Book of me written by you: SNOW!!

Snow storm in 2009.  Taken by me.

Snow.  It’s everywhere right now, so I guess it is time for me to post my thoughts on the fluffy stuff. Well, to be honest, as of this morning it has all melted here in my part of Virginia but it was really pretty while it lasted.  The cold now needs to go too.  Negative wind chill numbers are even keeping the malamute inside.

Growing up in Indiana we had snow most winters, usually starting after Christmas.  As a child I dreamed of white Christmases but had very, very few.  The end of January and into February was when it would really begin to dump snow on my part of the state.  There was more than one spring break that was ruined by cold, wet, snow.

However, it does make me sad that my boys have not had the experiences that I did growing up.  Sledding through deep snow drifts.  Making ramps and jumps for the course.  Snow angels.  Staying out until you were blue and having to strip naked in the hallway as you ran for the hot bath.  They have been sledding only a couple of times, have not even attempted a snow angel, and usually just tromp the slush through the house to their rooms (you want me to take a what?) as I yell at them about dressing appropriately for the weather.

I tried to find pictures of me as a kid playing in the snow, but once again I am left shaking my fist at my family.  Darn you!  Why weren't you shutters bugs like me?!  The pictures I remember of my dad snowshoeing must be at my parents’ house too. Oh well.  No family pictures for you today.

Full-length portrait a man carrying a bundle 
on his back and snowshoes under one arm, 
appearing to walk through a snowy landscape.  
From the Library of Congress.

In the last few weeks many of my friends have been reminiscing about the blizzard of ’77.  Personally, I blizzard of ’78.  Yes, 2 that hit back to back.  It was cold, wet, and as a kid absolutely glorious!  My mom was in school at Indiana University and she used snow shoes to get to class and out of her dorm room.  The drifts were so high they could not use the doors but were walking out the 3^rd floor windows.  School closed, they lived out of the main cafeteria for her dorm to stay warm, and all the girls pitched in to make sure there was enough food for everyone since the staff couldn't make it onto campus.  I, however, made snowmen and tunnels to crawl through with my dad since I was too little for school, plus drank gallons of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows. 

don’t remember that one too well, but I do remember the

Yeah, it was a lot of fun.  As an adult all I want is my mug of Earl Grey, a warm blanket, a good book, and to curl in front of the fire place.  Isn't it funny how your priorities change?

Book of me written by you: Military service

If you have read my blog for any length of time you should have noticed that every generation had a service member.  Duty, patriotism, and service to the nation has always run through the veins of of my family.  While we may never agree with what the party in power states, or have decided to run for public office ourselves to help make changes, the sense of duty to homeland has never wavered. 

In my research I have found a member of the family involved in every major conflict this nation has participated in.  From the founding of the country (and before) to the current conflicts the Arvin, Combs, and associated families were there.  When I look at my husband’s family, while I don’t know as many of the stories, I do know there were heroes among them as well.

Several generations were too young, or too old to participate, however they served on the home front.  Many of my father's family were considered essential personal here at home during WWI and WWII as they worked for the B&O Railroad.  I did find their draft cards, even though they never left home.  

Today I wanted to present a listing of the ancestors, to date, which I confirmed performed military service to the United States during a major conflict.  Included are persons from my husband’s family line as well.  I did not include the names of living people, which is why I stopped at Korea.

I know this is not a complete list, and it I will continue to add to it as my research continues.  Today, however, I remember those who fought, and many died, for the cause they believed in.  It is because of them I enjoy as many of the freedoms I do.

Revolutionary War

James Cannon, headstone
Daviess Co., Indiana
(photo taken by me)

John Foote (Irishman pressed into service by British)

Edward Arvin

Rodolphus Norris

James Cannon

James Drake

Noah Hayden

William Hayden

John Hayden

Stephen Hayden

Enoch Hayden

Solomon Trower

Samuel Givens

John Wilson

Joseph Cody

Charles Combs's war of 1812
Discharge certificate
(document located at NARA)

Benjamin Chamberlain

Amos Hubbell

Salathiel Nickerson

War of 1812

Charles Combs

Henry Arvin

John Foote (Irishman from above who stayed)

Mexican American War

Harry Coad / Henry Thompson
(photo located at NARA)

David Cody

Button Cody

Civil War

Aaron Combs

Byrd Combs

John Joseph Combs

Silas Combs

Pleasant Combs

Charles Combs Jr.

