Until shortly after 8:00 PM, this Thursday evening, it has rained, sprinkled, or drizzled, non-stop since around 4:00 AM, Wednesday morning and this afternoon even offered some boomers as several thunderstorms moved through the area.
The front and backyards are a lush green as though Frank Baum visited with emerald colored glasses to show off a version of The Emerald City. While it is quite gorgeous, by Saturday morning, when most of it has dried out, it will be an absolute bear to mow.
Everything is damp. Inside, everything feels damp to the touch, even a bit sticky as it sometimes gets after a rain shower. Outside, everything is still dripping with water. The sound of tires swishing along a very wet Shroyer Road is a reminder that much is still wet.
I have accomplished precious little the pas several days. In fact, I barely budged from reading, watching documentaries, and snuggling with the dogs. And, that’s okay. I guess learning and loving is accomplishing, still.
There’s nothing more glorious than to greet a morning that’s filled with sunshine blasting through the windows!
Around 4:00 AM, during a bathroom break, the dark morning was filled with fog. I wanted to step outside to take photos, but I knew that as soon as I made any attempt to do so, The Quartet would take that as their cue to start the day, full speed, ahead! Well, let me rephrase that: Bailey and Harrigan would have taken that as their cue to rouse the others as Erma hangs on to every bit of sleep she can and Chief, unless he senses another dog in his area, is seldom moved to stir for any other reason.
It’s going on 10:00 AM and I have busied myself with reading and watching a few documentaries.
I am going to venture out to Big Lots and maybe, Target, to check out a few things. I may even grab something to eat on the south end of town.
I’ve only today and tomorrow left of my Fifth Week studio break and this Sunday begins the summer schedule, only lasting up to August. It’s only two months of a summer schedule but it affords students different options as they plug in their summer activities.
This morning, Facebook sent me a photo memory from eleven years ago: Logan and Flyer. Both were loved beyond The Haasienda; 57 friends and former students came to see Flyer as she prepared to pass, several driving three hours from northwestern Ohio where they were attending college. Ahhh… that’s a lot of blessings!
Make your own kind of sunshine, even when it rains, and make it a great day!
(Started at 8:05 AM, Wednesday morning) Try as I might to combat their affects, clouds and rain exhaust me.
As a child, I would tell my mother that the rain makes me sleepy. I am positive she always found something to occupy me, keeping me alert, but I am confident I never gained her sympathy. Mother pushed through things and it was not until quite a spell after she retired that she gave into taking naps when she felt like it.
I am just not built that way and at fifty-six I really have no desire to take myself back to the design table to make any adjustments.
Rain has always been miserable for me. I never enjoyed it and to be honest, I really hate getting wet when I am dressed for dry. Sometimes, when it was raining hard, I wore galoshes and an actual yellow raincoat to elementary school, as did my classmates. It was okay. It was cool.
Throughout junior high, I rode with my band friend and neighbor, Todd Davis, and until I began driving to and from school, I rode to the high school with my next door neighbor, Don Fortner, the printing teacher. Since I often carried my saxophone with me, to and from school school each day, he nicknamed me “Super Toot.” Those were wonderful times! Don was, and still is, a renaissance man on many levels, and forty years later, I still take my flower photography cues from him. Don was a bonus uncle and dad for me, and I am still grateful that he shared his light, laughter, and love.
(Continued at 5:48 PM while listening to THE ANDY GRIFFITH SHOW) Today has been a day of reading, napping, playing with the lethargic pups who seem to have captured my dampened spirit of not being able to spend time on the deck. It has been a steady rain or sprinkle since early morning and is forecast to continue through tomorrow evening without stopping.
Ah, well. I still feel accomplished in making it a great day!
Born: 1764, Maryland Died: 1844 Madison County, Indiana; burial: Mt Tabor Cemetery, Madison County, Indiana.
Service: “John Noble was born in Maryland in 1764. He served in the Worchester [militia] of that state as certified by the DAR Index of Patriots. After the end of the war, he moved to Clermont County, Ohio, then to Rush County, Indiana, and finally, during the 1830’s to Madison County.
“Members of the Noble family settled near the boundary between Boone and Monroe Townships. “They were members of an early Mount Tabor Methodist group that held services in their several homes. Jonathan died the 1844 at the age of 80 years.
“He is buried with his wife Jane, in the Mount Tabor Cemetery. It is in Monroe Township [Madison County] along the south side of road 1300 N and just west of state highway 9. The headstone marking Jonathan’s grave is broken but quite legible.”
From American Revolutionary patriots discussed by Raymond Davis in this biography of Madison County.
“Fifth Week” is a studio thing: I only teach four lessons to a student, each month; therefore, if a student’s lesson day is Tuesday and there are five Tuesdays in a given month, one of those Tuesday lesson days will be off.
At first, I hated the idea, but it has worked great for giving students and myself a little break, now and then, and it assists parents and my studio manager in having consistent numbers each month. It really does work nicely.
I am tired this morning, but it’s a different kind of tired. Not a sleepy kind-of-tired. Perhaps a bit of emotional fatigue, much like those I use to experience on my once exciting vacations.
Sunday was a bit slower paced, but “slower paced” for me is still “full speed, ahead” or a Teddy Roosevelt “charge” for most people.
