012-02-11T06:41:00.006-05:002012-02-29T04:37:16.946-05:00R.I.P. Rockstars (apology )<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTxwNoV1RUtZSJLctTvVhW6i94adnUXUkxkmDpBqHDUjat03Zu8cQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(BTW) R.I.P= Really Impressive People!!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />
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<b><i>My apologies to anyone who was offended by my post about the four amazing bloggers from the Rockstars Tribe. My intention was to curate their blogs and to do it in a humorous, family history themed way. I posted it with the intention of helping my friends out, not of hurting them. </i></b><br />
<b><i>Goes to show you the power of words and sarcasm! </i></b><br />
<b><i>Thanks to Stacey, Tim, Tejash and Vitaly.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>Here's the original post!</i></b><br />
<b><i>Enjoy!</i></b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTxwNoV1RUtZSJLctTvVhW6i94adnUXUkxkmDpBqHDUjat03Zu8cQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTxwNoV1RUtZSJLctTvVhW6i94adnUXUkxkmDpBqHDUjat03Zu8cQ" width="320" /></a></div><div style="background-color: #a3d848; color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div class="yiv1346102407post-body yiv1346102407entry-content" id="yiv1346102407post-body-5169371681036228881" style="line-height: 1.5; text-align: -webkit-auto; width: 728px;"><div dir="ltr" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583168" style="text-align: left;"><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583165"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<i><b>Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />
</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Do not stand at my grave and weep</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am not there. I do not sleep</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am a thousand winds that blow,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am the diamond glints on snow.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am the sunlight ripened grain.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am the gentle autumn rain</i></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583171" style="text-align: center;"><i>When you awaken in the mornings' hush</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am the swift uplifting rush</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Of quiet birds in circled flight.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am the soft stars that shine at night.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Do not stand at my grave and cry,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I am not there. I did not die.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~Mary Elizabeth Frye</i></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This post is a tribute to a few of my tribe mates from the </span><b style="font-style: italic;">Rockstars</b><span style="font-style: italic;"> tribe on </span><b style="font-style: italic;">Triberr</b><span style="font-style: italic;">. Every once in a while I feel it's important to say thank you to the guys and gals there who help me spread my blog out to their readers, thus increasing my reach. This is a tongue-in-cheek post dedicated to four of those mates who are getting a virtual resurrection from the dead. 'Tis true, all of us do live in the real world and do not have the time nor inclination to "tweet", "poke", and "like" enough to satisfy the internet's insatiable appetite to know and be known, or to love and be loved. But guys! You matter! Keep up the good work that you do in the world! I chose them because I don't see them away from their blogs and would like to get to know them better! (And I DID get to know them better because of this post!)</span></span></div><div><i><br />
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</i></div><div><div class="yiv1346102407separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/955572822/hannibal2-1_reasonably_small.jpg" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/955572822/hannibal2-1_reasonably_small.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" /></a></div><b> </b><br />
<b> <span style="font-size: medium;">1. Tim Celan </span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>aka </i><b>@hannibal666</b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i><b>Tumbler blog</b><i>: </i><a href="http://hannibal666.tumblr.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_0" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://hannibal666.tumblr.com/</span></a></span></div><div><div><br />
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There is NO way I could do justice to Tim's blog.You HAVE to check out Tim for yourself. He's a crazy man whose brain is leap years ahead of mine. He could destroy me with his wit and over-MY-head sense of humor. I'd love to see him in action. I've heard he was a classic.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Resurrect Tim today! </span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;">Ask to<b> join</b> his Facebook group!(<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/179472985401124/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><b>Follow</b> him on Twitter!(<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/hannibal666" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
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</span></div></div><div class="yiv1346102407separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="yiv1346102407separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-profile-a.akamaihd.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/157869_891600524_1052015607_n.jpg" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://fbcdn-profile-a.akamaihd.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/157869_891600524_1052015607_n.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" /></a></div><div><br />
<b style="font-size: x-large;"> 2. Stacey Herbert</b><span style="font-size: medium;"> aka </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">@mylifestylemax</b><br />
<b style="font-size: x-large;"> blog</b><span style="font-size: medium;">: </span><a href="http://www.mylifestylemax.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; font-size: x-large; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_1" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.mylifestylemax.com/</span></a></div><div><br />
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"I'm Stacey the thinker, schemer, detail driven dream chaser behind this blog. If you're in search of a life less-ordinary you're in the right place. I share on personal development, well-being, lifestyle design and more..."</div><div><br />
</div><div>People change and grow as I'm sure Stacey has. She travels extensively and is living in Bali last I heard. Track her down, check her out, tell her you love and miss her. She's a blast! Tell her to come update her profile so we know what she's up to.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Some of my favorite Stacey posts:</div><div></div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-1/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_2" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-1/</span></a></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-2/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_3" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-2/</span></a></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-3/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_4" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-3/</span></a></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-4/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_5" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.mylifestylemax.com/2011/08/nicheamnesty-tv-blogging-without-borders-episode-4/</span></a> </li>
</ul><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Resurrect Stacey today!</span></div></div><div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><b>Like</b> Stacey's Facebook page (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Lifestyle-Max/135771043155528" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><b>Follow</b> Stacey on Twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/mylifestylemax" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
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<ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"></ul></div><div><div class="yiv1346102407separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/300862_10100169639198736_25525186_45293660_444688_n.jpg" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/300862_10100169639198736_25525186_45293660_444688_n.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="180" /></a></div><b><br />
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<b style="font-size: x-large;">3. Vitaly Tennant </b><span style="font-size: medium;">aka @</span><b style="font-size: x-large;">mytimematters</b></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b> blog</b>: </span><a href="http://mytimemattersblog.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; font-size: x-large; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_6" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://mytimemattersblog.com/</span></a><br />
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"A lost ounce of gold may be found, a moment of time never. Humor. Tech. Personal Growth. Entertainment. Travel. Entrepreneurship. Crazy Pics. Videos and more. "<br />
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His blog has SO much in it. You could spend all day there and never get bored!<br />
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From Vitaly's blog:<br />
<div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://mytimemattersblog.com/50-funny-bizzare-and-creative-tombstones/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_7" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">50 Top Funny, Bizarre and Creative Tombstones</span></a> (Love this one!)</li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://mytimemattersblog.com/five-easy-and-inexpensive-fitness-tips/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_8" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">Five Easy and Inexpensive Fitness Tips</span></a></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://mytimemattersblog.com/costa-rica-ed-mercer-and-entrepreneurial-acknowledgment/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_9" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">Costa Rica, Ed Mercer and Entrepreneurial Acknowledgement</span></a></li>
</ul><span style="font-size: large;">Resurrect Vitaly today!</span></div><div>(Vitaly is very active...just joking with him!)<br />
<div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><b>Follow</b> Vitaly on <b>Twitter</b>! (<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/mytimematters" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><b>Like</b> Vitaly's<b> Facebook</b> page! (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/mtmblog" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</li>
