Old and New

(Click on pic for larger view in separate window)

I should probably save this for the Fourth of July, but it's occurring to me now, so here goes it.

This week, I'm thinking about Father's Day. I'm not just thinking about my own father, but about all those fathers (and mothers) who came before him and, against all odds, somehow resulted in my life--the life of an only child and the life borne of parents who were also only children. Given history, it all seems so unlikely that I'm here, and that I could even know what I know.

Preface: I'm a fourth-generation Californian. My DH is a third-generation New-York-stater.

Since our whirlwind wedding, we've lived all over the country and even out of it. Shortly after we moved to CT, DH and I uncovered some family history we'd long wondered about. Both of us have roots in what is now called the US or America all the way back to about 1636. We have 14 and now 15 generations of documented family trees. In my case, no one but Americans intermarried; what I mean to say is that we don't have any immigrants coming into the family later than 1636. On DH's side, there's only one German forebear who arrived in the 19th c and not through Ellis Island. We've just been Americans marrying and procreating Americans. And for many generations before that, my ancestors on this side of the pond were Cherokee--real natives of this land.

When we lived in England, people assumed that because we were "American" it automatically meant that we were offspring of recent immigrants, as in Ellis Island. We got into many heated discussions. Other people got really mad at us because we wouldn't disclose what "nationality" we really were. They suspected we were trying to hide something. They had no concept of mixes, which I thought was completely odd, since they are in a tiny island country that is all about historic invasions and is also, unlike the US, just a stone's throw to any part of Europe. Many of them said we couldn't possibly know who our ancestors were, because they didn't know who theirs were. Preposterous.

It was all very provincial and close-minded, except for the handful of folks who were in awe about how far back we could go and wished they knew that much about their own families. The highlights of our living in England were our visits to ancestral places where as many as four generations back to the early 1400s were buried together in crypts with their names carved into huge stones in the floor aisles of Norman churches. We met the record-keepers of those churches, took pictures (froze our butts off since the churches were stone), and got a town tour showing us the home of one of my ancestors--a medieval manor that's still there, dovecote and all.

Anyway, a long time ago we were talking about our genealogies and stumbled upon the fact that both of our families had settled in the same area, this area, in the 17th and 18th centuries. We used to joke that maybe we got married but were already relatives (not just a lame joke, but also a creepy one!). When we got here, we researched and found a bunch of our ancestors buried here. We freaked out when we found some of them of the same generation from both families in the same cemetery. That's just weird.

The photo above is one of my favorite pictures (click on it for big), which I took when three generations of us visited an 18th c church in Hartford in order to scrutinize the cemetery and find our folks. A wedding was about to take place in the church, but the minister graciously brought us through the wrought iron gates and escorted us out to the back where we could be with our people.

Awesome.

We couldn't stay long, but we did find our relevant stones. Then we had to leave since the wedding party were arriving, and on the way out I snapped the photo. This beautiful church is nextdoor to what is known here as The Gold Building (because it's a skyscraper of gold reflective windows). Note: This is not the building of the same name that's in Albuquerque, NM. I've also lived there, but that's not the building I'm talking about.

I loved the juxtaposition of the history next to the modern commerce, and the distortion of history as captured in the modern lens and windows.

And I love the fact that we--completely accidentally--have come home to our ancestral roots.

Police Relativity

Elder son (G) and I were surfing the web to find out what the prices might be for tickets to the upcoming Police concert here. (It's not until way late in the summer, but we have friends who are going and, until just now, we ignorantly toyed with the idea ourselves.)

While I was waiting for the site to load, we were thinking, "We're considering paying the Police to give us a ticket? What's that about? Wouldn't we rather pay them not to give us a ticket? Don't Police usually just give you a ticket and it's only when you don't want one?"

The site came up and we started scanning the prices. Gads. [Many worse expletives follow from both kid and mom.]

The cheapest was $90, way up in the corner aerie which might as well be in the next town over ( a town where you don't want to visit, if you get my drift).

Having decided to remain suckers for punishment, we scrolled all the way to the bottom of the long, long page to see the highest price. We fanned ourselves and then fainted dead over. KINGS OF PAIN! $1090! I hate to use more than one exclamation point when one generally does just as well, but #$%^@%^&*@!!!

And G said, "So, say I were to want to sit in section 3. Hmm. Basically they're saying I could make the choice of buying three tickets to section 3, or having my tuition paid for the Arts Academy next year. Is that about it? [Blank stare/grave look on face]

"How could any concert possibly be worth that much? Gees! Wait . . . it's only the people who are the Police who can afford to go see the Police! There's your irony again . . . I think I'll take $90. No. What am I saying? I think I'll just wait and have James tell me how it was."

Leaner Drivers

A couple of days ago I made a nonsensical list of things that irk me. #11 was a particular kind of driver who leans across the front seat 'til his gimme-capped head is under the rearview mirror.

Admittedly, I stopped short of the full story that day. I didn't quite do the subject complete justice. It might have behooved me to have named this type of driver instead of just describing him. So I suppose I could call him a Bubba Leaner. And I forgot to mention that usually he is a smoker.

Well no sooner had I posted that story than I had to go out on the road. A certain street here that leads from my little town to the [cough] big capital city [cough] is a perfect place to observe Bubba Leaners and Ghetto Leaners (they have a slightly different profile; Ghetto Leaners usually have a car full of people and they do tote kids with them; also, the passengers or the Leaner himself will hang or wave limbs or appendages out the windows). There's a stretch of road that seems exclusively populated by half broken-down cars, cars with no hubcaps, dented cars, cars with red tape over the taillights, cars with cracked windshields and broken windows, and cars that otherwise cannot possibly have passed inspection. Yes, Dear Reader, I had occasion to drive down that street to get to the allergist in the big city.

And let's be honest--while my car does still have hubcaps, it is only a year or 10,000 miles away from somewhat resembling a Ghetto Leaner car, and every time I go to the allergist I fully expect the hubcaps to get gone and perfect the picture. Were it not for the way I sit in my seat, and for the make of my car(it's a compact that in no way qualifies as a Leaner model), and the fact that I do not smoke, am not male, and don't wear gimme caps, I could be profiled as a Leaner.

But I digress. Tristram Shandy has nothing on me. Anyway while I was driving down this street, with its charming detours and perpetual construction, I was going faster than the car in front of me, which was going somewhat slowly as is usual for drivers on this street. I was in prime territory for a sighting, and gaining on what I realized was a vintage Oldsmobile. Soon as I identified the make, I knew I'd pegged one. But well before I overtook it I realized it was a HYBRID: A GEEZER Bubba Leaner!

How had I overlooked this possibility? It was a goldmine! Classic car, driver too short to see over steering wheel, gimme cap showing clearly, heavy cigar smoke nearly obscuring interior of car, steering with forearm (only I think it was the left one rather than the right), head under the rearview mirror, plodding along at 20 mph. Eventually, he did what I expected: made a big, slow, WIDE right turn.

I apologize for leaving out the subcategories, and for having no photo to illustrate all of these phenomena.