Housecleaning

This was my Dad's desk. Nobody wanted/could take it when Mom moved, and Hubs thought it was too fine to put curbside, so we brought it home and stuck it in a corner of #1's already crowded bedroom. This summer he got the idea to get rid of the television in the grey room (which used to be the playroom when daughters were little) and also the television stand. We did, and Dad's desk now sits there. I washed it, organized the drawers into #1's drawer, Vasseur, Holmes and Moore drawers and a stuff drawer. Where I am going to put my empty camera boxes and Gramp M's scrapbooks, I do not know. Yet. 

After I washed it, I polished it with Circa 1850 Furniture Cleaner. It's not really that old, but it smells that old, in a good, wood polish way. Now it has a nice shine and smell. One-eyed Ted E Bear sits on the 1800s Snider chair that I had recaned. Thank you Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. I put my furniture polish on the dryer, covered with the rag I used to polish the wood. I pushed it aside to make room, right next to the new-to-me doily I got at Mrs. Milburn's moving out of apartment sale. Now, what do you think doily smells like? I like the smell, but not on the doily. 

I organized the desktop, but it will have to change, for we are putting up the white shelf from the kitchen at 9 Wellington over the desk, and the oil lamp and flowers are too tall. The oil lamp probably came from the farm, but I don't remember for sure. I picked up the clay inkwell at the antique shop, but Mom said there used to be lots of them at the farm. Wonder where they went. I purchased the feather pen at Kings Landing. The pen is a repurposed bobbin. Did you know I love old bobbins? Some of you will remember the basket from the desk in the parlor at the farm. The flowers (from Michaels) are in an old bottle. We found two or three old boxes of bottles in the basement when Mom moved and Paul, Pat and I divvied them up. This one has a greenish tinge and is from Rowat & Co, Glasgow. "Riverbank Visitors" and an old pair of glasses from the farm sit there, ready for Ted to read. The items in the back sit on doilies: one from the Vasseur house, one I made, and two I rescued.

#1's room and the grey room are still in a shambles, but I love my desk. I look forward to the white shelf, but I don't know where I'll put that oil lamp where it will be safe. It comes in handy, once in a while. Can you imagine living in an era (not so long ago - my Mom did) where there was no electicity, no ball point pens, and medicine and other scarey stuff came in these old bottles? And wearing Harry Potter glasses like these?

From Comfort Zone to Growth Zone

My trigger for this post is this link: http://www.thearmchairgenealogist.com/2014/09/expanding-your-genealogy-comfort-zone.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheArmchairGenealogist+%28The+Armchair+Genealogist%29

This is genealogy related. I believe it could relate to anything we are passionate about. I am passionate about genealogy. However, I have been altogether too content with the comfort of my computer chair.

I was talking to Paula about New York City, and how I can get to Long Island but not to the city. I offered all my good excuses, and indeed, they are good excuses. I can get lost in my own city, let alone a big city like New York. I don't think I'd even mind prowling some of the city on foot, but that traffic intimidates me like you wouldn't believe. My hostess  feels the same way, so I can't impose on her. Take the train. It doesn't come that far onto the island. So, I stay in my and my sister-in-law's comfort zone: Riverhead to Port Jefferston Station. When brother-in-law was alive, we traveled to Montauk and the Hamptons and a bit further east. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive, the gardens, and the Roosevelt "cottage."

You know what: I am satisfied to stay in my comfort zone. But there is something wrong with that. I know my excuses are valid: I really can't ask Sister to take me where she cannot. She has her good reasons: fear and poor eyesight. It's not possible for me to go to NYC by myself, and I will wait patiently until the occasion arises that I can go there. However, I fear driving anywhere out of my comfort zone.

Paula is posting photos of Morocco. Next month, she'll be camping in the Sahara. Gives me the shakes just thinking about it. Connie and her friend (a bit younger than me but not that much) biked from Quebec City to Prince Edward Island. Pat drives anywhere in the USA or Canada and the highways don't bother her one bit, or at least, she doesn't let that hold her back. Daughter #1 has traveled to many places in Asia and across Europe, and daughter #2 boarded a plane and went to Taiwan.

I am just a travel wimp.But then again, travel is not my passion. My airline points will probably accumulate to the point where I can fly to the moon. It is not hub's passion either, so that doesn't help.

My passion is genealogy, and I can do something about that. Recently I trapised through graveyards in totally unfamiliar territory, on New Brunswick's back roads. (Back roads don't scare me.) I felt good about it. I didn't learn anything new: the list of the dead was on the computer and the lists were accurate, but I stood at the gravesites where my ancestors rest and contemplated where and who I came from, I thought, how lovely it would be to live there in the valley in the autumn, and look up at the colors. How green and verdant it would be in the spring. (How white in the winter.)

What is your comfort zone? I think genealogy. You think whatever it is you enjoy. Here are a few quotes from Lynn's link, above. Substitute genealogy for whatever word you would like.

• "We all live in a comfort zone; a place in our mind wherer we create limitations for ourselves, a place in our mind that establishes what we believe about what we can or can't do."

• "Expanding your genealogy comfort zone means taking on new challenges; challenges that may make you a little uncomfortable but would expand your knowledge and therefore your ability to grow your family history tree."

• "We were all beginners once and to become great and knowledgeable about anything requires going beyond what others are prepared to do, setting new limits for yourself and discovering new territory."

• "Rather than research from a comfort zone, find your 'genealogy growth zone' where you are challenged beyond what you've previously done."

• "Make a list of items that fall outside of your comfort zone and within your genealogy growth zone and begin to make plans to check them off. Once you start to tackle that list, you will have greater opportunity to expand your boundaries, grow your confidence and your family tree."

That was the email from Lynn that I received earlier this week. I also received an email from Thelma.
"Genealogy Research: A Beginning," to be held at the Moncton Public Library on the evening of October 14. Am I going? Yes, I am going to take my butt from this comfortable chair to a chair in the Heritage Room at the Moncton Library. Am I a beginner? No. But hey, there are new machines to read microfilm in that room. I don't know how to use them. I need to learn. I never really mastered the old ones. I need to support my Genealoy Society so I will be there for that reason. I might meet some new people. I might find some old tome that has not been microfilmed and scanned for the internet. I might learn something new or I might help someone else. Its the first thing on my list - a small step - therefore easy to cross off. The step after that? I'm thinking.

What's first on your list. Fall is a good time to make a new list and step into your growth zone. Actually, any time is a good time to take a step in a new direction.

The two photos are of myself with Connie and Shelley and Connie - the two brave ladies who cycled from Quebec City, Quebec, to Bordon-Carleton, PEI. This was my send off after an all too short visit with a dear friend and her dear friend.

Meeting of the Liberal-Conservative Club at Riverbank

Today is election day in New Brunswick. By the time we go to our beds tonight, we will have a new or returned premier. Who will it be? I am fairly certain it will be Mr. Brian Gallant of the Liberal Party, but I think it might be a close race. We shall see.

On March 29, 1911, three people (at least three who signed their names) met at Riverbank. Mr. Ken McLeod, Mr. Walter Murray and Mr. F E Wallace met for their Liberal -  Conservative  club meeting at the guest house of Uncle Billy and Aunt Maggie. Did Maggie serve tea and crumpets? 

Could we call that an oxymoron? Liberals and Conservatives having a club together? Sharing tea and crumpets and a laugh before getting down to business? No mud slinging? 

Could it be? Only in the past, I'd say.

(This entry is several pages away and I have not yet researched who these gentlemen are. I assume F E Wallace was male as this happened in 1910.)

Proving Peter Stainforth MacCallum is the son of Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean

There are two Peter MacCallum's born in Prince Edward about the same time. One is Peter Stainforth MacCallum, born in 1875, to Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean, and the other is Peter MacCallum, born c 1878 to Dougald MacCallum and Catherine MacKinnon.

There are those who have claimed the Peter in our tree to be the son of Dougald and Catherine MacCallum, and some pick up this information without researching it and so the myth is perpertrated. I have set about to prove that our Peter MacCallum is the son of Robert D MacCallum and Annie McLean. I have no doubt about the existence of the other Peter; I just want to prove that our Peter, who married Edith Maude Steeves, is the son of Robert and Annie and the grandson of Peter MacCallum and Susanna Ford Cutler of St. Peters Bay, Prince Edward Island.

This is background research for an article I am writing for the Holmes Family Newsletter of November, 2014.

These are some of the sources I used to prove my hopothesis that Peter Stainforth MacCallum, who married Edith Maude Steeves (date unknown), is indeed the son of Robert and Annie (McLean) MacCallum. I  won't share them all; the newsletter must include a few surprises, after all. They are in no particular order, except for the Censuses.

1.  US WWI Draft Registration. I can see the original card.

Gives full name: Peter Stainforth MacCallum. Address 6 Highland Park, Roxbury, Massachusetts. Age 49; date of birth Mar 22, 1875, Canada, PEI. White. Naturalized. Occupation chauffeur for R. P. Sherman. Married to Edith M MacCallum of same address. Date of registration Sep 12, 1918.