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Video from Vitaly's YouTube Channel: </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/vitalyvt/videos" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_10" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">http://www.youtube.com/user/vitalyvt/videos</span></a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583180" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv1346102407separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="http://m4.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrink_80_80/p/2/000/09b/3a9/184e2cd.jpg" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; color: black; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://m4.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrink_80_80/p/2/000/09b/3a9/184e2cd.jpg" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<b style="font-size: x-large;">4. Tejash Unadkat</b><span style="font-size: medium;"> aka </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">@tunadkat</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> Cofounder and CEO of Fatminds, </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"> San Francisco Bay Area</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>blog</b>: </span><a href="http://www.tejash.info/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;">http://www.tejash.info/</span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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This guy is BUSY! Get to know him and the continuing education programs and courses he writes about. The blog is loaded!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">From his <b>Fatminds blog</b>: <a href="http://blog.fatminds.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1328982659_11" style="color: #366388; cursor: pointer;">blog.fatminds.com</span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://blog.fatminds.com/2011/11/14/learn-genealogy/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Learn Your Past Through Genealogy</a></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://blog.fatminds.com/2011/12/05/real-criminals-tv-shows/" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Real Criminals Behind the TV Shows</a></li>
</ul><span style="font-size: large;">Resurrect Tejash today!</span><br />
(Again, this was more to introduce you to him!)<br />
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</b></div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><b>Like</b> Fatminds on <b>Facebook (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/fatminds" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>) </b></li>
<li style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><b>Follow</b> Fatminds on <b>Twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/fatminds" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">here</a>)</b></li>
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Fatminds</b> on <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2kSxt1WDQQ&lr=1&user=upsidenews" rel="nofollow" style="color: black; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">YouTube</a> (71 videos)</b></div><br />
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</div><div><b>xoxoxoxoxo</b></div><ul style="line-height: 1.4; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></ul><br />
<div class="yiv1346102407separator" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583177" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span id="yui_3_2_0_1_1328982666583174" style="font-size: medium;">So there you have it; Tim, Stacey, Vitaly, and Tejash. Hope there are no outstanding errors. If there are it's all our tribe leaders' fault. And if you are really nice, and point those errors out to me, AND if you have a blog, MAYBE you'd like to check out Triberr for yourself. Perhaps you need an invite? Leave a link to your blog address in the comment section and we'll see what's up! (Someday I'll figure out how to make the links work. No worries. Copying into the browser isn't too hard.)</span></div></div></div></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /></div><br style="background-color: #a3d848; color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;" /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-4170583996887010692012-02-08T05:41:00.003-05:002012-02-08T08:57:30.050-05:00Why, Yes! I Do Come From a Long Line of Dormans!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<i><b>Guest post by Bill Dorman</b></i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i>Everybody loves Bill! He's a lot of fun and a frequent visitor here. I met Bill on Twitter and serve with him on two Triberr tribes. His blog, <a href="http://billdorman.me/">billdorman.me</a> is a fun place to stop by for a good read on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Trust me, he's great entertainment. And so is the comment section!</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Do you ever wonder who blazed the trail before you; the sum of all parts who determined in some way the person you have become?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had never really given it much thought when I was younger, and even though my dad's family was relatively close knit and were great story tellers, I never knew much about the family beyond my grandfather.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, my grandfather passed away when I was 5 years old.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I do know 'Big Daddy' was a preacher man and he was going all over rural Florida in the 30's and 40's starting churches. I also know my father did not care for the vagabond lifestyle, moving almost every year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It can be addicting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My father passed away when I was 39; but about 3-4 years prior to that I became interested in the 'family' and began asking questions. I started bugging all of the relatives and really came up with some interesting stories. It was fun to watch the excitement as they recollected long forgotten memories. Every time I would 'discover' something new, I would pass it on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This was a little bit before the internet so you almost had to be a private detective digging through census data in genealogical libraries and such. However, when you started connecting the dots, it just made me want to dig some more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I see dead people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My wife thought it was silly to be chasing dead people. I would counter that my efforts were bringing these people alive, and if it weren't for them I wouldn't even be here. I was curious to 'know' who they were.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You can glean valuable information from census data. You will see who the neighbors were, who married who, their occupation, etc. This helps you piece their life together.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As the discoveries were made I would always try to envision what their life was like at that time. I would wonder if they were having fun or if life was hard. I also wondered what mannerisms and characteristics they had that have carried down to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There will be hidden treasures.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One thing I quickly found out, there is no unclaimed Dorman estate money out there. The other thing I found out was there are a lot more Dorman's than I imagined.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just like social, you can start chasing down a lot of different trails. Therefore, most of my efforts have been straight line, direct Dorman descendants that if any link in the chain were broken, I wouldn't be here writing this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know of towns, schools, roads, buildings, murders, war heroes, etc that I can trace. Some of the stories I could tell would be pretty colorful and that is what is most interesting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They say US southerners take root; well I am probably a testament to this statement. I can trace my direct line to the early 1700's where Mitchel Dorman lived in North Carolina; every migration from there just kept going south.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Aren't you curious?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With sites like Ancestry.com, it has become very easy to discover your family history. Just like social, not every thing you read and/or discover should be taken as gospel, so it pays to verify all sources of information. It is very easy to get diverted if you don't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have found 3rd, 4th & 5th 'cousins', some of them local, who have also taken an interest in family history. This is another great way to cross check your information, finding 'relatives' who are also looking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Where did I come from?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, we all probably came from the proverbial 'Eve' on the plains of Africa; but beyond that I definitely have European ancestry. Originally, I assumed England but since I haven't jumped the pond yet in my discoveries, I have reason to believe it could be Ireland or Germany as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you have any curiosity at all, I would recommend at least taking a look. However, I will warn you, it can be very addicting........just like social.</span><br />
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Principal/owner @LanierUpshaw, Inc. FSU grad; Auburn dad; interested in people & relationships, who you want to be when you grow up. My themes will run from social media to life to community to corporate life and what it all means to me, of course.<br />
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Recent posts at Bill's place:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://billdorman.me/2012/02/06/who-keeps-moving-my-cheese/">Who Keeps Moving My Cheese?</a></li>
<li><a href="http://billdorman.me/2012/01/16/what-is-up-with-triberr-these-days/">What's Up With Triberr These Days?</a><br />
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<li><a href="http://billdorman.me/2011/06/27/ive-learned-too-much-my-head-hurts/">I've Learned Too Much; My Head Hurts</a></li>
</ul>Find Bill Dorman on:<br />
<div>Twitter: @bdorman264<br />
Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1533912852">Bill Dorman</a><br />
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</div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-57843025295216331312012-02-04T07:19:00.000-05:002012-02-04T07:19:23.057-05:00Intimations of Immortality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cdn.pinterest.com/upload/251990541619988483_ON8Yrkgh_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://media-cdn.pinterest.com/upload/251990541619988483_ON8Yrkgh_f.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Hath had elsewhere its setting,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>And cometh from afar:</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Not in entire forgetfulness,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>And not in utter nakedness,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>But trailing clouds of glory do we come</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>From God, who is our home:</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Heaven lies about us in our infancy!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Shades of the prison-house begin to close</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Upon the growing Boy.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>He sees it in his joy;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The Youth, who daily farther from the east</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Must travel, still in Nature's Priest,</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>And by the vision splendid</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Is on his way attended;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>At length the Man perceives it die away.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>And fade into the light of common day.