Button Cody

Harry Coad / Henry Thompson

William Hall

Charles Combs Jr (image given to
me by D. Daniel)

Francis Marion Bline

John Kelley

William Kelley

Lemuel Kelley

James Kelley

Armistead Wildman

William Armstrong

James Armstrong

Robert Armstrong

James Taylor

Phillip Greeley

William Bartlett

John Jeremiah Crabb
(photo owned by N. Garrett)

Spanish American War 

John Jeremiah Crabb

William Crabb

World War I

Valentine Bline

World war II

Charles R. Arvin

Gordon Armstrong
George Bennett

Korea

Charles "Charlie" Arvin

  

Charles Arvin
(photo owned by J. Combs)

My Mother

Book of me written by you: unexplained memory

I really struggled this week with this prompt.  I mean really struggled.  For the life of me I cannot think of a memory that I currently have which is unexplained.  Well, perhaps, it was because I have already asked the questions and now I know the answers.

Years ago I had a series of images in my head.  They were vivid memories where I could place many of the people in them but I was unsure of what I was remembering or where it was.  All but one dealt with cold, like it was winter.  I remember my Grandparents, my dad, and a cousin.  Below are the pieces I remembered.

One image was walking across a parking lot on a cold brisk night to a large towering building.  I know am very small because both of my arms were over my head as the people with me were holding onto my hands.  One of them tells me to look up and I can see someone waving down to me.  It is a man sitting in a window.  The light is steaming out of the room about 4 stories up so all I can see is the silhouette. 

Next is a memory of my cousin and me in a busy lobby.  We are sitting on green waiting room type chairs and there is an antiseptic smell to the air.  Everything is bright, shiny, and sterile.  She and I are looking at a monitor where we are talking to my grandfather through the telephone.  I can see him waving at me and I think it is magic.  Grandpa is on TV!  She is sitting with me wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and her long hair is pulled back in a bandana.  She smells like leather and horses, so she must have just come from the farm. 

Then I remember everyone being sad.  I don’t understand why everyone is sad.  We are in a place with thick cushions and long row benches.  I remember being picked up and taken to large box at the end of the room by my dad.

Finally I remember sitting on a grassy hill with my grandmother and we were surrounded by rocks.  I have a toy phone in my hands and I am spinning the wheel pretending to call someone.  Over and over I ask her to call someone, but I couldn’t remember who.  She is speaking to me but I don’t understand what she is trying to tell me.  All I know is that it worked before and I get very upset that she won’t help me make the phone call.

Paul Combs about 25 years old

As adults, I am sure you can piece together that these were memories of the end of a life.  For years I had them in my head, but I couldn’t figure out what I was seeing.  Finally, one day my dad told me the story of how I insisted that grandma was keeping grandpa away from me and that she had to call him.  The pieces literally tumbled into place, and after a few more questions I had the answers to what I was locked in my head all those years.

My grandfather died the November after I turned two years old.  He went into the hospital to fix a decade’s old hip injury by having the joint replaced.  The surgery went perfectly and he was up and healing great.  Then he fell in the bathroom of his hospital room.  Grandpa died several days later when a blood clot broke loose and went to his lung.  The memories I had were those of the last few days of his life, his funeral, and afterwards.

After talking with my dad everything came into focus.  It was my parents taking me to visit him on a cold November evening.  My cousin babysat me in the hospital waiting room since I was too young to go upstairs.  Then there was the funeral and finally my grandmother taking me to his grave to explain to me that she couldn’t call grandpa.  It all made sense and as we talked my memory grew to where I could remember more details.  It was cathartic in a sense as well.  I cried and cried.  Emotions welled up inside of me.  Emotions that I didn’t know I had and I began to feel like there was something bottled up inside of me that was finally released.

Now when I think back on those memories I have more.  I can feel the slight wind on my face from the brisk fall air walking through the parking lot.  The sound of cars on the distant street and my parents murmuring something over my head. Then there was the rush of happiness when I saw papaw sitting in the window waving down at me.

My cousin playing with me and doing her best to keep me entertained in the lobby of the busy hospital.  The feel of the hard plastic phone on my ear and papaws tin like voice coming though it to me.  Talking to me.  Telling me everything was going to be fine and how we would go running around the house when he got home. 

Thankfully I don’t remember the next part, when my small little world tumbled.  It started with a phone call several days later that had my grandmother rushing out of the house in a panic, and my father knowing in his heart his dad was gone.  We were at the house by ourselves so when he got the call to come to the hospital, not telling him why, I had to go with him.  When we arrived he found the room empty and the nurse told him that grandpa had been moved.  The silly woman took him and me to where the body was.  Dad told me I asked where did papaw go because that did not look like him.

The funeral was held at the same funeral home all of our family has been shown at, the room my grandmother would have her wake in 20 years later.  I could now remember without being prompted the dark colored velvet dress I wore with the patent leather shoes and white stockings.  My dad was the one who picked me up and took me to the casket.  He wanted me to be able to say goodbye to my buddy.  Dad told me how he tried to explain that grandpa was asleep now and he couldn’t come home.  I remembered whispering to him, “wake up, please.”

