I'm so tired of hearing those words about my mother. People, I can see for myself that she's very sick. The thing is, as my sister points out on her blog, she's not ready to die (as in, pulling the plug on the dialysis).
For months now it has really disturbed, to say the least, me that there is really no place for my mom. If she were wealthy, we could afford quality care for her as she teeters on the brink.
Likewise if she were poor. MassHealth would provide for her care and there would be little, if any, problems.
Sadly for us, my parents are solidly middle class folk. That means that Michigan Blue Cross will pay for "rehab" but not nursing home "maintenance" care. Many people, I read, end up dying because they can no longer afford to live.
Even 20 or so years ago, she probably would have been allowed to slip away last January, when the renal failure was diagnosed. And don't even get me started on the cause of the renal failure. Just don't get me started.
None of us plans to ever be in his position ourselves. But who knows what our reality will be?
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Disaster at sea wiki
My sister Sarah (the one who lives in Gloucester and who is crazy for shipwrecks) has created a wiki called Disaster At Sea. There's nothing there yet but she welcomes content.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
On another personal note
My 13-y.o. nephew James got a perfect score on his mathematics MCAS.
He attends the Beebe School in Malden. He's also been writing comic books and novels for as long as I can remember.
The Force runs strong in our family ... ohhhh drat, not the math Force but the writing Force. The math stuff must have come from my brother-in-law's side.
Anyway, we are all so proud of him, as always. He's a good kid.
He attends the Beebe School in Malden. He's also been writing comic books and novels for as long as I can remember.
The Force runs strong in our family ... ohhhh drat, not the math Force but the writing Force. The math stuff must have come from my brother-in-law's side.
Anyway, we are all so proud of him, as always. He's a good kid.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Another Christmas story
Every Christmas Eve we would drive to Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Bud's house. It was the tradition - and the way we exchanged gifts with my dad's family (sister Sylvia and other sister Mildred and families).
It wasn't very far, but every year I would worry that someone would break into our house and steal all the really good gifts under our tree, at home.
Isn't it just too cool that my Christmas memories involve worry?
Anyway ... we'd get to Aunt Sylvia's, where it was always about 85 degrees. I think we wore shorts and T-shirts.
She always had these gigantic trees with equally gigantic ornaments and lights. I recall a string of some kind of plastic cylinder with a whirlygig inside that rotated with the heat from the light. It was kind of fascinating, actually.
She was also the first person in the family to get a color TV. Well, she and Uncle Bud (he was the one who shot his dog in the ass while hunting, from some random story I told months ago).
We always had overcooked turkey and scalloped potatoes from Aunt Mildred that had unidentifiable black bits in it.
Aunt Mildred had 3 children who turned Jehovah's Witness. At first they would appear on Christmas Eve and lecture us about the fallacy of the celebration. Then they stopped coming altogether, which was a drag in one way but not in other ways.
Aunt Sylvia died a few years back - on Christmas Day.
We hadn't had the Christmas Eve get together for years because she and Uncle Bud had moved 'up north' (northern Michigan) and then my immediate family all moved out here. Uncle Bud had died a few years before.
But I do remember a later Christmas Eve, at Aunt Mildred's house. All I remember is watching a video of The Nutcracker ballet featuring Michail Baryshnikov, and Aunt Mildred commenting about his ... well, let's just say it was surprising, but hilarious.
P.S. No one has sent me a Christmas memory. I'm going to have to start making them up soon.
It wasn't very far, but every year I would worry that someone would break into our house and steal all the really good gifts under our tree, at home.
Isn't it just too cool that my Christmas memories involve worry?
Anyway ... we'd get to Aunt Sylvia's, where it was always about 85 degrees. I think we wore shorts and T-shirts.
She always had these gigantic trees with equally gigantic ornaments and lights. I recall a string of some kind of plastic cylinder with a whirlygig inside that rotated with the heat from the light. It was kind of fascinating, actually.
She was also the first person in the family to get a color TV. Well, she and Uncle Bud (he was the one who shot his dog in the ass while hunting, from some random story I told months ago).
We always had overcooked turkey and scalloped potatoes from Aunt Mildred that had unidentifiable black bits in it.
Aunt Mildred had 3 children who turned Jehovah's Witness. At first they would appear on Christmas Eve and lecture us about the fallacy of the celebration. Then they stopped coming altogether, which was a drag in one way but not in other ways.
Aunt Sylvia died a few years back - on Christmas Day.
We hadn't had the Christmas Eve get together for years because she and Uncle Bud had moved 'up north' (northern Michigan) and then my immediate family all moved out here. Uncle Bud had died a few years before.
But I do remember a later Christmas Eve, at Aunt Mildred's house. All I remember is watching a video of The Nutcracker ballet featuring Michail Baryshnikov, and Aunt Mildred commenting about his ... well, let's just say it was surprising, but hilarious.