2. U S Social Sec Death Index. This is a transcription.
Gives S S Number.
Residence Quincy, Massachusetts. Date of birth 22 Mar 1875. Date of death Feb 1968.

3. U S Naturalization Records. Original Card; M 245.
McCallum, Peter S
Address: 20 Beldon St. Boston,
Certificate Number 440-18
Title and Location of Court USCC Boston Mass
Country or Birth of Allegience Great Britain
Date of Birth March 22, 1875
Date of Naturalization October 9, 1905

4. Massachusetts Marriage Records. A transcription
Peter S MacCallum
Born c 1875 Canada
Married 15 April 1902, Boston, age 27
Father Robert D MacCallum
Mother Annie McLean
Spouse Sarah D McDonald
     Daughter of Daniel H McDonald and Sarah McKenzie

5. 1881 Census of Canada.  Can see original.
Lot 41, PEI: important that this lots is St. Peters Bay, PEI. (Also, the history of PEI being divided into lots is interesting, but another story.)
Stainforth McCallum
Age 4 born 1877 Prince Edward Island; Presbyterian. Others in household:
Father Robert McCallum Methodist, Farmer, Age 43
Mother Annie McCallum Presbyterian
Children:
Helen Age 13
Eben 12
Arlitte 10
Grace D 8
Jane C 6
Stainforth 4
Imogene1
Other person Jane Robertson age 70
   
6. 1900 U S Census Boston. Can see original.  Ward 10 District 1299; two things that interest me. One is his occupation, the other is that is district is 1299 and the district where three Steeves brothers live and work as butchers is 1289. I would like to know if these districts are close enough that he could have known the Steeves brothers and perhaps worked in the same market.

McCallum, Peter S
Age 23 Born March 1877 Canada
Home in 1900 Boston
Born Prince Edward Island, Canada
Immigration year 1891
Occupation Clerk in grocery store
Mother Annie McCallum, age 40, orn Sept 1859, widowed.
Children: Grace, Peter, Jennie, Imogene

7. 1910 U S Census. Can see original
P S Maccalum
Age 35. Born abt 1875, Canada
White, male
Residence Seattle, Washington
Immigration year 1892
Spouse Sadie D Maccalum
Occupation Carpenter, Bridge Industry

8. 1920 U S Census. Can see original
Peter S MacCullum
Age 44, born c 1876 in PEI
Residence Charles St, Boston
Immigration Year 1892
Married to Edith MacCullum
Occupation Shipwright in Navy Yard
One daughter, Shirley E
Also Caroline Steeves (mother in law) age 70 and Lloyd E Steeves (brother in law)

9. 1930 U S Census. Can see original
Born abt 1875 Canada
Residence Quincy Massachusetts
Immigration year 1905 (My note: that is his year of naturalization)
Spouse Edith M MacCallum
Occupation: Ship-builder, Naval yard
Also at that residence: Shirley age 11, Caroline M Steeves (mother in law) age 81

10. 1940 U S Census
Peter S MacCallum
Age 65 born c 1875
Residence 50 Taylor St, Quincy
Completed 8th grade
No occupation
Also at that residence: Edith age 57, Shirley E age 21

What I would like to know:
Date and place of death of his first wife, Sarah MacDonald
Date and place of marriage of Peter and Edith
If Peter MacCallum knew the Steeves family before he moved to Seattle.

I am absolutely convinced that Peter Stainforth MacCallum is the son of Robert Douglas MacCallum and Annie McLean.

Sept. 22. I found the marriage record of Peter and Edith at ancestry.com. It comes from a transcription and is a typed list of people married in Boston. From this I learned that Peter was 39, Edith was 30. It was Peter's second marriage and Edith's first; Peter was a widower. Peter's residence was Seattle, WA, and Edith's was 10 Greenville Street, Boston. Peter was a bridge carpenter and Edith was at home. Peter was born in PEI and Edith in NB. Peter's parents were Robert D MacCallum and Annie MacLean. Edith's were Charles A Steeves and Caroline M Holmes. Married by clergyman Rev. Charles A Fulton.

Where did Fenwick Come From?

So, I am back to Fenwick. I researched this name before, as "cousin" Fen wondered where the name came from originally. I can only speculate, but it seems logical. We have five Fenwicks in our family tree. The first two are dead, so I shall tell their names. Howard Fenwick, who went by Fenwick generally, was the last child of Daniel and Charlotte Holmes. He left no issue. But then, William Nelson Holmes, another son of Daniel and Charlotte, named a son Fenwick(e) Lindsay Holmes.

Visiting Riverbank on July 22, 1909 were the Kirks and the Jonahs. The adults of the group were Mr. and Mrs. W B Jonah. They brought along three of their children and two neighbor children. Actually some of them were in late teens, one I think was twenty, so not really children per say. After some research, the  people in this group were:
Mr. Wilford Burwell Jonah
Mrs. Mary Victoria Ann (Steeves) Jonah
Three of their children:
     Mary Imogene Jonah
     Helen Jonah
     Harry Nelson Jonah
Their neighbor's children:
     Helen Grace Kirk
     James Herbert Kirk

Set Judge Wilford B Jonah and family aside for now, although their story is interesting enough for me. I have been working on H. Grace Kirk and her family. Her father is James T Kirk; not the captain of the Enterprise, but, if I read the writing correctly, a commercial traveler for clothing. (Census 1891). Her mother is Helen Arnold. She is the dauaghter of Oliver Roswell Arnold and Helen Vail. Both of these families were influential in New Brunswick, but for now, I am interested in Oliver Roswell Arnold and his parents. Oliver Roswell is the son of Rev. Horatio Nelson Arnold and Margaret Georgina Williams.

Rev. Horatio Nelson Arnold, who generally went by Nelson, was probably named for Horatio Nelson who died in the Battle of Trafalgar. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horatio_Nelson,_1st_Viscount_Nelson The name does crop up in New Brunswick in that era, so he must have been considered a hero. Rev. H Nelson Arnold succeeded his father, Rev. Oliver Arnold, as rector in the Trinity Church, Sussex, and probably served the community of Portage Vale as well.

Our William Nelson Holmes (son of Daniel and Charlotte) was probably given his middle name for this clergyman, whom the Hoyt family would have known as their rector.

Margaret Georgina Williams (1803- 1874), wife of Rev, Horatio Nelson Arnold, was born in Annapolis, Nova Scotia and died in Sussex Vale, New Brunswick. She is the sister of the once upon a time famous General Sir William Fenwick Williams, 1st Baronet of Kars (1800 - 1883), You can read General Williams's exploits at http://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/williams_william_fenwick_11E.html or google the name. It is a very interesting read. General Williams spent the years 1867 - 1870 in the Sussex area, but he appears to be a well known hero in the area for many years. I believe the community of Kars in Kings County takes its name from General Williams' defense of Kars, Turkey, c 1855, for which he was knighted. I have come to the conclusion that the five Fenwick(e)s I have found in our Holmes family tree, as well as other Fenwicks on censuses in this era, are named for this hero, General Sir William Fenwick Williams, based totally on logic and not written information from the family. His obituary is also here, but does not mention his alleged parentage http://archives.gnb.ca/Search/NewspaperVitalStats/Details.aspx?culture=en-CA&guid=f4aa0923-5e3e-4c16-bbda-16ef91dfd817&r=1&ni=305023  I found his photo, as well as many others, on Google Images.

Microscopes

Yesterday's post brought tears and memories and a gentle chide to mother from daughter #2. Good tears, good memories, and a not so good memory. Sometimes, it is good to wait. Paula had to wait for several Christmases, it seems, and #2 had to wait for high school and university. My bad. It isn't easy, being the mother of a scientist, when you are not scientifically inclined. It would appear that Paula and #2 have something in common. #2's professor said of her, " she is the only student I've had that is equally proficient in both arts and science. She could do either." (Paraphrase, going from memory, and retelling: something akin to the above.) Paula chose to be an economist, but perhaps could have been an equally good scientist. In her comment, she said, "I buried myself in a world of very tiny things that became as large as life with that microscope. Bug wings, blades of grass and blood droplets were things of beauty and joy."

Now I watch #2 with her camera set on macro, looking for the small details. Or lens open wide, capturing the moose grazing at the edge of the forest, or the valley from the mountaintop. I don't actually see her photographing the moose and the valley, I see the results. Today, I am regretting that microscope that did not appear beneath the stocking. Is there something that #1 wished for, as a child, that did not appear under a stocking? We might as well open it up and deal with the regrets (perhaps not publicly - depending on what they were). For a Mom or Dad, there are probably just as many regrets as there are feelings of accomplishments, for many reasons. My husband wanted a horse. He did not get a horse. His parents had a good reason, which he now understands.  I cannot recall a significant childhood request that I did not get, but I always kept my expectations within reason, having some idea of the family budget, for whatever reason, that now compels me to micromanage mine. I do not count go-go boots and denim jeans as overly significant; anyway, I was well into my teens when I wanted them.

