My Dad's Birthday

Today would have been my Dad's 103rd birthday, were such a thing even possible. Of course it is possible for a human to live to the age of 103 years, but not my Dad. His smoking, his diet and his sedentary nature all denied him that. Just as his half-brother, Albert, had his life cut short, only much shorter.

Albert - yes! I have an Uncle Albert! - was born three years before my Dad, almost to the day - on the 16th rather than the 17th of April. He was christened Albert Martin Brown in the Lutheran church on the 21st of January 1916. He is shown as resident in the Owatonna State School in the 1920 census. I'm told he was adopted in 1922 - at the age of 7. 

A letter from his mother, Marit / Mary, to the Minnesota state officials in 1939 tells us he has died from drowning at the age of 24. The people who adopted him apparently knew how to contact his birth mother. Having lost one son - she feels due to carelessness on the part of the adopting parents - she is desperate to know where her youngest son - my Dad - has been placed. It is a heart breaking letter.

Of course my Dad lived to the age of 71. His adoptive parents were anything but neglectful. And of course my Dad never knew he had a half-brother. It always strikes me as a bit surreal to think of all the things he didn't know about himself - and all the things I didn't know until someone dropped this piece of information on me and I pursued the story. It often crosses my mind that there are likely other things I don't know, or only think I 'know'.

I am practically wishing this year away when I realise I can obtain Albert's adoption information from the Minnesota Historical Society, or perhaps from the courts, I'll have to figure it out. It will then be 100 years since his adoption and the records will no longer be sealed. I'll then know the names of his adoptive parents and can look for his death certificate. Perhaps there will have been an inquest or other records to shed more light on the circumstances. I will be able to search for him in the 1930 census and perhaps there might be a marriage record, who knows? Wouldn't it be wonderful if there was a photograph somewhere and I could see a resemblance to my Dad - or even to me? 

Bless him, he didn't make it to be in the 1940 census. How very much of life he missed out on, passing at 24. Makes me feel terribly ancient and extremely fortunate. Also to realise that even though I've always felt cheated that each of my parents died at the age of 71, they did get to experience most of what life was going to hand them by then, except perhaps something negative about growing old. So I'll not wish for what can't be anyhow. 

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Grandpa's Birthday

They say women marry men who are like their father. I can't say this has been obvious to me in the past but it might be possible; I need to consider this a bit more. The thought crossed my mind the other day that Bill was a lot like Grandpa: kind, patient, a tinkerer, someone who loves good, well made clothes for a very long time, sociable, a do-er more than a thinker.

Grandpa's father was a blacksmith. I remember reading or hearing somewhere that blacksmiths had an important position in their community, in part because they tended to be quite strong men who mastered fire and metal, but mainly because they were the makers of the tools that all the other craftspeople relied upon having. They were also frequently the repair shop for many household goods.  Not to mention that horses were the made mode of transport of their day and they were the source of horseshoes. The 1880 census says that Grandpa's father was a plough smith, so he was supporting the source of food. The 1900 census tells us he was now called a blacksmith, also that he immigrated from Germany in 1868, at the age of 27. He was 53 and his wife, Catherine 40, when Grandpa was born.

Grandpa's mother died when he was 11, in 1905, and his father when he was 17, in 1911 (and I thought I was young when mine died: 32 and 34). He was the youngest of eight children.  Three of Grandpa's siblings died before he was born: a girl aged one, another girl aged 16 (along with her twin babies) and a boy aged three. The rest of the family reached maturity. The last to die was Grandpa's eldest brother, John, who predeceased Grandpa by 10 years. I was seven years old when John died and I remember Grandpa being very sad. He said the John had largely raised him. 

I always count myself very lucky to have had Grandpa in my life. He is still one of the best men I've ever known.

Mom's Birthday

I've spent some time wondering what I might write about Mom this year. I feel I'm overlooking something that would be obvious had the world not gotten so weird of late, but there it is. Then I remembered a Facebook meme sent by my friend, Vivien. 

My reply was that either this was addressed to younger people or it was a British more than American thing. I could only identify a few things I remembered Mom as saying, and quite I few I couldn't even imagine her ever coming up with.  She may have said "Because I said so" or "Ask your Dad", I'm sure she said the thing about taking someone's eye out. 

Were you born in a barn?  This is a saying that circulated in the US not long before Mom died. She would have said "Shelley! Mind your manners. When ____ we do ____.

Move away from the TV, you'll get square eyes. She may have said I would hurt my eyes, but 'square eyes' wasn't mentioned. She often encouraged me to 'sit up straight'.

You wait until your Dad gets home. Mom was the primary disciplinarian in our house. She may have said something like Your father will not be impressed with this.

Who's SHE? the cat's mother? I think this is quite British. I gather - reading between the lines - that it's considered rude to refer to someone as 'she' if they are present. I am guessing they are supposed to always be referred to by name. No idea if this also applies to He. 

Do as I say not as I do. I think Mom may have said this a couple of times, but more along the lines of sheepishly acknowledging she didn't set a good example than to issue orders.

Eat your crusts, you'll get curly hair.  I'm not sure if this is a stick (that curly hair is bad) or a carrot (that curly hair is desirable). In any case, I've always liked bread crusts - in fact they are my favourite part - and I spent a good part of my childhood in hair curlers.

There is no such word as CAN'T  I don't believe she said this, but rather "You won't know unless you try."

Say 'Pardon', not 'What'  Pardon would have been considered an affectation where and when I grew up. She would have instructed me to say 'Excuse me? I didn't catch what you said'. I gather from various reading that here in Britain 'Pardon' is working class or perhaps regional (Bill's daughter Helen says it since marrying a man from Manchester). As I recall people here seem to say 'Sorry' for when they can't hear or when they bump into people. 'Excuse me' seems to be used when they want someone to most out of their way. We say that for the same purpose in the States, only followed by 'please'.

