Memorial Day 2017

My Dad served as a Captain in the US Army. He was never under enemy fire, something for which his family is very grateful.

I heard these words today. They resonate today, like they did on Veteran's Day, 1985.

"{W}hen a serviceman dies, it's a tear in the fabric, a break in the whole, and all we can do is remember.

It is, in a way, an odd thing to honor those who died in defense of our country, in defense of us, in wars far away. The imagination plays a trick. We see these soldiers in our mind as old and wise. We see them as something like the Founding Fathers, grave and gray haired. But most of them were boys when they died, and they gave up two lives -- the one they were living and the one they would have lived. When they died, they gave up their chance to be husbands and fathers and grandfathers. They gave up their chance to be revered old men. They gave up everything for our country, for us. And all we can do is remember.

And the living have a responsibility to remember the conditions that led to the wars in which our heroes died. Perhaps we can start by remembering this: that all of those who died for us and our country were, in one way or another, victims of a peace process that failed...

We're surrounded today by the dead of our wars. We owe them a debt we can never repay. All we can do is remember them and what they did and why they had to be brave for us...

In memory of those who gave the last full measure of devotion, may our efforts to achieve lasting peace gain strength...

God bless America." - Remembering those who paid for our freedom.

Unfinished Business

Zoey with her special human - April 4, 2010.

My Dad with Zoey on the beach, Autumn 2014.

Just before my father passed away, he asked me to do a few things for him. One of the things he felt most strongly about was taking Zoey, his German Shepard to the beach once the summer season was over, and letting her run in the surf. Zoey really, really enjoys doing this!

So on two warm Saturdays, I've taken her down to the white sandy beach of New Jersey and let her romp. She was so pleased!

Arf! Arf! She wants to bite the curl on the incoming waves. The piling with the flag is the sole remnant of a boardwalk that washed way in the 1940s.

Any dog whisperer will tell you she is smiling cheek to cheek!

"Come on Mom! Get wet with me! Surf's up!"

Saying Goodbye to Dad

On August 9th, around 2:30 AM, my father passed away in his sleep, comfortably and peacefully. The link is to my Dad's Obituary. I still find it very difficult to write or talk about this. I have so many memories of him that they swirl around in my head like a kaleidoscope. Everything I have, I owe to my father.

Here he is in Florida, holding up a nice size Snook. It took us a dozen fishing trips to catch one of these elusive fish. His smile says it all.

I've have been overwhelmed by the caring support of my friends and neighbors. I cannot begin to say how much I appreciate all of you. I received beautiful cards from Chicago Lady, my older brother's in-laws, my mom's niece that lives in Maine, Far Side, Soul Comfort, my dad's first cousin's wife, A Bench With a View, Alice Kay, and Lady Styx and her husband. So many texts and emails I can only hope to answer them all eventually; visits from neighbors, some bearing plates with food, and some marvelous flowers - including one from a client that sits on my office desk beside my keyboard.

On his last day with us, I wheeled my dad out to the porch where we watched the birds at the feeders. We had dozens of visits from Hummingbirds. At the other feeder were Cardinals, Woodpeckers, Goldfinches, Purple Finches, Tuffed Titmouse's, Sparrows, Blue Jays, Catbirds, Mockingbirds, Orioles, and even a Squirrel that the feeder spun off to the ground three times before he or she gave up. It was a calming time for both of us.

I still can't believe he is gone.

Thanksgiving Weekend

This Thanksgiving, I went down to the seashore with my parents. I always enjoy the "winter beach" and the lack of crowds during the off-season. We left just before a Nor'easter storm left 4 or 5 inches of snow in my neighborhood and I only saw only some cold wet rain as the snow was gone by the time I returned home.

I did some overdue maintenance work on a garden shed, Superstorm Sandy had blown off some roof shingles and I set about cleaning out the shed and mending the roof. After getting the shed in order, I went down to the beach to listen to the surf. I took a half dozen photos, and I like how the seagull in the foreground might look like he made some footprints.

About a month ago, I was rooting through some old boxes with stuff my Grandfather left behind, and in with the "debris" of a long life (i.e., "trash") I found a family heirloom.

A silver plated carving set. I was immediately transported back 40-45 years in time to a Thanksgiving Dinner at my grandparents, parents, brothers, and my Uncle Jim, Aunt Mary, and their son Paddy. My grandmother had spent the day setting the big table in her dinning room, and now we all sat down to give thanks and to eat a feast fit for kings. My Uncle Jim, in his booming voice filled with laughter, saying, "Well, Harry! Bring on the bird!!"

My grandfather would then bring the huge (usually a 25 pound plus) turkey from the kitchen through the swinging door to the end of the long table. He would then make a few swipes of the carving knife on the sharpener (it really didn't need it, as my grandfather had fully sharpened it an hour or two beforehand) and set about carving white meat for those that wanted white meat and dark meat for those that wanted dark meat, and always gave me and my younger brother a drumstick apiece too.

This Thanksgiving, my parents and I ate a much smaller turkey carved with the carving set my great-grandfather first used in the 1920's. You might notice someone got a drumstick.

We talked about the many delicious meals we shared with my Uncle Jim, Aunt Mary and Paddy, and how much we always enjoyed being with them. It was hard to believe it has been over 30 years now since we last ate with him.

And as fate would have it, hungry for something warm after a cold day spent outside, we ran short of mashed potatoes, which reminded us of the time my grandmother spent hours peeling and boiling potatoes and mashed them by hand only to find the heaping bowl full only went 2/3ds of the way around the table! She was visibly mortified - and no amount of telling her, "there was more than ample food to make up for it," would make her less embarrassed. Through the hub-bub, my cousin Paddy* pipes up, "Boy these mashed potatoes sure are good!" It turns out that he had innocently taken half the bowl, so Aunt Mary rescued some of them and we all had some mashed potatoes after all!

