On Saturday while I was meant to be straightening my craft room, I stumbled across a box, still packed from when we moved into this house four years ago. It was a treasure chest of papers, letters, receipts, bills, and documents saved by Mike's Auntie Lib, after they came into her possession from other family members. It seems that they'd all saved letters from the writers, and then, when the writers passed away, they would send them to survivors in the family, who handed them down to others in time.
We are lucky enough to have an unfinished letter from his GrGrandmother, written to her sister,Margaret, on the day her last baby was born, June 16, 1881. That baby was Mike's grandfather, and GrGrandmother Martha, passed away that same afternoon at 5 pm. We have letters from many of the ancestors, some whom I've yet to connect to proper blood lines. They are wonderful history! They are often difficult to read, the handwriting is often shaky, or small, but they are clues to life in days long before I was born.
On Saturday I sat on the front porch in the shade, while the sun beat down through the humid air, and I went through the stacks of things within that box. GrGrandfather Thomas, was Martha's husband. He'd emigrated from Ireland, alone, in 1840 and later, his family joined him. He'd come with little, and worked his way up from stacking firewood on the wharfs in St Louis, to becoming a a riverboat Captain, with at least eight sidewheelers and multiple barges. Some of the information we had was confirmed by receipts, but as I thumbed through and read the receipts, I discovered new information: boat names, barge names, bills of laden, freight bills, purchases. There was a four-page hand-written contract for the building of a new riverboat in the year 1855. Later, in the same box, I found a two page list of people, Captain, Pilot, crew and roust-abouts, as well as an inventory of all goods aboard when the boat was taken into service of the US Government on Aug 23, 1864, during the Civil War. At least two of GrGrandfather's boats were used to transport troops and supplies up and down the rivers. We even found orders from the Quarter Master, telling him where the boat was to be and when.
There were tax bills which gave us addresses for at least five homes that GrGrandfather owned. I stumbled across a list of the tenants, the rents they paid, the months of the year they were there. I discovered records of employees who worked on the boats, or on the 260 some acres where GrGrandfather grew orchards of apples. The orchard property was across the Illinois River in Missouri, and the farm overlooked the river, from the bluffs. He'd built a huge T-shaped, two- story farmhouse with front porches on both levels. There were paid bills for materials for the twelve-room home in St.Louis which he was refurbishing a few years before his death. He changed the gas ceiling lights, repapered and replastered the walls. He had a new kitchen put in, as well as new plumbing and rain gutters. Over the years, he'd been an industrious business man, and become quite an affluent one.
There were receipts for the tiny white casket, velvet -lined for his 3 month old baby, Maggie, and the charge for the rented buggy. There was a dentist bill, listing platinum fillings, gold crowns, and other dental work. There was a receipted bill for a brand new buggy, with a full leather top and rubber sides that rolled up and down which would protect from the weather. I also found a jewelers receipt for a ladies gold watch and chain, $125, which was bought prior to his wedding to Martha in February 1869. She is wearing the watch in a photo we have of the family.
There is nothing like this box of treasures to give us a true glimpse into a person's life. With every bit of paper, I felt as if I ws getting to know Capt. Thomas L. Mortland in a more intimate way. I think I will organize these things to give me a cohesive look, and perhaps put together a biographical sketch of GrGrandfather and his family members. I wonder what he would think, if he were here.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saving Stuff...
A friend recently wrote a blog about saving bits of string. That's probably the one thing I don't save. We have lots of bits of paper to write shopping lists or notes on. My husband saves coffee cans and mayonnaise jars in which we keep our dry staples on the pantry shelf. I save bits of info about ancestors that I scribble on those saved bits of paper. (I even save, in my head, old phone numbers and the birthdates and death dates of friends long gone. That, at least, doesn't take up any room in the drawers!)
I am prone to be the subject of family jokes because I salvage things that have use left in them. At every gift giving event, I race to save a large piece of wrapping paper, so that it can be used on another large, or several small, gifts in the future. I like to save ribbons and bows. I cannot see the point of buying more of the same, when there's good use left in the item, just because somebody thinks I'm cheap or silly.
