Please.

I hope you will take about 25 minutes to watch this video.

Einstein said,
"It is my view that the vegetarian manner of living by its purely physical effect on the human temperament would most beneficially influence the lot of mankind. "

God loves us. God loves the animals. Please, let's think.

A couple of weeks ago, my dear uncle went home to be with Jesus. I miss him. The day of his funeral, my husband called home to tell me that his mother had passed away that morning. It was, to say the least, an interesting and challenging couple of weeks.

Strangely, I have felt at peace and have had a lot of joy. The day before my uncle Paul passed away, I was driving home from work and had a lot of those nagging sorts of worries. I was thinking about finances, about what I needed to get done, about how hard my husband and I were working. Then something caught my eye. It was a big pale moon, just peeking out of the still blue sky. Beethoven was playing on the radio. Suddenly I thought, "I own the moon!! I own Beethoven!! I am rich beyond belief!!" I spoke to my aunt and cousin that evening, none of us knowing what the night would bring, and we talked about that very quality of life. How in the midst of our busyness, our struggles, there is amazing, huge beauty all around us, just asking to be noticed. My aunt has told me many times to just "enjoy life."

I think she is very wise.

YOUNG ARTIST TAKES ON THE WEB!!

The artist is April Rose, she is 10 years old. She started drawing when she was 2. She likes to draw people and when she is older, she hopes to be a famous fashion designer and live in Paris, the fashion capital. She likes to design "street style" clothes and "cocktail dresses". She has drawn fashions for many people, and this is her first "premier" on the web! She is very excited.
Enjoy.

Rebel Yell Redux

Here is why I love genealogy. Out of the blue I recieved the gift of a portrait of my great-great grandfather, James Vaughan, and his wife, Elizabeth. Sent from Alice, a cousin I have yet to meet. (Thanks, Alice!)

Alice had clues and stories I had never heard or even suspected about James. She mentioned to me that he had gone to Cuba and brought back some sea shells. Cuba??? In the 1870's? She conjectured that he had gone as a soldier of fortune in the Cuban and Spanish wars. I had to do some research, as I had no recall of learning about such a conflict. I realized that if James had indeed traveled to the Spanish West Indies during this time period, he would have had to apply for a passport. I went to the NARA archives index found on Footnote.com and searched for James. Sure enough, I found his passport application, complete with a description of him and his signature. He was authorized to travel to the "Spanish West Indies", AND this was not his first trip, as the application is for a renewal.

The plot doth thicken.

Mister M

I'm hanging out in Florida again, visiting my sis and her hubby, and missing my mister. So here's a shout out to Mark, my dream come true once in a lifetime love.
It is a very wonderful thing to be married to your best friend, I highly reccomend it.
Mark is unique, reserved yet funny, lighthearted and independent, guileless and capable of surprise. Practical and yet very romantic. I'm a lucky woman indeed.

Tis a gift to be simple

It seems that I have entered a phase of time where I am to be under a certain way of learning, a discipline from Jesus that He has been gently leading me to, now more insistent. I know the time is NOW, because I am gaining clarity, urgency and peace about it. Not that I expect it to be easy. Not at all. But Simple, yes.

I don't want to explain much, because that goes against the very strictures of the discipline. This post is to leave some breadcrumbs on this path. And just to say I am listening.

Peace.

Kandice

The first time I met Kandice, my mother and dad came home from the hospital with her, but before mom Sylvia would get out of the car with the new babe, someone, I think my grandmother, was instructed to get the camera. Hence the initial meeting was recorded on film.
Many years have passed since that day, but I still have a pleasant memory of it - my other sister, Shelley, and I giggling with excitement to meet the new little girl, who would become our playmate, our friend and a witness to our lives, as we are to hers.
Kandice has been waging a valiant battle with a debilitating and frustrating disease, a battle I can only imagine. She is still one of the most creative, kind and generous women on the planet, and I'm very proud to call her friend.
Last Christmas, her husband  wrote this amazing poem about Kandice, and she has given me permission to share it here.

for kandice

a man climbs to the highest ridge of the mountain,
and stares
astonished.
at the highest tree .

only this tree has survived
the stingy soil
the blasting wind.

and lightning has struck.
only here
only the rarest tree,
cleaving, gut-wrenching the trunk
with the explosion of rapidly expanding essence.

does this tree fathom its own beauty
razor-silhouetted on the heights ridge
absent the bland symmetry of its crouching neighbors
recording the constant insult of gales and bolts in seared bark and half-dead branches?

once upon a time a spore caught in a rocky cranny,
a sapling struggled to life.
the highest tree would have chosen some safer berth in the lower loam,
no doubt.
but choiceless, it carves itself alone against the high sky
indifferent to any notion of picturesque valor
visited only by the highest climber.

steven taft, december 24, 2007

Flower Fairy Princess

A shout out to Kandice - thanks for the cool artfully enhanced photo. This is little Marsyl, age 9.

Comes at a good time, when I am needing to remember that this girl child deserves the best, and deserves kindness and respect. And I intend to see she gets that.

O Pioneer

My great great great grandfather, John Leonard Dickinson was a pioneer, true to the Dickinson way. Moving from New York State to Wisconsin in about 1856, he and his wife and several of their children remained there only a couple of years. By 1858 they had come to Minnesota, where he remained the rest of his life. Three of his sons, including my great great grandfather Theodore (husband of Emma) joined the Union Army for Minnesota. All three miraculously survived.

