Digging for Dead People

 I adored my grandmother, and to this day, I don't really understand why.  As my memories of my younger life fade, I don't remember that she read to me or played with me or treated me in any way special, but there was a magic there that I can't explain.  I do have memories of sitting on her lap as she told me classic stories from memory.  When my sister and I wanted to sleep in the hayloft in the barn, our grandmother wouldn't let us, but always, always provided other distractions.  My grandmother, whom we called Baba, was a farmer's wife, but she was the glue in the family.  She was a very strong woman whose children and grandchildren respected out of love.  I didn't understand all of that as a kid.  I only knew that I wanted the same relationship my mother had with her mother when I had my own kids.  That love provided generational security for me in our very unstable Navy life.     

In the five decades of my genealogical research, there is one mystery that has never been solved: the identity of my beloved grandmother's biological father.  In her lifetime, she hid the details of her ignominious beginnings out of wedlock.  I think it was a point of shame for her in those days, but only makes me love her more.  She passed away in 1975, taking my heart, and her secrets, with her.  I think she would be content if I just left it alone...but...whoever her bio dad was, he is part of my blood.  It won't change a thing, but I want to know.  Thus, I've been digging for dead people, with tremendous help from my daughter.

Our most recent ancestral dig is in matching DNA.  Certain family DNA strains show up that have no certain beginnings.  Hmmm...  My daughter is close--VERY close--to finding the identity of my grandmother's daddy.  It all depends on connecting the right dots.  Will we ever know for sure?  Maybe not, but we likely can come close.  The spellings of names change; dates can be misrecorded; some family names are repeated over and over (in my crew, we are rampant with Georges and Thomases and Josephs and Margarets.  Hard to keep track of the generations!  Still, I am hopeful that, before I croak, I can know with some confidence, who my maternal great-grandfather was.  Stay tuned! 

Memories of the Indianapolis 500

 How do you make a race fan out of a school teacher?  Take her to the Indianapolis 500!  No one can understand that electricity until ignited by that very first time at the Speedway.  The race can be watched on TV (outside of the Indy area) but it never compares to the excitement of being there in person.  The whole month of May in Indianapolis, Indiana--really the whole state--is steeped with the 500's traditions that now span 105 years.  I loved it from my very first time!  

The race is always on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend in the USA.  My now ex-husband and I were adventurous souls.  He is a Hoosier (Indiana native) by birth, even though we were both residents of Illinois at the time.  I asked one time--very early in our relationship: When are you going to take me to the 500?  (This was early-1970s.)  As it happens, his parents, who lived in Greencastle, IN, had long-standing tickets in the same seats and same box for years, but they were aging and were ready, willing, and able to "give" them to us.  (I think they gave us the tickets the first year.  Thereafter, we bought them directly from the same family friend that controlled much of that section of seats.  Every year, on race day, we gave that person our check for the next year's tickets.  And every year, the tickets went up in price!)

After we'd been once or twice, my husband was able to secure two more tickets.  That got expensive, but it assured that we could always invite someone to go with us.  We invited my sister and her then-husband, and they accepted.  The plan that evolved over time was that we all would drive from IL to Greencastle on Friday.  On Saturday, we would venture into Indy to "tour" 16th Street and Georgetown Road (where the Indianapolis Motor Speedway is located) to watch all of the crazy people and see what the trailer venders were selling.  There were plenty of sloppy, happy drunks to entertain us!

At the end of our Saturday excursion, we drove back to Greencastle and had a cookout that our hosts had graciously prepared.   We hit the sack somewhat early because we had to be up early on Sunday in time to be in our seats at 8:00 AM when the march of bands began.  I loved it!  

Somewhere in this process early on, we managed to snag a parking space in an insurance company parking lot just three blocks from the track on 16th Street.  We were able to secure that spot for many years thereafter by staying in touch with the guy who was taking the reservations.  (Funny thing, long after my husband and I divorced, I saw that guy at the Indy airport on my way to Oklahoma City.  We actually recognized each other!)  

After my first or second trip to the 500, my husband got his hands on Drivers' Meeting tickets.  The Drivers' Meeting was, at least at that time, mandatory.  The race drivers were placed on bleachers facing the Pagoda stands and were briefed on rules, etc.  (It was totally unnecessary, but provided good PR for all.)  The tickets gave us access to Gasoline Alley, the garage area that housed the cars and kept the drivers close by.  There were plenty of other civilians like us, but I felt like an absolute celebrity.  There was a dress code in the garage area.  As I recall, shorts weren't allowed.  Never know when cameras will be there, ya know.  That was before the time when my sister and bro-in-law were in attendance.  By that time, access to the Drivers' Meeting tickets evaporated.  It was okay with me.  It was fun while it lasted...maybe two years.

