A Tale of Two Movies

Since my good mood crashed and burned about a week ago, I decided to give myself a present of a day off to do with as I pleased. I decided it was time to go to the movies. I don't go to the movie theater much anymore, since I usually end up being annoyed more than entertained. Between cell phone chirps, loud mouths and people who have to stumble across your feet half a dozen times (people, see a dr. for crying out loud), it just isn't worth the aggravation.

But once in awhile I cave in. I've learned to wait a week or two after the big blockbusters are released and to go to the earliest show available at a big cineplex in Austin. That usually guarantees as best a viewing environment as is possible. Today it worked out just fine. I was one of maybe a dozen people in the auditorium at 11:30 a.m. to see The Da Vinci Code, all of them adults.

(That reminds me of an audiobook I'm listing to at present. The main character goes into a restaurant and inquires if there is a no smoking area. "Yes, sir!" he is told. He then inquires if there is a no kids area. My kind of guy.)

Someone of my acquaintance saw the movie last week but had not read the book. Despite my comment that I had read the book twice and was well aware of the controversies it aroused, I have been repeatedly cautioned to remember it is fiction. Well, duh. It's just unfortunate that so many religious nuts have forgotten that little fact. Unfortunate for them. Very fortunate for Dan Brown, who's probably laughing all the way to the bank.

Anyway, I went prepared for violence and mutilation of the plot. There was violence, but it was well telegraphed so that those of us with squeamish tendencies could choreograph our popcorn eating so as to miss the flying globules of blood. The plot mutilation? Wasn't as bad as I feared. The major points of the story are all there. What they did change mystifies me. It really didn't seem to be necessary, but I guess it helped move the story along a little faster and got the job done in 2-1/2 hours rather than 3.

Tom Hanks was not my choice to play Robert Langdon, but he did a decent job. Only a time or two did you lose the character of Robert Langdon to the character of Tom Hanks and it wasn't jarring. The female lead was quite young in comparison, but they tamped down the romantic attraction in the novel to create more of an older brother to younger sister relationship, which worked out okay.

Bottom line--it was an enjoyable movie, fairly faithful to the novel, and loaded with great scenery. The critics may be crucifying it, but I think there's a lot of sour grapes involved with anything involving The Da Vinci Code. Ignore the critics and see the movie if you have any interest in it. You will be entertained sufficiently.

I got home to find that an impulsive EBAY purchase had arrived. My 2005 research project on the events surrounding the Texas City explosions of 1947 continues to spark my interest and I had located a DVD containing two archival films relating to the event. The first is a 6 minute, silent film presentation of fire and destruction of property. The second runs about 23 minutes and is a horrifying and graphic recounting of the tragic events. It was a compilation by the Texas Department of Public Safety and about half of the film was devoted to the subject of body identification in the aftermath of the explosion. The narrator tells the grim details of re-assembling body parts that had been blown apart, taking fingerprints from severed hands, dissection of bodies to determine the presence or absence of an appendix, and many other sickening methods they used to reunite bodies with the appropriate families. As the narration progresses, you are presented with film of the activities being described. It is not something you want to watch while you are eating dinner, which is what I was doing.

So from one extreme to another. The DaVinci Code is beautifully photographed and visually stunning. The Texas City documentary is grainy, poorly focused and visually stunning. Both films cause you to lose yourself in the story and stay with you for some time after viewing. The DaVinci Code (believe it or not, you hyper-religious nitwits) is fiction. The Texas City story is horrifying fact. The first takes 2-1/2 hours to tell its story. The second takes 23 minutes.

Both were well worth the time to see.

LSW

Step One Complete

Way back in the first part of April I mentioned my visit to the Niccum Cemetery outside Danville, Illinois, and my somewhat rash decision to photograph every tombstone. I had been frustrated that this little cemetery full of my relatives had been rather overlooked by the local historians. Before we left Danville, I had managed to snag a listing from the Illiana Genealogical and Historical Society for the known burials through about the mid-1970s. Since getting home, I have been matching that list against the photographs, sizing the photographs for uploading to www.findagrave.com , and slowly loading the data row by row.

The crushing workload of May has interferred greatly with my project, but today I was able to sit down and complete the entry for this little cemetery. Little? I had no idea that there were more than 500 burials in that little plot of land when I was snapping photos. If I had, I might have backed out of my impulsive plan on the spot. I'm glad I didn't know, because I feel a real sense of accomplishment now that the first round has been completed.

Now I go back and make sure I didn't miss anybody and try again to decipher the handful of stones that did not photograph well. I'm planning to expand the listing I picked up at IGHS to include helpful information that was omitted (like "son of" and "wife of"), correct the typographical errors on that list, and add in information from my personal records for the 50% or so burials that tie into my family. Then I plan to post the information somewhere on the Internet and start spreading the word that Niccum Cemetery has been documented to the best of my ability.

I'm glad I was able to finish the initial phase of the project on Memorial Day. I was not able to get out today to pay visits to the graves of my veteran ancestors, but I was able to leave virtual flowers on the memorials I have entered for them online. I continue to find it very rewarding to memorialize my relatives in this way. I feel like they know what I've been doing and are happy that someone remembers.

Niccum Cemetery

LSW

Lead Me Not Into Temptation

My mother's doctor's office ticked me off just before lunch time today. When I get snarly, it helps if I get out of the office and find someplace distracting to spend my lunch hour. Usually I go to a book store, but I've got such a pile of books waiting to be read that I'm trying to avoid Border's and Half-Price Books for awhile. I've got enough clothes, so that let out Foley's and Beall's as possible escape routes. I'm overloaded with craft projects, so scratch Hobby Lobby. I was getting desperate for ideas.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had not been to Tuesday Morning since Christmas, so I headed to Burnet Road.

What was I thinking? I don't need anything that you can find at Tuesday Morning. But I left with two big bags full of stuff. The place is evil. They carry everything. I discovered a need for a summer blanket, some dog toys, a bundt pan, a set of gift boxes, a frame, an audio book. I was amazed to find a matching piece to my set of luggage at a greatly reduced price. My escape lunch ended up being a bit costly. But it was good stuff. (The dogs love the new blanket.)

It's hopeless. For every item I decide to put in the stack of things to take off to charity, I bring in a replacement. I'm a sucker for a bargain and I keep getting in trouble as a result. My closets overfloweth.

So what is a gal to do when she needs to escape her life for a bit and lunch is the only time available? God help me, I'm probably going to end up becoming a Starbuck's lounger, pounding away on my laptop while I ingest enough caffeine to keep my eyes wide open all night.

Which brings up my next confession. I finally caved in and tried a new coffee house on Highway 71. I've never really known what to order at a coffee house and usually opt for cappucino. Today I tried a latte. What bliss! The stuff is sinfully good. I fear it will become a regular stop.

So I did not do well in resisting temptation today. Guess I will just have to try again tomorrow.

LSW

Met One, Now I'm Moving On

My grandmother Hodge had a lot of wisdom to impart, but one thing she told me has stood out over the years. She said "In your life you are going to meet a certain number of jackasses. When you do, just say, 'there's one of them', and move along."

I did a stupid thing, to begin with. I left for the grocery store on Sunday afternoon just in time to arrive with the after church crowd. It was wall to wall people, all in a rush and none of them in a mood to be aware of the needs of anyone else.

In the second place, my mood has been pretty sour for several weeks now, not only because of the truckload of work that was dumped on my desk on May 1st, but also because allergies have had my head feeling like one of those Macy's balloons floating above my body.

So I can't say I'm exactly in a forgiving frame of mind these days.

Anyway, as I walked through the door at H.E.B. and began to shop the vegetable aisle, I was startled to have a man brush past me snarling "Lardass!". It was so unexpected, I stopped in my tracks and spun around. We exchanged looks. I realized at that point that his snarl was not directed at me. I'm not sure he realized that he had been heard until he saw my schoolteacher glare. He strode on out the door.

I looked around to see who might have been the intended target. There were several possibilities, including a short woman of the extremely portly persuasion who was slowly choosing vegetables to bag.

Since I spent the next hour waiting for people to shift out of the way so I could shop, I could understand the fellow's frustration. But there was no excuse for his rude behavior. I am as guilty as anybody in slinging rude comments at people. In my head or in the privacy of my car. I try not to make a jackass out of myself by saying them aloud if there's any chance I'll be heard by a complete stranger.

So, I guess the moral of the story is, better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a shithead instead of opening your mouth and removing all doubt.

LSW

Life Under the Canopy

Last weekend, brother David and I assembled a canopy for the smaller of our decks, to provide a little shade through the day for assorted animals and plants. It has been a big hit. This morning, as I watered plants, I discovered that I was being studied carefully by this little guy.

He kept close watch on me, shifting position as I moved around the deck. I think he's every bit as debonair and suave as that cockney gecko on TV, don't you?

In another area of the deck was a study in concentration. Try as he did, he never did manage to levitate the cat dish into his reach.

