Ketching Up Is Hard to Do

I am still a month behind with my blogging. This will get worse real fast. This afternoon my wife and I fly to Ireland for a week, and then from there to Scotland. I will probably have zero opportunity to blog from there.

Check back in two weeks. I expect I will have more tangents for you. Now One-Bag-Bibb needs to finish packing.

Have I mentioned what a busy spring this has been?

My Father's Boat

In the spring of 1956, a few months after my grandfather died, my father and I took an unusual Saturday morning trip to Riverview, the family farm. We did not stop at the then empty home but went straight down the riverbank to the boat house. There my father took measurements from the small rowboats my grandfather had built over the years.

These were Pamunkey River working boats, boats made for fishing and hunting. Nothing fancy; definitely not "recreational." I remember they leaked. We always had to bale them out before using them, and often while my father paddled, I baled. Baling is a good job for a small child; the idea of the boat filling with water - sinking - was a powerful motivating force for an otherwise easily distracted boy. That morning they were in even worst shape than I remembered, but they served the purpose. We went back up the hill and drove home.

The following year, or maybe 1958, Dad started building a boat in our backyard based on the design he documented that Saturday. However this boat would be larger, large enough to easily seat the four members of our family. It would also have a motor. He built it from oak and marine plywood, half inch on the bottom, with 3/8 sides. He covered it with newfangled Fiberglas cloth and a white gelcoat. It was just over 19 feet long, almost twice the size of its progenitors. It very definitely did not leak.

Our family used the boat for week-end outings on the large, newly build lake close to home. Daddy and I fished and hunted from that boat. We took it to my other grandmother's farm on the Potomac; one particular morning we caught more spot than we knew what to do with. Under full power it planed, but was very stable. We could make almost 20 mph; not bad for an 18-HP Evinrude pushing a heavy flat-bottomed boat. I even water-skied behind it.

After my sister and I went away to college the boat received less use, but it remained in our backyard until after my father died in 1981. After our local minister admired the boat my mother sold it to our church to give to him as a going away gift. She had asked me if I had any objections, and I had told her to go ahead. Just looking at it reminded me of my father and the times we shared. The pain of his loss was still too fresh; not seeing it I thought would hurt less. Besides, I had no use for it then. He would have approved; boats need to be used.

In doing research into my family's history - and the history of Pamunkey Neck - I have been reminded over and over of the dominant role of the rivers in people's lives. According to a letter I recently found and my latest conversation with Uncle Pickett, as late as the 1940's my grandparents helped support the farm by fishing with nets when the shad were running. They used those very boats I later baled from. And my grandmother could not even swim. I decided if I was going to write about Pamunkey Neck I need to spend some time on the water. And there would be no better way than in my father's boat.

A few months ago I located the now retired minister and gave him a call. He certainly remembered my family and the boat. But, unfortunately, he said that in a weak moment years ago he had sold it. Worse, he could not remember the name of the buyer, only that he lived near Lynchburg, a community called Forest. It was to Forest I drove that morning looking for a boat.

Further Adventures

After the last post the ketch-up condenses; think of a spicy tomato paste reduction.

The Monday following our trek to Pamunkey Neck I spent at the Library of Virginia looking at manuscripts, maps, & microfilm - the 3m's. Of the three the microfilm was the most valuable, and the most difficult to use. I don't know how many hours it would take before blindness, but it can't be many. Each time after a long session at the microfilm readers - for me anything over three hours - my admiration increases for those who, for love or money (or madness), make extensive use of these devices. As we say in the south, "bless their hearts."

After the LOV I retreated south and spent another day with my mother before driving to Charlotte, the Neighborhood Theatre, and my only rendezvous with Railroad Earth this tour. My daughter and an assorted collection of her friends met at Boudreaux's next door for dinner before the show, the band played to a moderate but enthusiastic Wednesday night crowd, after which I rolled back home by 2 in the morning.

A rare week and a half around home followed. The last Monday in the month found me again in Charlotte having a new starter installed in my car. The old one had been asking for relief for about a year. I guess after 200,000 miles one should not be surprised. Relief was granted.

