We celebrated my grandfather's birthday this past week. I'm not going to say how old he is, but I will say that he remembers walking over fences on dirt blown up as high as the posts. That's a lot of years and a lot of stories.
I like sitting around (with a cup of coffee, of course) listening to people remember an earlier time. I know compared to some places our area hasn't changed drastically from 80 or 100 years ago, but there are still a lot of things we young stupid people don't know about the way things used to work.
This really struck me last year when I started to try to write some historical fiction based on the life of my great-grandmother, who came to Oklahoma Territory to teach school. Sounds easy enough, right? After all, it was only three generations back, and I knew a little bit of family history.
As I got into it, though, I realized how woefully ignorant I am of the details of everyday life a hundred years ago, not to mention the details of my family's history. And some things are beyond the reach of even Google.
I came to understand what a thoroughly modern mindset I have when I sent my heroine--my great-grandmother-- out across the plains in a wagon looking for someone's house. I was a little concerned about her safety, but thought I was forgetting something--then I realized I had been feeling in the back of my mind that she could take a cell phone with her. You can all laugh at my stupidity now. What did people do before cell phones, anyway?
In our modern and mobile society, we don't always know a lot about our roots, or even feel like we have any. People transition from New York to California to Texas, and end up accentless and heritageless, not really sure where they are "from." Which is too bad, because a people who don't know where they came from more easily forget where they are going, or why they are here.
The story of the Trojan War is one of the greatest legends around, immortalized by Homer in the Illiad and the Odyssey. Did you ever think about what kept those men fighting for 10 years? One of my professors suggested that Troy was possible because of Ithaca (Odysseus' home). These men fought away from home for 10 long and difficult years because they had a home they came from that they wanted to protect.
Why did the American colonists, who were so proud to be British citizens, rebel? Why did Robert E. Lee resign from the United States Army to fight against it? Why could the men of World Wars I and II keep fighting in those horrible bloody trenches?
Because a man's first loyalty is to the ground on which he and his fathers were born.
Some of my foreign (California or Pennsylvania) friends used to laugh at the way I would brighten up at an "Oklahoma" license plate or flag or tell them what our state meal was (yes, we have a state meal) or belt out our state song during my exile in Virginia.
They could never see what made me homesick in pictures of what looked to them like a flat barren land. They could never understand why I cried for red dirt and open plains. They could never see the romance and excitement in the loneliness, or in a 1950 Dodge wheat truck that smelled like grease and dirt.
Because that is my heritage, and not theirs.
Most of my generation doesn't know their past. They can know facts and figures about it, but that does not compare with knowing the people who fought to make it, and the land that was a part of them. I wonder if that's why we don't have the power to fight a drawn-out war-- we are not familiar with the reason.
So please, older generations, pass on your stories. We need them. Write them down, tell them to the babies on your knees.
Younger folks: ask questions and listen to the answers. Those in the past were real live people with real problems and worries and loves. Think about their answers. They might tell you more than about them--they might tell you about you.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Confident Waiting
From someone else, whose blog I hope you read more often than mine. If you don't always get a chance to read it, read this post. Whether you are waiting to graduate or waiting to be accepted or waiting for a job or waiting for a calling or waiting for a spouse or waiting for a weekend or waiting for you know not what or why, remember the One on whom you are ultimately waiting.
http://wittingshire.blogspot.com/2007/03/waiting-in-confidence.html
http://wittingshire.blogspot.com/2007/03/waiting-in-confidence.html
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
My Irish Heritage
My father, he was Orange,1
And my mother, she was a Green.2
Notes:
1. Orange, a reddish-yellow color. Burnt orange (all orange should be burnt) is the color of the Longhorns, the mascot of the University of Texas.
2. Green, mother's maiden name.
And my mother, she was a Green.2
Notes:
1. Orange, a reddish-yellow color. Burnt orange (all orange should be burnt) is the color of the Longhorns, the mascot of the University of Texas.
2. Green, mother's maiden name.
Friday, March 16, 2007
A thought
If I were a flower, I should like to be
A crocus, springing wildly
Where no one planted or expected me.
A crocus, springing wildly
Where no one planted or expected me.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Beware the Ides of March!