Poor Mojo had a rough start to his day. First thing this morning I discovered that he had chewed the top off one of the toes of my chainsaw carved bear in the living room. I was not happy. Mojo had no idea that he could fall from grace with his Mom and it broke his heart. It was, in fact, his second transgression of the day. The first being my discovery that my yard work shoes were full of a certain yellow fluid. The scolding he got hurt far worse than the tiny pop to his butt, and he spent the better part of an hour with his ears drooping and a sad look on his face. He watched me put socks on the bear's feet as a preventive measure (now there's a decorative touch that you won't see anywhere else) and trailed forlornly behind me until he found an opportunity to crawl in my lap and cover me with apologetic kisses. He was one happy little boy when he realized that Mom wasn't going to stay upset with him. What's a one of a kind piece of art balanced against a little boy's heart? A little black paint and nobody else will ever know what happened.

From there we finished repotting and watering plants and washing down the deck. I knew he was back to normal when he started chasing the water, snapping and snarling with puppy delight. Life is back to normal. More or less. I've still got to figure out what to do with my yard shoes.

LSW

Going Down for the Third Time

I'm drowning in work this week, so hence the scarce postings. May is a four-letter word for me. It involves statutory requirements that result in my processing as much work in May as I do for January, February, March, April, June, October, November and December put together. I leave out July, August and September, which are their own special kind of work hell, but with less State regulations involved. Let's just say that I earn my salary primarily for the efforts that are exerted in those four months of the year. I earn my ulcers in May.

Yesterday I worked until 11PM trying to make silk data out of sow's ear input. I'm finalizing that particular file as I sit here at 6AM. I want this particular mess off my desk before I hit the office this morning.

I am continually amazed at the bad data that keeps coming my way these days. If what I see is a representative sample of the data that is floating around the world, I wonder how on earth the world keeps functioning. What scares me is that we may be heading for a 1929 panic, not in finance, but in crashed computers. Programmers just don't seem to be able to program their way out of a paper sack anymore. Fast and sloppy is the creed these days. Let the guy on the other end of the data beware.

There was a time when I didn't consider myself to be a real programmer. "I do maintenance programming," was my belief. Hell, at this point I'm light years beyond some of the so-called geniuses that are pulling the big bucks these days. A lot of my time is spent debugging the data of much higher-paid programmers. Who, by the way, are not that pleased to hear that I've located holes in their Swiss-cheesed programs. You're welcome, guys.

I'm a dinosaur who works primarily in COBOL. So I get little respect from the Microsoft certified generation. But how is it that the old dinosaur can spot garbage from a mile off that they work in up close and personal and are convinced smells like roses?

Oh, well. I said all that to lead up to sharing my first grin of the day. My horoscope today: "You probably feel a lack of guidance. You're dealing with the sort of person who'd throw a drowning man both ends of the rope".

That's the way I feel right now. Floating in a pile of sewage and nobody on shore is able to help, except to keep throwing the entire rope at me repeatedly.

Excuse me while I go find a brick wall to bang my head against.

LSW

Mini Flashback to 1962

On the way to work yesterday morning, driving down 6th Street and crossing Congress Avenue, I saw one of those cars that sends you instantly back about 40 years. It was a bright red Corvette, circa 1960, gleaming like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. Looked something like this:


So, I naturally flew back in my mind to 1962. I found myself thinking about Route 66, a television show that involved two young men cruising the USA in their Corvette. I always imagined that Corvette as being red, though I later learned that it was blue. Those were the days of black and white tv, when you made up your own color scheme in your mind.

One day in 1962, the production company landed in Austin to film an episode. We were living in Oak Hill at the time. I was quite a fan of the show and was excited to know that the two stars were so nearby. Daddy was taking classes at UT that year and one day he came home and told us about the flurry of activity in downtown Austin. He described all the giggly girls that were rushing around hoping to catch sight of Marty Milner or George Maharis. He asked me if I would be that silly.

Well, I was seven at the time, more star struck than anything. A little too young to have crushes. But I was confident that I would be every bit as excited if I were on the scene.

I saw that episode several years back on TVLand and enjoyed seeing the familiar Austin locations, caught in a time warp. But the thing that struck me most is how dated the vehicles were. The episode involved an accident where Buz Murdock was blinded and spent time in a blind school until, with the inevitable TV miracle, he recovered and had to leave behind the blind girl he loved. The ambulance was a modified station wagon and the police cars were boxy and black. But that lovely Corvette was every bit as wonderful as it ever was.

Oddly enough, I had a second flash to the early 60s later on in the evening. Since the Thursday prime time schedule is horrible, I was surfing last night and found myself caught by the History Channel. The show that grabbed my attention involved a recreation of the Kennedy assassination by combining all of the photos and movies that had been shot by passersby that day and then reanalyzing the pictures with today's technology. I don't usually watch programs about that particular event, but this was a well done piece.

Again, the vehicles were the things that transported me back in time. I could imagine myself back in time, watching the original newscasts, a fourth grader who was embroiled in her first experience with a national tragedy.

Just as a faint sweet smell of a certain kind of soap can transport me back to the first grade restrooms in Oak Hill, or a song heard on the radio can suddenly transport me to a bus loaded with teenaged girls heading to a basketball tournament, now I find that a glimpse of a sportscar can whisk me back 45 years in an instant. The mind's complicated connections never fail to amaze me.

LSW

1:00 AM and All's Well

Good argument for an alarm system. My guard dog at 1:00 a.m. Didn't even blink when the flash went off. I feel so secure.

LSW

Drive Friendly

Bah, humbug.

I am a good driver, thank God. That's all that saved me this afternoon. I was cruising along Highway 71 and had just made the curve where Hwy 71 and Hwy 183 part company, with 183 heading south to Lockhart and 71 heading east to Bastrop.

Some lunatic moron in the far right lane decided that he just had to make the exit on the far left. Zoom, zoom and I found myself staring at his rear bumper. My reflexes kicked in and I made the necessary adjustment to keep from plowing into his vehicle. It was close.

I was livid. Over the years I have managed to tame my inner bitch. Well, I've learned to control her a little better. But she is alive and well, let me tell you. She blasted the S.O.B. with her horn, accelerated and pulled up next to him, laid on the horn continuously when she got even with him and gave him the old one finger salute and a good cussing.

He's probably still laughing at Granny Grunt's little tirade.

I am way tired of incompetent drivers. I've come to the conclusion that about 90% of the drivers on the road should have their licenses revoked and be restricted to riding public transportation. Come to think of it, that would not only clear the road of dangerous, insane drivers, it might even cause gas prices to go down. Excellent idea all around.

I love to drive, but I hate idiots. If that particular idiot had tried that particular maneuver on a less experienced driver, there would have been a traffic jam deluxe while Star Flight and the Jaws of Life made their way to the scene. Next time he may not be so lucky. Hopefully he will only kill himself when the time comes.

Drive friendly, hah. Drive competently and I'll be your friend. Drive like an idiot and I'll put the evil eye on you.

LSW

On the FM Road Again

Today was Frankum reunion day. We alternate locations between West Columbia and Elgin and this year was in West Columbia. It's about a 2-1/2 hour trip from Bastrop to the Bar X Ranch Clubhouse. A good part of the trip is made on a good four-lane highway, but the last hour or so involves Farm-to-Market roads. My favorite kind of driving.

Given the choice between an Interstate and a Farm-to-Market road, I will take the FM road everytime. There's nothing I like better than driving two-lane blacktops through farm land. With all the rain we've had lately, the corn is coming right along. The stalks were about 4 feet high and so thick that it looked like a green lake. It was every bit as pretty as any lake.

I saw deer in pastures along the way. I saw herds of cattle being monitored by huge flocks of snowy white egrets. Occasionally a big flock of the egrets would rise up as my vehicle approached and I would be enveloped by a cloud of white wings.

Just as I left Wharton and headed south to Boling, the skies opened up and rain came down in torrents. For about 10 minutes, the rain was so hard that I was reduced to driving by watching the line in the middle of the road. But afterwards, the fields sparkled and the sight was worth every white knuckled minute of driving that came before.

When I got to the clubhouse, the rain was about 30 minutes behind me. I stood outside and watched the snaky lightning trail across the sky. Try as I did to get a picture of it, I could never hit the shutter release fast enough.


I enjoyed several hours of fellowship with my family and then headed back home. Now the sun was out, the sky a brilliant blue. I detoured long enough to visit the graves of my grandparents and two sets of great-grandparents. Another 90 minutes of driving through the backroads of Texas and I was home.

What more can you ask of a spring day? The opportunity to visit with family, drive through fertile farmland and pay tribute to your ancestors. And, incidentally, pick up a week's supply of breakfast rolls at the bakery in LaGrange. Life is good.