I want to say that becoming the mother of a scientist was a long transition for me. I'm about as artsy as they come, and so is their father, and so is #1. So were my parents before me, although my Dad was happiest in the woods. My brain is a slow adaptor. And I nurtured the artsy things that #2 enjoyed, simply because, I suppose, that is what I knew. Unlike her sister, she didn't take to fiction unless it morphed from person to animal or lived in a boxcar. a lonely cottage with a garden,  or middle earth. If the animal in the story died, she didn't do well, so I took to reading the last chapter of the book before I purchased it. I should have known. Early essays on whales and the book she chose on raptors should have had my brain cells acclimatising to the fact that her bent was different than mine. I think I did change, but it took a long morph. By the time I rescued the salamander from the busy road he was on and brought him home, insisting he be released later, I was on the way. When I picked up the garter snake with a stick and placed it in her hands and watched it slither up her arm, I knew. But, for reasons unknown to me, I did not buy her a microscope. And that, I regret. I regret that #1 did not get her dance lessons. I regret things that I won't mention here.

I do not regret the hours we spent reading, for that we did. We spent much time in the library and bookstore, and I don't think I scrimped on books. We learned about worlds unknown together. Today, #1 travels to worlds unknown to me. I see beautiful photographs from places I will never see. She betters the lives of children and friends. #2 knows her raptors and songbirds and shorebirds, and helps to preserve their habitats. #1 crosses oceans and #2 climbs mountains. They both enjoy wide genres of music, art, and literature. I am so proud of them. They seem fearless, although I don't think that is it. They do not let their fears hold them back from enjoying life.

Carpe diem, my lovelies.

#2 in lab, #1 in Beijing (I think).

Bell Bottoms

(This blog post is about my mother. Lest anyone reading it think I do not appreciate my mother, and her skills and intentions and wanting the best for me, that is absolutely untrue. I appreciate them to the utmost; it just took me a while for some things. One of those things was bell-bottomed pants.)

In my dreams, I wanted to look like everyone else. I wanted shorter skirts, I wanted go-go boots, I wanted straight hair with bangs that covered my eyes. Short skirts were not permitted, go-go boots were a luxury we couldn't afford, and my hair does what it wants, and it wants to curl -  not a tight curl like Jens and Emilys, more of a wavy curl. I have matured somewhat. After standing on my feet in one place for my career as a bank teller, I gave in to sensible shoes and there's no going back. I want my clothes to last several seasons so I look for quality on sale. Dee cuts my hair every three months, and she has swept away my curls like the seasons -  from dark brown to salt and pepper to almost grey. I have never colored it, and I don't suppose I ever will. I dreamed bell-bottoms.

In my dreams, my bell-bottoms were store-bought and made of denim. Perhaps they were embellished with daisies; that I don't remember. But I know they were made of denim. I think I forgot to mention that when asked what I wanted for Christmas. It is never good to assume.

My mother is a wizard; not the kind of wizard with a bright pointy hat and a long coat, but a genius at making something from nothing very little. She learned her skills while she worked alongside her mother at a young age. She learned and used her skills out of necessity, and indeed, her neighbor girlfriends learned the same skills. Recycling in the country in the 1920s and 30s gives a whole new meaning to the concept that recyclers of today would probably have a difficult time grasping. In her era, new clothing generally came from Eatons in their delivery truck. How would that piece of clothing evolve? Let's say it was a new dress for my Gram. (That would be highly unusual; its just an example.)

Gram would wear her dress until it was threadbare in places. She would then carefully take it apart at the seams. She would cut out and sew, on her old Singer treadle, a dress for my mother. She would save the scraps. Gram did not piece quilts herself  but someone would. She did make rugs, and if the material was wool, it would go into a rug. No longer usable cottons went into the rag bag, even in my day.

As children, my brother and sister and I wore many clothes that were made out of bigger clothes. My brother's little suits were made from my Dad's old suits. I remember one little green coat that had fur tassles. I would say that half of my clothes were made from older clothes, and the rest came from Eatons Bargain Basement and Creaghans sample shoe shelf. Later on, my sister got to wear them. That was okay for many years.

Until denim bell-bottoms came into fashion, that is. Like Clydesdales, my peers paraded around in their bells. It was absolutely mortifying to walk around in boot-cut hand me down flannels. Unless you lived it, you cannot imagine the shame. So, for Christmas, I asked for bell-bottoms.

I opened the package. You know the feeling, don't you. There it is, just what you asked for, but not. And you don't want to disappoint the giver, who watches your face for tell-tale signs that their gift is exactly what you dreamed of. I put on my mask and my new grey flannel bell-bottomed pants. Yes, the bells were Clydesdale width. But what is worse? Wearing out of style boot-cut pants or stylish but undenim bells? Making excuses not to wear them. "I'm saving them for a special occasion?" Did I say that? I don't remember what excuse I came up with. I just remember feeling miserable when I wore them; trying to shrink into the flowers on the wallpaper.

And now, with the maturity that comes with my grey hair, and over thirty years of motherhood under my belt, I understand. I acknowledge that it was my fault. I should have specified what I thought was understood at the time: DENIM.  I know the Christmas budgets were tight, and I know my mother went way beyond the call of duty in making our Christmases into delightful memories. She spent hours after we went to our beds, making new clothes and doll clothes. She had the gift, made the time, and sacrificed. I've learned that it's okay to be different. It builds character and sometimes, humility. And, although my bell-bottoms were made with Dad's old flannels, I know that she stitched her love into every seam and zipper and buttonhole that she made for us. Her gifts come with her love and her prayers that we would grow into fine young men and women. And so it was, when I was with child for my first born, I asked her to make flannel nighties for my baby, the kind she made for me. Little white flannel nighties that came about to baby's knees and had cross-stitch embroidery around the neck. And as she grew into a toddler, would she make her a dress like I used to wear, the kind that hung from a yoke and was trimmed with lace? She made those for me and my daughter. And she walked the floors of Eatons and picked up bargains for my daughters and my niece and nephews. She could stretch a dollar there, and she did.

She still has her Singer treadle sewing machine. I think its been a few years since she put it to use, but I have worn many a lovely garment created on that machine. It is her bed-table now. It holds her lamp and telephone and the book she reads to help her fall asleep. I stand to inherit it. And, you know, I will appreciate it, for many are the beautiful dresses I have worn and the lessons I have learned, thanks to that machine, the feet that rocked the pedals, and the love that far exceeded fashion.

Something New For Me

This morning, in about an hour, I will head out for my first writers meeting. I'll be (one of) the new kid(s) on the block. Who will be there? What will we do? What should I take? Will I like it? Will there be assignments? So many questions.

This group meets at the Moncton Library ever Saturday morning except in the summers. I thought about going last year, but I spent every Saturday morning (almost every morning) writing and had no time whatsoever for a writers group. However, now that I'm not working under too much of a deadline, except for a cookbook, I think I have time for such a group, if I enjoy it.

Who will I meet? Published writers? Wannabee published writers? Excellent writers? Writers who try hard? Writers who lay awake on their pillow wondering just how to arrange the words in a sentence to entice the reader to turn the page? Welcoming writers? Encouraging writers? Intimidating writers?

What will we do? A ten minute freewrite and share? Discuss our current writing project? Critique? Drink coffee? Discuss our WIPs? Listen to an author share his/her ideas?

What should I take with me? I don't have a laptop. I guess I'll be my old-fashioned self and take a notebook and pen. And my library card. If I don't like the group I'll head out to the reference section.

Will I like the group? Always a wonder, isn't it, when you try something new and meet new people.

Will their be assignments? Can I tackle one more project? I need more hours in the day. This is day eighteen of reviving my blog. I think its the last day of writing every day. The dust is building up into something solid. I am not devoting much time to Riverbank and the Moore family tree. Housework? What's that? Actually I have started the fall cleaning, but I only do a corner at a time. I could do more. My dog needs more walks. I'll still be writing it - just not every day. I hope I have begun a habit. Who knows? If there are assignments, I might do them on my blog. We shall see.

Biggest question of all: what to wear? I'd better go figure it out. I'm so glad to have a fashion consultant. I'll keep you posted with a ps later today.

P.S. I'm back. As I already suspected, it didn't matter what I wore, except it was coolish. We were a group of six, including me. What they did was critiqe a bit of writing that we were working on, and that appears to be what it is about. As I didn't know what to expect, I didn't take any writing, so I just told them what I was up to. Six people: six different genres. One is already published with her first romance novel and is working on her second. I liked her little story. One has some published short stories in a magazine, and read her recent work which may or may not go into her waitress and the alcoholic story she is writing, and about made us cry. One guy called the guy next to him darling. He writes psychological stuff and is about ready to publish first book in the USA. Guy next to him writes futuristic stuff and didn't seem to mind being called darling. He read his short story and it was funny and well done, even though I'm not generally interested in that kind of thing. He stuttered, but did not stutter at all when reading, and read well, giving each character their own voice. Next lady wrote an 80's story, psychedelic and mind altering and aliens and being alienated. It was a little hard to follow, and ended with an altogether different character. 

Will I go back? I'll think about it. Not next week, as I have genealogy meeting then, but maybe the week after. 

