Family History

One of the things I wanted to do while I was home for the holiday was to take pictures of family stones at the local cemeteries. (I know, not particularly festive, but I don't get home that often and photos of tombstones are admissible for DAR evidence.) I found some family members but not others. Heck, I can't even figure out where some of my people are buried; so I thought I was doing good to get what I did. I was really looking for one of my great, great grandmothers on my father's side. She had been widowed and remarried, so the name was different. After a little search my sister found her in Byhalia Cemetary. It helps that she knew the place.

It is so odd, here is this tombstone of a women I never knew who died younger than I am now. What happened? What was her life like? She was married at 18 and widowed at 27. She remarried, had another baby at 41 then died when the baby was just 1 year old. Her son, my great grandfather and his wife, moved in with his stepfather to help care for the baby. Two of his children were within a year of his half-sister. It is amazing to see family dynamics at work in census records.

RIP Mattie Holmes Romick Schertzer

Rehab for the holidays

My cousin called last night to tell me that my 84-year old aunt fell at the doctor’s office (of all places) while taking off her shoes to be weighed. (It is those little vanities that may kill us.) She broke her hip, badly and not only will she require surgery but a plate and screws. She is now in the hospital waiting to be squeezed into the operating room schedule. Her 82 year-old sister went into the hospital for carpal tunnel surgery before Thanksgiving to come out with a triple bypass (She had been having tightness in her chest but did not tell anyone.) They will both be in rehab for the holidays but with any luck in the same facility. We will no doubt be driving back and forth while I am home for Christmas.

I suppose I will send flowers, but when, where and how is the question. And you know I will have to send to both of them or there will be hell to pay. I wonder if the fruit basket is better? Or maybe cookies or oh, I don’t know. Oy family dynamics. Any suggestions?

Want to be my neighbor?

“Timmmm Berrrrrrr!”

I always wanted to say that.

But it is generally more of a “Look Ouuuuuut!”

My family drove from the flat land to pick up some things from here than need to go there. (Remember the lawn mower?) While they were here, they helped me take down some trees-dead, skinny, too-close to the house, kinds of trees. I say they helped me, when all I did was point out the trees to go, try to stay out of the way, carry the logs to the woodpile and move branches. Dave even split the wood. We ended up taking down 10 trees and you cannot tell.

They left today for the 10-hour drive back to the flatland. As I tidied the house, I fell to thinking about what a tremendous help it was having them here. How I do not have very many people close by that I can rely on in a pinch. I do not know anyone that would come and spend the whole day taking down trees. It is hard dirty work. Having help is better than any kind of material gift. I am so thankful.

Being part of a community whether family, friends, congregation, or club is something that I think we are missing these days. I, for one, live far from friends and family. But many people speak of the lack of community, even the yearning for it. We are all working, commuting, stretched too thin. How did we lose our sense of community? How do we get it back?

I have tried to develop a community with the neighbors on the street. It is working on a small scale. It is not just about throwing dinner parties once in a while or borrowing an egg; but about helping each other out. It is about comfort, trust, and caring. But it also about asking for the help. This is something I am not good at. I am trying to get better.

Ducks in Trees

As I walked down the footpath at the Swamp I could hear other people talking. The voices grew louder as I crossed over the bridge. Standing in the path was a woman and a small boy. He looked to be about 6. He was telling his mother in a very excited voice that he had seen a duck in a tree. The mother was patiently trying to explain that ducks are in the water not in the trees. The little boy was adamant. He kept repeating in a loud voice that he “really, truly” saw a duck in a tree.

As I drew near them, the mother looked at me and shook her head. She smiled a tiny smile.

“Kids.” She said.

I leaned down to the boy. “Where did you see the duck?”

He pointed back down the path. I scanned the trees with my binoculars and sure enough he was right. Back in the trees, fairly high up, was a male Wood Duck.

I turned to the woman and said, “He’s right. There are ducks in trees. That one is a Wood Duck.”

“Here use these.” I let her and the boy use my binoculars.

She looked at me incredulously and followed my pointing finger. “I have never seen a duck in a tree before,” she said. She turned to her son and apologized for doubting him.

The little boy smiled a gigantic smile as they moved passed me on the path.

As they rounded the bend, I heard him say, “I told you there were ducks in the trees.”