LSW

Hatfields and McCoys

Today I arrived at work and knew something was up as soon as I started backing into a place in the garage. There were people scurrying up and down the stairwell carrying furniture and piles of it accumulating in the garage. I discovered the elevator wasn't working, so I headed back to the stairwell and nearly got trampled by more scurriers. "What the hell?", I said to myself. Just then, one of the folks stopped long enough to explain that the landlady had turned off the electrical supply to the elevator.

This was the latest salvo in a feud that has been going on for awhile between the folks in the next suite on our floor and the new owner of the building. I don't know the details and I don't want to know the details. I do know that the chief guy from the company next door has a history of being difficult, based on personal observation. Hearsay has it that the new landlady can also be obstreperous.

Whatever the history of the situation, today the tenants were to move out of the building. Landlady showed up in the parking lot to take photographs of the proceedings. What she thought they might run off with, I have no idea. The carpet? The wall panels? The toilets? Everything else in the place was the tenant's.

Fighting back in kind, one of the tenant's employees began videotaping the landlady as she snapped photos. Something else snapped and the landlady ended up inside with one of her assistants. The next thing you know, the elevator suddenly stopped working.

It was at this point that I arrived and had to swim upstream in the stairwell, fighting the downstream of furniture. Turns out there was a time limit to vacate the premises and with the elevator out of commission, the stairwells were the only recourse for the move.

It did not take long for the story to circulate that the elevators had been deliberately disabled. One of our chiefs waded into the frey and made it clear that it would be a good idea for the "repair" to happen quickly. When it got fixed, I don't know, but I was able to use the elevator on the way back from lunch. After I skirted around the pile of furniture that is still in the parking lot awaiting removal.

Lord. I thought I was stubborn to a fault. It was like watching two rams butting heads for the sake of butting heads, regardless of the cracked skulls that might result. Thankfully nobody got crushed in the stairwell from a falling file cabinet.

Rumor has it that we might be moving our offices in the not too distant future. If in fact we do, I plan to remove my personal items in a working elevator well before the last day.

Some people.

LSW

Now We Are One

Thursday Mojo will be 1 year old. Coco turned 1 year old on March 24th. No longer puppies. Well, not quite. Rat terriers are full of puppy bounce for at least 3 years. These two are certainly still full of bounce. They wear me out sometimes.

In honor of their birthdays, I went to WalMart today and invested in a set of Doggy Steps. I'm sure you've seen them on TV. An aid to help little and infirm dogs get to where they need to get. In our case, I thought it might be nice if I didn't have to lift them into bed a dozen times every evening before they finally crash for the night.

Silly me. I put the steps together and put them against the bed. And they are scared spitless of them. I patiently "walked" each of them up the steps a couple of times, thinking they just needed to get the idea. Mojo started skirting around me, cowering. Xana took off downstairs. Coco just looked at me like I'd lost my ever-loving mind. Apparently they consider that I've brought evil into the house and are now avoiding the end of the bed where the steps live. Oy.

The house is a lot different this April from the same time last year. Tomorrow also marks the first year of Bebop's passing. I still feel his presence from time to time and I really think he personally picked Mojo for his replacement. They are just too much alike. Coco is a little jewel, too. They were just what I needed to get over the pain of losing Bebop.

Come to think of it, Bebop would have refused to use the Doggy Steps, too. Not because he was afraid of them, but because he would have considered it beneath him. Why exert energy when you have a perfectly good slave to lift you whereever you wish?

Just who is training whom?

LSW

Rare Appearance

It's been dry in these parts for so long that I was somewhat taken aback to see rain lillies popping up all over the neighborhood. And not just the single one here and there, but clusters of them all over. And not the tiny ones I remember, but with flowers almost 3-4 times bigger than normal.

The lily family mystifies me. The lady who owned my previous home before me had planted the yard with bulbs of every kind of iris and lily you can imagine. I lived there 12 years and every spring brought surprises. Bulbs may sprout every spring like clockwork, and then suddenly lie dormant for years. Even in the last year I lived there I was seeing flowers that I had not seen before. You have to wonder what special circumstances combine to cause life to remain hidden for so long and then to suddenly spring forth with a renewed vigor.

I love living in quasi-country and having enough wild area around me to be able to appreciate these special messages from nature. One day you wake up to a beautiful flower that has sprung from a dry, dusty, rocky bed. There's hope for the day.

LSW

Southern Comfort

I've been listening today to Alan Jackson's newest album, a collection of old hymns with simple acoustic accompaniment. It's hard to beat those old, familiar songs. My fingers automatically began moving on invisible piano keys, making the motions they made hundreds of times during my years of playing piano or organ for congregational singing in Baptist churches of my youth.

One of the last times I played for a funeral was at my grandfather's funeral. I kept a folder of appropriate soft music for funerals, mostly the old familiar hymns, many of which are on Alan Jackson's album. I remember later that afternoon my uncle made the comment, "You sure do have that old Baptist roll in your playing". I was momentarily annoyed with the comment at the time, thinking it was a criticism. But on further thought, I decided it was just an observation, not a put down.

The thing is, I do. Many years of playing the same songs over and over creates a need to vary things a little to keep yourself from getting bored. You start breaking the chords up and playing them in a roll, rather than together. You shift a note to make a diminished 7th chord. You extend the chord to include the octave of the base note. There's a dozen or more different ways to vary the basic chord to keep things interesting.

There's comfort to be had in those old hymns, sung to a simple piano played with a little Baptist roll in the chording.

I have not been an active church goer for about twenty years now. I had definite reasons for departing from the church and some of them had to do with the shift away from the simple, pure music. Churches started eliminating the "stale" familiar songs and bringing in elaborate musical accompaniment. While I have nothing against orchestras, small or large, I very much dislike running into horns and drums in a church setting. I go to church to feel close to God and to enjoy the fellowship. I don't go to have my eardrums blasted with a trumpet in a place that doesn't have the acoustics to support it.

I recently had a conversation with a friend about the changes in Baptist churches over the past couple of decades. She stuck with it longer than I did and saw some of the radical shifts that were being made to pull in the younger generation. I suddenly realized that I had sensed where things were headed when I made the decision to go my separate way. Maybe the changes had to be made to keep the church alive. But I think something was lost along the way. Church became more of an entertainment business than a meditative, religious experience.

It's a shame that younger folks seldom get to hear those old hymns. To us older folks, they are familiar, soothing reminders of a simpler time.

I think I may just have to go tickle the ivories a little before I go on to bed.

Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling.
Calling for you and for me.
See, on the portals He's waiting and watching,
Watching for you and for me.

Or, maybe,

Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms;
Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.

Or,

O Lord my God,
When I in awesome wonder,
Consider all the worlds Thy Hands have made;
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art.

LSW

Riddle Me This

Ok, all you kinfolk out there that lived in the country, I have a question.

This past weekend, as I was tooling around the yard on the riding mower, I cut down a huge patch of sweet clover, full of "pickles". I can remember looking for these "pickles" when I was a kid and chewing them for their burst of sour sweetness. It got me wondering about that other plant we used to chew on as we rambled around the fields.

So what was it? Sour Doc or Sour Dot? And what was it, really? I don't remember it clearly enough to know whether it's still around. And the internet is no help, since I'm sure it was a local term for a regional plant.

Wouldn't mind finding a stalk and reliving those memories.

LSW

Finis

The trip ended officially at 1:36 this afternoon when we landed in Austin. The first sight as we hit the runway was a field of bluebonnets. Nice to be back home!

Aside from a 20 minute period where I could not find my car in the garage to save my life, we could not have asked for a smoother vacation. We had a lot of fun, found a lot of good stuff at the library in Fort Wayne, saw a lot of beautiful country, took a lot of photos that no one is going to be interested in but us and the folks at FindAGrave, and ate a lot of good food. What else can you ask for from a week's vacation in America's heartland?

Well, there were no puppy or grandkid kisses for 7 days and we were in serious withdrawal by the time we got home. I can't speak for Lana, but I was thoroughly kissed by three deliriously happy puppies when I got in. I'm assuming she was similarly greeted by grandkids and dogs. I think we will sleep a lot better tonight.

The last story to tell involves the airport at Austin. As we deplaned, a young woman and a little girl were waiting at the gate, holding a big sign with the words "Welcome Home, Daddy!" We knew immediately who they were waiting for, as we had watched the soldier board just ahead of us in Dallas. We decided to wait and witness the reunion, and so did just about everyone else who had made the trip with us.

The soldier was one of the last passengers to exit the plane, and the little girl ran down the ramp to meet him. The three of them were hugging and kissing, while his fellow passengers burst into a spontaneous round of applause.

America, the beautiful.

LSW

Drawing to a Close

Well, we are back safe and sound in Indianapolis. We will be flying out early in the morning. We spent the day driving slowly north on country roads. Our intentions had been to visit some of the local craft stores advertising Amish wares. We did visit one, the Black Buggy Restaurant and store. It sold Amish made elixirs and spice compounds, as well as luscious looking pies and breads. We picked up a few postcards and a couple of books and figured we would wait and see what else was available.

