My great grandfather was alive until I was seventeen years old. We visited him a lot, and when I was little, one of my favorite things to do at his house was play with the red tricycle. I think it was originally my mother’s or my uncles, meaning it was a product of the mid sixties.
There was a sort of ceremony surrounding it. After an appropriate amount of begging, my grandmother would walk with me down the gravel road to the barn that my great grandfather built with his hands. (that still amazes me). We’d pull the heavy door aside and make our way through the well organized mess to the back wall. My grandmother would get the tricycle from its hanging spot on the wall and take it outside into the sunlight. It was then thoroughly washed down.
That’s the type of woman my grandmother is. Everything is thoroughly washed down.
(recently my grandmother asked if I needed a dress ironed for a funeral the next day. I told her that it was a dress that was supposed to look wrinkled and that it actually couldn’t be ironed. My grandfather sighed and said “sweetheart, she can iron anything. absolutely anything. even that.” he was right.)
After it was thoroughly washed down, I got to ride it. I really don’t remember actually riding it - that wasn’t the fun part. The fun part was the anticipation.
That’s the way things usually go.
I think that I loved the red tricycle so much because it was so old. It looked rustic, and when I wasn’t using it it hung mysteriously in the back of a dark, hot barn. My mother and uncle had ridden it when they were young, however long ago that was. It’s also possibly that I was just pesky and liked to annoy my grandmother about it.
Regardless, I loved that thing.
Oddly enough, this red tricycle would eventually lead me to contact a stranger online. I do not think my great grandfather would have approved.
I don’t actually think that it can be blamed entirely on the tricycle, in all honesty. It’s just that the tricycle to me represents the mystery of the past.
It must have been this fascination with the mystery of the past that led me to google my ancestry during my freshman year of college. That and a fondness for procrastination.
I’m a weird bird.
My great grandfather had died the year before, and my aunt and uncle had taken over his house. Nothing was the same, and I hated losing that link to him and to the past. So when I found a post by a woman named Dee that mentioned people that I thought I might be related to, my interested was piqued.
I also didn’t want to do my chemistry homework. So that factored in.
I responded to the post, saying that I thought I recognized some of the names and that we might be somehow related. I told her that my grandmother and great aunt could probably help her answer some of her questions.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into. This sixty-nine year old woman began emailing me relentlessly. I only replied the once, but she continued to talk to me in each email as if I had only missed responding to the last one.
I initially thought that she had made a mistake, and that we weren’t related after all. Of course, had I considered the crazed way that she was attempting to make contact with me, I would have seen that it was in fact extremely likely that she was related to me.
She is related to me, incidentally.
It seems irrelevant, but I would like to note that this woman’s email address, when we started emailing at least, was butterflywings@bellsouth.net. Of course.
Soon, I was routinely receiving emails like this one:
Ashton,
I have a distant cousin....Tim Ballard....
Tim is the great-grandson of Jane Alvin (Cocke) and George Ballard Jr. were married in Pike Co, AR. early 1900, lived in Thompson Township...Jane & George had children, Luke, Ezra, Estelle,& Bill....Jane Alvin died and George Jr. married another woman, Malissa Sturart (sp?). She and George Ballard Jr., in the late 30s and early 40s were in Ouachita Co, AR, they a son Norman Ballard (who died a few years
ago, around Ft Polk, LA), and a daughter (unknown, she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!
Just thought that there may be a connection to you and this line....!
Dee
This woman was clearly confused as to my motives. I know almost nothing about my family. I answered the email using my knowledge of my family genealogy in its entirety - the names of two of my great grandparents. What was I supposed to do with this email? These questions? I hope the polite answer is laugh and not respond, because that was exactly what I did. If I wanted to answer questions, I could’ve just done the chemistry homework.
My favorite part is “she went north and does not associate with the family....she may be dead!”
Here are some additional excerpts from Dee’s emails. For simpilicity’s sake, my thoughts are italicized:
“You might ask you father, I'm assuming he is the Ballard....or you may be married to a Ballard....let me know if you find out anything about someone in the Ballard Family having a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880....not sure exactly when? He would have died by early 1880.”
How in the world would I find out anything about someone in the Ballard (F)amily haivng a Ballard man being married around 1875 to early 1880?
Dee’s so crazy.
“Ask your grandmother if she will call me at this telephone number....318-868-****. Is she Jeanette Young Burford, daughter of Velma Cocke and Bryant Young Burford?”
I don’t know why I find this funny, but I find this funny. That is my grandmother, and those are her parents, so this should probably not be funny to me.
“I turned 69 June 14th and my sister is 78 and will have her 79th birthday in November of this year....We both live in Shreveport, LA”
Dee’s sister’s birthday, noted. On my calendar. (It really is, I don't know why. I have a weird sense of humor.)
“Will you please ask your grandmother if she has any idea who someone named Robbie and Deck might be? Someone from Olive Branch, MS....sent a floral tribute to my father's funeral in 1963, and I found this after my mother died....(she died in 1994) found it some years after her death....she had the registry book where people sign their names when they attend a funeral....mother also, kept all the cards that the florist had attached to the flowers when they arrived at the funeral home....and the funeral home gave those to her so she could forward Thank You's to the sender....When I saw the one from Olive Branch....I was so curious as to who that might be....I only started searching for the family, in 2002, when I got my first computer....”
From what I know of Dee, the fact that she is avidly searching for the identity of someone who sent flowers in 1963 in order to write a forty-seven year late thank you note is entirely in character for her.
I've never found my grandfather's death date or where he is buried....anything that you may know on the family that you could share with me I will so be grateful....! I have gone to Idabel, OK in search for his burial in Forest Hill Cemetery.
Of course she did. I’m surprised that I didn’t get the invite for the followup road trip.
Soon, probably.
Here's hoping that you will receive this and some of it will make sense....I try to give as much info. as I can and sometimes get too boggled....please, get back with me....