My parents were children of the Depression era. They learned early how to recycle, but of course they didn't call it that in those days. It was a wise way to stretch a dollar, and in my opinion, it still is. I tend to buy classic clothing so that I can wear it for many more seasons (or years, or maybe decades!) than if I choose to buy fad styles. Call me cheap. Call me thrifty. Call me a saver. Call me a recycler. Call me what you will, I will not be swayed from my mode of operation.
The landfills have less stuff in them because of this household. The pocketbook has more dollars. I happen to be a huge fan of both! Do you recycle? How do you feel about the subject? Do you think that most people are wasteful, or are more people doing good things for the future generations?
As for me, I think I'm doing my part to save one other thing...our beautiful Earth.
I am prone to be the subject of family jokes because I salvage things that have use left in them. At every gift giving event, I race to save a large piece of wrapping paper, so that it can be used on another large, or several small, gifts in the future. I like to save ribbons and bows. I cannot see the point of buying more of the same, when there's good use left in the item, just because somebody thinks I'm cheap or silly.
My parents were children of the Depression era. They learned early how to recycle, but of course they didn't call it that in those days. It was a wise way to stretch a dollar, and in my opinion, it still is. I tend to buy classic clothing so that I can wear it for many more seasons (or years, or maybe decades!) than if I choose to buy fad styles. Call me cheap. Call me thrifty. Call me a saver. Call me a recycler. Call me what you will, I will not be swayed from my mode of operation.
The landfills have less stuff in them because of this household. The pocketbook has more dollars. I happen to be a huge fan of both! Do you recycle? How do you feel about the subject? Do you think that most people are wasteful, or are more people doing good things for the future generations?
As for me, I think I'm doing my part to save one other thing...our beautiful Earth.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Auntie Lib
I had no thought of writing about her this morning, but since I awoke to a dream of her, she's very much on my mind.
Auntie Lib was actually my husband's aunt. She was as much a mother to him as was his own, and in the last years of her life was even moreso, since they lived much closer than his Mom did. I met Auntie Lib when Mike and I began dating, and he was living at her house in Sag Harbor. I was immediately impressed with her delightful way of hostessing. Her door would open and she'd say, "Come in, Dears!" and immediately have her table full of goodies and cups of tea.
While snacking, there were many questions. Auntie Lib was very interested in everyone's education, careers, family. She'd been a teacher in her young years, and always encouraged everyone to go to college. She'd also been a counselor and so, she listened intently and was quick to pick up on any interests one might have, in order that she might steer a person in that direction as an occupation. She had spent some time trying to keep track of family members, both near and far, and kept in written communication with cousins, their children and theirs too. Family was very important to her and she'd attempted to get as much ancestry as she could from others. She had scribbled notes which tied groups together. At the time, I didn't realize what a treasure of information she would offer me once I began tracing Mike's roots.
Auntie Lib, as I said, was a gracious hostess. She would open the door to some that others would not, including Jehovah's Witnesses. She would sit with them and have tea, while so many others turned them away. I was never privy to those conversations, but she would have been polite, even as she explained her Presbyterian beliefs, and questioned them about all sorts of things. When they were finished with their visit, they would move along. Other guests were treated the same way. She had many friends who brought their children, who later brought their children and who,much later, brought their own children to meet that kind woman.
There is so much I could write about Auntie Lib, but I could also sum up her life in a nutshell by saying that she was a very 'independent,gracious woman.' She'd lived a long lifetime, ninety -seven and a half years, and most of that time she'd lived her own way. She'd had experiences most of us would never know: from sailing to Europe on a freighter, watching WWII begin from a front row seat in London, fleeing the wrath of Mussolini after her husband had written an 'unbecoming' article about him in a newspaper he worked for. She hob nobbed with famous writers and journalists, even had a marriage proposal, before her husband's, from her good friend, Edward R. Morrow (who was called by his given name,at that time) She'd had her only son in midlife, became a widow, and worked to support herself and her home in the years following. She drove her car, even on long day trips, until she was close to 90 years old and traveled across the country on planes until she was 89 years old. Her last years were spent with a live-in caregiver, as a result of having broken her hip. Being fiercely independent, she wasn't pleased with the arrangement, but she eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was under that thumb, and there wasn't much she could do about it. She made the best of it, continuing to keep herself abreast of world events by watching all the news she could find and reading what she could get her hands on.