I was then better prepared for another trip north. After a short visit with my mother and attending to various of her financial affairs I was off again to Richmond. My sister was again the gracious hostess. I spent a pleasant afternoon with my Uncle Pickett, his wife Jean, and my cousin who was visiting from Colorado. After another day at the LOV my sister and I visited with another cousin and her husband to talk with them about the mysterious five acres in the Northern Neck (see the May 21 post). They seemed pleased that I had already been trying to resolve the issues involved and we agreed on where we needed to go.

The next day I bought a new digital camera (in an ongoing, generally losing attempt to keep up with my more technologically advanced daughter) and headed west to visit with one of my oldest friends. John, a contractor who has been living for a couple of decades in one of the most beautiful spots on the planet, surprised us all a few weeks earlier by having a heart attack. Much too young for that, he still handle it like a pro. He walked into the UVA hospital and walked out two days later (even though they charged him for three, much to his consternation) with a stent replacing a clot, new drugs to take, and some advice. He looked good despite it all and withstood my complaining about him setting a bad example for the rest of us.

I left the next day headed to western NC and dinner with my daughter. But along the way I spent two hours looking for a needle in a haystack, or more accurately the boat my father built about fifty years ago.

A Visit to the Other Neck

Have I mentioned that I am writing a book? Well, I am. It is a family & regional history with cosmic overtones. I am past 30,000 words now and just getting started. Collecting and tidying up over 300 years of Edwards and Virginia history takes some effort.

It also takes research, since information about Pamunkey Neck and my family is well scattered. And since I am separated from my topic by space as well as time I have decided to enlist help from those living in the area. That is why the Sunday following the funeral (which by the way was a gorgeous day) my sister and I set off to visit another distant relative on the other side of the family, a Pamunkey Neck native who, as a local forester, knows the county as well as anyone.

My hook to involve him in my project was an out of print map published in 1976 - while I was actually living there - that located old county historic sites, mainly homes. Of course he is living in one. I wanted to update and expand this map (my draft shown) using modern computer technology. He said he would be happy to help.

After arriving we were warmly greeted and I laid out my maps and the other research documents I had brought along. If he and his family thought I was nuts they were polite enough not to show it. I outlined my map project and a little of how it fit into my larger book project. He answered my questions, corrected a few errors on my map, and made some suggestions. We agreed to stay in touch by email and that we would see each other at the family reunion in the summer.

After leaving my sister and I decided to take a detour on some back roads to the area of the county where my family has lived for hundreds of years. Driving past the church my great-great grandfather had built and preached in we noticed a small group of cars, people, and an open door. Although my sister had once been inside, I never had. So we pulled in.

The church had recently been sold to a local businessman along with the adjacent farm. The new owner had done a wonderful job renovated the long unused church and this Sunday afternoon he and his family were walking about. As we walked up introducing ourselves I noticed another distant cousin standing to the side. The new owner invited us to look around and he and his family left in their mini-van, stopping a few yards down the road to talk with our cousin's brother, the seller of the farm and church. We could quickly tell by the look on her face and the tone of the conversation on the side of the road that things were not well.

For the next 90 minutes, after the new owners had driven off, my sister and I were reminded of the deep passions land can inspire. Inside the church our cousins talked almost non-stop, generally about matters we little understood and people we did not know. Pride, money, land, time, and family were the themes with the both of them feeling that they had come out on the short end. The sun lowered, we made our way back to the car and said our good-byes.

Have I mentioned what an interesting family I have?

A Visit to the Neck

My mother's brother was 89 and had been in poor heath for some time; so his death could not be called unexpected. Yet for me it was hard to grasp. He had always seemed a larger than life character, so very full of himself. I am confident that everyone who met him has a story about the time he did this or did that. He is on the left in this photo with my grandfather and his brother, about 1920.