I've told you a thousand times   I'm sure Mom must have said this - doesn't every parent? - but I can't remember her saying it. She might ask me 'What have I said about...?'

What did your last slave die of? Mom didn't employ sarcasm, she was just straightforward. I do remember the first time she said 'Get it yourself'. I thought I'd die of shock, but at 12 years of age it was long overdue.

I want never gets  Not an American saying. However, I was definitely taught not to ask for things. I could say what I would like to have in a general way, or issue a wish list for Christmas or Birthdays, but not to whine and wheedle to my parents all the time - that was the surest way NOT to get something. And it was supremely bad manners to ask anyone else to give me anything; they had to offer first. When we were in funds I was allowed to chose one treat at the supermarket and I remember eating a basket of cherry tomatoes or a bag of cherries in the back seat on the way home. I expect I could have had candy, but I didn't like it nearly as much, which is very much down to the way they raised me. Being taught not to ask for things has sometimes proven to be a handicap. I have wondered, would  they would have trained a boy in the same way?

Back in my day... Mom's childhood was different - and in some ways far more privileged - than mine. Her father's family was well known and respected in southern Oklahoma. Her father was a road contractor and she and Grandmother travelled with him for at least the first five years of Mom's life - they lived in a tent until then. This sounds hard but they had servants AKA as 'coloured help'. I often heard about Gussie, who brought Mom a chocolate bar and a bottle of Coca Cola for her breakfast in bed. She said Gussie spoiled her. There were times when they were quite poor, but everyone was during the Depression. When Grandmother married a second time to an astute businessman Mom had quite a few luxuries again. But I always understood Mom made her own luxuries through her creative talents. I don't remember complaining about having it hard, because she was so clever about making things pretty or special in a way that other kids' Mom's didn't seem to know how to do. 

What's for dinner, mum? Shit with sugar on. Mom didn't swear beyond 'damn' or 'hell' and only then when really annoyed. She did sometimes fix S.O.S. which in military parlance was 'Shit On a Shingle' (meat in white sauce on bread). She never called it anything other than 'chipped beef on bread'.

No pudding unless you eat your dinner We rarely had pudding - dessert - and I don't expect there were many times I didn't eat my dinner; a lot of the time I asked for seconds. The only time we routinely had dessert was at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Sometimes she did make pudding (AKA custard in Britain) for a snack or a treat, but not as part of a meal.

If your mate asked you to jump off a cliff, would you? She may have said this, I don't recall. What I do remember was complaining about what other kids were allowed to do. Her reply was that I wasn't Jill or Sarah, I was Shelley J__ B___. I recall one time when she was trying to get me to conform to something she said, Why not be more like Joanne or Mary? My smart reply was because I was Shelley J__ B____... She laughed.

It'll all end in tears  She'll have said something to this effect, but not these words. 

It's like Blackpool bloody illuminations in here.  I'm sure I never heard of Blackpool until moving to Newcastle - and having been once I can report that there are a lot of neon lights there. I'm guessing this is a complaint about too many lights on in the house. I don't recall us being very conscientious about the electric bill in this way, though I expect we should have been. 

Mom wasn't at all like the person described in these sayings. She was tough as nails in a determined sort of way, but decidedly a Southern lady in all her endeavors. Her hardest battle was to try to make me into one. 

Grandmother's Birthday

It doesn't seem a year since I last 'celebrated' Grandmother's birthday. I guess that is a sure sign of my own increasing age.

Last week a cousin - a third cousin to be more precise - posted a video on Facebook. It was by a group called Anthem Lights and the song was 'In the Garden'. Though hymns aren't at all my thing, this took me back quite a few decades to my childhood and I was surprised at remembering all the words - to the first verse anyhow. 

I commented that it reminded me of evenings in Grandmother's kitchen. She would be puttering around making cherry pies or boiling minced beef (for her dogs) and all the while she'd be humming hymns. I particularly remember 'Rock of Ages'. 

To be honest, I always thought the words were a bit strange: wanting to hide inside a rock? And lots of stuff about blood. Never mind, she sounded content and so all was right with the world, for the moment. Until something happened like a dog peeing on the floor and then she'd screech and swear at it. That was a good time to quietly back out of the room. 

I grew up knowing that a very scary lady loved me an awful lot, but it didn't pay to push ones luck. Happy birthday, Grandmother!

Daddy's Birthday - and Why every girl should have her own tools

Today would have been my Dad's 102nd birthday, not that he ever would have expected to reach that age. He was born in 1918, in the midst of the "Spanish flu" pandemic that killed more young adults than the very young and the very old as most influenza does. I'm lucky his birth mother survived.

I've written elsewhere about his beginnings. Today I want to talk more about my memories of him.

1978...a lifetime ago.

He used to mostly give me money for my birthdays but one year he bought me this Stanley screwdriver. It's a special tool in that it has several changeable heads and they are held on with a magnet. The heads are also magnetised which is handy for keeping a grip on that screw. All the bits are kept in the hollow handle. Bill loves this screwdriver almost as much as I do and I expect my Dad felt much the same way. He always loved gadgets.

This screwdriver lives in the top right kitchen drawer. Now Bill isn't much of a one for putting things back where they came from. He spends a fair proportion of his life looking for mislaid items like his bus pass, his wallet, his keys... I don't judge too harshly as I was once this haphazard myself. I've found, however, that the older I get the less time I'm willing to squander hunting for things. The term 'Life's too short' has ever deeper meaning as time passes, you know?

So, because I'm so fond of this screwdriver, and because I'm not prepared to hunt for it, Bill understands absolutely that I will be very unpleasant to him if it doesn't get unfailingly returned to its proper place. 

A few months ago I bought myself a utility knife from the hardware store in Whitley Bay (F. E. Maughans). I've heard these things called a lot of other names: Stanley knife, box knife, carpet knife, it has all sorts of uses. However, I've yet to hear it called an eyebrow-pencil knife, which is why I purchased it. 

