The Son (and Daughter) Also Rises

Reading more family genealogy, I find that I am related by marriage to Henry the Fourth of England. I am descended from his first wife, Mary de Bohun, whom he married when she was 11, five years before he became king.  She gave him six children, dying giving birth to the sixth, at the age of 25 on June 4, 1394. 

That sort of thing was common in those days. Life for a woman was difficult and short. 

One of her children, born when she was 18, became Henry V, the hero, shall we say, of the 100 Years War and especially Agincourt.

Mary  was the younger daughter of Humphrey de Bohun, 7th Earl of Hereford, Essex, and Northampton. When he died, she, along with her sister, inherited his estate.

 The Bohun family originally came from the Cotentin Peninsula in western Normandy in the department of Manche. That's near the arrondissement of Saint-Lô by what today are the communes of Saint-André-de-Bohon and Saint-Georges-de-Bohon. Apparently, ruins of their castle  are still visible near Saint-André. I should go take a look next time I am in France, assuming there still will be a France safe for a white woman to travel in.

The founder of the line was Humphrey de Bohun, godfather of William the Conqueror. He sailed with him to England and fought at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, for which he was awarded the manor of Tatterford in Norfolk as recorded in the 1086 Domesday Book. Otherwise he stayed in Normandy.

Humphrey founded a Benedictine Priory at Saint-Georges-de-Bohon (that's the way the French spelled the surname) in 1092, donating the local church to the Abbey of Marmoutier. The charter for this priory was witnessed by members of William the Conqueror’s immediate family. 

Humphrey died in 1113 and while most of the rest of his descendants continued on in Normandy and France, his youngest son, Humphrey I de Bohun, focused his family’s future in England. He married Maud of Salisbury, thus acquiring the Barony of Trowbridge. From then on for the next 350 years his family kept adding land holdings until his descendants became the Earls of Hereford and Essex, and hereditary Constables of England.

Another line of his descendants established the Bohuns of Midhurst in West Sussex. This branch gave birth to Richard de Bohun (Bishop of Coutances) and Josceline de Bohon (Bishop of Salisbury). 

Mary de Bohun's great-great-great-grandfather, another Humphrey, was one of the 25 barons elected to compel King John to observe the Magna Carta in 1215. He joined the Fifth Crusade in July, 1217, going to Egypt where he fought at the Siege of Damietta. He died in the Holy Land on June 1, 1220. Mary’s great-great-grandfather, Humphrey, took the cross, as they called it, and joined the Seventh Crusade in 1250. Gilbert de Bohun joined the Ninth Crusade.

Honestly, I think it is kind of -- no very -- cool that I am descended from both an enforcer of the Magna Carta and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Oh, and the Crusades thing, too.

(I have to say, though, reading about all this, I got sort of a Tess of the d'Urbervilles vibe. *Looks left and right, up at the sky, whistles tunelessly, twiddles thumbs behind back....*) 

 By the way, all this genealogical research was done by my aunt, who is a Certified Genealogist and has an MSc in Genealogical, Palaeographic and Heraldic Studies from the University of Strathclyde in Scotland and an MLitt in Archives and Family History from the University of Dundee, also in Scotland, as well as an AA from Brigham Young University in family and genealogical research.

Thinking about these ancestors, I remembered some British guy dismissively saying to me that all Americans claim they are descended from the Duke of York or some nonsense like that and I responding no, more likely an American would claim to be descended from Jesse James. 

He didn't get that at all.  First, he didn't know who Jesse James was, and when I explained he was baffled: why would anyone want to claim an outlaw as an ancestor? Well, Americans do, and look down on snooty pants types who claim to be descended from some limp-wristed limey poof with a posh title. They'd rather claim descent from horse thieves and bank robbers, the Order of the Bandana and Crossed Colts, shall we say, than any foreign royalty. Why?  That's just the way we are. Ya know? I'm talking about real Americans, of course, not all these Johnny-come-latelies and assorted glomers-on and parasites.

Old-stock Americans, as they are called nowadays rather than just actual Americans, take pride in claiming descent from the earliest arrivals to these shores that they can.  Thus one will cite his ancestors aboard the Mayflower while another will top that with descent from the Jamestown colonists. But their ancestors before those...eh, who cares? 

The scions of the seccesh will proudly give you a Genesis-like list of descendants from their ancestor who fought at Spotsylvania, but don't have any particular interest in who their ancestors were before coming to America.  Descendants of unionist do not do that as often, if at all, but also don't have a great deal of interest in their overseas ancestors. 

In the 1939 movie Midnight, starring Don Ameche and Claudette Colbert, Colbert plays an American chorus girl stranded in Paris posing as a European princess. Getting tired of the gig, when asked who her ancestors were, she snaps "Choctaw and Scotch-Irish!"  

Mark Twain when on one of his European trips was queried as to his ancestors stated with some pride that he was a direct descendant of Adam and Eve. That's your American for you.  Nuts to rank and privilege.