Unlike my mother, who was too weak to attend the funeral, his mind was clear to the last. A couple of years ago at his wife's funeral of he reminded me of events from my childhood over 50 years earlier. Some of my earliest memories are of following him around my grandmother's farm as he did chores. I remember feeling so grown up when he let me ride on the tractor with him. I looked forward to helping carry slop to the hogs somewhat less. As I grew up I saw him less an admirable role model, but to the end he was always a force to be reckoned with, now someone to miss.

One of those spring cold fronts was moving into Virginia as I headed north to pick up my sister. But we reached the chapel with time to spare. The chapel, now owned by a local funeral home, was once a church co-founded by my great-great grandfather; behind it lie generations of relatives. Although the temperature had been dropping all morning with light drizzle, it was not until we headed outside toward the gravesite that the skies opened up. By now the temperature was in the 40's and the rain was coming down sideways. I stood with my umbrella behind my cousins trying to block the rain from coming underneath the tent, to little effect. Graveside remarks were brief. My uncle would have enjoyed it all.

After the service my sister and I escorted a family of distant relatives to my grandmother's home, now part of a subdivision and owned by a nice woman who gave us a tour. Then, while my sister visited with our cousins, I split off to meet with a local surveyor. I had hired him to do some work for my family on a lot we own in that sub-division, but now I needed to talk with him about a separate five acre parcel my mother co-owned with her late brother. I had been unable to reconcile the description of the parcel on the 1919 deed and its location on the current county tax map. The Q&D title search I had conducted at the local courthouse some months earlier had turned up more questions than answers; we needed professional help.

The surveyor gave me good news; he believed the lot still existed. It had not be surveyed out of existence. Things like that happen, much to the delight of the legal profession. It was just not where the tax map indicated. However he said that the parcel is landlocked; it has no designated right-of-way. After all these years obtaining that right-of-way now could be tricky. I told him to hold off doing anything else until I talked with my cousins. This will get interesting and there will certainly be a post or two about this coming up.

By now almost dry, I met my sister and our family of distant relatives for dinner at a local restaurant, a recently restored Hotel/Tavern. I was hungry and the food was good. We then drove back to my sister's. I slept well. Which, as it turned out, was a good thing. I had a big day coming up.

Next, tales from the other side of the family...

Ketch-Up

It has been a long time between posts, more a sign of mental fatigue on my part than a lack of things to post about. Time to play Ketch-Up.

The Saturday prior to our trip to Chicago we had a birthday party for my wife, the big L. We had a large crowd of friends and family, and a good time. My photos were not worthy, so I waited until PixieRn sent me hers. By that time I was well into the Chicago / Wisconsin trip series. Below are a couple of pix from the party.

The second week-end after returning from Chicago was to be Railroad Earth Week-End. The guys were on a southern tour and we had tickets to hear them open for the Derek Trucks Band at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach on Friday night and in Wilmington Saturday night.

But three days after Chicago my wife became - in her words - as sick as she has ever been. Her doctor said it was a combination of flu and pneumonia; the effects lasted for weeks. Already struggling with keeping her classes on track after being at a conference the previous week - and teaching an overload this semester - she had little time to rest. So it became round after round of work / collapse / work / collapse, with me trying to be care-giver.

A music week-end for her became out of the question, but we still had two sets of tickets. Since PixieRn was already at the coast my wife suggested the two of us use the tickets while she rested. PixieRn was excited to join me but towards the end of the week she too was not feeling well enough to go. By that time we had received word that my uncle had died and would be buried Railroad Earth Week-End.

I had convinced myself that I could hear RRE Friday night and then drive to Virginia in time to pick up my sister and make it to the church mid-day Saturday. Technically possible, practically foolish. So I began trying to unload the tickets. I was able to give away the HOB tickets to a colleague of my wife's at the last minute, but the Wilmington tickets went unclaimed at will-call. Trying to give away the tickets was a short, frustrating experience.

Saturday morning I headed north into cold, rainy weather and a funeral.

Tomorrow, the story continues...

Analog Man Does Windoz

It has been about a week since HELL FROZE OVER. So far both Boot Camp and Windows XP have been performing flawlessly. I'm not surprised by Boot Camp - beta or not - but XP is remarkably better than the other half dozen Microsoft operating systems I have used. I still remain booted into OSX most of the time.