I'm currently using a Rimmel eyebrow pencil but I don't own a Rimmel sharpener; can't even recall ever seeing one. I do however own sharpeners by Cover Girl, Maybelline and The Body Shop, plus one mystery brand. They somehow manage not to work on this Rimmel pencil, though, not that they worked all that well on their own-brand pencils either. When you think about it, it just makes sense to have a sharpener that sacrifices as much product as possible to that the chump consumer returns that much sooner to make another purchase. 

I remembered my Grandpa sharpening a lot of ordinary writing pencils with his pocket knife, but I don't own one of those. So I bought this utility knife instead. I'm sure it will be useful for other things eventually, but I'll not be using it for anything other than make up pencils until I can be sure of finding new blades. So far, it's worked much better and it's safe from being mislaid since it lives in my make up drawer.

So I can recommend having your very own utility knife. And while you're at it, get a nice cheery feminine colour!

Grandmother's Birthday

A childhood friend from Oklahoma City, Linda, caught up with me on Facebook sometime in the last year. The main things we had in common were that I had a crush on her big brother and our mothers got along very well. My friend married her steady boyfriend she'd had since she was 14 about five minutes after graduating high school. They are still married 40 some years later, with four children and ten (!) grandchildren. The brother was killed in a car accident a few years ago, a real tragedy. Strangely, life goes on.

Linda posted a picture of a banana pudding she'd made, in memory of her mother in law. The customary recipe is generally made from a box but then the resulting pudding - or custard - is topped with vanilla wafers, something I've never seen here in Britain, though to be fair I don't spend time in the 'biscuit' aisle. 

When I asked her for the name of the dessert, which made me strike the side of my head, of course it was banana pudding, she mentioned that they missed her mother in law. I commented that I missed my parents and grandparents who had all been gone for 30 or 40 years by now. I said I appreciated Thanksgiving because making the traditional foods were a special way to remember Mom and Grandmother in particular.

Linda remembered coming to my Grandmother's for Thanksgiving one year. She remembered Grandmother wagging the turkey neck and making rude jokes. I hadn't thought about that for ages but it all came back. I remarked that Grandmother was one of a kind and maybe it was just as well.  A guy named Mitchell - a complete stranger to me - commented lol.

This story isn't generally how I like to remember Grandmother but it is totally how she was at times. She could on one had be panicked about her beauty shop customers abandoning her if she wasn't seen as respectable and on the other hand she could tell the rudest jokes and swear like a sailor. Definitely one of a kind.

Grandma's Birthday

My Grandma was the oldest person in my family that I grew up knowing. She was born in 1890. I found myself thinking of her and Grandpa when pushing Struan in his swing at the park. He's a rather large child for his age and it was tiring work. I found myself calculating the age of my grandparents when I came along. Grandma would have been 66. Mind, I was a very small baby, being premature and all, and she will have had regular work outs with my weekly visits. 

Grandma was largely senile by the time I was 12, with only bits of her real personality peeking out here and there. I feel somewhat cheated at not having more time with the person my cousin calls his 'favourite auntie'. 

Grandma & me, c. 1957

What I have learned in searching out the records of my Dad's adoption is that the story is much different than I would have guessed. I grew up believing that Grandpa was disappointed I wasn't a boy, as his surname ended with my Dad. I would have guessed that Grandpa would have been keen to have adopted a boy. On the contrary, it was Grandma who filled out all the adoption papers and she asked for a little girl. It just turned out that my Dad was what was immediately on offer at the time and they snatched him up. 

I'm not sure Grandma was any better at raising children than my other Grandmother was at owning dogs (see yesterday's post). My dad wasn't exactly neurotic but he was spoiled rotten. Very much the opposite to many of the stories that came from children who were fostered out of the same orphanage as his records show. As it happened, he never actually went to that state school but was adopted from the maternity home where his birth mother left him, aged 11 months. It is an altogether odd and very sad story that none of us ever knew. 

Grandma and Grandpa did their best to claim my Dad as their very own and they nearly got away with it, but for a woman who snapped an illicit photo of the orphanage register and sent that photo to me. One of my life's stranger turns.

All that aside, Grandma and Grandpa were excellent grandparents and I count myself lucky to have had them.

Rita's Birthday

Today should have been my Aunt Rita's 75th birthday. As it was, she died in 2007, not long after her 63rd. I'm conscious that I have now outlived Rita as well as my Uncle Bernard (57) and my maternal grandfather (56). I hope to live a few more decades, but I'm beginning to feel I've about had my share of life. Many early deaths are tragic and unfair whereas mine probably couldn't be considered so. Of course I say that about my demise with the detachment of relative health.

Bill and I were noting recently how easily my hands and arms are marked with bleeding under the skin. Any little knock or scratch will do it: pushing my arm through a backpack strap or a light scrape with the corner of a cereal box and I look like a victim of domestic abuse. I don't know what this condition is called, no doubt something beginning with 'senile', but my mom also had it.

Rita in the 1970s.

I was telling Bill about Grandmother's crazy, stupid German Shepherd dog, Duke. He was neurotic and undisciplined, like all of Grandmother's dogs, but because of his size he presented a real hazard in a house with two frail old women. At the end he was also ugly and in pain from a tumour that had stretched his skin to hang off the side of his head; a nightmare for all of us. Worse, he would jump on the couch with Mom, barking in her face. Her best defence was to spray him with hair spray to make him go away. Her arms were constantly marked with bruises from these encounters. This was in the days before pet health care insurance and their vet didn't do house calls, although I think he must have eventually.

Rita is part of this story because she lived closest to Mom and was often called out to do battle. The vet finally provided tranquilizers that were supposed to help get Duke in the car to bring him in. Instead they made him angry and even more unpredictable. I think the vet must have come out to put the dog down. Of course Grandmother insisted Duke be buried in the back garden with a small concrete angel to mark his grave. 