The Big Screen

My church had been in the market for some new technology. We walked in that Sunday morning, and there, in the front of the sanctuary, was the big screen. Everyone was in a sombre mood. For the first time, the songs came up on the screen as well as the hymn books. Some of them were not even in the hymn books; we were going the way of praise and worship. I don't remember what we sang that day. I don't think they were clap along, arm waving songs, though. We finished singing. The announcements were made; the choir sang their selection, the offering was taken. Pastor Gordon MacLeod walked to the podium and gave a nod to the guy in the sound booth.

It was Sunday, September 16, 2001. I had never seen a power point presentation before. I have no idea what Pastor MacLeod talked about. I only remember seeing the photographs on the screen. They were big, much bigger than what I'd been watching on twenty inches. Life like. Real. Like everyone else, I had seen them since Tuesday, over and over and over again: on the television and in the newspapers. If you are reading this, you probably saw them too. They are imprinted forever. 

It happened in the United States of America. We are your neighbors. We felt your pain and cried with you. We opened our doors here in Moncton. Planes lined up row upon row on our tarmac and people from all over the world wondered where they were, and why were they diverted and made to land, and why they were in Moncton, and where was Moncton again, and for how long would they be here? Worried passengers were taxied to the coliseum and matched up with good Moncton strangers who welcomed them into their homes for several days. The same happened in other Canadian cities. 

The question comes up every year: what were you doing? I was at the bank where I worked as a teller, waiting for the clients that normally lined up in a long single file, complaining about the lineup just loud enough to make us feel guilty. Where were they? They trickled in. "Did you hear?" We turned on the television in time to watch the second plane fly into the tower. We did very little business that day; we spoke to our few clients in whispers.

It's a part of history now. American History. World History. 9-11 was an epiphany that changed the course of everyone's life as well as the future of all the countries in the world. We cannot go back. We watch our backs. We are forever changed.

Not all history is a big event like 9-11. Thank God for that. Some history is good, and some is not. I did not like history in school. I think the reason for that is that the history I learned was pretty much limited to the memorization of what happened on what date. 

In fourteen hundred ninety-two 

Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

We didn't learn the reasons: the whys and the wherefores. Maybe some schoolchildren did, but I don't think I did. So, I took the minimum amount of history requirements that I could. And now, I love history. I love historical fiction,  historical documentaries and historical textbooks. I love how it affected my ancestors' lives, whether bad or good. I love New Brunswick history. I didn't really know we had much history beyond the Mi'kmaq and Maliseets and Samuel de Champlain. I knew nothing about Le Grand Derangement and the Loyalists. I had no idea I carried the DNA of seven German families intertwined with the English and Irish strands and one strand of French. What did I learn in school? Geography, I guess. I knew the cities and counties and rivers. Maybe they didn't teach it, or maybe it went right over my head and I forgot it when I handed in my test or project. I remember Current Events, and pasting photographs of the Royal family in my scrapbook, but I did not associate that with history. I wonder now: was I a history dunce or something? Was I off in day-dream land every history period? I learned New Brunswick history when I started researching my family history; or at least that is when it began to stick. 

History is always in the making. It is what happened yesterday, last year, last decade, last century, last millennium. Adam and Eve and who they begat and why did she eat the apple and why did she give him an apple and he ate it too, and did they name the dinosaurs and what happened to them? It is what happened to the world at large and what happened in my little town and in my own house. History is the 40th reunion of the Last Annual Gathering of the Clan. It happened last weekend. It's all over but the memories.  Do some of you remember the First Last Annual Gathering? History is the reuniting of descendants from four of Daniel and Charlotte's twelve children in their home village in July, 2014, after eighty-six years. Good history; good memories. History is our forefathers that served in the Great War, which happened one hundred years ago. It is our children, going off to Iraq and Afghanistan and Turkey and potentially Syria and Ukraine and North Korea and Gaza and back to Iraq and who knows where else. It is Amelia Earhart and Flights 370 and 17 and Bobby Minella's plane falling apart over the North Sea.  And it is sending our children and grandchildren back to school to learn history: hopefully the whys and the wherefores and the whodunits and why we shouldn't let some things happen ever again but we do. It may be awful, but it happened, and it needs to be taught and understood, and not just what happened on what date but why? What have we learned from it? Where did we go from there? And why do we hate and jihad, and how can we fix the messes we've made? Can we fix them? Are we too far gone? 

I do not have the answers to history. Just the questions. So I try to make sense of the lives of the twelve tribes of Daniel Holmes and the sixteen tribes of Charles Joshua Moore and the rest of my ancestors that make up me and you, my cousins and siblings and children. 

Back At It

Back to Riverbank. I've been ignoring it for a few days; one of those writer's block things. But, it needs to be done. So guess who I worked on today. All of you Steeves folks out there -  your ancestor  - Charles Alfred Steeves, who married Caroline Maria Holmes - and up there at the top is his signature. He visited Riverbank on July 21, 1909, along with Rev. Canon Smithers and one C F (or G F) Fowler that I'm trying to figure out. Somehow, I don't think they came together, I think they are three distinct individuals who came on the same day. It depends on what I find out about Mr. Fowler. If he were heavily involved in the Anglican Church, it might lead me to some connection with Canon Smithers.

Anyway, I found a little story about Canon Smithers that I thought I'd share with you. Being both a Baptist and a banker, I found it amusing.

"The first Medley Memorial Canon Missionary, the Reverend Allan W. Smithers, was appointed in 1908. A man of rare ability and legendary wit, Canon Smithers worked closely with the Bishop, until his death in 1932, caring for vacant parishes, and providing ministry in remote areas. Archdeacon A.F. Bate describes him as '. . . the confidante of our Bishop and the Episcopal troubleshooter,' as well as 'the friend and advisor of all the clergy.' Smithers had served in Albert County, and the lovely stone Church, dedicated to St. Alban, which he built at Riverside Albert, was designated as his memorial. During its construction, so the story goes, the local Member of Parliament, a prominent Baptist layman, visited the site, and was informed by Canon Smithers that he was expected to give a donation of  $50.00 towards the project. The M.P. replied that he could see no reason why he, as a Baptist, should contribute to the building of an Anglican Church but would, if Canon Smithers could prove from Scripture that he should do so. Taking out his New Testament the Canon pointed to St. Luke 16:6: 'Take thy bill, sit down quickly and write fifty.' The cheque was duly written!"

This little wee church is just the cutest church around. I wonder if it can seat 50 people. I went searching for some photos I took of it, but I must not have kept them. But a peek at the website gives you a nice photo of it. It just makes me smile every time I go by, and now that I've heard that story I'll smile even more, knowing that there's $50 of Baptist money built into it.

On to Mr. Whats-his-name Fowler next.

Here is the link to St. Alban's Anglican Church in Riverside Albert: http://trychurch.homestead.com/StAlbans.html

I took the quote from "Citizens with the Saints," by Lyman N Harding.
http://anglican.nb.ca/bishop/citizens_with_the_saints/4_the_golden_voice_of_the_house_of_bishops.html

The Newsletter

The quarterly newsletter is ready to go out. I am waiting for one more photograph, and it will be complete. I will tell you, today, about the genesis of the Holmes family newsletter and it's metamorphosis over the years, and perhaps where I would like to take it.

The letter is a means of keeping us up to date with current family events, sharing some of our collective history, and introducing us to each other. Back in the 1920s, the five children of Daniel and Charlotte (Hoyt) Holmes who were still alive started an Association and met together annually from 1924 until 1928. Different people came different years, and they held their gatherings in Lincoln, Maine, for three of those years, China, Maine, one year, and Petitcodiac, New Brunswick, one year. Back then, they knew who was who and where their nieces and nephews lived, and compiled that information into a booklet. I am very thankful for that information. Even though it contains errors, which Fen Holmes researched and corrected, it contains information that we would not have known, otherwise. We, the descendants of Daniel and Charlotte Holmes through eleven of their twelve children (one died at the age of three), have lost touch with each other since 1930. There are many of us, and we are scattered over the United States and Canada and a few in other continents. Pockets of family members still gather from time to time, but as for the big picture, we lost it.

The idea that became a newsletter came to me several years before I actually started writing it. I tend to start things and not complete them, so I wondered, if I took on that committment, if I would soon tire of it. I knew that I enjoyed research, writing, and sending and receiving mail, and more recently, email, so I thought I would keep up with it, but I just wasn't sure. Would anyone be interested in reading it, I wondered. Even my own branch of the tree has scattered, and for many years, communication was either  meagre or not at all. I decided to bite the bullet and "just do it." I sent the first newsletter to my known Holmes relatives, aunts and uncles, and siblings in February, 2008. It was three pages long. I mentioned the nine children of my great-grandparents who grew up at the farm, and told about the reunion plans that I had for 2010. I asked for information. I concluded with a John Steinbeck quote: "How will our children know who they are if they don't know where they come from?"