Turns out that we are slightly ahead of the tourist season and there just wasn't much to see. We did stop at Knepp's Restaurant, which served a buffet of food that was fantastic. It was like Thanksgiving at Grandma's House. Perfectly fried chicken, homemade bread, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, sweet corn, corn souffle, salads, soups and a slice of pie. Yummy.

On the way through the country, we passed three different buggies of Amish folk and we saw lots of immaculate farms. That was our Amish experience in Indiana.

Only one picture today. Yours truly, in front of the Black Buggy Cafe, resting on the bench posted for "Democrats Only". After a week in these parts, I am wondering if anyone else has ever sat here.


LSW

Four Seats, No Waiting

Today was so full of different layers that tonight's blog requires chapters.

Chapter 1, Four Seats No Waiting
We had one last cemetery to visit this morning before we left Moultrie County, so we headed to the small town of Gays, which by the way was named by taking the first letters of the names of four leading citizens. Gays has an unusual tourist attraction and there are signs on the highway to grab your attention and pull you downtown for a visit. Gays has a two-story outhouse.

This structure naturally generates several questions as you walk around it. Most of them are answered on the nearby display board. First of all, it truly is a two story outhouse, with two holes on each level, one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen (different shaped holes to accommodate the different physical attributes). It was originally attached to a two story building that housed a store on the first level and apartments on the second. The building was torn down, but the outhouse was saved and it now sits in the middle of a small municipal park.

According to the articles displayed, the functionality of the facilities is accomplished by a false wall in the lower level and an offset of the seats above from those below. According to one lady who was interviewed you could indeed serve four, if for some reason you wanted to do so.

Chapter 2, As Far as the Eye Can See

Once we finished our cemetery business in Gays, we turned south and made a run for the town of Vincennes, Indiana. Vincennes sits right on the border between Indiana and Illinois and the Wabash River marks the state line. To get there, we drove through miles and miles of flat prairie land. When the map shows the next town to be 6 miles away, you can look straight down the road and see its water tower and rooftops clearly the entire way. Nothing breaks up the landscape except for the barns and silos that sit beside every house you pass. I'm not one who normally uses cruise control, but it has been a necessity on this trip. The speed limit is 55 mph and my foot wants to push the speed up to 70 on those long straightaways.

Chapter 3, You Can't Get There From Here

When we finally got to Vicennes, we ended up taking a tour of the city. Which was not our intention, but the State Highway Department doesn't seem to feel the need to let anyone know where State Highway 61 is hiding. Unfortunately, that is the road you need to take to get to Petersburg, so we finally gave up looking for it on our own and stopped at the Visitors' Center to ask for help. Turns out you can't get there from Vincennes.

Just kidding. Sort of. It is not an easy task to get to Petersburg, county seat of Pike County where my Mason family lived for many generations. We managed to find a hotel that sits just off Highway 61 and then started off for the nether regends of Indiana. Petersburg, our first stop in Pike County, was about a 30 minute drive through beautiful rolling hills. Spring had not quite arrived in northern Indiana, but in this part the trees are in full bloom, the leaves are bright green, the grass is lush, each farm has a beautiful emerald green pond, and huge tractors are beginning to inch down the narrow roads, slowing traffic for miles. Every so often, you pass a field that is purple with the blooms of what we assume is clover. This has been some of the prettiest country we've seen on this trip.

We spent about 45 minutes at the Petersburg Public Library, primarily to get some better directions to the two cemeteries I wanted to visit. When they ran us off in order to close for the day, we decided that we would make an effort to finish up our cemetery work before going back to Vincennes for the night. Coe, the little community where we were headed, was another 10 miles or so south. We drove through even more verdant farmland, the road curving back and forth and up and down, before arriving at Blackfoot Cemetery.

I have Mason kinfolk buried all over Pike County, but Blackfoot Cemetery was my primary reason for coming to this area. My gg-grandfather John Mason is buried here, along with 3 of his children who died in infancy. My ggg-grandparents William and Huldah Mason are buried here, with several of their sons and a small army of their grandchildren. In all, I believe I counted about 90 graves containing the remains of people who share my DNA. It took us a little over an hour to get all the photos and I had to return several times to John's grave to etch the details forever in my mind.

Finishing up at Blackfoot, we drove some back roads to the Davis Cemetery in order to get photos of the family graves of Nancy Mason Davis, my ggg-grandaunt. This cemetery sits up on top of a hill. It's quite a climb up there, but what a view from the top. This picture doesn't do it justice at all. Believe me, it's gorgeous country.

Chapter 4, Last But Not Least

Our genealogy work is done for this trip. With one day left on our schedule, we are planning to get up in the morning and head toward the Amish communities in Daviess County, just up the road a little ways, and do some shopping on the way back to Indianapolis. It's been a long week, but each day has been packed with the sights, sounds and smells of the country where our ancestors lived. We have a little better feeling for what they left to migrate to Texas.

As I promised last night, I close with a picture of a barn that is just a field or two over from Niccum Cemetery. I am assuming that the barn has been sitting there for long enough to have been a sight taken for granted by my ancestors. Perhaps it even belonged to my ancestors. It is defying the march of time and continues to stand, even though it is a skeleton of its former self.

LSW

On the Road Again

Another long, satisfying day. We started off by returning to Niccum Cemetery and completing our photo history of the burials there. I was glad to finish the camera work, but rather sad to leave. I felt a real connection with the pretty little cemetery.

Just before we left Danville, we took a swing by the Illiana Genealogical Historical Society so I could pick up a couple of CDs of marriage and burial records and whatever else caught my attention. This was our first experience this trip with the snooty, holier than thou keeper of the records you want and I have and just see if you can figure out a way to get me to let you see them type. My word, some folks are just so impressed with the power they hold over the poor family historians.

The gentlemen who was helping me could not have been nicer and he bent over backward to help. But the LADY IN CHARGE OF THE COPIER, which heaven forbid the common folk should attempt to use, was certainly not going to let these folks from GAWD ALMIGHTY TEXAS get her to bend her rules one iota. Lana and I are really good at playing aw-shucks humble with these types and we managed to get everything we were after anyway. I had the last word; when my total for the books and cds and copies hit about $85 worth, I plunked a portrait of Benjamin Franklin down on the counter and told them to keep the change. I somehow got the impression that most folks don't walk in with cash, let alone leave without the change they are due. So take that, Miss Snoot.

We headed on down to Moultrie County and arrived about lunchtime, and decided to indulge in a Cracker Barrel experience. Which was a good thing, since we worked ourselves down the rest of the afternoon. Despite our experiences of earlier in the day, we decided to head first for the genealogical society, since we had no firm directions for the half dozen cemeteries we wanted to visit. (We actually managed to find the first one on the way, with our usual bumbling luck.) We arrived, to be greeted by a formidable white-haired lady with a 'tude, and braced ourselves for the worst.

But to our surprised pleasure, Miss 'Tudy turned out to be a gal with a dry wit and a heart of gold. She pulled folder after folder from their vertical files, each filled with pictures and obituaries and family data for Lana's Waggoner folks. We kept the two ladies there busy with the copier for the better part of an hour. We had quite a pile of paper. And we hit another one of our lucky strikes. A gentlemen who was a frequent visitor to the facilities, but who had not been there for quite some time, arrived shortly after we did. I was busy trying to locate cemetery directions while Lana sorted through Waggoner folders, and I wasn't having much luck. He fussed around with the records and pulled out a book with just the map I had been looking for. If he hadn't known to look for that book, I'm not sure what we would have done, because Miss 'Tudy didn't seem to know much about the cemeteries. We left, after showering our ladies with thanks and a contribution for their renovation project, and started the next cemetery assault.

Finding your way among the farm roads of Indiana and Illinois is not the same as finding your way around rural Texas. Everything up here is based on the township system and all the roads are numbered sequentially from some point, with the same numbers counting N, S, E, & W from that point. So you will see 1000N, 1000E, 1000S, and 1000W and they will NOT be the opposite ends of each other. If we had not had the luck to find that detailed map, we would never have found the cemeteries we were seeking, let alone find our way out of rural Illinois and back to Mattoon and our beds for the night. With Lana acting as navigator, we somehow managed to get oriented and hit four cemeteries in quick succession before calling it a day and even though one was on a road posted with a "No Trespassing" sign (see previous post on how much we pay attention to warnings when we've come 900 miles to see something).

We have two more cemeteries to visit in the morning and then we head back to Indiana, a shift forward in time, and tackle the Mason family in Pike County as our last project for this trip.

It is amazing how relaxing it is to roam around the back roads looking for family. At the end of the day we are bone tired, but by morning we are ready to tackle it again. I have really enjoyed walking the cemeteries, listening to the robins singing in the trees nearby, and looking over rolling fields that are waiting for the plow and a new season of growth. I would really love to see these places when the corn is growing high and the trees are green. It is a beautiful country we are travelling through.

