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...