We had great seats in Stand B.  It was under cover, so we didn't have to worry about sunburn.  The seats were on the outside part of the track, situated right at the end of Pit Road.  From there, we could see Pit Road, the front straightaway, turn one, the short chute between turns one and two, turn two, and some of the back straightaway.  When the cars came through turn four, we could see it all.  The color; the excitement; the speed.  All very intoxicating!

My poor brain can't put names or dates to my experiences.  As near as I can figure it, I went to the 500 for about 20 years, in the same seats.  My sister and hubby went with us on most of those.  Roger (her husband) had a bad back.  It gave out on one of the Saturday excursions.  I watched him crawl up the patio steps on his hands and knees when we returned to Greencastle.  They decided very early on race day that they couldn't attend, and headed home to Springfield, IL.  (They didn't make it all the way.  Had to take a motel for respite for Roger.  I never felt so sorry for anyone in my life!)  Thus, we had two paid tickets to use up.  I woke my 5-year-old daughter at 5:30 AM to ask if she wanted to go.  She reared up out of bed and was dressed in a heartbeat.  Never saw her that enthusiastic before!

As close as I can figure it, I think we attended the race for about 20 years non-stop.  The only thing that stopped me after that was our divorce.  Even though we had four tickets, and I should have gotten two of them in the settlement, they weren't in our name, so it couldn't be legally enforced.  I did attend four times after that...once by stealth.  My ex was offering tickets to his children and stepchildren.  One time, when it was our daughter's turn, she offered the tickets to me.  By this time, I was quite disabled, but I invited my sister, who needed a break from her demented husband, and we went.  It created hard feelings with my ex.  Somehow, he didn't think I should be able to go to the 500 with those tickets.  (Long story that I don't understand to this day.)  Ex wasn't happy; daughter took the hit in my behalf.  I will always be grateful for that one last time, years ago.  My sister desperately needed the time away from her husband who was displaying more and more of his FTD dementia, and I knew this was my one last shot at the race.  It was officially the hottest race day, ever.  Of course!  

Some of my memories of the 500, on a personal basis:

*God bless my inlaws for putting up with our yearly invasion.

*My daughter was born in March of 1979.  When we left for the race in May, I was breastfeeding, but left her with the McNary grandparents, with formula and breast milk.  Got engorged in the middle of the day and found myself pumping breast milk in a restroom that was a painted plywood stall with a hole in concrete that went down to a trough that had water flowing through it to deliver the human waste elsewhere.  What we don't do for our babies!

*Back in the day, Indiana was "dry" on Sunday.  You couldn't buy packaged alcohol anywhere in the state...and yet, the 500 was on Sunday.  (This only changed about 2-3 years ago.)  Apparently, the Speedway had special dispensation to sell alky at the track, but it wasn't cheap.  A compromise was that fans were allowed to bring in their own booze in limited-size coolers, as long as they weren't packaged in glass.  (In the beginning, any size cooler was acceptable until the Speedway got smart.)  Often, people went into the Speedway early in the morning still inebriated from the night before.  They didn't come out at the end of the race in any better shape.  Once, as Joe and I were leaving with a rush of other people, we happened upon a pile of vomit on the concrete close to the stands.  One young lad observed it and said to his father, "Look, Daddy...chicken!"  It was all I could do to hold down my own lunch after that...

*At the track, we were rubbing elbows with the elite and the bubbas.  Some women were dressed to the nines.  Others were in tank tops and Daisy Duke shorts.  Every track goer watched the weather forecast to determine if he/she needed a winter jacket, an umbrella, or nothing at all to stave off the weather.  Any rain at all demanded a race delay.  If the rain stopped, the track dryers would go out to try to dry off the track so the cars wouldn't slip and slide with their tire "slicks".  That took at least two hours, hoping the rain had stopped for good.  Fans in their seats would get bored and start their own entertainment while waiting.  In our area, a beach ball appeared.  We kept it in the air for a long time.  Another time, someone started a wave.  (For the uninitiated, a wave is when people stand and raise their hands, then sit down, while adjacent fans do the same in their turn, making a huge ripple effect.  The first wave went along the front straightaway.  When the other fans caught on, it went around the track in two directions and back again.  Impressive!)  The track announcer broadcast over the PA:  "Ladies and Gentleman, you have just witnessed the first official one lap wave!"  The crowd roared.  We were so proud of ourselves!    Once, we actually got rained out, but the Speedway rescheduled for the next day, which was still part of the Memorial Day holiday, so we were still able to attend.  (Good because we lived almost 200 miles away and would not have been able to attend if they rescheduled for another time.)  