*Cousin Paddy, James J. Dunn the III had Down's Syndrome and was a big, gruff, but wonderfully big-hearted soul. He spent many hours setting up his huge HO train set and tracks so that his cousins (my brothers and I) would be able to play with them when we came to visit him.

Heartache - Friends that Hurt (Part 2)

I can not write words that express what a dear friend, one that I have admired and respected since the day I first found her blog. She suffers from pain that cripples her and makes her largely a "shut-in" but you would hardly ever know it - she is cheerful, optimistic, honest, courageous, talented beyond words both with her hands and with story-telling. In short she is just a plain and simple "good" human being that looks and lives outside of herself and sincerely wishes the best for everyone she encounters.

She is very reluctant to ask others for anything - let alone something as simple as a kind thought and a gentle word. I deeply admire her.

I read her recent blog entry with dismay. I am sure it pained her to ask her friends for some kind thoughts and prayer. She valiantly strives to be independent and a burden to no one. And she is so. Despite it all.

I hope the power of prayer - can bring some sunshine into her world.

Attitudes

Recently, my mother found a couple rolled up pieces of paper in a box of things that my grandfather had in his attic. She gave them to me - and we discovered that they were my grandmother's high school and college diplomas. In all my years, I had never seen either. I knew my grandmother graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in the bitter year of 1930. One of her uncles paid most of her way.

So why were these diplomas never framed and displayed?

My mom told me that she never hung them up because they "bothered" my grandfather. I scratched my head and looked at my mom questioningly. Grandfather never finished high school and took great pride in his being a "self-made man." He didn't think a woman needed an education to do her duties in the proper place, that is at home. So the college diploma was an embarrassment to him and my grandmother never made an issue out of it.

How attitudes change in time always fascinates me - today, my brothers and I are proud of my grandmother's accomplishment - she not only graduated during the depression, but attended a "good school" and graduated in a time when many didn't go to college. My grandmother set out to be an English teacher - she never taught in a public school, but she did teach Sunday School for many years - and...

When I was a young boy, my grandparents took me to Japan. I remember my grandmother being mobbed on a the Bullet Train ride from Tokyo to Osaka (about a 3 and 1/2 hour ride) by 20 or more Japanese boys and girls when they learned she was an English teacher - they all wanted lessons right there and then. And so she held a class. When the train arrived at our destination, all the eager students "peeled away" from the confines of the two bench seats (they really could pack themselves in!) beaming with smiles and laughing in joy.

My grandmother had the biggest smile of them all.

Weekend at the Beach

This past weekend, I "finally" got down to the New Jersey shore - A trip had been planned for the Thanksgiving Day weekend, but due to my Dad's illness, it was postponed - and delayed - and postponed again.

It was cold and windy down there - but the sunshine and the sight of the "winter beach" was a restorative for me. I didn't have to do anything on my folk's house - so I was free to roam, think, and read.

I started reading a huge (700 page plus) book on the ins and outs of the "forgotten war," that is, Korea.

To clear my head of all the things filling it of late - I strolled down to the beach and watched some little kids fly a kite and throw balls to dogs that were delighted to run free in the clean white sand.

In the town park, the "clam" has been painted with "Old Barnegat Lighthouse". "Super Storm Sandy" (I hate the ridiculous names "they" give to storms) was rough on the park - and the homes and businesses nearby. The park was home to a tree that memorialized a local boy - the tree was killed by the salty storm waters. I hope "they" plant another tree and soon.

Returning to the beach, I thought about that tree - and the boy it memorialized. Ensign Arthur Joseph Platt Jr. was my age. Born a few months before me, to the people that lived next door - down the shore. As such, I grew up with him during the summer months. He was a short, sturdy guy with laser like focus on his dream to fly.

He was the only son of A. J. and Marylou Platt. His two older sisters were beauty pageant winners - his younger sister was a charming little girl. His parents came from Philadelphia, and ran both a motel and a bike rental/Ice cream parlor. Mrs. Platt was one of the nicest, hardest working person I knew. She always a kind word, a happy greeting, and a smile for me each morning when she walked past our house from the ice cream store to the motel carrying clean sheets for the day's change-overs.

A.J., as the older Mr. Platt was known, worked long hours during the summer season, renting and repairing bikes along side with selling ice cream cones and sundaes. I owned several bikes that came from his store. A.J. was very proud of his son, the Naval Aviator. He beamed with delight if someone mentioned him or asked how he was doing.

Young "Artie," as he was called, joined the navy in 1978, the year he graduated from high school. He was soon flying jets in Pensacola, Florida (the home of the Blue Angels).

One day, in 1984, young Arthur Joseph Platt was involved in an accident while flying and killed. His death was so unexpected and sudden, it was as if a candle had been puffed out.

I think young Artie's death killed his father - it took several years - but the old man was never the same afterwards. He slid into a quiet kind of grieving despondency. He no longer cared about dishing up ice cream, or his appearance, and the bike place slowly dwindled - from a place with hundreds of bikes to a mere handful.

And so it was - I decided to pay my respects to the A.J.'s buried in the nearby "Holy Innocents' Garden of Memories". Artie was buried about 100 feet from the motel his mother spent so much time at - with his father buried next to him.

As a further heartbreak to a hard working, close-knit family, the youngest girl, who went to Washington College in Chestertown, died not long after her father from a freaky accident. She fell from a ladder while working on her home and hit her head. She never woke up.