P.S. No one has sent me a Christmas memory. I'm going to have to start making them up soon.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
My sister took this picture of the house we lived in, when we first moved from Clio to Flint (Mich.) in 1971. This would be the house with the ghost.It seems to me to be basically the same, except for the fences and maybe that evergreen tree at the corner of the house. Oh, and the evergreen bushes in front of that wooden fence.
Strangers used to feel free to trounce through the area between the house and the garage, which was a brick patio, as a short cut (or for a more nefarious purpose). I guess that explains all the fences in the front (there always was one at the back of the house).
You can't see it because of the tree branches, but my sister said the roof was not in good repair. Otherwise, it looks as if the current occupants are keeping up the place.
I really loved this house. In fact, when we walked in as prospective buyers, I made the pronouncement, "This is the one." My sister the other day surprised me by saying she always thought it "funereal," in appearance at least.
Monday, August 4, 2008
She came from Planet Claire
Speaking of Barbados, I can remember being on the plane from the island to New York City and then being in NYC. I had just turned 7 years old.
I can still see the constant flow of traffic that I watched, fascinated, from the window of our hotel/motel. I was a little girl on a big adventure, and I had no idea that I would not return to Barbados until I was an adult.
Strangely, I cannot recall my first view of Michigan or the farm in rural Clio, where we ended up. If my mother's memory serves her well at this point, she was less than thrilled.
Not that Barbados was any hot shakes back then. It was not a big tourist destination at that point, so I had never seen that many cars on any road, ever. I also had never seen television. Or snow.
For years after, when it snowed, I would just sit and watch it fall into the light of our outside flood. And chew my fingernails down to the quick. I stopped doing that only after I began smoking.
The United States was the third country in which my mother took up residency. Can you imagine? She was born in Liverpool, moved to London, moved to Barbados after she married my biological father (when I was 3 months old), then moved there (Michigan) to marry a second time.
Now she lives in Gloucester, with a stop in Connecticut in between. My mother will be 78 years old in October.
I keep telling her to write it all down, write it all down, Mom. Now she wants a blog.
Heaven help us all!
I can still see the constant flow of traffic that I watched, fascinated, from the window of our hotel/motel. I was a little girl on a big adventure, and I had no idea that I would not return to Barbados until I was an adult.
Strangely, I cannot recall my first view of Michigan or the farm in rural Clio, where we ended up. If my mother's memory serves her well at this point, she was less than thrilled.
Not that Barbados was any hot shakes back then. It was not a big tourist destination at that point, so I had never seen that many cars on any road, ever. I also had never seen television. Or snow.
For years after, when it snowed, I would just sit and watch it fall into the light of our outside flood. And chew my fingernails down to the quick. I stopped doing that only after I began smoking.
The United States was the third country in which my mother took up residency. Can you imagine? She was born in Liverpool, moved to London, moved to Barbados after she married my biological father (when I was 3 months old), then moved there (Michigan) to marry a second time.
Now she lives in Gloucester, with a stop in Connecticut in between. My mother will be 78 years old in October.
I keep telling her to write it all down, write it all down, Mom. Now she wants a blog.
Heaven help us all!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Family ties?
I was checking into some of the surviving letters Jane Austen wrote to her sister. In at least one letter, she makes reference to the neighbors the St. Johns, who paid a visit.
It seems that this family lived in a house called Ashe Park. Now, of course, this was nearly 100 yrs. after my St. John ancestors show up in Barbados. But I can't find any other reference to this family.
I did, however, come across this somewhat callous observation made in one of Austen's letters:
Mrs. Hall, of Sherborne, was brought to bed yesterday of a dead child, some weeks before she expected, owing to a fright. I suppose she happened unawares to look at her husband.
It seems that this family lived in a house called Ashe Park. Now, of course, this was nearly 100 yrs. after my St. John ancestors show up in Barbados. But I can't find any other reference to this family.
I did, however, come across this somewhat callous observation made in one of Austen's letters:
Mrs. Hall, of Sherborne, was brought to bed yesterday of a dead child, some weeks before she expected, owing to a fright. I suppose she happened unawares to look at her husband.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
It works!
I got an email over the weekend from a man whose wife is my second cousin - or something. He had come across my blog while, I believe, researching his wife's family. This would be family in Barbados.
His wife's grandfather is the same person as my great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin. I had never heard of her father, but there's a reason for that. In Barbados, it is called the "outside child" - although my correspondent says his father-in-law lived some of the time with my Grannie and her siblings at the plantation.
Who cares about this which side of the blanket stuff? Not me! I'm just very excited that I found a real long-lost relative (and acknowledged "outside" children are common in Barbados). This new info doesn't shed any light on the Irish-African angle I proposed earlier in my blogging, but that's OK.