*One time, when I was "working" at the track, we got rained and sleeted on.  (More about that later.)  Some races were blistering hot.  People whose seats were in the sun got toasted, and there was heat exhaustion.  Other races were chilly and windy.  Ya pays yer money and ya takes yer chance!

*I was there the year that the 200 mph barrier was broken in qualifying.  I was there when there was an official race lap run at over 200 mph.  I was there when a fuel spill during a pit stop ignited Rick Mears.  I could see the smoke in the pit...then Mears jumped out of his car and started dancing around and slapping himself like he was being attacked by bees.  Ethanol is largely invisible when it burns.  He was on fire!

*I was there for the big names:  A.J. Foyt; Johnny Rutherford; Gordon Johncock; Rick Mears; Mario Andretti; Gary and Tony Bettenhausen, and more.  (Side note: Gary Bettenhausen's wife, Wavelyn, was the office secretary in the schools where I taught.  She's gruff on the outside and a total marshmallow on the inside.  I love her to pieces!) 

*I was there when Gordon Johncock ran out of fuel right in front of us on the very last lap around the track.  He was the lead car at the time.   I can only imagine how he felt.  

*After my divorce and, therefore, lack of tickets, I decided I was going to find a way to go, anyway.  I managed, three times.  Once, I was on a bleacher seat, first row, right across from the pit.  Another time, I somehow obtained two tickets for the elite seats on the inside of the track, right in front of the Pagoda.  The third time, I sat near turn four.  None of the three experiences were anywhere near acceptable.  Couldn't see crap, and didn't enjoy the experience.  Thus, I decided that any old seats at the 500 weren't good enough.  I'd been spoiled. 

*My amateur radio club in the next county over from the Speedway was looking for ways to raise funds.  We signed on a paid volunteers with IMS for about three years.  Our job was to assist at Gate One.  We were to check coolers for glass containers, check backpacks and purses/bags for weapons, and rip tickets.  That worked well in the beginning when the track first opened for the day, but when the crowds increased--as they always do--it became impossible to do it all.  We also had to enforce "no pass out's".  People whose tickets had already been ripped were not allowed out of the track with the intention to return.  While I was there, we had one dude who begged.  Someone in his party was in need of insulin which had been left in his car.  We allowed it, but made sure that he checked in with the same person who gave him permission to leave.  We were also trained how to spot fake tickets.  Some long-time race-goers would beg to have their tickets not ripped because they kept them intact for souvenirs (or so they said).  When people are coming at you nonstop in droves, it gets hard to be tough!  

*I confess that my day each year as a Yellow Shirt wasn't my most glamourous.  We had to wear the track's yellow shirts, the track ball caps, black pants, and black shoes and socks.  My hair wasn't inclined to look good in a ball cap.  I felt like a guy!  As I was ripping the stubs off of the tickets, one very young (and drunk) dude commented, "I'll bet you were a looker in your day."  Um...I think he meant it as a compliment, but still....  As he walked by me, I turned my head to follow him as he apologized all the way, finally understanding that what he said was not a compliment at all!  Yeah, thanks buddy!  

*The Piece de Resistance for all of my 500 experiences arrived on Race Day of 2004.  My daughter and family lived in a house at Friendswood Golf Course where her husband was superintendent of the course.  I was working Gate One at IMS with my radio club.  Once the race started, we were always told we could go home or stay for a little pot luck picnic at Gate One.  That particular day, one of our radio club members who had been monitoring Skywarn on the radio told us that there was a tornado watch for our home county, the next county over.  Most of us headed for home.  (Not as easy as you'd think.  Our vehicles were parked at the north end of the track.  Gate One was at the south of the track.  It was probably a mile's walk just to get to our vehicles, with storms threatening.)  We were all quite exhausted, having been at the track since 5:30 AM, hot and hungry.  