We just drove. Countryside. The initial sunshine-day took a turn to overcast and cloudy, but still with workable temperatures.
Once we got around Hamilton, Ohio, we proceeded to the west into beautiful rolling hills of Butler County, where we passed through the small village of Okeana and a few miles on to George Family Cemetery where my fourth great-grandparents, Thomas and Jemima Jolliffe are buried.
Thomas Jolliffe’s headstone has fallen over. I’m certain it was due to aging and weather conditions and not vandalism as few others were disturbed.
I suggested driving on down to Oxford, Ohio since Miami University’s campus would be vacated but for some reason, I’ve always confused Oxford’s location as being south and not a bit north. We continued southward to one of the most idyllic spots, the tomb of our ninth president, William Henry Harrison, in North Bend, Ohio, majestically poised to overlook the Ohio River.
Nearby is the North Bend United Methodist Church where my darling friend, Alice Kay Hoover Loveland was minister. Her one parsonage window overlooked the historical marker noting the plantation site of General Harrison. It was also the birth site of Harrison’s grandson, Benjamin Harrison, who later held the same office, only a bit longer than his grandfather.
We followed OH-50 or River Road on a nice winding drive up to Mount Echo Park and took in the view of the area. I can spend forever on Mount Adams and Mount Echo for the splendid views of the river valley below.
We ended up in Covington, Kentucky, again. No German food, sadly. We dined up on Mt. Adams, walked a bit, drove through the park, and headed north toward Dayton.
Thanks to a former student, John, who took care of the pooches the entire time. He was home for the long weekend, a surprise to his parents. His surprise was their last minute decision to fly to Missouri for the long weekend. Lucky me!
It was a fun four days of laughter, sharing, caring, and knowing I am loved.
Now, on to my Fifth Week with what I believe to be some well deserved down time, hopefully for writing.
Sunday’s destination was a shot in the dark: we drove through the countryside into Warren County, ending up coming upon Middletown and Hamilton, down in Butler County, Ohio.
Once we got around Hamilton, Ohio, we proceeded to the west into beautiful rolling hills of Butler County, where we passed through the small village of Okeana and a few miles on to George Family Cemetery where my fourth great-grandparents, Thomas and Jemima Jolliffe are buried.
I love this area of Southwestern Ohio where the hills look like rounded scoops of ice cream. Up on one of those rounded hills is a lovely spot occupied by George Family Cemetery.
Thomas Jolliffe was born 15 Nov 1785 in Pennsylvania. At some point, his family moved and settled along the Kanawa River in what is now Charleston, West Virginia. Thomas and his wife, Jemima Winnegar Jolliffe, born 17 Nov 1790, moved to Butler County, Ohio, across a section of Ohio where many of my ancestors on both sides passed as they aimed toward Eastern Indiana.
Thomas and Jemima’s sons all ventured on to Decatur and Bartholomew Counties in Eastern Indiana.
One son, James Jolliffe, married Ruth Harper in Butler County, Ohio and immediately moved to Indiana in the 1849 after the birth of their eldest son, John M. Jolliffe, and lived in the same communities and farming areas as my mother’s Barmes ancestors who settled in Hope, Bartholomew County, Indiana after arriving from Bavaria in the 1830s.
John M. Jolliffe, my second great-grandfather, lived in the Indiana counties of Franklin, Decatur, and Bartholomew, and is buried alongside his wife, Sarah Wolfe Jolliffe, in Hartsville Cemetery, Hartsville, Bartholomew County, Indiana.
Both my Barmes and Jolliffe ancestors, living in Bartholomew County, and offering produce and dairy to nearby United Brethren established Hartsville College, might have met a young student, Susan Koerner, and the school’s young superintendent, Milton Wright. Milton and Susan would marry and eventually have two sons who released man from the bonds of earth: Wilbur and Orville Wright.
Thomas died 29 May 1871 and Jemima, 31 Mar 1847 and are buried in George Family Cemetery, Okeana, Butler County, Ohio.
Our line of sons: Thomas, James, John, Perry, William, Danny, Darin…
Ironically, for nearly 130 years, my Mother’s Barmes ancestors and my father’s Jolliffe ancestors were neighbors or living within a few miles of one another.
When the largest tin mill factory, The Tin Plate in my hometown of Elwood, Indiana, opened in the 1890s, many members of my ancestry moved north to Madison County, Indiana.
Finally, in 1960, my parents, a Jolliff and a Barmes, met and married.
It’s only 51-degrees but “Houston, we have made contact with sunshine!”
Friday and Saturday, despite being a tourist in Cincinnati and Columbus, the dreary skies, most rain-filled on Friday, would not cease. I was happy but the skies kept trying to puncture my balloon.
Friday was a near washout but we made it a great day, anyway.
One of my favorite cemeteries is Spring Grove Cemetery was mostly a drive-thru, no photographic exploration. Mount Adams was not the great view that can usually be found. But, the Hofbrau Haus did not disappoint with its delicious German feast. A drive through Covington, Kentucky is always an eye-thrill for me. I love the architecture.
Columbus was Saturday’s destination and we stopped in Union Cemetery to pay respects to Wendy’s founder and adoption champion, Dave Thomas. Each first meal with a new son began at Wendy’s to celebrate and to honor Mr. Thomas.
