Who Do You Think You Are?

The genealogical research show "Who Do You Think You Are?" premiered tonight at 8pm on NBC. I was tipped off about its existence not only by marketing e-mails from Ancestry.com, but also by the author of the companion book, Megan Smolenyak Smolenyak, via Twitter.

On Megan's Facebook fan page, she posted a poll: "Grade the opening episode of 'Who Do you Think You Are?'" I rated it a B, and left the following comment:

There were very few things that rubbed me the wrong way about this episode; mostly, I enjoyed it.

First: I was always taught that the family name or surname is capitalized, not the given name. If the show is trying to encourage non-genealogists to start researching, the graphics should have reflected standard notation. (Unless I learned wrong.)

Second: I'm wondering if the entire series will be focused on finding "famous" or "influential" people in the subjects' lineages. As a standard Heinz 57 American myself, I have no such expectation, and have only ever found one mildly notable person in my line. Of course, if they didn't find someone interesting, and only found Average Joe Farmer back for generations, I suppose that wouldn't make good television.

Third: Would a library really permit a patron to view an original document without gloves, and to point to it with a pencil tip while reading?

Apart from these small issues, I LOVED the show. I live in Ohio, and much of my family is from the Cincinnati area, so that was a pleasant surprise. I also appreciated the personal nature of the research, really getting into who these people were. It's so easy sometimes to define our ancestors by their dates (hatched, matched, and dispatched), and the suspense of what happened to each ancestor, while sometimes excessive, was good television.

I'm very much looking forward to seeing the upcoming episodes! My own research has been sitting dormant for years; I expect that this will help rekindle my interest.

That said, I've already set my What's On TV? iPhone app to remind me of next Friday's episode. I'm also seriously considering making Friday night genealogy night.

Making Connections

Piecing together the lives of my ancestors is a big part of the joy I find in genealogy. I request death certificates, look at census records, find whatever data I can, and try to interpolate the details that would make these people real. Look at the dates, the events, the people who are suddenly conspicuously absent, and try to imagine what their lives were like, how they interacted with one another, how their lives were so different from ours.

But sometimes, in my zeal to track my lineage to the Old World, to piece together lives lived centuries ago, I skip past the more recent history.

Ordering a death certificate for a family member who has recently died... it's an awkward and melancholy situation for me. It seems almost the opposite of what I've been trying to accomplish with my more distant ancestors; seeing someone you knew, someone you loved, summarized in dates and places and a cause of death — it's rough. I've done it for my Memaw and my Granny, and it was strange and sad, but now I'm feeling even more awkward about doing it for Aaron's family. Specifically, his Grammie (d. 2008) and his mother (d. 1992).

I feel like it's important to have the documentation, even though it won't tell me anything I don't already know (or so I assume). Still, though, to see two very real lives boiled down to their endgame data — the thought of opening that envelope from the Ohio Department of Health is suddenly more sad, awkward, and uncomfortable than I've ever considered it before.

Postscript - As I was editing this entry, the song 100 Years by Five For Fighting shuffled up on my iTunes.

"Halftime goes by / Suddenly you're wise / Another blink of an eye / 67 is gone / The sun is getting high / We're moving on... "

Knocking Out The Cobwebs

According to my Research Log — which, incidentally, I nearly forgot even existed — I haven't sent out any research requests since September of 2006. That's over three years that my genealogy research has been sitting dormant.

I spent the evening going though our distant cousin's research, comparing it to the census records I'd found online last night (and previously), and inputting some (but not all) of the information on the descendant report he sent. I hesitate to include another researcher's information in my database without proof of documentation, since not all information sources are created equal. Still, when the data dovetails well enough with something I've already found elsewhere, I have no problem with including it... although I do make it my goal to get primary documentation for all of my dates and places and whatnot.

Tonight, I wrote a check to the Social Security Administration to get copies of the Social Security applications for Aaron's Grandpa and Grandma Schnuth, and his Uncle Tom. I probably don't really need Tom's info, but I figured that the info was available, and I was requesting it for other family members, anyway, so I may as well pony up the extra cash to make my research more complete.

(The SS-5 includes a good amount of juicy details for the genealogist, including the individual's name at the time of application, maiden name, mailing address, date and place of birth, father's and mother's names, race, gender, and employer — all written down by the person him/herself. It's hard to get much more of a primary source than straight from the horse's mouth.)

My goal is to fill in all the blanks in my research, now that I've gotten back one more generation via census records (and the research of others). I'm very close to making another generational connection, but it's around the missing 1890 census... so I'll focus on completeness before I try grasping at straws to get back one more generation.

Catching Up On Research

My right hand is recovering from that peculiar hand cramp that comes from writing the word "Pennsylvania" about 20 times in a row — under "Place of birth of this person," "Place of birth of Father of this person," and "Place of birth of Mother of this person" for a family of eight in the 1900 U.S. Census. I could use ditto marks or arrows, sure, but that would make me a lax researcher, and we can't have that.

I'm just now really digging into the data we received from a distant cousin of Aaron's, back in January. If I thought that researching a relatively common name like Cook was bad (which it really isn't, until people disappear and elope), I had no idea how challenging Schnuth research could be. Schnuth is such an uncommon name that there's a good side and a bad side to researching it. The good: If two Schnuth families are living close to each other, you can bet dollars to doughnuts that they're related. The bad: "Schnuth" gets misinterpreted as "Smith" (or misspelled as "Snuth") so often that it totally offsets the awesome digital advances of the last 20 years of genealogy research (i.e. sitting at home, searching census indices in my jammies, versus spending an afternoon at the county library).

I've only just started double-checking the connection between Peter SCHNUTH (b. 1861) and Aaron's great-grandfather James (b. ca. 1890/91), and I've found other branches of the family living in Pennsylvania that I just couldn't resist documenting right away, before I forgot about them.

I get so caught up in research — connecting the dots, fitting the pieces together, drawing correlations — that it's easy to let time slip by. Alas, I have training to attend at work tomorrow, so I need to get to bed so I can be fresh-faced and ready to go tomorrow morning. No marathon internet genealogy sessions like I used to do in my dorm room, years ago. Sigh.

October is Family History Month

I'd forgotten that, since I moved my blog over to the same web host as my portfolio site, I'd never reinstalled Retrospect, the GEDCOM database reader. So, although I haven't done much research lately, or even added the data from the last time I did research, my genealogy database is once again available.

Expect to see my research updated in the relatively near future. I have some data from my husband's side of the family yet to add, as well as some of my own.

(By the way, all you living family members, I've intentionally left out your information for privacy's sake. No one needs to know that you're umpty-ump years old...)

The Old General Store

My first major project since getting my new scanner has been to digitize the photos from our honeymoon, back in May 2003. (The process went surprisingly smoothly, which bodes well for future scanning projects.)

This is where we stayed for a good part of our trip: Aaron's grandmother's house in Cummington, Massachusetts. The house had long since been parceled out into apartments, and Grammie kept one in reserve for herself, in case she had need to go visit her rental property. She graciously let us stay in her apartment for the week, using it as a home base of sorts.

As far as the honeymoon photos go, I still need to properly date and geotag them all... but that's a follow-up project for another day.

Pictures of Mom

My Mom asked me to scan in some pictures of her over the years, since the family photo albums are all at my place now. I posted over a dozen of them over on my Facebook... but this is one of my favorites. She's probably about 18 years old here, and I'd like to think that the family resemblance is obvious, even though I was never quite that thin.

Hanging With the Fam

Yesterday, my step-brother Phil graduated from OSU with honors and a double-major. Mom and Gary made the trip from Texas to see him walk, and turned the drive into Road Trip 2009: they stopped at my grandparents' in Centerville, spent a few days in Columbus, and arrived here in Toledo yesterday evening.

We got them checked into a nearby hotel, had dinner at Olive Garden, and talked for a while at our house before they headed back to their hotel for the night. I'm not sure what all is on today's agenda, but I know that lunch at Zoup! will be a starter, probably followed by looking through some old photo albums they brought, and probably taking some photos of our own. Apart from that, I'm not sure what they'll be up for -- walking around the park, or just hanging out for a few hours before Aaron goes to work and we remaining three go to dinner somewhere. We'll see.

At any rate, it's nice to see the two of them. It's been a couple years since I saw Mom, and considerably longer since I last saw Gary. I'm glad they were able to make the trip.

Sesame Street and Sausage Cake

Earlier this evening, I posted to Twitter:

Busting out my DVD of Christmas on Sesame Street and preparing to make the annual sausage cake. Yes, there's really sausage in it.

Aw, Mr. Hooper! This is making me cry already. Not good. BTW, Big Bird ice skates about as well as I do.

Now, sausage cake is a regular Christmas tradition (whether I'm dieting or not), but I hadn't seen Christmas Eve on Sesame Street in years and years. So, when I decided to combine the two into a new yuletide tradition, I hadn't counted on the fact that Sesame Street would make me bawl.

I'm not sure why this happens. Maybe my 32-year-old heart just can't handle remembering what it felt like to be a wondering little four-year-old. When something hits me just right, though, like this DVD bringing back those memories of curling up with Mom and Memaw, watching my favorite Christmas specials by the flicker of pillar candles — I just lose it. I used to be such a rock, too.

Anyway, between wondering whether kids these days know that there really was a Mr. Hooper, and realizing that David really was pretty cute, and signing (and singing) along with Keep Christmas With You, I actually did manage to make some sausage cake.

I mentioned yesterday on Facebook that I'd be making sausage cake soon. Some of the responses:

Barb: sausage cake?

Me: it's a family tradition! it's like a spice cake, with raisins and cinnamon, but with sausage and chuck in the mix. supposed to be an old welsh recipe.

Manh: sausage cake?, i was thinkin' the same thing

Barb: Hmmm, sounds interesting but I think I'll pass...

Jess: I don't know about sausage cake... is it greasy or do you brown and rinse the meat prior to adding to the cake?

As I've mentioned before, the sausage cake is a Cook family holiday tradition. Since I'm sworn to secrecy about the recipe, I can't share with you all the gory details, but there are some parts of the baking that really hark back to my childhood, like mixing the ingredients with my hands (see above). It looks gross, but it's the perfect job for little hands, and it brings back great, giggly memories.

There are other parts that my mom used to do that make me feel grown-up now, like making the brown sugar topping. It's kind of a candymaking sort of affair, and it takes a strong arm to beat the syrup as it cools. It's also a challenge to pour the topping on the cakes before it hardens. I remember watching Mom making this when I was a child, standing nearby and smelling the spices and listening to the sound of the brown sugar syrup as it crackled and cooled.

I wonder if any of my more distant cousins on Grandpa Cook's side of the family make this recipe every year? I wonder if they have memories of it like I do? Wouldn't it be neat if I met or wrote to my cousins someday, and we had this in common?

I wonder how far back this recipe goes...?

Christmas Cards

I know I'm in the doghouse with the grandparents when my Christmas card, the card that usually includes a letter detailing what's been going on with Grandpa Cook's health and with family matters, says only, "Hope you are doing well."

o_O

I spent tonight printing out photos of Hawaii to send along with our card to them. Tomorrow or Thursday, I plan to write a letter detailing how much we loved Hawaii (in case I didn't already tell them), how my job's doing, what the latest genealogy finds have been (not much on his side, honestly), and what our future "family" plans are. I don't get to see Grandpa and Grandma Cook much these days, and I don't want to get out of favor with them, being that they're my only grandparents left.

I also spent tonight writing in the Christmas cards that needed written in — my cousin Michael, for one, along with a couple people who are getting their presents along with their cards.

I really do enjoy sending out Christmas cards; it's not a chore for me. Sometimes, it's nice to go all analog on life, to get away from the computer and the iPhone and actually write out my sentiments longhand. Slows things down. Makes things a little more meaningful and mindful.

These days, we could all use a little mindfulness.

My Obsession With Photos

This weekend, Aaron and I spent an afternoon with his Dad and brother. We went out to lunch, then spent a few hours just talking at their Dad's house.

Of course, me being such a sucker for photos, and being curious about Aaron's family, I started off the requisite photo album viewing by declaring, "I want to see pictures of Fat Grammie!" (Referring, of course, to the brief period of time in the early 1970s when Aaron's grandmother was quite overweight. She went on Weight Watchers and lost it all, and kept it off over the years.)