That next spring my grandmother took me to the cemetery.  I was still asking for papaw bringing my toy phone to her and asking her to call him like when he was in the hospital.  She showed me the grave and we sat in the grass.  Grandma cried and sobbed, and I couldn’t make her stop.  I promised never to ask her again.  It was not until I was in college that I asked her about grandpa.  I never realized why I didn’t ask questions about him, only letting her volunteer information, but if I had to guess my promise as a two year old was etched into my memory.  I never wanted to have her cry that like again.

It is amazing to me that someone I only knew for 2 short years could have me sobbing still today.  

Book of my written by you: Halloween

2012 Halloween Costume.  Yes, a witch.

I have written several times on different Halloween topics in this blog, and seeing as it is in a few days it only makes sense that the next prompt in this series is on this subject as well.  This is one of my favorite times of year.  The colors, the crisp air, the smells, the food, I could go on and on.  I have so many wonderful memories from when I was a child and also taking my children out that it was very difficult to pick just one.  So, I didn’t.  Instead I want to share with you some of my favorite memories, and maybe give you a laugh along the way.  Hope you enjoy!

The Swamp Thing From Arvin Pond

I always had homemade costumes.  Only one time can I remember my parents splurging on a costume and that was because as a 4/5 year old I had succumbed to TV marketing and had to have this weird blow up head thingy that EVERYONE was going to wear (do you remember kooky spooks? I had the black cat).  Anyway, like I was saying, usually they were homemade whatever you could find lying around the house costumes.  When I was in 2^nd grade I was the “Swamp Thing From Arvin Pond.” 

My dad put this one together.  I wore a snorkeling mask, had the breathing tube thingy for snorkeling, and then was wrapped in a white sheet.  Yep, that was it.  Since we lived out in the country trick-or-treating consisted of going to my local great aunts and uncles houses.  I got caramel apples, homemade peanut brittle, toffee, but best of all was a piece of my great aunt Jean’s fresh out of the oven lemon meringue pie. 

It was so good; the lemon smell, still warm, creamy and tangy with the light fluff on top.  Yumm!  I can still remember her bringing it out of the oven and putting a piece in front of the swamp thing so it would leave the family alone that night.  Oh yeah, she really played it up.

Mom’s Mini-Me

At ten I was the almost same height as my mother.  I also had the same shoe size, which did not please her at all.  There was a six month time frame where I ruined almost every pair of shoes she had because I wanted to wear them, and they fit, so I did.  Anyway, this was a good thing when once again it was Halloween and I needed a costume.  Never being one to plan things out way in advance I was asked at school to go trick-or-treating with a friend in her neighborhood.  I had 2 hours, what was I going to wear.

Mom was home that night, amazingly enough.  She was in her 3^rd year of medical school and it was a rare that I saw her.  So, when she found me desperately searching through my closet for something to wear she stopped me, brought me into her room, and handed me her uniform.  With the assistance of my mom she dressed me up in her BDUs, put her combat boots on my feet, painted my face, and gave me a rucksack to carry my candy in.  It was AWESOME!

Even better, was when I was trick-or-treating and one of the houses we went to was the home of her classmate.  At first she confused me from my mom until she realized that under that get-up was her daughter.

Pumpkins or Turnips

We always, ALWAYS, carve pumpkins.  Sometimes we toast the seeds, sometimes not, but the pumpkins must be carved!  In college I took a folklore class as one of my electives and I read a story about carving turnips instead.  Well I had this brilliant idea that instead of pumpkins that year we would have carved turnips.

Now turnips are small, really small, but hat was not going to stop me!  I carved 8 turnips until I had blisters on my hands and my fingers ached.  They were really cool though, and we did get quite a few comments from the parents of trick-or-treaters. 

The next time I had this brilliant idea…I went for the rutabaga instead.  They are just a really large turnips, right?

Book of me written by you: Grandparents

My grandmothers in Washington D.C. May 1988

Thoughts on my grandparents are mixed and wonderful.  I learned a lot about my grandfathers from stories my family told, particularly those from my grandmothers.  My maternal grandfather died two years before I was born right after my mother graduated from high school.  While I have a few memories of my paternal grandfather they are shadowy and vague.  More like impressions than real memories.  He died shortly after I turned two years old.

My grandmothers were my rocks at times.  We lived with one or the other until I was 8.  Then every summer until I was 13 I was sent home to visit.   They taught me all sort of things and took me all sorts of places.  Each was very different and even as a young girl I can remember thinking that they couldn’t be less a like. 