I've been searching for John's parentage for several years. Yesterday came a breakthrough from the researchers in Salt Lake City. They found land records indicating that John and his wife Harriet sold their New York property to Harriet's brother, Lawrence Mason. The land had previously conveyed to John by Joseph and Orrin Dickinson. I have other evidence that Joseph is John's father, and this could be the confirmation.

One more piece of the puzzle is coming into place, the research team at SLC will do a little more digging, and it's like waiting for Christmas to see what they unearth.

I feel time ticking away, I want to get this history into some sort of order to preserve it for whomever, in the next generation, or the next, becomes the "chosen" one, bitten by the genealogy bug. Made acquaintance this week with another cousin, a descendant of John L. Dickinson's brother, Richard. I have been seeking him for over a year, and finally had a response. He has some treasures to share as well, and I think again of how lives are entertwined like shiny and fragile threads forming a faint, almost invisible pattern over our country, and over the world.

Walden

I went to Walden Pond on one of my trips to Boston. We walked around it on the still primitive trail, along with a few other folks. There seemed to be a sort of reverence still attached to it - folks were very earnest looking, mostly quiet. The pond was not as large as I expected, and seemed rather modest especially in Minnesota terms.
Thoreau's cabin replica stands not too far off from its original site. My husband and I went to take a look, and I will never forget the sensation of peeking inside. I encountered a feeling of peace, completeness, and a sort of relief. It was so simple, small and snug, yet sufficient. Well, I would want indoor plumbing, I admit.
I've been going through a restless bit, or maybe a bit of stuckness. Not sure what the solution is, because I'm not sure I've identified the problem. I keep waiting for it to pass, and perhaps it will. I am also waiting to see what God wants to communicate to me through this. It's hard to wait. It's hard to listen.
I've put the little cabin on my screensaver, to remind me to keep it simple, to be ok with the waiting, and most of all, to "live deliberately."

"I come home to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home.I thus dispose of the superfluous and see things as they are,grand and beautiful. I have told many that I walk every day about half the daylight, but I think they do not believe it.I wish to get the Concord, the Massachusetts, the America,out of my head and be sane a part of every day." Henry David Thoreau
from the Journal (January 7, 1857)

Passion Flower

Ok, I realized that I have been giving in to 'blogging' for an audience as opposed to just doing my thing. No more of that. Yuck-orama anyway.

So here I declare to myself - get over it already and stick to the task at hand - tell your story for yourself, for your daughter, your family, your fantastic and amazing grandchildren, for all the interesting and unique people who came before you, who have no one else to tell their story. Play to my strength, my passions, and let the rest go.

Get on with it, then.

Random is as Random does

I hear I've been 'tagged' with a meme task. so ...
1. I was born in Louisiana, learned to speak, walk, and sing in Louisiana, West Virginia and Texas. Had quite a nice lil' accent for several years which I can relax back into on a moment's notice. y'all. Lived in 8 states total so far - Colorado still rules. But I know what it means to miss New Orleans.

2. I have been a vegetarian since birth.

3. My favorite color is red, but I don't generally plant red in my garden. I find it difficult to blend with other flowers that I like, which are primarily in the cooler shades. I did paint my former bedroom and bathroom a deep rich red, which I loved.

4. My first day of college was spent as a nursing student. Oops. My second day (and the next 4 years) was as an art major. Studied art history (especially the Italian Renaissance era) and illustration for three years, then switched to graphic design. Later received B.S. in Psychology, which, curiously, isn't all that different.

5. One great great grandfather was a Confederate soldier in the Civil war, David Wiley Hanes of Alabama. His wife, Sylviania Hanes, is my namesake. She bravely stood up to the Union soldiers when they came to take all their horses, and was able to negotiate keeping one horse for the farm.
Another great great grandfather was on the side of the Union, Theodore Dickinson of New York/Minnesota. Two of Theodore's brothers were in the same company, all survived. Three of their cousins also fought alongside them, two died in the infamous Andersonville Prison, and one in the Old Soldier's home in Lordsburg, California.

6. I'm left handed and learned to paint signs from right to left from my dad, who was also left handed and a part time sign painter.

and that's all I have to say about that. except that now I tag MARK.

If I could make a day for you...

Once upon a time, I fell in love with a talking pig movie. Now, first of all, I really, really hate animal movies. But for some reason I took a chance on this one, and was delighted. It is a charming folk tale of "an unprejudiced heart." And I think a gentle propaganda film for vegetarianism. But, more importantly, God used a part of this film to impact me in a way that few things ever have. The music and the visual has become a sort of touch point for reminding me of His notice of me, and His keen knowledge of how my rather quirky spirit hears His voice.
The scene I refer to is where the little pig, Babe, has run away from home and gotten too sick and depressed to eat, because the farm cat has informed him of a pig's "purpose". Which, to the pig's horror, turns out to be that he is born to be eaten by humans. The farmer finally finds the little pig, brings him home, and tries to get him to take nourishment, to no avial. Suddenly, ... well, I'll let you watch it for yourself. Let me just say, God dances over us, no matter how sick, depressed, broken we are, or how long we have been dwelling in the pig pen, no matter how many lies we have been told and chosen to believe.



