BBM: The Christmas Edition or How I'll Miss My Aunt Philis

Well, the most notable thing to happen this holiday season is I had to disown my aunt. I feel really sad about it since she's the last of my grandmother's children, the last solid connection to my Mom, but it had to be done. I'm going to miss her. She's a great aunt - one of those who is very sweet and funny - a joy to be around type - the rock of the family; you'd like her.

Of course, I fully appreciate that this act is going to leave me in a bit of an aunt bind, so I'm going to be auditioning for a new aunt.

What I'm looking for is someone in their mid-60's, about 5'2" with a big smile who can put on puppet shows or maybe one act plays for birthdays - none of this singing. Who wouldn't agree that a birthday party wouldn't be 100 times more entertaining if the guests spontaneously burst out into a puppet show? (One of those well-rehearsed, everyone-knows-their-lines performances where the guests are holding professionally made/visually engaging puppets that require at least three handlers to manipulate - think the Lion King stage production of birthdays. Picture it, your guests dressed in black, as to not be distracting, and suddenly they spring up in unison and they're manipulating large puppets telling a birthday story. How is this not the greatest birthday idea ever?) I'm sorry, but if you're one of those singing aunts, you'll have to shop for another family. If you're the type that suddenly feels the urge to stand up in a crowd and lead choral lemmings in a round of "Happy Birthday," then I'm sure you'll find work elsewhere. I hear some restaurants are very big on eager birthday singers and you might even land at one where you get to bang things or whoop. Who doesn't like whooping? You're probably a good little whooper!

If you know of any out-of-work aunts looking for an aunt gig who have any puppeteering talent, please send them my way.

(Note: Inside joke - I'm actually not giving up my aunt for the holidays. Well... not yet. There are still a few more days until Christmas and my actual birthday.)

Family Tree Maker

Many years ago, my good friend Anna got me into Family Tree Maker, a great piece of software for tracking your family tree. With this application, the help of chatty relatives, and the apps' online search capability, I've managed to go from a tree that only extended through my great-grandparents to one that reaches back into the 1600's.

The tree has reinforced some family information - like the stories chronicling our family members' service in the various wars including the Civil War and the Revolution, but it's made me question others - like our relation to Davy Crockett. Our family has always told with great pride the story about how Davy was our cousin. Now to me, you start bandying about "cousin" and I figure the guy is sending Christmas cards with raccoon fur to my great (x5) grandmother, Mary Crockett. Sure, he actually is a cousin, but if you look at how it's explained on a particular family member's hand drawn tree, there's this odd little line that just says "Davy Crockett", and that's what I call cheating. With Mom's help, we found the actual connection. Yes, we are cousins, but you have to work your way back to France when the Crockett's were Crocketagne's and you find yourself sitting square in the middle of the 1600's, around eight or more generations back staring down a very French common ancestor. I'm sure with some work, we could just as easily find a relation to most early American families, too. Then there's the bit about the Mayflower. Almost anyone with my last name will tell you that we descend from a particular miscreant on the Mayflower, the only trouble there is that you can only work his line down to a certain point and it stops or you can work our line back up to a certain point and it stops - there's a missing link (not surprising, we're talking about my family). So, there's this gap that makes me say "I'm not 100% certain this story is true." However, if you look at any family tree books for our family, they'll all say "we're descended from this here guy on the Mayflower... we can't prove it, but trust us, we're your family". Mmm hmm. I don't trust the family I know and you think I'm going to trust you because we share the same last name? (Kidding family! I trust you. I'd now like to send out a *wink**wink* to my friends... no reason.)

There still have been some great finds as I've found more relatives - finds like "John Wilkes Booth Swinson". It's amazing how family, despite 140 years, can still cause you great pain and embarrassment. I always thought this was a special gift only my closest living relatives possessed, but it turns out it's some sort of genetic trait passed down through the many generations that my nearest/dearest have come by honestly. Of course Jay, being highly supportive as I ran around throwing a fit over a group of people I don't know, politely inquired if we had any Lee Harvey Oswald Swinsons. Thankfully, God made Jay cute and fast.

I've enjoyed seeing my name as its been handed down through the generations and in some small way have felt connected to these strangers, these Elizabeth's who lived through the nation's growing pains. I've viewed old census records documenting my family and their occupations (farmer, farmer, farmer, blacksmith, physician, farmer). One that stuck out was the one where my my great grandmother is listed as only being 6 years old at the time. I have to admit, I grow a little whimsical looking at it and wondering what she was doing on that day when some man came to talk to her father to record their family's information - when all the people who are so important to my family now were not a part of her reality in that moment - when someone held a conversation with my great-great grandfather on what maybe was an ordinary day, then recorded the information in their beautiful penmanship and I wish I could hold this piece of paper - that maybe it would allow me to reach back through time and touch these strangers, my relatives, in a moment - much like our old photographs.