Grandmother Arvin was an officer’s wife.  She had pictures and stories from all over the world. I played dress up in her old 1950-60s taffeta dresses and costume jewelry.  However, under it all she was still, at times, the rural farm girl.  She canned, gardened, make dinner for sick friends, participated in civic events, and was very down to earth.  A brilliant woman, she gave up her dreams of college to be a wife and mother.  She told me once she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Maxine Armstong Arvin
High School Picture

Her one bad habit (besides loving hard candies and being diabetic) was chain smoking.  Prescribed to her as a stress reliever during WWII, she could never quite kick the habit.  I have vivid memories of her sitting at her kitchen table for hours with a small glass of orange juice, hard core bodice ripper novel in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.  She came to live with us while I was in high school and we cared for her until her death during my junior year.

Grandmother Combs was a retired school teacher and very, very stubborn.  She seemed to fight tooth and nail her whole life for everything and wasn’t afraid to let you know her opinion.  Grandma lived in the same town her entire life and wasn’t going to be told she couldn’t do anything.  She traveled, severed in many organizations for teachers and professional women, and earned a master’s degree.  I know at times she was a handful, but her spunk and go get ‘em attitude always made me admire her. 

Ruth Brennan Combs
First Communion Picture

We were always on the move at her house visiting people, seeing things, or even doing crafts.  As a former kindergarten teacher she always had an overflowing stash of construction paper and crafty objects.  You could never keep her down, which is why when I think she didn’t feel she could be “normal” again after her surgeries for colon cancer, grandma literally gave up.  She died when I was a junior in college, the week before Christmas.

It makes me sad that my kids will not have the honor of meeting these amazing people.  There are times that I look back on that time of my life and wish that I had spent more time with them, thanked them more, and told them I loved them more.  As a teenager you sometimes do not realize what types of gifts are in front of you until you lose them.

Book of Me Written by You: Journaling

I tried on and off for many years to keep a journal, I was just never very successful.  My first was given to me when I was 6 by my maternal grandmother.  I can remember it very clearly.  It was huge in my little hands, with a Holly Hobbie motif and glided edges.  Not really knowing what to do with it, and being in first grade, my entries talked about all sorts of things.  Entries were erratic and covered topics from what happened at school to how unfair my parents were.  The diary was lost long ago, but I have to say I wish I could see it now.  It probably would cause me to giggle.

My next diary was given to me by my paternal grandmother when I was 10.  It quickly became less about what was actually happening in my life and what I wish my life was like. Then and in the future.  At 10, or 5^th grade, I had a lot of turmoil in my life.  To be honest I really don’t know why.  My family life was fine but I was making poor choices with friends, getting into trouble, and being rebellious in many ways to put it mildly.  My journaling was the way I escaped from reality.  It was pure fantasy, written like it was really happening.  I wrote on and off in it until I was 12 and then I lost it during a move.  Then, quite by chance, I found it in the bottom of a trunk when I was 16.  Appalled by what I read, and scared people might think that was really what went on in my life then, I burned it.

In college my recording of events, thoughts, and emotions came from my calendars.  I kept very in-depth calendars of my class and work schedules.  In the margins I made comments about what was going on when, hearts around important dates, and other little symbols to remind me of people and groups.  In fact, my calendar only recently went from handwritten to digital, and that was at the prompting of my husband.  For the last year I have used my calendar on the computer for my appointments, and you could say this site for my thoughts.  Well, at least my genealogy thoughts.

There is also a partial journal from when I was pregnant with my oldest child.  At the time I thought it would be a wonderful heirloom; a written record of the appointments, thoughts, and happenings surrounding the birth of our first child.  It abruptly stops at 25 weeks, the time my oldest was born via emergency C-section, and the start of the rollercoaster ride that comes with being a NICU parent.  I kept daily accounts of that time and put them into a scrap book for my son.  It was my  therapy to say the least.

Several years ago I began a private livejournal account.  I loved my livejournal.  Yes, I said loved.  To be honest since I started writing here more and writing other places more frequently, writing for me fell to the wayside.  I keep telling myself I will go back, it just hasn’t happened yet.  What I love is that I was able to make a book out of all the journal entries I created.  Now, even if I lose my account, I won’t lose my memories. 

One day I will learn life balance and will be able to write what I want, when I want, how I want, and

hopefully that means I will pick up journal writing again.  Not, just recording dates, names, and places.  Cause we all know that is boring! 

Book of Me, Written by You: Childhood home

Memories Revisited

I honestly don’t think I have what most people would call a “childhood home.”  Of course, I also realized as an adult that I do not fall into any set category for what most people think of as a normal childhood.  However, that is a different post.