I had a thought about Henry IV, too.  He was the first king of England to speak English since the Norman conquest, which is an aide-mémoire as we might put it that the English were a defeated and conquered people who were reminded of that fact every day for centuries, but in the end they overcame that and recovered.  We should always keep such lessons from history in mind, especially in these troubled times.  

Henry also gave the order to burn the Lollards alive for heresy. Lollards were what is called proto-Protestants. They translated the Bible into English and believed ordinary people should be able to read it for themselves, among other things.  So they were pronounced anathema and persecuted unto death.  Very Muslim-like of the Catholics, if you ask me.  But they don't do that sort of thing anymore.  Hint to the Muzzies.

Another thought I had, or where my thoughts strayed, was about Gregory Clark's book, The Son Also Rises: Surnames and the History of Social Mobility. The Amazon blurb:

"How much of our fate is tied to the status of our parents and grandparents? How much does it influence our children? More than we wish to believe. While it has been argued that rigid class structures have eroded in favor of greater social equality, The Son Also Rises proves that movement on the social ladder has changed little over eight centuries. Using a novel technique―tracking family names over generations to measure social mobility across countries and periods―renowned economic historian Gregory Clark reveals that mobility rates are lower than conventionally estimated, do not vary across societies, and are resistant to social policies.

"Clark examines and compares surnames in such diverse cases as modern Sweden and Qing Dynasty China. He demonstrates how fate is determined by ancestry and that almost all societies have similarly low social mobility rates. [The book reveals] the deeply entrenched force of inherited advantage,"

In other words, nepo babies rule.  Who would have guessed? 

Clark's latest book, originally titled For Whom the Bell Curve Tolls, but renamed To Have and Have Not, could not find a publisher, so he has made it available free to download. Click the link to get it.

To Have and Have Not

 

 

 

 

Goofy things I've done after watching too many old movies

 

I wrote this in a blog I had some years ago. I wouldn't do any of these things today, but back in the day I was a rascal, for sure.

• Flagged down a cab, piled in and ordered, “Headquarters! And step on it!”
• Walked into a diner, sat down next to a friend and said, “So, what’s a dame like you doing in a gin joint like this?”
• Stepped into an office lobby, paused, listened to the Musak, raised my hands up beside my head, snapped my fingers, danced a wiggly two-step and and shouted out, “Hey, Daddy-O! Dig that crazy jive!”
• Glanced out a window, gasped in horror, pointed and cried out “Them! Them!”
• When someone reached out to shake my hand, stumbled back in terror crying out, “Don’t shoot, Rocko!”
• Finished adjusting my face in the ladies room and muttered, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up now.”
• Gone up to a security guard and commanded, “Gort! Klaatu barada nikto!”
• After a bell boy has loaded my bags into a cab, clutched his hand as I tipped him, looked deep into his eyes and whispered, “We’ll always have Paris.”
• Upon leaving a particularly successful interview, clicked my tongue, arched an eyebrow, jabbed a thumb in the air and said, “Print the legend!”
• Told the driver of an airport shuttle, “Open the pod bay door, HAL.”
• Spotted a flasher and yelled at him, "Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!" 
• Observing my guy dead to the world after performing his masculine duties, smiled and said to myself, "It wasn't the airplanes.  It was beauty killed the beast."

 

 

Someone

 

I've been busy dealing with the Patagonian estancia and with all the extra workload it's given me I began thinking why did I ever get involved with this and then I realized it was because of Jeff.  This was what he wanted to do but didn't have a chance to carry out.  So I just completed the task.  I'm channeling him, in a way.  He's working through me to accomplish his goal.

Once I thought about it that way I relaxed and just did what needed to be done.  I even chattered with Jeff in my head as I did things, explaining to him what I was doing, asking his advice sometimes. Did he reply? I kind of thought so. In fact, one time while I was sitting at his office desk going over things, I heard the big overstuffed chair where he always sat to look out the window and think creak and the ottoman scrape as if someone had gotten out of it, nudging the ottoman aside.  I turned to look and see who it was, thinking maybe my mother had come in and sat down without my noticing.  But there was no one there. The room was empty. 

I got up and went out on the landing and called "Mom?" I heard her respond from downstairs.  I asked if she had just been in the office and she said no, she'd been sitting with the baby. 

I went back into the office.  I felt light somehow. "Hey, Jeffie," I whispered. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They say

 

"They say foul things of Old Times still lurk
In dark forgotten corners of the world.
And gates still gape to loose on certain nights
Shapes pent in Hell."
—Justin Geoffrey
 

 “I’ve always liked to drive alone at night. There is a sentimental brightness to things. I always see the world perfectly then, see it in all its great pathetic clarity. I become invincible, beyond life and death. With the hum of wheels under me, I can love the human race as I never can at any other time. I can think great cloudy thoughts, and tremble with the power of life surging in me. I resolve then to have a dozen children and live forever. It seems possible.”
― Shirley Ann Grau 

 "I want the old days back again and they'll never come back, and I am haunted by the memory of them and of the world falling about my ears."
― Margaret Mitchell

  “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
― Ray Bradbury

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deer-chan

 Don't you worry, I won't let them shoot you.  You can eat my roses. I don't care. I have plenty more behind an eight-foot tall fence.