Your Cousin,
June Delores 'Dee' (Cocke) Hall
-
I am extremely unsure how we are cousins, or even related, although it seems that Dee has got it figured out for the both of us.
After receiving the last email, which bore the signature above, I realized that I was in over my head (causing an old and self-proclaimed “boggled” woman undue strife) and called my grandmother. With some trepidation, I tried to explained the three year tale of my online relationship with Dee in a way that would sound as not sketchy as possible. I then forwarded her the emails, which she in turn read.
She agreed that Dee was definitely related to us, but opted out of contacting her. The excuse was that she didn’t really know any more than Dee did, or something like that.
I kind of love that she didn’t contact Dee, who is so clearly salivating over the chance to get her on the phone.
Instead, she forwarded the emails to her older sister, who incidentally lives less than an hour from Dee in northwestern Louisiana.
I don’t think that my great aunt opted to contact Dee either, but I feel that my work is done. (read: feel slightly less guilty about contacting Dee in the first place)
On the surface, this story is only (very) mildly entertaining and seemingly meaningless. If you did a little deeper, you’ll find out that the view from the surface was pretty much accurate.
However, if you work a little, you might be able to extrapolate a few morals from this story.
I’m here to teach (read: be held up as an example so that others can learn from my mistakes).
Possible lessons include but are most definitely not limited to:
1) Don’t contact strangers online.
Actually, I’m just going to stick with that one. You’d think it didn’t need to be said twice.
But here I am.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Why You Shouldn’t be my Friend (alternate title: How I Tried to Murder My Sisters)
So, I tried to murder both of my sisters.
Before widen you judgmental eyes and stop reading this post in order to hurry and delete me from your Facebook friends, give me a second to explain my side of the story.
Actually it’s pretty much how it sounds. Delete away.
I was the eldest child and did not take kindly to the idea of new additions to my family. Of course, this is a common phenomenon in children. I’m currently watching my cousins, who are 8 and 6, go through the same thing in reaction to their mother’s being pregnant with twin boys.
Fortunately, being a respected adult-type figure in their eyes (they also think I’m really cool. It’s fantastic), I have been able to provide them with good advice.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re just like me now! I was the oldest and I got two new sisters. I wasn’t sure about the whole thing either, but look how wonderfully it turned out!”
They are comforted by the advice of someone that they trust, the parallels that I’ve drawn between them and myself, and their erroneous belief that Brecken and Lacey are also cool.
I’m glad I’ve been able to comfort them, but this advice is a lie.
I was right the first time, and they’re right now.
Siblings are trouble that should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it falls to the parents to avoid this situation, and since I’ve seen nothing but proof of my theory that people get stupider as they get older and specifically once they have children (think about it: how many teenagers have you sigh “oh my goshhh my mother is ca-ray-zee” - there’s got to be something to this), I feel that their declining intelligence leads them to believe that more children would be a good idea.
So no, this is not new, this displeasure for change, this dislike of any aberration a child’s world. They get over it. They move on. They learn to live in a world where they are no longer the sole focus of their parent’s lives.
I’ve was always a little more stubborn and a little more proactive than most children were. At a young age, I was very goal oriented, ready to face any challenge presented to me. I wanted to be a policewoman on horseback, for God’s sake- there was no reason to start bowing to a threat now, only to have to unlearn the nasty habit in order to rule the streets of Jackson with an iron fist from atop my trusty steed, Marble.
This situation was no different. Despite my parents’ assurance that I would adjust and we’d be happier than ever (good one guys- Brecken snored like a wildebeest for the first five years of her life), I wasn’t taking anyone else’s word on something so important.
Instead, I would take action.
Of course, I do not remember this incident exactly. I’ve been told the story enough times to have the facts down correctly, and I’m going to assume that my thought process would have been approximately the same at age three that it is at age twenty-one. I’ll make the necessary allowance for the cynicism and pessimism that creep into one’s consciousness with age, but know that I was a relatively disillusioned three year old.
Fortunately for me, my father’s parents (this post) had recently returned from an Alaskan cruise. Being thoughtful grandparents, they brought me a gift. They brought me Alaskan rocks.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but what were they thinking? Nothing good could come out of a gift of rocks. I was certainly too young to appreciate that they were from Alaska (did I even know about Alaska? probably not. and I have to say, I was probably better off. my brain is too full today of useless information like the existence of Alaska and Kansas). They were of the same value to me as rocks from my next door neighbor’s back yard, which was just about nothing. As I could not appreciate their origin, the only other possible outcome of a child having rocks is some sort of damage to body or property.
I kept this in mind.
A few days after her overly dramatic arrival (she threatened to arrive a bit early, which was cool because I got to have my first sleepover at Lauren Whitton’s house in our matching Little Mermaid sleeping bags, and get this...she didn’t even come that night. I would learn later that this was extremely typical behavior of my sister. for more on that, see this post), Brecken was brought home.
I questioned the sanity of my parents and every adult that came to our house. Honestly, with all the cooing I don’t know how they could’ve expected me to take them seriously. She’d been at our house for less than two hours and already my parents had lost their minds.
This did not bode well.
My grandparents came to visit, and everyone predictably crowded around my father as he held Brecken in a recliner.
“Ashton,” he beckoned, “come say hello to your little sister.”
I was put out. I would not stoop to coo over her and count her little fingers, especially not for the benefit of lookers-on.
I picked up my rocks and walked over. While every eye in the room focused on my three day old sister, I raised one fist two feet over her and opened it.
The rock fell.
This is not actually a big deal - I have horrible aim. I can rarely successfully manage the timeless crumpled sheet of paper and trash can obstacle.
My parents disagreed. Apparently attempted murder (if you are taking me seriously** now is a good time to note that I was not actually trying to kill her. I may be crazy but not that particular brand of crazy). I was quickly given a three day pass to my grandparents’ house.