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>~William Wordsworth ~</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's rare for me to find "cause of death" records in my research of my ancestors. But the mortal me is always subconsciously trying to beat the system and asks the question, "How did he die?" when looking at lives lived centuries ago and ones that I'm enjoying in the present as they approach that inevitable door that opens only once and locks quietly behind.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">So when I find a cause of death I'm intrigued. There are clues in those records that add a piece to the puzzle of who someone was, or at least to the quality of their life.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The record for registered deaths in the city of Somerville, Massachusetts in 1900 included the death of Charles Deforest Johnson. He was almost 51, and had been married for 27 years. Who attended the graveside services that November day in Everett, Massachusetts as the coffin was lowered into the freshly dug plot in the Woodlawn Cemetery?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Charles' parents had already died by then, but his three brothers were probably there supporting his widow. I found it amusing that the three remaining siblings of eight were the ones named after presidents William Henry Harrison, George Washington, and Benjamin Franklin. Imagine THAT obituary! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He and his wife Henrietta both came from families of nine children. Yet they were childless. What were they thinking as Charles' death approached? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was touched and relieved as I briefly studied his cause of death, kidney disease. I was comforted. One more blessing added to my growing pile that has come through my family history research. You see, I know people who suffer from this disease. I understand the change in the quality of life. And I hate to see people suffer. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I read the following quote yesterday and every time I woke up during the night it was there. I couldn't escape it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: large;">"Death from kidney failure is generally considered a gentle death. In fact, many physicians and nurses would choose to die of kidney disease rather than any other illness."</span></blockquote><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So here we are looking at Charles, Henrietta, and me. I know what his fate was. I have it in black and white. I ponder those last days with Charles. How quiet they must have been. I imagine the serenity as he slipped away in his sleep, no pleading for mercy to take him early.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm left in awe of the gift the two of them were given and I cry. What a blessing to be allowed to finish in peace and to focus on his immortality!</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have made many assumptions about people and how impending death could or would cause them to change. Some people use the wake up call to pay attention to life's blessings and to express outwardly their gratitude for having lived a life. Others stay quiet and never share the deep thoughts and changes going on inside. There are no visible manifestations that the looming event has registered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am humbled to know that I can't change how a person lives a life. I can only take what I'm learning from what I'm observing and ask if I'm being truly grateful, with outward expressions, that I've received the wake-up call that that door is right in front of me and that I've taken every advantage of every opportunity to lift, inspire, and comfort one more soul with the time I've been given today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Will I listen more intently, hug tighter and longer, and smile more often? Maybe for a few minutes I will. But inevitably I slip back into feeling immortal and save those moments for another day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually those moments will run closer and closer together and as I practice living in the moment, time will feel more precious and I will feel richer for having chosen to give more of me away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Reminds me of this quote:</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"He that findeth his life shall lose it: </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it." </span>(Matthew 10:39)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;">I hope the same for you; that we will be more outwardly focused and seek to lift, comfort, and inspire in the midst of our grand adventure we call mortality.</span><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-17055179229438066582012-02-02T07:34:00.000-05:002012-02-02T07:34:42.357-05:00The What Not Inn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Guest post by Ann Jane<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ANsiRN5_YUo/TqsflmKtTsI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/TDJI-Aj4ec8/s220/profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ANsiRN5_YUo/TqsflmKtTsI/AAAAAAAAAAQ/TDJI-Aj4ec8/s200/profile.jpg" width="163" /></a></div> <i>When Betsy asked me to write a guest post on her blog, she had me shaking in my snow boots. Me? Write? On someone’s blog? A formal type writer I am not. </i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i> </i><i>However, what she asked me to write about was easy: My Grandparents or someone earlier.</i></blockquote>[Ann admitted to me that when the temperature hits 50* she's outdoors painting, so her blog, <a href="http://equuisdancer.blogspot.com/">Willy Nilly, This and Tha</a>t might be all about her artwork! (hint, Ann!)]<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;">Lucky me! I knew my Great grandparents on my Mom's side. We spent many a Sunday afternoon piling in my Grandpa’s big old Buick and taking a mini road trip to the “What Not Inn.”</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hollandnightout.com/mnodata/userphotos/256/event-91678-the-monday-night-jazz-jam-5304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.hollandnightout.com/mnodata/userphotos/256/event-91678-the-monday-night-jazz-jam-5304.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">The first I remember being there I was probably five years old because my brother was a baby and for some reason he cried all the way there. Kind of unforgettable in a car with 6 people and a 30 mile ride. It seems like a forever ride to a five year old anyway. But what fun it was to finally get there. </span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I was named after Anna, my Great Grandma. I always thought that was kind of cool and she and my Great Grampa John were quite the characters, running that </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Inn</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> from the 1920's until the late 1950's. The </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Inn</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> was located just South of the Resort towns of Saugatuck, </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Douglas</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> and </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Holland</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">, on the main and, at that time only, road North along the Lakeshore of Lake Michigan between </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Chicago</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> and points North. Back then it was almost exclusively </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Chicago</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> people who had Summer Homes on the </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Lake</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">, the most famous being Al Capone. Some interesting people passed through and came to eat at the </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Inn</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> and spend the night in the cabins.</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Back then, I was the youngest mobile child at these family Sunday and </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Holiday</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> get togethers. The older kids could wander and play in the Orchard or on the bridge over the Koi Pond but being the Wee One as he called me, my Gramps seemed to be my playmate. He was a combination magician, artist and someone who just knew how to be a kid himself. The old man had a huge bushy white mustache and a shock of unruly white hair and he always wore some kind of straw hat or Beret to hold it down. </span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Oh boy could he tickle a little kid with that "stache"!</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Gramps thrilled all the kids with the Quarter appearing out of your ear trick and a Quarter was a lot of goodies at the corner store for kids in those days. The boys would tuck theirs in their pants pocket but for us girls still in our Sunday Best dresses, Gram would get a handmade lace edged handkerchief and make a knotted pouch and tie it around our wrist. She seemed to have a never ending supply of these handkerchiefs in her apron pockets for some reason.</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Gramps was never without a pencil tucked over his ear and a pad of paper stuffed in a pocket. The man could sketch and draw anything you asked him to. THAT was my greatest fascination: to see lines turn into an animal and the animal into a scene out of his head. He must have done hundreds for me in the short 5 years that I was lucky to have time to spend with him. </span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I’m sorry to say I didn’t inherit his drawing talent -- but it sure hasn’t been for a lack of trying over the years!</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">My Great Gramma Anna sold the restaurant part of the </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Inn</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> after he died but she still ran the 8 little cabins behind the house. Somehow it just wasn't the same going to visit after he passed, maybe because I was older and there were younger kids and I could play with the big kids. There was a very big presence, at least for me, that was missing.</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">The What Not Inn is still there today and has been remodeled and expanded over the years to a Bar and full service restaurant. There is this Awesome wall as you come in the door with photographs from the day it was built to the present and local area photos, with my Great Gramps in almost every one of the old original ones -- along with a few infamous guests that spent their Summers on the Shore.</span></blockquote><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> I think I should go visit that place again. This time, I think take my camera and see if I can recapture some memories.</span></blockquote><br />
Some fun posts of Jane's:<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="http://equuisdancer.blogspot.com/2012/01/she-had-nerve.html">"She" Had the Nerve!</a></li>
<li><a href="http://equuisdancer.blogspot.com/2012/01/cookie-sheets-and-toilet-bowl-cleaner.html">Cookie Sheets and Toilet Bowl Cleaner</a></li>
<li><a href="http://equuisdancer.blogspot.com/2012/01/ive-got-no-sit-in-my-pants.html">I've Got No "Sit" In My Pants</a></li>
</ul><br />
<br />
Find Ann Jane on:<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1057956438"> Facebook</a><br />
aka <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/equuisdancer">@equuisdancer</a> on Twitter<br />