I remember Rita as unflinchingly brave and practical, always available to step up and deal with problems. She was fiercely loyal to her family and we were blessed to have had her. I think of her every time I sit down to sew.

Grandpa's Birthday

We had a great time with Sarah, Bill's youngest, her husband and their toddler, Struan, this past weekend. I get the name 'Grandma Shelley', which is indeed an honour. I tried to tell Bill what contentment I got from Struan's reaching out to hold hands as he walks - still a bit unsteady - and from pushing him in his swing at the park. Bill doesn't seem to differentiate being my getting to be a grandma - which I'm not - and my getting to do Grandma things, which is how I see it. It was great fun. Never mind about all that, Gareth was still able to pretend he's interested in the story about my Dad's adoption and I found myself explaining why I could believe he was adopted: Grandma and Grandpa were the only normal people in my family, so of course it makes sense we aren't genetically related.

I was thinking of Grandpa earlier last week when I donned an old flannel shirt to go out blackberry picking, or 'brambling' as some folks call it. The shirt belonged to a previous husband and gets dragged out for hair colouring, house painting and other rough work, which is not to say I don't value the fabric. If I didn't it would have been burned long ago. Oxford shoes, woollen trousers and checked flannel shirts were Grandpa's winter uniform.

Grandpa's careful thrift, his endless patience and his tidy ways are still ideals to which I strive (when I'm not trying to channel my Mom's artistry or Grandmother's outspokenness). Also, it turns out, his super-strength - I must have exhausted him and Grandma when I came along! Bill and I slept most of the next two days after they returned to Edinburgh.

Back of photo: "Jack at Idlewild"

Mom's Birthday

I spent a full day indexing the photos on my computer, well, two years' worth. It was something to do when camping in the rain without internet access. It allowed me to go pretty directly to this photo of a white rose, taken in my garden in May 2017. Aren't you impressed?

Actually this post is to remember my Mom's birthday (she would have been 101). She is never far from my thoughts.

Daddy's Birthday

I just realised I don't think about my Dad so much as I once did, which makes me sad. It also seems rather odd since I work at finding his birth father every day for at least a couple of hours. I sometimes get sick of it and feel it is a waste of time but most of the time I'm pretty determined to crack it. I wonder what makes me so obsessed about this. I think it is because I'm trying to replace what someone 'stole' from me. A decade or so ago I had a whole family tree, for at least several generations. Then the woman who snapped an illicit photo at the Minnesota Historical Society came along and 'chopped' my Dad's side away. I'm fighting to get that whole tree back. I think once that's cracked I might go back to having a more normal life, but don't hold you're breath. I only ever manage a faint facsimile of that concept.

I know quite a bit about my Dad's Norwegian mother and she has sparked my interest in Norwegian culture. As it happens, we are learning Fair Isle knitting at one of my craft groups. I subscribe to a newsletter called Craftsmanship and this month one of the articles is about a Norwegian woman, Annemor Sundbo (except that o should have a forward slash on top of it), dubbed 'the sweater detective'. It tells that she approached a man who had a wool mill because she wanted to study the weaving techniques but instead he sold her the mill and along with it came tons (actual tons!) of old knitted items. She studies the patterns in those as well as in old paintings, noting the variation of patterns. She is trying to get the special sheep that were bred for Norwegian wool, said to be especially hard wearing, to be raised again in quantity. 

Three things struck me from this article. First, her passion for all things wool and where that has led her is the stuff of fantasies for many interested in wool / craft / textiles / history. She's written award winning books and I expect I may try to obtain one at some point. Secondly, the discussion about the variation in knitting patterns from village to village sounded much like the knitted ganseys from this part of the world: wives knitted heavy woolen sweaters for their fishermen using the distinctive pattern developed for her village. Should the man be washed overboard and the body recovered, this pattern would aid in having the body returned to the right village. Grim, isn't it? But it makes perfect sense. It also rather reinforces the idea that Sundbo puts forward that there is a 'spiritual bond' between the maker and the wearer. Norwegian patterns have historical, mythic meanings. Which brings me to the third point. The article mentions Selbu, referring to the popular eight pointed flower called the Selbu rose pattern. Selbu is the village from which my Dad's birth mother's family originated. The pattern is now considered typically Norwegian, but Sundbo says it predates the mid-1800s when it debuted in Selbu and actually dates back to medieval times in Europe and even before in the middle east. The octagonal star has been around for a very long time.

From ThorNews, which I am now following!

I've not got very far on my Fair Isle, it being a rather complex pattern in spite of only using two colours on any given row. I've decided to use the Selbu Rose somewhere in this small bag I'm making. Should I live long enough to finish it, I'll be sure to show it to you. It makes perfect sense to use this pattern in my Fair Isle project given that the place, Fair Isle is pretty much square in between Norway and Scotland. And once I have the Selbu rose mastered, I can move on to the Norwegian 'lice' pattern (or not).

In addition to thinking of my Dad (as opposed to his genetic material) I'm also remembering his brother / half-brother, Albert, born one day and three years earlier than my Dad. Albert drowned in the Mississippi River at the age of 24. I have to wait until 2022 to access his adoption records and learn more about his story.

Grandmother's Birthday

I didn't forget, I just couldn't figure out where to squeeze it in and there were no new thoughts immediately springing to mind. So this post remembering Grandmother's (good heavens, 120th) birthday is late. 

The thing is, she is never very far from my mind. When catching up with comments with Jean from Delightful Repast, I was reminded of the time Grandmother made a cherry pie and offered me a piece. I wasn't a fan of the sweet / tart filling and said no, thank you, what a shame that I couldn't just eat the crust which was my favourite part. She said something like, Well then, honey, just you go ahead and eat as much of the crust as you like. I remember the guilty but delicious feeling of breaking off the buttery, crispy edges, decorated with the tines of a fork, all the way around the pie. It was heaven. I remember it as one her best proofs that she loved me. (She could be quite cranky and critical at other times, but she treated me better than most I must admit).