I have sent letters quarterly since that time. They have grown. In the February, 2009, letter, I added a little blurb about someone in a different family line. I added a family recipe, and family news - an engagement, a new baby, a special birthday. I asked if someone might like to contribute to the letter. Two people sent contributions for the next letter, but unfortunately, that has not become a trend. Liz wrote an article for the February, 2012, newsletter, about her father's service in WWII and his Icelandic bride. Judy sent her memories of her grandfather for the November, 2013, issue. I started adding a biography in August, 2009, and I still do that sometimes. I think my favorite newsletter article was the one in  the February, 2010, issue, called "The Hillgrove Boardwalk." With my mother's help, I drew a little map of all the buildings at the farm in Hillgrove that she remembered. I took us on a little trek, walking from the farmhouse to each building and telling stories about each one. Perhaps someday I'll update and reprint that one. I wrote a similar article about the Charles Holstead Holmes homestead in August, 2013, with the help of some of his descendants. It was a lot of work but also a lot of fun.

In the fall of 2010, I started a kids newsletter that I called "PUMPED." I sent out a few letters, received very little feedback and only from adults, so let that one go. I'd be willing to start it up any time if there were children interested in reading it, but that doesn't seem to be the case. I added a feature to our regular newsletter in November, 2012, which I gave a title, "Jeans," a play on genes. This contains news about our children and teens, and I usually have something good to say about some of our teenagers.

In November, 2010, I began featuring the twelve children of Daniel and Charlotte, one in each letter. Those articles became the basis of my research for "The Homestead on the Old Post Road." I didn't do them in any particular order, and I started with Louisa and her husband, Robert Ballantyne. That one was the easiest, for cousin Liz found an anonymous biography which was very detailed and well-written. I wasn't overly disturbed that I did not know the writer/compiler, for I verified most of the facts and they confirmed the vital information.

Somewhere along the line, I began to get concerned about privacy, as the letter was going out to more and more people, so I began asking permission to write their stories. This, I think, was a good idea. Not only did I have their stories approved, they also became involved in the process and were able to supply details and corrections and photos. I also started sending out an email before I finished the letter, asking people if they had news to share. I do get some responses to those emails. This grew into "A Little Bird Told Me:" I incorporate some of our love of birds and my photography, and share your news that I otherwise wouldn't know about.

Each letter is based on a template of sorts. I try to start it off with some kind of hook to draw you in, and I put important news first, for those who might not go past the first couple of pages. I've considered various ways of improving the look of it. So far, I haven't come up with any major changes. I read ideas from other newsletter writers, but they just seem too complicated for someone who sticks to what she knows and doesn't branch out on the net as much as I should. If I find something that seems user friendly, I might try to incorporate it, but so far, I haven't. I do have to send out a few letters via snail mail to people who do not have computers or don't use them much. I am always trying to think up ways to format the letter that will make it interesting to my readers, and find content that is interesting as well. One thing I do not have trouble with, is finding stories to tell. I have a hard time keeping the letter to a fourteen page limit. That is a guideline, not a rule. I really enjoy compiling "This Old House" on occasion. That's my new title for articles about beloved ancestral homesteads which housed at least two or three generations, and the people who lived there. I will include an article in the November, 2014, issue, about a homestead in Prince Edward Island, and an old piper and his bagpipes. Stay tuned. I can't tell you much about it yet; for one thing, I only want to whet your appetite, and for another, it's not researched and written yet, I just have a fuzzy memory about it in my head.

Several years ago, maybe four, I lost my computer. It died. With it went the letters. I still have paper copies. However, since then, I have kept the letters and if anyone wants copies, I can send them. One thing I try to do is add more people to my list each quarter, so some of you have just come on board recently.

I have not yet lost my interest in writing the quarterly newsletters. I'm willing to help anyone who would like to start writing a newsletter for their family, and I welcome your ideas about making the letter better. If someone would like to start sending a regular contribution to be included in the letters, or even an occasional one, I'd be delighted. Most of all, I'm not looking for praise, but I definitely appreciate your feedback, whether its positive or constructively critical. I can work with a red pen, I really can. What I would like to know, most of all, is if enough of you read it to make it worth my while. I would do it for just a few, yes I would.

Wasted Words

My trigger this morning: I Samuel 3:19. I am afraid I have wasted some words. I remember times when I wished I could bury my words in the ground. In other words, over my lifetime, I've said (or written) some things I shouldn't have said. Probably most of us have the same mouth problem to some degree.

I do want my blog to be positive, so I shall try to be succinct, and get on with it. How have I wasted my words, in general? Guilty at times of . . . wordiness, an occasional swear word (not many), gossip, negativity, silliness, nastiness, skirting the truth, unpleasantness, curtness, meanness, not saying what I should say, and I suppose, if I was honest with myself, the occasional outright lie. Sometimes I have spoken those words because they have been churning around in my head so relentlessly that they have spilled or spurted out. And, sometimes, I wonder, where did that come from? Afterwards, usually right after I say them, I get that little (or big) nudge from my conscience that makes me feel just awful, like my dog felt after he ate the dirt.

Do you remember Davy from "Anne of Avonlea?" Anne was with him when he was supposed to say his prayers, but he couldn't, because he wanted to say a bad word. So Anne told him to say it. That surprised him, and I'm sure Marilla would not have offered such sage advice. After much argument, he said the word. What was the word? LMM doesn't tell us; it was not necessary to the story. So, Pat, don't ask me. Saying the word cured his ill and he didn't want to say it again, or so I remember the story going. I loved Davy; he made me laugh. At least, after his shenigans, he was generally contrite. That didn't stop him from new shenanigans, however. And several of his shenanigans included words. It's a good read, even if you are all grown up. Better, indeed, if you are grown up.

It would be nice to have it said of me, like Samuel, that I haven't had any words fall to the ground. However, I have, and I wish them to be dug under and covered up so they will never reappear. I think that words come from thoughts, and therefore, it is better to have good thoughts. Is that possible? I believe it is, with some will power. I read some posts - news, or blogs, or Facebook, and after the posts I'll occasionally read some of the comments. There are usually as many nasty, hateful comments as there are nice comments. The haters, they are called, and rightfully so. Word wasters. Haters are wired that way, I suppose, and see no reason not to impose their nastiness and negativity upon us all. I'm not saying we should agree with everything we read or we should not comment on what we read. But, is there a way to comment without wasting words? What is wrong with "I disagree with you?" "I do not believe what you are saying is correct." Then politely, respectfully give your opinion. Even better, add your reason or source for your thought or opinion. I don't expect every person to agree with every word I say; that would be totally unreasonable and silly of me. I don't expect every person to have the same political, religious, cultural (etcetera) views that I have. However, I do appreciate honest, positive feedback that is free of hateful, disagreeable, intolerant words, even, especially, if you disagree with me.

How do I change? It will take some good, sound willpower. One of my Facebook friends said she was dropping the word "hate" from her vocabulary. This included more than "I hate so and so." It included such statements as "I hate peas" and "I hate snow." No more. Ban the word. Ban the thoughts behind the word. Deliberately plan to ban: negative words, swear words, gossipy words, silly words, useless words, mean, unpleasant words, curt words, lies and skirting the truth words.

I think, when making a deliberate life change, we need to replace the bad with good. My Dad, many years ago, replaced cigarettes with peppermints. He went from chain smoking to pepperment popping. It wasn't easy and took a lot of willpower, but he did it. Once he offered Mom a pepperment and asked, "want a cigarette?" With word changes must come attitude changes. Oh, wow, that can be difficult, can't it. Our thoughts, our beliefs, our attitudes are well engrained in us with many years of experience. One step at a time - one word at a time. A swear word? Think of all the adjectives in the dictionary. Put a dictionary by the toilet. Look for them. Practice them. Use them. Some people have a one-word fits all adjective to describe every little thing. You know what it is; I don't have to spell it out for you. It's like a mantra. To me, it smacks of a lack of class, of education, of respect. Long ago, I put that word in the ground, and it bothers me every time I hear it. Negative words. That's a problem for me. "I can't. I'm afraid. I don't know how. I'll never succeed. Dig, Peggy, dig. I can. I will. I'll fail, but I'll get up and try again. I'll learn. I can do it. And if I don't, so what? The repercussions of failure are not nearly as bad as the repercussions of not trying, although that thought is deeply engrained in me.

This is long enough. To give more examples and advise would be to waste words, and I may have lost some of you several paragraphs ago. What does this have to do with my historical journey and where my road will lead? I'm not a great conversationalist; my gift, I believe, is writing, although Toastmasters did me a world of good. In  my thought life, my personal life, and my writing life, I need to change.  I think it is a continuing process. Slipped and fell? Of course. It happens. Get up again. I enjoy writing - therefore, the words I choose are important to my journey. Weaving them just so, pruning them though it hurts: I must do it.

That is it: my challenge to myself. Recently, I took on the "Attitude of Gratitude" challenge on Facebook. That was a great challenge, and the beginning of an attitude change. I think it should be twenty-one days rather than seven. Isn't that the required number of days to have a healthy start to a life change or habit? I have challenged myself to a month worth of blog posts, every day if I can, and if not, thirty-one days close together. I want to grow my blog to the point where I post on it several days a week, and this is my change. Is it worth it to do this? I don't know. It is time consuming and has cut into my genealogy and history time. But, for me, it is something I need to do - my warm up excercise, my collection of memories, my gift to those who care about me when I'm gone. I treasure, at this time of my life, those few bits and pieces of my ancestor's lives in their own words. Hopefully, even though I have not made any significant contribution to the whole wide world, my words will help someone to change, challenge themselves, and provide some enjoyable reading and memories to someone else. I would do it if not one person read it, although I can tell by the stats and comments that some people do.

