Climbing around in the Family Tree

Several of my friends have become addicted to genealogy. They talk of days spent following clues on ancestry.com and suddenly looking up to find it's dark outside and they have forgotten to eat. I figured I'd better stay away from this work because sometimes I forget to eat anyway and if I would sit that long, Chris would have to come with an appliance dolly to bring me to bed. I decided to leave the tedious ancestor work to those who can't seem to get enough of it.

Then I started trying to identify people in old family photos. I don't have ancestry.com, but I looked up a few things on familysearch.org - the free site. It took a bit of digging, but I found some of the information I was looking for and, one thing led to another.

When I looked at the clock, I was surprised to see I had been working for nearly 4 hours. Damn.

On the other hand, I was fascinated. Other people have obviously done a lot of work connecting branches to my family tree, which is as tall as Jack's beanstalk and even wider than it is tall. I couldn't stop clicking on those little arrows to make the previous generations of ancestors show up. When the Welsh names started to appear, I was hooked. It's cool to find names like Gryffydd or Dafydd or Angharad, especially when I actually know how to pronounce them. I knew my Welsh language study would be useful.

Then King Henry I, sitting on a royal branch, made his presence known.

Whoa. Am I really a direct descendant of King Henry I? Well... if everything is correct, I'm related through one of his bastard sons. I've heard he had approximately 200 illegitimate children so it's entirely plausible. I went further and further back, mindlessly clicking on those little arrows that showed up with each new branch. I saw various kings and queens and princes and the names went from Welsh to English to Scottish to French to Roman. I passed by Constantine with another click. By this time, I was getting used to the fact I was of royal blood, and yawned.

Then the Norse line came with names like Agnar Sigtrygsson and Solveig Halfdansdatter. Amazing! I had no idea there was any Norse blood in my veins. But..when Odin of Asgaarde appeared, I began to wonder if this was totally accurate. So what did I do? I asked Google. Okay. The records kept by the Church of Latter Day Saints are accurate - or as accurate as they can be considering the spelling errors on some of the hand written census records. The family trees are only as accurate as the supporting documents or lack thereof which are attached to them - or not.

There are small red boxes containing exclamation points that alert you to "data problems" in your family tree. This might mean that, according to the dates (which you or someone has obviously researched), the mother was born after her husband died or she was 4 years old when her first child was born. I still haven't figured out how to correct mistakes on the family tree, at least the one I just made. Sawing off the branch doesn't seem to be an option.

On the other hand, considering the number of descendants many of those famous folks have, being related to kings, queens, and other celebrities of the ancient past, is not at all unlikely. From the time I was young, I was taught to be proud that we are direct descendants of William Bradford from the Mayflower. We have the proof for this one. And good old Will has at least two million living descendants.

As for the questionable ancestors, we just have to go through and find all the birth records, death records, immigration records, marriage records, photos of gravestones, and on and on and on. Find enough records, attach them to the people in your family tree, and pretty soon, there you go. Climb around in the branches and chat with Marcus Aurelius or trade stories with Attila the Hun.

Enough going back in time for one night. I think I'll veg out for awhile and watch TV. Dr. Who, anyone?

By Candlelight

My lover speaks and says to me, 

"Arise, my friend, my beautiful one, and come!"    Song of Songs

We don't have to use candles. Even if the power goes off, there are flashlights and other battery operated options for us. Candles, you'd think, would be obsolete. So why do we use them?

I had been invited to attend the ordination of my friend, Mary Ann. I was looking forward to meeting her in person for the first time and seeing her mentor, whom I had known for many years. I knew this would be a small gathering. In all, we were six - me, Mary Ann, the two priests who ordained her, and two other priests. I felt incredibly honored to be invited to witness this special moment in my friend's life.

The chapel was in a tiny room in the basement of a house. I was instructed to take off my shoes before I entered this dim, candle lit space, and shown to my chair next to my friend. I sat down and she reached over and took my hand. In the quiet, we touched for the first time.