As soon as I got home, I threw on a pair of shorts but was still wearing my iconic yellow track shirt, turned on my radio and checked into the Skywarn weather net, which had gone from "watch" to "warning".  I was listening when I heard one of our very responsible mobile volunteers check in as "priority".  Given priority to transmit, he announced, "We have a tornado!"   As he described the tornado's trajectory from his location, I began to worry about my family.  I called Megan who asked, "What should we do?"  I called several times with information, as I had it.  I finally advised her to gather the family and take cover.  That was the last time I could reach her by phone.  Then, on the air, I heard "considerable damage at Friendswood Golf Course".  OMG.  My babies are there!  I tried to call  As soon as it was safe to do so, I hopped in my car and headed in that direction, six miles away.  The minute I turned onto the road to Friendswood, I noted that the road was blocked by more than one tree across the road.  I left my car and started to run on foot to the "yellow house" where my family lived, and ran into a man I didn't know but seemed to be in charge.  (Turned out that he was the course owner's grandson, who was patrolling the property by the road to keep vehicles from driving on the course to circumvent the downed trees.)  

  I yelled to him, "What do you know about the  yellow house?" 

"The yellow house is fine, and so are the people."

"Where are they?"

"They left.  Said something about going to a grandparent's house." 

Oh.  I realized that would probably be my house, so I returned to my car, turned around, and went home the way I came.  (Obviously, the kids had departed from the other direction.)  When I got home, my then-son-in-law, Nathan, was in the front yard, pacing, holding baby Ryan.  I mumbled something about "thank God you're here"...and with a dazed look in his eye, he said, "Did you see the golf course?"  I admitted that I hadn't.  I'd been too worried about them to worry about the golf course.  When I went inside, Megan, Robin, and Frodo the Wonder Dog were there.  Meg was shaken.  She wanted wine, and she's not a drinker!  (Even more surprising was that I didn't have any in the house, and we couldn't buy any because it was Sunday!)  

We put out a call to Nathan's parents who came over with a bottle of wine that they had been given as a gift.  (They also weren't drinkers.)  We all traded stories to determine what had happened.  Bottom line: the tornado did a direct hit on the golf course, taking down about 125 trees and a barn.  As it hit, the siren at the clubhouse was sounded to bring golfers in, but there were still some out, including Nathan.  Megan was shouting for him to come in.  They gathered both babies and the dog, and hid under a mattress in a hallway without windows.  The house shuddered and creaked, and the power and phone went out.  When they emerged, the house was still intact, but they had no power or phone.  The mailbox was gone, as was Robin's Little Tykes play slide combo.  Robin's sandbox was impaled to the ground with a tree branch that pierced it as the whole tree came down, missing the house by inches, and the world around them was filled with downed trees.

The family spent the night with me.  I did an emergency run to the grocery store to get some supplies in order to feed everyone.  The next morning, around 5:30, Nathan and Megan left to go to the golf course.  I kept the babies and dog with me.  The power was restored that day, as was the phone line.  Grandpa Phil helped to restore the mailbox.  Nathan got out the fork lift and started moving the downed trees to the perimeter of the course.  Salvation Army volunteers from their rehab program provided some assistance, as did Grandpa Phil.  The family was only with me that one night.  Nathan, of course, had a lot of work ahead of him in order to get the golf course ready for business again.  

The whole tornado experience was nerve-shattering.  Thank God, it all turned out okay.  It certainly was a Race Day to remember!             

             

           

Never Thought of It That Way Before...

 I had a routine appointment with my pulmonologist last week after a year.  He asked if I was vaccinated against COVID-19, and also if I'd had the virus.  I answered yes, I'm vaccinated and no, I didn't get the virus.  I complained that, for at least a year, no one came in my house, and I basically went nowhere, and that it was a lonely existence.  His next comment was, "You must have done something right because you never got the virus."  Hmmm.  I never thought of it that way.  I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to be thankful that my sacrifice wasn't in vain.

Perception is everything.  Doesn't even have to be true to be true for YOU.  What you believe is your reality, regardless of how twisted it may be.  When I was in divorce litigation with my ex, he was asking for "reasonable visitation, with prior notice" with our daughter (age 12 at the time).  To me, that meant he would see her whenever it was convenient for him.  That isn't anywhere close to parental visitation schedules according to Indiana's recommendations of every other weekend and every other holiday.  In my mind, I wanted to force him to be a real father by enforcing the Indiana recommendations, and I told that to my attorney.  My lawyer commented, "I thought you told me your daughter didn't have a good relationship with her father."  Yes, I did.  "Then why do you want to do that to her?  Well, duh.  I never thought of it that way before.  We went with his visitation provision, and the rest is history.  But that's another post altogether.