We spent nearly three hours enjoying and marveling the exhibits at The Columbus Museum of Art, especially the visiting Lego exhibit, which was the main purpose of the visit. I was excited to see a Degas still-life painting, something I had never before seen.
And, Chihuly. The Chihuly tree was
gorgeous.
By 3:00 PM we were famished and since we were only 6 minutes from Schmidt’s Sausage Haus und Restaurant, the rental car was astute enough to know where to go without any nudging from its occupants. A second day of Heaven!
As we were leaving Schmidt’s neighborhood, another architectural buffet for me, I mentioned how I loved seeing the Chihuly and, at some point, would love to see the Franklin Park Conservatory. The car immediately aimed in that direction and we were there.
It was 4:25 PM. It closed at 5:00 PM. The Gods of Glass were kindly watching over us and the large-hearted admissions person, learning of our Chihuly quest, pushed us through for free with the request of leaving at 5:00 PM. Perfect! The adventures of glass blowing were mind blowing. Having grown up in a community with several glass blowing factories, this was so uplifting.
At some point on I-70 West, the sun actually burst through the clouds and beckoned us onward.
Two nights in a row, I battled terrific stomach aches, I am sure due to the overload of German food. I love soups and eat a lot of soups throughout the week; I am sure my colon was not receptive to the heavy loads of actual food bearing down on it. Coupled with the legs and feet aching from an abundance of walking, sleep was not forthcoming until after 3:00 AM each morning.
Seeing the sunshine brightening the world is so uplifting. I love it. I need it.
Off on some more adventures but with no destination planned. It’s a toss up.
Soggy. Foggy. Cloudy. Chilly. This is not my preferred kind of morning.
I am secluded in my study to work, this morning. I would much rather be on the deck, seated in my canvassed rocker, writing at my table beneath the hunter green umbrella. Although I can easily turn to look out the one study window to see the wisteria, it’s just not the same.
But, The Quartet is scattered about the study, napping off their morning meal and backyard experience while I’ve a documentary playing, concentrating on the building of the Parthenon in Athens. It’s pretty interesting!
I slept fairly well despite Bailey sleeping, not with her head on my pillow, but with her entire body wrapped around my head. When I would rise for a nature break, she never budged upon my return. I simply re-inserted my head into the space she allotted.
I am running about 30 minutes behind in my writing since I attended to some quick tough-up house cleaning. But it needed to be quickly completed.
Erma just paid me a visit, just as she does on the deck. What a sweetheart.
As I begin writing this morning’s blog entry, the sky is beginning to spit some rain that was not due to arrive until a few hours from now, around 10:30 AM; thus, my deck time will prematurely end. Drafts.
But, we need the rain to maintain the gorgeous spring adventure. I hope this narrow band moves through quickly as not to rain on my Instacart delivery person.
The five sets of wind chimes are having a dance off, a small hum of cicadas can be heard, and the waste management truck is squeaking its way through the neighborhood. For the services we lost in the contract bid with our former company, Waste Management, to this damned Rumpke which offers much less, I’d think they could attend to their noisy trucks.
Erma rests by my side. The others are scattered about the deck in their typical morning routine of relaxing to the morning Haasienda backyard happenings.
Last night’s deck time was cut short with some discomfort and I retired to my bedroom, immediately off the deck, earlier than usual. I was stretched out on my bed, Harrigan at my side, by 11:30 PM. For the past several weeks, the nighttime pain in my legs and feet have been unbearable. I steadied myself last night, ready for another round; however, it was so mild it was barely noticeable.
The band of darker clouds has moved on, leaving brighter skies to take the lead for a bit. In the distance, the southwestern sky offers a different picture. The choruses of birds have returned, accompanied by a light cicada drone. I’ve barely noticed the cicada buzz but their shell remnants are everywhere.
The wisteria blooms are beginning to carpet the deck, a reminder that their beauty is short lived.
Tonight’s last lessons will springboard me into ten non-teaching days before the summer teaching schedule rolls out June 6. The summer schedule is more compact, offering some morning and earlier afternoons to accommodate camps and swim time. In the meantime, writing and attending to some household tidying are my primary goals.
Yesterday, I posted this meme about television, back in the day before there was all night cable news, unless, you were like our home and didn’t have cable until after the eldest child went off to college.
I thought we were doing great with ABC, CBS, and NBC, plus channel 40 which was PBS out of Muncie, and channel 4 that was a local Indianapolis station. I wasn’t into PBS at a young age but loved channel 4 that offered Janie and Cowboy Bob, two central Indiana kids’ celebrities and the Friday night ultimate, Sammy Terry, the ghoulish host of scary movies. These three celebrities were at many, many events throughout central Indiana, and Janie’s replacement even came to my Washington Elementary School’s skating party. I hold her hand and skated several rounds.
It depended on whether you were watching the late movie or the late-late movie as to when the station retired for the evening. At that time, the seemingly ominous announcer’s voice slid through the living room’s silence after the movie or a commercial ended, to give information about the broadcast station that seemed of little importance.
Then, those dreaded words of departure, the station taking its break, promising to resume at _____ AM.
Now, despite hating the cold, solitary stillness of nighttime, I loved watching the national anthem because most stations included an accompanying montage with photos or film clips from Washington DC or other historic sites across the country. That was a temporary salve for me!