As I thought about the hard times a family endures - and the unfairness of it all - I thought about the damage the storm had brought to the shore - if it were uncaring and randomly capricious; but... life goes on. Mrs. Platt - goes on - she works in Pensacola at the National Naval Air Museum there - a living testimony to her son.

One the beauty pageant winners - still runs the bike rental shop - and the business suffered from the storm as the sea water destroyed much of the "stored for the winter" bikes and other rental goods. But they too - simply cleaned up the mess and go on.

Someday, I should tell them all how much I admired them as a young boy - and how much I admire them today.

A Welcomed Phone Call

After a week in the hospital, a minor heart attack, congestive heart failure, edema, and an episode of massive internal bleeding - my dad called me on his cellphone saying "I'm on my way home."

This past Thanksgiving was "interrupted" and found the family gathered together, including my brother and his family from out of town, scrambling about and supporting each other as my dad was very much under the weather. The Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving, he suffered massive bleeding, and ended up having an emergency in the ER (he passed out while going to the bathroom). Many units of blood transfusions later, he developed edema and that triggered a heart attack. The doctors implanted a pacemaker a couple days ago (was it Tuesday? forgive me things are a blur) and then treated him for the aftermath of the edema treatment (apparently the drugs for that temporarily (hopefully!) messed up his kidney function).

No phone call has ever been more welcomed.

I thank all of you for your kind words - your prayers - and your unstinting support. I am truly blessed with the best of friends.

On Thanksgiving, my family understood - really understood - what being thankful really means... it's not for "stuff"... it's for blessings. We were thankful for the hospital ER staff that saved my dad's life. We all want him to be able to pull in more Red Drum and other fish like the one pictured - on another day.

Division of Family

Yesterday, after a brutal (for me) workout at the YMCA (1 hour on a treadmill at four miles per hour on a 15% slope), I stopped by the field my niece was warming up in for a soccer match to say "Good bye and Good luck" to her since she heads off on Friday to her first year of college.

It seems like only yesterday I gave her a stuffed Tigger that was nearly as big as she was for Christmas.  I recall her laughing and running around with him with wild abandon and watching her dress him up, insisting Tigger was a "she."

I have another photo of her somewhere where she is about the same age, after she opened a gift of a razor scooter - one she badly wanted.  I caught her eyes popping wide as the wrapping paper fell away from the box.  I treasure the photo but I treasure that simple moment of joy even more.

In the years since, I've watched her grow and mature into a fine young woman - she played cello in a chamber music ensemble, the orchestra at school, and performed at a number of dance recitals with her proud uncle watching.

On the way home, in a selfish moment, I thought to myself, I didn't have any uncles or aunts see me off to college and thought it out. Family divisions - caused by the usual "list of characters" was responsible for this.

My dad being an only child, I had only two aunt and uncle sets - my mom's much older brother and sister and from them I was separated by geography and generational age.  Their children, my cousins, were all 10-15 years older than I, and as I was growing up - that made them "unapproachable adults" and not people to play childhood games with.  The Aunt lived 380 miles away in Boston, and the Uncle lived 2800 miles away in Los Angeles.

So the aunts and uncles in my life where all actually my dad's aunt's and uncles and my "greats."  Age again - caused a divide but there was another divide - petty family squabbles - that ran deep and turned to poison.

Without boring you with the details - my great-grandfather "parted ways" with his two brothers - over a squabble at the family business - he left and started his own - and thus was forever "mad" at Thomas Charles and Russell.  You may remember Thomas Charles was Franklin, Elmer and Marshall's father.  Russell was the WWI machine gunner that was wounded in the Argonne Forest.  This separation meant - that even though the three sons lived into the 1990's - and lived nearby - I never met them.

Another family business squabble - this time between my Grandfather and his mother - after my great-grandfather died - caused ill-feelings between my Grandfather and his mother's family (all of whom, I met only once at a family reunion, are very nice people.)  So those distant family members were "lost to me" while growing up.

My Grandfather had three sisters - between them, they had 4 children.  Aunt Ann was childless, my (great) Aunt Marian had two sons and a daughter and my Aunt Mary had a son named Pat (who had Down's Syndrome).  Pat was a sweet, but big and gruff  (6' 2" 280 pounds) guy that seemed to behave in an unpredictable manner that was off-putting to me as a young boy. I have since learned better. Marian's children might have been in the social circle except...

...she worked with (and unfortunately, for) my Grandfather, Harry, as the bookkeeper in the family business - and one day, the day to day tensions of working together - spilled over and unkind words were spoken - and my Aunt Marion walked out to never return.

I recently found a letter, written by my Grandmother on April 26, 1967 to my "honorary Aunt Bea" that made me cringe -

I may not particularly like my sister-in-law and niece's mother - but I have tried to make sure that this (mutual) feeling has not prevented me from being involved in my niece's life.  I have gained much to treasure from doing so - and can hope, somewhere down the line, my niece might feel the same.  This bitter family lesson on how to watch what one says in the "heat of the moment" and to be a little more forgiving was hard earned and too late to cure the divides.

'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far...and Grace will lead me home.

Last Wednesday, I attended the graveside funeral of my sister-in-law's grandmother.  I did not know her very well - but she was always very nice to me - and my brother and his daughter seemed to want me there.

It was a bright and sunny day - so I went a little early to walk the grounds and to reflect - I wandered through the fields and found a stone with the following on it - and thought, no matter what you "believe," you can't argue with the point being made:

One Solitary Life

He was born in an obscure village
The child of a peasant woman
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until he was thirty

He never wrote a book
He never held an office
He never went to college
He never visited a big city
He never traveled more than two hundred miles
From the place where he was born
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness
He had no credentials but himself

He was only thirty three

His friends ran away
One of them denied him
He was turned over to his enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing
The only property he had on earth

When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend

Nineteen centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind's progress
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that one solitary life.