Rooms w/view

While walking to the Field Museum across Grant Park I took this of one of my favorite Chicago buildings.

Several years ago, one cold, windy but sunny morning, I was headed across the park to the Field Museum when I turned my back to the wind for a little relief. Until that moment I had not really taken in the magnificent Chicago skyline. My jaw dropped. So instead of the warmth of the museum I decided just to walk around and look at buildings. Not particularly dressed for the occasion, I like to froze.

The memory of this building, while not the most spectacular or famous downtown has to offer, stuck with me. Although the architecture is sort of typical of a century ago, it was where it was placed that caught my eye.



Here is another view. Makes you wonder how they got it up there.



P.S. Did you like that "like to froze?" My county boy personae peakin' round the corner.

Any Damn Fool

The morning after Phil's party I stopped for breakfast at the Machine Shed in Rockford, IL. While settling up I noticed this book for sale on the counter, Any Damn Fool Can be A Farmer - Growing Up on a Wisconsin Farm, by Bob Knopes. I am working on a family history project of my own - and it looked like a good airplane read. So I bought it.

Turns out that Bob grew up just a few miles from where I worked in Janesville, WI. I must have driven past his family's farm hundreds of times. Small world.

What makes the book worthy of his efforts and yours - besides the writing which is much better than typical books of this kind - is the reminder of a way of life that is fastly disappearing. Family farming was - and is - hard work. It is reassuring that it usually does not make hard people.

Bob's story may not have enough drama for some; I'm sure that was just-as-well for his family. A couple of fires will have to do. But it is as real as that wonderful smell of earth being turned about now on Wisconsin's farms. I recommend it, especially to my friends along the Rock River.

P.S. - In case the book's title offends our friends in the agricultural community, Bob is referring to something his father often said, but did not really mean. Barnyard humor.

Phil

The real reason for my trip to Chicago was to attend my ex-boss' retirement party in Wisconsin. I didn't tell them I was coming; it was wonderful seeing the looks on my co-worker's faces and be able to thank Phil for being such a great boss.

It has been a full two weeks since Phil's party - and post party - plenty of time for the $500,000 in small bills, the two Dallas Cheerleaders, and the case of Glenfiddich to arrive. Since Phil has obviously decided not to be extorted, I am making good on my threat to post this photo.

Field Day

After my trip to the Field Museum I went downtown to pay homage to the enterprise that played a major role making it all possible, and do a little shopping.

Marshall Field's may or may not have been the world's greatest department store, but it remains my favorite. Although immitated, the atriums remain wonders to behold.

Marshall Field was a country boy from Massachusetts who moved to Chicago in 1853. Clerking in a dry goods store he saved his money, bought into the business, bought out his partners, and became the richest man in Chicago. His State Street store was as commercially innovative as it was beautiful. I wanted to take my own picture of the Tiffany iridescent glass ceiling five stories up, but found the floor traffic too dense. So I lifted this from Google Images. But photos cannot do the place justice; one must stroll about.

Fields had gone through several corporate owners recently and unfortunately will be rebranded as Macy's this year. That may be good for Federated Retail Holdings, Inc., but it will be another part of Americana lost.

P.S. I got some great pants on sale!

Soldier Field - Chicago

After walking about in the Field Museum for six hours week before last I decided to get some fresh air. Soldier Field is next door, so I walked the colonnades.

The stadium finished undergoing a renovation several years back, the new architecture making for some striking juxtapositions. This photo was the best I could do showing how the old and new blend - or don't. I'm more a Burnham man myself.

At one time the north end was open, framing the Field Museum as this old photo shows.

The NFL team that plays here most frequently shall not be written.

Sue

The Field Museum is justly known for its dinosaurs, the most famous being Sue, the largest, most complete, and best preserved Tyrannosaurus rex fossil, ever!

She has her own website.

Now, when I think of my sister...

Chicago Skyline

This was taken about 9:00 last Thursday morning at the north entrance to the Field Museum. I Photoshop merged three (over?) exposures.

