I've followed the lines

The ancestry research that began much more in earnest when my father died has led me to a march of fathers and mothers on both sides. It's confirmed now. I am mostly Irish. There's Finney (one side), Phinney (other side), Alley, McGee, McCann, McKenna, McKinna, Lancey, (Clancey) Morey, Mawle, Hugh, Brown, Daley, Coleman and a couple of others, and there's more farther back. It's amazing that people can not know where they come from, or just weren't interested. Yes, there's English, and a bit of Scots, and Native American.
It makes me wonder, though, how an entire rich heritage can just be dropped. I know the answer. It's the story of the immigrant, trying to survive. Hunger is deadly. Hunger in your children's faces is devastating. You change the spelling of your name, drop the accent, blend in. You get work, feed your family, become an American. Maybe you like it, bearing a new pride to replace the old.
But blood is powerful. Blood sings. It calls you, shapes you, molds your attitudes, your likes, dislikes, even your humor. It whispers in your ear, pulls you in a direction, and then shouts "See this!"
I've learned about them. They were factory works, shop-keepers, travelers, cabinet makers, fishermen, housewives, nurses, coopers, farmers (many) with big families. There were a few writers, actors, horsemen, and one historically famous admiral. The voices of the past. They are in me, all of them blended together.
I have, all my life been answering a call from them.
Their voices echo through time, leading me on a long trail to people who held fragments of the puzzle. It's still not a complete picture. The other bits are 3,000 miles away. It seems like an obsession sometimes, and at other times it's a hobby. It's hard to talk about. Most people wouldn't be interested, except the family on both sides who have done the research. But I'm not alone in this. Looking at the popularity genealogy websites it seems many Americans seem to be asking "Where did I come from?" and "Where is home?"

The foilables of ancestry research

When I first started looking at ancestry.com, I was initially on fire about finding all my parentage. I knew a few things from my parents, but even those were suspect. They weren't really interested, or they didn't know, or they focused on part of their heritage. We were English, we were German, we were Scottish, Irish, Welsh, French, and Native American. Maybe some other stuff, they weren't sure. In short, they weren't any help.
My cousin runs the Laughton family website, and he just said our people were all mostly English. Laughton is a well-known old English name, and there's a town somewhere in the middle of Britain named Laughton en Morthren. Okay. Fine. But if you look at the names many are Anglicized Irish names. Huh.Well that just had to be too simple, and then there's my mother's side of the family.
Eric, my English boyfriend, said maybe they were all English, with Irish surnames. Sure. But think about it in an historical perspective. The British Isles were invaded numerous times, people moved from place to place because of war, famine, the need for work, and whatever. Think some more, and realize that people are people and they don't always have clear motives.
Tracing a name can bring you to a dead end where no records exist, or bring you to the point where finding those records presents a snarl not unlike the Gordian knot. For example, a peek at an Irish famine ship registry reveals the name of one of your ancestors. And you notice there are eleven other women with the same name. My, that's a common name.
But wait, what if ... Hey! Do people always travel under their own name? You have to have a clean record to travel to another country, don't you? So, what if your auntie has that name and you were pinched by the law for stealing a loaf of bread?  You could use her name, couldn't you? Then you could get a job in America. But when you get to America you find the slums of New York, New Orleans, and other places, and a whole lot of people who hate you. You could anglicize your name try to drop the accent and get a job in service. You might not have your pride, but you'd have a full belly.
What if your parent mistakes relations by marriage for those of blood?
And then, what if you were raised by other people, and they gave you their surname? What if everyone knew your mother, and not for her cooking? What if your sister was really your mother? None of these  scenarios is unrealistic. Records can only help you so far.
So, along comes y-DNA and mitochondrial DNA tests that trace your DNA to the source, giving you a percentage of your bloodline by geographic region. It's not cheap, but it can be done. How far do you want to go? At this point, I think I'll quote Irish comedienne Geraldine Doyle, "In the end, you'll just find out you come from a long line of dead people."

The Garden Center

It's been a long day, and my feet are tired. I'm enjoying my new job at the Garden Center. It's hard work, and I'm pushing myself to be useful. As a temp, I might be hired at the end of my four-month term or I might not. But, while I am working I'm doing my best to enjoy the days. I do love being in the center of such utter chaos, with people milling around, asking questions, and me, being able to provide answers. The social structure of the place is interesting. There are two Irish-born natives there, one from Donegal in the north and the other from Dublin in the east. I've had good experiences with the other Irish and Irish-Americans I've encountered in my life and it adds a flavor to the place. I'm sorting out the crabs from the friendlies, and learning which to drift toward and which to handle with kid gloves. I'm thinking of my childhood and the other Irish people who opened my eyes to a wider world. One was Patrick Cleary from Tipperary. Patrick was the milker at the local dairy barn, who patiently relieved 80 Holstein cows of their milk three times a day at the Crocker Farm in Ashby. My  friend Barbara McKenney and I would ride our horses to Crockers on summer days, and hang out in the milking parlor, watching the orderly progression of cows move through the herringbone stalls. Patrick talked about Tipperary and Ireland, suggested books if we wanted to know more, and kept us out of trouble for four summers. Through Patrick Cleary we met Jim, who came from Belfast and was an all Ireland champion boxer. Unfortunately, I didn't pay close enough attention the time he told us his last name, and I regret that now. The only thing on my mind at that age was: "He's kind of cute for an old man" and "I wonder if Barbie wants to race through the cornfield." He was of a more political bent, being from Belfast, and we learned a little about the Orange and the Green. We were kids, so a deep discussion of old anger and wrongs would not have been appropriate. Jim would take over Patrick's milking duties for a month, leaving our friend clear to go home to Ireland. It was probably a break for the both of them. Other people from the Emerald Isle came along later, each contributing a little bit of themselves to my life. As for those of Irish descent, Dan Holohan I acquired a taste for the music to which I still listen, and am considering learning to play. I met others in college, including a couple of nuns, who gave me a taste of the culture. From Catholic college I entered an industry that is heavily weighted with people of Irish descent, the owners and publishers all seeming to come from old newspaper families. I wonder what part these two will play in my life? Or maybe it will be just business?

