Ball has returned. I found it while sorting the pile of stuff that accumulates under the coffee table. Harriet was overjoyed, and much hilarity ensued. Alas, I was too busy laughing to take pictures, but it looked a little like this. Harriet is an enthusiastic jokester, but her sense of humor does not extend to Ball. Ball, she takes very, very seriously. Do not mess with Ball, pleaseandthanks. Of course, that didn’t stop me from torturing her. That’s what dogs are for, right?
Author: Shelly
Speaking of Things That Make You Go Hmmm…
Like the Rev. King, I had a dream. Only, mine happened while I was sleeping. I had this one a few weeks ago, but it was so mind-boggling that I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit.
I was at my mom’s house, and it must have taken place before her divorce. She, my brothers, and I were in the living room, sitting around and talking, like ya’ do. I suddenly turned around, and noticed that the wood stove was on fire. Ginormous flames were shooting out of the top of it. Eeep! So, I yell “fire!” and run to the kitchen, to get the fire extinguisher. Herb (ex step-father) was standing in front of the microwave, behind which the fire extinguisher was located. I told him the wood stove was on fire, and he just stared at me like I was a pod person. Hrmph. I ran back to the living room, then back to the kitchen, then back to the living room, then back to the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth, each time telling Herb that the wood stove was on fire (Aaack! Fire!). But, bupkis from him.
See, he was drying pot in the microwave. Very important, that, and not to be interrupted, apparently. Also, he was always a stickler for asking for exactly what you wanted, instead of either hinting around at it or waiting for the other person to offer up what you needed. All well and good, I suppose, but at times, especially when I was young, it seemed like a cruel sort of game to him.
So, my interpretation is that:
1) He was waiting for me to actually ask him for the fire extinguisher. Simply telling him the fucking house was on fire was not good enough, as that required him to supply the requisite action (“Duh, maybe she wants the fire extinguisher?”).
2) He was perfectly happy to let the world combust around him, as long as his own needs were being met. He was spectacularly selfish that way. So, I can totally see him thinking that his priorities might take precedence over others’, because often, they did. And, when they didn’t, he could be the world’s worst Whiney McWhinerPants.
Mormons Being Creepy
So, as I’ve been going through all this genealogy BS, I’ve come across a metric fuck-load of references to the phrase “sealed to parent/child,” along with recent-ish dates. Wondering what on earth that might mean, I went a-Googling. Lo and behold, it refers to LDS baptism and binding. Basically, no matter when you died, or, apparently, what your faith was when you keeled over (boggle), your present day descendants, if they are endowed[1] LDS members, can opt to have you baptised and sealed to them. In other words, your spirits are then eternally bound together.
Now, I’m all for folks practicing whatever sort of mumbo-jumbo floats their boats, but I think it’s of the utmost importance for people to have free choice of which flavor of Kool-Aid they prefer to drink. I’m squicked out by the thought that hundreds of years after someone’s death, their descendants can fool around with their eternal souls.
I think that definitely qualifies as spiritual “Bad Touch.”
I’m just trying to imagine how some of the Quakers I’ve been researching would react if they found out their souls were being enshrined against their wills in some sort of Mormon death cult. I mean, these were folks who took their own brand of religion seriously enough that they were willing to come to this country in order to practice it freely. They also don’t strike me as folks who were into super secret rituals.
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[1] What endowment means is anyone’s guess. It apparently entails participating in an uber-s00per-s33kr1t ceremony that none must speak of ever after.
Ask and Ye Shall Receive
I’ve spent a good portion of this weekend helping a my neighbor sort and move things around, in preparation for the installation of a temporary housemate at Chez Lea. Mostly, it involved hanging out and providing company and moral support while she did the dirty work. But, there was something in it for me, too. She’d read about my recent dissatisfaction with my printer situation, and that I was planning on eventually upgrading one of my printers to a black and white laser (not so very expensive, especially after the cost per page is factored in). Anyway, she had an older but perfectly functional laser printer sitting in her “to be sorted” pile, complete with extra cartridge. Both of which she gave to me, onna counta she’s such a spectacularly swell person. Wheee!
I just finished swapping it into the printer rotation and printing a test sheet, and it appears as if all systems are go. I win! Not only does this mean that I don’t have to worry about ink drying out, but I can now play around with toner-based transfers. I can’t wait. I’m having a geek-gasm just thinking about it.
This, boys and girls, is a prime lesson in why it’s important to let the universe know what you want. If you don’t, how will it know what to give you?
And now, I’m off to play in genealogy-land. I’ve found yet another collapsing branch on Esther’s family tree, this time in the form of first cousins marrying. What’s funny is that both collapses are in the same generation, but on opposite sides of her grandmother’s family.