We ended up looking though nearly a dozen photo albums from the late '60s and the '70s, and I got to see not only Fat Grammie, but Poppa with a beard, and Baby Aaron at two weeks — and Aaron's mother, who passed away just about five years before I met him. I kept being amazed by the people and places I was seeing in these photos — "Wow, you really do look like your mother," and, "Is that the same rocking chair that's still at Grammie and Poppa's house?" and just looking over toward the kitchen to be sure that the linoleum in that photo from 1978 is really the same linoleum that's still there today.

It wasn't until then that I realized why I have such an obsession with photos, and candid, unposed shots in particular.

They're a time capsule.

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Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm always so bummed when I forget to wear my seasonal accoutrements on the one day in the year when they're appropriate. My Mom had this pin back in the '80s (and probably earlier), and I managed to appropriate it for my own sometime around high school, and not lose it in all this time.

Truth is, I don't have any solid proof that I'm Irish. Family lore says I am, and the McLaughlin surname that entered into my lineage around 1844 is the most likely source. Other McLaughlins have done more thorough research than I, and have postulated that this McLaughlin line does indeed trace back to Northern Ireland, and that they came to the New World in the 1730s or '40s.

Hence, since I could be an entire one-hundredth of a percent Irish, being that my 8x-Great Grandfather was most likely Irish, I felt OK not wearing green today to make myself "more Irish." (Although, since Wikipedia doesn't mention anything about this aspect of "the wearing of the green," I'm now more dubious about whether that's really why people wear green on St. Paddy's Day.)

Unsour Grapes

I was sitting at my desk today, eating some grapes and reading a training manual, when my mind started to wander. I remembered being about ten years old and visiting my Granny in Florida, and eating the grapes that grew wild on her property.

My extended-nuclear family (myself, Mom, Memaw, and Aunt Sammie) had moved to Florida, ostensibly to be closer to Granny and Uncle Charlie (Memaw's mother and brother). So, for a three-year stretch in the mid-80s, while we lived nearby, we would visit Granny and Charlie on a regular basis — maybe once a week? We'd make the half-hour drive south from Riverview to Ruskin, passing retirement communities and various small towns and orange-packing plants and long expanses of nothing but sandspurs, until we finally took a few turns down overgrown back roads in Ruskin and made the left-hand turn onto Granny's weed-choked driveway. I still remember the sound of the tall, dry weeds smacking the underside of Sammie's car as we rumbled up the long drive, following the tire tracks through the overgrown palmettos and vines and other various semi-tropical underbrush.

Charlie's old blue truck would be parked by the shack, and we'd pull into the front yard (which looked like every other front yard I'd seen in Florida: mainly sand, with a few sparse patches of crabgrass and prickers and sandspurs). Granny and Charlie were always glad to see us, and they'd come out of their shack to greet us with big ol' grins on their weathered faces.

Granny and Charlie's shack wasn't really appropriate for company — the floorboards were oddly spaced and rotten, and there was no plumbing — so we mainly stood outside and talked; looking back, I don't even really remember what we talked about. I was young enough that I still enjoyed playing with Granny's thick, leathery skin; and I spent lots of time contemplating her long wispy white hair, always pulled up into about half a dozen tiny buns, each flattened to her head with a single bobby pin. She and Charlie both dipped snuff, so our visits would be punctuated with occasional spitting, either in a coffee can sitting on the ground or just right in the dirt and weeds, and they both smelled of tobacco.

I always had to be careful not to wander off; not that I was really tempted to go exploring, since everybody always made sure to remind me about all the snakes that lived in the weeds. Sometimes, though, Granny would take us back to see her garden. I honestly don't remember much of what she grew, but I'm sure it was typical garden fare, with some southern stuff like okra thrown in for local color.

One day in particular, she took us a different way, opposite from the way to the garden. Just around the corner from where we'd parked our car in the yard, there grew a wild grapevine with ripe fruit. Granny picked a few grapes for us, and I remember how delicious they were, just for being wild. The skins were a silvery-lavender color and were thick; and there were seeds, of course. But I still remember those few grapes as being the best grapes I'd ever had, before or since.

We moved back to Ohio in the summer of 1987, and the last time I saw my Granny was during a summer vacation we took when I was in junior high, a couple years later. She died just after Thanksgiving, the fall of my Freshman year of high school, at age 79.

Funny, isn't it, though, how we can look back on something that seemed so normal and commonplace at the time, and find such joyous details in the memories?

Christmas Eve

It's a very quiet day at the office; even more quiet than usual. It's Christmas Eve, and I think that half of the building (or more) took a personal holiday today. The parking garage seemed even more deserted today than on the day after Thanksgiving.

The person who can answer all the questions I have about the business intelligence application I've been trying to learn is finally back from maternity leave — a few days early, actually — so I at least won't be stuck all day with no one to answer my questions and nothing else to do. She's pretty busy, though, so it's not like she's at my disposal constantly, like the trainers in Loan Corrections were. I guess I'll only be stuck for part of the day with nothing else to do, then...

I'll get to leave an hour early at 3:30pm today, since it's the day before a holiday, which is a nice perk. Go home, open presents, have some dinner, make the traditional Christmas sausage cake (yes, it's really made of sausage, and it's really a cake — I think we've been over this before), and enjoy a quiet Christmas Eve with my husband (who has today off of work).

Tomorrow, we'll be going to Cleveland for Christmas Day. We'll be bringing sausage cake and the zucchini-chocolate cake I made last night, along with presents for everyone. We won't be bringing the new video camera, though; we decided that we really don't need to remember Christmas as is it now. Grammie's Alzheimer's is getting pretty pronounced these days, and Poppa's having a hard time getting around. Aunt Elaine can't make it to holidays at all, due to her own medical issues. Better to remember the earlier years of Elaine's Christmas cookies and Poppa being all sprightly and Grammie fussing in the kitchen... and Pete and his family always being late. :-)

Christmas in Parma, OH - December 22, 1999

I'm not going to make a habit of posting my home videos to my blog, but I did want to post this one. This is the first part of a belated Christmas present for my family, wherein I'm taking the footage we filmed during Christmas 1999 and putting it together into a properly-edited DVD. I managed to take eleven minutes of gruelingly boring footage of me and Philip decorating the Christmas tree and edit it down into three fairly inoffensive minutes with a soundtrack. Granted, my video editing skillz aren't what they used to be, plus I have to get used to using Adobe Premiere, but I still had fun and turned out a decent home video.

Well, the first part of one, anyway.

Granny (1911-1990)

The focus of this year's Halloween Family History Devotional was uploading to Flickr a good part of the genealogy photos I've accumulated over the years. There are some others I have in my collection, but they're more cousins and indirect lines rather than my direct ancestry.

This photo, however, is of my Granny.

I count myself extremely lucky that I got to live in Florida from age 8 to age 11, so I got to spend some quality time with my Granny. By that time, she was 75 years old, with a puckered, happy face and leathery, saggy skin from working in the fields for most of her life. Her hair was long and thin and nearly white, and she would pin it up in half a dozen small, flat curls under her straw hat.

I love this picture for so many reasons. I can see the family resemblance much easier in this younger version of Granny, and not just the patterns of aging in the womenfolk of our family. I also love the fact that she's barefoot, with a dog barking at her heels.

And, no, she's not pregnant. She had that peculiar firm-fat belly decades later, and her daughter (my Memaw) inherited the same belly. Granny tended to wear her pants unnaturally high, up over her quasi-beer-gut, with her shirt tucked in, as great-grandparents are wont to do.

She used to tell fantastic voodoo stories, too, most of which I never heard or remembered. The one story I remember, as best as I can remember it, involved a feud between two women in town. The voodoo practitioner in question obtained a piece of her enemy's hair, put it into a glass bottle (a milk bottle, perhaps?), then peed in the bottle, said her voodoo witchery spell, and put the sealed jar in the oven. When the bottle finally burst in the oven, the other woman started pissing, and couldn't stop pissing all over herself. The woman ran to the voodoo woman's house, pissing all the while, and asked her forgiveness so the curse would be lifted.

I know my family tends to take these stories with a grain of salt, being that no one really practices voodoo or believes in witchcraft. Me, I don't suppose there's any harm in imagining that it really could have happened. But, really, you'd have to hate someone a whole hell of a lot to make your house smell like burning piss.

But I digress. Granny was always a hardworking woman who cared for her kids. She even faked Memaw's birthdate by one year when she went into school so she looked old enough to go to school along with her slower older brother, to beat up the kids who would pick on him. Memaw kept that falsified birthdate for her entire life, since she had no birth certificate, and school records were the only proof she had of her age.

I know my aunt and my mom know more of Granny's stories. I keep hoping that I'll be able to get one or both of them to write down what they remember. I just know that there was so much more to her than I ever got to see myself.

Donald William Cook, 1953 - 2007

We just got the news this week that my Uncle Donnie died back in March. Apparently, his long-time friend had tried to reach Mom afterward, but didn't have her current contact info, and was fruitlessly searching for her in Ohio.

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This Subscription Is Not Eligible For A Refund

I guess that's what I get for being a long-time member of a paid-subscription website. First, my annual subscription price gets raised (albeit some time ago). Then I find that, since I didn't cancel in time, I'm not eligible for a refund. That's $99 down the tubes, since a.) I'm not actively doing genealogy these days, and b.) I have online census access for free through the Toledo Lucas County Public Library.

So... if anyone I know would like to look up some census info on Ancestry.com, give me a holla. I'll hook you up.

Diana's First Christmas, 1976

[Posted on Flickr by dianaschnuth].


Thirty years ago this month, this was the scene somewhere in Medina County, Ohio. According to the captions in my baby book:

July 4, 1976 was your first holiday but I am saving this place for Christmas. [Page Title: "My First Holidays"]

You were 8 months old and you were in awe. On the 27th you got the croop and bronchitis and spent 11 days in the hospital.

Gifts: Raggedy Ann, dress and leotards [tights], two squeeky toys, and a teddy bear (at the hospital).

Santa was played by Butch's brother Bill.

Mom also wrote about Christmas Eve in the baby diary:

December 24, 1976: Just got back from Gramma Dobbins. Took a picture of your dad and his girl got real mad. Gean got you a Raggedy Ann.

Later - Everyone was fussing over you saying how cute you are. Bonnie got you a little dress and leotards and she got Grannie [Memaw] and Mom a juice set. It was after midnight when you went to sleep so I'm tired. I was going to watch "The Blue Bird," a Shirley Temple movie, but you have really worn me out.

I love you, good night.
Mom

In addition to all this, I'd just like to mention that the plastic Santa suit with the beard made of quilt batting is so trés 70's. Way to go, Uncle Bill! :-)

I Miss That.

Time was when my Mom and I would go visit my Aunt Sammie, cousin Michael and Memaw every Sunday after church. We didn't always enjoy or appreciate the visits, but it just seemed like the thing you do on Sundays: go to visit family, eat the lunch they've prepared for you, listen to them complain or just talk, then politely excuse yourself to go home and get out of your Sunday clothes.

Thirteen years later, Mom lives with my step-Gary in Texas, Sammie and Michael live in Carolina, and Memaw's three years gone now. And I don't even go to church anymore.

Even though I'm all connected with the world and with my faraway friends via the magic of the internet, I feel isolated from my family. I don't understand how we were once so interdependent and loving and familiar, and now we're so far apart, both geographically and emotionally. I just don't get it.

An Open Letter To My Father

Dear Butch,
Dear "Dad,"
Dear Robert,

Hello,

We've never officially met. Not that I could remember, anyway. I'm sure you know who I am, though.

You and my mom were an item back in 1975, until she got pregnant. From how I've heard it told, you offered to pay for her to have an abortion. I'm a little unclear as to whether that was before or after you two broke up. It doesn't matter at this point, though, since she refused, and subsequently lost a paternity suit against you.

At any rate, you know who I am, even though we've never met. I honestly don't know much about you, although your family is pretty cool and always accepted me as one of their own. Whatever. Like I said, it doesn't matter at this point.