One morning a few years after seeing this film, I was pouring out my heart to God as I was driving, asking Him to please, please, please let me know He was there, that He saw and understood what I was going through. The very next second, Saint-Saens Symphony #3 flooded my ears, with that majestic organ sounding like Gabriel's trumpet. I cried and and laughed at the same time, reminded of the scene from "Babe", and knowing that God was in it with me all along.

My hero, part two

Once again, my dear husband Mark has surprised me with his simple grace, wisdom and beauty. He is truly one of the few people I have met that is without guile.

I never would have guessed that he would enter blogworld, much less blow me away by what he offers here.

I like surprises.

Thanks, Mark.

Through the looking glass, darkly

I used to have a recurring dream as a child that was terrifying and incomprehensible at the same time. I still cannot properly explain the content, except to say that, like Alice's tumble though the looking glass, it involved my becomming smaller and smaller, thinner and thinner, until at last I was about the size of a single piece of spagetti, and I knew that it would only be a matter of  time before I would cease to exist and there was nothing within my control to stop it

I had forgotten all about the dream until a few months ago, and I'm not sure what triggered the memory, except it was something in a discussion with my friend Terri about being invisible, and how close we have sometimes gotten to achieving it. The problem with trying to be invisible is (at least) two fold. Number one, you might suceed. Number two, you might become invisible to yourself, a very strong possibility for me.

An introvert by nature, my growing up years projected me into the spotlight in ways that I didn't choose. My family was somewhat conspicuous in our community, my mother was in a wheelchair, and my father was teaching in our midsize church-run school. (Comet Dust, Time after Time) We had few material resources when many around us were wealthy. Toss in the added attention that came with a gift of music, performing and being complemented on this regularly. If that sounds like it might be fun, it was not. It felt like an invasion of privacy for strangers to be giving compliments, when they didn't KNOW me at all. Just as it was an invasion to have casual acquaintances pry into the circumstances of our lives, or give a look of pity for our family's difficulties. I realized that I was in some way invisible in that moment. I noticed I couldn't seem to project who I was beyond and above being part of a particular family, part of a particular tragedy, more than talent, beauty or intellegence just handed to me through my dna.

There is one thing I have struggled to achieve all my life, and that is to get the inside and outside to match. Maybe feeling like I was invisible outside, I tried to be invisible to myself on the inside. I have almost succeeded many times.

I am aware that I will never really match the inside and outside perfectly, that what people see will always be through their own filters, how I imagine I am projecting myself will never be completely accurate. My dream, with the help of God and others, is to have the looking glass become more of an honest reflection, until there is less distortion between who I am and what I 'be.'

I invite all who venture here to be part of that process. If you notice me trying to be invisible, maybe it will help to know you still see me.

My hero

My husband, who is my best friend, favorite companion, and my go-to guy (among other attributes!) has ventured into blogland. He is a man of action and not a lot of words, but the ones he shares are choice. His first post is up, so give a welcome to Mark if you have a minute -


















http://www.jusbeinginthemoment.blogspot.com/

There are angels on earth

My three angels, 2008 April, Isaiah and Peter

Anyone who knows me for about 15 seconds will learn that I have the most beautiful and intelligent grandchildren ever born. I am so grateful for them, it is hard to explain. When my April-precious was born, it was like a clean slate for me, a message that God still had faith in me somehow, after all the mess ups, all the failures, all the pain I had inflicted and suffering I had caused, here was another chance. That could be seen as really, really risky on His part, as indeed it is. To entrust me, even at the once-removed post of grandparent, with a child as beautiful, spiritually in tune and magnificent at this little girl was a gift that changed me forever. I think I was born then. I awoke again.

Of course I adore all three and each are equally wonderful. But the initial wake up call I was graced with upon the birth of April Rose is forever lit in my memory with a incomparable glow. She is my twin flame and she, along with Isaiah, Peter and my fantastic daughter, Lauren, are one of the most important reasons I was born. I guess God loves me after all.

Snakes in Sheep's Clothing

I have a lot of dreams. Very interesting dreams. Sometimes they are random neurons firing through whatever stimuli my brain has encountered during the day. More often, though, I find God is able to get my attention while I am asleep much more efficiently than when I am awake. He is very, very creative, let me tell you. And funny, too. Since He made my brain, He gets how it works and how I think and process things in ways that are extremely difficult for me to articulate, finding even the best language limited in its usefulness.

Which brings me to the title. I had a very typically wild dream a couple of nights ago, and one of the interesting occurences was that several folks I encountered in the dream had pet snakes on a leash. The snakes themselves didn't look normal, even for a snake. Their heads were sort of hollow and folded over, kind of like a cobra only more extreme. They were all black. They kept "jumping' up on me, like a dog. (Don't ask me how a snake jumps, I have no idea and indeed if they ever figure out how to do it in real life I don't want to know about it!) I kept insisting to the snake owners that I hated snakes, that I didn't want them in my house, leashed or not, that I didn't want them near me or jumping on me. The owners paid no attention, other than to look at me with bemusement. I finally left the house, only to find folks on the street with their pet snakes, but now it was sort of like a "Project Runway" for snakes. They were all dressed in elaborate outfits, hats and feathers and what not. Someone told me that their snake was dressed in "jealousy." Its outfit was all in red, silk and felt and sequins. Finally, and with relief, I woke up. (I hate snakes! hAAAAAAAAAAAAte them.)