If you have the time/inclination I highly recommend this latest version of the software which makes the search for family so easy. The only downside is you'll find hours have slipped by as you chase down your distant relatives or pop open one more census record.

Before I completely wrap this up, I have one more thought...

...it's about cousins, since I'm now an expert. Lots of people get the whole first, second, third cousin thing confused especially when you throw "removed" into the mix, so I wanted to try to help by using my cousin Tony (he won't mind). Tony is my first cousin (son of my mother's sister). Tony's daughter is my first cousin once removed. If she were to have a child, they'd be my first cousin twice removed. Now if I had a child, my child would be Tony's daughter's second cousins. It's all based on how it would look on a family tree. People on the same line as you are 1st, 2nd, 3rd, etc. People who are above or below your line on a family tree are "removed". Hopefully, that makes some sense. If not, I can whip up a clever little diagram and user a laser pointer to help explain.

(Photo above: John Whitman Cearley (great-grandfather) & Peleg Hollingshead (great-great grandfather)

The Top Ten

Dad and I were recently joking about one of those serious family matters - the ones that are easier to take with a smile because otherwise it's too serious and a tad too painful. Dad suggested I turn it into a story for my blah-g, which made us cackle a bit, because again it's one of "those" stories that would make your grandmother gasp if she read that dirty laundry hanging out there for the world. We went back and forth until Dad suggested a "Top Ten Reasons My Family is Crazy" or "...Crazier than Yours" or my favorite "...Should be Characters in a Faulkner Novel".

I ran with the Faulkner idea then spent some time working that up trying to eek some funny out of it. But here's the thing... Faulkner wasn't exactly a humorist (well, maybe in a dark, stomach-churning, awkward way that makes you want to intervene - you know - that kind of funny) and shoving my family into roles that would suit one of his novels was becoming really un-funny. I laid out our Southern creds that would establish our claim, mentioned the family tree that occasionally looked more like a trunk (I think that makes us more rednecks, but that's another top 10) By #7 I had - "Some family members only recently got electricity." I think that makes us... Amish? but not really funny. I moved down to #2 "We buy our children to help-out less fortunate relatives." Ok, a good family story, but maybe not funny. The guy that the relative attempted to buy would agree. Finally, I made it to #1. But here's the hitch or the rub or whatever you want to call it - the #1 reason we'd fit in perfectly with Faulker recently made the local press, it involved a corpse and some jail time. Thankfully CNN wasn't having a slow day, because it read like one of the headlines that might have followed Britney Spear's womb. And I just couldn't make my fingers type that story. Sure, it was funny in that "OH MY GOD, I CAN'T BELIEVE IT" way but didn't have that "universal" appeal.

So, you're going to have to trust me when I say that My Family Is Crazier... Would Make Better Characters in a Faulkner novel, etc and, if pressed, I could give you 10 reasons in a flash. Apologies to Dad that I can't do more with it - we'll have to recite the list to ourselves and snicker quietly. (To the Cearley's, it's not just Dad's side of the family that made that list. ;) You don't get off that lightly.)

Meet Sam!

Last week, you got to meet April so this week meet our new girl Sam!


Sam is a blue beagle we adopted from Hound Rescue. The cats want us to pass along that they're not amused and should she ever get brave enough to sniff one (she's all beagle) they have a surprise for her. They also want me to spread the word not to ruin the surprise as they've gone to a lot of trouble working out the details - Sage from underneath the bed and Hodi from the top of the couch. They're already drawing up their "Catz ONLY!! No Dogz allowed!" clubhouse sign for the bed (the way you know a cat wrote that is the heavy use of the letter "z" - cats are notorious for it - haven't gotten the hang of "s".)

The Affectionate One

This past weekend my aunt and I went through more of Mom’s belongings to get ready for the “estate” sale. At least, I think that’s what you’d call it since will encompass more than the garage. Still, I don’t really consider us “estate” people – more “squatters” or “modest dwelling inhabit-ors” or “one step away from that cozy spot under the bridge”, but I guess “Better Than the Average Under the Bridge Sale” costs too much to print in the classified ads and would scare away potential customers. (To my cousin who is reading this and wondering what I’m talking about, it’s creative license. These people don’t know anything about us. Shhh. We’ll talk later.)

