When a young woman dies in Kentucky

So often when you lose someone to an untimely death you ask why? Right now I'm screaming it from the mountain top.

Tom and I lost one of our grandchildren this week to a car accident. Melanie was one of Tom's grandchildren; however, I claimed her and her two siblings as my mine, too. We both loved her with all of our hearts. We only knew her and her amazing family since 2017, when Tom found his oldest daughter, her mother Robin, through DNA testing.

I first met her at a restaurant at City Walk, Universal in Orlando in July 2017. It was the only time our whole family was together. It was when my husband met his daughter R, and our daughter, M, met her sister. We were all so happy.

Her mother told me (in front of Melanie) that Melanie had helped organize a women's march at her college, and that she refused to wear make-up or shave her legs. I looked Melanie in the eye and said, "You're for me!" She smiled in that Melanie way, that smile that lit up the world.

She was only 25. She was brilliant, a Fulbright Scholar, a feminist, both logical and fierce in her quiet ways. I thought we had so much more time.

Hair

I just read a post by 37th Dream/Rumors of Peace about friends of hers in 1967. She posted their senior pictures. I am in love with the hairstyles from the 1960s. They were so sleek and straight and gorgeous. Think Marianne Faithful or Patty Boyd. I also liked earlier teased (and sprayed) hairstyles with the perfect flip. And bangs. Geez-o-freakin' Pete! What I had to do to make my bangs stay straight for at least half the day, especially during humid summer months.

Naturally curly hair was a cross to bear throughout the swinging 60's. Growing it long and not having bangs helped weigh it down, but it was still too wavy to be cool. I tried ironing it. I used big oversized curlers.  Then Janis Joplin came along. I never struggled with my hair again, and the humid summer months were the absolute best for crazy hair.  

Me in 1969, feeling pretty darn good about my hair:

Falling victim to the plague

Well, I got COVID. First our daughter got it, then I did. Then both our husbands fell victim to this plague. My daughter's children didn't get it for some reason. We also passed it on to Tom's daughter R's husband Ch. They were visiting us at the time. But R didn't get it.What a strange virus, picking and choosing victims seemingly at random.  

All of us are vaccinated and boostered and none of us were deathly ill.  For me it seemed like a bad chest cold, although I also experienced chills. I'm not complaining, having chills meant I could snuggle up in bed with both a top sheet and a blanket covering me. I miss being cold on occasion, especially when I'm in bed trying to sleep. There are only a couple weeks each year that this Floridian needs more than just a sheet.  

We were advised to use Mucinex and DayQuil, both of which really helped during the worst of it. All we wanted to do was sleep. Time stood still.  

I lost my sense of smell, which has yet to return. Not surprising since once COVID petered out and I tested negative, the monster left me with a sinus infection.  

Chewing on a memory

My husband bought a loaf of sourdough bread at the farmer's market. This morning I was lazy, and I didn't want to make breakfast. I wanted to grab something. I grabbed a piece of now almost stale sourdough. So good! As often happens, I chewed on more than just the bread.  

This "madeleine moment" reminded of the book Heidi, which made a strong impression on me as a child.  In this case, I remembered Heidi and her grandfather ate bread and cheese for breakfast. I may have cheese later. For now I'm just eating the plain bread, allowing my mind to wander.  

I may read that book again. There was a strong class consciousness throughout, and it may have been my introduction to class and inequality.  At least to an inequality that was clearly defined. Feelings, fears, and suspicions were justified. I have never been the same.   

heidi_book.webp

A pregnant thought

 

Please don't tell me that it's a woman's fault if she gets pregnant and she should pay the price. Believe what you want, but I think that particular belief is short-sighted, mean-spirited, and lacking complexity.  I don't want to hear it because it doesn't ring true.  

Don't tell me that a pregnant woman can always give her baby up for adoption. Have you ever put your young life on hold, carried an unwanted fetus for 9 months, went through labor and delivery and then gave it up to strangers at birth?  I know some of you have. If so, I will listen to your story with compassion and empathy. I will listen to your story over and over again, because I know you need to tell it. There are situations where a woman chooses to do this, and it is the best thing for her and the child. Her choice, because there are as many "best situations" as there are pregnant woman.  

Don't tell me that a fetus is a human being from the moment of conception. I accept that you believe this, but I don't. Beliefs are not facts. Up until the mid-19th century even the Catholic Church allowed abortions until the baby quickened because that is when they determined the fetus was ensouled. Then the Fathers of the Church changed their mind, because they can do that. Dogma is an enforced belief system. 

I'm not saying you shouldn't believe your religious or political dogma.  It is your choice, and I trust you to make the best choice for yourself. You have that right. We all should.

Taking time

I haven't been checking my blog, or reading the blogs I follow for a couple weeks. Sorry! I'll catch up with you all soon. Instead I've been obsessed over genealogy. I've been working on families for a niece-in-law, and for a nephew-in-law. 