Life was good to Auntie Lib...and vice versa. I admired her, and learned much from her. I was blessed to have loved her and to have been loved in return. I hope that my life will be looked upon one day as hers is by many who say, "I was so lucky to have known her."
Auntie Lib was actually my husband's aunt. She was as much a mother to him as was his own, and in the last years of her life was even moreso, since they lived much closer than his Mom did. I met Auntie Lib when Mike and I began dating, and he was living at her house in Sag Harbor. I was immediately impressed with her delightful way of hostessing. Her door would open and she'd say, "Come in, Dears!" and immediately have her table full of goodies and cups of tea.
While snacking, there were many questions. Auntie Lib was very interested in everyone's education, careers, family. She'd been a teacher in her young years, and always encouraged everyone to go to college. She'd also been a counselor and so, she listened intently and was quick to pick up on any interests one might have, in order that she might steer a person in that direction as an occupation. She had spent some time trying to keep track of family members, both near and far, and kept in written communication with cousins, their children and theirs too. Family was very important to her and she'd attempted to get as much ancestry as she could from others. She had scribbled notes which tied groups together. At the time, I didn't realize what a treasure of information she would offer me once I began tracing Mike's roots.
Auntie Lib, as I said, was a gracious hostess. She would open the door to some that others would not, including Jehovah's Witnesses. She would sit with them and have tea, while so many others turned them away. I was never privy to those conversations, but she would have been polite, even as she explained her Presbyterian beliefs, and questioned them about all sorts of things. When they were finished with their visit, they would move along. Other guests were treated the same way. She had many friends who brought their children, who later brought their children and who,much later, brought their own children to meet that kind woman.
There is so much I could write about Auntie Lib, but I could also sum up her life in a nutshell by saying that she was a very 'independent,gracious woman.' She'd lived a long lifetime, ninety -seven and a half years, and most of that time she'd lived her own way. She'd had experiences most of us would never know: from sailing to Europe on a freighter, watching WWII begin from a front row seat in London, fleeing the wrath of Mussolini after her husband had written an 'unbecoming' article about him in a newspaper he worked for. She hob nobbed with famous writers and journalists, even had a marriage proposal, before her husband's, from her good friend, Edward R. Morrow (who was called by his given name,at that time) She'd had her only son in midlife, became a widow, and worked to support herself and her home in the years following. She drove her car, even on long day trips, until she was close to 90 years old and traveled across the country on planes until she was 89 years old. Her last years were spent with a live-in caregiver, as a result of having broken her hip. Being fiercely independent, she wasn't pleased with the arrangement, but she eventually resigned herself to the fact that she was under that thumb, and there wasn't much she could do about it. She made the best of it, continuing to keep herself abreast of world events by watching all the news she could find and reading what she could get her hands on.
Life was good to Auntie Lib...and vice versa. I admired her, and learned much from her. I was blessed to have loved her and to have been loved in return. I hope that my life will be looked upon one day as hers is by many who say, "I was so lucky to have known her."
Saturday, May 14, 2011
HEIRLOOMS
In the 'olden days' our ancestors made most of the things they needed. Clothing, household goods, furniture... all were pretty much created out of necessity by those who needed them, or by someone else who would trade his/her craftsman ship for yours. Things were usually too expensive for the average family to purchase, and so the treadle sewing machine would whir, or the hand tools would be put to use.
Some of us are fortunate to have some heirlooms from our ancestors. I'm one of those who do. I have several patchwork quilts made by my female ancestors back to my Great Grandmothers, and perhaps to their mothers, as well. There's no one left to ask about the ones on my Dad's side. It hasn't been used in decades, but as old as it is, it has some places that could use repairing. The fabrics in all of the quilts are well-past a hundred years old, and most were probably previously used fabrics for clothing, so they may be older still. I hang these items outside for airing, usually in the Spring before the sun gets too hot, in order to preserve the color and the fabrics. I wish that I could wash them, but they've got battings that are not smooth, and I don't care to have them 'bunch up' further. The dry cleaner might be able to clean them, but I don't want to risk having them cleaned with chemicals, and so they hang outside for 'dust removal'.