I’m still having no luck with her paternal grandmother’s family. I know her name (Emma Pearson) and I now know her parent’s names (Jonathan C. Pearson and Nancy Jane Anderson), but it dies there. I’ve found what I think are some of Jonathan Pearson’s relatives, and a possible link to them, but nothing solid enough to be useful. If it does turn out to be his family, they were originally from South Carolina, moved to Ohio, where Jonathan was born, then to La Salle County Ohio, where he married Nancy Jane.
(Please, do not ask how many hours I wasted last night trying to get even that far.)
Oh, and I encountered another kick-ass name: Tamer Jane Cammack. She might (or might not) have been Jonathan’s mother. She had a son named Jonathan, but I could find no birth/death dates or anything else to indicate that they’re the same person. The dates are in the right ball park, and the migration pattern would be possible, but that’s obviously not good enough.
Why Cousins Shouldn’t Marry
This is the Wakefield branch of Esther’s family tree. Elizabeth Wakefield was her grandmother.
I mentioned that I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time trying to sort out various anomalies in Esther’s family tree. I thought I’d provide a visual aid. It took me all morning to unsnarl this one once and for all. Part of the problem is that various researchers have conflated two of the women: Mary Jane Wade and Elizabeth Morton became Mary Jane Elizabeth Wade. Eeep! Another problem is that there are several Roberts in the line, and some of them have also become conflated and generally mixed up.
And, yes, if you look closely, not only are there distant cousins marrying (hint: family trees should branch out, not come together), but also a case of a woman marrying her nephew. That was the bit that nearly gave me an aneurysm, because it meant that the same set of ancestors were showing up multiple times, in multiple generations.
And also yes, I work out these snarls the old-fashioned way, using paper and pencil. I’ve found that graph paper is most excellent for family tree work, because it allows you to line up everything very neatly in two dimensions.
Fun with Names
I apologize for the lack of attention, but I’m still off in genealogy land. I reached the Pilgrims, which was exciting. There should be a ton of info available on that strata, so I haven’t really bothered to explore it in depth or breadth. Right now I’m focused strictly on who begat whom. Just the names and dates, ma’am, please-and-thanks.
And what names they are, too! A few minutes ago, I encountered Thankful Loves Marsh. That has to be one of the bestest names ever. Alas, she is not related to Esther. There are, however, many fascinating names in Esther’s family tree:
- Constant Southworth
- Olive Brown (I think we call that Khaki these days)
- Bethiah Beverly
- Bethya Read
- Brita Walraven
- Remember Brown
- Sinai Roberts
- Beteryce Hewett
- Euphemia Ross
- Bartle Escheilson
- Afreka of Fife
There is also the obligatory Native American branch of the family, comprised of Mary Little Dove Hyanno and her ancestors (and all manner of alleged “princesses” who were no such thing; you really can’t believe half of what other “researchers” post on these here Internetz).
And, while I find it depressing that so many men married women named Unknown Unknown, I did find a singular case of the reverse, in the person of one Widow Walker who married an unknown Englishman. You’ll note, however, that Mrs. Walker’s given name is conspicuously missing.
One of the challenges of tracking genealogical ghosts is that, until last week, folks weren’t terribly concerned with how their names were spelled. Often, it’s a case of a trailing letter or two being lopped off (Browne becomes Brown or Bastowe becomes Basto). Sometimes, though, Monroe becomes Munro, Wheatliegh becomes Wheatley, and Smythe becomes Smith.
I’ve also run into a few incredibly confusing family cluster-fucks. In one, the same parents showed up twice. That’s what happens when cousins marry. In another, two women were conflated into one by multiple researchers, because they both had related husbands with the same last name. In that case, it was further confused by the fact that their off-spring, who were some sorts of cousins aunt and nephew, married.
Altering Polaroids
I actually managed to get some artwork done over the weekend, but I haven’t gotten around to scanning/photographing/uploading it yet. I’ll try to do so tonight. I’ve been doing 6 x 6 inch collages, many of which incorporate altered Polaroid photos.
Speaking of Polaroids, I played around a bit with bleaching them. This is a nice way to recycle photos that didn’t turn out well.
Start by taking them apart. This can be a bit tedious, but once you know how they’re constructed, it’s not difficult. Begin by pulling off the edging tape (you might have to use an Xacto or razor blade to pry up an edge), then remove the front plastic sheet from the backing. The plastic sheet is what you’ll be working with. The photo emulsion is on the back of it. You can sand the front, which is kind of neat, but you can also scratch and/or sand through the emulsion from the back. Or, you can bleach it. I used a dinner plate with a shallow pool of undiluted bleach. Just lay the photo, emulsion side down, into the bleach. Lift it out and watch the front side of it. When it is lightened the desired amount, immediately place it in water. (I did this at the kitchen sink, and just left the water running.) Gently blot and leave to dry, emulsion side up.