Welcome to the family!
Blogging, part III
I was just reading Ari Herzog's blog and clicked on a link at the end of his most recent post (as of this writing, anyway). The link I clicked on was "blogger in a post-literate society," which led me to all kinds of pieces speculating about blogging and whether it is journalism and so on.
But what I got most out of it all (aside from the fact that I never have considered myself a "journalist" and Bob Gould and I talked about that when I met him; he did not, either), was the privacy angle and ones personal life being out there, for all to see.
I've had a couple of people now question why I put something so personal as the post about my uncle on my blog. I replied to the last person, "If it helped just one person, it was worth it."
Not that it is/was any skin off my nose, at the time. I told my mother about my experience, and because it stopped, I assumed that something was said. But in the long run, it didn't stop because no one wanted to openly talk about it, myself included. But I was just a kid.
And then, the other day, I felt I had to write the 'apologetic' post as a followup. I felt worse about that post than about the original post, although I'm not sorry I recounted the good things I remembered about my uncle.
My younger siblings did not experience any of those things, although my sisters did inherit the Barbie sports car. (Because I am the product of my mother's first marriage, my next sibling is 9 years younger than I. My mother remarried when I was 7 years old.)
I could have written the post as a third-person account, I suppose, but I always think first-person accounts have more impact.
So .... Why is everything such a secret?
I remember when my youngest sister had her first child, she felt like she was a failure as a mother because it was a struggle to get my niece to breast feed at first.
As it turned out, this is a common problem. Babies have to be 'trained' to breast feed. Where was this ever portrayed on TV/movies, or written about in books preparing one to be a first-time mother? My sister is not an uninformed person, she reads a lot, but yet, she did not know this.
Neither did a friend of mine, who more recently went through the same thing after she had her first child. I told her about my sister having the same 'problem,' and my friend felt better about herself (and the child).
And it is an embarrassment, to say the least, to a mother to think that she, and she alone, is incapable of completing a task that is widely considered to be automatic.
It was on an Internet forum that I read a complete list of the signs of pre-menopause, beyond hot flashes and irritability. I had thought I was dying (which, by the way, was in the past the impetus for numerous women actually killing themselves). This was after I purchased 3 books on the subject, none of which were the least informative and were pushing hormone replacement meds.
Someone else recently asked me, "Why don't you write about menopause?"
Good question. Back at my last place of employment (not the Current), I said to a young, male co-worker who had just got engaged, "Please don't hate or resent Sarah when she gets to menopause." That wasn't my experience, but I know it's the experience of other women. (He looked at me like I was nuts, by the way.)
So yeah, if there are people out here in the blogosphere who are writing stuff who can help with even the seemingly smallest of issues that no one seems inclined to talk about, then I say more power to us all.
Knowledge is power; sharing is good.
But what I got most out of it all (aside from the fact that I never have considered myself a "journalist" and Bob Gould and I talked about that when I met him; he did not, either), was the privacy angle and ones personal life being out there, for all to see.
I've had a couple of people now question why I put something so personal as the post about my uncle on my blog. I replied to the last person, "If it helped just one person, it was worth it."
Not that it is/was any skin off my nose, at the time. I told my mother about my experience, and because it stopped, I assumed that something was said. But in the long run, it didn't stop because no one wanted to openly talk about it, myself included. But I was just a kid.
And then, the other day, I felt I had to write the 'apologetic' post as a followup. I felt worse about that post than about the original post, although I'm not sorry I recounted the good things I remembered about my uncle.
My younger siblings did not experience any of those things, although my sisters did inherit the Barbie sports car. (Because I am the product of my mother's first marriage, my next sibling is 9 years younger than I. My mother remarried when I was 7 years old.)
I could have written the post as a third-person account, I suppose, but I always think first-person accounts have more impact.
So .... Why is everything such a secret?
I remember when my youngest sister had her first child, she felt like she was a failure as a mother because it was a struggle to get my niece to breast feed at first.
As it turned out, this is a common problem. Babies have to be 'trained' to breast feed. Where was this ever portrayed on TV/movies, or written about in books preparing one to be a first-time mother? My sister is not an uninformed person, she reads a lot, but yet, she did not know this.
Neither did a friend of mine, who more recently went through the same thing after she had her first child. I told her about my sister having the same 'problem,' and my friend felt better about herself (and the child).
And it is an embarrassment, to say the least, to a mother to think that she, and she alone, is incapable of completing a task that is widely considered to be automatic.
It was on an Internet forum that I read a complete list of the signs of pre-menopause, beyond hot flashes and irritability. I had thought I was dying (which, by the way, was in the past the impetus for numerous women actually killing themselves). This was after I purchased 3 books on the subject, none of which were the least informative and were pushing hormone replacement meds.