When I came out of my sleepy fog, I suddenly got the revelation that the pet snakes were representations of temptation. All dressed up and paraded around, presumably under the owner's control (the leash), but snakes nevertheless.

And I will leave you to your own editorializing. As for me, I had to laugh. God got me a good one.

Well, Hello there, part two, or: June, we knew you a little

I spent three hours today in the company of June Russell Dickinson's son, Russell, and part of his family. I got a call on Thursday from Russell, Jr., a quick response to the letter I had sent him. We made plans to meet today and I printed out some info and pictures of his great grandad and grandmother, packed up my computer and camera, and drove the short distance to the home he rents to his lovely daughter, Julie, whom I also met.

Many mysteries still remain about June Russell's life, but Russ Jr. told me a wonderful story that took place about 30 years ago. Russ Jr. was living in Oregon at the time, and had his father on his mind and heart. He felt impressed (had to be God, he says) to take some time off and go see his dad and re-connect. He drove to Minnesota and had to take a leave of absence from his work. Once here, the duo decided to take a trip to Pine Island, our ancestral home in Minnesota, so June could show Russ Jr. around his old stomping grounds. June agreed on the grounds that they 'wouldn't look anyone up.' Well, after a bit June's curiosity got the better of him, and they did go to his half-sister's farm (Ora Mae.) She opened the door, and was shocked to hear who was knocking - it seems she had been told June was dead. She asked him a sort of 'test' question - the name of the horse they had as kids, which was "Selum" - not a name one could easily guess! Of course June remembered it and was welcomed in. They spent a couple days in town, catching up, meeting some of June's nephews, and generally allowing some healing to happen.

June passed away two weeks later. Russ told me that June accepted Christ shortly before he died. I believe that maybe the healing that occured on that trip was a way for God to comfort June and help him find peace.

Now I have another little mystery - one of Russ Jr.'s brothers has been out of contact for several years. I think I know where he is. ..

Well, hello there

June, we hardly knew you.

I spent this still cold March day at my home away from home, the Minnesota Historical Society library, doing research. I decided to see if I could find some probate records or wills of ancestors. I found the will of two of my 3rd grand-uncles, George F. Dickinson and Norman L. Dickinson. Lo and behold, it seems George had a son I had never heard of or seen any records of whatsoever. His name was June Russell Dickinson. Now, I thought, it can't be that hard to find records for a man named June. I finally found birth records for two men born in the 40's whose father was Russell June Dickinson - and from there I found Russell June's death record, which contained the name of his father (sure enough, George Dickinson) and mother, Julia Burkhardt. I did several searches through census records and finally found a June Dickinson who, at age 7, was living with a Edward and Julia Monroe in 1895.

Well, before you know it I've created all sorts of stories - what happened that little June was separated from his daddy before he was 7? Were George and Julia married - it would apear so, since June is named "Dickinson." How often did June and George get to see one another over the years? They did not live in the same county, and this was the early 1900's after all.

The will leaves June a sum of $25.oo, and George's other three children with his (second?) wife, Nettie, were left acerage, the remainder left to Nettie.

Hmmmm. Looks like another blended family mystery to unravel. My next move is to map out June's stepfamily as best as I can, track their locations and his half-siblings. If I get lucky I may be able to connect with one of his children or grandchildren, and fill in some of the mystery. I already feel emphathy for this stranger/cousin. Did he go to war? Was he surprised by his father's will? Did he always wonder how things might have been if his father was around? Was his stepfather kind to him?

I will never know all the answers, but one thing my research has taught me very well - everyone has a story. Sooner or later, we encounter the hard bits of life. For June, it looks like it might have been sooner.

UPDATE: 3-31-08

I have found June Russell's mom and stepdad in the census in Oregon in 1900 and 1910, along with his half brother, Louis. Russell (from now I'll just call him Russell) is not with them. He was only 12 in 1900, so he must be living with someone, somewhere. I have searched all the census records with every sort of configuration and misspelling I can think of, but can't find him anywhere. This is where all my persistence will have to kick in. He can't keep hiding from me forever!!!! I have found his social security number, and have written to the SSA for a copy of his original application, under the freedom of information act. I will try to track down Russell's children if they are still in the area.

I have also determined that Russell's parents, George and Julia, were indeed married at some point - the census shows that Julia's marriage to Edward Monroe is the second for them both. So perhaps I will be able to find a marriage record and divorce decree. With this adventure I have also found two other 'lost boys', Floyd and Earl, first cousins of Russell, nephews of George, living with George's brother, Norman, in Red Wing. Floyd and Earl's father, Charles, appears to have died, along with his wife, when the boys were young. Norman raised them, but later Floyd worked for George on his farm ( according to Floyd's WW1 draft record). So why were Floyd and Earl taken in by the family and working the land of Russell's dad, but Russell is not?

Why was Russell left behind when his mom and stepdad and brother went west? And who took him in? I just can't imagine leaving a 12 year old (or younger) in Minnesota while the rest of the family traveled to Oregon, maybe never to return. There were no quick forms of transportation in those days, no jets or super fast trains. Julia had to know she would rarely or never see Russell after leaving.