I saw you when you were a little fawn. I know your mom. I call her "Split Ear" because she has a damaged ear she got fighting with another doe.  I saw the wound when it was fresh and bloody.  That was before you were born.

I don't know who your sire was, but that autumn I heard antlers clashing in the field behind the deodor cedars and the Afghan pines that were planted in 2001. But I think I know your offspring. I'm not sure.

As long as you stay around here and as long as I am in charge, you will be safe. I'd like to pet you, but I know you wouldn't allow it.  You have your dignity, and you are not tame and do not want to be.  You are a wild stag, free and proud. In charge of your own fate.

That's as it should be. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Encounters

 

The other day everybody was getting cabin fever so I suggested we go for a drive -- you know, that great American pastime just tooling around in the car, listening to tunes, stopping at Dairy Queen for a banana split.

So I piled everybody into the van, one of those big old E-350 Econoline jobs and hit the road. We had nine souls on board: me and mom, my mini-me, the baby and the toddler, the two boys and two aunts. 

Along the way I had to stop for gas and to give everybody a bathroom break. The pump hose was twisted and I was trying to get it untwisted when a man filling up on the other side stepped around and said here let me do that and I let him. He looked in his early forties, broad-shouldered, fit, no gut, wearing jeans, tee and a battered ball cap.  His hands were rough and calloused, arms tanned. Once he had the hose untangled, he held up the nozzle, winked at me, inserted it into the filler pipe and got the juice flowing. Then he touched his hat brim with a finger and headed into the station office. I watched him go. My kids swirled around me, my aunts jabbered. My mom, holding the baby, looked at me.  

The pump dinged and my mind snapped back into focus. While I was replacing the hose nozzle and trying to pay, the man drove off without me noticing. The pump wouldn't let me pay for some reason so I went inside to pay. The clerk said a guy had already paid for me.  I couldn't quite process that for a second. Who? I asked and he said that guy in the baseball hat.

Oh. Who was he, I asked. He didn't know.  The man was a regular customer but he always paid with cash. Did he say anything, I asked.  No, he didn't, just said he was paying for the lady with the van.

I walked back to the van wondering.  That fill-up was like a hundred and fifty bucks. Why would he spend that much money on someone he didn't know? He didn't chat me up or anything. Our whole interaction was less than a minute, with maybe a dozen words spoken between us.  

My mom was watching me as I came back to the van and climbed in. What? she said. Oh, nothing I guess, I said. That guy who untangled the hose for me paid for our gas. Why would he do that?

My mother looked appraisingly at me then said you know why.

But he doesn't know me, I said.

My aunt, who had been listening, said, he knows you, dear, at least by sight. And she told me who he was and proceeded to fill me in on his biography.

While she was talking I started the van and drove back onto the highway. As I did so, my other aunt cut in to say, well, I don't know who he is but I wish he'd point his nozzle at me the way he did at you, dear. Both aunts cackled. 

********

For lunch we stopped at a local burger stand.  It's family owned and operated, serving burgers made with local beef and veggies. They bake their own buns.  They also serve roast beef sandwiches. They make great potato salad for a side and serve homemade pies for dessert.

Behind the stand they have picnic tables under shade trees, a place for children to play and a dog-walking area.  A bit behind the picnic tables is a creek to wade in or skip rocks.

After we finished eating, the kids rushed over to the playground and my aunts and mother went wading in the creek. The toddler and baby stayed with me to get their lunch.  I unbuttoned my blouse and let them have at it. Using the double cradle hold I fed them both at the same time.  If I didn't, my toddler would throw a fit. But I told him I needed him to show his little baby sister how to latch on and suckle without hurting mommy (He was the biter, not the baby, but now with a job to do he didn't bite and suckled gently.) 

I relaxed against the picnic table, enjoying the day and the feel of my little ones against me, looking up at the fair-weather clouds. Some women get stressed out by breast feeding but I have always found a sort of dreamy pleasure in it. My whole body relaxes in contentment.

While I was nursing, a high-school-age boy sat down at the next table to eat his lunch. He glanced over at me a few times and I smiled at him. When he finished he asked if he could talk to me, calling me ma'am.  I said sure and he came over and sat down beside me. He said he'd never seen a woman nursing before and was it okay if he looked and I said okay.  His attitude was a nice change from the usual scowls and growls I got when I nursed in public.

He asked after me and my husband. I said I was a new widow and really hadn't got used to it yet.  He said it was awful to hear that and his cousin's husband was killed in an accident at work last April and it was a really bad thing. Then he said he was just starting his junior year in high school and would be 16 next month. After he graduated he was going to join the Army. He wanted to be a tank driver. I said that was an admirable goal. I didn't know any tank drivers and he would be the first.  