I've thought over the years about what I'd like to say to you, if I ever happened to be in the same room as you, or if I could ever get up the nerve to look you up in the phone book and find your address to write to you. Since I think I'm fairly safe here on the internet — since hundreds of friends and strangers will read this, but the likelihood of you actually finding it is slim to none — I choose to make this my venue to say what needs saying.

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Hooray For My Tax Dollars At Work

I'd just like to say that I am an incredible dork for not having signed up for a Lucas County library card sooner.

You know how I've been subscribing to the Ancestry.com U.S. Census collection for, like, $70 a year or something? Well... it turns out that HeritageQuest Online, available from the Toledo-Lucas County Libraries website, also has census images available. HeritageQuest also offers a search of PERSI, the PERiodical Source Index; books; Revolutionary War pensions and records, and others.

Apart from HeritageQuest, the library also subscribes to America's Obituaries & Death Notices, various biography collections, several newspaper archives, Sanborn Maps (holy crap! sweet!), and WorldCat, of course.

*facepalm*

I totally need to cancel my Ancestry.com subscription. And go look for that Sanborn Fire Insurance Map of Chipley, Florida in the 1930's Sanborn maps from cities in the state of Ohio.

Help From the Genealogy Guys

I've left voicemails and e-mailed comments in to podcasts before, but I still go all a-squee when I hear MY E-MAIL being read on the air, so to speak.

Last week, I e-mailed the Genealogy Guys about finding Great-Aunt Phoebe's service station. (Actually, she's my great-great-aunt, but who's counting?) Today, I listened to George and Drew give me (and hundreds of other genealogy buffs) some clues about where to go next:

1. City directories? Establish the year it was founded and the year it went out of business or changed hands.
2. Land and property records; perhaps a mortgage?
3. Florida Secretary of State: Bureau of Measurements' annual inspections, incorporations.
4. Florida State Archives for archived gov't records?
5. Local genealogical society or historical societies
6. Sanborn fire insurance maps? Chipley might not be large enough of a city to appear in one of those.

So, that gives me a pretty good start. The city directories were something I'd thought of myself, but I hadn't considered going to the Secretary of State. Good idea, George!

Other fun things: Drew actually pronounced "Schnuth" correctly, and George started out by giving a mini-plug of my podcast, as I'd decided to sign my e-mail with my podcast's name, as well as my own. Any publicity I can get is fine with me. :-)

I'm off to go search for some Washington County libraries online...

Pictures To Prove It

As we were swapping family photos over e-mail, a newly-discovered relative of mine told me, "I love photos also. In fact, when I am doing work on a family, I like to have their photo to look at. I think it brings reality to the numbers."

I took that to heart this week and decided to research one particular photo I'd found online a few years ago. My great-great-grandmother, Grannie Maudie, two of her sisters, and her daughter pose in front of a 1940's era service station. From what I read, Maudie's sister, Phoebe, actually owned the station, but the researcher who posted the information didn't know where the station was located.

Luckily, I discovered this back in 2001, and had plenty of time to approach Memaw about it before she passed. Maudie was Memaw's grandmother, and Memaw had spoken enough about "they was a bunch of girls in that family" that I figured she might know something about the service station. After all, she used to say that Aunt Miney (MY-knee) was the first person in the family to own a car, and I believe she said it was a Model T. (I'm still not sure who Aunt Miney is, but I'll piece it together someday.) So, I wasn't surprised when she knew exactly what I was talking about, and told me that the station had been out on Route 10.

After that, I didn't think about the service station for quite some time. I always knew I'd come back to it eventually, though.

This week, as I was pulling out family photos to inspire me in my genealogical research, I came across a print of the service station picture, and decided that I wanted to make it the cornerstone of my current project. I want to get as much information as possible about the women in the photograph, the service station, and how it came to be.

In getting my facts straight, I realized that I'd had a couple people recorded in the wrong families entirely, and that I didn't have much information on these ladies. I had dates, thanks to Mrs. Smith's research, but no sources. And I've become a stickler for sources lately.

So, tonight, I'm requesting death certificates for three of the four women in the picture: Phoebe, Delia, and Ida. I already have Maudie's. I'm hoping to see whether they had Social Security Numbers — if they did, I can order up their Social Security Applications. Those will tell me where they were employed, if anywhere, at the time they applied for the SSN; their home address; their places of birth and their parents' names; and a few other random goodies. Unfortunately, I'm fairly positive that Maudie never had a SSN, as her death certificate lists none, and she died in 1950, before it became mandatory for all U.S. residents to have a SSN. Phoebe also died relatively young, in 1957, at the age of 64; however, she may have had to have a SSN, since she was the owner of the service station. I have high hopes for Ida and Delia having SSNs, as they seem to have survived a little longer, and I think I've found them both in the Social Security Death Index.

I think I've geeked out on genealogy long enough for one night. I'm off to write three $5 checks to the Florida Department of Vital Statistics, record the requests in my research log, and get them ready to go in the mail tomorrow.

I'm hoping that having some focus in my research will help me untangle this confusing web of multiple marriages and not-quite-legal adoptions and divorces and separations and step-children and OMG. Why couldn't these women be a little less strong-willed and a little more marriageable? ;-)

Sucked In

I can't stop reading this diary.

I don't want to go make my lunch. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to exercise. I just want to keep reading.

It's not even about me anymore — at this point in the diary, Memaw and I (except Mom called her Grannie then) have flown to Florida to stay with Granny and Charlie for a while, and Mom is hanging around Medina, staying with friends until the paternity suit against my father.

That was my first plane ride, and was my only plane ride until a few years back, when I went with Mom and Gary and Philip to visit Gary's family in Fort Worth.

I love taking these one-page synopses of Mom's days and trying to imagine what her life was really like. Moving out of the apartment to a couple other friends' places. Missing me so much. Trying to get a job. Trying to "get her head on straight."

We've both come so far.

I love you, Mom.

Every Little Freaking Detail?

Are you tired of it yet?

I blew one of my weekly goals tonight: I didn't do my PUSH workout. Note to self: six almonds is not a sufficient evening snack if I intend to snack at 4:30pm and eat dinner at 7:30pm. So I ended up coming home and making dinner before my workout... which meant I never got around to the workout. No biggie. It's a learning process. I'm still going to exercise tomorrow and Friday; I'm not going to blow off the rest of the week just because of one off day.

Made it to work on time again today. Almost didn't — clocked in at 8:05am — because I had a minor emergency with my new seedlings. Had to flip them around close to the window because their grow light went out, and had to water them because I removed their cover, so they lost their little greenhouse effect. But I digress.

I've been doing pretty well with not adding extra snackies into my day, and sticking to my prescribed menu. Today I substituted spinach for the salad I'd scheduled for myself — mainly because I didn't want leftover spinach sitting in the fridge, and I know Aaron won't eat it. He hates spinach.

A lot of my evenings lately have been spent reading Mom's journal (ostensibly my "baby diary", but also Mom's "I'm lonely and want a man" diary, too). At age 22, she had all the guys looking, even with a baby at home. I don't want to air Mom's 30-year-old dirty laundry to the entire world, but suffice to say that it seems she was always lonely, but rarely really alone.

As a parallel: when I was 19, there was one semester when I went out with five different guys. That's the closest I can come to understanding what my mom went through in the late 70s. I really feel for her, as she was back then.

If I write any more on this, I may as well just write Mom's memoirs myself and post them to the internet. So I'll shut up now. :-)

Truth be told, I'm going to be disappointed when I get to the end of this diary. I'll be jonesing for Volume II. Guess I'll have to get Mom to sit down and actually write me some memoirs... although I promise not to post them to the internet.

Thirty Years Ago Today

Several years ago, Mom gave me the small "baby diary" she'd kept during the first year after I was born. She started it in July 1976, when I was 10 weeks old. It's really a fascinating look into my Mom's life as a single 21-year-old mother in the 1970s.

July 14, 1976:

Today Bonnie and I went to see the lawyer. I know it will be hard for you to understand why your father doesn't want to admit you are his. I hope it can have a happy ending for all of us.

Well, we took you to have your picture taken. And you heard a squeeky toy for the first time. And you smiled real big for the man. Mommy was glad you smiled.

Your Uncle Donnie held you and you talked to him. He played a harmonica, but you didn't like it.

Good night,
Mom

(It's a small book. That filled up the whole page for July 14.)

Actually, now that I'm older than he was at the time, I can understand. I don't agree with his reaction to the situation, but I do understand. He was 25, messing around with his 20-year-old girlfriend. He wasn't looking for any of this. When he found out, it was probably easier to deny all responsibility. Although I don't know if I can understand his offering to pay to have me aborted. (Sorry, abortion rights activists, but I am pro-life by default. No matter what I might have said when I was 15, I truly am glad to be alive.)

It's been interesting growing up fatherless. I don't think I was scarred by it — of course, I really don't have a basis of comparison. I learned at some point in my youth when it was OK to talk about my parentage, and when I should just let people draw their own conclusions about how I came to live with my Mom and my grandmother. As I got older and more open with people, and as single parenting became less of a stigma, I began telling more people in more situations. Now I'm to the point where I can discuss my bastard nature with co-workers who are younger than me — and who, surprisingly enough, share very similar stories of their own unusual parentage.

I've never met my father face-to-face. It would be interesting, if awkward, to have a discussion with him about that stretch of time in 1975 and 1976 when he so vehemently denied being my father. I'm just curious if he really believes that he isn't the one. I wonder if he ever thought about it, years later.

On a lighter note, I look forward to reading this while I blog about my own (still unconceived) child's first year of life. Or maybe I'll get a little diary and write a few words in my own hand after she goes to sleep at night. I know I'm enjoying reading Mom's (and Memaw's, sometimes) handwritten thoughts, thirty years after the fact.

Update, 9:40pm: Continuing to read through the diary. Some of these entries are making me all misty. Dammit. ;-)

Yep, They're Still Dead

And still they're eluding me.

So, today's research: I got emails back from the Clermont County Public Library and the Ohio Department of Health. First, the *very* nice librarian at Clermont County confirmed that Thomas COOK and Rachel HILL were married on 5 March 1852 in Clermont County, but said that the record contains no information about their parents. I'm not sure why I thought that would be helpful in the first place, being that I need to establish a link between them and who I think is their son.

As for the Department of Health, they haven't offered uncertified copies of death certificates since 2003. My bad. So, I'm sending off a request for Benjiman Smith COOK's death certificate along with a check for $16.50 (ouch). I'll wait and see if that's helpful before I go and drop over $30 on the other two certs for Ben's siblings. I'm pretty much just trying to establish where they were all born, and Ben is the oldest sibling I don't have a death record for. (We're assuming that the birthplace listed on the death cert is marginally correct, and that I might be able to someday locate birth records from that information. I haven't had a lot of luck with his older two siblings, though.)

Tonight I mainly spent by looking up census records on Thomas's and Rachel's respective families and figuring out how they might have hooked up. From what I can tell, their families lived mighty close to each other for quite a while. Now, Thomas and Rachel got married in 1852, when he was 20 and she was 19 (I think). They had at least 5 kids: Isabelle Kate, John, Comadore (?!), Harvey, and William.

William's older sister Isabelle married John HILL sometime between 1870 and 1876. As far as I can figure, their parents must have died just about that time, too, because William was living with Isabelle and John HILL in the 1880 U.S. Census, at the age of 12. I haven't been able to find their brothers John COOK or Harvey COOK, and I believe Comadore died young (before age 10). Leave it to them to throw me a curveball, eh?

I think my problems would be solved if I could find William's marriage record to his wife Ella, and if that record states who his parents are. I know from the census that they married in 1895. I just don't know exactly where. Could be Clermont County, could be Butler County, could even be Warren or Montgomery (although I think those are less likely). I'd have to request the record from the county, since the state of Ohio doesn't hold marriage records from before, jeez, looks like 1949? Wow.

So, yeah. The counties I need wouldn't be at the Ohio Historical Society archives, so I'd have to contact the counties directly. If it's in Butler County, I might be able to get it from the Butler County Records Center & Archives — looks like they've got marriage records from as far back as 1847, and parents' names were listed beginning in 1894. Just in time.

If the marriage took place in Clermont County, it looks like I'll have to write the County Clerk for the record. No big deal, though. Looks like they have marriage records beginning in 1801? Hmm. I'll have to write them and see.