The next episode would take place a few years (maybe- I am not extremely clear on the developmental timeline with regard to children. this story took place after the amount of time that it takes a child to learn how to walk) later, shortly after Brecken had learned to walk. I had finally given up my dream of getting rid of her, and ironically almost achieved it.
In an ill conceived attempt at bonding (these attempts would grind to a screeching halt shortly thereafter), I suggested that we play “dog”. Brecken agreed enthusiastically (she never has had any sense of self preservation) and held relatively still while I tied a jumprope around her neck.
Stop looking at me like that. There was some slack. More importantly (very, very importantly. really- pay attention to this part), I didn’t know any better.
We played dog for a while, meaning that she crawled around on all fours, barking, while I walked around behind her holding the other end of a leash.
This game is only for fun for so long; after a while I decided to park my dog and head into a coffee shop or something. Well, everyone knows that you can’t just leave your dog running around free- they’ll run into the street, for heaven’s sake.
So I tied her leash to the baby bed.
The problem that my parents (and anyone who’s not a fan of baby-killing) had with this little maneuver was that I did so while she was standing up, and that if she had fallen (a very real risk at this developmental stage), she might have hung herself on the jumprope a little bit.
Again, I did not have this in mind. I just wanted to play dog.
The third and last attempt probably had the greatest chance of actually resulting in death, or at least serious damage. I was seven years old and decided that I would give Brecken a rest and try to kill Lacey for a change.
Lacey was an infant that I personally considered to be ill-timed. We were in the beginning stages of building a new house when she arrived. In this particular instance, we were visiting the site of our new house, which then was nothing more than a concrete slab.
I was seven years old, and this baby did not daunt me so much. Brecken, however, was suffering psychological damage that I admit I do not think she has recovered from yet. (she couldn’t speak correctly and insisted on running around the house, hands over her ears, yelling “Make huwww stoooowwp” whenever Lacey would cry). I, o the other hand, was older and more responsible. I could actually help my parents out this time.
I took to the new responsibilities with the enthusiasm of a power hungry military dictator to-be.
On this particular occasion, I decided to push the stroller around the lot while my parents talked shop with whomever they were talking shop. At some point, I pushed her stroller onto the concrete slab that would soon rest under our house.
To make a long story short, I went too close to the edge, which resulted in a wheel catching the side of the slab and the whole stroller flying off of the slab, landing three feet down on the ground.
I was later told that had I listened to my parents’ jabbering about buckling the baby into the car seat, she would not have rolled so far after it fell.
Newborns.
I saw this all happening in slow motion, realized that I had probably caused irreversible damage to my youngest sister, and high-tailed it.
Seriously, I just took off running. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I was breathless and my legs ached and threatened to give out. I sank to the ground by the foot of a huge oak tree.
At this point I was about three hundred yards from the point at which I had dropped Lacey. It would be eleven more years before I could run with any sort of skill.
I was devastated. I had probably killed Lacey. I could never go back home. I would be alone, a wandering vagabond for the rest of my days. This was extremely upsetting, as I had planned to be at least thirteen before I left home.
I cried.
Ten minutes later my father came and retrieved me. Lacey was only a little scuffed and I was forgiven.
Fourteen years have passed since I last chanced killing one of my sisters. I maintain that the earlier incidents were all accidents, and that I had no intention of hurting them.
Plus, I’m glad that things have turned out the way they did. At any given time, I like at least one of my sisters. It’s nice to have a spare to be mad at.
And it’s nice to have something to threaten them with.
“Remember that time...”
-
**Do not ever take me seriously.
Before widen you judgmental eyes and stop reading this post in order to hurry and delete me from your Facebook friends, give me a second to explain my side of the story.
Actually it’s pretty much how it sounds. Delete away.
I was the eldest child and did not take kindly to the idea of new additions to my family. Of course, this is a common phenomenon in children. I’m currently watching my cousins, who are 8 and 6, go through the same thing in reaction to their mother’s being pregnant with twin boys.
Fortunately, being a respected adult-type figure in their eyes (they also think I’m really cool. It’s fantastic), I have been able to provide them with good advice.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re just like me now! I was the oldest and I got two new sisters. I wasn’t sure about the whole thing either, but look how wonderfully it turned out!”
They are comforted by the advice of someone that they trust, the parallels that I’ve drawn between them and myself, and their erroneous belief that Brecken and Lacey are also cool.
I’m glad I’ve been able to comfort them, but this advice is a lie.
I was right the first time, and they’re right now.
Siblings are trouble that should be avoided if at all possible.
Unfortunately, it falls to the parents to avoid this situation, and since I’ve seen nothing but proof of my theory that people get stupider as they get older and specifically once they have children (think about it: how many teenagers have you sigh “oh my goshhh my mother is ca-ray-zee” - there’s got to be something to this), I feel that their declining intelligence leads them to believe that more children would be a good idea.
So no, this is not new, this displeasure for change, this dislike of any aberration a child’s world. They get over it. They move on. They learn to live in a world where they are no longer the sole focus of their parent’s lives.
I’ve was always a little more stubborn and a little more proactive than most children were. At a young age, I was very goal oriented, ready to face any challenge presented to me. I wanted to be a policewoman on horseback, for God’s sake- there was no reason to start bowing to a threat now, only to have to unlearn the nasty habit in order to rule the streets of Jackson with an iron fist from atop my trusty steed, Marble.
This situation was no different. Despite my parents’ assurance that I would adjust and we’d be happier than ever (good one guys- Brecken snored like a wildebeest for the first five years of her life), I wasn’t taking anyone else’s word on something so important.
Instead, I would take action.
Of course, I do not remember this incident exactly. I’ve been told the story enough times to have the facts down correctly, and I’m going to assume that my thought process would have been approximately the same at age three that it is at age twenty-one. I’ll make the necessary allowance for the cynicism and pessimism that creep into one’s consciousness with age, but know that I was a relatively disillusioned three year old.