 - Dr. James Alan - 1928

During the service, someone stood up and recited a poem - one that struck a cord deep within me - with the "family tree" efforts I have been doing - I've often typed someone's name, their birth date and the date they passed away separated by a dash, "-"

The poem by Linda Ellis, is simply titled, "The Dash Poem" and goes like this:

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

Also during the service - a young woman with a beautiful voice sang "Amazing Grace," the favorite song of Naomi, the woman that passed away.

I found the stanza:

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

...repeating in my head as I walked alone, back to my car and on the drive home, all the while thinking about my "dash."

Rest in Peace Naomi - your dash was well-spent - so many spoke highly of you when we all went to say "Good Bye."

Mandy's Glade

With the family out of town this past weekend, I needed to keep busy in order not to feel alone.  My younger brother is at a trade show in Boston this week - so I continue to be alone.  In order to keep busy and my mind off the "not good" thoughts of just why I was alone, I went to the houseboat resolved to do a laundry list of activities.

I got a late start on Friday (messing with my Dad's computer was slow going!) but Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny and not too unpleasantly warm, so I headed over to Chestertown's "City Dock" and looked at the Schooner Sultana, the first I have seen her this year.  She's been busy, out of port, on "road trips" ("river trips?) to places like Saint Micheal's and Baltimore.  From there, I went to the local Farmers Market and looked but didn't buy.

I went to the supermarket. My shopping list was simple:

Kitty Litter - Check! Wet Cat Food - Check!  Laundry Detergent - Check! The sign on the reverse had a different list: Paper Towels - Check! Dog Food - Check! Dog Biscuits - Check!  Leaving the supermarket, I went to the Humane Society of Kent County with a trunk full of goodies where they were received with happy smiles.  Perhaps too, Ruby was smiling also.

From there, I took a quick swim and then headed to the Atkins Arboretum where I spent several hours walking through the meadows, lost in thought:

..and into the woods.

...amd before I knew it, I had walked nearly 7 miles and my lingering thought was that of the goat herd I had seen - and how cute the goat was that stood on top of the picnic table, overlooking her domain.

I returned to the houseboat and took a most refreshing swim, before settling down to read for the evening, a history book I got from the Chestertown Library about the "resettlement" of the Native Americans from Georgia to Oklahoma back in the 1830s.  A most terrible and sad moment in American History.

Sunday morning found me restless and anxious - so I hit the road and headed home.  Once there, I decided I needed to do some tree-hugging.  So I headed to Valley Forge National Historic Park and feeling like I was nearly my old-self as far as walking form, selected a combination old-new trek.  I combined the "Pawling's Farm" shown below with the "Deer hunt Walk," followed by the Schuylkill River Trail, and returning to my car on the "River Trail."

Pawling's Farm

I've not been "up" to walking on the Schuylkill River Trail of late, I think it was a combination of couple factors, my being sub-par with the health issues, and well... the walk takes me past a place with special memories.  Memories, I have been avoiding.

The Schuylkill River Trail is a walk/bike path created from the Pennsylvania Railroad's Schuylkill Branch.  It ran from Philadelphia to the coal counties beyond Pottstown, Reading, Hamburg, and Pottsville.  For a short distance, the abandoned right of way carries the walker (or biker) over the small streams and through the meadows of Valley Forge.

There is a place, where the trail goes over a small stream on an old stone arch culvert/bridge that has some powerful and lingering memories for me.

View from the trail

A while ago, I lost a dear and special friend.  Her name was Mandy, and she lived in far away Australia.  We "met" on-line and talked about everything under the sun.  Her beliefs were odd to me (she was Wiccan) and her speech and mannerisms were intriguing and different (should I say, "unique"?)  I found myself learning from her and enjoying her "company."  One of the things we talked about was, where we would go if we were to ever meet - and at this quiet little spot, I envisioned us having a picnic, while seeing the many deer wandering about.

...and so I have, perhaps unconsciously, avoided the place since she passed away at a far too young age - apparently mostly from giving up the battle against the many injuries life inflicted on her.

As a strong-minded, determined, independent, woman, she had her opinions and wasn't afraid to voice them.  Among those opinions, were her religious beliefs.

Wiccan teachings say nothing of "the afterlife."  Many of them believe that when someone dies, if they mourn at all, it is for their loss, for the loss of the person to the world, for themselves, their family, and for what the person could've done had they lived. Few Wiccans mourn the fact that a person has died.

So to honor that - I mourned what she might have done - had she lived on.  Mandy's ashes were scattered by her children at a very pretty seaside village called Port Fairy, located on Giffiths Island, Victoria, Australia.  There is a lighthouse there - near the waves and sea creatures that Mandy adored - and this is where her children celebrated her life.

I held my own celebration of her life ... here, in this quiet little glade.  As I pondered what she might have done had she lived, I came to appreciate the Wiccan ideas of "do no harm to others" and Mandy's thoughts on "pantheism" (the belief that everything composes an all-encompassing, immanent God, or that the universe (or nature) is identical with divinity. Pantheists do not believe in a personal or anthropomorphic god.)  Here I was - "held in the cusp of nature" - and alone with my thoughts - but not alone... I was connected to everyone and everything - through some deeper, unseen but powerful links.

So, having spent some quiet moments of reflection - with bitter and regretful thoughts turning to far more positive ones - I left the glade - and although I think Mandy was "not there,"  she was in some way, "connected to there."  As are each of us - interconnected - and a part of each other.