The immediate goal is to find Russell in the 1900 US census, the 1905 Minneosta census, and go from there. Since I have no other information on Julia's family, I will have to find out who they were as well, in case he is living with them and the census taker wrote his last name as Burkhardt instead of Dickinson.

stay tuned......

UPDATE 4/1/08

Yesterday evening I had a little tickle in my mind while working on this puzzle. I thought I remembered finding a little blurb in an old Pine Island Minnesota paper about George visiting Pierre, South Dakota with his brother Ed. There was a great migration to the Dakota territory in the latter half of the 19th century, the land was opened up for homesteading, and the newspapers of that era are full of notes about families packing up and heading out west. My own gggrandad lived near Pierre for a few years, one of his sons was born there. He faced numerous disasters there and returned to Minnesota - as did many families. Turns out the free land wasn't always worth the price. I looked through my postings on Ancestry.com for George -and sure enough, there was the item from October of 1885, George and his brother Edward had returned from a visit to Pierre, their former home. My gggrandfather was still living there in 1885, his son was born in 1887. Hmmm. Maybe this is why they are not in the Minnesota census in 1885. However, I'm not sure how this will help - unless it turns out Julia's family was also in Dakota, and they met there. I've got to get back to the library and figure out when George took over the farm in Minnesota. And look back over those old newspapers from the area with an eye to finding Russell in school records or - AH SCHOOL RECORDS!!! Why didn't I think of that before? Russell had to be in school somewhere. Down the rabbit trail I go. Wish me luck.

Harley Man

The other day, I was trying to remember just what exactly happened to me that turned me into a genealogy freak. It was only a few years ago that I wasn't even interested enough to join a party visiting the local cemetery at a family reunion, for which I now severely chastise myself.
So, I mentally tried to backtrack through the last three or so years, finding the stream from which this 'magnificent obsession' bubbles. I think I found the headwaters, at least the ones above the surface.
My husband, Mark, was and is interested in all things with motors and wheels. He had been looking at motorcycles, and we were trying to determine what sort of bike my father had ridden back in the 'day.' For some reason, I had in my mind that he had owned an Indian cycle. All I had was this picture to draw from, so we went on an internet hunt for a cycle that looked like the one on which my father was perched in this picture from his post WWII road trip. The evidence we were finding was that this machine was a Harley, not an Indian. I decided to get some help from my dad's brothers, and asked if they remembered my dad's bike. They refered me to his cousin, Dick, who actually made a road trip from Minnesota to Yellowstone on motorcyles with my dad, a friend and another cousin. Dick confirmed that my dad's bike was indeed a Harley and also graciously shared some other memories with me. He told me tales of my fun-loving father as a kid and as an adult friend. Somehow, this took me somewhat by surprise. I realized how much we assume we know about our parents - and how little we actually see them as completely separate human beings. How many stories we have totally made up to fill in the gaps in our actual knowledge of them!
I recalled sitting at my maternal grandmother's funeral, a woman who I felt I knew so well, and finding out how limited my knowledge of her really was. The way her friends remembered her, I was humbled and saddened by how much I missed by not being present to the reality of who this woman really was. I realized that my own daughter naturally assumes so many things about me that are only an interpretation of a small part of my story. A shift in my perspective began. I felt like I had been seeing only a reflection (darkly) of my family members, and suddenly I swiveled around and took a look at them right in front of me. It was almost like they were standing there, surrounding me, waiting for me. Asking me to SEE them, to embrace our intertwined history and biology, to become part of the stream of time and story, to carry on the oral and written history begun by others. It seemed like something outside myself came and pointed at me, announcing, "You! You are the chosen one, get busy!" It was irresistible. This is the biggest adventure of all.

Stepmom

I have been a stepmom for 12 years, and most of the time, it is the world's most thankless job. In spite of loving my stepson like my own, I am always aware of my 'label' and the limitations it implies, both in the eyes of the culture and in practical ways. My stepson is delightful and we enjoy a close relationship, but his biological mother is, and should be, number one. I am blessed with a husband who values my relationship with his son, and my stepson's mother also is respectful of my role. I know many other stepmoms (and stepfathers too) that do not have those blessings. Regardless, to love without expectation is our lot, and it isn't easy. I recently discovered in my family research a letter from a stepmom's heart, written by a simple woman in her country way, full of tender love for the motherless children that became her own. I want to share a little of that story and honor her sacrificial love.

Mollie Sydney Vaughan married Samuel Houston Jolly in 1883 in Texas. She moved with her new husband to Mississippi and had three children, Sydney, Laura and Leroy. In 1890, Mollie passed away. I have a letter from Mollie written in January, 1890, less than 9 months before her death. Here is the last paragraph:

"Roy wants to help me write and is bothering me so I will have to quit. You must excuse this short letter for I am not well enough to write at all will do better next time. Write soon to: Your loving sister, Mollie S. Jolly"

The next letter mentioning Mollie and Sam's family took me a while to decipher. The letter is from a Alma Jolly, written to Mrs. S. E. Vaughan in 1894. I eventually determined that it was written by the stepmother of Mollie's children, to their maternal grandmother. Here are some of the touching contents:

"Okolona, Miss
April 15th 1894
Mrs. S. E. Vaughan,
. . .The children are well and growing very fast. Roy is very near as large as Edna and he is just as cunning as he can be. And Edna don't like very much of being as tall as Sidny, and she is just as smart as she can be. She learns fast and can do so many things for a little girl her age and she is just as merry as a little bird and I think she is very pretty. Sidny is a very quiet child but he is the nicest child I ever saw to be a boy. I wish you could hear him spell he can spell very near every word in his word book ...Roy learns so fast that he hardly needs a book to get his lesson in. It would make you laugh to see him spell and wink his cunning eyes. . .
I don't have any trouble with the children whatever, they seem to think a great deal of me. I try to do my duty towards the children best I can. I know that I can't fill the vacancy in every respect - but I will ever endeavor to try to do my duty in every way. . .
Well I guess you would like to have a description of myself so I will give you a dot or two. I am a chunky little girl and only weigh 150 lbs., have dark hair and blue eyes. . .Mrs. Vaughan, I will correspond with you if it suit you. Yours most respectfully, Alma Jolly"

Almira Abernathy Jolly was Alma's full name, and sadly, she also died a few years later, leaving Laura, Sidney and Leroy motherless once again. Their father did remarry again, but I have no correspondence past the letter from Alma.

My heart goes out in sisterhood to other stepmoms, who have gotten a bad rap for hundreds of years. We understand how it feels to feel "second" best, to be left out of decisions about a child you love, to be judged based on your status of "step", stereotyped as evil, not given the courtesy of recognition as an important part of 'our' children's lives. We love anyway, and in that way learn a little how God asks us to love - unconditionally, freely, without hope of anything for ourselves. If the child succeeds in life, stepmoms will not usually be given credit. If the child has problems, the stepmom will often come up as a source of blame. It takes a lot of humility (and a good dose of keeping one's mouth shut!)to be a good stepmom. Heaven help(s)us.

I honor Alma for her love to the three children she treasured. I believe they were her own in her heart. Bless you little Alma.

Wish on a star

I wrote about my parent's brief lives in "Comet Dust", and it occured to me today that their lives were also like comets, shooting stars across our paths, and I have since lived in the sprinkle of light they left behind in their journey, a light full of gifts. It is easy to be sad when the star you are wishing on falls too fast. It is more challenging to remember its beauty and how magnificent the moment was. Even as the comet sputters out of steam hurtling through space, destined to burn out, it is glorious.

I have usually thought of myself as a slowly turning planet, large and colorful, with deep oceans, peaks of snow, dandelion fields and volcanic depths. I suppose, when seen from a distance as I surely will be someday in the not-distant-enough future, I may appear a little like a shooting star myself. If I leave only a small sample of the fairy dust that was created by my parent's orbit, I will have been successful in my life.

Caught in the Devil's Bargain

"We are stardust, we are golden, and we are caught in the Devil's bargain, but we've got to get ourselves back to the garden." Joni Mitchell

I have been reading a book on loan from someone whose faith I admire, a book which attempts to wrestle with the problem of violence in the Old Testament and the stark contrast between the warrior God and the Savior of the New Testament.

I certainly appreciate the attempt to explain the unexplainable, to know the unknowable, to understand the incomprehensible. The author wonders - if we are created in the image of God, where does our fighting, war-like spirit come from? We are to subdue and have dominion over the earth (not over people, he notes) and this sounds like 'fighting words' to him. What, he asks, is supposed to be subdued, in what and over what do we have dominion? ( He is not of the mind-set that the earth is put here for us to use up and 'own'. ) What opposition would would be present from the beginning, that would necessitate any sort of fierce and warrior like spirit? My personal response to this question has been developing over the last few weeks. It is from the soul of a gardener which I answer.

The original context for humans is the garden. And, let me tell you, gardening is not for sissies. Anyone who has earnestly attempted to create order in a garden can tell you that it is a full time 'fight'. It is the most compelling sort of creativity; exhausting, totally absorbing and singularly rewarding. If you've never tried to move a tree into it's perfect place in your garden composition, or fashion a climbing rose bigger than your house into a graceful arch, then perhaps you'll have no idea what I'm talking about. But if you have, then maybe you can identify with me.

I have never felt more alive, more fierce, more strong and dominant, more feminine, than when I am covered with dirt, have a shovel in one hand and a pruner in the other, enjoying the work of my hands. Arranging, designing, composing, digging, smelling, seeing, discovering, creating. I've put into the ground a tiny black seed, smaller than the head of a pin, and watched it blossom into a huge orange poppy. I've planted a miniature red rose in the ground, and seen it return to its wild stock the very next year, old fashioned white flowers with inviting fuzzy orange stamens covering 6 foot stems. I've watched the ingenuity of tiny wrens building gentle birthing places for their little ones, singing arias worthy of Papageno. I've petted bumble bees as big as an acorn, breathed in the perfume which hints of amazing and passionate sensuality. There is love here, and THIS IS WORTH FIGHTING FOR.

I imagine the garden as it was created, perfect soil, perfect temperatures, perfect moisture. (No mosquitoes!) There is no fighting 'against' here. There is no inherent enemy. There is only the irresistible draw of creating, that powerful force that brings something out of nothing. The subduing that happens here is more of a 'gentling', a bringing into beautiful design. I experience something primitive and ferocious in the garden. Something in the garden aligns me with my creator warrior God in a way nothing else can. The Garden is God's 'pentimento', what I see when I look beneath all the ugly history of humans to the under drawing of God's intention for creation.