Grandmother and my cousin J.J. - who just turned 50!

Just this morning Bill and I were reminiscing about the various heating systems in the houses where we had lived. He grew up dressing in the mornings in front of the gas fire in his parents' bedroom while his dad went down and got the coal fire started in the kitchen.

My parents' house had an open gas fire in the bathroom - as did both my grandparents' houses - but the rest of the house was heated by two floor furnaces, one in the hall and the other in the dining room. Mom and I both had cross-hatch marks on most of our shoes from standing on the furnaces.

I lived in two houses with central heat, but never one with central air conditioning, unless you count the swamp cooler in Salt Lake City. Our house here is heated with hot water radiators. 

I remember the floor furnace in the centre of the open plan living / dining room at Grandma and Grandpa's house (I still have the key that Grandpa used to adjust the heat). But I cannot remember how either of Grandmother's houses, on 31st and 34th Street, were heated. I know that both had gas fires under a mantle in the living rooms but I can't recall ever standing on a furnace at either house. I'll have to ask my Uncle Pat if he remembers. 

I think of Grandmother when I do my family history, when I open my wardrobe and see her brooch, when I sit on her love seat or at her dining table, when I make cornbread dressing for Thanksgiving, when I debate with myself whether to hold my tongue or speak out, when I hear hymns she used to hum, when I think I'm tired from standing all day, when I bake pies, when I consider buying shape wear, when I remember collecting pop bottles to cash in at the convenience store across from her house, when I remember tap dance lessons with Uncle Bernard, when I feel rebellious at rules applied to old ladies, when I think about how to treat myself with respect in hopes it will encourage others to be respectful as well. 

Grandmother was definitely a role model for me in both bad (she was never very smart about money) and wonderful (she was never anyone but her own true self) ways. How can I not remember her for the rest of my life - hopefully until she'd be at least 150!?

September Birthdays

It was on Thursday the 13th of September when I realised what I'd missed: my usual blog posts for commemorating the birthdays of my Grandpa, Grandma and Aunt Rita. I was rather stunned that this had happened and yet I knew why:

On the 10th (Grandpa's birthday), I went to take my Life in the UK test, part of the process of applying to be a British citizen. The test was cancelled. I found my notification of this cancellation when I returned home. I sat down and drafted a letter to the local Member of Parliament, but the significance of the date didn't get my attention.

On the 12th (Rita's birthday), I attended a Treasurers' Forum held at the Northumberland Federation on behalf of our WI's treasurer who was away on holiday. I came home and typed up my copious notes, but the date didn't ring any bells.

I remember sitting at the breakfast table remarking that it was the 13th but, thankfully, not a Friday. And that was when the penny dropped: it was Grandma's birthday

Of course the blog posts could have been written well in advance but you'll notice I've not written much here of late. Just yesterday my Uncle Pat in Ponca City messaged me on Facebook. It was 2:20 am and he wasn't sleeping, so took the opportunity to check if I knew where he might get a reasonable deal on a barrister's wig for a play he's doing soon, The Witness for the Prosecution. As part of our conversation he asked if it wasn't high time I did a blog post? That was just the nudge I needed.

What have I been doing all this time instead of blogging? I've spent weeks studying for the Life in the UK test (have a go at some of these tests yourself, see how you do). I've memorised answers to test questions such as How many miles is it from John O'Groats to Lands End; How long is the Bayeux Tapestry? How long does Diwali last? In 2011, what percentage of the population claimed the Muslim / Christian / Hindu / Buddhist / Jewish religion... My brain has completely lacked space for Where did I put my handbag? Why did I come upstairs? Where did I park the car?

I've also been trying to support our WI President so well she'll stay on for another year. I can't really talk much about what goes on behind the scenes, but it has been challenging at times. Someone kindly pointed out that by allowing myself to be given the title of Vice-President, I might be in danger of being expected to stand for President when the incumbent resigns. This is nowhere on my bucket list, not a responsibility I want, so I'm hoping if I make things as easy for her as I can, she'll stand again next year. Then I can ease myself back. I'm a worrier by nature and I don't need another thing to worry about. I'm a better lieutenant than leader.

I've been preparing for Brexit by trying to buy a little extra food each time I go shopping. I know stockpiling food is generally frowned upon here in Britain, from the times of rationing and previous world wars. However, my rationale is that food is plentiful now and supermarkets can easily restock. Also, if there are shortages in future I will be able to leave the food on the shelves for the people who didn't plan ahead. Bill was a bit flummoxed by this decision, but we've always kept a fairly deep pantry. I just suggested we enlarge it a bit, then 'shop' from the pantry while also obtaining replacements with longer sell by dates. If all goes well and there is no need, I'll be able to contribute to the local food bank. I really would prefer not to switch to a high carb diet if I don't have to.

We prefer fresh fruit and veg and of course one cannot stock up on those. Frozen is the next best alternative, but our freezer is quite full already. I've only bought the odd tin of corn or jar of mushrooms so far. Green veg are fairly easy to grow here and we have a good supply of kale in the ground. Bill planted some out front of our fence without mentioning the plan to me. I mentioned that someone might help themselves to these unguarded plants. He expressed the view that kale is not one of those things people who steal are likely to want. So far he's been 100% correct.

I'm really hoping that we don't end up leaving the EU. Or if we do, that the tragedy will not extend to food and medicine shortages (I can't stock up on my asthma medication, which is a little scary). I am really hoping that it will be no bigger a blip than the Millennium. Remember when people worried that all the computers would fail, unable to change the year from 1999 to 2000? Bill and I sat at the kitchen table and tried to imagine life in survivalist terms. We'd have to grow our own food, find firewood, boil river water, set traps for animal, fish the river and pick up winkles and seaweed. Bill reckoned he'd have to become a vegetarian if it meant killing and cleaning animals. I figured my childhood experience of helping my dad clean fish and my professional experience of dissecting rodents as part of the US hantavirus investigation would stand me in good stead. Part of me hoped that I would be made unemployed, forced to live without a paycheck, I hated my job so much by then. I don't wish for repercussions from Brexit, though. We'd probably be OK, but I don't want to watch the suffering of so many others less well off.