Since this landscape orientation neither fits nor does much justice to the view I decided to try another approach. Now take your screen and turn it 90 degrees clockwise and scroll. Isn't that better?

The Palmer House - Chicago

If Analog Man does not post for over a week something must be up. It was, in this case a trip to Chicago - with a side adventure to Wisconsin. Enough material was gathered for several posts, which are forthcoming.

My base of operations was the famous Palmer House in downtown Chicago. My wife 4 C's convention was again there and I went along for the ride so I might attend the retirement party of Phil, my ex-boss, Friday afternoon. More on that later.

The Palmer House may no longer be the fanciest hotel in town, but it once was. What it may now lack in modern amenities is more than made up for by the best lobby in town, shown above on a postcard they gave me this morning. I wanted to lie on the floor and take a picture of the practically naked woman in the center of the mural, but I thought that a bit too, uh, obvious. The ceiling is actually much taller than the postcard would lead you to believe.

The second postcard - from 1910 - I pulled off Google images. By then the famous Brownie, invented by the chef at the Palmer House, was already 17 years old. And yes, I had one there three nights ago. It cost almost 10$ but was worth it!

After a bit of rest and reflection I will have much more...

Signs of Spring

This Bradford Pear in the park did not spend much time wearing white this year; the green leaves rapidly began to show themselves.

And my tomato seeds germinated well but became quite "leggy," as last year. But this year I replanted them deeply in larger containers. So far no real tomato leaves.


While it has been warm, a cold spell starts tonight - highs for the next week or so in the 50's.

We are celebrating my wife's birthday this week-end with friends and family from out-of-town arriving today.

More later...

A Young Man of Letters

Now that I have taken over my mother's finances I have been looking through long stored piles of family papers. Last week I was looking for some old deeds and ran across perhaps my first letter.

It was to my mother when she was in the hospital having my sister and I was staying with her mother. I had just turned four.

I don't think my handwriting has improved much, although I am a better speler.

For My Friends in Wisconsin

I thought you might like to see what spring will be like for you, in about TWO months.

The Bradford Pear tree across the road will be in full glory in about another week.

My tomato plants just popped up from seed.

Photos of both when I get back from my trip to Virginia.

The Unequaled Self

One of my first posts on this blog directed your attention to an online version of The Diary of Samuel Pepys. Pepys (1633-1703) rose from humble beginnings to become a high ranking English civil servant, Member of Parliament, and confidant of Kings during perhaps the most turbulent time in modern British history. His fame, however, lies in his private diary (1660-1669), at the time unique, and remarkable to this day for its eyewitness accounts and personal candor.

Pepys was seldom heroic; much of what he tells us about himself and the London of his day is unpleasant. He and London are frequently all too human. Only recently have versions of his coded diary appeared uncensored. Yet he transcends his time and place with a zest for living and honesty (at least in private) that is admirable and all too rare. Claire Tomalin, the noted English biographer, won the Whitbread Book Award in 2002 for her Samuel Pepys - The Unequaled Self, which I have just finished. It was wonderfully written, adding context and detail to my daily doses of Sam and making him part of my extended family.

While it helps to have an interest in English history during Sam's time - I am well underway writing a history of my own - Tomalin's book and the online diary are worthy for their window into the larger human condition - how far we have come, and haven't. As a bonus, the daily contemporary annotations on the website are frequently as interesting and amusing as Pepys. I recommend both highly.

Garrison Keillor

The closest we have to Mark Twain today is Garrison Keillor. I first heard his A Prairie Home Companion in the summer of '83 and have been a regular listener ever since. I've laughed. I've cried. The music has been pretty good too.

Keillor has a way of making me feel good about being a human being; not a easy task these days. He is forever pointing us towards our best. I feel better each and every time he talks to me. He may be the greatest living American.

Like Twain he is a keen observer of mankind, its follies both personal and collective. When the spirit moves he can be devastating.

I would have loved to have written this. If anything he is too kind. Little Man in Salon, February 8th, 2006.

'Be well, do good work, and keep in touch." ®