I Don’t Plan to Laugh About This, Like, Ever

Believe it or not, blogging was not the first thing that occurred to me when I went into the family room this morning and found the 13X30 space tracked from one end to the other with black cat paw prints. This means you’re not getting the “full effect” photos. The picture below is  after my best cleaning effort. Remember that sea of cream carpeting I blogged about last year? OK, this is totally it:

The grate in front of the fire place was pushed out and the paw prints started there. Under my craft table was a large wet spot of black: soot cat vomit. The entire room is tracked with putty cat prints. I am not exaggerating on this point. I couldn’t believe it as I got out the vacuum and did my best to get up the prints. They romped into all the nooks and crannies.

I called the culprits this morning with my cooing voice to get pictures but they didn’t get any damned treats for posing. Little bastards:

I have a call in to Maurer’s carpet cleaners. I could have waited until they were open but instead I called them at 6:30 when I found the mess and left a message.

I can’t even be cute and amusing in blog fashion about this. My sea of cream carpeting is an unmistakable romp of black kitty cat paw prints.

No Pride, No Shame, No Credit, No Blame

The above is a common reference to a good attitude toward genealogical study. Take no pride, no shame, no credit and no blame for the actions, accomplishments and ways of life of your ancestors. They’re them, you’re you.

But you don’t really want to speak ill of the dead, either. So what do you do when people in your family just plain did bad stuff? Do you talk about it when they aren’t here to tell you about it for themselves – either the reasons or the other side of it? Can you try to write about it without being judgmental? It’s one thing to have horse thieves in your family (ho-hum), it’s another when people were sexually abusive. But best of luck trying to abuse Great Aunt Totally Rocks.

Great Aunt Totally Rocks wrote down all of the genealogical information she had and transcribed the family bible for my mother. They also talked for hours and GATR filled in many blanks and told many family history stories. One of them was of visiting one of her sisters when she was a teenager. The sister’s husband touched her inappropriately and she stomped him. As in, he came up behind her and touched her so she lifted her foot, smashed it into his and dug down. And it was hardly the only time GATR defended herself like this.

One of my favorite stories of her is a time she was at work in the 50s or 60s and a boss came over to talk to her and put his arm around her waist while doing so. She yelled, loud enough for the entire office to hear, “Keep your God damned hands off me.” No one there ever touched her again. See? There are ways to address sexual harassment on the personal level. Forget courtrooms, GATR just took it offline with people and nailed them to the wall. Totally love GATR. GATR? I take pride in GATR.

Also, I have come up with a tentative framework for  my family history project. I’m going to take each generation as a chapter of the book and explore what we know about the families through census, military, church, public and other records and weave into that social and political histories of their times. For instance, in the first generation for which we have data – Nicholas Schryer and Mary Eastwood – I’m going to talk about their church, the Dutch Reformed Church, about the political climate (the Revolutionary War and perhaps more importantly the conflict over Vermont. Crimany, but it was a big deal back then), and the town they lived in. The project will be self-printed and is in memory of my grandparents. (BTW, the primary crop in their town when they were there was wheat. Don’t need no stinkin’ New England history after all).

Also, did you know that many Germans and French Huegenots  attended Dutch Reformed Churches in the colonies because their Calvinist churches in Europe also adhered to the Heidelberg Catechism of 1563? Hah, it’s true.

Me and My Grandpap

My Grandpap died peacefully last night at about midnight. He said in good humor that it was just time to go. Here’s him and me in about 1974.

Clean Water Action 2009

Now that we know Clean Water Action canvasses my neighborhood, perhaps I’ll have an annual post dedicated to  my interactions with them. Because this year? This year was even better than last year.

Ring-ring. I answer the door this time. “Hi, I’m from Clean Water Action and we’re…” It’s a guy this time.

“Come on in. Can I get you something to drink, a Coke?” I think for a second. A Coke? What was I thinking, “Actually, can I get you a beer?” This man is no fool and he does not hesitate.

“I’m in your neighborhood with a canvassing partner. Can I go get him?”

“Absolutely.”

We were eating dinner, but as the religious canvassers of my youth used to say, “Your dinner can wait, your soul cannot.”

I bring them to the table. These guys are much easier to be nice to then the young woman last year – they take me up on my offers! They consider their beer choices and I fetch two kinds. We’re eating 7-layer bean dip for dinner so we share out the chips and salsa.

They settle in. We get to talking. The partner guy is new to canvassing and he’s your typical college student who works as a canvassers. The first guy? He’s a CANVASSER. This guy is so earthy crunchy cool that canvassing is just a natural extension of his life. We get to talking.

He has thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail.  It’s 2,175 miles long. He did it in a single season. This is a tremendous accomplishment. He thought it was fun, so next he did the Pacific Crest Trail. He says ruefully that the laws of such things seem to say you do one or three, so he’ll probably end up on the North Country trail or the Continental Divide next.  He says this casually, as if such hikes are just ordinary rather than profound physical, social and psychological achievements. He and Hubby get to talking about making stoves out of Coke cans. Hubby trekked in Nepal before we were married.