No, not the idle of March (although you might beware March idleness, also known as spring fever). Nor are the eyes of March upon you. "Beware the Ides of March," a soothsayer warned Julius Caesar, or so Shakespeare tells us, and who among us dares to question Shakespeare? We probably shouldn't question his soothsayers either, as it turns out.
The Ides are not some furry little hooded creature from Star Wars, much as that may disappoint some. They are simply one of three times in a month used for dating by the Roman
calendar.
If you really want to know: the Romans marked time within the month from 3 dates: the Calends (yes, as in calendar), the Nones, and the Ides. The Calends were easy: the first of the month. The Nones fell on the 7th in March, May, July and October, and on the 5th at all other times. The Ides fell on the 15th in the four aforementioned months, and on the 13th in the others. To make things worse... alright, I won't tell you that they counted backwards from these dates. I knew you didn't want to know.
All that to say: the Ides of March means plain, simple March 15th, although it came to be something like the equivalent of a "9-11" for the Romans.
Caesar did not heed the soothsayer's warning (or at least not adequately), and was indeed killed in the Senate on the Ides of March, 44 b.c. This led to immediate civil wars in Rome, and some say was part of the reason for the fall of Rome. Since Caesar would have, so far as we can tell, probably managed to die at some point even if he hadn't been murdered, Rome seems to have been without hope.
Caesar's murderers were members of the Roman senate, and friends, "all honorable men" who feared that he was becoming too powerful, leaving behind the equality of the Roman republic. Consequently, they disposed of him. The most famous of these conspirators was Marcus Junius Brutus, who et tued. He was a distant cousin of Caesar's and a particular favorite with the dictator, named as one of his testamentary heirs.
It's not necessarily clear who were the good guys and who were the bad guys in the conflict. Like in other historical and current events, they didn't do us the favor of wearing white hats and black hats so we could set it down and be done with it.
Caesar, from all we can tell, was an ambitious man. He was an authoritative ruler, and even though he did refuse a crown and title of king, he didn't have any problem with being "dictator for life." Like most political leaders who are human, he probably was a mixture of good and bad elements.
Ditto (from the Latin, "dicto," "what was already spoken") for his murderers. Brutus especially in Shakespeare is from the first scene to the last an honorable, noble man-- but he also gave "the most unkindest cut of all" to the man who thought so highly of him and had pardoned him.
So it leaves unsettled the question of the assassins' justification. Were they right in taking the law into their own hands to dispose of a bloody tyrant? Was Brutus truly killing a man he loved because he loved Rome more?
Or were they themselves simply bloody murderers, imposing their own will just as tyrannically as they accused Caesar of doing? Was Brutus the most ungrateful of men? People through history have taken different sides, but we do know that Brutus did not become a heroic figure for the ages.
Whatever you may believe, The Ides and their disastrous results are a reminder to us to be very careful about trying to justify rebellion, and a lesson to all in authority not to abuse it. And we should all remember to beware of ambition, for "by that sin fell the angels."
We should also probably beware of men with lean and hungry looks who read too much, and friends with daggers in their smiles and hands. And if you see furry little hooded creatures running around, you might beware of them too.
The Ides are not some furry little hooded creature from Star Wars, much as that may disappoint some. They are simply one of three times in a month used for dating by the Roman
calendar.
If you really want to know: the Romans marked time within the month from 3 dates: the Calends (yes, as in calendar), the Nones, and the Ides. The Calends were easy: the first of the month. The Nones fell on the 7th in March, May, July and October, and on the 5th at all other times. The Ides fell on the 15th in the four aforementioned months, and on the 13th in the others. To make things worse... alright, I won't tell you that they counted backwards from these dates. I knew you didn't want to know.
All that to say: the Ides of March means plain, simple March 15th, although it came to be something like the equivalent of a "9-11" for the Romans.
Caesar did not heed the soothsayer's warning (or at least not adequately), and was indeed killed in the Senate on the Ides of March, 44 b.c. This led to immediate civil wars in Rome, and some say was part of the reason for the fall of Rome. Since Caesar would have, so far as we can tell, probably managed to die at some point even if he hadn't been murdered, Rome seems to have been without hope.
Caesar's murderers were members of the Roman senate, and friends, "all honorable men" who feared that he was becoming too powerful, leaving behind the equality of the Roman republic. Consequently, they disposed of him. The most famous of these conspirators was Marcus Junius Brutus, who et tued. He was a distant cousin of Caesar's and a particular favorite with the dictator, named as one of his testamentary heirs.