As we sifted through Mom’s remaining possessions we got to talking about the labels that have been assigned to members of our family, particularly to my aunt and her two sisters. See, my Mom was the oldest and immediately gained the titles of “the smart one” and “the athletic one”. Then my aunts came along and the youngest took “the funny one”, so that left the other aunt without a good title. At some point my family bestowed upon her “the affectionate one”; I guess they couldn’t think of anything better. As my aunt talked about it she noted, “who wants to be known as the affectionate one”?

Labels are funny in how they can define you and how they can do so with one single word – one annoying little adjective that works its way under our skins. My aunts and my Mom grew up with these labels and were defined by those labels. My Mom was smart, my aunt Jen was very funny and my aunt Philis is affectionate… and they were and are so much more than one word.

In many ways I feel lucky that I was the only child born to my parents. I got to be all the adjectives – I got to be the smart one, the talented one, the funny one and the nice one. I know there are words that are used to describe me used by the family as a whole – I secretly think I’m probably the “not quite” one – not quite as smart as some, not quite as creative, not quite as thoughtful, but decent enough to have around during the holidays and kinda funny with a decent memory. I’m ok with those labels, because I know when I talk to my Dad I shed any limiting label to become all that is best – an envious position for any child to have with a parent.

There are so many words to describe my aunt that are more than simply “affectionate” such as, beautiful, smart, talented, outgoing, gregarious, funny and longer descriptors like hard working, easy with a laugh, good listener and great tap dancer – and for the past two years she’s been the person we all turn to for strength as my cousins and I cope with the loss of our moms, her sisters. She’s so much more than only “affectionate” and I know the rest of my family would agree.

As I was thinking about our conversation over the weekend, I guess I felt lucky to have the family (both by blood and by choice, as my friend Jonathan might say) I have and hope that everyone realizes they are so much more than just a single word to the people around them. (Except for my ex-husband who really is just that one word I use to describe him. :))

The Will

I’ve carefully avoided going through my Mom’s thing up until now – it’s more from a sense of guilt that “it’s not mine” than any anticipated dread over the memories of my Mom. I even have her purse in my spare room that I haven’t gone through, yet because it’s hers and I was raised not to dig through her stuff. (Well, eventually the lessons kicked in. There might have been a period from say around 5-12 when everything she had was fair game.) Most of the cash she had when she passed away still sits in her wallet and it will likely sit there for awhile longer; it’s not my money.

As I went through her papers last week, I found a copy of my great-grandfather’s will. This will is infamous in our family, because this is the will that ultimately determined the fortunes of my grandmother and her two brothers.

The story goes that on my great-grandfather’s deathbed, the oldest son approached my great-grandfather along with his brother and convinced him to cut my grandmother out of the will. The argument supposedly went that my grandfather would squander all of the money. Now my grandfather’s family was actually of a higher class than my grandmother’s, according to the story, but that fact was carefully brushed aside.

When my great-grandfather passed away, my great-uncles walked away with a considerable amount of cash and other assets while my grandmother got the family house. Now, the oldest son was a shrewd man and eventually convinced his brother, who had joined the Navy to fight in WWII, that it would be better if he gave him all of his inheritance “in case something happened”. This would save the family the trouble of having the money tied up in litigation should anything happen to my uncle. They agreed that the money would be turned back over once my uncle returned safely from WWII. My great uncle returned safely and never saw his share again.

I don’t want to give the impression that the oldest son wasn’t generous a man. During the time that I knew him, he’d swing by in one of his many Cadillacs to take my grandmother out to eat and buy her groceries on occasion. He even offered to help out his brother, who had fallen on hard times, by offering to purchase one of his three sons. (His own son needed a playmate.) You couldn’t find a more giving man.

Looking at the copy of that will caused many of those family stories to bubble to the surface and I couldn’t help but think “this is THE will – I’m actually holding THE will”. I handed it to my aunt. I didn’t want to read it. It may change the truths about our family that I’ve grown up with and those legends have been fun. Maybe fun in a dysfunctional Faulkner family sense, but they are truly the stories that form the foundation of our family’s legends.

As an aside, many terrible things happened in my great-uncle’s family, which are fairly tragic and not bloggable. The lesson I’ve always taken away is that money will never buy you happiness, but it can sure buy you some nice cars, big houses and great vacations… and for some people that’s enough.