Someone else recently asked me, "Why don't you write about menopause?"
Good question. Back at my last place of employment (not the Current), I said to a young, male co-worker who had just got engaged, "Please don't hate or resent Sarah when she gets to menopause." That wasn't my experience, but I know it's the experience of other women. (He looked at me like I was nuts, by the way.)
So yeah, if there are people out here in the blogosphere who are writing stuff who can help with even the seemingly smallest of issues that no one seems inclined to talk about, then I say more power to us all.
Knowledge is power; sharing is good.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Freaking out the family
I obviously have the need to construct a narrative here, or somewhere.
Many times it has occurred to me that I should write a memoir, but then someone in my writing group said that memoirs are passe.
My sister tells me she came home today and her husband was sitting at his computer.
"Did you know your Uncle Harold died?" he asked her.
"Yes ..." my sister replied, the bile probably rising in her throat. I pictured her yelping to him, "Oh, no! She put it on her blog, didn't she? Tell me she didn't say he was a child molester ... or that he was in jail."
That was pretty much how it went down, she said.
And then I had to think really long and hard about how what I write on here affects others. (My sister wasn't angry; she just wasn't comfortable.)
And also how I didn't put the good things I remember about Uncle Harold from when I was younger, like how he always went into the swimming hole first to clear the accumulated muck off the bottom with his feet, kicking it over the dropoff before he would let us take that first swim of the summer (we would plead for him to let us in - he never did, until the bottom was cleared); how he always went out onto the ice first to check how thick it was before he would let us go out for the first skate of the winter (we stood at the edge of the lake, shivering with anticipation); and how he convinced my aunt, his wife, that I would much prefer the Barbie sports car as a gift as opposed to - well, almost anything else (I would pretend that my Midge doll was Jane Asher, who always got into a terrible and fatal car wreck in it, leaving Paul McCartney free to be mine).
And a bad thing, for him and my aunt, that happened when I was older: the image of him sitting on the ground, a big man crying like a baby, after he learned that he had lost a second son to an early death.
There are always two sides to every story. Aside from that one incident I earlier wrote about (it was never repeated) that involved me directly, I guess all I have to say as a postscript is that he and my aunt never treated me like I was anything other than their niece.
Which is not insignificant, considering from whence I sprang.
Many times it has occurred to me that I should write a memoir, but then someone in my writing group said that memoirs are passe.
My sister tells me she came home today and her husband was sitting at his computer.
"Did you know your Uncle Harold died?" he asked her.
"Yes ..." my sister replied, the bile probably rising in her throat. I pictured her yelping to him, "Oh, no! She put it on her blog, didn't she? Tell me she didn't say he was a child molester ... or that he was in jail."
That was pretty much how it went down, she said.
And then I had to think really long and hard about how what I write on here affects others. (My sister wasn't angry; she just wasn't comfortable.)
And also how I didn't put the good things I remember about Uncle Harold from when I was younger, like how he always went into the swimming hole first to clear the accumulated muck off the bottom with his feet, kicking it over the dropoff before he would let us take that first swim of the summer (we would plead for him to let us in - he never did, until the bottom was cleared); how he always went out onto the ice first to check how thick it was before he would let us go out for the first skate of the winter (we stood at the edge of the lake, shivering with anticipation); and how he convinced my aunt, his wife, that I would much prefer the Barbie sports car as a gift as opposed to - well, almost anything else (I would pretend that my Midge doll was Jane Asher, who always got into a terrible and fatal car wreck in it, leaving Paul McCartney free to be mine).
And a bad thing, for him and my aunt, that happened when I was older: the image of him sitting on the ground, a big man crying like a baby, after he learned that he had lost a second son to an early death.
There are always two sides to every story. Aside from that one incident I earlier wrote about (it was never repeated) that involved me directly, I guess all I have to say as a postscript is that he and my aunt never treated me like I was anything other than their niece.
Which is not insignificant, considering from whence I sprang.
Death in the family
I just got word that one of my uncles died, in Michigan. I'm sad, but I guess I would be sadder if he hadn't been a child molester who held me down on his couch and kissed me on the mouth when I was about 11 years old.
(Actually, the word came hours ago now, since I had to run out to a meeting.)
He had been in jail for the last I don't know how many years for molesting his own granddaughter(s). He got off light on the first charge, of molesting two of his granddaughters, for lack of evidence, or something.
So his younger daughter, not wanting to believe that of her father, let him be around her daughter.
Needless to say, the shit really hit the fan when he was found to be molesting that little girl as well. Her older sister, who tried her best to talk her sister into banning their father, as it were, as far as I know never spoke to him again.
Uncle Harold died, in a prison medical facility, after suffering a heart attack a few months ago from which he never fully recovered.
(Actually, the word came hours ago now, since I had to run out to a meeting.)