Once upon a time, I was in psych therapy--my choice.  I was learning so much about myself and learning about my enabling behaviors before "enabling" was even a term (1970s).  I was in a relationship with the man I would eventually marry, but complaining that he wasn't honest about his emotions.  He would exhibit behaviors like the silent treatment or resistance to sharing, but when I asked him what was wrong, he would say "Nothing", in spite of the fact that there was obviously SOMETHING.  I mean, I may be dumb, but one of my faults isn't insensitivity to emotional signals.  My therapist asked, "What do you do then?"  My response was that I kept asking, thinking he would eventually reveal what was irritating him.  The therapist cut me up short by saying, "Why do you do that?"  Huh?  Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?  "No.  You asked; he answered.  You have to take his answer at face value.  Otherwise, you are playing into a manipulative mind game."  Whoa!  I never thought of it that way before, yet it was obvious that she was right.  It still took YEARS for me to shake free of that, but I eventually did.  AFTER the divorce.

One other lightbulb moment came when I was challenged to see things from the perspective of others.  Usually, it's a gift.  Sometimes, it's a curse.  Most of the time, it allows me to forgive people for reasons even I don't understand because...well...they seem to not know any better.  They don't even ask for forgiveness because they don't know (or won't admit) that they ever did anything wrong.  When I looked at it that way--it's not their fault; they are just emotionally flawed--I realized I had never thought of it that way before.

Don't get me wrong: I have standards, some of which put me on the outs with certain family members, but I'm not willing to give in.  Right or wrong, I hold strong to my beliefs, but I am also willing to accept new thoughts that I might never have thought of before.  Not sure it matters to anyone other than me, but that's also an idea I never thought of before!

    

The Genealogy Rabbit Hole

 There are two television programs about genealogy that I watch whenever I find them.  One is called Who Do You Think You Are?  It usually focuses on adopted people in search of their bio parents and/or siblings.  That particular program somewhat bores me because the template for the show seems to be the same every time.  Child searches; relatives found; meeting set up; emotional reunion.  Heavy on forced drama, which really isn't needed.  These reunions have enough pathos of their own.

The other show is Finding Your Roots, which digs deeper into the lives of ancestors, telling the stories of their lives through found documents, etc., with expert genealogy researchers doing the legwork.  This one gets interesting because it is developed in a story line.  It's on PBS, but not regularly.  When I happen upon it, I'm sure to watch and sometimes record.  

The problem with seeking out the stories of your ancestors is that the more you know, the more questions you have...and the harder it is to find answers.  All of the principals of the stories have passed on, and all that is left is legal documents or newspaper articles that may or may not be accurate.  Memories fail or fade, and in some cases, are contrived.  

My interest in genealogy piqued back in the early 1970s when my uncle showed me a Civil War diary that his great-grandfather kept while serving in the Union Army.  It only covered a few months, and much of it was written in pencil and fading.  He let me borrow it so I could find ways to have it preserved.  Over the years, I did a lot with it.  Scanned every page and transcribed it.  Researched things that were mentioned that I didn't understand.  Got hints about family.  Sent it to the US Army Archives to evaluate and return.  Sent countless letters and got countless return correspondence, all of which was done by what is now called "snail mail" because email wasn't a thing yet.  It took years to get a picture of what my g-g-grandfather was doing during the Civil War and after.  One hint led to another.  More places to search.  More fascination.  More questions.  And that becomes the rabbit hole.  It's like the vacuum of a whirlpool or a black hole in space.  It sucks me in.  I get lost in it.  Suddenly, hours are gone, and I have nothing to show for it except more questions and frustrations.  Ah, but the desire to know the stories of my people is overwhelming!  More!  More!  More!

The dawn of the Internet made every search so much easier, but all of the documents and pictures didn't get on it by magic.  Somewhere along the line, some very dedicated people posted all of them.  Posting genealogical information is always a work in progress.  Hats off to those who do all of that so that the rest of us can search and find!

Somewhere along the line, my daughter caught the genealogy bug.  For a short time, she worked from home for a site called genealogy.com when her children were quite little. She got really good at searching records for families, online, but the children were really too young to have Mom's attention at the computer all the time.  Still, I get to reap the rewards of her great skills!  She is as interested in finding the stories of family as I am!  (I guess I should say "families" because she works on both my family and her dad's.  My grandchildren's paternal grandma is also a genealogy nut, so Grandma Judy does the honors for that side of their descendants.)