We've been foraging for blackberries and rose hips. I always seem to forget that within a day of picking I have to be washing and freezing or cooking the harvest. I don't normally use a lot of sugar and this nearly always involves an emergency trip to get some for syrup or jam. This is no different to our usual autumn. If anything we've foraged less, wanting to make space in the freezer for something other than turkey stock, blackberries and mysterious boxes of leftover something. I see a very long session of making crab apple jelly in my near future.

In addition to studying for the Life in the UK test, I've been completing the 19 page application for British citizenship. I also needed to dig out my birth certificate, all my marriage licenses and divorce papers. The application required me to remember my ex's full names, places and dates of birth. Heaven only knows why the government needs to know about men who never put foot on British soil. I was amazed that those bits of detritus remained in my brain. No wonder I can't remember the new neighbour's name.

Another thing I have not been doing besides not blogging is sewing. I've not sewed more than a button back on in months, possibly even a year. I'm quite sad about this as I still daydream about what I would like to make. It has probably been about the same length of time since I exercised regularly. I used to run but haven't, used to do pilates but quit, used to do zumba but got bored. I still walk a mile or two without any thought but often never leave the house for days. Pat, next time you're up at 2 am, nag me about those things, too, would you?

Mom's Birthday

Inconceivable that Mom would have been 100 today. The words 'wizened' and 'frail' come to mind. I've heard it said - even just the other day - that older people benefit from having a bit of spare weight so that in the event they fall ill they will have 'something to fall back on'. Whether that is true or just an excuse, Mom never had spare weight in her life, in spite of being an excellent Southern cook. She just never seemed to eat much. Since I was a teenager I thought of her as just this side of fragile.

The other day when I was picking up around the house the thought occurred to me that perhaps had my Dad been better 'house broken' I might have grown up in a tidier home. Mind, Mom never was big on housework but she was ALL about creating beauty. Had she any hope of having a pretty house I think she would have. It's just that my Dad was spoiled rotten and never picked up after himself. I rather followed suit for more years that I care to admit until I decided I wanted to have better habits. I remember asking Mom why she never 'made' me do housework. Her reply was that she wasn't prepared to 'make' me do something she didn't want to do herself. Couldn't really argue with that. Her priority for me wasn't housework so much as homework. She was very keen for me to be educated and financially self-sufficient. I can't disagree with that either.

Mom never really saw herself as a 'housewife'. She was more a business woman (she was a photographic colourist) who happened to work from home and who also had a certain set of artistic homemaking skills that didn't necessarily include the drudgery of cleaning. I always had clean clothes, enough to eat and no one got food poisoning so I guess she did pretty well after all. 

Funny that Mom's been gone 28 years and yet she is always in my thoughts. Guess that just goes to show how very important mothers are.

My Dad's Birthday

Goodness, my Dad would have been 100 years old today! I'm fairly certain he wouldn't have enjoyed it much. He always made it clear to me that he valued the quality of his life over longevity. I see the sense in this but I'm not sure I would say the same. Perhaps I'll hold his view if and when my health is such that it interferes with enjoying myself.

Working with the volunteer lawyer over this past year, he was able to obtain a copy of my Dad's adoption records from the courts. It is a surreal experience reading the letters my Grandma B wrote asking to adopt a child, written in her familiar handwriting. I found it amusing that she initially asked for a little girl. Mom always led me to believe they were disappointed that I wasn't born a boy, as Grandpa and my Dad were the last of their surname, at least going back several generations. They asked for a healthy, bright looking child between one month and one year of age. They asked on 4 December 1918 and received on 24 Mar 1919, only a few days after my Dad, his brother and his birth mother, Mary, were brought to the Bethany Home.  Grandma's letters are lovely to read, with hope and happiness - tinged with a bit of anxiety, that's how she was - over the course of the adoption procedure.

The terms of the adoption are rather strange. They had 90 days to return the child (at their expense) if dissatisfied with the product (my word). The Minnesota State Public School (at which my Dad was never actually a ward) could take him back anytime until he was 18 years old.  They were agreeing to keep him until his 18th birthday, 

'maintaining, educating, and treating him properly and kindly as a member of the family, to provide him with suitable and sufficient clothing for week days and for attending public religious worship and with suitable food and other necessaries in health and sickness; to have him taught the occupation of (blank completed with) something useful and the branches usually taught in the common schools, causing him to attend the public school where he resides, fully complying with the compulsory school laws of Minnesota.'

At the expiration of the agreement (the 18th birthday presumably), they were to 

'furnish said child with two good suits of clothes, and will pay for the benefit of said child on the order of the Superintendent of said school, the sum of   $75 ($50 for a girl) and if said child shall not remain in his family the full term of said indenture, he will pay pro rata for the time he does remain, such pro rata to be paid promptly when this indenture is terminated.'

I'm not sure I follow all this, but it does sound as though my Dad was considered indentured rather than 'adopted'. That said, it was early days in the history of legal adoption and they may have been finding their way. I know from my visit to the Owatonna State School that children could be either 'fostered' - which was definitely a form of indentured servitude for many of them - or they could be adopted, which may in some cases not have been a permanent arrangement.   It was certainly a permanent arrangement with my Grandparents and the letters that follow are full of joy (from Grandma) and satisfaction (from the school). My dad is a 'fine boy' who is 'developing splendidly under their care'. 

Then comes October 1939 and a letter from my Dad's birth mother, Marit/Mary. He is now 21 years old. She is distraught as the people who adopted/fostered her elder son, Albert, have contacted her to tell her he has died at the age of 24 years, drowned in the Mississippi River. I cannot really imagine what possessed them to contact her. I've tried to find a good motive in their actions and the closest I can come is 'Just thought we'd let you know you needn't worry about Albert any more. He's dead.' Can you put a better face on it?