No picture tonight, because my connection is acting flaky and refusing to cooperate. I'll try again tomorrow. I have a great picture of an old barn.

LSW

Addendum

By the way, have you idea of what potash is? Just down the road from our hotel is the Danville Potash Terminal. It's a big hunking thing that looks like a sideways silo. Had to educate ourselves. You can too, by clicking here.

Just for the record, Danville has not much to recommend it. Aside from potash and the inimitible Dick Van Dyke, I'm at a loss as to its contributions to society.

LSW

Luck or Spirit Intervention?

We are continually amazed at how we are able to find our way to heretofore unvisited country cemeteries. It happened to us in Arkansas two years ago and it is happening in Indiana and Illinois on this trip. We begin to get the feeling that we have spirit guides at work, leading us where we need to go.

We started off bright and early this morning, another chilly morning. We had initially planned to survey the Niccum Cemetery first, but we decided to reverse the order of our day and hit the smaller cemeteries first, leaving Niccum to last.

We headed out in search of the Hughes Cemetery, with a very short, no frills description of its location. We were just about to reach our next turn when a lovely cemetery suddenly appeared on our left. We couldn't read the sign, but on impulse I decided to drive through it and see if anything looked familiar. The impulse paid off, because it turned out to be the McKendree cemetery, the 3rd cemetery on our list of places to go today. We spent an hour or so there, snapping photos and listening to the birds twittering in the bushes and trees. From the top of the hill, I took this photo.

Leaving McKendree, we again tried to interpret the directions to Hughes. They involved instructions to turn on roads that were no longer going by the names given but instead wore signs of unhelpful numbers. Instead of stopping and asking for help, we just kept moseying along in the general direction, looking for a "brick house on top of a hill". We thought we had it one time, only to realize that the next instruction "take the lane turning to the left after the house" didn't fit. Jokingly, I said "Frances, we need a nudge!", speaking to my ggg-grandmother whose grave is in Hughes Cemetery. Just afterwards, we spotted another brick house on the top of a hill and a lane just past it to the left. There was no sign of a cemetery, and a series of gates stretched ahead of us. We pondered the repercussions of being caught trespassing and decided to follow our instincts and go on through. We approached the second gate and as Lana prepared to get out to open it, we glanced to the left and there was the cemetery, tucked away in a pasture. I truly don't know how we happened to drive right to it with the directions we had been given. Unless we had some friendly nudges from another dimension.


I had about 50 pictures to take at Hughes, including the graves of two sets of ggg-grandparents, John and Frances Dunavan and David and Dorothy Beauchamp. It was peaceful and quiet in that secluded setting and we only jumped once, when a rabbit took off suddenly as we approaced a grave at the edge of the cemetery. The only other visitors there were a robin couple, who flitted around and kept an eye on us as we worked.

I had another errand before we left the area, which was to see the town where my grandfather was born. According to the history books I have been looking at recently, Perrysville was once a booming little burg that was giving Chicago some competition. There is nothing left at Perrysville but some abandoned buildings and a small cluster of homes. Oddly, I felt right at home, so I guess some genetic memory was seeping in from my great-grandparents Tilman and Matilda Wilcoxen, who moved from Perrysville to Glen Flora, Texas, when my grandfather was a child.

Just before we reached the Perrysville sign, we saw the gate to another cemetery. The gate was on the main road, but the cemetery sat well off the road on the top of a hill. We took a few minutes to drive slowly through, looking for any familiar family names. We commented on what a beautiful view there was from the top of the hill and came to the realization that the beautiful cemetery probably was placed there because it was land that was unsuitable for farming. Level fields spread out in every direction at the base of the hill. The undesirable land has become the most beautiful spot around. If you look carefully at the photo, you can probably see the graves on the distant hill.

We finally got to Niccum, after taking a small tour of Gessie, another apot in the road where my ggg-grandparents Wilcoxen lived and are buried in unmarked graves on the land that was their farm. Niccum Cemetery sits in the middle of a vast cornfield. For some reason, it has been pretty much ignored by the local historians. Either they are buying into the haunted reputation or consider it too remote to bother with. After some disccusion, we decided that we would recitfy that sad state of affairs and take a picture of every headstone.

I'm not sure I would do it again. And it fact, we aren't quite done. I ran the batteries down in my camera, plus filling up a 1GB memory card, and then proceeded to run the batteries down in Lana's camera. We still have about 2 1/2 rows of stones to photograph in the morning before we leave town. But in a few weeks's time, I hope to have a documentation of Niccum Cemetery online at FindaGrave. I feel like it's my duty, in a way. After all, my ggg-grandparents Anderson and Elizabeth Dunavan donated that land for the use of a cemetery.

In addition to Anderson and Elizabeth, my gg-grandparents Parker and Lucy Wilcoxen are also buried at Niccum. And numerous cousins. My poor knees will probably not be on speaking terms with me tomorrow. I abused them royally today, bending, stretching, kneeling and rising in an effort to get good angles for all the stones.

We are now resting after a big meal at Big Boy's. I've heard of Big Boy's, but until now have not had the pleasure of eating there. We plan to partake of the hot tub later on in an effort to cajole our knees and backs into cooperating with us tomorrow as we head to Moultrie and Shelby counties to work on Lana's family for a change.

And I'll bet we drive right up to the cemetery, regardless of how bad the directions are.

LSW

Touring America's Heartland

This was a long day, spent travelling across Indiana from Fort Wayne to Danville. We left behind this view from our hotel window (I counted 5 church steeples within sight of our room), charged out in the frosty 30 degree weather, and made like tourists for awhile.

We first stopped as planned to see Johnny Appleseed's grave. We parked in the Coliseum parking lot and climbed a small knoll to the gravesite, walking between apple trees about to burst into bloom. We were doing just fine until a brisk wind blew over the hill and sent us burrowing into our jackets and scurrying down the hill. Spring has not quite reached this neck of the woods.

In fact, it had not occurred to me that we would see the countryside with the trees still naked and bare. I find myself curious about what kind of trees we are seeing. Their bark is similar to birch or maybe sycamores, but they are very tall. Occasionally you see a stand of pine trees and sometimes you see what I guess are Douglas firs, looking like overgrown Christmas trees. We drove through farm land and saw a lot of 3-story barns, many looking like the barest puff of wind would make them topple over. Others, like the following, would bring a smile as we passed by. We saw a couple of barns with decorated roofs, and one house with an elaborate pattern to its shingles.

As we drove along, Lana would look up the towns in a couple of tour guides we have along with us. We missed seeing the collection of outhouses that are one of the claims to fame for Huntington, Indiana. The road we were on bypassed the town before we knew it. When we read about the antique carousel that still operates in Logansport, we decided we would make an extra effort to see that particular attraction. Who doesn't love a carousel? The guidebook said it was open on Saturday afternoons, so we timed our visit to arrive at opening time.

When we got there, however, it was shut up tight and the sign said "closed for the season". We looked longingly through the windows and then turned to go. Just as we got back to our car, a couple of gentlemen drove up and approached us. It turns out that they are volunteers who help out at the carousel and they were about to set up for a birthday party. They cheerfully allowed us to go inside and take a closer look at the carousel animals. We didn't get to ride, but they ran the carousel for a few minutes and even turned on the music briefly, so we could get a better idea of its operation. It has been lovingly restored and the community joined in support of building a new building for it while the animals were in the process of being refinished. We got the grand tour from the men, who told us all about the restoration process, the fund raising efforts of the town, the various donations of time and materials by the citizens to get the project completed, how the carousel was dismantled and remantled in its new home, and how the mechanisms work. It was a fascinating 3/4 of a hour and we would have stayed if they had not had a job to do. They were most gracious and we had a fabulous time oohing and ahing.

From Logansport, we moved on toward Danville, arriving about 4PM. Only it was 3PM. The time zones change right at the Indiana and Illinois border. We had been hoping to get to the public library in time to copy a rare booklet on my Dunavan family that can only be found at the Danville Public Library. We had figured we would have to really hustle at the copy machine to get the 80 pages coped before they closed. It was nice to suddenly realize that we weren't too late after all. We got that job done and decided to make our first cemetery visit.

We had gotten some dire warnings from the librarian about the state of Niccum Cemetery, so we were a little worried that we might run into trouble tomorrow. It is still wet and muddy from all the rain of last week and she had us worried that we might have to hike in or rent a canoe to get there. (No way am I travelling 900 miles to see a cemetery and then leave without seeing that cemetery.) So, armed with our crude directions and a map, we decided to go see how bad it was going to be.

On the way we stopped at Atherton Cemetery and got some pictures of a few of my Wilcoxen kinfolk's graves. We wanted one cemetery under our belt before we met disappointment. With some trepidation, we turned down the narrow lane that leads you to Niccum Cemetery. It turns out that we can drive all the way there and as long as we are careful not to fall down and break something tomorrow, we should have no problems. I am looking forward to seeing the graves of my great-great grandparents Wilcoxen and my great-great-great grandparents Dunavan. We are hopeful we may even see a ghost, since Niccum Cemetery is reported to be haunted.