Caveats: Dark photos work best for bleaching. Any white areas will disintegrate easily when bleached, so be careful not to overdo the bleach. Also be careful handling the emulsion side, at least until it has dried thoroughly. It’s especially delicate when it’s wet.
Or, instead of bleaching, you can wet the emulsion with plain water. Let it sit a moment to soften. Then, you can gently manipulate it with your fingertips, a brush, or a pencil eraser. It’s possible to get some interesting blending results this way. Just be careful not to overdo it, because it’s a fine line between manipulation of the emulsion and its complete removal.
You can also remove the emulsion from part of the photo, if you want to use it in collage so that the image beneath that section shows through.
Once the photos are dry, you can use them in collages, paintings, or in art journals. I’ve used a very thin layer of acrylic medium to adhere them. Make sure you burnish thoroughly, both to ensure good contact and to force out any extra adhesive. Mechanical fasteners, like eyelets, brads, or thread work great, too. And then, of course, there are good, old fashioned photo corners.
The Office Crier & Stubbies
It’s one thing to comment to your cube neighbor about a mass e-mail. Some of them are mind-bogglingly worthy of comment. It’s quite another to go around asking folks if they got a particular message (the subject line states that it was sent to everyone on campus). I can’t, for the life of me, figure out the purpose of such an act. Why does he need to know if anyone else got the message? It didn’t come from him, so he presumably has no personal interest in whether or not certain people received it.
Another thing that bugs the hell out of me is related to answering the phone. Everyone in my section of the office shares a phone that is oh-so-irritatingly located rightbehindmydesk. Because I’m closest to the phone, I’m usually the one who answers it. If I waited for someone else to do so, I’d go insane from the ringing. All this phone answering necessitates the taking of many, many, many phone messages. Not a big deal, except that there is never a reasonable writing implement in the vicinity of the phone. There used to be a few dried up pens and a few dull pencils. I noticed today that those have morphed into a coffee mug packed with dull, stumpy, little pencil butts. WTF?! I started to take a few over to sharpen (I don’t mind stubbies, but I hate writing with dull leads), but then I realized that I’d have to sharpen all 30 or so pencils for that to be helpful. Otherwise, I’ll be playing “find the sharp pencil,” which is absolutely guaranteed to make me several kinds of cranky.
Fromme whence didst yon pencil butts cometh? I asked a coworker, only to learn that someone from another unit–on the other side of the floor!–brings them to us. Whyever the hell does she think we want stubby little pencil butts, I’ll never know. According to my coworker, the benefactress likes little pencils, and leaves them all over the damned place so that she has something to write with on those rare occasions she’s out and about. Hot buttered Christ! So we have to deal with a mug chock full of fucking pencil stubs–many of which are too short to sharpen–because she might want to use one when she’s passing through? I. Don’t. Think. So. She can take her own damned arse end of a pencil with her if it’s that important.
In OCD News…
I’ve been continuing to research Esther’s family tree. I’ve never done any genealogical work before, so it’s been an interesting exercise. What I’ve found is:
- It’s addicting.
- It’s possible to lose an entire day without having any idea where it’s gone, and only four names to show for it. But, those four names make you very, very happy.
- I now know more about HTML codes for ordered and unordered lists than is probably healthy.
I’ve managed to link her to two lines that (allegedly) trace back to the 13th century, one to England and one to Scotland. Another line traces back to Ireland in the 17th century. We’re talking “came over on the Mayflower.” One line allegedly descends from Robert I King of Scotland (yes, that would be Robert the Bruce). I expect most folks, if they look that far back, are related to someone important.
This is all based on other people’s research. Or “research.” Aside from the entertainment value, I would recommend taking it with a grain of salt.
Backlog Doughnuts
The first working day of every month, we count our individual and collective backlogs (librarians really like their statistics, lemme tell ya’).
So, to make the chore less onerous, the various unit heads take turns bringing in pastry-type treats for everyone. Usually, these treats are in the form of Backlog Doughnuts. The manager in charge of that month’s treats sends a message to everyone, announcing the arrival of the aforementioned.
I’m not a huge pastry fan, so I don’t usually partake. Plus, I don’t do any of the counting of collective backlogs, so I’m never sure if I’m allowed to partake. See, one manager sends out just a general “treats are here for everyone, so eat up” message, while another manager sends out something that goes a little like this: “There are backlog doughnuts at X location for those who participated in the collective backlog counts.” Only, she sends it to everyone, regardless of whether or not they are eligible for said backlog doughnuts. Unfair, says I, to taunt us with Tasty Num Nums and then, in the next breath, forbid us to partake of them. How rude!
So, on the first working day of every month, I get cranky as hell because of the Backlog Doughnut Conundrum. Will I be allowed to have a doughnut this month? Or, will they be meting out The Pastries of Maximum Perturbation?
Oh woe is me!