How often did I wake to the static after having fallen asleep during the late movie?
Yesterday, I felt as though my non-teaching time was pure static. I’m sure I could have changed the channel to improve my overplayed static but for some reason I kept falling asleep and waking me to it.
Change. The. Channel.
Make it a great day and don’t allow yourself to put up with unnecessary static.
For the longest while, the time on the deck was peaceful with just the sounds of birds singing, the gentle breeze stirring the wind chimes, the lulled swishing sound of traffic from the other side of the house, and the light pecking of the laptop’s keyboard.
And, then, someone walked their dog through the high school’s parking lot and The Quartet bellowed their loud greetings and raced along the fence. The offending visitor sounded to be quite young and more than eager to visit my four.
The morning is now past 9:15 AM and I’ve not accomplished much other than scrolling through Facebook, texting with moms who now have or will have high school post-grads, and a former student who is now 23, sending a nice Sunday morning greeting text of, “I’ve missed you so much!”
Saturday afternoon, I bussed downtown to grab a bite to eat and to spend some time at Riverscape.
Downtown Dayton was a ghost town! I was not aware of just how barren the central core of downtown is of eateries. Subway and all the quick places were closed, and much of these earlier closings had been in place pre-pandemic. I ended up at a familiar pizza place, spending $10 for two slices, and regretting the purchase. Not to my taste.
I got to my favorite spot at Riverscape and both swings were taken. I moved to the walkway area and the moment I set down my backpack, my favorite swing was vacated. Woo hoo!
I was not physically comfortable, the sun was beginning it’s decline and was getting warmer, and I had no desire to write or edit. It was a deflating spell. I eventually packed up and returned home.
Upon my arrival, a huge box welcomed me to my porch. I was a bit curious as I’d not ordered anything to arrive by UPS and it was not my three-week scheduled order of dog food.
Inside the box was a nice, black chaise lounge for the deck. My old chaise lounge is showing its age but I’d not investigated acquiring a new one.
A nice surprise but quite the mystery.
It’s a fairly easy day with writing, teaching in the afternoon and evening. It’s forecast for the mid-80’s today, so I will probably teach from my study with several fans keeping me cool. It’s a pretty warm week ahead until Saturday when the temperature takes a dive, just in time for a bulk of graduation parties.
The wisteria’s climb up the deck’s tree is looking more beautiful and there are newer irises in the front yard.
I hope you’ll take advantage of this fine day to make it great!
I can officially say it’s been a day of succeeding at accomplishing much and making it a great day!
I spent the majority of my morning and early afternoon writing. I don’t know that I made much of a dent but the goal was to write, and that, I did.
At 2:30 PM, one of my young piano students, also a neighbor, came over to assist with some much needed yard work in the backyard. Zach was such a blessing of help, attentive to tasks of retapping nails on the deck’s flooring, gathering up tall dead plants that I learned, early last fall, were actually weeds, picking up trash and items that had landed in the yard during the past several wind storms, and just being a cheerful chap to have helping me.
I took an hour’s nap and returned to my writing station on the deck, tuning in to the live-stream feed of Fairmont High School’s 2021 commencement ceremony. The Class of 2021 was just been presented by the head principal to be presented their diplomas.
And now, the distribution of diplomas has begun… these students made it through a pandemic. God bless them.
Shortly, I will move to a Zoom history event about Mary Lincoln’s family, to which I am eager to join.
I still have not decided whether I will partake in any adventures for tomorrow’s Friday Fun Day. I am hoping to do so, but there’s always so much timing involved with how my body is behaving.
Callie Hawkins had been working at President Lincoln’s Cottage museum for 10 years when she became pregnant. She and her husband were thrilled, and she joked with her co-workers about the baby’s “perfect” due date — Feb. 12 — Abraham Lincoln’s birthday.
When the day arrived, Hawkins went into labor right on schedule. But when she and her husband got to the hospital, the medical team couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat. Their son Coley James Hobbie was stillborn the next day.
Three years later, Hawkins sits on a picnic bench near the cottage where Lincoln and his wife spent more than a quarter of his presidency, pressing with her thumb a pendant around her neck that says “Mama.”
“After my son died, I got really afraid that people would maybe judge me or think about me in the way that history has remembered Mary Lincoln,” she said. Which is to say, she was afraid they would think she was “crazy.” In her lifetime, the former first lady lost her husband to an assassin’s bullet and three of her four children to disease. Her lengthy, public mourning defied conventions of the day and led to criticism and questions about her sanity.
With that in mind, Hawkins, now the interim executive director and director of programming at the cottage, helped to create a unique exhibit called “Reflections on Grief and Child Loss” at President Lincoln’s Cottage. In it, accounts of the Lincolns’ grief are presented alongside the stories of modern-day bereaved parents and their kids, showing their similarities across time.
Abraham and Mary Lincoln (she did not go by Mary Todd Lincoln in her lifetime) had four sons; only one survived past age 18. Son Eddy died of an unknown illness at 3 in 1850; Willie died of typhoid at 11 in 1862, while the couple occupied the White House; and Tad died of a lung disease at 18 in 1871.