Candles are for special times and sacred spaces. They soften the edges and allow us to see each other gently. We become quiet. Candlelight encourages us to listen and to speak only what needs to be spoken.

Prayers, readings, and vows.

I listened. In a tradition that is ancient yet, somehow felt fresh like a walk just after sunrise, my friend spoke her promise to serve others. There were more words, of course, but what I remember most was all about love and freedom and being there to serve, not to judge or tell anyone what to do or what to believe.

In the quiet of a sacred space, in the dim light of the candles, it is somehow easier to see myself and understand my own sharp edges. This space, perhaps because of the people inhabiting it, did not hold judgement or criticism, only support, generosity, and love, even (or maybe especially) towards our own failings. It is hard to express what I felt during this time, the closest would be that I felt utterly and completely and beautifully human.

May we be granted peace.

A Stitch in Time

"Knitting is very conducive to thought. It is nice to knit awhile, put down the needles,     write awhile, then take up the sock again."   Dorothy Day

There are 96 stitches on 4 needles, size 3. The entire project will only be 8 inches long. This is something I generally can knock off in a couple of evenings, especially if we have a good movie to watch. Not this time. I've been at it for nearly a week and have just over 3 inches done. I've spent most of my time slowly taking out mistakes.

Last month, I lost a friend. Kathy was not someone I hung around with all the time, but she was a friend, a colleague, a mentor, a confidante. She was also a knitter. A number of her beautiful projects were on display at her memorial celebration. They reminded me of her - large, soft, warm, classy, beautiful.

I decided I was going to try lace knitting this time. I've done it before and I enjoy it, but it's not something I can work on without concentrating on every stitch. Even so, I often get to the end of the needle and have too many or too few stitches to complete the pattern. Then I have to go back, slowly, stitch by stitch, until I find out where I made my mistake.

As I've worked on this project, I've thought of Kathy a lot. One day, soon after we celebrated her life, I went back and read some of the emails and messages we wrote to each other. I was saddened when I realized one of the last things she had written to me was a request that we get together for lunch. It was a trying time for me - in some ways it still is - as I was navigating the practical and emotional issues of moving my parents to assisted living. I told her I'd love to have lunch with her, but I couldn't right then. I was swamped.

No, I don't feel guilty, just a little sad. I was swamped and there wasn't much I could do about it. Kathy understood complicated family life and medical issues. She always understood. This is what made her the incredible teacher, principal, advocate, and friend she was to so many people.

No, I didn't feel guilty, but it was one more reminder to take care of the people I love and to keep mending my mistakes.

My knitting pattern is a little like my life right now: too complicated, demands attention, and easy to make mistakes. It's taking a lot of patience to get through each round, knit a little, count, take out stitches, re do them, go on. It's taking a lot of patience to get through each week, too, and I often spend a great deal of time going back and fixing mistakes, and then taking a breath and going back to one more doctor's appointment, one more afternoon with young grandchildren, one more day of figuring out insurance companies, school schedules, and cleaning house.

I'll take up the knitting needles again, too. With each round completed, the pattern can be seen more clearly. As I begin to understand the pattern, the mistakes are easier to fix. The patterns in my life are a bit more complex than this lace knitting - or are they? As I begin to understand my life patterns, I alternately groan and laugh at how often I make things more difficult than they need be.

Oh well. For now, I'm ready to take a deep breath, go to bed, and rest up. Tomorrow I'll start another round.

Yahtzee Golf – Reinhart version 101

The goal is to score the lowest number of points.

On the first roll, the player will decide what they are going for (1s, 2s, full house, etc) - though they can change their mind if they get a better combination on a subsequent roll.

The player must then roll the dice until they get at least three of the number (if working on the top half) or the combination they are going for (full house, large straight, etc).

The score will be the number of rolls.

After the first player gets their combination, the next player begins.

The last play will be for chance. On this turn, the player only rolls 3 times, trying to get the lowest score they can.

Scoring bonus points – If a player receives more than 18 points for the top half of the score card, they will add 5 points to their score.