To let you understand why I feel this way, here is a timeline of places I lived before I turned 18:

·         For the first few months we lived with my mother’s mother then we moved in with my father’s parents

·         We lived with my father’s parents until I was halfway through kindergarten.

·         For 5 months we lived with my mother (who had lived 100 miles away in another town as a teacher) in the town she taught. 

·         My mother went back to school and we moved back in with her mother while I was in 1^st and 2^nd grade.  Then, my mom joined the army and went to medical school.

·         We lived in one town (an apartment and then bought a townhouse) for 5 years.

·         She was stationed on a closed post for a year, where I went to the base school.

·         For the next 4 years we lived in the house my parents bought while she went through residency.

·         I then went to college and started a new string of places I lived with my now husband.

Whew!  That was a lot wasn’t it?  So which do I consider my child hood home?  I went to see my grandmothers every summer from the time I was 9 to 13. Back to the homes I had briefly lived in, so maybe those were my childhood homes?  Or, could it be the house my parents bought when I was in high school, rented out while they were gone, and now live in again.  That is the house my boys think of as “my family” home.  Honestly I just don’t know, and I can’t pick one. 

So…how about I tell you some of the things I liked or remember about the ones from Indiana? 

My dad’s parents lived in a split level home cut into the side of a hill.  The basement is where everyone did everything.  The family card games during the holidays (Euchre anyone?) and the TV was there too.  It was damp, and for several years flooded.  It was always weird to go down there and find mushrooms growing out of the carpet. 

From The Hikers Notebook

The land around the house was amazing as they lived in the country about 10 minutes from town.  There was a big front yard that my dad later planted grapes in and my grandmother made homemade wine from.  Grandma always had white and purple flags in the yard (Irises for the rest of the world) and I would sit for hours under a huge oak tree in the front yard making flower chains out of wild clover flowers.  The backyard was a steep hill that was wooded.  I never went up there because one time I saw a HUGE black snake come out of my favorite playing place and it scared the dickens out of me.  There was an apple tree that accidentally grew there from a half-eaten apple my grandmother threw out of her back yard.  Also, right off the back porch, my grandmother a large mint patch.  She would sit there and pick mint leaves to put in her tea every morning.

My mother’s mother lived in 2 different houses.  The first one was the one that my grandfather built on his portion of the family land after he retired from the army. It was four levels and massive.  Partially built into the top of a hill it was a home for entertaining.  Hardwood floors, balconies, a large formal living room, and spacious halls.  It was on many acres, I don’t know how many exactly, but I think 20.  There was a horse pasture and barn that I spent a lot of time in.  I loved playing in the hay loft even though I was told not to because it was too dangerous.  At the bottom of the hill was a man made pond that we swam and fished in.  It was had the pump house which pumped and filtered the water because living in the country we did not have water run to the house and drank the pond water.  There was a pussy willow tree that I loved so much too.  They are so soft, and the tree was small enough that I could climb and sit in it even when I was 4.

When we moved out so my mom could go to medical school grandma decided she should really downsize, and sold the house.  She moved into another of her family homes on an adjacent property.  Her sister had lived there, and after Bea died she rented it out to several people.  It was smaller, much smaller, but it had the most amazing patch of blackberries and gooseberries.  My dad also planted wild grapes that he found in the wood in her yard too.  I would spend days picking stuff in the summer for grandma to can (in addition to my 2 uncles gardens where I picked veggies continually).  There was a creepy basement that I never went in, unless forced, and a hot attic.  I can still hear the squeaky creaking the ladder made when you would pull it down from the ceiling and the smell of cedar, dust, and heat that would come from the door when it was opened. 

victoriana.com

My mom lived in a studio apartment when she was teaching.  Dad and I visited, but the time I remember best was when we lived there for the spring semester my kindergarten year.  I slept in an impromptu bed (cushions and sleeping bag) in a bay window of the main room.  Across the room my parents slept in what I can only think was a built in seating area that was supposed to be a couch.  The best part, and most fascinating for a 5 year old, was the antique claw foot bathtub.  It was amazing.

I think the other homes will have to be another post.

The Book of Me, Written by You: Favorite Season

Photo By: Mark Shaw 2010

Each season has its good spots and its bad spots.  Things you can do during it that you really can’t do any other time of year.  That is why picking a favorite is very, very hard.  However, since I am supposed to tell you my favorite season, I guess I should pick one.  For me it is fall.