her blog: <a href="http://equuisdancer.blogspot.com/">Willy Nilly, This and That </a><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-52278094970454136862012-01-29T08:43:00.001-05:002012-01-30T06:19:59.126-05:00Roses In December<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.deviantart.com/download/55815317/Rose_in_the_snow_by_ianknavas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://www.deviantart.com/download/55815317/Rose_in_the_snow_by_ianknavas.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">"God gave us memories </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">that we might have roses in December"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">~ J.M. Barrie, <i>Courage, </i>1922 ~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We met her on moving day, December 1, 2011. Her persistence won our hearts, and against my husband's wishes, she became a daily visitor. I relish the memories of watching her sleep on my son's bed as if she was a lifelong member of our family. "We can't afford to feed one more!" he would say. But he was commuting for work and was gone for the better part of the day. So she came when he left. Then her brother started dropping by. They looked so much alike.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">One day we all noticed that she hadn't come that day and hadn't been around for two weeks. Maybe she'd been forbidden to come. Maybe something was wrong.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">While I was researching James Crossman Johnson, Uphard and Elizabeth's third child I was startled out of my trance by a knock at the door. A young man stood bent over a huge dog who was straining to get through the crack I'm made between me and them as I slid open the door.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Sorry! He used to live here!" he said as I closed the door a bit to protect two worried and very curious children who stood beside me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I really wanted to get back to my research of James. He was born in October of 1845 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Up until the interruption by my neighbor all I knew was that he was born in Cambridge and crossed the Mystic River twice, first to live in Malden where he was five, and then to live in Somerville where I found him at 15.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My neighbor friend asked if I'd seen his black cat. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes! She came over all the time up until a couple of weeks ago!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"No, that's his sister. She was hit by a car and killed two weeks ago. Have you seen her brother?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I pushed the sliding door closed between us, leaving us to grieve the loss of our friend, and slowly made my way back to my research with a heavy heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My first thoughts after the shock wore off were of gratitude. We'd had some really fun weeks with the little kitty who cried to come in to eat our food, to sleep and to play. It would have been so easy to shun her, and to shoo! her home. But it felt right to let her in. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>And we were blessed with memories.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>No regrets.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We'd been given a gift with no promise of how long it would be there for us to enjoy. Turns out it was a very short time.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I finally knew where our friend had disappeared to. But where was James? I'd done grave, census, marriage and death searches to name a few. Ancestry.com said that he belonged to 8 family trees. I checked them all out and they all say that he died on December 23rd, 1862, in New Orleans, Louisiana, as a soldier in the Civil War. Not one of them had documentation. I added that date to his record with no proof as well because I knew I'd want to figure out whether it was true or not.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">This much I know. He disappeared after the 1860 census. It was possible that he enlisted in the war at 17 because even young children served as drummer boys, etc. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">His parents were left with the memories of their brief 17 years with him as they saw Christmas come and go and welcome another New Year. It would be their first year without him. His October 7th birthday would come and go without him from now on. All of the holidays and special occasions would notice his absence. Those who mourned his passing would rely heavily on memories created with him to buoy them up through the drought they'd feel without him.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The human mind is a wonderful thing. We are blessed with the capacity to remember unless and until nature decides we've had enough and relieves some of the burden of sorrow and grief.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My lesson this week came from an unexpected source. An innocent little kitty who offered friendship, connection, and, yes, memories. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>I'm left with a question.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>How many blessings like that have I literally and figuratively shut the door on?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>And how many "roses" will I have collected to help me to enjoy the Decembers that will inevitably come?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>You?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-48476901897975189142012-01-26T09:29:00.001-05:002012-01-27T21:38:17.192-05:00Remember... a family history blog: With His Spoken Word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2012/01/with-his-spoken-word.html">Remember... a family history blog: With His Spoken Word</a>: http://wp.me/pbg0R-A0<br />
<br />
If you landed here you should be <span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2012/01/with-his-spoken-word.html">here</a></span>,,, sorry. Betsy playing with stuff leads to problems sometimes!</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-18388421980159584662012-01-26T09:00:00.000-05:002012-01-26T09:00:16.802-05:00With His Spoken Word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i>Guest post by Caroline Pointer ~ Genealogist and Family Historian</i><br />
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</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1765715322/photo_reasonably_small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/1765715322/photo_reasonably_small.JPG" /></a></div><i>When she’s not being transported back in time and being made awesomely complete by ancestors’ stories, Caroline M. Pointer is the author of her personal family history blog, <a href="http://yourfamilystory-cmpointer.blogspot.com/">Family Stories</a>, and the author of her professional blog, For Your Family Story, where one can find out what happens when genealogy meets technology. She has a new blog launching on 31 Jan 2012 called BloggingGenealogy.com where one can find out how to write effective blog posts.</i><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">With His Spoken Word</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was in awe.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No, that’s not right.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was more like I felt completed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, awesomely completed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was awesomely completed when I put that CD in my laptop’s drive and heard his voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My husband’s Great-Uncle Donald, who is now 91, wrote and voice-recorded his memoirs and gave me copies of both a couple of years ago when we went up to Iowa for the annual Pointer Family Reunion. He also gave me copies of the Pointer family photos as well as copies of newspaper clippings his mother, Pearl, had saved all of her life, all of which he had digitized.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He sat me down that day and went over with me every single photo and told me any stories that he knew about each one. To see the faces of those I had researched for so long was amazing. I mean, I had all their facts, but Great-Uncle Donald had their faces and their stories.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But I think what moved me the most – in fact, awesomely completed me – was to hear his story on his memoirs CD. I closed my eyes and just listened to him tell me his story. And the more he spoke, the more his stories came alive. And to be perfectly honest, there were times I may have had a tear or two in my eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As researchers, we search and find facts a lot of the time, and we may have a photo or two, or perhaps a newspaper article, but when we listen to someone’s story as they tell it, it seems to come alive and it’s like we’re there as it’s unfolding.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As Great-Uncle Donald spoke, I could smell the farm animals.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I laughed at their stubborn goat on top of the car.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I could hear the cows moo as Great-Uncle Donald herded them to a different pasture.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I could hear Great-Uncle Donald and his brother goofing off in that swimming hole by that pasture.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I wiped the sweat from my brow as Great-Uncle Donald and his brother Wayne picked corn.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dust got in my eyes making my eyes water as I listened to Grandpa Williams and Uncle Sim argue as they walked down that long dusty road.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was right there on that morning when Great-Uncle Donald learned his father, Harve, had been accidentally killed. I could feel his sorrow and grief.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was there on the ship with him sometime before 6 Jun 1944 when he and his unit knew something big was going to happen that would change the world. They just didn’t know when or where. I could feel both their fear and courage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I was there when his older brother Lester was buried at Arlington Cemetery after dying from a brain tumor during World War II. And I was there when he learned his brother Wayne’s plane had gone down somewhere over the Brazilian Jungle during that same war. I felt Great-Uncle Donald’s anguish and sorrow.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With his spoken word, Great-Uncle Donald had transported me back to his family story. And this is why it’s so important that we, as researchers, keep in mind that behind those documents, that behind those facts, and that between those census lines are where our ancestors lived and where their stories are lying in wait for us to find them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And when we’re lucky enough to find and hear those stories, well, they make us awesomely complete.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://uploads.wisestamp.com/1e53bf9c36ce73cb65a4cd0c8ca1c3dd/1324395218.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://uploads.wisestamp.com/1e53bf9c36ce73cb65a4cd0c8ca1c3dd/1324395218.png" width="200" /></a></div><i><br />
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<i> </i><i>Caroline Pointer is a lot of fun! One of my new favorite games that she created is The 48-Hour Ephemera Challenge. (<a href="http://48hourephemerachallenge.lefora.com/2012/01/13/welcome/"><b>here</b></a>). There are 116 members to date. Be the next one to join!</i><br />