I think about the many hours that were spent by those women who passed their skills down through our females bloodlines. Some of those bed covers are stitched by hand, others by machines, but either way, being a quilter myself, I know the time it takes to create such a work. The women added that activity to their daily list of things to accomplish, and perhaps it was not done because they wanted to do it, but because winter was coming and houses got cold.
There's a chest in front of my mother's couch that she uses for a coffee table. It is a rustic sea chest which belonged to my father's grandfather. It's heavy and large, and I've often wondered how often it was lugged from land to sea and back again, full of items he might need while he was aboard the steamboat he ran from Sag Harbor to Connecticut. I wonder who built the box, whether he did, or his father, perhaps, who was also a mariner Captain.
There is also a ship's model made by my maternal Grandfather. Mom carried it on her lap across every mile we drove when we moved here. It is precious to her and she would not put it down or let it get bumped and broken. (The one pictured here is another of the models he built. It is on display at the East Hampton Marine Museum) We also have macrame items he made while in the US Coast Guard, and some of his hand-done calligraphy things.
These old things, and others from our family mean much to me. We are in possession, too, of things from my husband's family. Some are not valuable, except for sentiment, such as old receipts and letters written before the Civil War times. We have a box full of each, that has been passed on from family member to family member from then 'til now. We often wonder what we should do with them, as only so many can be displayed or placed in a scrapbook. Perhaps they should go to a museum, one local to the area where the original owner, Mike's GrGrandfather the riverboat owner did his business. He did much carrying of Union troops and supplies during the Civil War and was even paid by the Government for the loss of one or two boats to the War. We haven't got that check, signed by U.S. Grant. Mike's mom had it, but when she died, we don't know where it went. It was never cashed because Mike's Irish immigrant ancestor stated that 'this country has been good to me' and he didn't want to cash it.
Whether worth a cent or a million dollars, we are pleased to own such items from our family members. These are a part of our history, and we're proud of them. The quilts that I have that my mother has made, and other items created by her hands, as well as those lovely things hand-crafted by my daughters are just as important to me.
As we collect from those who live today, as we create our own bits of handiwork, we know that they will become heirlooms for someone else in the future years. We only hope that they think they are worth keeping safe, as we do.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
My Grandfather
From time to time, a memory comes to the surface. Recently I thought of my Grandfather and one memory led to another. My mother's father passed away when I was just a toddler, so I don't remember him at all. My father's parents, on the other hand, lived close by while I was growing up, and I saw a good deal of them.
Thoughts tumble as I remember Grampa. He was always dressed nicely, even at home, but especially when he was out in public. Even when he was retired, most always he wore a shirt and tie, and if he needed a light jacket, he'd put wear a wool flannel shirt over top, buttoned all the way, including the top button.
He had a vegetable garden between his front house and the little cottage in the rear of the property. There were also grape vines out there. He would work the garden with his hoe, dressed in clothing that I was unused to seeing him wear. His gardening outfit was a pair of cut off dark green work trousers, and a high-topped pair of heavy shoes. He was a firm believer in wearing 'proper shoes'. In fact, one time while I was visiting at Grandma and Grampa's house, he was not happy to see the shoes I was wearing, and that very afternoon we cleaned up after gardening, and drove to the shoe store. There he purchased a pair of ankle-high, brown Buster Brown, lace-up shoes. I don't remember being very fashion-conscious at the age of five years, but my mother wasn't pleased to have me wearing those shoes! However, wear them I did, because Grandpa bought them and she'd never have hurt his feelings. Aside from that, my Mom was never one to waste something that was useable.
My Grandmother was the cook of her home, but Grandpa sometimes cooked breakfasts. He'd fry ham or bacon, and then stir up some 'griddle cakes.' He'd pour the batter into the hot, cast iron, black frying pan, and it would cover the entire bottom of the pan. He told me that you have to watch and wait for all the bubbles to stop on the top before the pancake could be flipped. Somehow, those breakfasts are remembered as the tastiest of all I've ever eaten.