The fun part of this version (invented by Emma and me) is everyone gets a Yahtzee and you don't ever have to zero out anything. The downside? I've lost every game.

The Fox went out on a chilly night

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog....

My original purpose in having this blog site was so I could write about our urban farm experiences as well as our experiences going down the yellow brick road of caring for our parents. Along the way, I have done as I always do, I've taken just about every side road, gravel walk, or dirt pathway possible. You may applaud me for my adventurous spirit, but in reality, I'm just easily distracted or, as a few people would put it, a little dingy.

Long ago, I gave up and realized anyone who knows me or has looked at this blog or my other blog (the first Studio Foxhoven site) knows I will tackle all sorts of subjects. If you've stuck with me this far, you're probably okay with it. I'll trust you.

Today, however, I must give you an update on the Reinhart Family Farm. It's been awhile and a lot has happened. Our population of farm animals is currently: 9 hens and 3 rabbits. That's all. It seems way too quiet out there from what it was just a few days ago when our tally included 2 large female white embden geese. But, at early morning roll call yesterday, the ladies didn't answer and, on further investigation, we found they had fallen victim to a predator.

White embden geese are big. Really big. Generally speaking, foxes steer clear of them because it can be an even match. Our 5 year old grandson, Mattheus, reminded me about the song about the fox who went out on a chilly night and ended up with a goose dinner for his family. So we figure perhaps there was a large fox family with little ones (eight, nine, ten) needing to chew on some bones'o.

While we understand how nature works, it's still a little too quiet back there. We'll miss the geese - and their eggs. Our 3 1/2 year old grandson, Lucien, came with me to look for the last goose egg. Usually, this was his sister's job, but it was pouring rain still and big brother did the chores for her. Lucien also expertly helped to get the hens into their house for the night. We weren't going to take any chances with our hungry fox family around town.

For the Love of Math

Math was never my favorite subject and I wasn't very good at it. But, as an adult, I realized one day that math problems, at least the basics, were easier than any other problems in my life. There's one logical way to solve them and, if I follow the rules, the answer will be correct. No gray area. No debate.

2 + 2 = 4

This revelation hit about the time my oldest child turned two. Parenting is the most humbling job on the planet. We all know this. Most of us start out with such high ideals. We're going to be the best parents and we're going to do everything right - or at least different from what our parents did with us. By the time our kids turn two, most of us just hope they won't end up in therapy some day because of something we said or did.

3 x 1 is 3, 3 x 2 is 6, 3 x 3 is 9

The multiplication tables do what they're supposed to do. They're constant. 3 x 3 never says, oh, today I think I'll be 22. Relationships with numbers are much more reliable than relationships with people. The latter have too many variables. In my first real job, I used to dread when my boss would suddenly become very patient because I knew he was about to forgive me for some mistake HE had made.

-3x + 2y -2z = -10

A math problem with variables can still be solved logically, once you know how. Our political science professor used to tell us over and over, "The easy problems have already been solved". This, of course, leaves us with the difficult, messy, human problems to wrestle with, like poverty and bigotry. There are no easy logical 2 + 2 kind of answers to these problems.

dy/dx = x sin 2x + y tan x, - π/2 < x < π/2

Historically, 2 + 2 has always equalled 4. Math is comforting that way. Other fields of study require constant updating and changing as we learn more about our world, whether it involves the stars and planets or tiny cells in our body.

Historically, we've had to unlearn a lot of things. The earth is not flat nor does is it the center of the universe. The founding fathers did not intend for the US to be a Christian nation, Autism is not childhood psychosis caused by the mother. Homosexuality is not a choice. Poverty is not caused by poor people not knowing how to save money. Hard work doesn't guarantee success - luck is also a factor. Even good relationships have hard times. College degrees don't guarantee a good job. And your mom isn't the perfect mom you always knew she wasn't. She's imperfect in many ways you have yet to discover.