We will be up and at our project first thing tomorrow morning. We have three cemeteries to visit and we will tour the little towns where my grandfather Wilcoxen was born and where his grandparents lived.

Our ideas of fun may be a trifle offbeat, but we are having a blast. This was a good day.

LSW

It's Temporary

We finally asked today where everybody is hiding. Turns out that this is Spring Break week in Fort Wayne. Our waitress told us that things will be back to normal after that. We really were beginning to wonder how the hotel stayed in business.

We will be hitting the road in the morning, headed to Danville. Before we leave town, though, we plan to drive to the north part of town and pay our respects at Johnny Appleseed's grave. We had no idea that he was buried in Fort Wayne. We stopped in at the Visitors' center across the street from the hotel and got directions. I think she was glad to see somebody come in.

LSW

It's Too Quiet

We are spending some time pondering just what people do up here. The streets are way too quiet. We've had 3 meals in the hotel restaurant and only breakfast could be said to have had a crowd. We don't see anyone in the hotel lobby. We don't see anyone in the garage. We don't see anyone walking down the street. Apparently everybody up here goes straight to work and straight home.

We did see quite a few people at the library. It's a really nice library, with the entire third floor devoted to us genealogy freaks. We saw the usual mixture of middle-aged researchers, with the odd young couple and trailing kids coming in to spend an hour poking around with the idea of finding ancestors.

I sat beside a lady who seemed to be trying to impress either herself or those around her of just how much research she was doing. There's one in every crowd. She had amassed a mountain of books for Rowan County, North Carolina, at her workspace and they sat there all day without her cracking them. If anyone else needed to research in Rowan County, they were out of luck because I don't think she left anything on the shelf and she never returned one to the reshelving table. When she was actually sitting down and not carrying books back and forth, she kept up a continual muttering under her breath. Just the kind of oddball that gives genealogists a bad name.

For the most part, everyone we have met has been very pleasant and friendly. We did get a double take from the waitress this morning when we requested grits. We had to quickly acknowledge that we were joking. Yankees.

Tomorrow we will take another stab at the library before hitting the road on Saturday to experience the countryside. I'm looking forward to seeing where my grandfather was born. Yes, I confess. I'm half Yankee.

LSW

Day 1 in Hoosier Land

It's been a long day. Up at 5:15 to finalize packing and ready the house for brother David to step in. Then to the airport to catch the 11:15 flight to Indianapolis, a two part trip with a 45 minute layover in Dallas.

When we checked in at the American Airlines counter, we were offered an upgrade to first class for a few dollars more. It being my birthday, we took them up on it. Just let me say that it definitely makes a difference to fly first class. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Free wine, excellent lunch of smoked chicken, field greens salad, pasta salad, applesauce cookies, cheese and crackers. Real cloth napkins and glass tumblers. Service with a smile and a half. We did our best to act like celebrities and not be too obviously rubes from the sticks.

When we picked up our rental car, we were offered another upgrade to an SUV, for a few dollars more. (I sense they were seeing us coming.) And we started to Fort Wayne. Which we sort of expected to look like a big sized town on the interstate. The next thing we knew, we overshot Fort Wayne and were seeing signs that said Michigan ahead. And no where to turn around. We finally made an illegal crossover and made our way back.

And finally we are ensconced in our hotel room and getting woozy. (It has nothing to do with the free wine or the whiskey sour I had with dinner.) Tomorrow we make our first foray to the famous Allen County Public Library to see what they have to offer.

It's funny, but for the first time I enjoyed my plane rides. No nervous knots in my stomach. Aside from a brief moment of disquiet on all takeoffs, I really had a good time watching the clouds roll by.

My first impressions of Indiana are of farm after farm after farm. Lots of farms. Lots of barns of a different type of architecture than what we are used to in Texas. In addition to barns, every farm has a silo or two or three. Familiar, yet foreign. When we drove through downtown Fort Wayne, the houses are lined up side by side with about 3 feet between them. Row houses with stamp sized yards, like you would expect to see in the east. And the architecture is somewhat American Gothic. Again familiar, yet foreign.

I look forward to checking out a new library, but I really am most looking forward to driving around America's heartland and seeing the country of my ancestry. My Niccums, Hughes, Beauchamp, Dunavan and Wilcoxen lines have been in this part of the country since the early 1800s. If great-grandpa Wilcoxen had not had an itch to go to Texas, I might be living in this neck of the woods.

All in all, a very enjoyable birthday. Full steam ahead.

LSW

Let the Party Begin

It's always been my philosophy that you should spread your birthday out a little. Why stop at one day? My birthday is next Wednesday, but as far as I'm concerned I start celebrating on the first of the month and continue until the 30th. I treat myself to at least one gift a week during April and for the last several years I've scheduled my spring vacation for the week of my birthday. This year I've managed to stretch the spring vacation to two full weeks away from the office.

So today was the first day of vacation. Isn't it amazing how much sweeter the air is when you know you don't have to go back to work for awhile? I'm usually running around like mad on the weekend, getting household chores done. Today, even though I did a lot of laundry, mopped some floors, trimmed some bushes and cooked two meals, I seemed to have an enormous amount of time at my disposal. It would have been a shame to miss the opportunity to enjoy the beautiful day, so I even sat on the deck for awhile and walked the dogs in the woods. And instead of being dragged out tired, I'm feeling rested. (How much longer until I can retire?)

In a few days I will be off on my annual genealogy research trip, while little brother comes down and minds Mother and the dogs. Not sure how Mojo is going to take the separation. The girls will adjust, but that little boy is sure attached to his mommy.

Tomorrow is scheduled for the packing and then Monday I'm planning some shopping and my first opportunity to buy myself a birthday present. Of course my big present is the trip, but who am I to deny myself a few extra little goodies?

Speaking of birthdays, Miss Coco turned one on March 24th and Mojo will be one on April 27th. This time last year was a dark period, with Bebop in the throes of his last illness. It was the first year in some time that I did not have my traditional lemon birthday poundcake. Bebop loved that cake as much as I do and I just didn't have the heart to make it. This year, when I get back, I plan to bake the traditional cake and celebrate all three birthdays, as well as eat a memorial slice for Bebop.

I don't know if everybody feels about their birth month the way I do, but for me April is the best month of the year. Let the festivities begin.

***
Back to the subject of cats I have known. I love the poem by T. S. Eliot on the Naming of Cats. If you're a cat lover and you don't know the poem, you need to make its acquaintance:

The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

It isn't just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,

Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey -

All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,

Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -

But all of them sensible everyday names.

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,

A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -

Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there's still one name left over,

And that is the name that you never will guess;

The name that no human research can discover -

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,

The reason, I tell you, is always the same:

His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:

His ineffable effable

Effanineffable

Deep and inscrutable singular

Name.

We've had some cats with very interesting names over the years. In addition to Tom Garner, Tinker and Zonker, we've shared our space with:
Miss Tabby Gray (also known as Thunderfoot for the noise she could make running through the house), Buttons (a circular white spot in the center of her belly), Missy Ling (an exotic Siamese), Pippin, Dolly (as in Parton; she had what appeared to be heavily made up eyes and an affinity for the company of men), Pawla, Sister, Magpie (also known as Maggie) and the current Tazmanian Devil. Great cats, every one of them.

LSW

Tom Garner

I was driving down Cesar Chavez Street on the way home today and my attention was snagged by a cozy front porch scene. It wasn't anything special - just a glider covered with a quilt, inviting you to lounge the afternoon away.

I'm not sure why, but my thoughts sprang immediately back to my grandparents' house in Gladewater. Not the house where they spent their retirement years, but the house where they lived when I was a child. It wasn't the porch but the general architectural style of the house that prodded my memory.

The house was just a simple frame bungalow style. Nothing outstanding and I don't remember much about the interior. I remember things about the yard. There was a storm cellar in the backyard, a thing that was unheard of in the part of the state where we lived. I don't think they ever had to use it for the purpose for which it was intended. It was usually opened and I would sometimes explore the cool, dark recesses where my grandmother stored jars of preserves.

I remember the railroad tracks that ran behind the house. There was a steep incline at the back of the property and you would see the top of the trains as they passed. A fence ran along the back of the yard, protecting you from a sudden tumble down the bank onto the tracks. At one corner of that fence was an old animal cage where Rascal lived. Rascal was a black and white cat of incredibly bad disposition. I think he was about 110 years old. He was one of the few cats of my life that I was never able to charm. I can remember him visiting with my grandfather, but the rest of the world could go hang as far as he was concerned. I remember that Rascal was still around when they moved, but he was a mighty old cat at the time and died soon afterwards.