I think it's best for me to leave all the postulating and theologizing to those who find it energizing. I admire them, bless them and pray they will find what they seek. As for me, I find am becoming too happily simple to be useful in that sort of pursuit. I just want to pull some weeds and move some lilies. So, getting myself back to the garden...

Leaping for joy on leap day.

Allison and Aaron bring joy to the world. Aidan Avery Jenks, was born yesterday on the birthday of his great great grandmother, Mildred Vaughan Daniel. I have no doubt he will make this day his very own in the years to come. Congratulations to the beautiful new family.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here are about 5000 words.

Waiting for Aidan

I have just recieved word that my dear niece is in labor with her first child, a boy, Aidan. The news instantly swoops me back in time to the day my neice was born, ironically, in the same town and same hospital. She is in her final year of medical school, as was her father when she entered this life.

Allison made me an aunt for the first time, and I was surprised by the tremendous rush of love I felt for her when I first heard her little cry over the phone. A couple of years ago at her wedding, I was able to share that experience with her, it moves me still to remember it.

Blessings on you, little niece, and blessing on you little Aidan, you who will birth a new grandmother and grandfather, and two grand-aunts.

I cannot wait to meet you.

Luther's Blues

In honor of Black History Month, I wanted to share a little about someone I admired a great deal; Luther Allison, the talented and energetic blues guitarist and musician.

Luther Allison and I became aquainted in 1981 in Lincoln, Nebraska. I was studying art at the U of N, and working about two blocks from the Zoo Bar, which attracted big names blues musicians, in spite of, or maybe because of its miniscule size and postage stamp dance floor. I had seen him perform a few times there, and on this particular afternoon I stopped by the Zoo while waiting on my bus home. Luther was there and we struck up a conversation, which we continued off and on for the next couple of years.

Luther was a humble man, full of life, and had a lot of stories. He came from a very large family, and had endured many painful struggles on the way to success. He often told me how different things were in Europe when he toured - his experience was that Europe, and France especially, was much more color blind, particularly towards performers.

Luther had a lot of down time on the road, and I would occasionaly get a letter or postcards from some dive motel where he would be awaiting the night's show. He liked to watch the 'soapies' in the afternoons, call his family and friends, then eat a small meal before going to the club to play.

Luther moved to France in 1983, and we lost touch sometime after that. When I heard he had died, in 1997, I felt like the world had lost one of those souls who leaves a bigger hole in the universe than others. Among my box of treasures, I still keep a couple of letters from Luther, a postcard from Paris, and a backstage pass. When I happen upon these mementos, what I remember isn't the gritty, burning down the house bluesman, but the kind gentleman who liked to talk about his brothers and sisters, his family, his hopes and love of the blues. I remember overcast winter afternoons in a little bar in the middle of the country, quietly passing time with a friend.

Thanks for the memories, Luther.

To read more about Luther: http://www.jaisunphoto.com/trueblues.html
A letter from Rocky, Luther's wife: http://www.jaisunphoto.com/rocky2.html

If you love the blues, and would like to support it: http://www.soul-fixin.com/

Biography from Luther's Web site (http://www.lutherallison.com/)
A Legend Lost...
Born in Widener, Arkansas in 1939, Luther Allison (the 14th of 15 musically gifted children) first connected to the blues at age ten, when he began playing the diddley bow (a wire attached by nails to a wall with rocks for bridges and a bottle to fret the wire). His family migrated to Chicago in 1951, and Luther began soaking in the sounds of Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Robert Nighthawk. He was classmates with Muddy Waters' son and occasionally stopped in the Waters' house to watch the master rehearse. It wasn't until he was 18, already in Chicago for seven years that Luther began playing blues on a real guitar and jamming with his brother Ollie's band. By 1957, Allison had dropped out of school and formed a band called The Rolling Stones. Unhappy with the name, they became The Four Jivers, gigging all over the West Side of Chicago. Before long, Luther was jamming with the West Side's best, including Magic Sam, Otis Rush, and Freddie King, who encouraged Allison to sing. "That," said Allison, "was my school."

Read the entire article at www.lutherallison.com.

Valentine

Sylvia Estelle Daniel Dickinson

April 7, 1938 to February 14, 1972

Love you always

And that's all I can say about that.

Rebel Yell in the frozen North

"The prestige of government has undoubtedly been lowered considerably by the prohibition law. For nothing is more destructive of respect for the government and the law of the land than passing laws which cannot be enforced. It is an open secret that the dangerous increase of crime in the United States is closely connected with this." Albert Einstein

I have a treasure trove of old letters to read - the earliest from post-civil war Tennessee in 1870. The authors seem alive and present with me; their thoughts, feelings and concerns relevant and fresh.

James M Vaughan (my great great grandfather - in this photo) writes a cryptic letter to his son, Charley, admonishing him for leaving home in some sort of trouble or debt.

"Commerce Texas, April 10 1888

"Well what I had to tell you & Jessie I cannot write so just let it go till I see you. I have had letters from those in who you are interested They are All Write. ...My Son you have not lived as long as I have. I have never lived any whare whare I am ashamed to go back. I have never done any thing to be ashamed off. I am engaged in the traffick of whiskey but if that is disonerble thare is thousands of the best men in the cuntry gilty of the Same offence. With these facts before me I feale satisfed that while I am not able to work at Hard labor that I have got to make a living some way. Then If I can make it the way I am don't condem me. ...I will not weary your patience any longer but ask you to think before you do anything. That other question that I mentioned that was six millions of miles deep - remember. Then I am through -
I am affectionately you father, J. M. Vaughan."