Fortunately for me, my father’s parents (this post) had recently returned from an Alaskan cruise. Being thoughtful grandparents, they brought me a gift. They brought me Alaskan rocks.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but what were they thinking? Nothing good could come out of a gift of rocks. I was certainly too young to appreciate that they were from Alaska (did I even know about Alaska? probably not. and I have to say, I was probably better off. my brain is too full today of useless information like the existence of Alaska and Kansas). They were of the same value to me as rocks from my next door neighbor’s back yard, which was just about nothing. As I could not appreciate their origin, the only other possible outcome of a child having rocks is some sort of damage to body or property.
I kept this in mind.
A few days after her overly dramatic arrival (she threatened to arrive a bit early, which was cool because I got to have my first sleepover at Lauren Whitton’s house in our matching Little Mermaid sleeping bags, and get this...she didn’t even come that night. I would learn later that this was extremely typical behavior of my sister. for more on that, see this post), Brecken was brought home.
I questioned the sanity of my parents and every adult that came to our house. Honestly, with all the cooing I don’t know how they could’ve expected me to take them seriously. She’d been at our house for less than two hours and already my parents had lost their minds.
This did not bode well.
My grandparents came to visit, and everyone predictably crowded around my father as he held Brecken in a recliner.
“Ashton,” he beckoned, “come say hello to your little sister.”
I was put out. I would not stoop to coo over her and count her little fingers, especially not for the benefit of lookers-on.
I picked up my rocks and walked over. While every eye in the room focused on my three day old sister, I raised one fist two feet over her and opened it.
The rock fell.
This is not actually a big deal - I have horrible aim. I can rarely successfully manage the timeless crumpled sheet of paper and trash can obstacle.
My parents disagreed. Apparently attempted murder (if you are taking me seriously** now is a good time to note that I was not actually trying to kill her. I may be crazy but not that particular brand of crazy). I was quickly given a three day pass to my grandparents’ house.
The next episode would take place a few years (maybe- I am not extremely clear on the developmental timeline with regard to children. this story took place after the amount of time that it takes a child to learn how to walk) later, shortly after Brecken had learned to walk. I had finally given up my dream of getting rid of her, and ironically almost achieved it.
In an ill conceived attempt at bonding (these attempts would grind to a screeching halt shortly thereafter), I suggested that we play “dog”. Brecken agreed enthusiastically (she never has had any sense of self preservation) and held relatively still while I tied a jumprope around her neck.
Stop looking at me like that. There was some slack. More importantly (very, very importantly. really- pay attention to this part), I didn’t know any better.
We played dog for a while, meaning that she crawled around on all fours, barking, while I walked around behind her holding the other end of a leash.
This game is only for fun for so long; after a while I decided to park my dog and head into a coffee shop or something. Well, everyone knows that you can’t just leave your dog running around free- they’ll run into the street, for heaven’s sake.
So I tied her leash to the baby bed.
The problem that my parents (and anyone who’s not a fan of baby-killing) had with this little maneuver was that I did so while she was standing up, and that if she had fallen (a very real risk at this developmental stage), she might have hung herself on the jumprope a little bit.
Again, I did not have this in mind. I just wanted to play dog.
The third and last attempt probably had the greatest chance of actually resulting in death, or at least serious damage. I was seven years old and decided that I would give Brecken a rest and try to kill Lacey for a change.
Lacey was an infant that I personally considered to be ill-timed. We were in the beginning stages of building a new house when she arrived. In this particular instance, we were visiting the site of our new house, which then was nothing more than a concrete slab.
I was seven years old, and this baby did not daunt me so much. Brecken, however, was suffering psychological damage that I admit I do not think she has recovered from yet. (she couldn’t speak correctly and insisted on running around the house, hands over her ears, yelling “Make huwww stoooowwp” whenever Lacey would cry). I, o the other hand, was older and more responsible. I could actually help my parents out this time.
I took to the new responsibilities with the enthusiasm of a power hungry military dictator to-be.
On this particular occasion, I decided to push the stroller around the lot while my parents talked shop with whomever they were talking shop. At some point, I pushed her stroller onto the concrete slab that would soon rest under our house.
To make a long story short, I went too close to the edge, which resulted in a wheel catching the side of the slab and the whole stroller flying off of the slab, landing three feet down on the ground.
I was later told that had I listened to my parents’ jabbering about buckling the baby into the car seat, she would not have rolled so far after it fell.
Newborns.
I saw this all happening in slow motion, realized that I had probably caused irreversible damage to my youngest sister, and high-tailed it.
Seriously, I just took off running. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I was breathless and my legs ached and threatened to give out. I sank to the ground by the foot of a huge oak tree.
At this point I was about three hundred yards from the point at which I had dropped Lacey. It would be eleven more years before I could run with any sort of skill.
I was devastated. I had probably killed Lacey. I could never go back home. I would be alone, a wandering vagabond for the rest of my days. This was extremely upsetting, as I had planned to be at least thirteen before I left home.
I cried.
Ten minutes later my father came and retrieved me. Lacey was only a little scuffed and I was forgiven.
Fourteen years have passed since I last chanced killing one of my sisters. I maintain that the earlier incidents were all accidents, and that I had no intention of hurting them.
Plus, I’m glad that things have turned out the way they did. At any given time, I like at least one of my sisters. It’s nice to have a spare to be mad at.
And it’s nice to have something to threaten them with.
“Remember that time...”
-
**Do not ever take me seriously.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Horror Stories of my Extended Family (alternate title: The Most Awkward Day of My Life)
Everyone has that side of the family.
I don’t even have to explain what I mean with my ambiguous that. You know.
Mine is worse than yours, as long as yours doesn’t include people (?) named Sister, Peanut, Monday, and Luvie Mae.
Disclaimer: these are distant, distant relatives. On my dad’s side.
But they’re there.
The only one I’ve met more than once is Sister, whose real name is Kathleen. I will not pause to ponder why in God’s name you would choose to go by “Sister” when you have Kathleen as a perfectly viable, and arguably more obvious, alternative.