There was a second cat in residence, a calico named Rainbow. She was friendlier than Rascal, but not by much. She had the attitude that she was better than everyone else and expected everyone to treat her like royalty. Which my grandmother generally did, serving her chicken necks on demand and waiting on her hand and foot.

I've always had a fondness for cats and it was hard to accept that those two just didn't give a flip whether I liked them or not. They sure didn't like me. I've written before about the long period I spent with my grandparents one summer. It was a lonesome few weeks and I craved a playmate, but those two cats were having none of it.

Next door lived an older couple, about my grandparents' ages, and Mae and my grandmother were good friends. She was a sweet lady and she always welcomed me when I wandered over to their yard looking for something to do. When I discovered that she was feeding a stray kitten, I became a frequent visitor and the kitten and I became fast friends. He was a little gray striped alley cat with a personality that wouldn't quit. We played together and it wasn't long before I was in love with the nameless kitten.

When it came time to go home, I couldn't stand the thought of leaving the kitten. My parents were willing to let me adopt him, but the problem was that Mae loved him as much as I did and she didn't want to let him go. Bless her heart, she finally caved in to the sad little face I was wearing and told me to give him a good home.

The task of naming him was difficult. Nothing seemed to fit. Finally, it was suggested that we call him the traditional "Tom". I agreed, but for some reason, we decided that if he were going to be named Tom, then he should be named for Mae's husband, Tom Garner.

I wrote Mae a thank you note and told her the kitten had been christened Tom Garner. She told my grandmother that she was so tickled about that that she almost had an "accident" right there on the porch as she read the letter.

Tom Garner was my first experience with a pet that was truly mine. He loved the whole family, but he was my cat. We had a great time together and he stuck to me like glue. He was one of the all-time great cats. Mother even fell under his spell and kept liver on hand to feed him, even though it was expensive cat food.

Unfortunately his time with us was short. He ran afoul of a neighbor's dog when he was only about two years' old. It was a devastating loss for the entire family. I didn't think I would ever love another cat like I loved Tom Garner.

Those special, one of a kind cats come along once in a blue moon. I've been lucky to know a few of them. Tom Garner. Tinker. Zonker. You learn to treasure them for the brief time you have them in your life. And mourn them forever when they're gone. And pray that you will be lucky enough to find another one to love and to have love you back.

LSW

Two Losses

You know, the first real memories I have are from when I was about 3-4. And some of those early memories are of music. We were living in San Gabriel and I can remember being crazy about Perry Como about that time. I loved "Hot Diggity" and "Catch a Falling Star". I loved "Stardust". Mother says I was partial to Bing Crosby. I do recall "Swing on a Star", so I suppose she's right, as much as I would like to deny it.

When we moved to Oak Hill, my music tastes broadened a little, thanks to my father taking a membership in a record club. We acquired a nice stereo system and a collection of country music. My new favorite singer was Marty Robbins, but we had a variety of country artists in our collection and I listened to them all. I can remember one of my favorite songs from way back then was "You Don't Know Me".

I don't know why or how I learned that the song was written by Eddy Arnold and Cindy Walker, but I know that I knew that fact at an early point in my life. I probably liked the fact that one of my favorite songs was written by another Cindy and I was always interested when I saw her name show up beside songs through the years. I've mentioned before that I read album notes and her name turns up quite frequently. She penned hits for almost everybody.

I was really sad to read of her death this week. She was a gifted songwriter, born and bred in Texas. I'll always be thankful especially for "You Don't Know Me", my 3rd favorite song of all time. (Right behind "Greensleeves" and "Unchained Melody".)

No sooner than I adjusted to that loss came the news of the passing of Buck Owens. For true honky tonkin' music, you can't do much better than ole Buck. We had one of his first albums with "My Heart Skips a Beat" and "Together Again" and some lesser known songs like "Ain't it Amazin' Gracie" and "Hello, Trouble". I bought that album again as soon as it was released on CD and it's always a good choice when you need a little bouncy, good humor music.

And for all that folks like to look down their noses and sneer about the "Hee Haw" years, I defy you to watch a rerun of that show and not laugh. Several times.

The lights of Music City Row have dimmed this week. Two of the brightest have gone out.

Cindy Walker was born July 20, 1918 in Mart, Texas. She was elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1997. She died March 23, 2006, at the age of 87.

Buck Owens was born August 12, 1929, in Sherman, Texas. He was elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1996. He died March 24, 2006, at the age of 76.

LSW

Curse Words & Profanity

Today was one of those days that you realize too late that you should have crawled back under the covers and stayed there. I should have known when I awoke suddenly at 4AM and couldn't get back to sleep.

I should have known when, after putting in an hour's worth of work between 7 and 8 AM, I suddenly discovered that the data base I was updating had portions of it that had been scrambled since I last worked on it.

Well, my chiropractic appointment went well. And my hair cut turned out well. I figured the tide had turned.

Yeah, right. As soon as I got back online with the office network, the cow do hit the fan. Files went splat, clients got upset, an ongoing item stuck in my craw dug in a little deeper and the cat threw up. I worked the required amount of time to put in my full day and pulled the plug.

It didn't take long for me to decide to run out for a bucket of chicken and avoid the inevitable kitchen fire. I headed first for the bank to get some money. I drove through the ATM line, only to find that the ATM machine was down. I drove a big circle around the bank and got into a line to cash a check. That accomplished, I headed out, decided I had better make sure I got the right amount of cash, discovered I had been given $50 too much and made another big circle around the bank, waited for the guy ahead of me to get done, and returned the $50, and made another big circle around the bank and headed out toward KFC.

It was another circus act at KFC where I first had to establish that I didn't need any stinkin' biscuits that had to cook for another 10 minutes, got my bag of chicken and the wrong receipt which took her 5 tries to figure out where the pience of paper was that I was supposed to have gotten.

Good Lord. I don't know which of my ruling stars are crossed, but for crying out loud I hope they get themselves straightened out before I end up getting blood poisoning from the stapler.

Thank heavens for little dogs. When all the world is spinning wildly out of control, nothing can make things right as well as the greeting you get when you finally make it back to the house and your 3 biggest fans launch themselves at you with joyful abandon. If you ever need to feel like you matter, get yourself a dog.

Thankfully, this day is drawing to a close. Hope lives eternal that tomorrow will be a better day. If I just don't oversleep.

LSW

'Tis Glad I Am to Be Irish

In honor of me kinfolks, the Dunivans and the Hughes, I extend to you this Irish blessing:

Here's to the four hinges of society.

May you fight, steal, lie and drink.

When you fight, may you fight for your country.

When you steal, may you steal away from bad company.

When you lie, may you lie at the side of your sweetheart.

And when you drink, may you drink with me.

***

And to those of ye who may have wondered about the title of me last writin', 'tis the name of the hit song of the characters Mitch & Mickey from the movie. Completely forgot to tie it in, I did.

LSW

Kiss At the End of the Rainbow

Still watching movies. I'm always way behind the times because I really don't enjoy going to the theater anymore. So I wait for movies to hit Pay-for-View or DVD and sometimes I wait until they show up in the $5.50 bin at WalMart. That's where I found A Mighty Wind just recently.

The movie is a hoot for those of us who remember the folk music boom of the early sixties. It's a mock documentary covering the reunion concert of three folk music groups: The Folksmen (think Kingston Trio), the Main Street Singers (think New Christy Minstrels), and Mitch & Mickey (think Paul & Paula). It's all played very seriously and it sometimes takes a second to realize the total absurdity of what has just been said. (The Folksmen had a distribution problem--no holes in their records. You had to put the hole in yourself. Ok, the CD generation probably didn't even get that one.)

I found myself thinking of a night many, many, many years ago when I had the chance to meet Ray Hildebrand. Also known as Paul of Paul & Paula. He was performing at a youth revival somewhere in Central Texas and a group of us kids went to one of the services. He was past the Paul & Paula phase of his career and had become an inspirational speaker. He graciously signed autographs and posed for pictures, both of which I've lost over the years. A little Googling shows that he is still performing as a Christian singer. Glad to see he's still alive and kicking.

Ah, the good old days. Watching the folk singers on Hootenanny on Saturday nights. Playing the Brothers Four and the Kingston Trio records until you could sing every part of every song. Peter, Paul & Mary. The Chad Mitchell Trio. The New Christy Minstrels and the Serendipity Singers.

The folk music heyday didn't last that long, thanks to some long-haired boys that came over from England and sent music in an entirely different direction. But some of us old fogies still have a stash of folk music that we pull out and listen to from time to time. Good stuff.

Speaking of the long-haired Englanders, have I told you yet about the time we did the Beatles parody at the Halloween carnival and I played one of the band members? Now there's a night to forget.