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<i>"A new ephemera piece is posted every Friday night and you have 48 hours to work with others in a forum atmosphere to figure out the story behind the piece using clues from the piece and online resources."</i><br />
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<i>Caroline can be reached at <a href="mailto:CMPointer@gmail.com">CMPointer@gmail.com</a>, but she can almost always be found on Twitter as <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/FamilyStories">@FamilyStories</a> , </i><i><a href="http://shadesthemagazine-archive.blogspot.com/">Shades' E-Magazine In2Genealogy Column</a>, and <a href="http://www.examiner.com/genealogy-in-houston/caroline-pointer">Houston Genealogy Examiner</a></i><br />
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Other posts to check out from Caroline's blog:<br />
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<a href="http://yourfamilystory-cmpointer.blogspot.com/2010/11/they-had-balls.html">They Had Balls</a><br />
<a href="http://yourfamilystory-cmpointer.blogspot.com/2011/04/was-it-really-worth-it.html">Was It Really Worth It?</a><br />
<a href="http://yourfamilystory-cmpointer.blogspot.com/2011/02/smiling-big-laughing-hard.html">Smiling Big & Laughing Hard</a><br />
<a href="http://www.4yourfamilystory.com/1/post/2012/01/nbcs-who-do-you-think-you-are-preview-of-season-3.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ForYourFamilyStory-Home%2FBlog+%28For+Your+Family+Story+-+Home+%2F+Blog%29">NBC'S Who Do You Think You Are? Preview of Season 3</a><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-62530036043169620832012-01-24T13:08:00.001-05:002012-01-26T08:02:26.675-05:00Dream's End<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ea/Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/300px-Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ea/Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/300px-Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">View from Vincent's sanitarium window, Arles</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Starry Night, Vincent van Gogh, 1889</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>"Dreams are like stars...you may never touch them, </i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny."</i></span></span></div><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am one of five children. When I got married I didn't have extreme desires for children. I actually couldn't stand babysitting when I was growing up, and I didn't ever crave holding babies. They actually scared me!</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So of course I ended up having nine children. What's more interesting is I can never adequately answer the question, "Why did you have so many?'</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">No one asks, "Why only one, two three or four?" But pass that magical number and you've traversed the Continental Divide between the normal and the not-so-normal.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Still, I have always relied heavily on my mother's experience with firsts such as projectile vomiting that scared the pants of me (not really) when my two-week-old daughter gave a smashing portrayal of the possessed girl in the movie 1973 movie, "The Exorcist" (never watched it...but heard all about it!), or full-blown temper tantrums that occur when you have a cart load of frozen food at the checkout of the super market. Her wisdom has pulled through every time!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Elizabeth Ann Wheeler had her first daughter, Elizabeth Ann when she was eighteen, two and an half years after her first child William was born in 1841. All together Elizabeth Johnson had nine children and was not as lucky as I have been. None of mine have died. But her daughter, her namesake had to have been taking it all in, processing, learning, and making decisions for her future based on her experiences while she was young.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My children have reported to me over the years that they aren't too sure about having children. Either that or they say, "When I have my OWN children they'll NEVER do That!" Yeah, I said that, too.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I love the, "When I have kids I'm going to:</span></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">let them stay up as late as they want</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">eat as much junk food as they want</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">NEVER make them go to school</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">NEVER give them chores</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">let them wear any style of clothes </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">let them do whatever they want with their hair...."</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">ETC.</span></li>
</ul></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What no child ever thinks about is the inability to have children or the sacrifices they will be required to make just bringing them into the world.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>I guess if they knew they'd never dream.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I wonder if Elizabeth Ann the daughter dreamed of having a family? She may have been just like I was, married to be married. If children came they came. If not, so be it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She got married when she was 25, the same age I was when I tied the knot. Her husband, Theadore Lyman Palmer was just a few years older than she was and was providing for them both as a teamster in 1870, a year after they were married.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The next time I see them is 10 years later. No children had been born, but one was obviously on the way.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I know because I found Elizabeth, age 36, on a US Federal Census Mortality Schedule.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Cause of death? "Peurperal Convulsions" , aka Eclampsia, brought on by carrying and / or birthing a child. From what I've read there are warning signs of impending danger: headaches, swelling of the feet and ankles, and cloudy urine. These days doctors are so careful and can drive any woman crazy with all of the tests every month and eventually every week as childbirth nears. It can really get annoying. Now I understand better and I'm humbled. But these mild symptoms may not have worried Elizabeth or Theadore. Elizabeth had her mom, who'd had nine children. Perhaps there was no concern just excitement as her delivery date neared?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The end of that particular dream, if there had been one, ended tragically in January in 1880. Theadore is listed as "Widower" later that year in the US 1880 census. He's forty and still living in the same place six months after his wife passed away. Life went on for him, but I can't tell how. For now he has also been relegated to the RTE (Roaming the Earth) pile because I don't know where he went after 1880.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I had one more unexpected thought as I finished my research on Elizabeth's death. The physicians are listed by name on the Mortality Schedules. My heart broke for them. I never forget that there are always secondary people who suffer in a tragedy. These are the ones who have either caused an accident, directly or indirectly, or have been affected but forgotten while the primary players are comforted and mourned with.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"><i>What of the physicians? </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">There were about 33 deaths in Melrose, Massachusetts as of May 31st ( can't tell exact amount because of cross-outs) with 7 (the handwriting is atrocious!) different attending physicians. That's an average of at least 4 deaths per doctor in six months. Sure, they could walk away and go home and keep living.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I just wonder the cost.</span></div></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-48998874600409355772012-01-21T08:20:00.001-05:002012-01-26T08:01:40.271-05:00Lucky In Love? Ask His Wives<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1279/1419420694_5e89a62bff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1279/1419420694_5e89a62bff.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"You can't always control who walks into your life, but you can control which window you throw them out of."</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~ anonymous and / or your spouse? ~</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
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</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">What a day I had yesterday! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I went from sluggish and semi-depressed to Energizer Bunny all in a matter of minutes. Why? Because I found William Henry Harrison Johnson (1st son of Uphard and Elizabeth:<a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2012/01/sweet-fifteen.html"> here</a> and <a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2012/01/im-bored.html">here</a> ). I'd all but given up. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Do you want to know how many William H. Johnsons there are? I can't tell you because I don't care about any of them but mine. But for a while I had mine unmarried, serving in the Civil war, and dying in Pennsylvania.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Want to know how I found him? Through his mother's maiden name on <a href="http://familysearch.org./">familysearch.org.</a> I often use that site to cross-reference my other searches or to look for missing documents that I can't find on <a href="http://ancestry.com./">Ancestry.com.</a> But I never thought to look for Elizabeth Wheeler because she was married and a Johnson when she had William.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">What I remembered?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Researchers and family history enthusiasts treat people as individuals, and if they know the maiden name they always put that in the record instead of the new married name.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But on to William's story. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We already established that his mom was 16 when she had him, and that he was named after our 9th president who died a month after William was born. His 4-yr.-old brother died when he was 10, but he got a new Edward the following year, so I guess it all worked out.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I can't imagine what would be going through his head when at sixteen his parents seemingly go off the deep end and start naming their children George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Wasn't he the firstborn? The one who was supposed to get the special name?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">He got married to Ellen when he was 21, and that marriage lasted for 29 years and blessed them with six children. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then she disappeared. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">No big deal. Sometimes it takes me forever to find a death record. And when I don't find one they go in the "Roaming the Earth" pile and cause me to pay attention to every stranger that opens a door for me or gives me a random smile.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then I started reviewing the available documents (for free I might add) on <a href="http://familysearch.org/">familysearch.org</a> and I saw a pattern. Could be an innocent one or a disturbing one depending on who you are and if you are a single woman living near William and running in his circles. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">See, William remarried three times after Ellen disappeared. And none of the other wives / marriages (who knows?) lasted long. The first made it for five years, the second for three, and the last for two and she was only 34 when she got married! William was 57 and that was the youngest he ever went. The others were his age or one year younger.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me? What did I think about that? I was in a mood and I'll give you my two scenarios. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">First, he was a pusher. And his wives just happened to be near an open window when he was feeling the urge. You see I understand that one. I'm trying to watch myself, but I do tend to push and punch arms when feeling a need to add an exclamation point to get my point across.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Second, he was a carrier of a deadly communicable disease that he contracted a year or two before Ellen died. Maybe Typhoid, or Small Pox? The years match.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Today my mood has shifted. I'm a bit more humble. I really like William. I don't know why his wives died. But I can see that he was a catch and he liked being married. He just kept doing it!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The surprise for me, the thing that woke me up, was that his mother helped me to find his story and his wives. Each of those women was blessed to have had him in their life even if it was only for a short time. I could tell. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">It was as if the records were whispering to me. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">They were teaching me that , yes, everyone is an individual. Our lives will be made up of individual choices that intersect others' lives. The names we are born with are significant. They are a starting place. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But they are also enriched and changed by the relationships we choose to have. They add dimension to who we are. Don't they?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The last record I have of William is the 1900 census where he is finally listed as "Widowed" and "Father-in-Law" to the head of household with his youngest daughter and her family. I literally took a breath and sighed when I saw that. He was only 59 and he was done. Seven years later he passed away, finally to see his wives again. What a reunion! </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I found it interesting that the women in William's life made him who he became to me. He was lost, and then he was found.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">(I just really hope he didn't throw them out a window.)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-25866493612868206082012-01-18T17:17:00.001-05:002012-01-26T08:01:04.450-05:00I'm Bored!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://content.answcdn.com/main/content/img/webpics/William_Henry_Harrison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://content.answcdn.com/main/content/img/webpics/William_Henry_Harrison.jpg" width="524" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">William Henry Harrison, Ninth U.S. President, 1841</span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"See Mine Eyes?!"</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"But you're a moooommmm!! You HAVE to tell me what to do!" </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">That mantra was whining out of every mouth of every body writhing painfully on the floor and couch hoping that I would come up with something to put it out of its misery. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Playdoh? Coloring? Can I read you a story? Watch a movie? Do some homework? Sleep? Eat? Take a bath? Play with shaving cream? Clean the house? Your room? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">NO! NO! NO! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, then you're on your own." You'd think I'd sentenced them to 10 years of hard labor.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">About 16 years ago, when we had only four children I ordered trophies for each family member and had them engraved with a unique personal trait or attribute, one for everyone.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy! Know what I chose for mine?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Cruise Director"!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, this week I quit the job. And they're all going through withdrawal. Betsy awesomeness withdrawal. It's NOT pretty!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I have plenty to do. I want to write. Right? I love to write. Don't I? I'd even decided to continue on with Uphard and Elizabeth Johnson's children. The couple was featured in the last post, <a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2012/01/sweet-fifteen.html"><b>"Sweet Fifteen"</b></a>. I had nine new research projects and plenty of time and nowhere to go! What fun!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I got nothing. For days and days on end.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I complained to a friend about my dilemma I was shocked to hear, "You're just not feeling them yet." Yeah. I was. And they were boring me. How do you write a story that you can't connect to? That doesn't excite you at any level?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I left for the bus stop for the second time today with no story yet. And that was draining me. Kindergartners won't be dropped off until the smiling face of a parent is seen. That had already happened once this year (poor Kenny!), so I hustled myself down the sidewalk, bracing myself against the bitter wind, thankful to have something to do. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I promptly got lost in daydreams of the Johnson family.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Who names their child Benjamin Franklin? George Washington? Or William Henry Harrison? Uphard and Elizabeth Johnson. That's who. But why?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">That was my question as I walked. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Elizabeth nearly knocked me over with her "Duhh!" "Betsy!" she scolded, "You of all people should understand!" Elizbeth is very cute and full of energy. Too young to be cooped up inside with nine babies if you ask me!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The thoughts started flooding in. "Uphard is out with the horse and buggy. Again." "It's wintertime and I can't get anything done even though I have nowhere to go!" "I'm supposed to keep them all busy so they don't kill each other. But I've run out of ideas." And finally, "This is great! Getting outside was just what I needed!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I did understand. Finally. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why the names? Why not? It was entertainment. Something to talk about. To be moved by. William Henry Harrison, America's ninth elected president and the Johnson's first baby's name, was sworn in and dead a month after Elizabeth's first child was born. Imagine. New baby named after a new president. Then the guy dies and the nation grieves every time you tell someone your baby's name. Not funny. I know.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">This little family was beginning to amuse me. Benjamin Franklin showed up twice. First as Uphard's brother and then his son. Either they were very patriotic or they were forward thinkers. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Honey. Just think. On those long, cold winter days you can tell them ALL about good old Ben and George! You can warn them to wear a hat and coat in the middle of winter, or else...well they might end up like, you know, William! Dead and gone!" "Sweetie! Imagine! You'll never run out of things to talk about with them!" "The kite story! You can teach them about lightning and electricity!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stood shivering at the bus stop waiting and listening, trying to conceal my smile. I was cornered. Young, sweet Elizabeth. So direct.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">"As if THAT was going to help!" "Names!" "Hmph!" "A horse! I want a horse. No buggy. Just room for me. A one-seater if you know what I mean!" I did.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">She swished her skirt and we both looked down the sidewalk towards the school an half a mile away. That look. I've seen that look. "See mine eyes?" she winked. A little mischievous. But never serious. Freedom was at the blinking lights beyond the school.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">For a moment we were both out of there. On a cruise. Laughing.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-80841199314171995722012-01-11T14:45:00.001-05:002012-01-11T14:52:05.934-05:00Sweet Fifteen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Be careful what you wish for...</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>...it might come true."</i></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My children often ask how wishes come true. I tell them that if they'll say them out loud they have a better chance of getting what they wish for. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">But there's also something else I've been contemplating for a while that I should probably tag on to my advice to proclaim their heart's desire to the world. And that is that wishes, once they hit the vast expanse of the human mind, even before they see the light of day, take on a life of their own.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Elizabeth Ann Wheeler turned fifteen on March 19, 1840. She was living in Boston, Massachusetts with her mom and one of her seven older siblings. She was the baby of the family. Wonder what SHE wished for as she blew out her birthday candles? Maybe her hopes and dreams included a 25 year-old Uphard Crossman Johnson of Vermont?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">By Uphard's 26th birthday in July of that same year she would be pregnant, and by October 10th, three months later, they'd be newlyweds. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted."</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">~ Aesop ~</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">That's what I want to ask Elizabeth and Uphard. Any regrets? Would you do it all over again?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">William Henry Harrison Johnson was born 10 days before Elizabeth turned 16. What an adjustment she would make first to married life and then motherhood! Little Elizabeth was born 2 years later and was followed by James two years after her. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Six more children came to bless their family before Elizabeth turned 39. And of those nine only four would outlive both parents. Edward they buried twice. The first died when he was four. His namesake when he was thirty-eight, six years before Elizabeth passed away, eleven after his dad, Uphard. I can't imagine the heatbreak losing a four year-old! On Independence day no less!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">They'd been married thirty years in 1870. Uphard supported his family as a carpenter in East Cambridge, Mass. when the census-taker came strolling along in the middle of June. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked at the bottom of the census record where a space is left for "Total Insane"... as in, how many insane lived in the neighborhood, not were they totally insane! </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Can you imagine how your neighbors would answer that one for you? Do you know how many times I've had to chase a naked baby down the street in every season, or threaten a teenager with certain death if the snowbank they were jumping into from the second story of the house didn't kill them first? Not because I was worried. But what would the NEIGHBORS say?!!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The space was empty. No one was talking!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Did the census taker REALLY ask that question? </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And if so, who answered it? I can see Elizabeth staring at Uphard, hands on hips, waiting for his reply with lips clenched and eyes that said, "Watch what you say, Buddy!" And Uphard's eyes shifting between her and Mr. census-taker pleading, "Help me! Please?" as his mouth cheerfully oozed, "No crazies here!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">There should have been another box to check:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Would an extended stay on the premises make one insane?</i></b></li>