I have committed that unpardonable writer's sin: I have written too much. Therefore, I am going to stop right now, leaving myself with the challenge of St. Paul: "whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things." My challenge to myself, beginning today, right now. Does that include ignoring tears and fears, bad, sad and scarey news,  and poking my head in the sand? No, of course not. But I must read, write, talk and listen with a right good will and attitude.

I took the picture, just now. Good words, a variety of them, and a small sample of what I like.

A Sick Puppy

I won't share the gory details. Suffice it to say, I was up in the night, cleaning up after a sick dog. He's not really a puppy; he's an old dog - deaf, half blind, and somewhat alzheimery. We call him puppy, just because he's still cute, even with the white hairs growing near his pink snout. He's old enough to know better. He should have remembered what happens when he indulges his appetite for dirt. His stomach upset was self inflicted. Bill brought home some soil in June, and Toller took to it right away. There must be something in it that smells and tastes good: recycled cat manure, perhaps? Bill forgot about the dog issues and put some soil down yesterday. This morning, I went out with the dog. Not only does he eat the soil, he also eats the grapes. Soil, temporary stomach upset; grapes, potential renal failure. Bill had placed yellow rope around the newly patched area of grass. Toller walked under them before I could pull him away. But, he managed to take care of business before eating more of what he shouldn't, came in the house, and vomited his breakfast and expensive antibiotic.

This is not really about sick puppies, or self-inflicted stomach upsets. That was just the trigger. This is about being a parent, and that something inside the head that hears things that go bump in the night, even in the middle of delta sleep, when there could be a loud party next door and you hear nothing, but you wake up instantly to the needs of the child in their bedroom. There must be some miraculous built-in amplifier for those little, faraway sounds from child to parent. Sometimes, it is the absense of sound that wakes us up. Are they okay? Are they still breathing? Better get up to check.

I think, maybe, it is the umbilical cord, a phantom connection to what is long gone. That wee gizmo in our brain connects us forever to our child, whether we actually gave birth to him or her, or not. It matters not the distance. We just know something is wrong and we are needed. Or, we feel the strong urge to check, just to be sure. On the other end of the cord, this can be either a comfort or a nuisance. Doesn't she know I'm all grown up? Yes, of course. I have both an incoming cord as well as an outgoing cord. It's there: there is nothing I can do about it and I'm thankful for it. My mother has three of these cords, and I do well to indulge her, because I have two myself and I understand.

I'm not sure where this came from. It was not where I started when I opened Blogger. Freewrites are great tools, and as necessary to the writer as warm-up excerises are to the runner. I can't say I had a pleasant night and morning, but I thank my doggy, who is now sleeping contentedly near my chair, for the source of these thoughts. I could be more specific, but I think all parents and even pet owners know what I am talking about. Long live the umbilical cord, and as far as it must stretch, may it always be valuable and, even if an unwelcome intrusion, appreciated,

Daughter #1 took the photo of Toller last week. I like it because his ears are up - his ears are floppy and he only raises them when he's in fine fettle.

What Does The Robin Have To Do With The Baby?

I proposed to myself a thirty-one day blogging challenge. We'll see where it goes to from there. That does not include Ginny's "Yarn Along," which gives me incentive to both read and do my handiwork so that I have some progress to show each Wednesday morning. I hope to keep going afterwards, but as these things go, they generally slow down after a bit. Perhaps, if I skip a few days, some of you will give me a nudge.

I find myself with a blank page this morning, and not a lot of history on my mind. So, I'm going back to a trigger. I do follow blogs and facebook pages of family history sites, and one day last week I saw a family history book someone had written called, "Until the Robin Walks on Snow." Now, isn't that an intriguing title? And the cover showed, tada - a robin walking on snow. So this morning I took a little walk down the information highway until I found a blog post reviewing this book.

The blog writer interviewed the author, Bernice L. Rocque. I'll give you the link at the end; I think my editor would be very interested to read it and so might some of you who are interested in writing, the family history genre, and/or reading avidly. I know this book is on my reading list. It is a work of historical fiction, and it appears that the author has put a great deal of research into the details in her book. Never discount a great work of historical fiction. If the writer has done their homework, the book should be trustworthy, informative and interesting. After all, most people do not leave behind the intimate details of their life for us to revel in. We have to take the details we know, try to get into their head and their world, back up a century or so, learn the setting and the world affairs at the time and set to work. It is not easy work, sitting at a computer, remembering to look away from the screen to rest the eyes, and putting words to page screen. If the book is well written, it involves interviews, travel, learning to do some of things people did back then; in short, research.

I will be looking for this book. It is important, if you are going to write, to read well-written books on the genre you are interested in. It is important to read how-to books, although it is equally important, I have learned, to make the book your very own. I have not read a lot of late, and since I am in between writing projects, now is a very good time to read. I am working on "Riverbank," but I am taking it easy for now, until fall sets in.

As I have not yet read the book, I do not know where the title came from. The story is about a very premature baby who was born about the same time as my mother was. Fortunately for her, that baby lived, grew up, and helped her with her research. She took an incident in a family's life and built a story around a small time period. What did the robin have to do with it? The very title drew me to the story.

That made me wonder. Was my title boring? If I had published my book, would people have gone looking for it or into it based on my title? "A Homestead on the Old Post Road." Hmmmmm. I think, given the circumstances and the fact that my target audience was small, that it's okay. But, if I write a historical fiction book about my family (or anything else) in the future, I will take care to choose an intriguing title.

One other subject Ms. Rocque mentioned several times was her writing group. I have given some thought as to what I would like to do this fall; there are many things. I considered the nature group and the photography group. I already go to the genealogy group and wish to continue going there. On Saturday mornings at the library, a writing group meets. It starts next Saturday. That is the group I have decided upon. At least, I will go next week and see if it is what I am looking for. Writing is a solitary exercise, and I think getting together with a group of people with the same interests is always helpful for advice, constructive criticism, and encouragement, no matter what it is we like to do. I hope so.

Here is the link to the blog post about "Until the Robin Walks on Snow."
http://writerchristophfischer.wordpress.com/2013/02/26/until-the-robin-walks-on-snow-by-bernice-l-rocque/ You can google the book and find other sources of information and where to order it, if it intrigues you like it does me.

The photo of the robin walking on snow is my own; I took it this spring.

Time to Say Goodbye

This good-bye was difficult; I suspect they will get harder each time now. Perhaps its because we are older, perhaps because we had a good, long visit; perhaps because Grammy is ninety-two in a couple of weeks and will she see her again; perhaps because we do not know what she will be doing in a couple of months and wonder if she will have work or not. Maybe, its a combination of all of them, but I think the first perhaps is the biggest reason for Bill and the last perhaps, for me.

We give birth, we raise them to the best of our ability and hopefully, help them on their way to living their potential best, and we nudge them out of the nest. We welcome them home on occasion; we help them as best we can; we try to withhold advice unless asked for it. We worry, we pray, we try to encourage.

Every time, I say, "we will email more." We agree to that. This time, we say, we will do it. Time slips away, day by day, and somehow, so does the communication. It's not that we aren't on this communication machine often enough. But, this time, I have said it again, and I sincerely mean it, we will keep in touch better. I will. She will if I will.

My heart hurts. She is my little girl, after all, one of the two I gave birth to, read to, strolled with, took places so she could work or be with friends, watched graduate twice, put on a train to start her first journey, put on a plane many times. She knows her way and how to get there. I marvel.

I remember;

Dr. Stephen Gader saying, "What a beautiful baby."

Driving home from the hospital. I had just dressed her for the first time. I remember driving down the Campbellton hills to home with her in my arms, before car seats were mandatory.

Hearing her father say: "if they have my brains and your tenacity, they will do well." They do.

Sitting her on Grampy Vasseur's lap in the rocking chair in the kitchen. His heart hurt, but for a different reason. We had to lift her onto his lap; he couldn't do the lifting anymore. He knew the other hurt, though, just as well as we do.

Pushing an empty stroller. It took a lot longer, but she was independant from day one. She walked, holding on the the back of the stroller.

Reading at bedtime. We read together until she was twelve or so. Our personal time, after little sister was tucked into bed. The last book we read together was "Hans Brinker." She is still an avid reader, and reads a wide genre.

Lying on the floor, tuckered out after working all day and making supper. Closing my eyes and playing with my girls. Did they know I was resting while trying to provide quality time, and could hardly could keep my eyes open?

Hiking at Fundy. Those Fundy hikes are a big family memory. One morning, we looked for her when it was time to go. Having her personal communion, she was, and resented our intrusion. She's still a very private girl - young woman. I respect that, even though I am curious sometimes.

Playing at the farm. The girls made new farm memories, with their grandmother at the wood stove: three generations of grandchildren, (although my mother doesn't remember much about her grandmother being at the stove because whe wasn't often there) just as I made memories while my grandmother cooked for me.

Sending her off to university. Taking her up to her room in residence and trying to help her make her bed. She could do it herself, she said. And, she did. I remember driving away . . . leaving her standing there on the sidewalk.