In her letter, Mary feels they failed him in their care and is frightened for the well being of her younger son. It seems clear that her children were taken off her, she didn't relinquish them. Considering that women in the US didn't have a vote until 1922, I'm not terribly surprised that she had little recourse once the State was interested in her situation. She and her children were apparently taken into the Bethany Home, her children were sent to the Public School (Albert) or their new home (my Dad) and she was committed to a State institution for the feeble minded on the basis that she'd had two children out of wedlock. Her letter is rambling and she references the kidnapping of the child of aviator Charles Lindbergh, which occurred in 1932. On the other hand, she spells better than Grandma B...

There is another letter from her, then another letter written on her behalf by a family friend at the Lutheran Seminary and a final document in the file recording Mary's visit to the State School on 3 Jan 1957.  I was chilled when I read the date, as I was 7 months old then, my Dad was 38. Mary was 78 years old, drawing old age benefit.  She is described as a 'most unhappy person and has a considerable dislike of all "welfare agencies". Small wonder, that. Mary couldn't understand since her child had reached majority why she could not be made known to him. Of course the adoption system didn't work that way.

They sent her away with the assurance that should he get in touch, they would help make the connection between her and her son. This never happened as my Dad was never told he was adopted. I'm in little doubt that my dad had a better life with my Grandparents than he would have had in the family of a single mom with a potential mental handicap. Her family doesn't seem to have supported her very much and so far as I can tell she made her way alone in the world as much as she could. I also believe she loved her children as much as any mother could and I think her story is among the saddest I've come across.

I'm waiting for records about her case from the Bethany Home. I'm also looking through DNA matches to find a paternal grandfather. My guess is that Albert never had children and perhaps he and my Dad were the only children of said grandfather, so it will be a long reach back with no name to hunt. But I have a couple of leads on which I'm working...

Looking Back

If you've never read The Time Paradox, by Philip Zimbardo and Jim Boyd, I can recommend it. Perhaps I should warn British readers it may smack of self-help. It's been a while but from what I recall, it is full of quizzes to help decide if you mainly (mentally/emotionally) live in the past, in the future or in the present (the latter being a rather hedonistic group, I think).  I'm thinking they recommended a bit of all three.  Note to self to re-read it.

Anyhow, I would suggest if you are busy planning all the things you want to do in 2018, it might be good it remember all you did in 2017. I don't think most of us give ourselves credit for all that we do. I jotted some brief notes for 2017, as I try to do at the end of each year; no doubt other things will come to mind when this is published, but here is my list:

• I 'lost' 12 pounds. Mind I 'found' a few over the holidays but am confident they will fall off again, once all the junk food is gone (AKA eaten). The only thing I did was to stop buying or making bread, buying cheese or crackers. Well, the other thing was to make my own lunch of yogurt, fruit and nuts instead of having Bill make (delicious but sometimes fattening) lunch. We eat together at breakfast and usually dinner, but go our own ways at lunch.
• Made two new friends that I see semi-regularly.  These are two ladies I met at the WI that I decided I want to know better. I have a list of friends I want to keep up with and I cycle through their names, making dates to get together.
• Went to dressmaking classes and made myself three t-shirts and two button-down shirts. 
• Re-arranged my new sewing room after redecorating (new paint & carpet). It doesn't look how I'd like, but it looks how it looks. Further transformation is likely a rest-of-my-life task, but it works well for me as it is. It isn't as good as a guest room since everything isn't hidden behind a closet door anymore, but we have overnight guests maybe 3-4 times a year, so it will have to do for now.
• Adopted the clean house habits from Zen Habits. Bill has signed on for most of this as well and  though neither of us is perfect we have enjoyed a much tidier house this past year. I've only recently attempted the 15-minute a day un-clutter and in the run up to Christmas I was amazed at the mountains that got shifted. 
• Attended all my WI (Women's Institute) and WI Book Group meetings when we were in town.  
• Boycotted Amazon (other than I bought two books I couldn't get otherwise in time for my Book Group and got two books as Christmas gifts). Expect I saved at least a hundred pounds.
• Read 57 books.
• Published 53 blog posts.
• Joined the YMCA gym with Bill; attended Zumba Gold classes regularly at Linskill Community Centre.
• Posted notices in community centres about yarn for our knitting group.
• Had holidays in Switzerland (a new place) and France (revisited familiar places). 
• Found gardening workshops and a foraging (for free food!) club
• Attended a lecture on the history of jewellery in Harrogate.
• Made a coptic stitch notebook on my own (well, with a video)
• Started Bullet Journalling
• Made rosehip syrup (a post is forthcoming)
• Donated an enormous pile of clothing from the attic, keeping only natural fibre / dye-able / biodegradable cloth.
• Wrapped all our Christmas gifts in re-cycled paper from last year and with re-cycled and/or handmade bows.

None of these is earth-shaking and there are loads of other even smaller items I could possibly add. However ordinary these 'achievements', they all help shape the life I have long wanted to make for myself.

What did you do in 2017?

Black-Eyed Peas!

I have a whole raft* of ideas for traditions, old and new, in 2018. The first is to honour my Southern roots in the US by eating black-eyed peas on New Years Day to bring good luck in the coming year. I hated them as a child and negotiated with Mom down to three: she thought eating three black-eyed peas might just be enough to save me. 

I love them now. We had a large ham over Christmas and I saved the fat from it to flavour my beans. We buy dried beans -  some of every kind they have at the Asian grocery in Brighton Grove - and a large bag of polenta (corn meal) about every 2-3 years. It takes that long for us to finish them off. The beans soak for about 24 hours and cook in the crock pot for a few hours on high. I generally cook about three cups of dried beans at a time and freeze the cooked beans in smaller portions. Nothing suits beans and ham like some hot buttered cornbread. That was Mom's comfort food and it has become mine as well.