He asked me what it felt like to nurse and how long did I nurse, looking at my toddler, who was 29 months old, and greedily sucking away. He asked why I didn't bottle feed with formula and I explained the natural advantages of breast milk. He asked what breast milk tasted like and I said I didn't know, never having had the urge to drink my own milk. But I had let my husband taste it and he said it was sweet. You mean like Eagle brand, the teen asked me and I said maybe.

My toddler broke off nursing and scrambled down, asked where his grammy was, spotted her and trotted off. My baby unlatched and posseted, so I burped her, held her for a few minutes, then put her in her cradle and took out a couple of handiwipes to clean her and then myself. The boy watched everything I did intently. When I began wiping my breast he asked why I did that and I said to keep it clean and prevent any infection. He watched me holding my breast and using two wipes to make sure it was fully clean.  When I opened another handiwipe to clean my other breast he asked if he could do it, please could he. I hesitated, then said okay, sure. He took the wipe and began to carefully clean my breast, giving special attention to the areola and nipple. Then he hesitantly cupped the breast, looked up at me and I smiled okay, so he wiped the whole breast very gently. His hand was warm and I enjoyed his touch.

When he finished cleaning, he put down the wipe, leaned forward and lightly kissed first one and then the other of my breasts.  I was a little surprised but not much.  I was still in my semi-dreamy state which his caressing -- and that's what it was -- had brought full on. He looked up at me and asked if he could taste my milk. I nodded and watched him take my nipple in his mouth and, kneading the breast with his hands like a cat, begin sucking.  I felt strange.  For some reason, I kissed his forehead. He stopped suckling but still held my breast in his hands, looking at it. Then he looked at me and said, It's wonderful, like it came from God. He wiped my breast clean again. Then he hugged me and said he thought he loved me.

I closed my blouse and said it's nice to be in love. It's one of the best feelings in life. I'll take care of you, he said. I'll marry you so you won't be a widow. You won't have to worry about anything. Just as soon as I get out of the Army I'll marry you.

I smiled at him, took his hand and pressed it to my lips.  If you still want to when you get out of the Army, I'll be here, I said. Oh, I will, I will, he said.

A woman was yelling. He looked around.  That's my mom, he said.  I better go. She's probably mad at me.  She's always mad about something. You're not like her at all.

And he ran off, turning around once to say I'll marry you! Don't worry about anything!

Then he was gone. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking back

 

A while ago I decided to burn off some of the remaining fuel in the Twin Beech's tanks rather than drain it all before putting the plane in storage and flew down to our now-abandoned local airport. I've written  a few times before about it and some of the memorable, to me, people who used to populate it -- Duane, the old FBO who served with my father aboard the Kitty Hawk when he was a young man, Jim the gypsy cropduster, Randy, the ace A&P guy who knew all our planes as intimately as a lover, and Butch, the short order cook at the diner who'd walked into the parking lot pushing his motorcycle, out of gas and looking for enough work to buy some and keep on moving but who instead got a job that put him back on his feet and made him a valued asset to the community.

There were others I've not written about but that I remember well.

Anyway, I circled the field. The runway had no yellow X's painted on it.  There were no NOTAMs saying it was closed, so I dragged it a couple of times checking it out, then decided to land.  

I hadn't intended to, but suddenly I felt the pull of older days when I was in and out of there a lot, often with my father or grandfather, my husband, my mom, my mini-me and the boys.  So I set down on the old familiar strip.  

This was the runway I'd first flown the old Beech from, my grandfather right-seating it as he coached me through taxi practice in the big tail-wheeler, then teaching me wrist-action on the throttles to keep it lined up and straight on the take-off, not forgetting to lock the tail wheel, then managing throttles and rpm, cowl flaps, flaps and gear as we climbed out.  Then flying around the flag pole, as he called it, doing pattern work, remembering to lock the tail wheel before landing, he teaching me all the tricks  to minimize landing roll, pounding into my head the need for stabilized approaches no matter what the wind and weather, watching that airspeed like a hawk, crabbing it, slipping it... 

Oh, he was a stern instructor. But he knew everything there was to know about flying any kind of airplane there was. And he passed it all on to me, or as much of it as I was capable of absorbing.  And in later years my own flying taught me that I knew how to do things when I needed to do them that I didn't know I knew because he had taught them to me and embedded them in my brain, filed away for use in time of need.

My father taught me how to fly out of this airfield, flying one of Duane's old rentals, Cherokees and Tomahawks, an ancient Piper Colt and an even more ancient Piper Cub to learn managing a tail dragger, a Citabria to lean basic aerobatics before I got the full dose from an old AVG pilot down in SoCal.... When, years later, the Navy thought they'd teach me how to fly it was all so familiar -- and none of the instructors were even close to being as hard on me as gramps and even my dad.  But granddad was the toughest.  By God, he was going to make sure I did it right, whatever it was.  There was no "or else." I would do it. Period.  And do it till I could do it in my sleep, exactly right every time. Thank you, thank you, dear grandfather.  I'm still inhaling and exhaling thanks to you.