It's not necessarily clear who were the good guys and who were the bad guys in the conflict. Like in other historical and current events, they didn't do us the favor of wearing white hats and black hats so we could set it down and be done with it.
Caesar, from all we can tell, was an ambitious man. He was an authoritative ruler, and even though he did refuse a crown and title of king, he didn't have any problem with being "dictator for life." Like most political leaders who are human, he probably was a mixture of good and bad elements.
Ditto (from the Latin, "dicto," "what was already spoken") for his murderers. Brutus especially in Shakespeare is from the first scene to the last an honorable, noble man-- but he also gave "the most unkindest cut of all" to the man who thought so highly of him and had pardoned him.
So it leaves unsettled the question of the assassins' justification. Were they right in taking the law into their own hands to dispose of a bloody tyrant? Was Brutus truly killing a man he loved because he loved Rome more?
Or were they themselves simply bloody murderers, imposing their own will just as tyrannically as they accused Caesar of doing? Was Brutus the most ungrateful of men? People through history have taken different sides, but we do know that Brutus did not become a heroic figure for the ages.
Whatever you may believe, The Ides and their disastrous results are a reminder to us to be very careful about trying to justify rebellion, and a lesson to all in authority not to abuse it. And we should all remember to beware of ambition, for "by that sin fell the angels."
We should also probably beware of men with lean and hungry looks who read too much, and friends with daggers in their smiles and hands. And if you see furry little hooded creatures running around, you might beware of them too.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
From last week, actually
Because the 8th would have been his 25th birthday.
Bringer of Light
I wish I could remember his face. In my few hazy memories I can never quite make it out. He is always there, but when I try to see his face it fades into a blur of sunshine and shadow.
His name meant “Light-bringer,” and that is how he appears in my remembrance: a source of light so bright I can’t look directly at it, but which leaves a shadow when it is gone.
Occasionally, I see a flash of a look in a younger brother’s eyes I recognize as his, and hold my breath.
Aaron was born in Baton Rouge, La., but anyone could tell he belonged in the wheat fields of Oklahoma. My parents moved there when Aaron was a year and a half to take care of my grandmother. Aaron and Maestro, the Schitzu cocklebur collector, delighted in the wide open spaces and fresh air after the confinement of the city.
Mama and Daddy called him their “farmer boy”: nothing stood between him and helping out with the men’s work in the garden or field. He fit right in with all the outdoor critters in summer; his sunny grin and eyes sparking blue lit up my world.
In my first baby picture, he is holding me. I am a squalling red ball wrapped in a blanket, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gazing down with wonder and favor on his new charge.
His presence was a constant reassurance I took for eternally granted. I didn’t worry about anything, because I knew Aaron was there. He was my protector: when a mean big boy of four tried to pass me in line for the bumper boats, Aaron stopped him. No one cut in front of his sister.
He frequently carried me away to safety on the back of his bay rocking horse, his velvety green sombrero clashing with red and white striped jammies.
Once I tagged along with him and a friend named Andy to the creek half a mile away, where we threw in rocks and watched them splash and ripple into rings. He was six, and I was three, and our mother was proud that he was old enough to take care of me.
Despite his relative maturity, Aaron was still a child. For my third birthday, Dad set up an early camcorder on a tripod in the kitchen and positioned me in front of it for an “interview.”
I shyly avoided his questions, refusing to talk or sing my “birthday song,” until Aaron came through the door. Without turning his smile from the camera, he scooted me over on my chair and sat down.
“Am I on TV?” he asked through his teeth, careful not to break his smile.
“Yes,” Dad said, and Aaron started chattering like one of our hens. Our father asked him if he wanted everyone who saw him on TV to think he was silly.
He shrugged. “Yeah,” he laughed.
I sat up. “When I’m on TV, I’m gonna be siwwy.”
Aaron put his arm around me, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Be silly! You’re on the tape!” I immediately began producing zooming noises while Aaron “she-bop-bopped” beside me.
He bought me a gift that year too, and was almost as excited as I was — he tried to help me open it. It was a pink jewelry box with a cat on the top that looked like Mittens.
He showed me how the drawer opened so I could put in my new hairbows. He was very proud of his taste, and kept asking, “Do you like your present, Hannah? Hannah, do you like your present?”