That's been my evening. Man, tomorrow I need to take a break from this and work on my podcast. Can't believe the marathon genealogy-fest I've been having this week. And I've barely even used any of Ancestry's resources, which was the reason for this binge in the first place.

Today's Genealogy Log

Last night, I located some indexed records on Ancestry.com, so today I went to work on obtaining copies of the actual records. I have basic death record info for two of Grandpa Cook's uncles and one of his aunts, plus my stepdad Tom, and I'm hoping to get the actual death certificates for all of them. But certified copies of death certificates cost $16.50 each! Now, I *know* I got uncertified copies a few years ago for cheap, just for research purposes, so I e-mailed the Department of Health to see if they still do that. We'll see what they say.

I also located Grandpa's Uncle Russ in the WWII Army Enlistment Records index, so I decided to go to the National Archives and Records Administration to get a copy of his military record. I filled out the SF-180 and am planning to stick it in the mail tomorrow, so hopefully something will come of that. I could potentially get shut down because I'm only his great-grandniece, and not next-of-kin.

I'm still researching, even though I should be working out. I'll let you know what I find.

Update, 9pm: In looking through the notes I'd made in my genealogy program, I discovered that I'd found the marriage date of Thomas COOK and Rachel HILL. So, even though I'm not entirely sure I'm related to them, I'm going to try to work backwards. I've requested a lookup in the Clermont County Marriages book at the Clermont County Public Library, and hopefully this will give me some sort of lead to help connect and correlate my Thomases.

Update, 9:40pm: I just found the WWI Draft Registration Card for Thomas Oliver COOK. Not the Thomas I've been looking for, but one who I know is definitely related to me. This Thomas was Grandpa Cook's uncle, who was killed when his car got hit by a train in 1924, a few years before Grandpa was born. This draft card basically just confirmed what I already knew, but also gave a street address of where they were living at the time, and the fact that Thomas was working for Dayton Wright Airplane Company in 1918.

Final Update, 10:15pm: I think that Grandpa was on crack when he said that his grandfather had a brother named Harry and a half-brother named Samuel. Assuming they have the same last name as he does, I haven't been able to find them in any census anywhere that Grandpa's grandpa is. The only thing this tells me is that maybe Thomas COOK (Grandpa's great-grandpa) must have gotten divorced or been widowed. Or, I suppose it could be the other way around, and he could have widowed his wife, and/or Samuel could be hers from another husband. That would still make William Henry and Samuel half-brothers.

At any rate, I hope I catch a break on this soon, because this brick wall is really starting to tick me off.

Where To Start...?

I've never done online research solely on Ancestry.com before. I've never had the run of the place. I've always assumed I'd have access to my U.S. Census Records Collection, a few free databases, and that's it. Now, though, the whole place is my playground, and I don't know where to start.

It's a good thing I made notes online earlier.

I still need to work on finding all the pertinent info for Grandpa Cook's aunts and uncles, because my "brick wall" is only one generation past them. I also need to find a marriage record for Grandpa's grandparents. After that... I have census records going from 1870 back to 1840 for what I believe is my Cook family, but I need definite evidence linking my William Henry Cook to the Thomas Cook I think is his father. I know that William Henry had a brother named Harry and a half-brother named Samuel, but this information hasn't helped me at all. I haven't found a Harry or a Samuel anywhere that William has been.

To make things even more confusing and difficult to trace, William Henry's mother is listed as a Nancy on his birth record. No maiden name. But, the only William I've been able to find with a Thomas for a father has had a Rachel listed on the census as his mother. WTF? I still haven't puzzled this one out. I'm hoping that I'll locate some marriage record someday that will make sense of this whole thing.

Well, I guess I'll try to hunt down some more death records, maybe some marriage records, and maybe even some land records online. I'm going to have to put that off till tomorrow, though; I need to do some dishes before I go to bed.

Dueling Hobbies

I haven't been doing much work on my genealogy lately, so when I got an e-mail from Ancestry.com, I was only vaguely interested. Until I read the subject: "Class Action Settlement Benefit Notice."

Seems that there was a class-action lawsuit against Ancestry, resulting in Ancestry giving one month of free access to all subscribers. I'm only subscribed to the U.S. Census Collection, but they have several other collections, including newspapers, records in general, and god knows what else.

And, for the entire month of May, I get FREE ACCESS.

So... despite prime gardening season approaching, I'm going to be going gangbusters with my genealogy during the next month, to take full advantage of $30 worth of records access for FREE.

I love class-action lawsuits.

Tracking Uncle Russ (1915 - 1996)

Looks like the check I sent to the State of Ohio Vital Statistics cleared on Friday night. That means that Uncle Russ's death certificate should be on its way to me soon! Yaye!

I plotted out a timeline / ancestor profile for William Henry COOK last night. It's amazing how much of my information is straight from the U.S. Census. There's barely any primary sources at all, mainly because the family moved around so much that I don't know where all his kids were born. Getting Uncle Russ's death certificate should help give me somewhere to start, though.

Writing Personal Histories

I've been focusing my genealogy on the Cook line recently, on William Henry COOK in particular. To help guide my research, I've been compiling a list of dates and events that happened in William's life.

As I compiled this list (and in the past, as I compiled other similar lists), it occured to me that this list of names and dates and places really doesn't tell anything about the person themselves. And I got to thinking of what my life would look like, were it broken down into small, documentable dates and events.

It would be pretty boring:

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Genealogy Notes

This entry may not interest anyone other than myself. I can deal with that. I'm just figuring that writing stuff down here is better than scribbling a note to myself or typing a to-do list that I may never unearth again.

I've been focusing on my Great-great Grandpa COOK's family, as I mentioned earlier. I figure that maybe, by filling in every last detail of his marital family life, I might be able to work backwards and figure out how to puzzle out his parents. I have some pretty good ideas, but no solid links. No marriage record for William Henry and his wife Ella WILLIAMS, no birth record for their oldest son, and no freaking clue why William Henry's birth record gives a Nancy as his mother, when all clues point to a Rachel HILL.

(BTW, genealogists capitalize last names, just to avoid confusion. Just so you know.)

Tonight, I scoured the Family History Library catalog for some more ideas of microfilm I could order up (once I get up the balls to drive down to Perrysburg and try something new *heaven forbid*). And it looks like I'll be able to track down at least a couple of William Henry's kids' birth records, which will help me trace where the heck the family was at any given point in time. I'm planning to order the Butler County Birth & Death Records film, to hopefully find Wm Henry's oldest child, Leonard, and maybe some of his younger children. I also want to request the Hamilton County Birth Records Index, to find his second-oldest son, Thomas.

Thomas, incidentally, was working for the Ethel Gas Company in 1924 when an electric train struck his car. He died at age 27 of a resultant brain hemorrhage. I'm hoping to someday locate a newspaper article about the accident, because I'm *sure* that would have been big local news.

While I was trying to figure out how I might find William Henry's will, I stumbled across a great resource: The Montgomery County Records Center and Archives. They have not only wills and probate records, but records from the County Home, recorded mortgages going back to 1834, and dozens of other useful records. I'm planning to write in a request that I know they should be able to fulfill — William Henry COOK's residency at the County Home from 10 December 1945 until his death in 1946 — and see how much that ends up costing me. If it's reasonable, I'll likely request a search for his will, and possibly his mortgage. This could be very helpful...

Great-great-great Grandpa Cook

I finally found some microfilm I want to request from my local Family History Center.

I've had a really hard time locating the parents of my Grandpa Cook's grandfather, William Henry Cook. I almost thought I had them several years back — Thomas and Rachel — but when I got William Henry's birth record in the mail, there was this woman named Nancy listed where I expected Rachel to be.

All other evidence points toward Rachel being William's mother: census records, for one, and other genealogists' (undocumented) findings referenced online. Now, I've discovered that Thomas and Rachel were married on 3 March 1852 in Clermont County, Ohio, where all this research insanity is going on. I've also discovered that the Mormons have the microfilm. Clermont County Marriage Records, 1801-1910.

I'm hoping that getting some hard documentation of *something* that corroborates what I think I know will help me solve this puzzle. I'm still not sure who this Nancy person is, though. Hopefully, I'll find out soon.

On a related topic, the Genealogy Guys mentioned that anyone can go to a Family History Center, but non-Mormons will have to sign in as a guest. That made me wonder: how will I deal with that? Technically, I'm still a Mormon, although I'm what they once called "inactive." (Right before I myself went inactive, the more politically-correct term of "less active" was being popularized. Apparently, the less active members were being offended when someone would refer to them as flat-out inactive. Go figure.)

But do I really want to open up that can of worms? Explaining that I've been inactive for... *counts on fingers* ...ten years could bring the Mormons back to our door in droves. Moving to Toledo finally managed to shake them, and I'm not in a hurry to evade them again.

Still, though... it's like knowing the secret handshake. (Which apparently Mormons really do have. I kid you not. You learn it in the temple. I wasn't old enough to learn it yet when I went inactive, though.) It's hard to decide whether to disclose that I'm an inactive member, or just pretend that I went to the trouble of being excommunicated, and sign in as a guest.

I guess I'll decide once I finally get my ass down to the Perrysburg FHC.

On Genealogy

I keep meaning to write about genealogy, but I keep getting distracted by other things, like my podcast or my diet. Actually, I keep getting distracted from actually *doing* it, too.

I listen to the Genealogy Guys Podcast, by George G. Morgan and Drew Smith, and I frequently get inspired by the suggestions they give. It's a good thing that I listen to their podcast at work; otherwise I'd likely stop the podcast and start doing research, and to hell with whatever other project I was in the middle of doing.

I also purchased George G. Morgan's book, How To Do Everything With Your Genealogy, and it's given me dozens of fantastic ideas, and I'm not even halfway through it yet! Again, it's a good thing I've been reading it before bed, otherwise I'd be setting the book face-down by my desk and firing up my genealogy research right then and there.

Even though I grew up Mormon, and that's what began my interest in genealogy in the first place, I hadn't even thought about the fact that there might be a Family History Center nearby.

Oh, goodness, where to begin with this explanation... Well, let's start from the very beginning, I suppose...

This might get long.

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Charles Mickler, 1930-2005

I got a call at work this morning, from my Uncle Charlie's case worker in Tampa. It seems that my great-uncle passed away earlier this month.

Charlie had no wife or children, and was living in a nursing home with no family nearby. He had lived with his mother, my Granny, until her death in 1990. His younger sister, my Memaw, died over two years ago. Myself, my mother, my aunt and my cousin are his only living relatives.

Uncle Charlie sold his land years ago, and the profits have paid for his care since then. He hadn't banked on needing to pay a nursing home for his care; he'd planned to give his $40,000 (or thereabouts) to me instead. As a poor college student, I had been flabbergasted at the prospect of being in someone's will. Now, though, I understand the funds needed to support the elderly, and I certainly don't begrudge him his care.

As the only relative who has kept in contact with Charlie's legal guardians in Tampa, it is now my duty to call the Medical Examiner in Tampa and give them the authorization to cremate him. He had no funds left for a burial; and neither myself, nor my Mom, nor my aunt will be able to travel to Florida to make any sort of burial arrangements.

I'm sad that he's gone, but I'm more sad that he was alone, and now has so few to mourn him. I'm also slightly beside myself at the bizarre and slightly morbid call I'll need to make tomorrow morning.

Happy Halloween

In other cultures and in various world religions, what we Americans call "Halloween" is celebrated as a remembrance of departed loved ones. For example, the Japanese celebrate the autumn equinox as a time to remember and honor their ancestors. The Mexican Day of the Dead is a party to eclipse all parties (from what I can tell, anyway — I didn't take Spanish, so I'm not well-versed in the culture). Samhain, the Wiccan observance, focuses on the thin veil between this world and the next. This is, of course, a gross overview of these holidays, and there are many more besides these.

In recent years, I've taken to celebrating Halloween in a unique way that's meaningful to me. I consider myself an agnostic, so observing Samhain or any other faith-based or religious rituals would be hypocritical and almost rude. I also have no social life, and very few local friends, so costume parties are out. :-)

Seriously, though. What I do is genealogy.