I headed back to my car along the river, past the turtles,

..and over the stream that created the glade,

 ... and past the tree that reminds me of two other dear friends (that I've neglected of late)

The walk went steadily.  I soon put seven miles on the trusty pedometer - and was happy enough to see my car waiting for me in the parking lot where I had left it.

As for the deer... I saw none of them - but I'm sure they were there... somewhere.

Boston On My Mind

Sometimes, timing is everything.

My mother called me this morning and said, "I was standing in front of the hotel where that bomb exploded, just a couple weeks ago."

My mother was born and raised in the city of Boston. Her grandfather was a streetcar conductor from the poor neighborhood of Paisley, Scotland who came to this country seeking an opportunity.

Somehow, through a turn of fate, his daughter met a sailor boy from the wild, exotic "Indian Territory" that became Oklahoma and a few years later, my mom was born.

Yesterday I got a package in the mail from a cousin in Arizona. Inside where some photos I've never seen before.

A short while later, I heard the news of the Boston Marathon bombing.

I found myself wanting to escape all the ugliness of the world, into the soft flowers of the coming spring... like I did this past weekend...  but my mind kept dragging me back... but... I can escape backwards in time. At least briefly.

A Christmas holiday in Jamaica Plains, Boston, Massachusetts, 1949.  My mom is holding a guitar on the far left, her older sister holds an unknown little girl with a doll.  My grandmother sits behind my grandfather who is playing with one of my cousin's toy.  My boy cousin looks like he has a ray gun or something aimed at the camera.  My cousin Belle (Isabella, my grandmother's sister) sits with her father and my great-grandfather Robert McPherson on the sofa. ...Pondering who the mystery girl was... another photo fell out of the package...

A simple scene.  But so powerful to me.  My mom's mother stands in the snow, having shoveled out to the clothesline behind the farmhouse in Milton Mills, New Hampshire.  My best memories of her are from this very place.  The field behind the farmhouse, heading out to the trees (and a stone wall) were not farmed, but held wild clover and strawberries that smelled so good in the basking heat of the summer sun.

My grandmother had a twinkling eye and a low chuckle she would use to express her obvious glee and delight she took when me or my brothers did something "cute."

Her last 10 years spent with failing memories as her numerous strokes to away her personality and in fact, her very being, were very hard - especially on my mom - who visited the nursing care facility she was in, faithfully week after week.  My seeing her with such life in her eyes was a special moment and a treat indeed.  I can't thank my cousin enough for this...

What my great-grandfather would have thought of the bombing of a race on Patriot's Day, I do not know.  I scarcely know what to make of it myself.  I hear that many of the citizens of Boston have opened their homes and wallets to those that are far from home and stunned and shocked by this ugly event.  I saw in the videos shown all over, over and over again, a large number people running towards those that were hurt and maimed to offer help and aid...  Knowing Boston as a "removed Bostonian," I'm not at all surprised.  The people there are "Yankees" in the best and most admirable sense of the word.

History isn't about dates...

This morning on my way to work, I was in a long train of cars and trucks. The vehicle in front of me was pleasing to the eye. I'm no great fan of invisible fences since two of the dogs I grew up with found ways to slip out. One would wait for the snow plow to come and leave a mound of snow over the wire that triggered the warning collar, and simply walk out over the distance-keeping hill of snow. The other was a bounder, he could leap like a deer, and easily cleared 5-6 foot fences on the fly. He did this one day, bounding over the warning of the invisible fence, and came back in my older brother's arms, dead from being hit by a car.

But I digress...the two yellow labs sharing the stick they obviously want someone to toss, pulled me out of my rambling thoughts.

I had been thinking about ... history and how it isn't about dates, it's about people. And how I've been reading lately about people that were "much more personal" to me - which made history more ...personal.

Let me explain. My dad's side of the family, largely came to this country around 1850. There are 5-6 generations that, by and large, lived entirely within a few blocks-square area in downtown Philadelphia (with trips to the New Jersey beaches). While Philadelphia is the home of the Liberty Bell and the signing of the Declaration of Independence...the people that did that, and lived through that time, weren't "my people". So the history becomes a bit dusty and remote...

My mom's mother's family immigrated to Boston, Massachusetts from Scotland around 1895. Again, Boston is one of those "a lot of things happened there" towns of old, but it wasn't "my people" that were involved with dumping the tea in the harbor, or listening to Paul Revere shout the "British are coming!"

My mom's Daughters of the American Revolution application and the research that went into it, however, has changed things. History has become much more personal.

My mother's father's family tree for the country that was to become the United States of America is extensive. More than extensive. One branch goes back to John Bush (1590 - 1624) who is my 8th great grandfather. He came to Virginia with Lord De La Warr.

Thomas West, 3rd (or 12th) is often named in history books simply as Lord Delaware. He served as governor of the Jamestown Colony, and the Delaware Bay was named after him.

Suddenly, history takes on a buzz.

John Bush's great-grandsons would travel with Daniel Boone through the Cumberland Gap in 1775.

Johannes Michael Schmidt, my 7th great grandfather, came from Germany in 1737 with others fleeing religious persecution. He entered this country in Philadelphia, lived in Germantown, and later moved to Virginia. 110 years later, my dad's side of the family would come from England and live on Germantown Avenue... Again, something begins to resonate within me...

Philip Peter Visinand, my 8th great grandfather, who born on 10 Apr 1684 in Heilsbruck, Switzerland, came to America in 1731 and settled in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. He is buried in a cemetery I've driven past dozens of times without a thought or care... It's so very different now.

Back north, the town of Salem, Massachusetts was having a series of hearings and prosecutions of people accused of witchcraft, between February 1692 and May 1693. Henry Herrick Sr., my 10th great grandfather and his family were deeply involved.

My mom is deeply ashamed by this - I grant this wasn't the world's "finest hour," but it happened.