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<div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And a child would be required to answer. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because if anyone would ask Elizabeth or Uphard they'd get the thumbs up, everything's fine here. There had been enough sorrow from death and impending war service to shake even the surest foundation, never mind one that may have begun at the end of a shotgun as a sweet fifteen-year-old girl and her beau tied the knot.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Seems to me they did very well, all things considered. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And if there was ever a wish to be had it's that no matter what life gives you, you accept it graciously and enjoy the ride having done your duty setting it in motion.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">That phrase doesn't sit right with me. If you're going to make a wish, to dream, why not go for the gusto? Be careful? Makes no sense to me at all.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I like Elizabeth.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</i></span></div></div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-25398903551226224162012-01-06T14:34:00.002-05:002012-01-06T14:50:12.236-05:00Great Expectations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://pepperbasham.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/child_hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://pepperbasham.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/child_hand.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"For my ways are not your ways, neither are your thoughts my thoughts, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Isaiah 55:8-9</i></span><br />
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</i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes you just get lucky and you find what you didn't know you'd lost.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'd chosen a new family to work on, Charles and Anna Sophia Carlson and their four surviving children of eleven, G. Irene, Walter A., Meda G., and Carl Anders, my dad's paternal grandfather. I've written about <b><a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2011/09/how-many-bruises-sorry-children-do-you.html">Charles and Anna</a></b> a bit, and my great grandfather, <b><a href="http://betsycross.blogspot.com/2011/07/little-girl-lost-in-my-family-history.html">Carl Anders</a></b>. But I can't find G. Irene and Meda G. after a certain age. I've concluded that they never died, but are roaming the earth, doing good deeds and random acts of kindness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was going to give up and throw in the towel again with the family history story-telling because it was getting like this with all of the rest of my ancestors. They were living in an alternate universe and were not budging to give me any clues as to their whereabouts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy to report, the joke's on them. As soon as I made the heart-wrenching decision to end the quests, I remembered that I had barely touched my husband's ancestors! So, I'm leaving mine in the dust for a while. We'll see how anxious they get to be remembered! They'll be calling out of the darkness like a child who thinks he has been forgotten in a game of Hide-and-Seek. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For now, let me introduce you to one last ancestor from my side of the family, the ninth child to </span><span style="font-size: large;">Charles and A</span><span style="font-size: large;">nna Sophia Carlson, Walter A., and his lovely wife, Ethel Young. Their journey is a first for me with potential for a different sort of tragedy or lesson depending on how you look at it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As long as I've been researching my ancestors I've been moved by the thoughts and feelings associated with the loss of life, especially a child's. I've seen families with eleven children reduced to four due to famine and illness. I've watched others adopt and start new marriages with children blended in from both sides. I've been educated and humbled by my ancestors' difficult and unique circumstances.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I've never encountered a childless couple. A couple who never even chose adoption as an alternative. And that, my friends, leaves me with a question. What does it feel like to have expectations dashed?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Walter and Ethel married when she was 22 and he 26, in 1905. I'll bet they thought that the children would just start coming. And I imagine their parents, siblings, other relatives and friends did, too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's one thing to be disappointed when things don't work out according to plans. It must be awful to bear the burden of others' expectations of you and how they picture your life would and should be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is a trial I can't imagine. Children came easily to me. I never had a longing for them. How does that affect a person? A couple? How does the life you thought you'd have change to what it is?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the first couple that I found where both spouses worked outside the home. She was a stenographer in a law office, he a stationary engineer in one of Washington State's public schools. His job as a stationary engineer, from what I gathered, was basically to keep the heat and lights going in the school. So in a way he was taking care of a whole quiver of children!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I watched Ethel and Walter I became aware of a new kind of suffering, one of longing for what others so mindlessly take for granted. But, I can't speak for them and how they dealt with their circumstances. All I know is what their story showed me about my life...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">...how the bearing and raising of children changed me as does the breaking out of a cocoon strengthen an emerging butterfly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This couple caused me to reflect on the blessing of waking up every day to little beings who, while unknowingly drive me closer to the edge of insanity, have molded my heart to feel a love I could never have thought possible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They've tested and tried my patience. I believed I was a patient person before I had children. But 25 years with not one night that has blessed me with more than a three hour stretch of sleep, has taught me that until tried to extremes we never really know who we are. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their thoughtful questions have pushed me to find words to express what I believe as I've </span><span style="font-size: large;">searched for simple answers to give inquisitive minds whose bodies have carried them away onto the next adventure before I've had a chance to answer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their ability to forgive quickly and embrace me with little arms and hopeful hearts and eyes have renewed my commitment daily to grow up to become more like them. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The list grows hourly, daily.</i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But back to Walter and Ethel. They had no children keeping them up at night with illness or requests for bedtime stories and drinks that they needed to chase the monsters away from under their beds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their budget wouldn't be stretched to allow for cloths and shoes that were worn out and outgrown before there was money there to replace them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dinnertime would be quiet and civil. No food fights, battles over elbows on the table, or squabbles as siblings got annoyed with each other's table manners.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Small things that some people complain about.</i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Did they long for those experiences? When they listened to their friends and relatives' tales would their hearts ache? Or did they find a way to make a difference in other childrens' lives? Walter saw children every day at school. Ethel, probably not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There's more to think about, and a lot more to say. But that's between me and my Maker. It's time to take a moment to reflect on the blessings and the challenges of having a quiver full of children, and what some people would do to change places with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've been catching myself wondering about the different paths I could have chosen. I could have danced, pursued my artwork, traveled, stayed single. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But I chose differently. I don't remember having any expectations of how it would all turn out. Like Walter and Ethel, I went on auto pilot and lived what was right in front of me as I experienced the challenges, frustrations an indescribable joy of a miraculous life that is still unfolding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's human to have expectations. We can try not to but we all have some. The joy in life for me, the stuff stories are made of, is seeing who I am and what I do when the journey takes on a life of its own.</span><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-83785608134899772542011-12-31T05:58:00.006-05:002011-12-31T09:31:50.194-05:00The Sunshine Award<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://websitesgiveback.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/sunshine-award_thumb.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://websitesgiveback.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/sunshine-award_thumb.png" /></a></div><br />