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My Step-Philip's Graduation Weekend

On Friday evening before he went to work, Aaron asked me if I'd heard anything from my Mom or step-Gary about Philip's high school graduation. When did we need to be where, did we have tickets to the actual graduation, et cetera. I didn't know yet, as Mom hadn't called me to confirm the final plans, and I told him so. His parting shot was, "If I come home tonight and find out I have to get up at 10am," followed by some sort of consequence I can't exactly recall. Something like, "I'll be pissed," or "I won't be happy," or something along those lines.

Guess when we had to get up Saturday morning.

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My Memaw

My Memaw knew a lot. She wasn't particularly book-smart—I think she completed 8th grade—but she knew little, important things. How to keep my ballet recital costume from unravelling. How to french braid and how to do a french twist. How to make awesome fried chicken, and tuna croquettes, and dozens of other wonderful foods. How to grow an avocado plant from a pit. How to grow plants in general.

About plants: Memaw definitely had a green thumb. Not in that Jerry Baker sort of way, though; he knows all sorts of bizarre tips and tricks for keeping your plants and lawn green and healthy, like spraying it with a solution of dish soap and beer and ammonia and some other household chemicals. Memaw had the other kind of green thumb, the kind where she had only to stick a plant in soil (or in water first, to root it), then water it (from the bottom, always), and poof. Big, healthy plants. Or so I remember, anyway... I was still kind of young when Memaw's plant collection was in its heyday.

(Funny, isn't it, how we never seem to take pictures of everyday things, like our living room... but, years later, we find ourselves trying to remember details that we once thought we'd never forget. Like how many plants sat in our windowsill in Apartment A-13 when I was 7 years old.)

Anyway, I wish I'd been able to ask her about more of the little, important things. As I got older, and as she got older, I did write her letters and ask her about some of the little things. How to make tuna croquettes (which I still haven't attempted). How many different jobs she held, and where she worked (which I wish I'd written down, but I was in the car on the way to BG). And my Mom gave me the recipe for meatballs that Memaw had gotten from the Italian girl that worked with her at Bix's Restaurant.

How to grow plants, though... if she had a secret, I wish I could have learned it. I do well enough, and I certainly *have* enough, but sometimes I wonder. I think I managed to inherit some of that green thumb, but... you know.

Sometimes I miss her.

-----

Next Friday, I'll be participating in the American Cancer Society Relay For Life in Bowling Green. If you'd care to sponsor me, you can donate online all next week, until the event. Donations are, of course, tax-deductible, and will forward the fight against cancer.

Someday, I hope someone else gets more time to ask their own Memaw the questions I didn't.

Picking Up Another Old Hobby

Genealogy.

It's been quite a while since I worked on my family history, but the thought crossed my mind this week that I'd promised my Grandpa Cook that I'd send him copies of some of the work I'd done. Yeah, that was back in August of 2004. I'm a bad granddaughter. :-/

So, this evening I made it my mission to fire up the printer and scanner and copy the pages Grandpa had requested. During this operation, I realized that there was a death certificate I had received a while ago that I never recorded in my genealogy software... Then I remembered that I'd wanted to search for a decent genealogy program for Windows, so I wouldn't have to fire up the now-obsolete Power Mac just to do genealogy work.

Next mission: burn a hybrid disc of all the stuff on my Mac that I might need in the future, including importable genealogy files. No problem.

Now I had to find some Windows software to one-up my wonderfully-simplistic and long-beloved genealogy shareware for Macintosh (called Gene). See, I'd appropriated a copy of the popular Family Tree Maker years ago, and decided to stick with Gene because I found FTM way too fussy. Too many features for my taste.

But, tonight, I found Brother's Keeper, which is working smashingly for me so far. It does have a slight learning curve, but I'm liking all the features that allow me to fix my database, relinking spouses and children and such. It even has a search for "unreasonable" dates, like a parent being less than 14 when a child is born (or, in the case of a few of my entries, a child being born before a parent).

So, I've spent all this time playing with the database-streamlining features of BK, and I still haven't entered Granny Maudie's mother's death certificate. I'll have to do that before I go to bed.

Damn... Like I said before, too many hobbies.

Questions From The Peanut Gallery

My God, I am in such a pissy mood. I don't want to be. What the hell is my problem? This is getting stupid. Can't I even have one evening where I don't get all depressed at some point or another?

It's just little things, too. I finally decide to think about using the video capture card, and now I have no idea where my camcorder source tapes went. Something I'd been planning for Aaron's birthday is threatening to go awry. I had three bratwursts for dinner because nothing sounded good. I want to clean my desk and have no idea how or where to start. That sort of thing. Little shit is getting me down, and it's stupid. Then I get pissed at myself for letting a bunch of little shit get me down, and the cycle continues. Gyarr.

Gotta shake this funk.

In the interests of shaking the funk, I will now take questions from my good readership. Sheryl asks:

how did you get into geneology? how much would you say you spend on it?

i'm curious to know waaay back. i need to ask my grandfather what his parents' names were and what their parents' names were as far back as he can remember - he's my oldest living relative, methinks. Wish i'd asked my aunt ginny while she was still alive :/

Well, Sheryl, that's a good question, and Grandpa is a very good place for you to start.

As for me, I got into genealogy through the Mormon church. ('Here we go,' I can hear you groan...) See, the Mormon church has this idea that, in order to get to the absolute highest level of heaven, you have to be a Mormon. (Imagine that.) So, if your ancestors didn't have the opportunity to be baptised during their lifetime, you baptise them posthumously, acting as proxy—that is, you go to the temple and do Baptism For The Dead.

Yes, I have done this. Yes, I now find it strange.

So, your goal as a good Mormon is to get the rest of your Eternal Family baptised and sealed to you For Time And All Eternity. Hence, genealogy.

When I was in Junior High, Mom got into genealogy, and took me with her to the genealogy workshops and the Western Reserve library and the Cleveland Library and various LDS genealogy centers, and we dug through spools of microfilm and sheets of microfiche looking at census records. That was mainly all we did, and the only cost was our time and whatever donation we opted to give to the place where we were researching.

See, Mom had pretty good info from her father (my Grandpa Cook) about the family—his parents, and their parents. He was a stickler for saving those In Memoriam cards and obituaries and programs and such, so he had a decent amount of info... we just had to find good old Grandpa Sharits in the 1880 Census.

I didn't get into genealogy on my own until years after Mom had started to slack. In college, with the advent of the internet, I began doing some research on my own. I found sites like Ancestry.com, Genealogy.com, FamilySearch.org (an LDS search site), RootsWeb, and others. Years ago, when I first started using these sites, the vast majority of them were completely free; now, some of them have fees associated with searching certain databases. I actually do subscribe to the Census Records on Ancestry.com, and I pay $12.95 a month for that access. (So, if any of my friends ever need any census records looked up, just ask me!)

Another site I found that was infinitely helpful was United States Vital Records Information. This is a listing of every state in the U.S., every county in those states, and every place to write for birth and death records. These records usually only cost maybe five or eight bucks, including postage, which means I've spent about... *counting vital records in my binder* ...a smidge over $100 on vital records in the past several years combined.

Luckily, once you reach a certain point in your lineage, you're bound to find someone with information that links up with yours. Unluckily, you still have to research it yourself, and can't necessarily take one person's word for it. I've hit snags like this with my Sharits research, finding different people with different opinions of who fathered John Sharrits back in the 1700's.

For another flip of the lucky/unlucky coin, you have the fact that there is quite a bit on genealogical info online: census records, cemetery plotting, genealogy communities with biographical information, deeds and titles, things like that. The disappointing side of this is twofold: 1.) how do you know those records are accurate, especially if they were transcribed by a single person? 2.) at some point, the online info runs out and you have to either go to your couthouse of origin or do some mail-order genealogy.

So... how to start? For you, Sheryl, depending on how far back Grandpa can get you, I'd say 1.) order some birth and death certificates. Death certificates tell great stories, but since the person they're about is dead, they're not always completely accurate. Birth records are more accurate, but much more boring, IMO. 2.) If Grandpa gets you back to 1920 or further, look at the U.S. Census. (I'll hook you up with my Ancestry.com info if you want.) The U.S. Census is released 70-some-odd years after the fact, to protect the privacy of the people named therein. Meaning, most everybody named in the 1920 Census is dead (but not my Grandpa Cook!)

Those are my two main sources for the vast majority of my genealogical research. There are other possibilities, like church baptismal records, marriage certificates, land deeds, social security applications, obituaries, etc., but I find that most of the info I need is in either vital records or census records. It's easiest to find there, anyway.

*whew* I just jabbered my depression away. How about that?

If you want any help with the Lineage Of Sheryl Stoller, just holla. Genealogy is fun... it's like a logic problem that's never over, or a mystery that's never completely solved, or a book that you'll never finish writing.

At least, I think it's pretty keen.

Family Photos

Well, I've successfully managed to adjust, upload, and order copies of 27 family photos. And, for you Photoshop geeks out there, I've only just now discovered the magic and majesty of the Healing Brush. To think I was using exclusively the cloning tool for so long! My life has just become a lot easier.

Anyway, I will soon have actual 4x6 prints of my great-great grandparents on down, also including some rare photos of Yours Truly in the late 80's. Middle School was a scary time to witness. Maybe I'll post the pics sometime when I'm feeling particularly sadistic.

Growing Up

Oh my goodness. My little cousin Michael is an adult now, and has been for some time. He'll be 20 in October. Wow.

I never had a real sibling growing up, so back then, Michael was the closest thing I had to a brother. He's eight years younger than me, and has some psychological/behavioral issues—so, although I always loved and respected him, it wasn't until he was well into his teens that I felt I could connect with him in a "grown-up" way.

Of course, after Mom married my first stepdad, I had two stepsisters and two stepbrothers, but only felt even remotely close to my one stepsister, Dawn, who was two years older than me. And once I was in college, Mom married Gary, at which point I got Philip as a stepbrother. He's two years younger than Michael, but more socially well-adjusted. (Well, maybe I should just say he's not autistic like Michael and leave it at that.)

Anyway, I didn't really have the same kind of relationship with any of my step-siblings like I did with Michael, because I never really lived with them. I only lived with Michael until he was about four, but after Mom married Tom and we moved out, we still came over to visit every Sunday after church, and sometimes during the week. Then, when Mom divorced Tom, we moved back into the same apartment complex and would see or talk to the rest of the family multiple times a week. We were really a close family back then.

Now, look at us. Mom and Gary in Parma, me in Toledo, Sammie with her significant other in South Carolina, Michael nearby in a boys' home, Memaw dead and gone, and none of us really keeping in touch very much—except when Mom and I talk every now and then, and visit on holidays and special occasions. There's something kind of sad about that.

But I've strayed from my point, which was how much my little cousin Michael has grown. My goodness.

*shakes head*

Long-lost Relatives

Not long ago, I contacted my great-uncle's case worker in Florida to see how he was doing in the nursing home there. I'm not technically his next-of-kin (my Memaw was his sister), but I've been told by my family that I'm his sole inheritor (if he had anything left to inherit). So, I feel obligated to check on him every now and again, to make sure he's still hanging in there. He doesn't write much, and he could never hear well, and he was never really all that mentally cohesive, for that matter. But his case manager, Patrick, said he's doing OK. I told him that, if he ever felt the time was right and that Uncle Charlie could take the news, to go ahead and let him know that his sister died. Last year.

Man, do I feel like a dick.

Anyway, there's one other relative to inform yet: my Uncle Donnie. Yep, that's him on the left there. He's my mother's older brother—and he's only 50, though he looks pretty bad these days. Uncle Donnie is a carney: a basically homeless vagrant who works for the carnivals as they come around. Ever since I was a very small child, I've known that Uncle Donnie is a carney and sleeps under overpasses and hitchhikes to get where he wants to go. It seemed perfectly OK to me then, and only in ensuing years have I come to realize that no one else even knows a carney. This is not a normal career move.

Anyway, after thinking and thinking, I finally Googled the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Department in Hillsborough County, Florida. That's where Donnie prefers to spend his time, for the most part, having grown up there. And, whaddaya know, I found him in the online arrests database. That's where the mugshot came from. And, surprisingly enough, the most recent arrest report (from February of this year) gave a P.O. Box in Ruskin where he could be reached. I'll be damned. We can contact my homeless vagrant uncle!