That ship has sailed. She is called Sister.
Of course, that’s “Aunt Sis” to myself and my sisters. That’s right, “Aunt Sis” is short for “Aunt Sister”. You can imagine my shock at age sixteen when I finally put that together.
In all reality I know very little about Aunt Sis’s family, save for the fact that they have enough issues to fuel three seasons of Maury. Aunt Sis is often at my family’s holiday gatherings alone due to exclusion from her own family’s events for one reason or another. This is actually very sad and for the most part can be blamed on her other family members rather than herself. She’s can be a really sweet 84-ish year old woman with good intentions (sometimes).
Aunt Sis had a husband named Hubert (if you were more familiar with the area of Mississippi that these people live in, these names would seem less odd). Hubert died at a slightly early age of seventy-five, which I then thought was tragic but now, knowing Aunt Sis better, kind of understand.
Fortunately, Aunt Sis was able to procure for herself another husband by the time she was 80 years old. Russell’s addition to the family has, as far as I can see, made little to no difference. He has been attending family functions for the past five years and I have probably heard him speak a total of fifty words.
There was, of course, some drama surrounding Aunt Sis’s marriage to Russell. There were some strong objections on the part of Russell’s daughter. This is much more amusing if you keep in mind that Russell’s daughter is probably sixty years old.
Of course, when we later found out that Aunt Sis more or less forced poor, old, almost-mute Russell into marriage, we understood the problems that his daughter had with the marriage.
But still.
Also, it is rumored that she occasionally hits him.
Actually, that rumor has been substantiated.
But I digress.
Another interesting bit of information with regard to Aunt Sis is her relationship to my grandmother. For clarity’s sake, I will remind you that my grandmother is Aunt Sis’s brother’s wife.
Fortunately I am saved the trouble of describing the relationship between these two women, because popular culture has already done it for me. My grandmother (whom I love very much) and Aunt Sis have the exact same relationship as Rachel McAdams and Lindsay Lohan’s characters (Regina and Kady) in Mean Girls had.
Does this seem sad? It’s not. These are women in their mid eighties having petty teenage catfights.
It’s absolutely hilarious.
I’ll paint a picture for you.
One Christmas when my grandfather was still alive, he and my grandmother bought my sister a hot pink chair for her room. It ended up in the middle of the room after all the presents had been opened. Aunt Sis elected to sit in it.
My grandmother walked by and put her hand on the chair for support. My grandfather, in a tactless move that is rather characteristic of that side of the family, commented.
“Betty, don’t lean too hard on that chair, you’ll knock it down,” he suggested.
“Well,” she snapped, “It’s probably already broken from your sister sitting in it.”
For the record, the awkward silences that follow these situations does not become less awkward with repetition.
These are not isolated incidents. Last Christmas, my father had the gall the rearrange my mother’s seating arrangements, which are actually plotted out with his family’s dysfunctions in mind. The result of this thoughtless move was that my grandmother and Aunt Sis ended up sitting beside each other.
This is almost as good and idea as inviting the Montagues and the Capulets to a dinner party. The fact that we have as of yet escaped the amount of bloodshed involved in a Montague and Capulet function is due to nothing but luck, and possibly divine intervention.
There came a time in the meal when everyone had gone into the kitchen to get dessert, leaving only myself, my grandmother, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Ronnie, my grandmother’s eldest son who occasionally joins in these catfights, always siding with my grandmother.
The pettiness sounds even more ridiculous coming from him, as he weighs in somewhere upwards of three hundred (and fifty?) pounds.
Aunt Sis, apparently choosing (maybe) to forget the earlier argument about who had brought the most dishes (like it matters- everything either of them brings is always disgusting. sorry, but asparagus casserole is not a thing), starting telling my grandmother about the goings on of her church’s senior citizen group. My grandmother, like a petulant child, turns her head to the side and puts her nose to the air and proceeds to pretend that she can’t hear.
I do not exaggerate. It is entirely juvenile.
Again, this is awkward every single time. Uncle Ronnie always takes my grandmother’s side, which is extremely unusual in my eyes as her side has no rational argument whatsoever. Regardless, Uncle Ronnie pretends not to hear as well. Russell may have been there, but I wasn’t kidding before: the man doesn’t talk. Even in these sorts of situations.
Presuming myself the only adult at the table, I attempt to rectify the situation, or at least to make it a little less awkward. I start nodding and inserting “hm!”s and “ohh”s and “yes that sounds very nice!”s. Aunt Sis fortunately takes my lead and finishes the story, pretending that I was her intended listener all along. Then she picked up her plate and went into the kitchen for dessert, exercising what for my family should be considered staggering amounts of grace.
My mother later told me that Aunt Sis went into the kitchen to tell my mother that she had a brain tumor, a story which was quickly fact checked with her daughter and proved to be entirely false.
This seems somehow extraneous, but notable. Moving on.
This seemingly excessive amount of backstory sets the stage for what turned out to be the most awkward afternoon of my life. I say “seemingly excessive” because I want you to fully understand my relationship, or lack thereof, to this woman.
So here’s the story:
I was eighteen years old and Monica was dead.
If this sounds tragic to you, reconsider. I did not know Monica. My only information about her was that she was Aunt Sis’s daughter and that her dead body was encased in what had to be the hugest casket I’d ever seen.
Seriously, this thing was the polished mahogany triple XL of caskets.
My dad’s side of the family are not finnicky eaters. (Read: Luvie Mae, who died in the 1970s, once had a doctor actually request that she venture over to the farmer’s market to be weighed, as the doctor did not actually have a scale that would do the job. I wish that was a joke.)
If you still think there could be one single bit of sadness in my heart over Monica’s death (excluding the sadness that I was being forced to travel to Magee, Misssissippi, for the occasion), you should know this little tidbit of information:
Monica’s name was pronounced “Mah-knee-cah”. My mother and I only found out that her name was spelled “Monica” on the way to the funeral. We were flabbergasted at ourselves only for being so flabbergasted by this information, as this type of behavior is nothing but typical for my father’s family.