I parked the plane in its old spot, shut down and climbed out.  There was a light breeze in the sparkling sunshine.  The sun was warm on the ramp. Everything was as it was. I walked over to the operations shack, tried the door, locked of course. I expected that.  I don't know why I tried to open it. Habit, I guess.  I peered in the window, half-expecting to see everything trashed. But nothing was disturbed as far as I could tell. It was just empty.I stepped up onto the covered porch, appreciating the coolness of the shade, and walked over to the diner, my hand automatically reaching for the screen door.  It opened but the inner door was closed and locked. Inside I could see the counter and stools, make out the coffee urn and other tools of the trade. Nothing was touched. Maybe the average passer-by didn't realize the airport was closed, so left it unvandalized. I walked over to the door to the restroom.  Locked, of course. I went around to the parking lot and saw a car parked and for a second thought someone must be here, then realized I recognized the car, had driven it.  It was an old Chevy, one of the beaters Duane kept on hand for pilots to borrow. Why was it parked outside? Who knows? Maybe Duane had put it there so people would think somebody was here, same as I thought for a sec.

I went back to the diner and sat down on the bench by the door and looked out over the empty flight line.   The past stirred.  All those people. Everybody's gone now, I thought.

Duane passed away shortly after he shut down the airport and retired. I didn't even know about it till someone casually mentioned it. That gave me a jolt. Not only because he'd died, but that I hadn't known. No one told me.  He was important to me, a friend of years. But I guess no one considered me his friend, probably never even thought about me.  Well, that's how it goes.  How many people do you know and like that others in your circle don't know about at all? Or how many in their circle don't know about you? Funny thing is that for the longest time I didn't know Duane's first name. I always called him by his family name. With a Mr. in front, of course.

Randy left when the airport closed, as was to be expected.  He was thinking about leaving even before then.  There was not enough work to keep him busy. I knew where he went at first, but he's moved on from there and I've lost touch.  That's also the way it goes.  People in your life for years, then one day, not.

I don't know where Jim is.  I asked around once and most people just shrugged.  One guy said he'd heard he'd tangled with some power lines crop-dusting somewhere in Georgia.  But who knows? He called the Twin Beech a freight dog, and also referred to pilots who flew it as freight dogs, though nobody has flown freight in an 18 professionally for many years, so no freight dogs of either description around any more.

And Butch? I don't know.  I remember Duane saying that when he told him that he was going to shut down, Butch just said that he'd been looking for a job when he arrived and he'd be looking for one when he left.  And that's what he did. He left. Got on his motorcycle and rode away.  At least with a few more dollars in his jeans than when he came. All the work he did to resurrect the airport diner and bring in customers...ultimately futile, accomplished to no end. Like so much of the effort we put into this life.

So I'll never see any of those people ever again. 

And my grandfather and my father are both gone, too. And my husband. So many and so much that were are not any more. Who's next to go?

Maybe me.

 

 

 

 

Nothing much

 

I'm the little black dot in the lower right on the top chart. I guess that's okay.  I'm destined to be the old ball and chain. Or was destined. 

But I ain't or warn't no trad wife. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder if my "marriage zone" is a reflection of my personality as evidenced in this chart, lower left:

 

 

Wut?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I descend from revolutionaries and religious radicals

I was reading the family genealogy and came across another ancestor, John Rush, who fought against the redcoats in the Revolution.  And was also another Quaker, from a family that were some of the very first Quakers.

By the way, the name Quaker was one of the names various dissenting religious groups got tagged with by the English in the 17th century; others were Diggers, Seekers and Ranters.

 The family hailed from Hornton in Oxfordshire, England, probably living there for centuries. But the direct ancestor of my American Rushes was Captain John "Old Trooper" Rush (1620–1699). He served as a cavalry commander in Oliver Cromwell's New Model Army during the English Civil War, and converted to Quakerism in 1660. He and his family followed the William Penn colonists to America in 1683. They settled along Poquessing Creek in Byberry, Pennsylvania. 

I found it interesting that he is the ancestor of Dr. Benjamin Rush, surgeon, abolitionist, women's rights advocate, professor of chemistry, Christian Universalist and a signer of the Declaration of Independence. It seems I am descended from a long line of radical Protestants who believed in liberty of conscience and who were also equally radical republican egalitarians. Nutters all, the English aristocrats would have called them. But they kicked King Charles's ass and King George's, too. And created America, God's own country, as they used to call it. 

We have a copy of The Soldier's Bible, the version published by the American Tract Society for Union troops during the Civil War. The original was created by Cromwell for his army, condensed from the Geneva Bible, mostly from the Old Testament.