Does the name David Stern Crockett ring a bell? Perhaps you remember the Alamo? Ancestry.Com tells me he is the uncle of my 4th great grand aunt, Sarah Elizabeth Crockett's husband.

Lost in the fabric of time... and deep in thought, I want to learn more about what have become special to me events in history... the Alamo, the Salem Witch Trials, the settling of Jamestown, and something terrible...

...the damages done to the family during and after the Civil War - where "my people" fought... on the "losing side" near Shelbyville, Tennessee...

..when I look up and see two friendly dogs staring back at me...and soon thereafter I arrive at work once more.

Thanks for Your Thoughts

I want to thank everyone for their helpful comments to my last entry. I had lunch with my mom yesterday and managed not to say anything that upset her (for a change). We had a pleasant meal, and I asked her if she knew what became of any of her former students.

My mom was a Montessori nursery school director and teacher for many years. She has several Master's Degrees and is probably one of only a small handful of "real and actual" Maria Montessori Method experts in this county.

She knew offhand the "what became of them" stories of a couple of her former pupils - One is a massage therapist in San Diego, California (who'd of thunk it?) and another is a lawyer working in the Philadelphia District Attorney's office (eew!) My thinking was, let's try to get forward thinking and off the "ancestors" for a little bit.

She smiled for the first time in a while. I asked her to make a list of those she remembered best. I plan to "track 'em down" and find out what they are up to these days. Perhaps some of them will want to re-connect with my mom and give her a "hello."

Over lunch, I gained some insight on her. My mom married young (her 55th wedding anniversary is comping up this June) and moved from Boston to Philadelphia - and soon had her hands full with three little boys. I discovered she lost touch with her various aunts and uncles when she did this... she in essence "traded" her family for my dad's "contentious, argumentative" lot. Her family (and roots) dropped away as she tried to fit in with (and make peace among) my dad's family.

My dad's family was a small one - he was an only child. Those family members that were "around" were put off by my grandfather - the heart of the issue was the "family business" and arguments over how it should be run. Further exasperating the "splits" was my grandfather's opinionated (read: bigoted) ideas on "the proper place for a woman" and the mark of a successful (proper) man being a "captain of industry" and most definitely not in Government or Military service.

As this photo shows - many of my grandfather's uncles and cousins where in the Navy (remember Commodore Franklin?) and therefore in my grandfather's eyes, they were all "worthless bums."


This is my dad - he is about 3 years old with Phil Hallworth and an unknown (likely a family member) companion. Philip Lewis Hallworth was a neighbor and worked in the engine room on the ships he served on while in the Navy. He eventually went deaf from the noise and died at a very young age of 44 from cancer. He is buried in Beverly National Cemetery in Beverly, Burlington County, New Jersey. He was my honorary "Aunt Bea's" first husband.

I need to write another entry sometime - showing another side of my grandfather - one that took in a young girl whose mother could not take care of her - just because she was family and it was "the right thing to do."

At any rate, I babble on... I wanted to thank you all for your thoughts. They were most helpful and most appreciated - as are each of you.

Mom's Been Thinking

Recently my mom's been doing some thinking, and it doesn't take much, if any, reading between the lines to determine what she's thinking about. The other day she handed me this obituary about an amazing woman, who worked up until the day she died at the age of 102 as a airplane flight instructor. I post the obituary for one and all - it's a fascinating story.

My mom, I think, is trying to express her feelings about, well, questions like, "Is my life pretty much over now and do I have anything more to offer anyone?"

She has been dredging up materials on old people that were doing wonderful things well into their 90 and 100 years of age. My mom is an amazing woman. She's been really sick the past couple weeks from some sort of cold/flu. On the days when she feels better, my dad has been sick. The illness has been seesaw ride. They both seem to be feeling better today so hopefully they will feel really good come this Memorial Day weekend (the houseboat is calling!)

In the meantime, if anyone has something I can tell her, that would ease her mind about getting old(er), I'd be most appreciative. I too, find the subject very hard to bring up in a direct manner - I will be lost without her (my dad is already lost when she's not feeling well).

Please (control-)click to make this big enough to read.

Mathias Gmelin (1677-1756)

While searching for the gravestone of another early German immigrant by the name of Heinrich Kasselberg (1670-1729) for Find-A-Grave request, I went to the nearby Methacton Mennonite cemetery. It was a dreary overcast day, one that had begun with a heavy fog. A day just perfect for wandering around an old burial ground!


In the wall surrounding the cemetery, one finds a commemorative marker that begins, "This marks the place of the first church house built prior to 1771." The local historic society says the "oldest surviving stone in the cemetery (and within the township) appears to be that of George Beyer, age 4, dating to 1744, when this was a neighborhood cemetery."

So that rules out finding Henry Kasselberg here...

A giant white oak marks the northwest corner of the cemetery. The oak is estimated to be 300+ years old and may be the oldest living object east of the Mississippi River. I've written about this tree before.

I decided to see where Henry's offspring were buried, as there were several mentioned in the records. So I began to thread the rows of the cemetery noting the familiar family names. Some family names are remembered as street names, others as neighbohood areas.

Eventually, I came across this old stone. Typical of the period, it is inscribed in German.