Back then, Hawkins said, “society allowed certain types of grief. You could wear black, you could have a mourning band on your stationery, and things like that.” But Mary Lincoln didn’t stick to what was socially acceptable. When Eddy died, she tore out her hair; when Willie died she was so overcome she couldn’t leave her bed for weeks and missed his funeral. She would cry loudly and wore black mourning clothes much longer than was socially acceptable.
The modern bereaved parents in the exhibit, who are anonymous, describe a society that is in some ways even more uncomfortable with expressions of grief than it was 150 years ago.
“I think society expected me to just move on,” says the mother of Jacob, who was murdered when he was 6. “I think it is still a surprise for some people that we still talk about her so freely,” said the father of Abby, an only child who died at age 16 five years ago. “I think they are confused as to why we are still talking about her, assuming reflecting on her life, and death, only accentuates the pain.”
Hawkins encountered this discomfort when she presented the project to some colleagues. “Isn’t it going to make visitors sad?” they worried.
Yes, it will, Hawkins replied. And that’s a meaningful experience.
Some in Mary Lincoln’s day thought to grieve as deeply as she did was sacrilege. It showed she didn’t trust God’s will, they said. A modern-day mother described the same judgment from her religious community. “I thought my faith was not good enough because I was sad and angry,” she said. Like Mary, she lost three children — Julia, Matt and Charlie — in separate events.
Mary Lincoln also participated in seances with various spiritualists — generally con artists — who promised to communicate with her dead children, and later, her husband. Instead of judging her supposed gullibility, the modern-day bereaved parents’ testimonials give some context to her desire to feel the presence of the dead. They too seek ways to connect: in nature, in prayer, in activism or simply talking aloud to their children before they go to sleep at night.
President Lincoln felt these losses deeply, too, but he expressed it in more socially acceptable ways, like throwing himself into work, locking himself in his office or secretly visiting the crypt that temporarily held his son’s coffin at night. In a sexist society, his grief was viewed as a more heroic “melancholy” than Mary’s, who was dismissed as self-absorbed or insane — a stereotype that persists to this day.
The exhibit has been designed in consultation with grief experts like professor Joanne Cacciatore, who has written several books dear to families going through traumatic death. So while much of it is intended to help bereaved parents feel less alone, it’s also meant to demystify this type of grief for people who may be unfamiliar or deeply uncomfortable with it. At the end of the exhibit, visitors can take with them a postcard-sized handout with tips on how to help someone who is grieving. Don’t try to fix it or distract them, it says. Show up.
“Other people are far more uncomfortable with my grief than I am. It’s a welcome part of my life now. I’m going to love Coley forever, so I am going to grieve him forever, and that is okay,” Hawkins said. “And we see that with Mary Lincoln. I mean, she grieved the losses of her children and her husband for the rest of her life. Even when it made other people uncomfortable.”
The exhibit puts a poignant emphasis on place and places of refuge. For the modern-day parents, that can be visiting their child’s grave, tending to a garden, sitting by a river or preserving their child’s bedroom. For the Lincolns, it was the cottage. While they had always planned to decamp to it during humid Washington summers, they didn’t get a chance to do so until shortly after Willie’s death. It was a balm to them, a peaceful place where they could just be. They spent the next two summers there as well.
In describing the cottage to a friend, Mary Lincoln wrote: “When we are in sorrow, quiet is very necessary to us.”
“I always thought that this was a truly special place, but I didn’t feel it in my bones the way that I do now,” Hawkins said. “I remember the exact moment, as I was sitting at the hospital, thinking, ‘Now I get it. Now I know. I know what they needed, and I need that, too.’ ”
Hawkins now sees the cottage as a place that holds broken hearts, both hers and the Lincolns’. Like the rest of the staff, she used to call their bedroom at the cottage the “Emancipation Room,” because it is where Lincoln wrote the historic Emancipation Proclamation. Now, Hawkins also thinks of it as a sacred place where the couple probably shed many tears together.
At the center of the exhibit springs a smooth white trunk evoking a weeping willow tree. On each dangling paper leaf, visitors are encouraged to write the name of a lost child, or someone else they love who has died. When the exhibit concludes in two years, each name will be transferred onto a sheet of seed paper and planted — all that love and grief sustaining something new and alive.
When I was 9 years old, pop star Mac Davis introduced his hit song, “Stop And Smell The Roses” that had a delightful melody, two key changes, and even despite my young age, a great message.
Both Mother and my father, Danny, demonstrated the act of noticing the simple, ordinary things in life.
Mother always focused on the unnoticed or unfamiliar with, “did you ever notice…?” or “I don’t remember ever seeing that before.” I knew that was a cue for me to take notice, too. It wasn’t so much she wanted me to see what she was seeing but wanting me to see things on my own.
I still do my best to notice the “unseen” or the “unfamiliar” everyday.
My birth father, Danny, loved exploring historical sites. I was probably weened during a historical site’s tour. His take was always, “can you imagine how they did this way back than compared to how we do it, today?” He found tremendous joy investigating history and instilled that fascination and devotion in me, as well.
Once, while visiting Daniel Boone’s Missouri home, we were in the kitchen and there were a number of meat platters displayed on a shelf. One had a crack and I was obvious an older form of glue had been used to repair the item.
“What kind of glue did they use to repair the plate?” I asked.