When Grandma died, I was a few months past my eleventh birthday. I missed her terribly. I can only imagine how it felt for Grandpa. He stayed alone in his house for a few years. During that time, he took a few short-term trips. Frequently he went off for the day, and on occasion, Grampa would invite me to go along with him. One time, he took me on a trip to New London, Ct. In order to get there, we had to take two small car ferries, and a larger one for the trip from Orient, NY to Connecticut. I remember holding Grampa's soft-skinned hand with the large,raised veins as we walked up the hill from the ferry pier to the city street. As we stood in front of the restaurant where we would have our lunch, we looked down toward the water, and he said, "This is where we began." I'm sure the comment was lost on me then, but all these years later, after doing some ancestral research, I know that he meant that our earliest Beebe family arrived in New London from Great Britain. How I wish I'd been interested sooner! I'd ask so many questions!
Our lunch at the restaurant was fun for me, as our family rarely ate anywhere but at home or in a family home. It was sharing the time with my only Grandpa. I didn't know what to choose from the menu, and he invited me to have a 'hot turkey sandwich.' I agreed, and when the meal was delivered to the table, Grampa chuckled at my reaction. I was expecting hot turkey meat between two slices of bread....not a plate full of mashed potatoes,vegetables, and hot turkey on a slice of bread, all covered with gravy! But, I wasn't disappointed when I took my first bite! To this day, I cannot see the hot turkey sandwich on a menu without recalling that date with Grampa.
When I was a teenager, there came a day that Grampa decided he didn't want to live alone anymore. My parents and he had worked something out so that he could come and live with us. Construction began on our house, so that Grampa would have his own room and bath. He had use of the entire house, but other than to make his own breakfast and lunches, and to share our evening dinner with the family, he stayed mainly in his room. He rocked in his chair and he read voraciously. Every two or three days, he' put on his necktie and off he'd go, on foot, with the library as his goal. He'd walked and he whistled as he walked. I perceived that he was as content as he could be as a widower who chose not to drive any longer.
My Mom tells me that he was uncomplaining. No matter what she cooked for a meal, he ate it without complaint. He complemented her, especially when she'd gifted him with a flannel shirt that she'd made him. He wore it often, and it fit so well, I'm sure that he really liked it.
Grandpa passed away at the age of 84 years. When he did, he left a legacy of kindness and love of children. He'd been the father of three, but raised only two, as his first born was stolen from him by Scarlet Fever at the age of six. He had seven grandchildren and thirteen great-grandchildren. His love for all of us was evident throughout his life, and not only for us, but for the many, many neighborhood children who went to visit him over the years. What a joy it has been for me to hear from a large number of them in the last few years as to the way he remains one of their favorite childhood memories. I'm honored that Grampa was mine to share with all of them.
Thoughts tumble as I remember Grampa. He was always dressed nicely, even at home, but especially when he was out in public. Even when he was retired, most always he wore a shirt and tie, and if he needed a light jacket, he'd put wear a wool flannel shirt over top, buttoned all the way, including the top button.
He had a vegetable garden between his front house and the little cottage in the rear of the property. There were also grape vines out there. He would work the garden with his hoe, dressed in clothing that I was unused to seeing him wear. His gardening outfit was a pair of cut off dark green work trousers, and a high-topped pair of heavy shoes. He was a firm believer in wearing 'proper shoes'. In fact, one time while I was visiting at Grandma and Grampa's house, he was not happy to see the shoes I was wearing, and that very afternoon we cleaned up after gardening, and drove to the shoe store. There he purchased a pair of ankle-high, brown Buster Brown, lace-up shoes. I don't remember being very fashion-conscious at the age of five years, but my mother wasn't pleased to have me wearing those shoes! However, wear them I did, because Grandpa bought them and she'd never have hurt his feelings. Aside from that, my Mom was never one to waste something that was useable.
My Grandmother was the cook of her home, but Grandpa sometimes cooked breakfasts. He'd fry ham or bacon, and then stir up some 'griddle cakes.' He'd pour the batter into the hot, cast iron, black frying pan, and it would cover the entire bottom of the pan. He told me that you have to watch and wait for all the bubbles to stop on the top before the pancake could be flipped. Somehow, those breakfasts are remembered as the tastiest of all I've ever eaten.