I carefully wrote what it said in my notebook --

"Hier ruhet die Gebiene den
verstorbenen Mathias Gm
elin gebohren Im jahr 1677
Den 31 Jan Gestorben Im
jahr 1756 den 17 April
Seines Alter 79 jahr
2 Monath 2 Wochen
Und 3 T"
"Here rests the bones of Mathias Gmelin born in year 1677 on January 31 died in year 1756 on 17 April. His age 79 year 2 month 2 weeks and 3 days "

Born in Vaihingen an der Enz, son of Jeremias and Christina (Zimmerman) Gmelin. Grandson of Jeremias Gmelin, Lutheran pastor of some renown in Auggen, Germany. Mathias became a Pietist (The Pietist movement combined the Lutheranism of the time with the emphasis on individual piety and living a vigorous Christian life - which influenced the Mennonite and Amish) and became a member of the Schwazenau Brethren, and eventually immigrated to America. He was naturalized in Philadelphia Co. 9 Jan 1729/30. He settled at Methacton in Worcester Township. He was a farmer and also a glazier (a person whose profession is fitting glass into windows and doors) by trade.

He is a typical example of a German immigrant of the time. The Germans settled Germantown, about 10 miles west of Philadelphia, because the English-speaking residents of the growing city, including no less than Benjamin Franklin, told them "to keep going up the Schuylkill river, they were not wanted there" deeming them to be "...generally of the most ignorant Stupid Sort of their own Nation..."

Eye-opening, huh?

Reaching Intertwined Roots

Last Sunday, I bought a new pair of walking shoes and retired a beat up, old, smelly pair. The old ones were oh-so-comfy, and the new ones oh-so-stiff and unyielding.

I decided that in order to break the new shoes in a little, I would venture over to Mill Grove, the home of John James Audubon and walk on the grass and dirt trails to give my feet some cushion.


While moseying around the meandering trails, I saw some Hawks high in the trees but was more taken by the white bark of the Sycamores. I found myself looking into the bright blue skies more and more and nearly tripped over...


...this marker. It reads "Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two."

I later found this to be a quote from "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" by Louis de Bernieres. In full, it goes:
Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love" which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two.



After my walk, I sat to rest my beat up feet and looked at this photograph that my Honorary Aunt Bea sent me in the mail that weekend. It is undated and unmarked. But I'd recognize that location any day. This was one of my grandmother's favorite photo op spots (note the last two photos taken about 25 years later).

It wasn't until later, after reading what Far Side of Fifty wrote about the old fashioned flashbulbs and reminded me of how troublesome they were, that I realized that my Grandmother liked this spot because it was in direct sunlight and it was right outside the kitchen door. Now I know why at least half of the old photographs she either took or had taken, were done at this very spot!

This is my Dad (who claims to not remember what the event might of been) standing with my Grandmother outside the kitchen door of their house in Phildadelphia, Pennsylvania. The best we can do dating this photo is "about 1948".


Here is an early color picture of my Dad dressed in his Army uniform holding my big brother in his arms. I wasn't born yet at the time this picture was taken in the spring of 1959. It was taken in the lawn area just off the walkway.

Later, my gardening-crazed Grandmother would have a row of red Azalea bushes planted along the walkway leading to the front of the house.

My family has some very deep, intertwined roots on, under and around that unremarkable slab of concrete.

Memory Hole

I sit in an empty and quiet office this dreary afternoon. It's been a busy couple weeks with numerous 12 hour work days work and having some doctor recommended testing done - the work has been mentally exhausting, there being a lot of new "things" to learn, the testing has left this human pin cushion, black, blue, and yellow.

The results of the testing was good news - the old ticker was unharmed by the blood clots that knocked me off my feet last October - the EKG trace nice and regular with no sign of abnormal valve noises or miscues. The blood thinners continue to do their thing, and the blood remains at a steady "just thin enough" state (which apparently is not usually the case).

This rainy but warm morning, found me at a funeral home some miles away - where my former Scoutmaster Joe Hartman laid in rest. The minister gave a nice talk and asked for people in the audience of about eighty or so to help her celebrate Joe's life by recalling a favorite memory or two.

My brother recalled times long past - events from the mid-1970s... a camping trip in Maine that the Troop took in two vehicles, one van and Joe's orange and white VW micro-bus. To pass the time on the way, we played chess between the two vans via CB radio (there was no such thing as cellphones back then). One of the boys in the troop was a Chess Wizard - he was one of the smartest guys I have ever known.

Once, I took a shuffled deck of 52 cards, and showed him the cards, one by one, but only for a second or so each... 5 minutes later, he said, "Okay, the cards are... and promptly and correctly rattled off the 52 cards, both number and suite, in the right order.

Anyway, he played a chess board in the "Creamsicle," as the VW micro-bus was called...and my brother and I and 5 other Scouts played a board in the van. He beat us all - four consecutive times...and if that wasn't bad enough, when we pulled over at a rest stop, we learned that they didn't even have a chessboard - he did it all from memory!

On the other hand, there was a boy that was, shall we say ... loyal, and dependable... but he really struggled with things. One of the few requirements for "advancement" in the ranks of Boy Scouts is learning First Aid and getting the merit badge. This poor kid just couldn't "get it".

Scoutmaster Joe pulled him aside one camping trip "down the shore" and said, "We really need to get this thing worked out." So the infamous (to us) Calamine Lotion All-nighter was held.

You probably know that Calamine Lotion is pink and is used to ease the itch from Poison Ivy. Well, so did this Boy Scout. But his first aid knowledge began and ended there. Every first aid-related question asked in the First Aid merit badge exam, he answered "Calamine Lotion."

"What is the treatment for Shock?"

"Calamine Lotion...nn?"

"What do you do for a sprained ankle?"

"Umm... You use Calamine Lotion. I think."

...and so it went. My Scoutmaster assigned older boys to drill first aid questions and answers... at first it was two boys, 15-20 minutes each... and then 2 more... and 2 more... and then the rotation started and each boy did 30 minutes....

The sunset on the bay to the sounds of "No, no, noooooo... forget Calamine Lotion!! Think!! Think!!!" and the same sun rose hours later over the ocean to the hoarse whispers of "Oh my gosh! He got one right!!!"