We arrived at the funeral home for the visitation with leaving as quickly as possible on our minds. I took one look at the casket, decided that I didn’t want to see the body inside, and headed towards the back of the room to see if I could find a potted plant to hide behind in order to avoid talking to anyone for the next two hours.
Unfortunately, I bumped right into Aunt Sis. Being Monica’s mother and therefore the chief mourner, it was, of course, her job to sit in a chair (she is eighty something, after all) and have people come give her their condolences.
For reference, the chair was a padded affair with immovable wooden arms curving around on either side: a pretty standard funeral home chair.
Before you ask, let me just say that I wish the description of the chair was irrelevant. I really do.
I patted Aunt Sis on the shoulder and gave my own condolences. In a move that I did not forsee, she wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around me and pulled me onto her lap.
In a funeral home. I was mortified and began planning how to console her as quickly as possible and then free myself.
We talked for a minute and then sat in silence for a few more before I offered to get up in order to avoid crushing her eighty five year old femurs.
She ignored me and clutched tighter.
Fifteen minutes later (I don’t think Monica was that popular), a man wandered over to give his own condolences. As I felt decorum dictated (if there is even applicable decorum for those situations where your stranger of a great aunt is forcing you to sit on her lap at her daughter’s visitation), I offered to get up so that they could converse.
Aunt Sis declined (read: refused vehemently) again. For that and every conversation that followed, I sat on Aunt Sis’s lap and was spoken around. This was not exactly easy. Aunt Sis is not a huge woman and I was covering up most of her. A lot of peering around my body in order to speak directly to Aunt Sis was done.
This lasted for two and a half hours.
You might ask: where was my family during this point? Well, I was asking that exact same thing for the entire visitation.
I disowned them all for abandoning me immediately after I found them and related my tale of the visitation and then reversed my decision after my mother’s reminding my that a disowned family was not exactly good for a ride back to Jackson.
I don’t even have to explain what I mean with my ambiguous that. You know.
Mine is worse than yours, as long as yours doesn’t include people (?) named Sister, Peanut, Monday, and Luvie Mae.
Disclaimer: these are distant, distant relatives. On my dad’s side.
But they’re there.
The only one I’ve met more than once is Sister, whose real name is Kathleen. I will not pause to ponder why in God’s name you would choose to go by “Sister” when you have Kathleen as a perfectly viable, and arguably more obvious, alternative.
That ship has sailed. She is called Sister.
Of course, that’s “Aunt Sis” to myself and my sisters. That’s right, “Aunt Sis” is short for “Aunt Sister”. You can imagine my shock at age sixteen when I finally put that together.
In all reality I know very little about Aunt Sis’s family, save for the fact that they have enough issues to fuel three seasons of Maury. Aunt Sis is often at my family’s holiday gatherings alone due to exclusion from her own family’s events for one reason or another. This is actually very sad and for the most part can be blamed on her other family members rather than herself. She’s can be a really sweet 84-ish year old woman with good intentions (sometimes).
Aunt Sis had a husband named Hubert (if you were more familiar with the area of Mississippi that these people live in, these names would seem less odd). Hubert died at a slightly early age of seventy-five, which I then thought was tragic but now, knowing Aunt Sis better, kind of understand.
Fortunately, Aunt Sis was able to procure for herself another husband by the time she was 80 years old. Russell’s addition to the family has, as far as I can see, made little to no difference. He has been attending family functions for the past five years and I have probably heard him speak a total of fifty words.
There was, of course, some drama surrounding Aunt Sis’s marriage to Russell. There were some strong objections on the part of Russell’s daughter. This is much more amusing if you keep in mind that Russell’s daughter is probably sixty years old.
Of course, when we later found out that Aunt Sis more or less forced poor, old, almost-mute Russell into marriage, we understood the problems that his daughter had with the marriage.
But still.
Also, it is rumored that she occasionally hits him.
Actually, that rumor has been substantiated.
But I digress.
Another interesting bit of information with regard to Aunt Sis is her relationship to my grandmother. For clarity’s sake, I will remind you that my grandmother is Aunt Sis’s brother’s wife.
Fortunately I am saved the trouble of describing the relationship between these two women, because popular culture has already done it for me. My grandmother (whom I love very much) and Aunt Sis have the exact same relationship as Rachel McAdams and Lindsay Lohan’s characters (Regina and Kady) in Mean Girls had.
Does this seem sad? It’s not. These are women in their mid eighties having petty teenage catfights.
It’s absolutely hilarious.
I’ll paint a picture for you.
One Christmas when my grandfather was still alive, he and my grandmother bought my sister a hot pink chair for her room. It ended up in the middle of the room after all the presents had been opened. Aunt Sis elected to sit in it.
My grandmother walked by and put her hand on the chair for support. My grandfather, in a tactless move that is rather characteristic of that side of the family, commented.
“Betty, don’t lean too hard on that chair, you’ll knock it down,” he suggested.
“Well,” she snapped, “It’s probably already broken from your sister sitting in it.”
For the record, the awkward silences that follow these situations does not become less awkward with repetition.
These are not isolated incidents. Last Christmas, my father had the gall the rearrange my mother’s seating arrangements, which are actually plotted out with his family’s dysfunctions in mind. The result of this thoughtless move was that my grandmother and Aunt Sis ended up sitting beside each other.
This is almost as good and idea as inviting the Montagues and the Capulets to a dinner party. The fact that we have as of yet escaped the amount of bloodshed involved in a Montague and Capulet function is due to nothing but luck, and possibly divine intervention.
There came a time in the meal when everyone had gone into the kitchen to get dessert, leaving only myself, my grandmother, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Ronnie, my grandmother’s eldest son who occasionally joins in these catfights, always siding with my grandmother.