An Irish Prayer

An Irish Prayer

May those who love us, love us;
and those who don't love us,
may God turn their hearts;
and if He doesn't turn their hearts,
may he turn their ankles
so we'll know them by their limping.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

For those with a Second Life account (they're free) - the traditional birthday festivities will be virtual this year - from 6-9pm CST (I know I'm not alone when I say I'll miss the good food and drinks). So, have some beer at the ready and send your good wishes to Mod Faulkner.

Funerals

Every college English professor I ever had would tell the class, “If you make a statement, you need to support that statement with the sentences that follow. You cannot expect the reader to just accept what you’ve said.” Well, I frequently did and still do, which explains why my grades were not always what I’d like them to be. Hey, while my minor may have been English, it was because I excelled at reading, not at writing.

With that said, I felt guilty about announcing yesterday that my family drives the drama train without offering up any good stories. Now, I’m sure my mother is reading this and saying “Oh God” so to maintain some family peace, I won’t name names.

I’m going to skip over the holidays even though they’re fertile grounds for drama and include highlights like slurring drunks telling you exactly what they feel about you, your relatives, and your dating chances before stumbling and passing out on the floor or standing around applauding as someone belches out the National Anthem (very patriotic, Jethro – you’re a gift to the family and do us proud) or my all time favorite dialog from one sister to another, “ohhh, the baby is smiling” while the other hissed out a response, “no, that’s gas”. In fact, if someone is happy at one of our gatherings I think to myself, “she’s not happy, that’s just gas.”

Truly, my relatives do holidays well, but it’s the funerals where they really shine. I think I first noticed at my grandfather’s funeral when everyone arrived in flip-flops and shorts while my grandmother and I were the only pair to dress up. Now, I’m being a little unfair. We have a family graveyard and church and ain’t nobody gonna see you if you have a service there. Plus, my parents who had brought nice clothes were notified that it was going to be a bit more casual. We get to the church and find the boom box carrying the tape of funeral hits had been erased. The blame fell on the four year old for some reason. See, in small pockets of my family having the crazy aunt accuse you is as good as an eyewitness account; in fact it’s gospel. Never mind that the crazy aunt hadn’t bathed in days and was in serious need of anti-depressants. As the anger heated up and some relatives were really turning on the little girl, I had a moment. I stormed out of the church stomping all the way out of the door. I’d reached my breaking point for craziness and flip-flops. When I returned everyone was a bit calmer and my Dad and sister sang Ave Maria. The funeral ended with us standing in a circle around the burial site while everyone prayed. At the end, my grandmother picked up a bit of dirt, slammed it into the hole pelting the urn inside and said, “miserable old man, I guess even he deserves a prayer.”

During the lunch that followed, I learned from an uncle that there used to be an advanced race living on Earth before humans occupied this terra firma. I learned that they had things “greater than GameBoys and could fly! And they had communication systems better than cell phones”. Unfortunately, war tore them apart and they destroyed themselves. He also enlightened us about the reason NASA take pictures of astronauts before they go on a mission. Apparently, it’s done so NASA can use the photographs to monitor their health. I quietly choked down my bologna and mayonnaise sandwich while giving Dad the silent, “I need to get the hell out of East Texas – I’m going to start slamming my head on this table” signal.

The next memorable funeral ended with my grandmother started pleading for my aunt to get up out of the casket. That was more tragic and broke my heart than anything, but that quiet reverie of mine was broken when another aunt ran up and down the aisles shouting repeatedly, “Mother needs valium! Mother needs valium!”

When my grandmother passed away, I waited for the storm to strike again. I waited for a particular relative to put on her show and it didn’t happen. I was torn between feeling let down and this notion that we were going to have one of those “normal” funerals. Of course, we don’t do “normal”. My Dad pulled me aside and said, “Kid, you’ve probably noticed so-and-so isn’t here.” YES! “Well, last night she was picked up by the police and has been admitted to a mental hospital after assaulting another relative.” Of course. Why not? Still, God bless the men in the white coats for allowing me to grieve without the usual circus and party balloons.

Thankfully the funerals that have followed have been devoid of the craziness I’m accustomed to. Sure, some of the stories that have been told at the services were inappropriate, but that’s the worst thing I can say. In fact, the only bad thing I can say about the last one was a competition seemed to break out over who was the saddest. If I said, “I had to be sent home and cried for several days straight; it breaks my heart” then I’d get back, “I cried so much, I was hospitalized and had to have an IV thanks to the fluid loss.” For the record, my aunt and cousin won that match. They’re sadder than the lot of us thanks to being the only people who care. I’m sure the trophies will come out soon. I’ve already heard their acceptance speeches, so I may skip out on the actual ceremony. Oh, and you’re going to have to take that statement as fact.