I left the troop that year and it was several years later, when I came across this boy's name in the newspaper. The headline read, "EMT Saves Life of 5 Year Old" and my interest piqued, I read on and found that the EMT had pried open the door of a burning car, pulled the young girl out, and revived her with CPR. I gasped out loud when I saw the name of the EMT... you guessed it, it was none other than Mr. Calamine Lotion. I think I sat there in a daze for quite some time with the newspaper fallen from my hand.

One of my memories was of Scoutmaster Joe having a "who can make the hottest Chili contest." I prided knowing my way around a campstove and made up a batch. Joe sampled it and smacked his lips and said, "Hmmm... Meh... barely warm but no... that's not Chili." I said, "Oh well, more of whatever it is for me!" and about burned my lips off eating it.

Other boys made batches, and my brother, who had cooked a pot of jalapeno peppers and navy beans that left me unable to taste anything at all for 3 days, got a, "Hmm.. getting warmer... that's almost edible chili..." Finally Scoutmaster Joe decided to show us all how it was done. Even though I only had one spoonful, I don't think I could even speak for the rest of the weekend except to ask for a ice cold glass of "WAATT-AHHH!" You've hear tales of coffee being strong enough to stand a spoon in... well this chili was strong enough to melt the spoon! Scoutmaster Joe sat there with a big steaming bowl of the "stuff" and chowed down on it. I don't think there was a single boy in that Troop without wide opened eyes and admiration of his "unique talent"!

Some of the other folks at the funeral were neighbors of 45 years... recalling rides my Scoutmaster had given them when their cars broke down; and snow plowing help; and being offered dozens of plump red tomatoes from his garden; and help finding lost dogs and dog sitting at a moments notice and all the things only the best neighbor in the whole world would do...

Some of the folks were members of the local RV club - and recalled RV trips over 15 years - where the story was the very same - ever dependable - always available to lend a hand...

I was honored to be ask to be a pallbearer. The ground was wet and muddy. The rain came down. It mattered not at all... I was privileged to have been there for part of his journey through life... and truly honored to be there to bear the burden of his final one.

I've been mentally worn down of late - and as I sit in this empty office... the sun has burst through the clouds... and I feel less worn and will in a few days, be ready to get back into work... and hopefully catch up with what all of you have been up to.

The Final Voyage

Yesterday, I got a phone call telling me that my former Boy Scoutmaster was in the hospital. While working on his car, he had had a stroke and a severe brain hemorrhage. He was in a coma and wasn't expected to pull through.

Joseph Hartman was a everything a Boy Scout is supposed to be - Trustworthy. Loyal. Helpful. Friendly. Courteous. Kind. Obedient. Cheerful. Thrifty. Brave. Clean. Reverent. He was truly a one of the "good guys". I didn't get a chance to say "goodbye and smooth voyaging."

Last night he crossed over the lake - to the other side.

He leaves his wife, a son and daughter, and many now-full-grown "boys" that have wonderful memories of summer scout camps and weekend trips to the woods.

He was an inveterate car-tinkerer, forever "messing" with some offbeat cars, like a VW Beetle, a VW minibus (the hippie mobile) and lastly a Honda Prius hybrid. He was a modest engineer that watched the computer grow from the days of the vacuum tube with awe and sense of boyish wonder that said, "Oh, this is so neat!"

He taught me how to paddle straight, to be patient... kind... helpful... and showed me the way I wanted to live.

I offer these words to the Great Voyager in the Sky in his honor and in his memory -

For Food, For Raiment,
For Life And Opportunity,
For Sun And Rain,
For Water And Portage Trails,
For Friendship And Fellowship,
We Thank Thee, O Lord.
Amen.

Alex's Lemonade Stand

Today, while walking through a local cemetery, I came across this gravestone**


You may know of her, she was the brave and rather remarkable little girl that sold lemonade to help raise money for cancer research - in her own words, "when I get out of the hospital I want to have a lemonade stand" - wanting to give the money to doctors to allow them to "help other kids, like they helped me."

I copy her courageous story from the Alex's Lemonade Stand website:

"Shortly before her first birthday, Alex was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer. On her first birthday, the doctors informed Alex's parents that if she beat her cancer it was doubtful that she would ever walk again. Just two weeks later, Alex slightly moved her leg at her parents' request to kick. This was the first indication of who she would turn out to be - a determined, courageous, confident and inspiring child with big dreams and big accomplishments.

By her second birthday, Alex was crawling and able to stand up with leg braces. She worked hard to gain strength and to learn how to walk. She appeared to be beating the odds, until the shattering discovery within the next year that her tumors had started growing again. In the year 2000, the day after her fourth birthday, Alex received a stem cell transplant and informed her mother, "when I get out of the hospital I want to have a lemonade stand." She said she wanted to give the money to doctors to allow them to "help other kids, like they helped me." True to her word, she held her first lemonade stand later that year and raised an amazing $2,000 for "her hospital."

While bravely battling her own cancer, Alex continued to hold yearly lemonade stands in her front yard to benefit childhood cancer research. News spread of the remarkable sick child dedicated to helping other sick children. People from all over the world, moved by her story, held their own lemonade stands and donated the proceeds to Alex and her cause.

...

In August of 2004, Alex passed away at the age of 8, knowing that, with the help of others, she had raised over $1 million to help find a cure for the disease that took her life."

**to honor her memory and right to rest eternally in privacy - I won't say where she is buried but will share her story and a picture of her final resting place - she was triumphant in a way - with her terrible battle with cancer. She will never be forgotten. I urge you to help find a cure in whatever way you can.