I am intrigued, and a little envious. James M. Vaughan was born in Tennessee in 1827, from what I can determine, didn't fight in the Civil War, and his sons were born after the war. Nevertheless, they must have been greatly affected by the devestation around them. They moved around the south - Georgia, Alabama, finally Texas before they settled. Somehow they kept that independent spirit that would not be crushed by circumstances. James was putting food on the table by putting whiskey in bottles, and there must have been a little nose-thumbing at the local authorities to make that happen.

Some of Jame's rebel spirit still stirs in me, and I relish it, stuck in the land of good manners and Minnesota nice. He was on to something. And I don't just mean the whiskey. I am humbled by the transparent love and passion these people show in their correspondence. In spite of their independence, they are a real community, bonded by fierce loyalty and common bloodlines. They do not hide from each other even their weakness and need. Their hearts on their sleeves, they freely express joy and sorrow, loss and longing, anger and hope. They are, above all, connected.

If anyone had ever been able to record the rebel yell, I would love to salute this family with that famous but now only imagined sound that makes the hair stand on end and the heart race.

time after time

(October 1963. I am on the far right in picture. Our ill-fated vehicle is in the background.)

I am on the last bit of a visit to family far from home. One of the tasks I hope to help complete while here is to scan letters from my parents, primarily from my mother, Sylvia, to her mother. This will take some time, because Sylvia was a prolific letter writer, this young girl who married at 17 and was separated from her mother for the first time.

My sister has put the letters into some preliminary order for us. They are the letters from the 'time before' and the 'time after'. Although we don't label them precisely as such, we are certainly thinking it. They are labeled by location at first - Louisianna, West Virginia, Dallas, Ainsworth...towns where the newlyweds resided, my father taught and preached, where they concieved and welcomed 3 children.

Then the letters are sorted by another sort of label.

These are the letters from the time after: Post Accident. Hospital. Rehab. Then simply, "mommy's last letters." ( The very last letter is in my own 14 year old handwriting, dictated by her, whose hands could no longer hold a pen, brush my hair, no longer brilliantly play the piano or rebuild an engine - the connecting pieces tied with matching thread and laid on an old sheet in the driveway. )

Some of the letters are to us, Sylvia's little girls, in care of her mother, urging us not to "be afraid because it is taking mommy so long to come home." How my grandmother survived reading that letter I cannot, and do not wish to, imagine. My father's letters to us from the time after are full of his cheerful cartoons, drawings of his little girls in scenes of what he imagines is our regular life - going to school, helping grandma, playing. Some even contain helpful illustrations of some new tiny little movement my mother can make with her shoulders - or excitement about some sensation, which I now know will turn out to be the begining of a new painful and lasting condition.

It is the time after in which I still, and always, live. After the startling and abrupt arrival of an uninvited and unwanted reality. A reality that reverberates through the three generations. A knowing that I can never unknow.

On October 12, 1963, on the way to church, our car blew a tire and flew off the road, tumbling end over end. When the tumbling and horrible noise and darkness finally stopped, Sylvia was no longer in the vehicle. She lay crumpled several yards away, her neck broken and her body stilled and frozen. She was 25.

I want to honor her life, find her story too. I know she was more than just the brave and beautiful quadrapalegic that people admired or pitied. She was my mother, my patient, my friend, my burden, my longing, my teacher. She was a daughter, sister, wife, mother, musician. She had a keen wit, razor sharp intellect, the charm of Scarlett O'Hara and a deep understanding of people. She is the reason I keep going when I can't figure out how or why. She is the one who still teaches me to listen deeply to the music around me, for I am listening not only for myself, but now also for her. She who never went to the opera or the symphony, but would have so loved it. I can almost hear her saying to me, "Listen! Listen! Listen!"

So I will. I will listen to her in her letters, although it is through tears. Reading them is like watching a movie in which you know disaster lurks and the jolly little family's joy becomes so poignant and bittersweet, you want to turn away. But I will stay and look. Finding more of her will perhaps be finding more of me. And she will, as in the time before, be my teacher once again.

The Artist Repented

Pentimento - "A pentimento (plural pentimenti) is an alteration in a painting, evidenced by traces of previous work, showing that the artist has changed his mind as to the composition during the process of painting. The word derives from the Italian pentirsi, meaning to repent.
Pentimenti may show that a composition originally had an element, for example a head or a hand, in a slightly different place, or that an element no longer in the final painting was originally planned. The changes may have been done in the underdrawing of the painting, or by the visible layers of paint differing from the underdrawing, or by the first painted treatment of the element having been over-painted.
Some pentimenti have always been visible on the final painting with careful inspection; others are revealed by the increasing transparency that some paint acquires after several centuries. "

There is a sermon in there somewhere. As I strive to become more transparent in my old age, the flaws, mistakes, beauty, wonder, memories and everything that has gone into the being-ness of this human, begins to show through the layers of carefully constructed painting I have done. Wonder what will show up. Can't remember with any certainty what my underdrawing started out to be.