Sending her off to Asia, just weeks after she graduated and attended her Grampy's funeral. Watching the train to Toronto pulling out of the station and answering the phone when she arrived.

Walking away this morning. Wanting her to be happy, to be the best she can be, to come home sooner this time. Wanting to hold her forever but letting her go.

Go in peace, my daughter. I love you. I love your sister too - both the same amount - both in your own, individual, unique ways. Your Daddy loves you too.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHBkxTnMhXY

My First Look-Up

Mom gave me these clippings yesterday. They are tattered and torn, and fortunately, I made copies several years ago. This was in my novice days of research, and my first time going to a place to find records. I went to the Fredericton library and asked for archived newspapers on two dates, and the kind librarian showed me how to thread the microfilm onto the projector and how to search. I still have trouble doing the threading. There I found the rest of the stories.

What I remember about my find was, besides being excited that I found the obituaries, on one of them, the obituary just carried forward into another social news story. No title - just another article altogether. I was quite bewildered; what did that story have to do with my great-grandparent's obituary. I guess they did that, way back when.

These are the obituaries of my great-grandparents, George W Hovey and Frances Elmina White Hovey. George died in 1916; Frances in 1925. The years were not given in the obituary.

Sudden Death of Pte. George Hovey

Member of 140th Battalion Passes Away At His Home At Marysville

Marysville, May 22 - the death of Pte. George W. Hovey, of C Co., 140th Batt, occurred at his home at eight o'clock Sunday morning after a brief illness of meningitis. The late Mr. Hovey has resided in Marysville all of his life and for a number of years was employed as a spinner in the cottton mill and enlisted in the 140th Batt. about two months ago in order to do his bit for the Empire. His sudden death came as a great shock to his many friends. 

He is survived by a widow and one daughter, Miss Alice Hovey, at home. Two brothers, Terrence, of Houlton, Me., and Hiram, of Bamidgi, Minnesota, and four sisters, Mrs. Alex. Herron, of St. Paul, Minn, Mrs. A. Woodbury, Calais, Me., Mrs. F. Slipp, Lowell, Mass., and Mrs. Harry Frodsham, of Gibson, also survive. 

The funeral took place this afternoon with full military honors. C Co., 140th, marched to Marysville in a body under command of Major Good. The casket, draped with the Union Jack, was borne from the home on a gun carriage drawn by six black horses from the 58th Battery. The pall bearers were comrades of the deceased soldier. After a short service at the house, the funeral procession, headed by the fife and drum band, proceeded to Main Street Baptist Church, where service was held by Rev. Dr. Roberts and Rev. H. H. Ferguson, after which the procession reformed and marched to the Baptist cemetery where interment was made. Three volleys were fired and the bugles sounded reveille, retreat, last post and lights out. The members of C Co. then paraded to baseball hill, where they had luncheon before marching back to Fredericton. The officers and men of C Co. are deserving of much credit for the manner in which the arrangements were carried out. The floral tributes were very numerous and beautiful, including:

Pillow: Wife and daughter

Wreath - Brothers and sisters

Basket of flowers - Gertrude Hovey and Gordon

Half circle - Mr. and Mrs. F. Collings, J. Hanson and D. Cameron

Flat bouquet - Mr. and Mrs. G. Pryor, T. Delong, Mrs. McInnis and Al. White

Half circle - C. Company, 12th platoon, 140th

Wreath - Officers C. Company

Wreath - Mule room

Funeral of Late Mrs. Frances Hovey

Members of the L.O.B.A. Lodges Conduct Burial Service at Marysville

Special to The Daily Gleaner

Marysville, N. B. Nov. 30. - The funeral of the late Mrs. Frances Hovey, of Moncton, took place Sunday afternoon from the home of Mr. and Mrs. Ford DeLong, Fredericton, and was largely attended. Service was conducted at the home by Rev. I. A. Corbett, after which the funeral procession proceeded to Marysville, where it was joined by a large number of citizens who were present to pay their last tribute of respect to one who was a highly respected resident of the town for many years. 

Members of the L.O.B.A. from Fredericton, Devon, Marysville and Woodlands Lodges joined the procession at the junction of Bridge and Main streets and preceded the hearse to the Baptist cemetery, where interment was made. At the conclusion of the church burial service, the burial service of the L.O.B. A. was conducted in solemn and and impressive manner by Mrs. Margaret Hodges, Worthy Mistress, Mrs. J. Chappelle, Grand Chaplain, and Mrs. Beatrice Allen, Deputy Mistress. The pall bearers were W. F. Wister, W. C. Cameron, J. B. McInnis, A. Barton, John Hanson and Frank Collings. Mrs. Dell Hossick was director of ceremonies for the L.O. B. A. The floral tributes were numerous and very beautiful. 

Root Vegetables

History in the making today. It's a busy day, with much on the agenda. Yesterday I had both of my daughters home, and we took some family photos and enjoyed a Mexican supper. I added the hot salsa by mistake, but the sour cream and the water made it okay. That reminds me of my visit to Gaylen's house in California in the '70's. We went out to eat - Mexican - and I had no idea what to order so I said I'd have the same as Gaylen and she said, "No, you won't." She ordered me the mildest item on the menu and I still breathed fire.

Daughter #2 went back to her island last night, and back to work today after a great vacation. Daughter #1 is trying to pack her life into suitcases. She leaves for her island, which is in another continent, early Friday morning. It seems like she just got here, but it was mid-July when she arrived.

So I asked her, "what would you really like for a nice home-cooked meal this week." "Root vegetables," she replied without even taking time to mull it over. "You can't buy them in Asia." "Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?" I said to myself. "Root vegetables?" My little girl only ate carrots and corn for vegetables. My girl home from university added broccoli to her repertoire. But this girl wanted beets earlier, and now she wants turnip and parsnips and cabbage and carrots. "A stew?" I asked. "Yes, a stew." So, tomorrow evening, for her last meal in Canada for a while, we will dine on beef stew, chalk full of root veggies.

Our ancestors were mighty thankful for turnips through the long winter months. And, probably they were rather tired of them come spring, and happy to dine on some spring greens.

Lessons I Learned in the Haymow

Today is back to school day in Canada, unless you live in British Columbia where the teachers are on strike. It has been many years since I sent a child off to school. Mind you, this week I am sending Daughter #1 off to a month long course in a faraway country. I no longer need to visit Staples and fill my shopping cart to the brim. Ahh, the wonders of paper and school supplies. The first ink to garnish the first page of the new notebook. The fears of a new classroom and will I find another type B kindred spirit to befriend. Down the trusted hall to the orchestra pit with my Uncle Billy's violin, where I feel confident and accepted in my first violin's chair near Mr. Freeborns's baton. Just to let you know, I was no violin playing prodigy; that year, I was the only one who knew how to play until he taught the basics to the others.

Something triggered me yesterday, but my computer time is limited this week so I'm saving it. But as I laid upon my pillow last night, I had some memories that came from that trigger. They won't take long to write, unless one thing leads to another.

I learned many lessons on the farm. For you who don't know me, I had two sets of grandparents who lived to ripe old ages. Blessed am I. One lived close by - my city grandparents, and one lived about an hour away - my farm grandparents. I spent many weekends and some summer weeks on the farm.

I learned a lesson in the haymow. The haymow was a completely innocent place where I could play with my cousins and sibs and the neighbors when the weather wasn't so good. It could be dangerous. Nowadays, I don't suppose a child could play in there with parental guidance and supervision. We survived. Back to my lesson. It was Ivan or David, who lived down the road, who said, "Don't pee on the hay." "What?" "Don't pee on the hay." Actually, the thought of peeing on the hay had never entered my head. There was, after all, a two seater just a zip over the boards in the paddock, through the milkroom and across the yard. It sat right next to the old Baptist church turned into a woodshed. No need to pee in the hay, whatsoever. But now, curious I was. "Why not?" "It will make the hay catch on fire." "You're kidding me, right?" No, it will cause spontaneous combustion." "What?" "Spontaneous combustion." The barn never burned down. I guess none of my sibs or cousins peed in the hay. I know I didn't. I did later learn about spontaneous combustion in science class, and I recall a grain elevator in Halifax blowing up and burning while Daughter #1 was there in university. I went to that great authority, Wikipedia, this morning, and looked up spontaneous combustion. Here it is, and, Ivan or David was probably right.

Hay

Hay is one of the more studied materials in spontaneous combustion. As hay varies by the type of grass and location grown utilized in its preparation, it is very hard to establish a unified theory of what occurs in hay self heating. It is anticipated that dangerous heating will occur in hay that contains more than 25% moisture content. The largest number of fires occurs within 2 to 6 weeks of storage, with the majority occurring at 4 to 5 weeks.

The process may begin with microbiological activity (bacteria or mold), but at some point, the process has to become chemical. Microbiological activity will also limit the amount of oxygen available in the hay. Moisture appears to be quite important, no matter what process. At 100^o C, wet hay absorbed twice the amount of oxygen of dry hay. There has been conjecture that the complex carbohydrates present in hay break down to simpler sugars, which are more readily oxidized.