I e-mailed the link to Mom and told her that it's her responsibility to tell her brother that their mother's dead. I'm not taking that on, too. I found him—the rest is up to her.

Genealogy

So, I was just burning a CD of genealogy info from my Mac to use on my PC, and opened some genealogy photos to test the burn. In the midst of my browsing and testing, I came across this image of my great-great-grandmother—my maternal grandfather's maternal grandmother. (Did that make sense to you?)

OMG. Does anyone else think that, given a circa 1908 Katherine Janeway-style hairdo, I look like her? Can you see the resemblance? I can. It's kind of weird. I looked at the whole picture, with her husband Harvey and child Lucille, and thought that Harvey looks a little like Grandpa Cook (or the other way around). Then it occured to me that Nora looks like Mom... and me! I mean, I know we're related and all... duh... but it's still kind of strange to look like someone who died almost a lifetime before I was born.

Beth, your family's into genealogy—any input on genealogical photographic weirdness?

Mel!

My old buddy Mel came into town today! I got her e-mail last night, saying that she'd be in BG for an audition, and suggesting that we could do lunch. Absolutely! I ended up taking a half hour longer for lunch than I should have, but it was worth it. I really hope she gets in, and for more selfish reasons than I might like to admit. I miss having girlfriends to hang out with. And Melody in particular, especially when she's Happy Mel and not Chronically Tired Mel.

In other news, my left shoulder has had a nagging piercing pang for the past two days. It's not a muscular soreness; it feels like more of a nerve thing, or possibly a muscle tightness or twitching or a joint a little out of place or something. At any rate, it hurts just enough to annoy. (Maybe I should take some Tylenol... nahh.)

And on the house front (as opposed to homefront?), John gave me the final news on the closing today. The amount of money we need to bring to closing is... nada. Not a damn thing. Our driver's licenses and our smiling faces. Hell, we're most likely going to get money. Here, have a house and a check. Huh?? But I'm not complaining.

I've also been OD-ing on my genealogy of late. It's amazing what you can piece together from just census records and other easier-to-obtain documents. For instance, check out this brief narrative on my great-great-great grandfather:

On 14 Jan 1869, Samuel's father James consented to the marriage to Mary Lunette Shupert, due to the fact that his son was under 21. At this point, Mary Lou was already three months pregnant with James. Bill Cook's genealogy indicates that this marriage took place in Ellerton, Jefferson Township, Montgomery County.

By the summer of 1870, Samuel and Mary had established a home in Jackson Township. Their son James was almost a year old, and Samuel was supporting his new family by working as a farm laborer.

In the 1880 U.S. Census, Samuel's last name was spelled "SHARITZ" and his occupation was listed as 'laborer.' Samuel and Mary were both age 30. Their first five children had been born and were living at home -- the oldest, James, was 11, and the youngest, Harvey, was one year old.

In the 1900 U.S. Census, Samuel's last name was spelled "SHARRITS" and his occupation was listed as 'farmer.' He named his birthplace and the birthplace of his parents as Indiana. All the children were still living at home -- except Samantha, who had died four years prior at the age of 13. The oldest child, James, was 30. The youngest, Mellie, was twelve.

Also in residence in 1900 was Oscar RIDENOUR, Samuel's grandson and Ona's son. Ona had died in 1898.

By 1920, all of the children had moved out. Samuel was still farming at age 69, and his wife Mary, also 69, was still living with him. She would continue to live with him for another five years, until she died of heart disease in the summer of 1925.

Samuel was 80 years old and living alone in Poasttown in the Spring of 1930. He owned his $4000 home, had no radio, and did not work.

In 1938, Samuel developed a nagging case of pneumonia that was destined to persist for years. Samuel died three years later, in 1941, of heart disease and pneumonia. His oldest surviving son, Charles, was the informant on the death certificate, and was apparently caring for Samuel in his later years. The death certificate gives the birthplace of Samuel and both of Samuel's parents as Miamisburg. Samuel Oliver is buried in Mt. Pleasant Cemetery, Poasttown.

And that's just the stuff I wrote down, not even all of the records of his kids being born and marrying off and dying and all that. Something about the narrative just strikes me as... poignant, I guess, even though it's not really much to read if you aren't related to Samuel.

This is harshing my bouncy mood, yo. But I'm still pretty happy. Ever since seeing Mel today, I've been unusually smiley. I don't mind. I like it. Mel is such a character. *shaking head*

I hope her audition went well...

Genealogy

Some genealogy documents I'd ordered from the Ohio Historical Society came in the mail today. Death certificates, to be precise. Even though the family information on them isn't always precise, they always tell a story, and I love that. A few of the ones I got today are absolutely heart-wrenching.

There's one woman whom it turns out I'm not really related to, after all, but her story is still a rough one. Helen was widowed in her mid to late-twenties. Shortly after her 29th birthday, she died by carbolic acid poisoning—suicide.

Then there's Harvey, the youngest son of my great-great grandfather. His clothes accidentally caught fire from the fire grate, and he burned to death. He was two years old.

And we have Edna, the eldest daughter of another great-great grandfather. Not long after she married, she developed tuberculosis. She died after about four months of illness. Edna was almost 21.

Of course, there are always the standard "this is the way death should be" records, like my great-grandmother Margaret. She lived the last 25 years of her life as a widow, and died at the ripe old age of 90, while living at the home of her eldest son.

Still, though, just those few words and dates on a page can really bring to life (so to speak) the person they're about, despite the fact that they lived and died generations ago. I think—no, I know that this is why I do genealogy. It's my own weird form of religion and ancestor-worship. Think about it: how often do we console ourselves and one another by saying, "He's not really dead, as long as we remember him," a la Dr. McCoy in Star Trek? Part of me believes and acts on that premise. I could be the only person on the face of the Earth who has thought about a given ancestor for years and years, and they deserve better than that. They deserve to be remembered. These people didn't leave any lasting legacy besides their own progeny, and I owe them, if not respect, at least acknowledgement.

I wonder what my descendants will think of me, someday...?

Clutch at Howard's

Here's a (slightly edited) e-mail Aaron sent out to our friends about the incredible Clutch show at Howard's last night (Thursday):

read more...

Christmas Aftermath

I came home this afternoon from my half-day of work feeling anxious... like I'm expecting something good to happen soon. I'm not sure what or why, but I'm enjoying the feeling.

While I'm trying to flesh that one out, I guess I'll make the annual list of Christmas goodies, first from Aaron:

• A 28mm wide angle lens + lens hood for my 35mm
• A dedicated flash w/batteries (again, for my 35mm)
• The Dark Crystal Collector's Edition DVD
• The Last Unicorn on VHS (there's no official release on DVD yet)
• The End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov
• A large stuffed plush Totoro
• A watering can for my houseplants

Then, from Mom, Gary & Philip:

• Candles and a snuffer
• Hair clips and combs
• A $25 gift certificate to Lane Bryant
• A DVD carry case

And from Aaron's family:

• A large black cherry scented candle
• A Christmas nutcracker
• A chess set
• A vegetable knife
• Gift certificates to Kohl's, Wendy's, House of Meats, and Value City, and cash from Dad

Our Christmas trip was quite similar to last year's: Christmas Eve at Mom and Gary's, spent the night there, and Christmas Day with Aaron's family at Poppa & Grammie's house 15 minutes north. Mom, Gary and I taught Aaron how to play Pinochle, and we played boys vs. girls. Of course, the girls won, although Aaron made a pretty clean sweep one hand by having a bit of a monopoly on the entire suit of spades. :-) Oh, by the way, if you and your significant other know how to play Pinochle, or would be willing to learn, Aaron and I would love to hang out and play sometimes... Hell, if you know Hearts or Spades, that would be cool, too. Cards are fun, but no one our age knows how to play anything but kids' games and Euchre (which
I'm not terribly good at myself).

I had to kind of let Mom down about the Denver trip she'd wanted to make with me in August. I decided I just couldn't afford to be spending $350+ on a trip with Mom that I really am not too keen on in the first place... especially if Aaron and I a.) want to buy a house soon, and b.) want to take our own vacation together this summer. She was obviously really disappointed, but I just had to come clean and tell her I couldn't go. I'm compromising, though, and promising to go on a one-tank trip with her somewhere we can take pictures. Maybe somewhere in Pennsylvania
or something.

Aaron's grandparents' house is a completely different experience than mine. At any given holiday, depending on who shows up, there's between 9 and 17 people around the table. I'm really unused to that kind of massive family gathering, but I'm growing to enjoy it more each year. It's like Aaron said: over at Mom and Gary's, it's kind of fun and relaxing, with lots of quality time with just them, but after a while you get bored — especially if they're watching TV or talking on the phone. At Poppa and Grammie's, though, it's exciting and fun to be with so many people at once, but after a while you get frazzled and just need to leave. :-)

We're all worried about Grammie, though. Her Alzheimer's is becoming more pronounced — she still remembers everyone and can function fairly normally, but she forgets why she's gone into a room, what she's looking for, what she did five minutes ago, whether she's put the ham in the oven yet, etc, etc. She also tends to remind us that Uncle Pete got remarried, even though that's been at least a year or more ago, and we all went to their wedding, and they came to ours in May. She forgets where my family lives, and that my grandmother's dead. Things like that. She's almost 80 years old, and Poppa is well into his 80's himself. I'm afraid of what's going to happen when... well, just what's going to happen, period.

My homemade candles were highly upstaged by our wedding photos, which we gave to Aaron's family as gifts. Made for some quick and easy gift ideas, and everyone loved having them. Fine with me... :-)

I think that's a sufficient update for now. My random excitement has subsided, and now I'm afraid that when I stop blogging here, I'm going to be bored. So... I'm off to find something constructive to do. Maybe take more pics with my new lens.

Sunday Easter Sunday

So, who's morbidly curious about what I did for Easter?

...Thought so. But I'm going to tell you, anyway.

Headed out at 9:45am. Made it to Lakewood (about 5 miles west of downtown Cleveland) in less than two hours. Lakewood Hospital, where Memaw's staying, is on the same street as Aaron's grandparents' house, so we drove past their place first, thinking maybe we could just walk from there. Alas, it was closer to five blocks than the two Aaron had originally thought, so we drove down and found a parking spot on the street (to avoid paying for parking in the parking garage).

Walked into the hospital, asked the receptionist what room Jessie Lowe was in, and followed her directions (hitting the restrooms that were conveniently located on the way). Since Mom had asked me to get hearing aid batteries for Memaw, we stopped by the nurses' station on the way to her room to drop them off, and ended up conversing with Memaw's personal nurse. She gave us a run-down on how Memaw was doing: her hearing aid had just plain died, she wasn't eating, and she was generally groggy and in "what she perceives as pain." The nurse said that if Memaw doesn't start eating, she won't have enough strength to make it much longer. I thanked the nurse, then mentally steeled myself and led Aaron into the hospital room.

The greeting was much different than the warm welcome of Tuesday. This time, I got, "Oh, it's you." She was much more confused this time around, and I only managed to converse with her at all by hovering two inches from her ear. We only stayed for about 15 minutes, because I saw no point in being there. Maybe it sounds callous. I don't know. I'd just rather minimize the Memaw-as-a-confounded-invalid memories and stick with the Memaw-as-a-good-cook-and-strong-woman memories. I'm glad I came up on Tuesday, because if this had been my only "last visit" with Memaw, I would have been much more upset. I didn't cry when we left this time, but I know I'll be haunted by my (assumedly) final image of her watching me go and dazedly repeating, "I love you, too. I love you, too. I love you, too..."

With the depressing part of the day behind us (I know, I know, I'm being crass and callous in the face of family tragedy), we drove back down the street to Grammie and Poppa's house. We were the first to arrive, and sat and talked with Poppa for a while, since Grammie was still at church. Five minutes after we got there, Aaron's dad showed up in his new SUV (who'd have thunk Bob would buy an SUV?). We talked about the wedding and Aaron's job and everyone's various medications and unions and on and on... Grammie came home from church and joined the conversaion. it was pleasant. Then Pete's clan showed up.