My father’s hand patted my back. I looked up to receive “the wink” I knew would be forthcoming, his signature way of saying, “good job, Darin.”
My own sons learned how important my acknowledging wink meant.
As nearly everyone who knows me can attest, history is vital to my existence and visiting any historical site is one of the most fun, great adventures for me, even if the visit is a repeat. There’s always something new to learn or something I notice that I’d not observed from an initial visit.
It’s my version of three days at Disney World.
My parents gave me life but they also gave me the tools to investigate and appreciate so many aspects of life, especially the little things or things not as quickly discovered.
Mother was even more of a model when it came to noticing people, noting what she admired or appreciated. Whenever we ran into folks about Elwood and shared a chat, as we departed, Mother never failed to mention things she liked about that person. “She’s always been the sweetest thing,” etc.
“The sweetest things in life are free and right before your eyes.”
Yes, they are.
Go, Ye, therefore and make it a great day with the spirit of Mac Davis… sniff the hell out of those roses.
Since 9:00 AM, I’ve been ensconced on the deck with my pen, paper, lap top, coffee, breakfast, water, four napping pooches (Erma rises, periodically to come lay her chin on my knee), a bellowing red breasted-robin, two fluttering golder finches, a mourning dove, a number of cardinals singing and closely passing by, a steady flow of Shroyer Road traffic, an audio book playing, and the most beautiful weather that just makes everything as perfect as can be.
Yesterday, I kept busy. It felt good and I do not feel worn, one bit.
The morning began mowing my lawn. Mama Kay, from next door, had me show her how to operate her own mower because her son had to work and might not get to her yard. At 79, she didn’t need to be mowing her own yard, but there was no stopping her. I suggested she do the back and I would grab the front. We tackled it and then I completed my front yard.
I had several visitors stop by and it was nice to see them.
One was Lea Loree who made sure I knew I was invited to her son, Alex’s college graduation party.
Lea’s eldest son, Michael, was a regular fixture at The Haasienda until he went off to college at Bowling Green State University. Michael and my third son were great friends, and Michael naturally became a bonus son. He moved to Oregon and Washington and is loving his West Coast life.
Alex, at that time, was in elementary school, and once in middle school, decided on saxophone as his band instrument. I loved having Alex as a saxophone student and watching him grow as a musician and young man. He became the red-headed son I never had. Before long, Alex was off to Bowling Green State University, too, and we’ve managed to connect with one another on his breaks, until Covid took over our lives.
Before surprising Alex, and the visiting Michael, I had supper at Marion’s Pizza with Mama Kay and three of her widowed church friends after 4:30 PM Mass. It was a fantastic time and a fine lead in to the graduation party.
My after-midnight return home was exclaimed with vocal cheering from The Quartet. Since early March 2020, this was the longest they’ve been left alone. Even when I take trash out to the dumpster, I still love being greeted as though I’ve been on a month-long European tour.
In two hours, I duck back inside the house to my study to teach private lessons. I shall be finished early due to a number of students attending call-back auditions for Epiphany Lutheran Church’s summer production, BRIGHT STAR. Break legs!
The symphony described in the first paragraph continues but now, the metallic tink-sound sound of a bat connecting with a ball from the high school’s back fields punctuates the blowing breeze.
It was quite easy to just let this day take off with little effort to make it a great day.
My private teaching part of my day began at 2:00PM and was to conclude at 10:00 PM; however, a “no show” lesson ended the day at 8:30 PM.
By 9:00 PM, dinner was finished and I set up shop on the deck to write and enjoy the gorgeous evening with the dogs at my side.
The next three days will be filled with some household duties, writing, a Zoom history discussion, and hopefully a Friday Fun Day adventure. I grabbed the mower and cut the backyard’s grass that always grows faster than anyplace else on the property. We had a good deal of rain and I figured I might as well get it done should any more rain arrive.
I continue listening to my audiobook, MRS. LINCOLN’S SISTERS, A Novel, and find it an easy listen.
It’s now after 10:00 PM and I still need to get to writing after relaxing with dinner and tending to a few items.
There is a peaceful, simple solitude with this morning’s seat on the deck, accompanied by the two Seniors, Chief and Erma, at my side, while The Sister, Bailey and Harrigan, explore and sniff their way around the yard.
Whenever I enter the deck with what The Quartet recognizes as tools of my trade, they become excited much like when I return from taking out the trash with dancing and much enthusiasm for my decision. It’s rather cute.
My day always begins with preparing my coffee by 7:00 AM so that I am ready to Zoom with my son and his partner, living in London. We have a 30-45 minute chat, describing our yesterday and today, something interesting, and the entire conversation laced with humor.
At 8:00 AM, it’s time to feed the beasts and get another cup of coffee. I’ve never “needed” coffee but this past year it seems to be an energy boost that has become much needed. I seldom have a stomach for an early breakfast and either takes place mid-morning or Noon.
9:00 AM, Mondays and Wednesdays, this past school year, I had four hours, back to back, with online teaching. The other mornings, I wrote, providing I felt well enough.
The weather and time spent on the deck is always rejuvenating, allowing me to absorb my Vitamin D fix and breathe in the fresh air. The dogs also seem to know that they’re permitted to beg for some spontaneous petting, now and then, when I am on the deck. In my study, they know I am not to be pestered while teaching.