My grandfather Holmes taught me another science lesson. This lesson took place in the paddock. There were three tubs, side by side, for the cattle and horses to drink from after a hard day's work or graze and cud-chewing. There was one hose that only reached the first tub. "How do you get the water into the other two tubs, Grampie?" Grampie showed me. From tub one to tub two, and from tub two to tub three, he ran short sections of hose. When tub one filled up to the level of the hose, water in tub one made its way through the hose to tub two and then to tub three. A simple procedure, I know now, but to my child mind, Grampie was a pretty smart feller. My first physics lesson.

Cousin Mike learned a lesson in the haymow, he told me in 2003. Check the floor before you jump. That's right, we used to jump from the haymow in the loft to the barn floor, which was covered in remnants of hay and chaff, covering the upturned pitchfork that nearly met his eye. As I recall, in a fuzzy way, there might have been a rope from one loft to the other, for children's swinging purposes of course, as well.

I think we had to quit jumping after my sister, who was too young to be jumping from haymows, started to climb down and got scared. She hung there from the big beam. I ran as fast as my chubby little legs could run, across the boards in the paddock, through the milk room, and across the yard to the kitchen, where the hired man saw my face, quick as a wink retraced my steps, and caught her. Strong fingers, little Pat.

Those were some of my good old days. We children had free range of Hillgrove, from the church down the road to the top of the hill where the Waldow barn now sits. We could go to the brook and the swimming hole by ourselves, as my mother and her cousins and sibs did a generation before us. The biggest danger we faced was the threats of my cousins to put blood suckers on us. No, they never did. There was one forbidden place - the ruins of Leonard's house. I was a good girl and I always walked around it. Can anyone tell me what was in Leonard's old house? We'd scoot on our tummies through the abandoned, rusty old thrashing machine. Nope, no lockjaw, fortunately. We'd jump from the second floor of the granary into the horses' oats stored below, the granary that burned (not from spontaneous combustion, but from the smoldering ashes my Gramp disposed of in there).

I now know that I had a wonderful childhood. I was a shy kid, type B personality, but at the farm I was in my element. So many wonderful memories - waking up to the crow of the rooster, eating oatmeal porridge, macaroni and tomatoes, and homemade bread cooked on and in the woodstove, sleeping in the kitchen chamber on the feather tick, wearing dressup clothes that hadn't yet made it into the rag rugs or quilt top, playing with cousins, sibs and friends, and with kittens and calves, playing in Charlie's barn.

Stay tuned; one of these days I'll tell you about the pink house.

The top photo is of the barn, in the process of being dismantled. The second photo is the outhouse next to the church turned woodshed. The last photo is of a couple of my cousins "driving" Gramp's tractor. The pigpen is behind the wood pile, and the granary is in the background. The first two photos were taken by my Dad; I'm not sure about the last one.

Labour Day

It is Labour Day. I always wondered. Is this a day to labour, or to rest from my labours? To celebrate labour? The fact that we really need to work - to earn our way, to challenge us, to be part of a team, to be creative, to do our best, to appreciate vacations and retirement - we ought to be grateful if we have work to do. Good, honest, challenging, rewarding work. I wonder how spammers and con artists and other dishonest workers can feel the satisfaction of a job well done. I suppose money must be their sole desire, aim and reward. I worked, for the better part of my career, in a bank. Did I ever grumble about it? Yes, I whisper, I did. Looking back at my occupation, what, in working at a bank for thirty plus years, were my desires, aims and rewards? Here is a bit of my financial philosophy, gleaned from my upbringing and place of work, which, once I had children, was mostly part-time.

I desired to contribute to the family income and to have some spending money that I earned myself. Every family budgets differently, and as long as they budget realistically and harmoniously, I feel that whatever works for each family is fine. If it's not working for you, perhaps you need a few sit downs with a financial advisor. I don't believe young people are getting a good enough education on budgeting these days. I do recall, early on, representatives from the Bank of Nova Scotia coming to our classrooms once a month to help us learn how to budget. Was it a win win situation for the bank? Did our little contributions to our savings accounts make a difference in their annual bottom line? Perhaps not, for they do not do it any more. I believe it might, but it is a situation that would take years to know. It would be an interesting project to start and track for twenty-five years. If children were taught early to budget, would that become habit forming and set them on the right financial life track? I grew up in a home where I saw my father and mother budget. There was not a whole lot to budget, but they did it and I did not suffer for want of food, clothing and a roof over my head. Yes, I was embaressed to drive my first hand-me-down, ugly bicycle that Dad fixed up for me, but it got me from point A to point B quite well. I believe that my parents provided a good example for me to follow when I grew up.

I aimed to have some money to help pay the monthly expenses, to buy things for my children, to have Christmas gifts under the tree, to save for my daughters' educations, and to set aside a nest egg for retirement. Everyone will have different aims, but everyone should have some purpose for their earnings other than living from paycheque to paycheque. Without aims, I believe, one can quickly become overwhelmed with debt. Debt can be like quicksand. Some debt can be necessary: a mortgage, a vehicle. Credit card debt will drag you down. I've seen it happen. I've heard people blame the banks, and yes, I understand your arguments. I also know that credit cards are a responsibilty that individuals take on when they sign on the dotted line. I remember my first credit card purchase: a coat: a pretty coat. I was so proud of it. I also remember my first statement. I didn't like it, and as soon as I could, I whittled it away to nothing. I seldom pay interest, but when I do, I know that it is my responsibility - I earned it when I bought what I wanted. And, from the perspective of the insides of the bank, I know that there are many individuals who would rather work with you to get you out of the mire, rather than foreclosing or taking your vehicle. But,  it is my responsibility to admit I have a problem of my own making and I need to take whatever action is necessary to get the advice I need to solve the problem. The best place to start is to learn how to budget before taking on the first credit debt. Keep a handle on it from the very start - don't let it take control. Having goals and keeping them is all important. The next best place to start is to admit the problem and take action before it takes over your financial life. Financial problems are cancerous; they soon invade every other area of  life. Both my parental upbringing and my careers at the bank helped me to have aims and purposes for what I earned.

Working in the bank was rewarding to me, for the most part. When I left the bank in 2008, it was an entirely different corporation than it was when I started in 1976. Was it better? For the most part - by the time I left, I knew what my goals for the year were and how to attain them. I do believe, however, that big businesses in general have set their targets so high that they are responsible for the stress leaves their employees must take. I weathered the storms, but not without a few discussions (talkings to), unmet targets, and tears. However, that is another discussion. What were my rewards, other than the paycheques I received bi-weekly? I was challenged - daily, weekly, monthly, annually. Do better. I was challenged, not only by the bank hierarchy, but by clients and their issues. I took their issues very seriously, and felt that, without happy clients, a business could not survive or make its projected targets. It's an attitude I took upon myself and it was generally favourably commented upon in my annual reviews, even though, in solving those issues, it was not always a win situation for the bank. (I believe it was, in the long run, but this is something we sometimes disagreed upon.) I came to care very much for many of my clients. I saw some of them grow up, from infants to adulthood; some from middle age to old age. Knowing my clients, holistically rather than just financially, breeds loyalty, I believe. I felt rewarded by their trust in me. I still feel rewarded when I meet them in the street and they tell me they miss me. I feel that, if my paycheque is my only reward, I am missing out on the greater reward. Therefore, when they opened their wallets and pulled out the photograph of their newest grandchild, I ooed and aahed just as genuinely as if they pulled out an inheritance cheque. After all, isn't a grandchild a wonderful inheritance? I do appreciate all that I learned from my peers, supervisors, leaders and clients, and the rewards that came from working with them.

Is this, you many wonder, anything to do with my historical journey? You betcha. I am who I am; what I do in this life has implications that will follow long after I am gone. Am I so important, do I think?  I already said I don't have grandchildren. In every aspect of a person's life, whether they are quiet residents of their corner or world leaders, we make a difference to our family, our neighbors, the people we work with, and sometimes to strangers. That difference can be good, and sometimes, not so good. Do I reach every goal, every target? Nope, but I try to stretch and do my best. Do I fuss over it when I fail?  Nope, not usually. I try to reassess. Or, I let it go. Yes, I watched my parents budget and learned from them -  with their money and their tangible treasures. I saw the same in my husband's family: a good work ethic, and the same generous spirit. I watched and learned from my four grandparents and what I saw in their lives.

My place of work, a Canadian bank, has, like most institutions, privacy rules in place. I could give examples, but you will have to trust me - I won't, or if I do, they will be very general.  Even as a retiree, I am bound to those rules, and I believe they are good rules. I have seen financial failures and financial successes. I have seen people lay the blame for their failures on everyone but themselves. I have seen people step up to the plate and take responsibility.  I know that circumstances can have great negative and positive effects on peoples' lives. But I do believe, ultimately, that we need to take responsibility for what we do, financially. I also believe, when we are able, we should give generously to those who, through no fault of their own, have a true need, or those charities that we believe in. There is great reward in giving, to those whose desires and aims are not selfish. I am thankful for my place of work, for what I learned from my labour there, and, most of all, for my retirement from that institution and the continued benefits I receive.

These books are my other family history journals.