The pettiness sounds even more ridiculous coming from him, as he weighs in somewhere upwards of three hundred (and fifty?) pounds.
Aunt Sis, apparently choosing (maybe) to forget the earlier argument about who had brought the most dishes (like it matters- everything either of them brings is always disgusting. sorry, but asparagus casserole is not a thing), starting telling my grandmother about the goings on of her church’s senior citizen group. My grandmother, like a petulant child, turns her head to the side and puts her nose to the air and proceeds to pretend that she can’t hear.
I do not exaggerate. It is entirely juvenile.
Again, this is awkward every single time. Uncle Ronnie always takes my grandmother’s side, which is extremely unusual in my eyes as her side has no rational argument whatsoever. Regardless, Uncle Ronnie pretends not to hear as well. Russell may have been there, but I wasn’t kidding before: the man doesn’t talk. Even in these sorts of situations.
Presuming myself the only adult at the table, I attempt to rectify the situation, or at least to make it a little less awkward. I start nodding and inserting “hm!”s and “ohh”s and “yes that sounds very nice!”s. Aunt Sis fortunately takes my lead and finishes the story, pretending that I was her intended listener all along. Then she picked up her plate and went into the kitchen for dessert, exercising what for my family should be considered staggering amounts of grace.
My mother later told me that Aunt Sis went into the kitchen to tell my mother that she had a brain tumor, a story which was quickly fact checked with her daughter and proved to be entirely false.
This seems somehow extraneous, but notable. Moving on.
This seemingly excessive amount of backstory sets the stage for what turned out to be the most awkward afternoon of my life. I say “seemingly excessive” because I want you to fully understand my relationship, or lack thereof, to this woman.
So here’s the story:
I was eighteen years old and Monica was dead.
If this sounds tragic to you, reconsider. I did not know Monica. My only information about her was that she was Aunt Sis’s daughter and that her dead body was encased in what had to be the hugest casket I’d ever seen.
Seriously, this thing was the polished mahogany triple XL of caskets.
My dad’s side of the family are not finnicky eaters. (Read: Luvie Mae, who died in the 1970s, once had a doctor actually request that she venture over to the farmer’s market to be weighed, as the doctor did not actually have a scale that would do the job. I wish that was a joke.)
If you still think there could be one single bit of sadness in my heart over Monica’s death (excluding the sadness that I was being forced to travel to Magee, Misssissippi, for the occasion), you should know this little tidbit of information:
Monica’s name was pronounced “Mah-knee-cah”. My mother and I only found out that her name was spelled “Monica” on the way to the funeral. We were flabbergasted at ourselves only for being so flabbergasted by this information, as this type of behavior is nothing but typical for my father’s family.
We arrived at the funeral home for the visitation with leaving as quickly as possible on our minds. I took one look at the casket, decided that I didn’t want to see the body inside, and headed towards the back of the room to see if I could find a potted plant to hide behind in order to avoid talking to anyone for the next two hours.
Unfortunately, I bumped right into Aunt Sis. Being Monica’s mother and therefore the chief mourner, it was, of course, her job to sit in a chair (she is eighty something, after all) and have people come give her their condolences.
For reference, the chair was a padded affair with immovable wooden arms curving around on either side: a pretty standard funeral home chair.
Before you ask, let me just say that I wish the description of the chair was irrelevant. I really do.
I patted Aunt Sis on the shoulder and gave my own condolences. In a move that I did not forsee, she wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around me and pulled me onto her lap.
In a funeral home. I was mortified and began planning how to console her as quickly as possible and then free myself.
We talked for a minute and then sat in silence for a few more before I offered to get up in order to avoid crushing her eighty five year old femurs.
She ignored me and clutched tighter.
Fifteen minutes later (I don’t think Monica was that popular), a man wandered over to give his own condolences. As I felt decorum dictated (if there is even applicable decorum for those situations where your stranger of a great aunt is forcing you to sit on her lap at her daughter’s visitation), I offered to get up so that they could converse.
Aunt Sis declined (read: refused vehemently) again. For that and every conversation that followed, I sat on Aunt Sis’s lap and was spoken around. This was not exactly easy. Aunt Sis is not a huge woman and I was covering up most of her. A lot of peering around my body in order to speak directly to Aunt Sis was done.
This lasted for two and a half hours.
You might ask: where was my family during this point? Well, I was asking that exact same thing for the entire visitation.
I disowned them all for abandoning me immediately after I found them and related my tale of the visitation and then reversed my decision after my mother’s reminding my that a disowned family was not exactly good for a ride back to Jackson.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
I'm Not Saying That Gingers Eat People
Imaginary readers, it is time to bring you up to speed on my latest project/life’s work.
I’ve realized recently that my calling is, without a doubt, to write a book that looks at today’s Ginger population from a sociological perspective.
To all the Gingers out there reading this: I make no apologies. I do not discourage you from reading this, but I will take no interests in your complaints and/or any parallels drawn between myself and any of the various dictators of the last few millennia.
Those parallels have already been drawn, Gingers. You’re too late.
That and I’m a girl whose own mother has accused her of having “too much self esteem.” I don’t really know what that means, but it’s probably because I don’t listen when other people talk.
Just a guess.
Back to the subject at hand. The book will be a study of today’s Ginger population and will be divided into four sections, each of which will both ask and attempt to answer the dozens, nay, hundreds, of questions that today’s society has about Gingers.
I’ll give you a preview of each section.
#1 - Introduction: This section will serve to outline my purpose for writing, for those of you who don’t know what an introduction does. For example, I’ll explain my title, I’m Not Saying that Gingers Eat People. I decided to let the title come to me after I started writing the book, and the other night at dinner, it did just that. My roommate and number #3 fan (no, Mom and Dad are #17 and #38, respectively), suggested that I explain to our tablemates, some of whom were little better than strangers, the project I’d been working on. I acquiesced and was soon met with opposition when I began to describe the chapter “The Flamingo Theory: Gingers’ Evolution from Vampires.”