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</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"A day without sunshine is like, you know, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">night."</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">~Steve Martin~</span></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks to Elena Patrice of </span><b style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://websitesgiveback.com/blog/">Websitesgiveback</a> </b><span style="font-size: large;">for including me in her list of the 2011 Sunshine Award recipients. I love a good laugh! Elena exudes a happiness that always lifts me up. I admire her vision to support and promote businesses and help all of her readers with her insightful business tips. She's just a lot of fun!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I read a lot of blogs and many of them have already received this award. The ones I've chosen to highlight are ones that may not be well known or get many visitors. But they make me smile. Enjoy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To accept this award you have to jump through a few happy hoops:</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">1. Thank the person who gave you the award. (You can skip this one with me!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2. Answer 10 questions. ( I think the giver should make up new ones. It could get interesting!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3. Pass the award on to 10-12 Sunshine-worthy bloggers ( It's hard to keep the list to 10/12!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Here's the incredibly inspiring list of 10 questions:</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> 1. Favorite color: Today it's green, even though I'm partial to black and white.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 2. Favorite animal: Camels because they spit randomly, and giraffes..they're just cool.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 3. Favorite number: I cheated: the #8 turned on it's side for "infinity".</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: large;"> 4. Favorite drink: hot cocoa from real cocoa, homemade.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 5. Facebook or Twitter: depends where I can find you today.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 6. My passion: Each of my multiple personalities chose one: ballet, drawing, writing, reading, family history, eating, laughing, gardening, and the ocean.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 7. Giving or receiving: Again I cheat: both if it includes hugs and kisses!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 8. Favorite day: Today...I managed to wake up alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 9. Favorite flower: Carnation...or any flower that makes my head spin when I smell it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">10. Favorite food: Just about anything edible that doesn't have sour cream dolloped on top.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Sunshine Worthy</b> (in no particular order)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> 1. Billy Coffey ( <b><a href="http://www.billycoffey.com/">blog</a></b> )- An inspirational writer I found when I first joined Twitter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 2. Julie Gouche (<a href="http://www.anglersrest.blogspot.com/"> <b>blog</b> </a>)- Love her family history-related posts. Julie's just cute!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 3. Stan Faryna ( <b><a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/2011/08/01/what-is-love-and-other-social-media-dohs-faryna-podcast-e7-admiration/">Podcasts</a>, <a href="http://stanfaryna.wordpress.com/">blog</a></b> ).Mind-blowing and epic! Leader, businessman, gamer and gifted writer. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 4. Nisha Varguese ( <a href="http://nisha360.com/"><b>blog</b></a> )- A woman who sees a need in the world and fills it. Love her!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 5. Aaron Biebert (<a href="http://8pmwarrior.com/"><b> blog</b></a> )- An all-around good guy and great leader in business.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 6. Johnathan Bell (<b> <a href="http://www.startyournovel.com/">blog</a></b> )- His mind was imported from another planet! I always laugh when reading him!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 7. Christian Hollingsworth (<a href="http://smartboydesigns.com/"> <b>blog </b></a>)- A truly dedicated young man who's going places with business and music. Watch for his album!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 8. Peter Kevin Connell ( <a href="http://todayinheritagehistory.blogspot.com/"><b>blog</b></a> )- Peter's Heritage History blog is just funny!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> 9. Shelley Lundquist ( <a href="http://letmemoveyou.me/what-others-are-saying"><b>blog</b></a> )- Shelley has a calm, grounded spirit!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">10. Yomar Lopez (<a href="http://marketinganswerman.com/"> <b>NJAB</b></a><b>,<a href="http://yomar.me/"> blog</a></b> )- Yomar is fun! Love his energy!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">11. Palmoilfreesoap (<a href="http://www.palmoilfreesoap.com/"> <b>blog</b></a> )- New Zealand home-based business. They have goats! I have no idea how I found them on Twitter. But they are doing good things with their passion!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">12. Jane Furey (<b> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_159684742">Ezine</a></b><a href="http://www.astringofpearls.org/"> </a>)- My favorite friend from Australia whose blog for and about women (and now men contribute, too) is the classiest. I love her sense of humor!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">13. Alice Pyne ( <a href="http://alicepyne.blogspot.com/">blog</a> ) She has a bucket List and wants to trend on Twitter. A real sweetheart!</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">There you have it! Now go have a good day. </span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</div>Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3393382965737174819.post-73202202973251480182011-12-29T06:58:00.003-05:002018-04-02T15:32:13.592-04:00Behind the Smile<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Always wear a smile. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The gift of life will then be yours to give."</i></span></div>
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<i>~Rabbi Nachman~</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There's a lot going on in Mona Lisa's head. Don't you think? The same can be said of all women. (Not sure about men. I'm not one!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After pondering the life of Hannah and Thomas Earles' eleventh and last child, Margaret, it hit me why I was having such a hard time getting into her head and figuring her out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She and I, if we were to sit and to talk, and we have, could relate so well. When I looked at the details available to me of her life she seems like a very ordinary woman who lived a very normal life. </span><span style="font-size: large;">But then I noticed two contradictory entries on the 1900 and 1910 census for her and her family with Michael Hussey, and I started to see, better yet to feel her soul; what's going on behind her eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I won't bore you with the details of dates and names of children and where they were born and under what circumstances. But here's a brief overview:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">Margaret and Michael were married and had their first child in 1882. Yes, the same year for both, nine months apart. Was it a shotgun wedding? Probably, say my instincts.</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">By 1900 they had </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">eight</b><span style="font-size: large;"> children, only </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">six</b><span style="font-size: large;"> of whom were still living. Besides Edward there was another death of another child, a little girl who lived a few days after birth.</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">The 1910 census says they have <b>eight </b>children with <b>seven </b>living. </span></li>
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<span style="font-size: x-large; font-style: italic;">WHAT?!!!</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Either someone wrote down the wrong figure or a child was resurrected from the dead!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This discrepancy bothered me for over a week. Yes, I understand the possibility for human error. But the hand-writing is so clear on both records. My conclusion? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Margaret was doing a Betsy! </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The more I contemplated her life and saw what she had to deal with the more sense her frame of mind made to me. She was answering questions while her mind was on other things, more important things. Catch her in a mistake and you'd get that look that says, "Wait a minute. What?" And she'd laugh at the private joke that if said aloud would prove to the world that she shouldn't be put in charge of things unless the outcome wasn't too important. But she'd take on more and more assignments, juggling all the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our little talks, Margaret's and mine, have become pretty funny. They are just like all of my conversations with my women friends. We're not crazy, we women who mix up our children's names or stare blankly at you when you ask if we "remember when" when you recount a favorite memory of one of them, and for all the tea in China we don't know what you're talking about. We're just dealing with the incessant tornado in our heads that's whipping up and swirling around information that gets harder and harder to grasp as the winds of life deposit more and more of what others deem important and necessary for us to remember and to act on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Margaret. I see her saying, "Bring it on. What more could happen?" as her husband dies a month after the Stock Market Crash of 1929. "Everyone has to die. Now's as good a time as ever!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She really makes me laugh with her and for all of the women of the world who seem so normal..until you sit down and they open up about how utterly ridiculous (and good) their lives are. They may be fulfilled or not, but one thing seems consistent with all of them. Those with a sense of humor, even though life throws them punch after punch, they eventually get to that place where, if you get them together with other women, they'll admit they're a bit nuts!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had one final chuckle as I looked at the 1930 census, the only census that asked:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Do you own a radio?"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thank goodness Margaret did! I picture her sitting in front of it listening to updates on the War and the Depression. At least she wasn't in it alone anymore! Her world was expanded. There were people out there! There was a world outside of her little family. I liked that she was still "head of household" and that two of her children lived with her. They worked at the lumberyard. She didn't. I'll bet she wanted to, just to keep busy. But that would require bookkeeping or filling orders, both of which demand more than people skills. Funny how math and organizational skills fly out the window when there's someone interesting to talk to standing in front of you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I imagine Ruth and Thomas coming home, seeing her in front of the radio, rocking her 65-year-old body as she listened. They'd ask her what's new and she'd update them on the latest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But ask her where she put her glasses or if she'd checked the mail, and be persistent enough and WWIII would start in her head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>But she'd just smile her smile and ask, </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Whad'ya say?"</i></span></div>
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Betsy Crosshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14485990713613274522noreply@blogger.com4