I finished my niece-in-law's tree. Both her parents didn't know their fathers' genealogies, so that was fun to help them understand where they came from. I'm still obsessed with my nephew-in-law's family tree, and I will be until I've found every bit of documentation I can find going back as far as I possibly can. It's a game. I am so happy when I have a juicy family tree to explore.  

His last name is Newton. Of course, Sir Isaac Newton is a many times removed great uncle. He's likely the great uncle of almost all the Newton's in America. Sir Isaac actually helped me with this tree, pointing out to me which uncle of his (Sir Isaac's) my nephew-in-law descends from. Big help.  

Apparently when Sir Isaac was being knighted, he provided Queen Anne with a handwritten short tree that proved his connection to some Newton who was his relative. Stunning find.  

So, how do I fit in?

My husband became a great-grandpa again. His granddaughter S had a baby boy. He's a beauty, just like his 2 year old sister, CH. I claim these children as my great-grandchildren, too. After all, his daughter R is the half-sister of our daughter, M. Is that presumptuous of me? 

We've had this beautiful family in our lives since 2017, when Tom took a DNA test and he and R found each other. It was epic, wonderful, full of grace.  

I struggle, though. Not the wicked stepmother struggle of "what does this take from my family with him," because it takes nothing away. Love isn't a pie to be divided. Love expands. If you open your heart to it, love will fill you up like a balloon.

My struggle is trying to figure out my place. R was adopted at birth and she had a good parents. Her children had grandparents they loved. I can't be what I never was. However, if you can't be one thing, then you can be another. Even if you have to make it up as you go along. It's all good. 

Recently I found an old picture of her biological mother. I was surprised when the picture made me sad. Why did it make me sad? Because it looks like R has her birth mother's mouth. I want her to look like me! Ha! I'm a silly old woman.  

I made a quilt for H. It's not a treasured crib quilt. It's a lay-it-down-on-the-floor and get it dirty kind of quilt. I hope the first time he rolls over he does so on this quilt. 

If Robbie had moved to South Bend in the mid-1960s

Blogger friend Roderick "Robbie" Robinson left a provocative comment on my last post. It inspired me to imagine what might have happened if he moved to South Bend, Indiana in the mid-1960's.  Instead, he spent a few of those years in Pittsburgh trying to figure out what this America thing was all about.  

South Bend was smaller, but still akin to Pittsburg then; industrial and gloriously ethnic. Had you moved to SB in the mid-1960s, Robbie, you might have hung out at bars my Dad frequented. He could be charming or he could be loutish. Totally up to you. But he would have initially tried to befriend you. And if some lunkhead made fun of you for being a "foreigner" he would have had your back. Seriously, he would have thrown the first punch.  

Dad often brought home people from other countries who had interesting accents. Sometimes he brought them home in the middle of the night. There might be singing. My personal favorite was the Irishman who told us about leprechauns. Dad would have put on music that he thought you MUST hear, like "Cleanhead's Back in Town" by Eddie Vinson. Perhaps you and he would have sang together? Unlikely, but this IS my fantasy. And if you had told him how you liked classical music, he would have listened with an ear to hear.  

He might have had you eat kielbasa with his Polish friends, or goulash with the Hungarians at the South Side Democratic Club. Certainly you and your wife would have joined my parents at a local joint for a Friday night fish fry.  

My Kentucky-born grandfather would have distrusted you, of course, but he might have taken you pistol shooting at the gravel pit. Or shown you his mermaid tattoo, or the American Eagle imprinted across his chest. He would have certainly taken you in his basement to show you how he made his own bullets, really an interesting process. Grandma would have made you Southern fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and fried corn as the side. 

Well, that was fun. If only you hadn't moved to Pittsburgh instead.

Intersection of South Bend's Michigan and Jefferson Streets, 1968. Photo credit to Lou Szabo.

A formative trip, 1961

My parents took the following pictures in 1961. The family was on the road, moving from South Bend, Indiana to Seattle, Washington where my father had taken a job as a tool and die maker at Boeing. The trip was 2,225 miles by station wagon. What an adventure it was for my parents and the five children jammed into that car! We stopped along the way at Yellowstone National Park, a memorable event.

I'm not sure where this was taken, but it might have been Wyoming.  

When we stayed at Yellowstone, the bears were pretty bold about eating from the cabin garbage cans.

On the road, we often stopped to take pictures of wildlife, like these Elk Moose calves drinking from a creek.  

And this one below showing a road that had been tunneled through a mountain.  

I was 10 years old when this trip was taken, but it remains vivid in my mind. In some ways that trip formed me. Coming from the corn belt, the flatlands, this was my introduction to the magnificence and natural beauty of the United States.  

This was the first time I saw my parents take pictures of landscapes and animals, and they were so excited about everything we saw. That made a strong impression on me. My childhood was transformed by this trip and this move. Although we ended up moving back to Northern Indiana only 3 years later, some changes were permanent.