I look forward to fall every year.  Seeing the bursts of colors on the trees in yellows, reds, and oranges hanging above your head, falling around your knees and carpeting the ground is glorious.  Some of my favorite memories are walking to my various classes on the Indiana University Campus during a fall rain shower. (See this page for what I am talking about)  The smell of the leaves, the crispness of the air, with the trunks of the trees black from rain, and the leaves glittering in their fall colors made me late for class on more than one occasion. 

Clothes are the next reason I love this season the most.  There will be Indian Summer days that require shorts and T-shirts, but the fall colors really start to appear in fashion choices by the first of October.  The warm colors, and earth tones which are my favorite colors anyway, warm up those chilly days.  The fabrics and textures just add to the feeling of warmth and coziness.  You are reminded that winter is just around the corner but right now you relish the thought that you don’t have to wear a jacket, gloves, and hat.

Of course, how could you forget that this is the official start of boot season?  There is knee high, ankle high and everywhere in between high.  Yes, I know you can wear boots in other times of the year, but there is something about that first brisk fall day, breaking out the boots and wearing them with jeans or skirts.

Then there is the food.  Pumpkin pies, apple everything, yams with marshmallows, soups, baking; oh my I could go on and on.  Going to a pumpkin patch with my kids, or a fall festival, and being able to sip hot apple cider with a toasty snack is heaven on earth.  It is also the number one reason I put on 10 pounds this time of year I am sure.

Finally, school starts back up.  Yes, I am a bad mom; I count down the days my kids go back to school.  The start of fall signals that mommy time is back.  Fall cleaning begins (aka recovering the house from 2 boys home for 3 months), I get to catch up on all the things that I can’t concentrate on with my kids around, oh and quiet.  Getting to sit with the doors and windows open, catching a fall breeze, no music or TV on, and just being one with my thoughts for several hours a day.

My memories of the harvest season also make this one of my favorite times.  I am not sure why, but watching the crops grow all spring and summer and then seeing the combines in the fields always gave me good feelings.  It could be because I know there was a successful harvest and friends and family will now have money.  It could be because it is the sign that yes, fall has arrived and winter is just around the corner.  Maybe even because I have awesome memories from when I was a kid going on a night time harvest with my aunt and uncle.  I really don’t know.

What I do know is that I have broken out my sweaters, boots, and fall clothes.  I have been lucky enough to wear them already, the leaves are turning and falling, and I can’t wait to get some fall foods in my tummy.

Are you still there??

I am here, I am alive, and I am still chugging along.  Just wanted to stop by and say “Don’t leave me, I will be back!”

 

In my queue of blog posts that are in progress, and some that just need editing, are quite the variety of posts.  There will be more “Book of Me” posts, thoughts on school, tombstone goodies, family trips, and things like that.  I just have to get through the weekend, and then I promise to schedule a ton of goodies for you all to read.

The Boston University program, and preparing 3 lectures for the month of October, has stolen my free time away.  One of those lectures is for Family Tree on Virginia Records.  I would love to know if you will be attending my first webinar with them.  Friendly faces in the “crowd” would be a welcome thought.  You can check out more on the presentation at their website.

Last week I added up the hours I worked on the class during the first month. For the program I am averaging 5 hours a day, 5 days a week, or 25 hours in classwork, homework, and reading a week.  Only 5 days since I need to have a couple days scheduled off for family time and other scheduled activities.  Weekends are last resort work times I decided when I started the program.  Even though it is only three months I cannot cut out my family, moms just aren't really allowed to.  Particularly the ones that work from home.  I am pleased with my overall performance in the class, but I will admit getting back into the swing of things more than a decade after leaving college took a bit.  The perfectionist in me tends to make things a bit more difficult, and on occasion I over think things too leading to interesting commentary.  I am determined to pull an A in the class.

  

Just a few short months and then I will be back to where I should be, and not with my head stuck in a book or staring at a computer screen for hours and hours. No, wait, that’s not right.  I think I was doing that already anyway.  Oh well, so much for change.

The Book of Me, Written by You: Looking in the mirror

This week’s prompt was to describe yourself, in agonizing detail, in your journal.  I went on for pages, since most of you know that I over share and talk, a lot.  Well, just so you know, below is the edited version.  I only share the choicest bits with my followers you know. Plus, there are only some bits that I feel comfortable letting the WHOLE world know.  There you have it; I censored myself just for you.

First off, if you can’t tell from the pictures on this site and my profile page, I am a pale girl.  I have not always been this pale, but my times of lying around the pool, running around in the sun, and in general going outside without sunscreen plastered all over came to an end a while ago.  Kids have made my life a bit crazy so I have not had a tan in nearing on a decade.  In addition you may notice that I have reddish hair, kind of a dark auburn.  I like it, and we will call it my color of choice. 