If I haven't explained Uncle Pete's clan, let me clarify for you. We've got Pete, who is Aaron's uncle — his mother's brother. (Poppa and Grammie are his mother's parents.) Pete's first wife, Peggy, the mother of his children, died some time ago. I want to say about 9 or 10 years, but I'm not sure, since I never met her. The oldest child is Megan, who is 17-almost-18. Then comes Alex (15?), Natalie (13?), and Joey (10). (I'm sure Aaron will tell me if I got any ages totally wrong.) That had been interesting enough, but there's a recent twist: Pete just got remarried. His new wife is Deanna (yes, our names were confusing to the grandparents at first), and she has two children from her previous marriage: Sophie (16?) and Gabe (14). Most of the kids are old enough that they're "real people" and aren't too annoying anymore, but Joey still likes to watch Spongebob and those bizarro Dexter-type cartoons on Nick and the Cartoon Network that make me stare in confusion.

So, this should provide a better idea of the immediate insanity involved as soon as the Bura Clan arrived. ...Not that I would have it any other way. A holiday at Grammie and Poppa's wouldn't be the same without Pete's family.

After Aaron and I talked with Megan and Alex for a while, food was ready. We had ham and twice-baked potatoes and kielbasa and paska (polish raisin bread) and green bean casserole (a Bura family staple) and Poppa's famous salad and there was horseradish and we had a lamb-shaped cake for dessert. Grammie forgot to put out the sweet potatoes, so we all divvied them up and took them home afterward, along with all the other leftovers.

We stayed until 8:00pm, just talking and watching TV (and being bored while Joey monopolized the television with weird cartoons). Aaron and I ended up being the last to leave. Overall, it was a good time, as usual.

I guess maybe I always took my family for granted, since we were always together, anyway. We had big meals on special occasions, but never had any other family over. Mom, Memaw, Aunt Sammie, my cousin Michael, and I all lived together, and rarely lived close to other family, so that was it. No cousins or other grandparents or other aunts or uncles to visit or invite over. Now I'm finding that I enjoy this "visiting family" thing. Even going to visit Mom and Gary for a day is enjoyable (to an extent — the less Gary, the better, I'm afraid).

Now, just to be sure to end the entry on a down note... when we got home at 10:20pm, Mom had left a message on the answering machine not 15 minutes earlier. She was upset that, when she went to go visit Memaw, "the lights were on, but no one was home." She asked me to e-mail her, which I did, pretty much detailing what I detailed here about my visit. I told her it made it a little easier for me, seeing Memaw like that. That way, when she goes, I won't feel like she could have had a few more good years left in her. I'll know she was ready to go.

When Mom e-mailed me back today, she had this to say:

"You look into the eyes of the first person you remember, the friend you had before you had friends, the one who taught you all the basics from how to go to the bathroom, get dressed, eat, talk even, and the body's there but she isn't. When I worked in the nursing home, I used to think the families of those folks were so cruel to not visit more often; now I understand, it wasn't that they didn't love them, it was that they loved them too much to see them that way."

Hanging in there...

I'm sure that there are a few of you who are waiting to see how my trip to Cleveland went. I know of at least one or two of you off the top of my head. So, here we go...

I headed out around 9:15am (after gassing up the car) and made the trip in a record one hour, 45 minutes. Mom, of course, was glad to see me, but we had to hurry and get to the hospital, since Mom's usually pretty punctual and gets there just after 10:00 on a normal day. She was worried that Memaw would think she'd forgotten. I drove us up to Lakewood Hospital, about a 20-minute drive north, by way of KFC. (Memaw had requested fried chicken.)

Got to Lakewood (after much complaining from Mom about my driving) and found a spot in the hospital parking garage. Remembered to turn off the cell phone before entering the hospital. (I'm still not used to having one of those yet.) Headed up the elevator to Memaw's room.

Mom went in first, and had to rouse Memaw from her almost-nap. "I'm sorry I was late," Mom said loudly, "but I had to go get your chicken." She had to repeat herself to make herself heard, at which point Memaw replied that she'd forgotten about asking for chicken. Then Mom told her she'd brought another surprize, and I came in.

I had to step closer for her to realize who I was, but once she did, her face lit up and she smiled a big, toothless grin. "My baby!" she exclaimed, and held out her arms for a hug. I bent and hugged her in her bed, and she kept repeating over and over, "You were just what I needed. You were just what I needed," and started to cry.

When we finally let go, Mom pulled a chair around for me, and I sat beside the bed and held Memaw's hand. "Was that a good surprize?" Mom asked, and Memaw nodded and repeated, "A good surprize."

Then she kind of peered funny at Mom and said, "And you've got a bad surprize."

Mom took the statement as a question and said, "Nope. No bad surprizes. Only good surprizes."

Memaw looked pretty much like I remembered from the last time I saw her — was it Christmas? That long ago? The only major difference was her hair. This time, instead of being long and wispy and ungodly thin, it was shaved to half an inch and had finally turned completely white. No more auburn or gray strands left.

The other difference was that she couldn't seem to stay awake. She was so tired. She and Mom and I would just sit in silence for a while and gaze at each other, then Memaw would start to nod off, and Mom and I would grin at each other and watch her head bob to the side. Then she'd realize she was falling asleep and jerk awake again. Once she mentioned that she'd thought she'd spilt something, and asked if we'd ever had that happen. We knew what she meant, and said that we had. Memaw said usually when that would happen to her, that she'd doze off like that, she usually did spill something. :-)

Anyway, we gave her the chicken, and she almost ate it, too. She'd refused her meal that day, so we figured she'd be up for fried chicken. I opened the little KFC box and handed her a napkin and a drumstick. With weak hands — so weak — she took the leg from me and cradled it in her lap, on the napkin. The chicken slowly got closer to her mouth... slowly... but never quite made it there.

Memaw asked if I was going to eat mine, and we tried to explain that we were going to eat later, that the chicken was for her. Finally, I gave up and got the thigh out of the box, and pulled some skin off of it and ate it. Memaw's eyes lit up and she asked if that was the butt part. We said no, that's a thigh. She said, "I'll take some of that," and proceeded to pick some skin off of my piece and eat it instead. Then she ate some of the drumstick, and was done. We packed the rest back into the box and put it on her bedside table.

(Keep in mind, this is the woman who used to eat not only the chicken and the skin, but would gnaw on the knuckle cartilage and gristle, and would crack open the bones and suck out the marrow.)

After that, we mainly just sat together. It was apparent to me that Memaw was thinking things in her head, but not saying them aloud. This was kind of funny when she would actually say something out loud, because it didn't make any sense. Some people would assume her mind's just going — I know too many people whose minds run in overdrive, I guess, so I could tell that these weren't just random spouts of words coming out of her mouth. For instance, at one point she just said out of the blue, "You can't get addicted anymore." Mom asked her to repeat, and she repeated perfectly, "You can't get addicted anymore." Mom looked at me, so I enunicated for her, and explained that she was probably thinking of her morphine.

Watching her continually nod off put me at ease, to an extent. It helped me realize that this is probably how she's going to go. She'll just fall asleep, and that'll be it. Watching her cradle her chicken helped me to realize that she's ready, too. That was one of the saddest moments for me, because I realized how far she's slipped. If she can't even raise her fried chicken to her mouth (toothless though it may be), her quality of life is virtually nil, even if she is still conscious and relatively coherent.

I knew she knew she wouldn't make it to the wedding, even if she does survive through May (which is unlikely). I wanted to be sure to mention the wedding, though, to try to include her in it. "For the wedding," I asked, "How do you think I should do my hair? I was thinking of a French braid — what do you think?"

She kind of scrunched up her face in a scowl and said, "I knew that was gonna come up." But then she answered me and said that yes, she thought a nice French braid would be pretty, and that I had a book at home to show me how to do it. Which I do indeed have, and I got it back in Junior High.

We stayed a while longer and watched her nod off, and Mom said quietly, "Let her fall asleep, then we'll go." But she fought to stay awake because we were there, so we finally had to tell her that we were going to head out. We stood up, and Mom put our chairs back, and we each had our Memaw hug. I rubbed Memaw's fuzzy head, and she smirked and said, "You had to get that in there, didn't you?"

But then, as we were saying goodbye, Memaw asked me, "Did you have a bad dream last night?" I chalked it up to randomness and answered no, crouching by her bed to get down on eye level again. "I did," she said, and got a look on her face that reminded me of when she used to pretend to be old and senile — you know, that kind of childlike-pouty-guilty-cute thing that looks genuinely funny when kind-of-old people do it, but kind of sad and pathetic when really-old people do it. "I wasn't going to say anything, but I guess I will," she went on. "It was about Tinky Poo."

Memaw and Granny always thought that the women in our family had ESP, and I'm not willing to completely disbelieve that theory quite yet. Because as she was having her "bad dream about Tinky Poo," I was writing about the lullaby here in my blog. So, I said, "I was thinking about that last night, too," and she got this understanding look in her eyes that told me she thought we'd made some sort of ESP connection that night.

Then Mom, standing at the foot of the bed, piped up and said, "I remember Tinky Poo. Do you remember?" Then she started singing: "Memaw love the Tinky Poo / Tinky Poo love the Memaw too..."

I tried to sing along, but I only made it through the second line. I just welled up and couldn't sing anymore. I wanted to, and I wanted Memaw to sing along — but she didn't. I hoped it wasn't because she'd forgotten the words. I didn't want to know. I put my head down on her bed and started to cry.

Now, most of you probably have figured out just from the kind of person I am that I don't like to cry. I feel like I'm no longer strong, like I'm no longer in control of myself. My family knows this keenly, so me breaking down like that was that much more poignant for Mom and Memaw. Memaw just rested her hand on the top of my head, and Mom came over and stroked my hair.

"I wasn't going to do this," I said into the sheets.

Memaw told me to take a tissue from her drawer, and Mom gave me some toilet paper that was sitting on the portable potty-walker-thingy next to the bed, so I was soon OK. We wrapped things up then, and promised we'd come visit on Sunday (silently hoping she'd still be there to visit). I didn't want to go, and I was glad when I looked back for one final wave and she was almost asleep again — but she waved anyway.

On our way out, Mom and I apologized at the same time. She asked if I was OK, and apologized for singing, and said that it was good for Memaw to see me cry.

After that, we drove to Lake Erie, to Edgewater Park, and walked around for a while (after I called Aaron). Talked, got some sun, unwound from the hospital. Then we went back to Parma, hit the mall, got lunch at Mr. Hero, and played in the arcade. Then we went home and Mom finished dinner. Beef stroganoff. Mmmm.

Gary came home, and we ate, and we talked about funeral arrangements, and wedding stuff, and the eulogy, and the obituary, and the headstone, and random important stuff. I stayed until 7:30 or so, then headed out in time to make it to the turnpike before it got completely dark outside.

Overall, I think the visit was as much for Mom as it was for Memaw or for me. I'm OK with that, though. I don't visit home nearly enough, and I get very little quality time with Mom anymore, especially since Gary came on the scene. (Yes, I know that was over seven years ago now. Yes, I'm still bitter. *grin*)

And I'm sure I heard Memaw mumble, "I never liked Gary much anyway..."

Update

You know, I'd really like to post a nice, long-winded update about all the stuff I've done in the last couple of weeks, like how I cracked the "copy-protection" on the brand-new Japanese-only release Matthew Sweet CD, or how Amanda got yelled at for wearing cargo pants and blogging at work, or how I mastered the art of refilling the minutes on my prepaid cell phone. Take your pick.

Instead, I will suffice with a brief note: Tomorrow, I am taking one day of PTO (Paid Time Off). Not to lounge and relax. Not because I'm ill, since I'm not. No, I'm taking tomorrow to drive two hours to Cleveland to see my Memaw. You remember, Memaw who has lung cancer? Yeah. Well, Aaron and I were planning to go visit her on our way to Easter dinner at his grandparents' house on Sunday, since they're in the same suburb, but... the step-Gary says the doctors don't think she'll last that long. So, to see my Memaw alive one last time, I'm driving out for the day.

What a cheery fucking thought.

Of course, this brings forth all sorts of thoughts in my head, both deeply spiritual and grossly morbid. Some at the same time. Maybe once I see her and get these things sorted out, I'll post some of them.