Every night at eight o’clock our mother would read from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, and tell us a story about when she was little. Then she let us each choose one lullaby, and we would lie in bunk beds in footie pajamas listening to her sing until we fell asleep on pillowslips he had fingerpainted. Music at night still reminds me of the comfort of having him near, and the lack after he was gone.
His favorite hymn was “Trust and Obey.” My mother cried later when we sang it. I whispered, “Aaron?” because I wanted to cry too. She nodded, surprised I understood.
I was only three when he died. His friend Andy prayed for me daily, because I had lost my best friend. God must have answered his prayers, because I don’t remember hurting. I missed him, but I knew Aaron was with Jesus, where he had always wanted to be. What could possibly be more wonderful?
Bringer of Light
I wish I could remember his face. In my few hazy memories I can never quite make it out. He is always there, but when I try to see his face it fades into a blur of sunshine and shadow.
His name meant “Light-bringer,” and that is how he appears in my remembrance: a source of light so bright I can’t look directly at it, but which leaves a shadow when it is gone.
Occasionally, I see a flash of a look in a younger brother’s eyes I recognize as his, and hold my breath.
Aaron was born in Baton Rouge, La., but anyone could tell he belonged in the wheat fields of Oklahoma. My parents moved there when Aaron was a year and a half to take care of my grandmother. Aaron and Maestro, the Schitzu cocklebur collector, delighted in the wide open spaces and fresh air after the confinement of the city.
Mama and Daddy called him their “farmer boy”: nothing stood between him and helping out with the men’s work in the garden or field. He fit right in with all the outdoor critters in summer; his sunny grin and eyes sparking blue lit up my world.
In my first baby picture, he is holding me. I am a squalling red ball wrapped in a blanket, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gazing down with wonder and favor on his new charge.
His presence was a constant reassurance I took for eternally granted. I didn’t worry about anything, because I knew Aaron was there. He was my protector: when a mean big boy of four tried to pass me in line for the bumper boats, Aaron stopped him. No one cut in front of his sister.
He frequently carried me away to safety on the back of his bay rocking horse, his velvety green sombrero clashing with red and white striped jammies.
Once I tagged along with him and a friend named Andy to the creek half a mile away, where we threw in rocks and watched them splash and ripple into rings. He was six, and I was three, and our mother was proud that he was old enough to take care of me.
Despite his relative maturity, Aaron was still a child. For my third birthday, Dad set up an early camcorder on a tripod in the kitchen and positioned me in front of it for an “interview.”
I shyly avoided his questions, refusing to talk or sing my “birthday song,” until Aaron came through the door. Without turning his smile from the camera, he scooted me over on my chair and sat down.
“Am I on TV?” he asked through his teeth, careful not to break his smile.
“Yes,” Dad said, and Aaron started chattering like one of our hens. Our father asked him if he wanted everyone who saw him on TV to think he was silly.
He shrugged. “Yeah,” he laughed.
I sat up. “When I’m on TV, I’m gonna be siwwy.”
Aaron put his arm around me, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Be silly! You’re on the tape!” I immediately began producing zooming noises while Aaron “she-bop-bopped” beside me.
He bought me a gift that year too, and was almost as excited as I was — he tried to help me open it. It was a pink jewelry box with a cat on the top that looked like Mittens.
He showed me how the drawer opened so I could put in my new hairbows. He was very proud of his taste, and kept asking, “Do you like your present, Hannah? Hannah, do you like your present?”
Every night at eight o’clock our mother would read from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, and tell us a story about when she was little. Then she let us each choose one lullaby, and we would lie in bunk beds in footie pajamas listening to her sing until we fell asleep on pillowslips he had fingerpainted. Music at night still reminds me of the comfort of having him near, and the lack after he was gone.
His favorite hymn was “Trust and Obey.” My mother cried later when we sang it. I whispered, “Aaron?” because I wanted to cry too. She nodded, surprised I understood.
I was only three when he died. His friend Andy prayed for me daily, because I had lost my best friend. God must have answered his prayers, because I don’t remember hurting. I missed him, but I knew Aaron was with Jesus, where he had always wanted to be. What could possibly be more wonderful?
Friday, March 09, 2007
For those who...can't understand
We told someone to use his bean, but discovered that he had lentil health problems.
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