Next we move on to green architecture. He’s planning to build his own home on a commune-type place off the grid. I am so glad he knocked on my door so I could be nice to him.

So come on Clean Water, what will you have to offer me for 2010? It’s gonna have to be good to beat that.

Apparently NOT

I think it’s a good thing when someone tells you that they’re better than you are. I appreciate the time it saves me. That way, I don’t have to spend any of my pretty little time thinking about it or wondering – am I? or am I not?

See, there’s something about genealogy that you might not know. People who have been here the longest (aside from the Native Americans who usually get left out of this unique equation) are better than people who have come later. So, if you escaped Europe during World War I (1914 – 1918  ) you’re not as cool as people who came during the Potato Famine (1845 – 1852). See how that works?

It goes back almost precisely to Jamestown (1607) but Jamestown has been surpassed in I-got-here-before-you-snootiness by the relative latecomers of Plymouth Rock (1620). The Great New England. Published family histories about New England families are legendary. The “best” genealogical societies are in New England. Some of those “legendary” New England genealogies? They won’t include you if you were adopted because you’re not “really” from a pureblood New England family. These people put Lord Voldemort to shame. And even if you don’t buy into the nonsense, you are going to benefit from all of the research that has gone before you and the assorted glories of Those of the Tea Party are going to rub off on you.

‘Cause me? I thought I was from a New England family.

I recently checked out a book called A Long Deep Furrow: Three Centuries of Farming in New England. I was excited to be reading about agriculture! and crop rotation! and yields! and farm equipment! I was going to learn about the bread and butter of my ancestor’s lives. The dirt under their fingernails. The great and noble tradition of family farming.

I finally get the thing, examine the table of contents, and begin reading. Some stuff is good right away such as the difference between saying “subsistence farming” and “self-sustaining farming.” Yo!! Over here! I’m so cool I’m learning politically correct stuff about FARMING!

Then I begin scanning. Something is off.  The states of New York and Vermont keep not getting mentioned, chapter after chapter it’s Boston, Boston, all is Boston. Cape Cod. Yes, he name drops The Mayflower. Finally, I see a really terrific map of New England that breaks out the most important crops in various regional areas. Perfect! I’m going to be able to say what was being farmed in the region my family lived in during a particular time period.

Trick: present day states are outlined but not named. I pull up a GoogleMap of Albany, New York, near where my family lived, and grab and shift until I hit the Atlantic. I compare the maps.

WELL EXCUSE ME. New York is not a part of New England. As the last person to learn this I would like to thank Mr. Howard S. Russell, author of said book, for leading me on this road of discovery. I might reply that Lewis and Clark began THEIR Journey of Discovery in 1803 (I just learned this factoid, too, and it’s really the only come-back I have at hand).

I am left in the rather unenviable position of knowing for sure that I am not as cool as I thought I was.

Eh?

OK, I now know a lot more about Canada during the eighteenth century than I ever thought I would. The first chapter of my family history is in danger of becoming a treatise on the Seven Years War – a bad treatise as I don’t really “get” military history.

Some cool facts include that my ancestor who participated in the Revolutionary War out of New England did so in the 14th Regiment out of Albany. Also, that I’ve found a dissertation called The History of the Town of Schaghticoke, New York 1676-1855, which is where my family lived for a time and baptized at least two children circa 1781. Imagine, an entire dissertation written on a single little one-mule New England town.  Ah, the joys of American history, scraping the bottom of that New England barrel.

Also, I’m looking forward with positive glee to getting my hands on

A Long, Deep Furrow: Three Centuries of Farming in New England

I spent 1 1/2 hours kicking back to Battlestar Gallactica this weekend and felt like I was cheating for not working.

What I’m Reading About Where My Family Has Been

I did a genre-jump into Canada last year and the first few books were so dull I discontinued the jump – not that Canada is dull, just these books. (They were probably “good” books, and I know they were chosen by librarians because that’s who I asked to recommend them.) That made me kinda sad.

My image of Canadians is that they are a lot like us on our good days – steadfastedly democratic, friendly, live-and-let-live, let’s-all-get-along, yeah-I-can-help-you-with-that folks. Neighborly. Lefty radical cool people except that everyone is relaxed and polite about being radical which takes most of the bitterness out of it. A no-drama people.

Is all that “basically” true? I don’t even know. That’s how much I don’t know about Canada.

Well, much of my family still lives in Canada and my direct line that I’m researching lived there from shortly after the (U.S.) Revolutionary War until shortly after the (U.S.) Civil War (I will pause here to say members of other lines of my family fought in both of those conflicts – and all on the winning sides as far as I know).

I went searching for a history of Papineauville Quebec (what is 90 miles from Montreal), an English-speaking valley in Quebec, where my family lived. Here’s a map. I quickly realized I needed to take a step back. I know a lot more about European countries than I do about Canada. So, I’m starting with the basics and shall work my way forward. I’ll let you know how it goes.