It's baffling to me how much religious hatred there was in Europe in those days between Protestants and Catholics.  My Anabaptist German ancestors, the Dunkards, were tortured and burned alive by the Catholics and fled to America to escape them. The Martyr's Mirror recounts the horror in detail. There was Bloody Mary in England, and Cromwell did turnabout on the Catholics.  Then there was the Thirty Years War. I guess none of those guys had any use for Matthew Chapters 5 through 7, which to me is the heart of Christianity, and what I always try to keep in mind, despite my doubts and skepticism about, well, everything. Considering that those who founded our country emerged from that intolerant, murderous era, it is remarkable that America embraced from the beginning religious tolerance and freedom of religion as a fundamental tenet. I think it speaks well of us as a people. It was that liberty of conscience thing come to fruition on a fresh new continent.

Anyway, my John Rush was a member of the Sons of Liberty.  He fought at Brandywine, Germantown, White Marsh, Red Bank and the Siege of Ft. Mifflin, where he was badly wounded, having his leg and arm amputated. He was just sixteen years old. He had earlier survived the brutal Paoli Massacre, where the Brits showed no mercy, refusing to accept the surrender of wounded Americans and bayoneting them. If Rush had been killed in that massacre would I exist today?  I guess not.

Another of my ancestors, William Hebb, also fought at Brandywine and Germantown. I wonder if they knew each other. Hebb also survived a brutal assault by the Brits, the Baylor Massacre, when again the redcoats refused to accept the surrender of wounded Americans and bayoneted them. The behavior of the British against us in the Revolution was so monstrous that even a century later John Hay could tell Rudyard Kipling that the only thing that held the United States together was hatred of Britain. 

Oh, after the Revolution Hebb was such a vigorous abolitionist that he was chased out of the Old Dominion and settled in what is now West Virginia. Five of his great-grandsons served in the Union army.

One of the many oddities of history is that in the 20th century we fought on the side of Britain, our old arch foe, and they formed what they called "the special relationship" with us.

"Now, I have no objection to any person’s religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don’t believe it also. But when a man’s religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him."
~ Ishmael, Moby Dick

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thinking about you

 “If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.”
― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca 

“So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near―
"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."
"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you ...."
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.
"Yes, that is so," said the fox.
"Then it has done you no good at all!"
"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince  

 “I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until the moment I was lifted and struck.”
― Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek 

 C'est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you know what time it is?

It's later than you think.

 It's later than anyone thinks.

 

 

Lastly, you who read; aye, you

Who this very line may scan:

Think of all you planned to do ...   

Have you done the best you can?

See! the tavern lights are low;

Black’s the night, and how you shrink!

God! and is it time to go?

Ah! the clock is always slow;

It is later than you think;

Sadly later than you think;

Far, far later than you think.

~ Robert W. Service

 

 

 

 

Reading

 I published this in an old blog I had, October 27, 2017. Since Annie Dillard passed away today, I thought I'd republish it.  Kathy Shaidle, the Canadian poet and social commenter, sent me a nice note about it. She liked Dillard, too, I guess. And reading. Shaidle has since passed away. She was an interesting person.  I learned a lot from her movie reviews, more than just about the movies. At one time she tried to be a "sex pot" but failed. She wrote about it. She did not know where her mother was buried and did not care. 

N.C. Wyeth, cover illustration for the March, 1922, issue of The Ladies Home Journal.

“I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me.” 
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

One of my favorite things to do is read.  It always has been, but I don't read now the way I read when I was younger.  Then, reading was a special, private door into an unknown and fabulous world of elsewhere, othertime and otherness.  Now I know they're just books.

“Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.” 
 
“I read with pure, exhilarating greed....  Books swept me away, one after the other, this way and that; I made endless vows according to their lights, for I believed them.”

"When you open a book,” the sentimental library posters said, “anything can happen.” This was so. A book of fiction was a bomb. It was a land mine you wanted to go off. You wanted it to blow your whole day. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of books were duds. They had been rusting out of everyone’s way for so long that they no longer worked. There was no way to distinguish the duds from the live mines except to throw yourself at them headlong, one by one.” 
 
“What I sought in books was imagination. It was depth, depth of thought and feeling; some sort of extreme of subject matter; some nearness to death; some call to courage. I myself was getting wild; I wanted wildness, originality, genius, rapture, hope. I wanted strength, not tea parties. What I sought in books was a world whose surfaces, whose people and events and days lived, actually matched the exaltation of the interior life. There you could live.”  


“Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place; there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized.”

~ Annie Dillard,  An American Childhood 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bra ha ha

 I don't wear a bra unless I have to and have been that way since puberty. I hate the things. And I recently read an article that supported my choice with, apparently, scientific evidence that bras cause all kinds of physical problems and don't prevent anything.