When Grandma died, I was a few months past my eleventh birthday. I missed her terribly. I can only imagine how it felt for Grandpa. He stayed alone in his house for a few years. During that time, he took a few short-term trips. Frequently he went off for the day, and on occasion, Grampa would invite me to go along with him. One time, he took me on a trip to New London, Ct. In order to get there, we had to take two small car ferries, and a larger one for the trip from Orient, NY to Connecticut. I remember holding Grampa's soft-skinned hand with the large,raised veins as we walked up the hill from the ferry pier to the city street. As we stood in front of the restaurant where we would have our lunch, we looked down toward the water, and he said, "This is where we began." I'm sure the comment was lost on me then, but all these years later, after doing some ancestral research, I know that he meant that our earliest Beebe family arrived in New London from Great Britain. How I wish I'd been interested sooner! I'd ask so many questions!
Our lunch at the restaurant was fun for me, as our family rarely ate anywhere but at home or in a family home. It was sharing the time with my only Grandpa. I didn't know what to choose from the menu, and he invited me to have a 'hot turkey sandwich.' I agreed, and when the meal was delivered to the table, Grampa chuckled at my reaction. I was expecting hot turkey meat between two slices of bread....not a plate full of mashed potatoes,vegetables, and hot turkey on a slice of bread, all covered with gravy! But, I wasn't disappointed when I took my first bite! To this day, I cannot see the hot turkey sandwich on a menu without recalling that date with Grampa.
When I was a teenager, there came a day that Grampa decided he didn't want to live alone anymore. My parents and he had worked something out so that he could come and live with us. Construction began on our house, so that Grampa would have his own room and bath. He had use of the entire house, but other than to make his own breakfast and lunches, and to share our evening dinner with the family, he stayed mainly in his room. He rocked in his chair and he read voraciously. Every two or three days, he' put on his necktie and off he'd go, on foot, with the library as his goal. He'd walked and he whistled as he walked. I perceived that he was as content as he could be as a widower who chose not to drive any longer.
My Mom tells me that he was uncomplaining. No matter what she cooked for a meal, he ate it without complaint. He complemented her, especially when she'd gifted him with a flannel shirt that she'd made him. He wore it often, and it fit so well, I'm sure that he really liked it.
Grandpa passed away at the age of 84 years. When he did, he left a legacy of kindness and love of children. He'd been the father of three, but raised only two, as his first born was stolen from him by Scarlet Fever at the age of six. He had seven grandchildren and thirteen great-grandchildren. His love for all of us was evident throughout his life, and not only for us, but for the many, many neighborhood children who went to visit him over the years. What a joy it has been for me to hear from a large number of them in the last few years as to the way he remains one of their favorite childhood memories. I'm honored that Grampa was mine to share with all of them.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Remembrances...
Lilacs... other than Hollyhocks, I believe they are my favorite flowers. I love their color, their shape, and especially their fragrance. I can almost smell it now, as I breathe. There were huge Lilac bushes on the side and behind my Grandmother's house on King Street, and every Spring they'd burst forth in glorious display of dark and light purples and white, too. When the house was sold, they were ripped out and not replaced. IMAGINE!!! I think that's criminal, but it wasn't my call. We also had a number of varieties of them at our old house in East Hampton, but here in SC, there's not a sign of a Lilac. I've yet to find one to plant here that will endure the weather we have. It is one thing I remember of our old home town and one that I miss most.
My husband speaks often of the Canadian geese. That is what he misses most. We used to sit on our back deck and watch flocks of them fly over, heading toward the west in the morning and in the evening, making their return trip to the east. We sit on our porch front porch here, and it's a real treat when a pair of the long-necked geese travel across the sky to somewhere far beyond our house. We love to hear the honking, and occasionally we do. from some pond out of our view in the wooded area south of us. Still, I remember how thrilled Mike was last November, when we were back home, to see huge flocks in their organized 'Vs', noisily making their way to their destination. Yes, more than anything, he misses those geese.