He had been in jail for the last I don't know how many years for molesting his own granddaughter(s). He got off light on the first charge, of molesting two of his granddaughters, for lack of evidence, or something.
So his younger daughter, not wanting to believe that of her father, let him be around her daughter.
Needless to say, the shit really hit the fan when he was found to be molesting that little girl as well. Her older sister, who tried her best to talk her sister into banning their father, as it were, as far as I know never spoke to him again.
Uncle Harold died, in a prison medical facility, after suffering a heart attack a few months ago from which he never fully recovered.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Musings
I finally got round to reading more of the posts on my cousin Damian's blog, although he hasn't posted for a while. Probably working on that new play he talks about here. He blogs on Telegraph.co.uk.
The latter post will be interesting to writers, by the way.
But this one, about foreigners being allowed to vote in the U.S., reminded me of the little skirmish we in the Newburyport blogging world had a couple of weeks ago.
And a little of my post here about being a resident alien.
Damian - and because I know him, I know he's not serious (well, I think I know him, anyway; fairly certain he's not serious in any case) - writes about allowing foreigners to vote in U.S. elections.
The people of Afghanistan, Israel, Cuba, Venezuela, North Korea - any number of places - have much more at stake in the upcoming election than I do, a resident of Brooklyn.
The comments to the post are mixed, with many people taking umbrage, calling Damian names and telling him he's "silly."
Eventually someone gets around to saying that Americans don't have a sense of humor.
I don't agree with that, of course. I don't get some British humor (what was funny about Benny Hill?), but I do know from my own family experiences that Brits say whatever and expect that if you don't like it, you'll say so. Then go on your merry way; or more often, stay and have a pint.
I have been pretty much 'Americanized,' having lived here for most of my life. My mother, who has lived here since 1960 (and who is a naturalized citizen) finds many things her siblings (all of whom still live in England) say to her to be hurtful.
Oddly enough, I, who am very sensitive, just let the "unkind" comments and unsavory insinuations from my English relatives roll off my back.
Except ... wait ... I have to say ... after my Uncle Tony (Damian's father) told me when he was here last year and was reading something I wrote under the byline "Gillian R. Swart," that the middle initial was "pretentious" - I think that was the word he used - I dropped the "R."
But I think that was more a case of respecting his opinion, as a long-time journalist. And you know, with me being his favorite niece ... c'mon, it's a well-known fact ... and vice versa, I took it to heart perhaps a bit too much.
So who knows who might find offensive, what you write or say tongue-in-cheek. I would guess it comes down to knowing the person you're reading or speaking to and knowing that putting a comic turn on something often makes people sit up more and pay attention.
If that makes any sense at all.
The latter post will be interesting to writers, by the way.
But this one, about foreigners being allowed to vote in the U.S., reminded me of the little skirmish we in the Newburyport blogging world had a couple of weeks ago.
And a little of my post here about being a resident alien.
Damian - and because I know him, I know he's not serious (well, I think I know him, anyway; fairly certain he's not serious in any case) - writes about allowing foreigners to vote in U.S. elections.
The people of Afghanistan, Israel, Cuba, Venezuela, North Korea - any number of places - have much more at stake in the upcoming election than I do, a resident of Brooklyn.
The comments to the post are mixed, with many people taking umbrage, calling Damian names and telling him he's "silly."
Eventually someone gets around to saying that Americans don't have a sense of humor.
I don't agree with that, of course. I don't get some British humor (what was funny about Benny Hill?), but I do know from my own family experiences that Brits say whatever and expect that if you don't like it, you'll say so. Then go on your merry way; or more often, stay and have a pint.
I have been pretty much 'Americanized,' having lived here for most of my life. My mother, who has lived here since 1960 (and who is a naturalized citizen) finds many things her siblings (all of whom still live in England) say to her to be hurtful.
Oddly enough, I, who am very sensitive, just let the "unkind" comments and unsavory insinuations from my English relatives roll off my back.
Except ... wait ... I have to say ... after my Uncle Tony (Damian's father) told me when he was here last year and was reading something I wrote under the byline "Gillian R. Swart," that the middle initial was "pretentious" - I think that was the word he used - I dropped the "R."
But I think that was more a case of respecting his opinion, as a long-time journalist. And you know, with me being his favorite niece ... c'mon, it's a well-known fact ... and vice versa, I took it to heart perhaps a bit too much.
So who knows who might find offensive, what you write or say tongue-in-cheek. I would guess it comes down to knowing the person you're reading or speaking to and knowing that putting a comic turn on something often makes people sit up more and pay attention.
If that makes any sense at all.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Three chicks and a pickup truck
That was us, about an hour ago, attempting to jump-start my neighbor's car.
My neighbor (the deep-dish diva) needed the jump. Her friend had the pickup. I just happened to wander outside and got involved.