The study by a French sports scientist named Jean-Denis Rouillon followed 330 women who stopped wearing brass, ages 18 to 35,  over a span of 15 years, comparing them to a control group of women who continued to wear bras.  The results: For those who did not wear bras, breast tissue became firmer, not looser. Nipple position lifted, on average, by 7 millimeters per year. The internal supporting structures of the chest — Cooper’s ligaments, the pectoral muscles, the connective tissue — became measurably more active and more effective at holding tissue in position. 

The study was done in the early 2000s and there have been no follow-ups that I found, but it does seem to, um, uphold my impression.  Bras are necessary sometimes  — vigorous movements are uncomfortable without them. Guys may like looking at boobs bouncing up and down under your blouse or shirt but it is annoying (the bouncing, and sometimes the looking) and can even be a bit painful. Another reason is to be polite in public and not attract attention when it's inappropriate.

But otherwise I like to let the girls breathe free.  And that's not just a phrase.  Bras cause sweating, chaffing and other discomfort.  The sweat that can't evaporate causes rashes, even  back acne where the bra strap wraps around behind you. When I do wear a bra, it's such a relief to take the darn thing off. 

My breasts are naturally firm and don't sag. That seems to run in the women of my family.  My mom still has a nice rack and she rarely bothers with a bra, too.  I think I got the aversion to them from her.  She tells me her mother, my grandmother, also had firm breasts.  I remember her but honestly never paid any attention to her boobs.  I only mention my mother's breasts because we've talked about this, concluding some women need the support of a good bra and others, such as we, do not.  But we all need to wear a bra in public situations for the sake of decorum and social expectations.   

These days I only wear a bra when I go into town or have a business meeting. People assume certain things about you if you don't wear a bra, especially if you are on the large size, and who needs that when you are just running errands, and you certainly don't want any attention to your physical endowments when you are talking important matters and expect to be taken seriously.

But around the ranch on normal days, I almost never wear a bra. If I'm meeting people about ranch business, of course I do.

I wonder if bras will eventually become out of style, like girdles. Who wears a girdle anymore?  They used to be a common undergarment but I don't think I've ever seen one for sale when I've been out shopping. Maybe they are, but I just haven't noticed.  If I did, I would think they were some sort of prosthetic device or something. 

Hosiery is another item of wear that seems to be almost gone.  In my grandmother's day, nylon stockings were a must, held up by garter belts that you lashed on over your underpants. What a pain. In my mother's day that gave way to panty hose and now most people don't bother with stockings at all. Supposedly, they are making a come-back, but I wonder. I enjoy wearing thigh-highs and knee socks; I do it because it's a style I like.  But among the women I know, stockings are just one more thing not to have to bother with.  I can see a day when bras will be considered the same way.

If you watch old movies, especially pre-code ones, it's obvious the women aren't wearing bras. Or if they are, they are very flimsy. The modern support bra doesn't seem to have become common until the 1940s sweater girl era when bras were used to emphasize the shape of the breasts under the sweater.  Then came the Fifties with the nose-cone pointy bras. Ridiculous. But with the Sixties came the topless bathing suit, which turned out to be a, um, flop. Still, it was a sign the times were a-changing. Then came Carol Doda, who I think was the first topless dancer in 1964. A rock formation in Yosemite is named Doda Dome in honor of her.  (I just looked that up!)

Then in the Seventies came bra-burning in the name of women's liberation.  Guys may wonder what the connection was, but that one of the first things women did to express their "liberation" was torch their stupid bras tells you how much the things are hated.

Of course, men were baffled because they just think of breasts as sex objects -- sweater puppies, whoopie cushions. So letting them free seemed like some form of provocativeness, which it wasn't.

I especially hate to wear a bra when I am nursing and my breasts are leaking, swelling with milk, contracting after feeding. Clogged milk ducts, mastitis, thrush, even reduced milk production...gawd. All that goes away for me when I don't wear a bra. Okay, guys, if you want to look at my stupid boobs, look. Like you've never seen tits before. I don't care.  Of course, as I said, if I must go out in public, I have to bra up and strap on a nursing bra for the duration.  But I hate it. I think I said that.  Haha. 

Anyway, what a relief it is not to have to armor-up before going out the way women did back in the day, with granny panties, bullet-bra, girdle, stockings and garter belt. These days that's all history.  I have run down to the post office wearing just a sun dress and nothing more. There would have been a time not all that long ago when, had I done so, I would have been arrested.  These days the only thing that might happen is that one of the loafers lounging in front of the general store next door will say, "Oh, honey, you just made my day!" 