Here in Britain black-eyed peas are sometimes known as cow-peas, which is perhaps too close in my mind to 'cow patty' to sound attractive, but I can see why one might think they bear markings similar to a cow, mmm perhaps a British White?

...there is nothing so easy to create as a tradition.

                                                     Sir Walter Scott

*How is it we use the word 'raft' to refer to a large collection of things when it is clearly a flat wooden thing for floating on water? Turns out that went from the North part of Britain over to the US:

 Do you have a tradition you observe for the New Year?

Grandmother's Birthday

I was wondering what else I might say about my Grandmother, born this day in 1898. She lived to the age of 91. Having been to the GP yesterday for my five-year check up (the NHS doesn't do annual check-ups for my age group), I learned that my blood pressure is once again its usual nice low range and so I have renewed hopes... pending any further news in a few weeks when the blood work comes back.

Anyhow, it occurred to me I'd not looked up any historical information on Booneville, Arkansas (Logan County) so I went to my trusted source for such things, Archive.org . If you don't know about this amazing website you should familiarise yourself with it. I've found endless biographical details of ancestors in Virginia and elsewhere. I've found great historical texts on homemaking. When last month's issue of Threads magazine recommended a couple of books on pattern making, I found one of them on Archive.org and downloaded it - completely free - instead of paying anywhere from $24-104, the prices I found elsewhere on the internet. So, when this website asked for money, like I do with Wikipedia, I paid up. It's a valuable resource I'd like to see continued.

Sure enough there was a book online called Biographical and Historical Memoirs of Western Arkansas. I didn't find any family names listed there, but then I've only had a brief scan of the relevant chapter. I was very excited to read that the Logan County Courthouse had burned down. This is something my Grandmother mentioned a number of times, laughing that no one knew when she was born so she could tell anyone she was any old age at all! She didn't take into account that the Census records of 1900 would have her pegged down. 

However, the story in the book about the courthouse burning reports that it happened in 1874! She wasn't born until 1898. Then again, the book was published in 1891, so perhaps it burned again since publication? And now I'm going to go back and see if her family was even in Arkansas yet at the time of publication. Maybe I should look for a book on Tennessee...

Grandma's Birthday

It's been a funny sort of year pertaining to paternal grandma's. I write this for today to remember the Grandma who helped raise me.  On the other hand I've spent a significant amount of time searching for and learning about my genetic paternal grandmother.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about family and how I define it. Many times I've said that my friends are my family, in part because I haven't a large number of immediate family members left and also because I haven't a great deal in common with those family members who remain. However, for all our differences, and in spite of how fascinating it is to discover the stories of my genetic family, my 'real' family members are the ones I grew up knowing. The feeling of family comes most strongly to me when sharing memories of those loved ones long gone. I can listen to reminiscences about my parents and grandparents, about my aunt Rita for a very long time. 

I hope I take after my genetic grandmothers, as one lived to age 91 and the other to nearly 97! However, the older I get the more I appreciate my Grandma's qualities. 

I've been working through the pile of stuff in the attic while the weather is mild enough to make it bearable. It is as much a curse as a blessing to have a space like this. There have been times when I felt a bit dizzy at the top of the step ladder, looking around at the accumulation of shelves, boxes, bags, oddments, Bill's luggage collection, my canning jar collection. Christmas stuff aside I have at times looked around and worried I might have a DSM-5 code looming. However, with my new environmentally-friendly standards for clothing fabrics and a renewed commitment to wearing 'my' colours/contrast, etc., there has been a steady stream of upper-body strengthening donations to the Relate charity shop in Whitley Bay. 

Never thought I'd say bright sun was a nuisance...

Two items I came across that will be always remain are these aprons that belonged to Grandma. They were Christmas gifts from one of her sisters, I'm pretty sure from Myrtle who was her younger sister by three years. Grandma had a sister, Millie, just one year older but Millie died in 1961 when I was five. Myrtle outlived Grandma by nearly a decade.



I remember a green one and may run across it some time. I see there are some tiny holes in the brown apron which, as they are about 50 years old, I think can be forgiven. Given the long life of decent fabric I consider 'disposable clothing' an obscenity.




I rarely remember to wear aprons when I cook, a habit I keep thinking I'll change. However, when I do don one of the aprons hanging on the back of the kitchen door, it covers both above and below the waist. I always thought these little half-aprons sort of a house-wifey costume. Then again maybe in the 50s women weren't as sloppy as I am.




I was just thinking it was a shame I never wear these aprons and it suddenly dawned on me that I am developing the skills to cut a top piece and attach it to the bottom part. I remembered that the hems on these are quite deep - 4 or 5" - and so I could steal a bit of the hem to make a matching trim on the top. Or I could go all out and do some red and green cross-stitch. Pink, red and green aren't colours I would have mixed, but I must admit the roses are a nice design. As it happens I have quite a bit of plain white cotton that could be shaped with a loop for the head and some kind of trim. When and if this happens, I will be sure to share them with you. I can see a deadline of her next birthday post would be useful. 




The other thing I've done this past year is to knit dishcloths (no photos to hand at this moment so that will have to be another post). We have stopped buying sponges that wear out in a week. I've made dishcloths for Christmas gifts (not sure how well that went over). 




I gave one to my sister-in-law, Jane, when I knocked off a couple during our holiday together in Switzerland last May. I took a couple to our Thursday night craft group since there never seemed to be a sponge around for washing tea cups and I began to worry about the hygiene levels there. I've taken to drinking hot water instead of tea/coffee and though I know tea stains aren't important, I was pleased to be able to scrub a few off. I think some of the ladies at the craft group were pleased as well, from both a crafty and a cleaning point of view.




I know Grandma would be very happy to know some of her ideas have stuck with me. I also know that she wanted very much to be remembered after she passed, and so she will be for as long as I can see to that.