My yesterday’s irises have been joined by several more. They’re quite beautiful!
Since I had no online classes to teach, I braved the never-ending rain shower and took advantage of a major chunk of free time I’m seldom afforded and happily slid from The Haasienda’s borders to the bus stop about 80 steps from my property to catch southbound No. 17.
My trail began with Elsa’s (on OH-48) for a delicious lunch, then back to my PNC branch at Town & Country, a stroll through Town & Country mall, and then across Shroyer Road to grab a few items from CVS and Kroger.
I’m still learning my way around and through this new world arrangement that I escaped for 14 months. While certain procedures are still somewhat foreign to me, I didn’t feel rushed or observed with any aggravation. Perhaps now that I appear to look more like a withered old man, no longer full-faced and fully-energized, folks took pity and allotted me my range of newbieness.
As I passed by Trader Joe’s, the gentleman associate stationed outside the entry way fielded several questions as I waited to pass around without appearing rude. One lady asked about the mask mandate and upon hearing the response, turned to those of us behind her with arms raised in victory and proclaimed she was not wearing a mask into the store. She looked directly at me as if wanting a response. I maintained a blank return stare, hoping she would simply move on. She did; however, I found the moment all too peculiar, slightly uncomfortable that she was expecting me to validate her moment of championship.
At Kroger, one man proudly boasted, upon entering the western passage where produce and flowers spread before you inanimate greeters, that he had never worn a mask into Kroger and was not waiting until the mask-freedom date established by Ohio’s governor. Again, another peculiar public display that seemed unwarranted.
With my business completed, I waited at the building’s corner beneath the shelter of the covered roof while waiting on the southbound No. 17 bus to arrive and deposit me across the street from my house, probably about 50 feet from my door.
I am back home, seated in my study. My four teaching companions are spread out across the room, napping. Erma is snoring.
My private teaching day begins at 3:00 PM and will end at 10:15 PM.
I started out with the intent of making it a great day and I’ve been on target, so far.
Yesterday, as I moved about my day trying to stay dry in the rain-soaked Miami Valley and enjoying a sense of newness beyond The Haasienda’s borders, I recognized a number of folks who could not avoid the rain due their job responsibilities.
There were the cart-retrievers at Kroger; delivery folks for various stores at Town & Country shopping plaza; mail carriers; street and utility workers; lawn maintenance folks for the City of Kettering; teachers on bus duty; food delivery folks; construction workers (some were on a slick-looking roof); and a number of other occupational needs.
Since childhood, Mother often cheerfully reminded me, “remember, someone else made this possible.”
Mother referred to food produced by farmers; food delivered (mostly pizza from Elwood’s Pizza King); an altered suit or slacks; utility workers when our power went out; always our mail carrier for whom we often left treats, cheerful notes or a cool cup of lemonade or water on hot days; waitresses (or servers) at restaurants that took good care of us during a meal; Zip Davis or Francis Clark who took care of our hair; a new car that someone built and someone else maintains; those M&M bags don’t get into the store’s bins without being delivered and stocked; or any number of occupations that resulted in my basic needs being met, as well as my not-so-basic needs. The list is endless!
Today, as I just learned, May 24th is National Aviation Maintenance Day. It was selected to honor Charlie Taylor’s birthday, the brilliant mechanic who worked alongside Wilbur and Orville Wright.
Charlie Taylor, like his bosses, gave us a boost toward the skies. Neil Armstrong and the Mars helicopter each carried with them a part of Mr. Taylor’s efforts.
It’s not quite yet 9:00 AM on this Wednesday morning, my first Wednesday to not teach online class, and I am savoring this gorgeous morning that is all decked out with growing green grass, a brilliant blue sky, leaf-filled branches gently dancing in the breeze, four dogs lounging around the deck, blooming wisteria climbing around the deck’s rail and up the tree that actually grows through the rails.
Today is my Friday and I am eager to delve into three solid days of writing and researching. Sometimes, the research is cumbersome, interfering with the actual writing process; however, I do love researching and discovering, or rediscovering. My current project joins me with my great-great grandparents, Joel Monroe Jones and Anna Greenlee Jones of Boone Township, Madison County, Indiana. They were both gone by 1946 and 1950 so I never met them. I am grateful for the stories told to me by Mother, Grandma Donna, and Aunt Joyce.
I am listening to four sets of wind chimes, a number of birds that seem to accompany one of my cardinals and an audio book, MRS. LINCOLN’S SISTERS: A Novel, by Jennifer Chiaverini. I’ve played it in the background since Saturday and am rather enjoying it. It’s a fictional account, yet I am not permitting my historian-researcher cap to settle on my head so I can simply enjoy it. And, I am.
One of the four sets of wind chimes is somewhat new. The recent winds of a few weeks back brought down two branches containing wind chimes; their frames were broken beyond repair. Yesterday, I restrung all nine tubes of varying sizes and created a larger structure. This morning, I am getting to hear their premiere song as they occasionally clang in the breeze.
It’s now 9:10 AM and I am ready to get busy exploring and making it a great day in 1904, Madison County, Indiana, and in 2021 as I reach down to pet a nudging snout requesting attention.