As for height I am on the petite side, just under 5’5” and fall in between my parents.  My feet used to be a 7, and then I had kids. Now they are an 8 ½ or 9 depending on the style.  Not something I would ever have dreamed of when I had kids you know.  I also have 2 beauty marks on the left side of my face.  One is on the curve of my jaw below my ear and the other next to my nose.

This was the best close up I could
get of my eyes. Yep, no makeup
on either...

If you are really good you would also have noticed that I have brown eyes in my pictures.  My brown eyes are not really brown.  My mom and I have the same type of eyes: light brown with gold rings in them. They are very unique.  When I went to the school of optometry in college they always had the students come in and look at my eyes, which always boggled my mind until I asked what was going on.  It also happened to my mom when she was in school.  You see, we have what are known as amber eyes.  This refers to the fact that our eyes appear brown but they actually have a golden hue to them, like amber and are among the rarest of eye colors in the world.  Mine have gold rings and a copper overtone and are not like a lot of the pictures you see of the near yellow eyes. The optometrist told me it is due to the fact that I have a higher concentration of lipochrome then others with brown eyes.  

I do have piercings, 2 in each ear. The first set my Grandmother Combs took me to get for my 11^th birthday, against the wishes of my parents.  The second piercing was done when I was 17 (I lied and told the lady I was 18), again against the wishes of my parents.  Yeah, I thought they were so old school, it was just an ear piercing you know. My mom didn’t get hers done until she was in her 20s so I guess I can see why the thought I should wait. Those are the only ones I have, by the way, and as of today I have no tattoos.

I have three scars on my face located on my chin, forehead, and right ear.  Since you can see them in pictures, I thought I would be best to talk about them.  They were all “fixed” when I was 13.  Talk about a wonderful time to have sutures on your face, 8^th grade, sigh. However, here are the stories behind them.

First off, I was born with a Preauricular pit on my left ear.  This is a congenital defect of the ear that occurs when the ear does not fuse correctly during formation.  No big deal really, most people never notice it and live their whole lives with no problems. I however had frequent infections.  The “pit” is a tube that goes into your ear and because of this can become infected. The surgeon closed it up and I have not had a problem since. I read recently that this may be an inherited trait, which I can believe as my first cousins daughter had one too.  She had hers operated on when she was 15.

On my forehead I had a particularly large chicken pox scar from when I was 5. It was very large, round, and deep. When I was in elementary school I was teased by many kids that I was actually Indian and not from Indiana because I already had my “mark.” One of my best friends at the time was Indian and she would always just yell back how she would take me as a sister.  They took out the scar and now I have a small thin line on my forehead.  Most people now do not notice that there is anything there.

Lastly, and the most impressive, is the scar on my chin.  It is my badge of honor for what happens when you goof off and don’t listen to your soccer coach dad.  When I was 5 we were dismissed for a water break during soccer practice. Well, you see the playground was on the way to the water fountain, and I just HAD to go down the slide on the way.  All I can remember is that someone yelled to me, I kept running turning my head to yell over my shoulder, turned my head back around, and BAM! I hit the steel support leg for the slide and slit my chin open to the bone.  My mother was the lucky one who took the crying, snotty, screaming me to the ER for stitches.  Of course what I remember from the ER was my mom (who was 25) spinning on the stool next to me because she was bored. I kept thinking that it looked like fun.

The stitches were bad, 15 in total, and they left a deep highly notable scar across the point of my chin.  The surgeon who fixed the other 2 repaired this one at the same time.  He did some fancy plastic surgery stuff on it that made it less sunk and more blended.  Yes, you can still see it, but it’s just not as noticeable like before.  In picture I no longer have a shadow cast by my scar on my chin.

I wear a wedding band and my replacement engagement ring on my left hand.  The band is gold with a braid decoration in the center.  The other is white gold with my favorite stone as the focal, a sapphire.  I tend to

wear a ring on my other ring finger as well.  Usually it is my Indiana University class ring, but I do change it to others when dressing up.  

To the side here is a picture of my right hand with my class ring on it.  It was a bit painful to put my hand into that position as I have developed swelling and stiffness in my fingers over the last several years.  My hands are tiny too. XXS men's gloves fit me just about right.  From the palm of my hand to the tip of my middle finger is about 6.5 inches.

Well, I think that is about it.  If you want to know more, or see the rest, you'll have to come over or see me around sometimes. 

See you next week for post 4!

The story of me prompt 2: your birth

Young woman kissing baby in bassinet from the 
Library of Congress

The Prompt for week 2 is your birth:

Do you have any baby photos?

Where were you born?

Who was present at your birth?

Dimensions?

What day was it? Time?

Did you have hair? Eye colour

Are you a twin?