Back when Megan and the children all lived with me, we would do cemetery adventures throughout Hendricks County and Putnam County to search for the graves of her father's relatives who came here and stayed here, usually on Memorial Day.  (Bless them, on at least one of those treks, the children were still in diapers.  Nothing like changing a diaper on the ground next to a tombstone!  I'm pretty sure whoever was buried there wouldn't mind.  We meant no disrespect.)  On one trip, I think we visited 11 cemeteries; on another, I think nine.  We took hydration and snacks.  I have already written about some of these trips, but here are some highlights:

*Megan had been searching for graves she hadn't been able to find.  We turned into a huge cemetery in Greencastle, IN, and I didn't think we had a chance among all of those graves, but I saw some older stones up the hill on the right.  I called out some names on tombstones when Meg gave out a shriek.  Just the graves she was looking for...first shot!

*One cemetery is in semi-remote Fillmore, IN, where Meg's McNary grandparents, and others, are buried.  Fillmore is a little burg with, as far as we could tell, no place with public restrooms, and I really had to go!  If we left Fillmore to find a potty, we would be going too far out of our way to return.  I decided to tough it out.  When we got to the cemetery, there was an open outhouse, complete with toilet paper!  The heavens opened and the angels sang!  Ahhhh...relief!  Thank you, Fillmore Cemetery!

*It was in this same cemetery that a butterfly fluttered around Megan and landed on her.  Of course, she wept, believing (as I do) that her buried grandparents were blessing her!

*Also in this cemetery, little Ryan, who was maybe 3 or so, was allowed to roam free as long as he stayed in sight.  When it was time to move on, we found him, on the ground, playing and talking at the outer fenced limits of the cemetery, at a child's grave.  There might have been a toy there, but who was he talking to?  He said he was playing with something furry.  I didn't know what to think.  They say children can connect with things we adults don't comprehend.  I'll always wonder....

*On one trip, we took a wrong turn for a known cemetery and ended up on a rutted road/path up a steep hill.  It went through woods, had a stream running over the path, and had no way to turn around.  We kept going and ended up at the top of the hill in a clearing with about six houses developed in a semi-circle.  It was called Sunrise Praise Point.  We'd long ago figured out we weren't on the road to the cemetery and were looking for a way out.  There was a young man walking alongside the "road".  We stopped and asked him directions to the exit.  With a huge grin on his face, he said the only way out was the way we had come in.  Ack!  I think he had answered this question before!

*One cemetery actually had a small playground at the entrance.  (Good thinking!)  Robin and Ryan went to play there while their mother and I scanned the gravestones looking for names.  Robin had on a brand new sundress that I'd bought for next to nothing, but it was really cute.  She came back with all kinds of gunk on the front.  I thought she had thrown up on herself, and she said she had...but her brother ratted her out.  She had found a bird's egg and managed to smash it on herself.

*That same day, the only convenient way in and out of a cemetery for us was to step through a barbed wire fence.  We all managed, except Robin's sundress, already sullied by a scrambled egg, caught on a barb and snagged a tear.  Bye-bye dress.  Worn once!

*On one of our trips, little Ryan was walking among the tombstones.  He commented, "At least we aren't trapped."  I didn't understand.  I asked him to repeat what he said, and he did: "At least we aren't trapped."  It dawned on me that the dear child probably thought that the people whose graves we sought were trapped in those tombstones.  

*I didn't realize how steeped in the genealogical thing we were until I heard my young granddaughter declare to someone, "We are going to visit some relatives, and they're alive!"

The problem with our cemetery searches is that they only validate where someone ended up.  Although I have the locations of my Covill grandparents' graves, in different cemeteries and different towns, their graves are not marked.  I wish to God I had the money to buy them even a simple stone.  I never knew them, but everyone deserves to have their life and death marked.  

I'm always more interested in how and where my people lived.  That's the tricky part.  So many interesting stories....so many gaps to fill.  There are questions that will probably never be answered in my lifetime.  Almost for that reason alone, I hope there is some form of discovery after I pass on.  Or maybe I will know all things when I die...or maybe I'll just be worm food.  I will just hate to miss how everything ends.  Never did like being left out!  

     

 

Time for the Home?

 I'm feeling very much like the absent-minded professor these days.  Throughout the pandemic, I left the house only when absolutely necessary, and no one was allowed in.  I got used to my hermit existence.  When things began to loosen up just a bit, I began to try harder to get out.  

When I got my first COVID vaccine at the Hendricks County Fairgrounds--a place I know well--I exited the fairgrounds from a direction I wasn't used to.  Got confused when I understood that I was going the wrong way.  Scrambled my brain to get back on track, using the compass reading on my rearview car mirror.  Good grief!  For my second COVID shot at the same venue, I made sure I was on the right path to head home.  Guess what?  It doesn't take nearly as long to get home when you know where you're going!