Oh, yeah, and I have duties/homework now:

• Go through my genealogy work and find out Memaw's parents' names for sure. (Granny, Memaw's mother, was adopted by her step-father. Legally or not, we're not sure, and we can't remember which was which.)
• Locate the hi-res digital file and hard copy of the photo of Memaw in her early 20's that I cleaned up a few years back, for use in the obit and funeral program.
• Come up with a suitable phrase ("tag line"?) for Memaw's headstone.

*gulp*

I guess I'm lucky that I haven't had anyone really close to me die yet. I mean, I'm almost 27 and haven't had a grandparent kick it yet. Granny, Memaw's mother, died when I was a Freshman in high school — I hadn't seen her for a few years, though, since we'd moved up from Florida where she lived. Tom (my first stepfather, Mom's husband while I was in 7th & 8th grade) died after my Freshman year in college, and that was pretty rough on me. He was the only quasi-Dad I'd ever known, and even though they'd been separated since I started high school (the divorce took a year or two), we still were close. I'd called to ask if he could help me fund a new-for-me car, and his landlord/employers had told me he'd died of a heart attack a week before. That was rough. Neither of those cases gave me time to prepare, though. At all.

But Memaw... damn, she changed my diapers. She created my imaginary friend (apparently when I didn't want to wear said diapers, she'd put them on "Madge," and I'd get jealous). She composed my very own lullaby ("Memaw loves the Tinky-Poo" ...don't ask). She lived with us — that is, with Mom and me — for as far back as I have viable memories. I used to consider her my second parent. Some people have "Mommy and Daddy" — I had "Mommy and Memaw."

This isn't helping.

I mean, damn, she's 70. That's reasonable. Still under the curve, but reasonable, especially for a smoker and former drinker. I just wish I could have shown her her great-grandchildren. Not that Aaron's impromptu compositions aren't great, but I would have loved to have Memaw's Own Lullaby for my first little one. In a few years.

Memaw love the 'Tinky Poo
'Tinky Poo love the Memaw too
Yes she do
I know she do
She told me so a little while ago
With a twinkle in her eye
I know she wouldn't lie
She said, "Memaw, I love you too"
Yes I do
You know I do...

Pretty little girl go to sleep at night
Wake up in the morning with her eyes so bright

Grow
and
be pretty!

Random Thoughts

Today at work I jotted down several blogworthy thoughts I had over the course of the mind-numbing workday:

When the temperature in the office reaches a certain point — say, 75°F or so — the vents open to allow outside air to filter in and cool things down. Over the past couple of days, this outside air has smelled of a slight tinge of spring. So cruel... so cruel. Barely above freezing, and my nostrils are dreaming of the spring thaw.

Some people at my work have accused others of being resistant to change. One person in particular, by the name of Loni, has done this accusing. Since our boss has begun a transition in our record-keeping from Microsoft Excel (which Loni set up herself about three years ago) to an Access database, it's amazing how resistant this accuser is to change...

I read an article about premarital counseling in the Wall Street Journal yesterday. It had mundane but important questions like, "will you love your spouse if she gains 50 pounds?" Then I realized how much Aaron must really love me... because I have gained 50 pounds since he met me. Literally. I'm surprized he hasn't staged an intervention in the meantime. :-)

I'm not eating enough. (Nice segue.) I wake up too late to eat breakfast (I have to be awake awhile before I can stomach it), then when I eat lunch, I just have one of those little Weight Watchers-type frozen meals. When I'm done eating, I'm still hungry. I wait the prescribed 20 minutes after eating, for the food to "hit bottom," and I'm still hungry. It's easier to ignore the hunger while I'm at work, but I'm sure that it's not healthy, anyway. Then I come home and am either too hungry to eat, or I go on an evening-long food binge. Ramen... canned veggies... hot dogs... ham... plum... all the stuff I probably should have eaten (or not) during the course of the day, crammed into a few hours of down-time at home. I need to fix this if I want to lose weight and be healthier.

Loni was telling about the wedding she went to in Chicago over the weekend — apparently the bride wore a scarf over her shoulder, bearing her family's Irish colors. Neat idea. Then it occured to me... if I were to claim so-called citizenship of only one family in my genealogy, which would it be? There are certain lines I've been inclined to research more than others — some because they're easier to find, some because they're more interesting to learn about, and some because I'm closest to their descendants. I think I'd probably claim citizenship in the White family if I had to choose one. That's my Granny's mama, Maudie (which would be my mom's mother's mother's mother, my great-great-grandmother). Interesting that I choose the matriarchal line; we've got some strong females in my family. ...So what happened to me?

As far as my last blog entry, where I wondered if I'd become less of a person because I've ceased to struggle against my less-than-relevant job, I've come to a conclusion of sorts. I'd rather be sated, unruffled and relatively content in a job I didn't intend to work than be miserable and unsatisfied in the same job. If I can ride things out, waiting in the wings and watching for opportunities, and make rent money in the process, why not?

Mary at work thinks I've lost weight. I was wearing my new black pants with the elastic waistband that doesn't make my fat ooze out where it shouldn't, and on top of that I wore a thigh-length blouse. I think it was all an optical illusion, since I've really only lost six pounds.

Oh, and in case you were wondering: no, I didn't write all of this at work. I took notes so I'd know what to write later. I don't have that kind of free time at my job...

Unrelated discoveries: one fun, one not-so-fun

We begin with the fun: wilwheaton.net.

He's 30, he's married, and he has blue hair. It's freaky on some level, yet comforting on another. As much as it might disturb Wil to hear it, he's kind of like a long-distance high-school or college buddy. That's how he comes across on his page. Totally honest, frank, and certainly more than a touch dorky. (Hell, who isn't?) His web-design skills are pretty middle-of-the-road, his writing style is familiar and fresh, and he has interests that "normal" people have. And he likes The Pixies. Plus, after watching his character Wesley grow up on Star Trek: The Next Generation (now who's the dork?), it's neat to see what he's like in real life, and to know that he's just as cool as you'd hope an actor (and aspiring writer) your age would be.

I know, I know... I'm not 30 yet. In the grand scheme of things, though, those four years don't really matter much.

Now, to the not-so-fun discovery. Actually, it's downright depressing.

On Thanksgiving, I went to visit my grandmother at her new nursing home. Beforehand, my step-Gary felt the need to call me and warn me of her mental condition. Seems she would be OK for a while, then start talking about feeding pet mice and stepping on cockroaches and all sorts of random things that may or may not have root in reality. So, I felt I was armed with the knowledge that my Memaw was going off her rocker, and things would be cool.

As one might expect, the visit was unusual at best. At least when I used to visit her before, she was recognizable. This wispy-haired, bent wraith of a woman bore very little resemblance to the Memaw that I knew and loved. True to form, she wasn't wearing her hearing aid or her teeth, and she did indeed go off on random tangents. I smiled and nodded along, answering loudly when appropriate. Just to prove how erratic her behavior had been, when she stood up to show me how much weight she had lost, I discovered that the staff had her bed monitored; when she stood, a beeping alarm sounded. At first I thought her oxygen had been disconnected, but no. It was so she wouldn't try to wander off and break a window to escape again.

Seriously.

I dealt well with the visit at the time. I even saw the humor in it. Memaw was going off the deep end. Funny stuff. I joked with Aaron about it on the way to Parma to visit my folks.

Later, though, the truth of the matter set in. I really don't have a Memaw anymore.

Yes, I know she's still alive, and I should be thankful for that. But my Memaw, the one that fabricated my imaginary friend when I was two, the one who made up lullabies that stood the test of time, the one who could cook almost anything I asked for, the one with the slightly warped sense of humor (one aspect of her I didn't fully realize until I was a little older), that Memaw... she's gone.

Maybe it's easier to lose her this way, slowly, so I can come to terms with it. Maybe it's better than just getting a phone call out of the blue, telling me I'll have to cash in my Bereavement Days at work.

But she's still my Memaw. And God, I miss her already.

The Obligatory Thanksgiving Narrative

9:00am: The Schnuth/almost-Schnuth one-car caravan headed to Lakewood (the northwest side of Cleveland, that is). Arrived at Aaron's grandparents' place in roughly two hours.

11:15am: First to arrive on-location. Chatted with Poppa and Grammie. Had quality time talking about plants and wedding plans and the Thanksgiving schedule. Also had quality time with the cat, Sid.

12:00pm: Aaron's dad arrived, sans Aaron's brother. (sans means without, for all you non-Latin-speaking types.) Seems Matt stayed home, puking and feeling generally ungood. Had more quality time talking about wedding plans and rib restaurants and the Thanksgiving schedule.

1:00pm: The Eschbach minivan arrives, bearing Aunt Elaine, cousin Nathan, and Nathan's 21-month-old daughter Caitlin. Cute as a proverbial button — she started chasing the cat as soon as she saw it. Had even more quality time talking about Caitie, antiques, jobs, wedding plans, and the Thanksgiving schedule.

1:30pm: The slated time for dinner. Uncle Pete called to let everyone know that he and his clan would be a little late (surprise). The turkey came out of the oven right on time, despite dripping juices and much smoke. The table was set, and 15 chairs were somehow located and brought to the dining room. All that was left was for Pete and the clan to arrive and bring the green bean casserole.

2:15pm: Pete and his new wife Deanna finally arrived, with Pete's four kids and one of Dee's two kids. (The other of Dee's kids was at his dad's place for the holiday.) About half a dozen people crammed into the kitchen to finish preparing food. Had yet more quality time talking about choir, Lord of the Rings, Caitie, and wedding plans. Studiously avoided mentioning the Thanksgiving schedule.

3:00pm: Food was ready. Aaron and I sat down promptly, while the rest of the clan milled about wondering where to sit.

3:15pm: Dinner started. Finally.

4:00pm: We excused ourselves to go visit my family, as mentioned to his family multiple times while discussing the Thanksgiving schedule. Drove about two miles to the nursing home where my grandmother has recently been admitted.

4:10pm: Located my Memaw in the Aristocrat nursing home in Lakewood. The chemo thinned her hair, and she looked ten or fifteen years older than her actual age of 70, and she went off on bizarre, almost-senile tangents a few times, but she's still my Memaw, and it was still good to see her. Shocking, but good. Gave her the birthday presents I forgot to send three weeks prior, and showed her a picture of her grandfather that I found online. Lots of hugs. Promised to write more often.

4:30pm: Left Lakewood for Parma. Ended up combining Mom's set of directions with my step-Gary's set, and got there just fine.

4:45pm: Arrived at my folks' place. Ate another dinner. Watched the Cowboys play the Redskins. Ate sweet-potato pie. Had quality time with my cat. Talked about how big my step-brother Philip has grown, about wedding plans, about weird commercials on TV, about my long-ass hours at work, and about crap in general.

9:00pm: Gary walked Philip back to his mother's house down the street. Mom packed us a bag full of Thanksgiving leftovers (especially appreciated since we had to bail from Aaron's family so fast we didn't get any there). Once Gary got back, Aaron and I got our stuff together, said our goodbyes, and headed back to Bowling Green.

11:15pm: Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. Off to bed for Diana — I had to be at work by 9:00am the next day. No four-day weekend for me. Overall: a fun day, a good day, but a busy day.

Lung Cancer Sucks

I'm not a smoker. But I'd imagine that, as the average twenty-year-old smoker drags on his or her brand of choice, he's not thinking of the good time he could be having in about 50 years: laying in a hospital bed, losing his hair, being inundated with various chemicals and drugs to sear away the cancer that usurps his lungs.

My grandmother is 70 years old, and she has lung cancer.

When I first heard, almost a month ago (?!), Aaron and I had just chosen a final wedding date. For a fleeting moment, I considered moving my wedding date up a few months, but thought better of it. After all, wouldn't that be a vote of inconfidence in her ability to pull through? So I called her up in the hospital and told her that at least her hair will have grown back by May.

I seem to be the least worried of everyone, except my Memaw. I wonder sometimes if I shouldn't be more concerned, considering her age and all. Mom says Memaw has good days and bad days. Tuesday was a bad day, and she was asleep when Mom came to visit. Thursday, however, was a good day, since Memaw was downstairs playing bingo when Mom called to check on her. :-)

I refuse to be angry at Memaw, though. Sure, this cancer could be pinned down to her decades of smoking — but what will it help to blame the victim? I'd rather just go to the women's cancer specialty shop and buy her a head scarf or three for her birthday.