We live now in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. We have no salt air here, no beach grasses, no ocean beach for many miles. Even though it was years before we moved that we'd been to the ocean to swim (due to crowds and expensive parking permits), we did drive to look at it nearly every time we got in the car. There was a joke in my hometown that locals had to 'go look at the ocean to be sure nobody'd pulled the plug.' Nobody had, and I can rest assured that it will still be there whenever we go back to East Hampton. I have no concerns that a board of decision makers will choose to change the direction of the pounding waves or the structure of the sea. It comforts me to know that it will be changed only by Mother Nature herself. As I say this, I want to add that I'm also grateful for those who do make decisions to preserve the beauty and history of the place where I grew up. I applaud the efforts of all involved in maintaining and controlling the integrity of the area. The sea and wonderful. clean, sandy beaches is what draws huge crowds to the Town, and I can honestly say that I understand why. There is nothing like the beach in East Hampton. I wouldn't trade a tropical one for East Hampton's oceanside, or bayside. That being said, I'm very content to live here in the shadow of the mountains, and I find that I appreciate the viewing of the ocean even more now than I did when I lived there.
I cannot bring an ocean beach to us, but we can travel across the state to the coast, if we want to. I cannot bring the Canadian geese to our skies, but I can shop for some Lilacs that I've heard will live in this weather. I think I'll do just that!
My husband speaks often of the Canadian geese. That is what he misses most. We used to sit on our back deck and watch flocks of them fly over, heading toward the west in the morning and in the evening, making their return trip to the east. We sit on our porch front porch here, and it's a real treat when a pair of the long-necked geese travel across the sky to somewhere far beyond our house. We love to hear the honking, and occasionally we do. from some pond out of our view in the wooded area south of us. Still, I remember how thrilled Mike was last November, when we were back home, to see huge flocks in their organized 'Vs', noisily making their way to their destination. Yes, more than anything, he misses those geese.
We live now in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. We have no salt air here, no beach grasses, no ocean beach for many miles. Even though it was years before we moved that we'd been to the ocean to swim (due to crowds and expensive parking permits), we did drive to look at it nearly every time we got in the car. There was a joke in my hometown that locals had to 'go look at the ocean to be sure nobody'd pulled the plug.' Nobody had, and I can rest assured that it will still be there whenever we go back to East Hampton. I have no concerns that a board of decision makers will choose to change the direction of the pounding waves or the structure of the sea. It comforts me to know that it will be changed only by Mother Nature herself. As I say this, I want to add that I'm also grateful for those who do make decisions to preserve the beauty and history of the place where I grew up. I applaud the efforts of all involved in maintaining and controlling the integrity of the area. The sea and wonderful. clean, sandy beaches is what draws huge crowds to the Town, and I can honestly say that I understand why. There is nothing like the beach in East Hampton. I wouldn't trade a tropical one for East Hampton's oceanside, or bayside. That being said, I'm very content to live here in the shadow of the mountains, and I find that I appreciate the viewing of the ocean even more now than I did when I lived there.
I cannot bring an ocean beach to us, but we can travel across the state to the coast, if we want to. I cannot bring the Canadian geese to our skies, but I can shop for some Lilacs that I've heard will live in this weather. I think I'll do just that!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Meanies
Don't you hate it when you see children's feelings being hurt by mean children? I think we've all seen it, or maybe we've been the one that someone is being mean to. I've never understood why meanies get such a thrill over hurting others.
My little granddaughter posed the question last night to her mother, "Why are popular people so mean?" My daughter replied, "Maybe the greater question is, 'why are mean people popular?" The poor child is being outcast by some she'd like to be her friends. She would be a friend to all, and doesn't understand their need to ignore her or to show her unkindness in word or deed. She's too young to be able to walk away and take no stock in it. She's taught that we should all be 'sweet' to other people, to apologize when we've wronged someone, and to think before we speak. This elementary school occurance doesn't line up with what she's been taught and practices.