These days, as I am making a thousand little and big decisions daily in regards to my parents, my grandchildren (no, you can't eat all the cookies for lunch), our finances, what to make for dinner, and how to spend my 15 minutes of free time, the idea of a simple problem and simple solution sounds very appealing. It's not there and won't be.

That's probably just as well. If every problem in life had a logical solution, it would be a lot like a math class. I'm too much of an artist to want everything to be logical. I may have learned to appreciate math, but I wouldn't want to go that far.

So Many Different Ways to Be Beautiful

When I was young, my best friend was a little girl named Gina who was quite vocal about how she wished she was a boy. She even wadded up kleenexes and put the wad down the front of her pants because she wanted a penis so badly. I didn't think anything about it. Children usually don't. We had a great time climbing trees and hiking through the wild areas near our neighborhood.

All was fine until I joyfully came home one day and announced to my mom that I was Gina's girlfriend. I was too young to get the icy tone accompanying my mother's response of "what do you mean by that?"  I said that since Gina thought she was a boy and I knew I was a girl, I was Gina's girlfriend. At age 9, friends are friends - period. We had fun together.

We moved to Colorado soon after and I missed Gina and my old neighborhood terribly. Being shy and quiet, entering a new school mid year was torture. I hated it. I wanted to go back to my home and my friends. There was something else, too. My innocent comment had obviously made my mom very nervous. I had never been a "girly girl". I liked climbing and hiking and catching lizards.. I did not like playing with dolls and I hated Barbies. The label of Tomboy was a badge of honor.
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By the time I was in high school, the dress code had changed and, for the first time, I could wear jeans to school. This can't have helped Mom's anxiety about my lack of femininity. At a time when it was stylish to wear old overalls and t-shirts, I was scolded for not wearing nice clothes, not curling my hair properly, and teased for being small breasted.

In my mom's defense, in the 1970s homosexuality was still listed as a mental illness by the American Psychiatric Association. It was also a crime. Scary stuff. She needn't have worried. I am straight. It's just who I am. I could no more make myself lesbian than my lesbian friends could make themselves be straight.

Perhaps it's no wonder I struggled with what it meant to be feminine. I know I wasn't alone, not by a long shot. Struggling with identity and figuring out how to fit in and still be a unique individual is the definition of high school. With the feminist movement of the 1960's and 70's breaking down barriers for women, we were all dazzled with the possibilities ahead of us. It was exciting and overwhelming for us, but must have been puzzling and threatening to some of our parents.

There are still times I hear the voice in my head, letting me know I'm not attractive and not feminine enough, but I can deal with it now. I'm lucky to be married to a wonderful man who doesn't insist on me being a girly girl. In fact, generally when I've felt the most insecure about my identity has been when I have to deal with professional women.

The struggle is okay. It's made me into the weird person I am and hopefully more understanding of others who struggle. I know I've had it easy compared to friends I have in the LGBT community. There is no way I could ever claim to understand what they have gone through. I often wondered if Gina's parents tried to squash her desire to be a boy. Did she get into trouble because of what I said? Was she teased at school? Did anyone try to make her someone she wasn't? Wherever she is and whoever she has become, I hope she knows how much I valued our friendship. I hope she's happy and doing well.

And coming full circle, I have always had close friends who are part of the LGBT community. Now, as I dance with a lovely, inclusive gay square dance club, I realize more and more how comfortable I am with this community. It's a place where everyone is accepted. I delight in seeing one young man occasionally come to a party dance wearing a dress and heels. Actually, I'm totally impressed seeing anyone square dance in heels. And I'm delighted I don't have to.

It's a place where I never hear the voices in my head tell me I'm not attractive and not feminine enough. It's a place where I've learned what my new friends learned long ago: there are so many different ways to be beautiful. Male and female, masculine and feminine are not opposites. They are splotches of many colors on an artist's paint filled palette and often run together, making even more beautiful colors.

"I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. 

There were so many different ways to be beautiful.”

~Michael Cunningham -  A Home at the End of the World