Seeing as how all the men in the area mysteriously disappeared into their houses as soon as the jumper cables were pulled from the trunk, I called my brother for long-distance assistance. He's in Gloucester.
Snag: Neither of the other 2 knew how to open the hood on their vehicle.
"People who don't even know how to open the hood of their car should not be playing with jumper cables," my brother said, somewhat caustically. "If you don't hook it up properly, the battery could blow up."
Uh-huh. I said "thanks" and set him free of his hair-brained sister. For now, anyway.
In the meantime, another man had returned a frantic call from Triple-D (short for deep-dish diva) and was dispensing advice from afar.
Finally getting the hoods open, with help from yet another man not in the vicinity (Triple-D's friend's boyfriend), we hooked up the cables.
"Stand back!" Triple-D cried and we moved away from the vehicles as she climbed into her Saab.
It started on the first try.
Yay. Us.
My neighbor (the deep-dish diva) needed the jump. Her friend had the pickup. I just happened to wander outside and got involved.
Seeing as how all the men in the area mysteriously disappeared into their houses as soon as the jumper cables were pulled from the trunk, I called my brother for long-distance assistance. He's in Gloucester.
Snag: Neither of the other 2 knew how to open the hood on their vehicle.
"People who don't even know how to open the hood of their car should not be playing with jumper cables," my brother said, somewhat caustically. "If you don't hook it up properly, the battery could blow up."
Uh-huh. I said "thanks" and set him free of his hair-brained sister. For now, anyway.
In the meantime, another man had returned a frantic call from Triple-D (short for deep-dish diva) and was dispensing advice from afar.
Finally getting the hoods open, with help from yet another man not in the vicinity (Triple-D's friend's boyfriend), we hooked up the cables.
"Stand back!" Triple-D cried and we moved away from the vehicles as she climbed into her Saab.
It started on the first try.
Yay. Us.
Barbados:time for DNA testing
I was reminded of my Barbados family not only by the Rev. Wright/Obama situation, but by emails I began getting over the weekend about an "Austin Clan get together."
There are a lot of us Austin cousins - my grannie was one of 12 children. Actually, one died tragically from a gunshot wound when he was a child and one never married so there are descendants of 10 Austins that we're talking about here.
I could do this a lot better if I could actually find my papers on the ancestry (I recently had a "spring clean" so have no idea where anything is anymore. These things used to be very handily located in a pile by the couch.)
I commend whatever family member (I suspect it was my older first cousin, Anne) who put us all in one list.
The emails flying back and forth confirm that no one has been able to go back beyond my great-great grandfather, William Agard Austin (had to correct my previous post about that).
I know that I don't have the most extensive readership on this blog but I'm hoping someone somewhere has some information. There was a brother of, I believe, Charles Miller Austin who left the island and was never heard from again. A lot of Barbadians immigrated to New England (and Toronto) but frankly, great-grandfather Miller Austin was the oldest child and he probably knew the most about the ancestors.
Which isn't much, apparently.
There are a lot of us Austin cousins - my grannie was one of 12 children. Actually, one died tragically from a gunshot wound when he was a child and one never married so there are descendants of 10 Austins that we're talking about here.
I could do this a lot better if I could actually find my papers on the ancestry (I recently had a "spring clean" so have no idea where anything is anymore. These things used to be very handily located in a pile by the couch.)
I commend whatever family member (I suspect it was my older first cousin, Anne) who put us all in one list.
The emails flying back and forth confirm that no one has been able to go back beyond my great-great grandfather, William Agard Austin (had to correct my previous post about that).
I know that I don't have the most extensive readership on this blog but I'm hoping someone somewhere has some information. There was a brother of, I believe, Charles Miller Austin who left the island and was never heard from again. A lot of Barbadians immigrated to New England (and Toronto) but frankly, great-grandfather Miller Austin was the oldest child and he probably knew the most about the ancestors.
Which isn't much, apparently.
Writers in the extended family
(With apologies to me mum, me dad and me U.S. sibs, most of whom have also been published or may be in the near future. I'll get to you in other posts.)
My great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin (called 'Miller' by one and all) had a younger brother, Edmund O. Austin.
Uncle E.O. wrote "The Black Challenge" in 1958. It's about black people living in Harlem post-World War I and the "Back to Africa!" movement - and a man who emigrates there from the West Indies.
Uncle E.O. emigrated to New York and earned an LLB (Bachelor of Laws) at Fordham University, in 1910. He lived mostly in Yonkers, NY, for the rest of his life.
While I never knew my great-grandfather, I did on occasion see Uncle E.O. and his wife, my Aunt Thelma. My (biological) father has a sister, my Godmother, who for many years lived in New York (and who has since retired to the pastoral hills of New Jersey) and I used to visit her there.