Another granddaughter, older and in middle school, was the most delightful, well-loved student in preschool and elementary grades. She was thoughtful and considerate, helpful and kind to everyone. When she moved to middle school, there were those who determined that she should be called names and left out of activities. At that age, most children want to be 'popular' with their peers, and she, too, had deeply hurt feelings. After two years of ill treatment, she's standing up for herself. She doesn't speak to them with unkindness, but she will not bow to them, either. One day she showed her bravery, and perhaps antagonized the situation, by sitting down for lunch at a table where she knew they always sat. One of the "meanies" told her that it was 'their' table. After looking around, she announced that she didn't see their names anywhere in the area. They said, "We've sat here since grade school". Her answer was, "Well, I'm sitting here today." When another student walked by, the "meanie" announced with sarcasm, "You might as well sit at this table. Apparently anyone can sit here!" The other student didn't sit, but my granddaughter stayed in her seat.
It's so hard for people, young and old, to be treated with such disregard. I hurt for my granddaughters, as I was one of those who received the 'not worthy' status from some kids in school. I was not athletic, so I was always chosen last for every team. I wasn't a cheerleader. I was a part of the school play, but certainly no where near the star of the show. And, I didn't care about those things, but I did care about the cliques that were very obviously avoiding anyone who wasn't in them.
It doesn't occur only in schools. It seems to be a part of every organization. I would think that by the time people grow to adulthood that they would leave that immature practice behind, but some don't. It may be that they are so self-absorbed that they can't see that a quiet person has something to offer, if asked. Maybe they just want the glory for themselves of doing it 'all' . I don't know.
I know only this, that my grandchildren are hurting and that theres's nothing we can do to help them, other than to teach them not to hurt others. It's one of those lessons that comes with the 'school of hard knocks'. It cannot be taught by others. As they live, they will need to make choices to be the kind of people they want to be. They will have to grow their own 'tough skin' and learn to let things roll off their backs. But, I also know that it's not an easy lesson to learn.
My little granddaughter posed the question last night to her mother, "Why are popular people so mean?" My daughter replied, "Maybe the greater question is, 'why are mean people popular?" The poor child is being outcast by some she'd like to be her friends. She would be a friend to all, and doesn't understand their need to ignore her or to show her unkindness in word or deed. She's too young to be able to walk away and take no stock in it. She's taught that we should all be 'sweet' to other people, to apologize when we've wronged someone, and to think before we speak. This elementary school occurance doesn't line up with what she's been taught and practices.
Another granddaughter, older and in middle school, was the most delightful, well-loved student in preschool and elementary grades. She was thoughtful and considerate, helpful and kind to everyone. When she moved to middle school, there were those who determined that she should be called names and left out of activities. At that age, most children want to be 'popular' with their peers, and she, too, had deeply hurt feelings. After two years of ill treatment, she's standing up for herself. She doesn't speak to them with unkindness, but she will not bow to them, either. One day she showed her bravery, and perhaps antagonized the situation, by sitting down for lunch at a table where she knew they always sat. One of the "meanies" told her that it was 'their' table. After looking around, she announced that she didn't see their names anywhere in the area. They said, "We've sat here since grade school". Her answer was, "Well, I'm sitting here today." When another student walked by, the "meanie" announced with sarcasm, "You might as well sit at this table. Apparently anyone can sit here!" The other student didn't sit, but my granddaughter stayed in her seat.
It's so hard for people, young and old, to be treated with such disregard. I hurt for my granddaughters, as I was one of those who received the 'not worthy' status from some kids in school. I was not athletic, so I was always chosen last for every team. I wasn't a cheerleader. I was a part of the school play, but certainly no where near the star of the show. And, I didn't care about those things, but I did care about the cliques that were very obviously avoiding anyone who wasn't in them.
It doesn't occur only in schools. It seems to be a part of every organization. I would think that by the time people grow to adulthood that they would leave that immature practice behind, but some don't. It may be that they are so self-absorbed that they can't see that a quiet person has something to offer, if asked. Maybe they just want the glory for themselves of doing it 'all' . I don't know.
I know only this, that my grandchildren are hurting and that theres's nothing we can do to help them, other than to teach them not to hurt others. It's one of those lessons that comes with the 'school of hard knocks'. It cannot be taught by others. As they live, they will need to make choices to be the kind of people they want to be. They will have to grow their own 'tough skin' and learn to let things roll off their backs. But, I also know that it's not an easy lesson to learn.
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