I opened the front door to see a frazzled, exhausted looking young man stepping out of his Spectrum (cable/internet) van and as he rounded the front end of the vehicle, he asked, “Do you mind if I take just five minutes to gather my wits and clear my brain?”
“Of course, not. Just come on inside when you’re ready. Take as much time as you need.”
The slender, weary-laden gentleman with short cropped red-hair and the semi-faddish facial scruff reached into the van’s passenger side to retrieve a near frozen 2-liter Mountain Dew from his cooler. With each swig of The Dew, he seemed to slowly revive. I stepped back inside the house to let him regain his spirit.
The original Spectrum order, which surprised me, was for a technician’s arrival between 1:00 PM and 2:00 PM on Sunday afternoon. My online discussion with a Spectrum agent about my internet issues was Saturday afternoon and I was grateful to get such immediate assistance despite the need to reschedule Sunday lessons. Fortunately, a music ensemble performance and a senior’s birthday party had already taken care of all but three students and they were out of Spectrum’s anticipated visit. Well… at the start they were.
1:50 PM, a voice message arrived from Spectrum that my technician was delayed. No problem.
I had spent the morning cleaning my study and the area behind my desk for fear the technician would think he was entering an Indiana Jones’ movie set dressed with aged cobwebs and who knows what else. Since the sweeper was out and we had struck up a working relationship, I swept the entire house. It’s kind of like the mentality of passing a restroom and using it since it’s there.
I seldom have company repair-personnel come to the house where I am wedged into a waiting frame. How does one go about their business, naturally, when they know the moment they begin to bury themselves in a project the repairperson will arrive? I felt like a stage actor trying to figure out stage business while the director steps out to smoke (back in the day). It was so foreign.
“Hey, Boss Man!” I heard Thomas step into the house.
“Come on back, Thomas the Technician.”
And, thus began an almost three-hour relationship of Thomas the Technician and Boss Man.
I’ve been called many names of different, varying degrees of titles, but “Boss Man” was entirely new. It worked.
Thomas the Technician stepped into my study looking much refreshed and energy-filled. He apologized for not making the earlier time window; it was now after 4:00 PM. His apology was sincere and to me, almost heart-breaking as I could tell he was stressed.
“Thomas the Technician, my theory is this: If someone, who is coming to fix something in my house, is running late, I hope that technician will give my needs the same detailed attention and time as the customer before me. Trust me, you’re good.” I was not disappointed.
I showed Thomas the Technician the issues and he got right to work, but not before asking permission to pet the dogs, gated in the bedroom next to my study.
“When I am done, do you mind if I give them a ‘T-R-E-A-T’?”
My heart swelled! Thomas the Technician must be a dog owner. How would he have known to spell in front of the dogs?
Over the next two hours and forty-five minutes, I learned Thomas the Technician had been a cable technician with Spectrum for five years, had two sons at ages ten and four, had graduated from Wayne High School, still lived in Huber Heights, owned two dogs that were pit bull and black lab mixes like my Chief (whom he adored), and was scheduled to finish his last job by 10:00 PM Sunday evening.
This rain soaked Monday morning, I feel as though I am in a completely new working world as my internet speed is much faster and stable, and my main work station with my PC, along with four laptops conveniently placed throughout my study and bedroom, feel like I was on LET’S MAKE A DEAL and the television game show’s hostess, Carol Merrill, showed me what was behind the numbered curtain I had selected. Last evening, I was in an elated state, in awe of technology, and glad I am not as technically minded so I can still marvel at these advancements.
First, my cable cords or wires, were installed when we moved here, June 2003. They were old. New cable stuff was installed outside in the grey box fixed onto the brick wall just inside the gate, from the basement and through the air duct into my study. Second, when the giant wood desk had been moved into my study three years ago, the boys sat it on that air duct cable, pinching full service. Thomas the Technician had to clip the ends and just leave the trapped cable beneath the cumbersome desk.
While working on the outside box, Thomas the Technician had four loving, attentive-sniffing assistants. Several times I commanded them to back off but he implored me to let them be. I was impressed how he could attend to his work while still petting each dog. Even more impressive, he knew their names within minutes while I still refer to them by their coat color or personality.
I had easily installed my new Spectrum-sent modem the previous Saturday and now, with a brand spanking new Wi-Fi router, geared for speed and distance, my study and entire internet world throughout The Haasienda feels like the Christmas edition of the Sears Catalogue has arrived.
By the time Thomas the Technician stepped onto the front porch to venture off to his next customer, over in Trotwood, he was sagging, again, and the strained fatigue was etching its way into the lines on his face. Suddenly, he brightened.
“Wait, Boss Man, I almost forgot.”
From the van he retrieved two sets of four large treats from a container of dog delicacies his mom had made for his own dogs. He rushed back into the house, hugged on the dogs, and then gave each dog a delicious moist treat from each hand. Later that night, I reluctantly offered each dog one of their medium sized dry, but crunchy, Milk Bone treats; they still seemed satisfied and appreciative following the quality gourmet treats Thomas the Technician gave them a few hours earlier.
I hope Thomas the Technician got home, earlier than his expected 10:00 PM job, and is still experiencing much needed sleep. He deserved it. I truly appreciate my new-found world of updated technology.
The Haasienda on Shroyer... 