LSW

Recommended Rerun

I had a lazy spurt this past weekend and spent part of Sunday sprawled in a patio chair with a dog in my lap and my portable DVD player on the table beside me. A few weeks ago I had picked up the "Special Edition" of All the President's Men, a movie that came out in 1976. I was a senior in college that year and my roommate Lanu and I made an impulse drive from Belton to Austin one evening to see the movie when it was in the theater. I'm not sure what prompted us to do such a thing, since neither of us was at all interested in politics at the time. All I can figure is it had something to do with sitting in the dark and drooling over Robert Redford.

I can remember how much I enjoyed that movie. The story involved events that were only a few years old, but I'm sure I had little awareness of the investigative reporting that had caused the downfall of the presidency until I saw it unfold on the movie screen.

It had been a long time since I had sat through the movie. I found myself just as caught up in the story these many years later as I had been that night in the theater. I also enjoyed the DVD extras, which included a vintage "making of" feature and a second featurette wherein Redford, Hoffman, Hal Holbrook, Jane Alexander, and Ben Bradlee reminisced about the events of the time and the challenges of presenting the story on the big screen. This DVD issue also had a feature on the man who just recently revealed himself to be Deep Throat. It is all in all a very enjoyable package of movie and extras.

And along in there somewhere you get slapped in the face with how eerily familiar the whole thing seems. After all, the whole thing centered on the secrecy of an administration that felt it was above the law. It dealt with dirty politics and Republicans who did their best to destroy the checks and balances of democracy. Deja vu.

I usually leave the topic of politics to little brother, but permit me a bit of a rant here. There's nothing I hate worse than lies and that is the reason why I despise the current administration, who wouldn't know truth if it bit them on their collective butt. How I hope that some budding Woodward and Bernstein are chipping away at the foundation of all those lies, but I somehow doubt it.

Do yourself a favor. If you get a chance to see All the President's Men, give it another watching. And see if you don't catch the similarities. History does have a way of repeating itself.

LSW

Just Do It

Today is National Get Over It Day. Hmmm. I guess I will choose to get over the ill treatment that I received at the hands of a group of first graders waaaaay back in about 1960 at a classmate's birthday party. Thinking back, it's probably the reason why I've never trusted girl friends any further than I can throw 'em.

Also why I dislike birthday parties.

Also why I've always been drawn to slightly older men. (Sweet treatment from little miss bitch's older brother.)

Ok. I'm over it. I feel all better now.

LSW

Embrace Your Weird Inner Self

I have an odd way of having fun. I've decided to stop apologizing for it. So what if everybody thinks I'm loony?

This morning I took off for a day of cemetery hopping. There were several requests open in the FindAGrave website for photos of graves that were within reasonable driving distance of Bastrop. I decided to make a big loop through Bastrop, Lee, Fayette and Gonzales counties and perform a few random acts of genealogical kindness.

I started off at the Giddings Public Library, getting the locations for the photos to be taken at the Giddings City Cemetery. I dearly love small town libraries. You never know what you're going to find there. Today I was the first patron through the doors when they opened and was fortunate to find a friendly, helpful librarian. She got me set up with the cemetery indexes and I spent a very nice hour gathering the burial information I needed and sifting through a two-volume Lee County history.

The next hour was spent walking the Giddings City Cemetery. I not only picked up the photos requested, I finally got a couple of family grave photos that I had never had a chance to get before now. With that errand complete, I headed down Highway 77 to LaGrange.

Some of the prettiest country I know is in Fayette County. The rolling green pastures are filled with the most picturesque cattle and farm buildings and everyone down there appears to take great pride in their fences. It is just picture perfect country scenery. The weather was perfect, so I opened the sun roof to get the fresh air, put on my Big & Rich cd and thoroughly enjoyed my drive.

Next stop was Weikel's Bakery in LaGrange. Mother loves their kolaches and I can't resist their cinnamon rolls. A trip anywhere close to LaGrange calls for a detour to Weikel's.

With the scent of cinnamon rolls rising up from the back seat, I headed down 609 to the Cedar Cemetery for another photo request. I was pleasantly surprised to find a cemetery bulletin board with a plat of the burials, so I fulfilled that request quickly and headed on down 609 toward Waelder. More green rolling hills and more photogenic cattle. One big white cow was curled up on the ground asleep, looking as cute as a certain little dog I know. That's some accomplishment for a white cow with horns.

At Waelder, I drove right up to a cemetery with the sign "Waelder City Cemetery". I had never been to Waelder before, so I had no reason to doubt that this was the City Cemetery. As I walked through, looking for the requested grave, I became more and more appalled. The cemetery is in horrendous condition. Where burials had taken place, mounds of dirt had been pushed up and left behind. Graves were sunken in. Headstones were buried in accumulated dirt. Weeds were kneehigh in places. I failed to find the name I was looking for and left, mentally composing a letter to somebody to register my disgust with the City of Waelder's cemetery maintenance.

I decided to take a back road back to Bastrop and imagine my surprise to suddenly come up on three adjoining cemeteries, labeled respectively as "Waelder Cemetery", "Community Cemetery", and "Hopkinsville Masonic Cemetery". These cemeteries were in pristine condition. I quickly deduced that the "Community Cemetery" was the Spanish community's cemetery, and the other two were basically the white community's cemetery. Further deducing led me to conclude that the first, badly maintained, cemetery I had encountered was the black community's burial grounds. I'm still appalled at its condition and I think the City should be ashamed of themselves for displaying such a disparate level of care for its dead.

I ended up my tour with a drive up Highway 304, through Jeddo, String Prairie and Hills Prairie. Other than a bad case of sore feet from too much tramping on uneven ground, I had a marvelous time.

I may have odd ideas of fun, but I think I come by it honestly. I can remember many a time listening to my grandparents Hodge talking about their trips driving around the country and checking out cemeteries. I've picked up the torch and I intend to keep at it.

You do your thing. I'll do mine.

LSW

Family by Chance

Being a genealogist, I think a lot about family connections. Constantly. But earlier this week I got to thinking about family relations without the blood connection. Obviously, this was due to attending the funeral of a man I worked with many years ago. Since the service on Monday morning, I've found myself thinking a lot about the people who have come and gone in my 30 years with the law firm.

It's not that common to work such a long stretch of time in the same place. At least not these days. Young people these days jump from job to job with little thought of building longevity with a company. Of course companies don't last like they used to and they don't cultivate the loyalty in their employees the way they used to, so I guess it's understandable that employees don't go into a job expecting to stay forever.

I didn't either way back in 1976. I had in mind to work a couple of years to get something to put on my resume and then move on. I took the position of secretary to a young attorney in a five attorney lawfirm a few blocks from the Capitol. In addition to the attorneys, we had an office manager and his assistant, a staff supervisor, and about 10 of us clerical peons.

The supervisor and four of us "girls" shared one large room and three other "girls" worked in the next room. In the copy room were a couple of data entry clerks, in the back room were a couple of calculation clerks, and a file clerk flitted about the whole building.

Like any other family, we didn't necessarily like each other, but we were bound together by a sense of common purpose. We all knew every client and we all cheered the others' accomplishments and commiserated over the disappointments. If one of us fell behind on a project, the rest of us would drop everything and pitch in and get the job done. We all worked together; we knew what each of us was working on; we pulled together for the common cause. We both feared and poked fun at the top boss when he wasn't around, sort of the same way you would a domineering father. We knew each other's husbands and boyfriends, kids and grandkids. We were a family. Adopted, all of us, but a family nonetheless. We stood by each other and by the company.

You don't get that kind of work environment anymore. The same firm now has 10 attorneys and about 100 clerical staff sprinkled around the state. Nowadays folks can come on board and be there two months before you realize there's a new body in the building. Each attorney operates his own little world with his own staff and they work exclusively with their own handful of clients with little awareness of what's going on in the other parts of the firm. Flex time has created a constant in and out of employees on a wide ranging schedule and it's entirely possible to go days without seeing your co-workers if your schedules get out of sync. There are small groups of workers who band together in friendship, but not the company wide sense of family that I had the fortune to experience in those days long ago.

There are only a handful of people who have been with the firm as long as I have. When I started I was the wet-behind-the-ears baby of the firm. I'm now at the other end of the spectrum. Seen it all, done it all, know which closets the skeletons are stored in, and forgotten more than the youngsters will ever know. I've learned not to get too attached to anyone in the firm, because the people come and go so quickly. So much has changed, in fact, that I no longer have a sense of family in the workplace. It's the office and I'm no longer emotionally attached to it.

Except for those people who were there in those early days. I still consider Shelly and Clyde and Pris and Laird and Gil and Liz as part of my family. We met each other in those days when you could take time to get to know and care about each other while you worked together. There are others in the office I consider my friends, but there are those few that share my memories of a different time and place. And that common bond is almost as strong as blood.

There was a time not so long ago when it was not unusual to spend your entire work life with one company. Now it's downright odd. I have a lot of conflicting feelings as I approach that 30 year mark on June 14th. I feel like I'm one of the last doddering members of a family line that is coming to an end. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else mourns its passing.

LSW