Keeping track of my prescriptions, doctor appointments, and medical tests and screenings has become  an unpaid part-time job.  At one time, my prescriptions all expired at the same time.  Now, the schedule is all screwed up, so I have to keep checking the bottles to see when they expire and if a doctor's authorization is required.  Two of my doctors in my network are right here in Plainfield where I live.  The rest are in Avon at the IU West hospital.  To do the Plainfield visits, I only need 10 minutes' travel time.  The Avon ones require 45 minutes--20 to get there, and the rest to find handicapped parking and walking to the inside, including finding the offices.  I try to consolidate trips up there. 

My Primary Care Physician's office called this morning to tell me that an order had been placed for me to have a CT scan of my belly.  I am also overdue for a CT scan for my lungs.  Silly me, I called my pulmonologist's office to see if I could schedule both for the same time.  The gal informed me that the lung scan had already been scheduled for July 8th.  Well...darn!  I kinda thought I knew that, but couldn't remember when.  And then I looked at my weekly planner for July, and there it was!  Who knew to look at July??  It's gaslighting, I swear!  They are trying to make me think I'm crazy!

Last Wednesday, May 12th, was my son-in-law's birthday.  I've always been bumfuzzled about what to do for the young man, especially since he lives so far from me (Olympia, WA) and I never know how long things will take to get there.  I wrote a check to him on May 2nd, but didn't send it because...lazy, I guess.  So on the 12th, I scrambled to send him an online greeting and told my daughter that I was ashamed that the check wasn't in the mail yet.  When I signed off with her for the day, I told her to give the Birthday Boy a special hug from me.  She responded..."You do know that his birthday isn't until Monday, right?"  Whaaaat?  Why did I think his birthday was on the 12th when it was actually on the 17th??  And how stupid must I look to the young man for receiving an early online card, and the check STILL not in the mail?  <Groan>

A couple of weeks ago, I sent my daughter an email.  It got returned as undeliverable.  I had a typo in her email address.  Sheesh.  I sent my daughter another email with attachments for my Will and other end-of-life documents.  She never said a word about it.  Today, I asked her if she had any questions.  She didn't know what I was talking about.  It seems that I sent those documents to a very old AOL account, so they were delivered, but she likely would never have found them.  Ye gods!  

To be honest, I don't feel that I am at risk for the home yet, mentally.  I'm just not paying appropriate attention; however, it really does perturb me when I do stuff that makes it obvious that I'm not as sharp as I once was.  My heart is in the right place.  My brain isn't!

The final example of my cognitive dissonance is this very post.  You may notice that the fonts are all messed up.  I don't know what I did to cause it.  I tried and tried to fix it, all for naught, so what you see is what you get.  If lack of computer knowledge is a symptom of time for the "home", I'm done for!

"Give Me a Simple Life"

 There were rules in our household when I was growing up.  Some of them were unspoken, but most of them were rooted in what young ladies and young gentleman should and shouldn't do, with the greatest emphasis on the young ladies' behavior since there were two of us in the family, and only one boy--the baby.  Specific milestones of femininity had an age limit, and 8th grade graduation seemed to be the line of demarcation.  Prior to that, we were not permitted to shave our legs, wear nylons and high heels, or wear makeup.  Brassieres were provided on an as-need basis.  No sooner.  As far as my mother was concerned, so-called training bras were only needed if one had something to train.  I played and swam outdoors, topless, for years until 2nd grade, when Mom decided that I was getting too old to run around the neighborhood, topless.  I had to wear a shirt after that.  When the time came, I was given a camisole to wear as an undershirt.  Finally, Mom had to hog-tie me to take me out for a bra.  I remembered how she and my sister would tussle over the need for a bra, so I decided I wasn't going to ask!  And so it went.  We weren't encouraged to grow up too fast.

As Navy kids, we moved too often to become slaves to fashion trends or brand names.  I would look around in each new school to see what the other kids were wearing or doing, and try to fit in.  When I was 10--mature for my age--my dad was put on inactive duty.  We were sent back to the States from Japan as new civilians.  He was still in the Navy, but inactive duty meant that he would have to find a job and a place for us all to live.  We ended up in the western suburb of Chicago--Oak Park.  Dad taught Industrial Arts and coached football in a nearby suburb.  I was plunked in school in what was then an "old money" community, where Ernest Hemingway grew up and went to school. This was 1958.  