 

 

 

 

 

September

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 September was when it began.
Locusts dying in the fields; our dogs
Silent, moving like shadows on a wall;
And strange worms crawling; flies of a kind
We had never seen before; huge vineyard moths;
Badgers and snakes, abandoning
Their holes in the field; the fruit gone rotten;
Queer fungi sprouting; the fields and woods
Covered with spiderwebs; black vapors
Rising from the earth - all these,
And more began that fall. Ravens flew round
The hospital in pairs. Where there was water,
We could hear the sound of beating clothes
All through the night. We could not count
All the miscarriages, the quarrels, the jealousies.
And one day in a field I saw
A swarm of frogs, swollen and hideous,
Hundreds upon hundreds, sitting on each other,
Huddled together, silent, ominous,
And heard the sound of rushing wind.
~ Weldon Kees

 Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
~ Carl Sandburg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So full, so shaken

 

“There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotion

that if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,

Spilled on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.”

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The past superimposed on the present

It's funny how you think about the oddest things, unconnected stray thoughts bubbling up from your past when you are tired, sleep-deprived, dealing with stress caused by multiple things.  

Like, I was wide awake, nursing, and I suddenly believed with absolute certainty that I was still in the Navy and I had to fly that day and I began thinking how I could get in the cockpit without anyone seeing my baby and how I was going to manage nursing her.  I was really puzzling that out and turning over different methods in my mind for several minutes -- and no, I wasn't dreaming: I was fully awake, aware of a blue jay squawking at a cat outside the open window, looking at the apples on the apple tree down the yard. Yet I was feeling a fresh sea breeze in my face while smelling a funk blended of JP-5, jet exhaust, hydraulic fluid, laundry soap, greasy, oily, steamy fumes -- that good old carrier smell. At the same time, I was in the cockpit, airborne, feeling that constant, deep-seated rumble from the engines, aware of the rush of wind just inches away outside the canopy, my shoulders warm from the sun...all of it.

I mention this because I just made a post about a test I took that told me my personality was such that I am not susceptible to these sorts of phantasms. And I thought the test revealed an accurate aspect of my personality.  I ain't no Terrence McKenna. But, nonetheless, there I was in the midst of a kind of secular rapture, for lack of a better description.

I guess there actually is a reason saints and mystics and seekers disappear into the desert or the mountain reaches, fast and flagellate until they begin having visions.  American Indians went on vision quests to discover their spirit animal. Such a quest would involve something like running non-stop for three days without eating or drinking until you collapsed and began having visions, hallucinating  on the verge of death, at which point your spirit animal would reveal itself to you. It seems that even I am susceptible to that, at least to some degree. Not a fan of it. Won't pursue it. The here and now is good enough for me. I have enough trouble trying to understand that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baby blues

 Worst I've ever experienced.  I would nod off without knowing it for a few minutes and wake up crying, calling out for my husband. I was terrified he was going to die and then I realized that he had and I just totally crashed emotionally.

Thank God my mom has been here with me. 

My lower body feels like I've been beaten with a baseball bat, really heavy bleeding, lots of big clots, my stupid boobs are swollen, sore and throbbing. My...oh, never mind. It may be worse that it ever has been, but I know it will pass.  I just have to hang on to that thought. 

And you know what? I have a baby girl! I almost didn't. But I do!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, gee whiz

 Sigh.  I guess my plans to become a mystic on a mountain top shall come to naught. 

Bummer, man.

Well, at least this explains why I can't become hypnotized -- I volunteered for that during a college class and it totally didn't work. I thought about faking it for the lulz but I didn't. 

(I have pretended to be hypnotized in other circumstances so I could do things I otherwise wouldn't do -- I had no control over what I did! I was hypnotized! And a swell time was had by all. Heh.)

It also explains why sciencey stuff is my thing while touchy-feely, woo-woo stuff is not.  I guess it also explains why I become bored in church or with philosophical blathering, psychoanalysis, dream interpretation....  I tend to view it all as phony baloney, plastic banana, good-time rock and roll. I try not to.  I really do. I do want to believe. And once in a while I manage it. But there is always this little voice at the back of my mind giving the raspberry to it all. 

 

 

If y'all want to take this yhar test, here she be.

Speaking of accents -- we were weren't we? No? Well, Ima segue anyhoo -- I was at a roadside rest stop sitting at a picnic table waiting for my mom while she visited the restroom and a couple was walking nearby. The woman was looking at the sky and suddenly she stopped and stared at something.  Then she pointed and said to her husband (I assume), "Is that a flyink sawsuh?" 

He looked where she pointed, shading his eyes with his hand. "Well, it's certainly something," he said. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it before."

I looked where they were looking and saw far up in the sky a buzzard (okay, a vulture) lazily circling, riding a thermal. A pretty common sight in these parts. I assumed the couple were tourists from back east somewhere, New York or thereabouts, city people unfamiliar with nature.  I thought about telling them what they were watching was a bird, or, as I suppose the woman would have said, a boid, but I didn't. Let them believe they were seeing something outré they could tell their friends about.

I guess that anecdote expresses my practical mindset.  If I see something unfamiliar in the sky, I don't automatically leap to the conclusion that it is an alien spacecraft from another planet piloted by little green men out to kidnap nubile babes and steal their orgone energy. I just go, "Huh, wonder what that is." 

See? I'm so dull.