I remember Aunt Thelma and Uncle E.O. taking me to what at that point was the fanciest restaurant I had ever been to. I was 12.
I have to say, I don't remember Uncle E.O. as well as I remember Aunt Thelma. I think that was the last time I saw him, when I was 12. Aunt Thelma, a great deal younger than he when they married, died last year at age 101.
I had no idea that Uncle E.O. had even written a book, until Aunt Thelma mentioned it to me on my last visit to Barbados (regrettably, to attend my grannie's funeral).
OK, so on my mother's side of my family, my first cousin is also a published writer and a playwright. His most recent (?who knows?he doesn't keep in touch ... let's say it's his first) play was staged in Williamstown last summer.
He's brilliant.
You can see (and read) Damian here, on Telegraph.co.uk. As far as I know, he still lives in NYC with his wife and 2 small daughters.
His father, my uncle, was a sports reporter/editor for the "Daily Mail" until he retired. He still writes. We spent a little time in Williamstown, talking about the frustrations involved in being a reporter.
Hmmmm ... He's much better looking than the photo would indicate.
My great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin (called 'Miller' by one and all) had a younger brother, Edmund O. Austin.
Uncle E.O. wrote "The Black Challenge" in 1958. It's about black people living in Harlem post-World War I and the "Back to Africa!" movement - and a man who emigrates there from the West Indies.
Uncle E.O. emigrated to New York and earned an LLB (Bachelor of Laws) at Fordham University, in 1910. He lived mostly in Yonkers, NY, for the rest of his life.
While I never knew my great-grandfather, I did on occasion see Uncle E.O. and his wife, my Aunt Thelma. My (biological) father has a sister, my Godmother, who for many years lived in New York (and who has since retired to the pastoral hills of New Jersey) and I used to visit her there.
I remember Aunt Thelma and Uncle E.O. taking me to what at that point was the fanciest restaurant I had ever been to. I was 12.
I have to say, I don't remember Uncle E.O. as well as I remember Aunt Thelma. I think that was the last time I saw him, when I was 12. Aunt Thelma, a great deal younger than he when they married, died last year at age 101.
I had no idea that Uncle E.O. had even written a book, until Aunt Thelma mentioned it to me on my last visit to Barbados (regrettably, to attend my grannie's funeral).
OK, so on my mother's side of my family, my first cousin is also a published writer and a playwright. His most recent (?who knows?he doesn't keep in touch ... let's say it's his first) play was staged in Williamstown last summer.
He's brilliant.
You can see (and read) Damian here, on Telegraph.co.uk. As far as I know, he still lives in NYC with his wife and 2 small daughters.
His father, my uncle, was a sports reporter/editor for the "Daily Mail" until he retired. He still writes. We spent a little time in Williamstown, talking about the frustrations involved in being a reporter.
Hmmmm ... He's much better looking than the photo would indicate.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
My very tangled roots (slightly corrected)
I keep thinking I have to take a day off from blogging then ideas spring into my head and I have to write them before they spring back out again.
That happens a lot and is an excellent reason why I should take the personal recording gizmo out of the drawer, replace the batteries, and carry it around with me at all times.
The sermon at the First Parish Church and the talk about Rev. Wright resulted in a lot of thoughts whirling around (after they had sprung into) my head.
I have mentioned on here before that I am, like Barack Obama, of mixed-race parentage. My mother is English-Irish and my (biological) father is West Indian. The other day a woman from Commonwealth Health asked me what my racial heritage is.
This is a huge question for me since West Indians, of course, do not consider themselves 'African-American' (not being Americans at all, you see).
Anyway, that's not my point.
I have lived always with the understanding that some of my paternal ancestors were black slaves and some were white Europeans.
Despite what you may think, it's not easy knowing that even some of your ancestors were enslaved.
Apart from the obvious dismay, also we can't trace my grandmother's ancestors at all. I have no idea who they were until we get to my great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin, who was of my complexion (light) and was the result, we always believed, of some kind a relationship between a European planter and what probably by then was a freed slave.
All we know about his father is that his name was William Agard Austin and his wife was Harriet Fields. William's mother was called, "Baba." Sounds a lot Irish to me, but that may be because of the song by the Who, "Baba O'Riley."
BUT - lately I found out that, before Africans were rounded off and shipped 'in bulk' to work the plantations on Barbados, Irish 'rebels' were rounded up by the British government and shipped off wholesale to the island (there is a book about it, called "To Hell or Barbados," which I have yet to buy). How this fact escaped my notice for this long is beyond me.
No record was made of their names and they were given to the planters. Most of them died from heat exhaustion. A brief write-up on being "Barbadosed" can be found here.
This probably is what led to the 'brilliant' idea of importing even more people who were used to heat. I'm sure it was a huge irritant to the English planters that the Irish kept dying on them.