In October of that first school year, I was invited to a birthday party for a girl in my 6th grade class.  Her father was the Vice President of the Gillette Company in Chicago, a fact that I didn't know then and wouldn't have impressed me at the time.  At that Saturday party, I was introduced to pizza for the very first time, having never heard of it before.  Then the whole party walked to the high school stadium to cheer for the high school team.  The Birthday Girl's family paid for the whole lot of us.  Wow!  (I should note here that suburban Chicago games were always played on Saturday afternoons instead of Friday nights.  I'm guessing that it was just to keep things peaceful.)

I remember that party because I stuck out like a sore thumb.  I wore an aqua long-sleeved corduroy shirt and black pants--the same outfit Mom bought for me, along with a parka, while in San Francisco waiting for Dad's ship to take us to Japan a year or more before.  (It was August in the rest of the country, but chilly in San Francisco!  Our experience in California was in San Diego/Coronado.  We weren't prepared for cold, having just driven through the dessert to get there!)  Mom had done my already-curly hair in pin curls for the party.  No one else had curls...or boy-clothes.  I came home in awe of the fun I had, yet knowing that my entire life had not prepared me for mixing it up with the other side of life.  

(Side note:  that Birthday Girl and I became fast friends.  We had so many adventures together!  My mother felt threatened, I think, because she once told me, "We can't compete with what they have to offer."  Kathy and I didn't care.  I was accepted as family in her luxurious house, and she was accepted in our rented home.  My dad always called her "Stumpy" because she was only 4'11" tall.   She loved it.  A few times, if she was going one way and he was going the other in the same hallway at my house, he would just keep walking and back her down.  He was so big and strong, and she was so little!  If I invited her to stay for dinner on any occasion, her first question was always a suspicious, "What are you having?"  It the answer was liver and onions, she was OUT.)  

The same year as Kathy's birthday party, I was invited to another.  It was all female and everyone dressed up.  Most of the girls were wearing nylons and short heels, with shaved legs.  I mentioned it to my mother.  On her own, Mom decided that she didn't want me to be the only one sticking out.  Thereafter, I was allowed to shave my legs--sending my elder sister in to help me shave for the first time--and bought me a garter belt and nylons.  (Pantyhose weren't invented until I was in college and mini-skirts became popular.)  

Bottom line:  I was never a trend-setter.  I didn't have proper respect for expensive brands of clothing or household items.  We were just an average American family, and I wasn't the kind of kid to demand more or better.  I was a Tom Boy.  I loved being outside, playing with wayward snails, barefoot, and picking up what I always called "pretty rocks".  Vegetable gardening attracted me.  Music, of course.  Musicals, of course.  Fashion?  Nope.  Name brands?  Nope.  And my appearance shows it!  Do I care?  Nope, as long as I don't embarrass my family.  My income and energy levels are limited.  I do the best I can!

I grew up with a "good enough" mentality.  I learned to make do with what I had on hand.  Some people say I have a knack for making things work with the mish-mash of my belongings.  What I am discovering in my old age is that none of that matters.  If it makes me happy, good enough.  

This morning, my housekeeper/friend came over to give me a lamp.  It matches another lamp that she gave me over a year ago when her sister was moving and consolidating belongings.  I gratefully accepted it, then asked, "Is that a Stiffle Lamp?"  It is!  I now own TWO authentic Stiffle lamps that I would not have purchased for myself due to expense.  I have other Stiffle wannabes, but these are the real thing!  Do I care?  No...but isn't it nice to have something to brag about that I didn't  have to pay for?  You betcha!

This was a long narrative to explain a simple thing.  Sorry.  I'm not ashamed of my Bag Lady image.  As my father always said, "I'm not trying to wow anybody."  I have my priorities.  I couldn't care less about fancy name brands or a glitzy image.  Whatever admiration I get is not due to what I have, but how I live.  Am I bragging now?  Maybe!  What I have isn't fancy, but it's mine.  Life keeps me humble!   

     

English Teacher in the Quest for Perfection

Once in awhile, I review my previous blog posts and get shocked at my typos and/or omissions.  I go back and fix them, but (obviously) my followers have already seen them by the time I do.  How embarrassing!

Truth be known, I'm a Grammar Nazi.  I DO believe that presenting something written for public view creates an impression.  When I write my blog posts, I'm usually feeling vulnerable, which makes my mistakes even more glaring to me.  Trust me when I say that I seek your forgiveness for my blunders.  I do proofread...but true to most proofreading situations, the brain skips over the mistakes by way of expectation.  If you know what you meant, your brain doesn't get it.  

Be happy.  I'm trying to!