The story of my birth is not a very exciting one but has been recounted to me many, many times. My mother had taken the year off from school. She married my dad immediately following the end of her 2^nd semester her freshman year.  14 months later she had me, and she went back to school 6 weeks after that. However, that is another story, for another day.

My family is a storytelling one. In fact, we will repeat the same ones over, and over, and over again much to the annoyance of those who have married into it. I think it is because we honestly don’t remember that we have told the story and because good stories never go bad.  I am sure you can relate.

Prior to my birth, my mom was on a very good regionally known women’s softball team and my dad was the Coach.  They were The Washington Stars.  Dad still talks about how mom could really hit the ball out of the park at 8 months pregnant but unfortunately running the bases was a bit difficult.  She waddled too much to be effective.  When you talk to my mom about it, she is still upset; she could never hit the ball like that again thanks to physics.

On the day of my birth my mom and dad went to work like normal.  Dad owned a sporting goods store and mom was his main (i.e. only) employee.  She spent all morning scrubbing floors on her hands and knees because she wanted to stay busy.  Finally, about lunch time, mom announced that it was time to go and off they went to the hospital.

It was hot, muggy, and horribly sticky that day.  You guessed it, summer in the Midwest.  A make your potato chips go soggy kind of day with and no air conditioning. My grandmother told me one time I was born in the middle of a heat wave with temperatures in the high 90s.  The part my mom remembers: no AC in the delivery ward and giant rotating fans pointed at her to try and keep her comfortable. Let me just tell you, it didn’t.

I was born in the same hospital that my dad was born in.  Several generations of my family, on both sides were born in this town, just not all in the hospital. My mom had 2 nurses with her as no one else was allowed in the room and dad says he sat and read a novel in the waiting room.  If you ask their versions of how the time passed it really is an interesting testament to how times have changed.

My hospital  picture (aka baby mugshot)

In my mom’s room she has 2 women she didn’t know nor by the end of it liked very much.  Unfortunately there were consequences to my birth that were not fixed for over 30 years due to the doctor’s incompetence in stitching.  I don’t use those words lightly, those are the words my mother (the MD) uses to describe her care by this man. While my mother was in labor dad sat and watched, amused, the other nervous father’s pacing and chain smoking.  He sat in a corner, watching, reading, and drinking a coffee.  You see there’s a large age gap between my parents.  My father was in his mid-30s at the time and not like the young fathers in that room who couldn’t calm down and were in near states of panic.

At 4pm that hot summer Friday afternoon I was born, screaming the whole time. I weighted 7lbs 12oz and was 21 inches long. My dad talks about how he could hold my head is in hand and my feet would curl around his elbow. I guess this “football” hold was one of my favorites.  Of course I had the dark blue eyes that babies are born with.  In my case they would not stay blue and turn eventually to match my mother’s brown and gold fleck colored eyes.  On my head was a mop of dark brown hair with the glimpse of the widow’s peak that I inherited from my maternal grandmother.

We only stayed in the hospital overnight and by the next evening we were at my maternal grandmother’s house.  Then my story really begins…

Are you writing a book of me?

Image by Meg Rosoff

Every so often I participate in blogging prompts or series.  These help to stimulate my thinking, writing, and push me in ways that most often really surprise me.  You can find the various blogging prompts here on my site as well as on various author’s websites.  For example, Fearless Females that runs every March during Women's History Month and created by The Accidental Genealogist, Lisa Alzo.

Starting this past Saturday on the Anglers Rest blog by Julie Goucher a new 15 month series of blogging prompts titled “The Book of Me, Written by You.”  Designed from a workshop format, this series of prompts encourage you write and explore yourself.  Think of it as an opportunity for you to take time, once a week, to write about yourself and not your ancestors.  Creating in a short time a book that you can hand down reflecting you, your thoughts, your personality, in a word YOU!

I plan on participating in this here, and on my laptop.  If the prompt for the week is a bit too personal for me to post on the internet I hope you understand.  I will still post the prompt for those playing along at home so you can keep up. 

My next step is to see how many of my family I can get to follow along as well. Wouldn't it be fantastic to have several of these to hand down?

So...what are you waiting for? 

Prompt 1:  Ask yourself 20 times “Who are you?”

1              Funny

2              Smart

3              Geeky

Taken from an exhibition of Jean-Michel Folon

4              Foodie

5              Day dreamer

6              Investigator

7              Chocolate eater

8              Wine appreciator

9              Writer

10           Scientist

11           Wife

12           Mother

13           Daughter

14           Historian

15           Plant Killer

16           Reader

17           Music lover

18           Creative

19           Artistic

20           Giggly

Does this give you an idea of the type of person I am in my head at least?