In any case, the Irish and the black slaves, seeing as how they had so much in common at this point, banded together, rebelled together and inter-married. In fact, the patois spoken in Barbados, called Bajan, is said to be a mix of Irish and African speech patterns. Few of these Irish were left to be identified as such by an 1880 census.
What did remain was a small population of poor whites, often called 'redlegs', who may be the descendants of the Barbadosed Irish. Since my great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin, is referred to in some historical documents as a "redleg,"I can only conclude he was one of these.
He was the first "mulatto" to break the monopoly of white plantocracy in the parish of St. John - he bought Eastmont plantation in 1895 and Malvern plantation in 1910. My brother Miller now owns Eastmont, which is where my grandmother was born, and every member of the family has stock in the plantation land at Malvern. Malvern House was sold off years ago, to the Moravian Church.
So, you see, I realized that not only one part of my ancestry involves slavery - but perhaps ALL of it (on my father's side) does. Which might explain why we also can't trace our St. John ancestors earlier than 1723, when one Charles St. John married Isabella Clarke.
(My grandmother, born Lucy Austin, married Albert St. John. I never knew him; he died when my father was young.)
In stark contrast to my St. John relatives, who want to believe Charles St. John was part of the noble English St. John family - even though we can find no evidence of this in the well-documented St. John family line - I believe he either adopted the name or that was the name given to him (or possibly his father) by the English colonial government in Barbados. They probably worked a plantation in St. John parish.
It's a point of contention.
That happens a lot and is an excellent reason why I should take the personal recording gizmo out of the drawer, replace the batteries, and carry it around with me at all times.
The sermon at the First Parish Church and the talk about Rev. Wright resulted in a lot of thoughts whirling around (after they had sprung into) my head.
I have mentioned on here before that I am, like Barack Obama, of mixed-race parentage. My mother is English-Irish and my (biological) father is West Indian. The other day a woman from Commonwealth Health asked me what my racial heritage is.
This is a huge question for me since West Indians, of course, do not consider themselves 'African-American' (not being Americans at all, you see).
Anyway, that's not my point.
I have lived always with the understanding that some of my paternal ancestors were black slaves and some were white Europeans.
Despite what you may think, it's not easy knowing that even some of your ancestors were enslaved.
Apart from the obvious dismay, also we can't trace my grandmother's ancestors at all. I have no idea who they were until we get to my great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin, who was of my complexion (light) and was the result, we always believed, of some kind a relationship between a European planter and what probably by then was a freed slave.
All we know about his father is that his name was William Agard Austin and his wife was Harriet Fields. William's mother was called, "Baba." Sounds a lot Irish to me, but that may be because of the song by the Who, "Baba O'Riley."
BUT - lately I found out that, before Africans were rounded off and shipped 'in bulk' to work the plantations on Barbados, Irish 'rebels' were rounded up by the British government and shipped off wholesale to the island (there is a book about it, called "To Hell or Barbados," which I have yet to buy). How this fact escaped my notice for this long is beyond me.
No record was made of their names and they were given to the planters. Most of them died from heat exhaustion. A brief write-up on being "Barbadosed" can be found here.
This probably is what led to the 'brilliant' idea of importing even more people who were used to heat. I'm sure it was a huge irritant to the English planters that the Irish kept dying on them.
In any case, the Irish and the black slaves, seeing as how they had so much in common at this point, banded together, rebelled together and inter-married. In fact, the patois spoken in Barbados, called Bajan, is said to be a mix of Irish and African speech patterns. Few of these Irish were left to be identified as such by an 1880 census.
What did remain was a small population of poor whites, often called 'redlegs', who may be the descendants of the Barbadosed Irish. Since my great-grandfather, Charles Miller Austin, is referred to in some historical documents as a "redleg,"I can only conclude he was one of these.
He was the first "mulatto" to break the monopoly of white plantocracy in the parish of St. John - he bought Eastmont plantation in 1895 and Malvern plantation in 1910. My brother Miller now owns Eastmont, which is where my grandmother was born, and every member of the family has stock in the plantation land at Malvern. Malvern House was sold off years ago, to the Moravian Church.
So, you see, I realized that not only one part of my ancestry involves slavery - but perhaps ALL of it (on my father's side) does. Which might explain why we also can't trace our St. John ancestors earlier than 1723, when one Charles St. John married Isabella Clarke.
(My grandmother, born Lucy Austin, married Albert St. John. I never knew him; he died when my father was young.)
In stark contrast to my St. John relatives, who want to believe Charles St. John was part of the noble English St. John family - even though we can find no evidence of this in the well-documented St. John family line - I believe he either adopted the name or that was the name given to him (or possibly his father) by the English colonial government in Barbados. They probably worked a plantation in St. John parish.
It's a point of contention.
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