“You think Gingers are cannibals!?”
“No, stranger, I’m not saying that Gingers eat people. I’m just taking an objective look at the mysteries that surround the Ginger.”
And there it was. I’m not saying that Gingers Eat People.
Because I’m not attacking Gingers. I am finding out if they need to be attacked.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
#2 - Theories about Gingers: This section will explore the Ginger lore that has accumulated over the course of their existence. One chapter in this section is entitled “Life After Gingers: The Looming Ginger Extinction.” This chapter will look into the validity of the rumor that Gingers could be extinct within the next fifty years. It will draw comparisons to dinosaurs, determine whether the rumor is true or false, and explore the very real possibility that this rumor is being spread by Gingers themselves in order to distract us from the fact that their numbers are increasing and that a hostile takeover is in the works. This chapter will answer the question that we’ve all been asking:
Should we be afraid?
#3 - Ginger Studies: This section will serve both as a history of Gingers and as an all encompassing view of Gingers today. Chapters will include “Faux Gingers: Why would you do that to yourself?”, “Gingers in the Bedroom: Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?”, “Seeing Red: Imagery Inspired by Gingers,” and “Great Gingers in History.”
#4 - Ginger Culture: This section will explore life from the Ginger perspective. What is it like to be a Ginger? I plan to track down and extensively interview several Gingers as well as people who consider themselves lovers and friends of Gingers. I want to answer the important questions.
for example:
What is a Ginger’s preferred habitat? preferences? food? temperature? likes? dislikes?
What is life like for a “half-ginger” or “trans-ginger”?
How does it feel to be the non Ginger child of a Ginger parent?
How do Gingers feel about the spice?
#5 - Gingers in the Future: This section is going to take what has been discovered about Gingers in the previous sections and use it to advise action. People will be solidified in their options after reading this chapter.
Do we want to support some sort of Ginger pride parade?
Should we breed Gingers to avoid their extinction?
If underground Ginger breeding societies already exist, should we encourage them? Get rid of them? Ignore their existence?
Should Gingers be treated differently in a social sense? Medically? Do they respond the same to normal medication?
The book will additionally contain several appendices, lexicons, etc.
-
So there you have it. This is just a small preview of the sections, each of which has several chapter and addresses the important issues that it encompasses.
Just wanted to let you guys know what I was up to.
I’ve realized recently that my calling is, without a doubt, to write a book that looks at today’s Ginger population from a sociological perspective.
To all the Gingers out there reading this: I make no apologies. I do not discourage you from reading this, but I will take no interests in your complaints and/or any parallels drawn between myself and any of the various dictators of the last few millennia.
Those parallels have already been drawn, Gingers. You’re too late.
That and I’m a girl whose own mother has accused her of having “too much self esteem.” I don’t really know what that means, but it’s probably because I don’t listen when other people talk.
Just a guess.
Back to the subject at hand. The book will be a study of today’s Ginger population and will be divided into four sections, each of which will both ask and attempt to answer the dozens, nay, hundreds, of questions that today’s society has about Gingers.
I’ll give you a preview of each section.
#1 - Introduction: This section will serve to outline my purpose for writing, for those of you who don’t know what an introduction does. For example, I’ll explain my title, I’m Not Saying that Gingers Eat People. I decided to let the title come to me after I started writing the book, and the other night at dinner, it did just that. My roommate and number #3 fan (no, Mom and Dad are #17 and #38, respectively), suggested that I explain to our tablemates, some of whom were little better than strangers, the project I’d been working on. I acquiesced and was soon met with opposition when I began to describe the chapter “The Flamingo Theory: Gingers’ Evolution from Vampires.”
“You think Gingers are cannibals!?”
“No, stranger, I’m not saying that Gingers eat people. I’m just taking an objective look at the mysteries that surround the Ginger.”
And there it was. I’m not saying that Gingers Eat People.
Because I’m not attacking Gingers. I am finding out if they need to be attacked.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
#2 - Theories about Gingers: This section will explore the Ginger lore that has accumulated over the course of their existence. One chapter in this section is entitled “Life After Gingers: The Looming Ginger Extinction.” This chapter will look into the validity of the rumor that Gingers could be extinct within the next fifty years. It will draw comparisons to dinosaurs, determine whether the rumor is true or false, and explore the very real possibility that this rumor is being spread by Gingers themselves in order to distract us from the fact that their numbers are increasing and that a hostile takeover is in the works. This chapter will answer the question that we’ve all been asking:
Should we be afraid?
#3 - Ginger Studies: This section will serve both as a history of Gingers and as an all encompassing view of Gingers today. Chapters will include “Faux Gingers: Why would you do that to yourself?”, “Gingers in the Bedroom: Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?”, “Seeing Red: Imagery Inspired by Gingers,” and “Great Gingers in History.”
#4 - Ginger Culture: This section will explore life from the Ginger perspective. What is it like to be a Ginger? I plan to track down and extensively interview several Gingers as well as people who consider themselves lovers and friends of Gingers. I want to answer the important questions.
for example:
What is a Ginger’s preferred habitat? preferences? food? temperature? likes? dislikes?
What is life like for a “half-ginger” or “trans-ginger”?
How does it feel to be the non Ginger child of a Ginger parent?
How do Gingers feel about the spice?
#5 - Gingers in the Future: This section is going to take what has been discovered about Gingers in the previous sections and use it to advise action. People will be solidified in their options after reading this chapter.
Do we want to support some sort of Ginger pride parade?
Should we breed Gingers to avoid their extinction?
If underground Ginger breeding societies already exist, should we encourage them? Get rid of them? Ignore their existence?
Should Gingers be treated differently in a social sense? Medically? Do they respond the same to normal medication?
The book will additionally contain several appendices, lexicons, etc.
-
So there you have it. This is just a small preview of the sections, each of which has several chapter and addresses the important issues that it encompasses.
Just wanted to let you guys know what I was up to.
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