What's the Next Step?

So here we are living in an old White Elephant, and we're both unemployed now. Eric is desperately seeking to stay in publishing, a profession I have abandoned in order to eat. I have the ability to write coherently, but am finding that the newsroom politics is a major stumbling block. Where our lives will go from here isn't clear, but I'm out there again looking for work. Once more, right before the holidays, I'm low on funds and unable to give my family the things I'd like to give them. I should be in tears, desperate, and wringing my hands, according to Eric. But I see no good in that. It's a waste of energy when energy is a valuable commodity. Instead I'm looking forward and seeking something to fill the gap. I think at these moments that it is important to form images in your mind that bring you to the next page. What do I mean by that? I don't mean fantasizing about fantastical worlds but finding mental pathways to take oneself to a better situation. Unless those fantastical worlds could be written down in story form for all to enjoy. Book writing is something I've always wanted to do, but it always has to be second to earning  a living. We've all got that manuscript tucked away in the closet. I've got one. But I know the electric company won't wait. So, I'm spending my time perusing job posting online. Newspapers don't have it anymore. It's sad, but I have to face it: They are going away in favor of new media. So, the magic of thought in setting patterns for one's life begins again. I await the open door and the welcome.

Lets start hating Boehner now

The new house majority leader John Boehner turns my stomach. The man is going to waste precious time needed to fix the Disunited States economy by trying to undo all the work the current administration has done. The presidents plans are working, but it is just going to take time to undo all the havoc wrought by the Bush Administration on the country and the world.
The Republican's first act was to hold unemployment extensions hostage in favor of extending the Bush tax cuts including for the richest one percent of Americans. This is a typical Republican strategy geared toward creating an entire underclass of impoverished people. These are not the welfare queens held up to engender national disgust, and who actually comprise a miniscule portion of social services. The new untouchables are working families and head of households who who are earning less and less as business continues to send lobbyists to Washington to hold down wages. The Republican are fine with holding down wages. That's good for business.

January freeze

It's January and the nights are long. We awoke this morning to seven inches of snow in the driveway. Today I filled the bird feeders and fed the rest of the uneaten Christmas mincemeat pies to the birds. Although I never seen them before, I have pigeons at my larder. I suspect they are the poor cousins to my mourning doves, just visiting for the holidays. I set out a crumb feeder, because my seed is expensive and they'll be just as happy with old banana bread. As for the gray squirrels, I'll pick up some corn-cobs next week. They spend a lot of time digging for the kernels and that gives the songbirds a chance at the sunflower seeds. I see deer tracks under the apple trees I use as a feeding station. They are after the fallen apples. They come right into the backyard and dig up each one from under the snow. We never see them, just their tracks. If I knew what time of night they come, I'd get up and look for them out the window. For now, they elude me, like wood sprites you only catch out of the corner of your eye. It's a delight, in a way to know the deer are coming to the yard. We are sitting on the north border of a small common, a triangle of a park with corners marked by the Depot General Store, the Police and Fire Station and our 1876 house. It's next to a deep forested area where they can run raids for apples and then retreat back into the wood. It's a very sleepy bedroom community. The biggest excitement is the horn that sounds when the firetrucks leave the station. I can't see that they have much interest in the birdseed, although it would likely give them some nutrition, if they ate it. The weather has been frigid, the result of an unusual arctic air mass that has stretched its icy veil down to Florida, no doubt sending the orange growers into a panic as they burn fires to keep the trees alive. The winter started early this year, has hit hard and been mighty cold. I'm setting out a little extra for those birds.

Remembering Karen

It was hard not to notice Karen. She was over six feet tall, probably weighed nearly 200 pounds, which for her height didn't look like all that much. She had long, grey hair that fell past her shoulders and which she didn't comb after the first time in the morning.
It was who she was that you really noticed. She worked in inventory control in the back room of a Walmart. She could be seen walking up and down the aisles of the store looking for this or that item of merchandise which would show up on the records as an electronic what-the-heck-is-that, and which the ICS associates would have to go investigate. It was her job.
She came into my department frequently and handed me her Telzon, the device we use to control our inventory, so that I could go search, identify and count the item. Our interactions were friendly, with an occasional joke about the name of a shoe, usually a person's name, and then she would go on her way.
I am short of stature, so when such a large woman comes walking up to you, it's a small event. I'd see her in the back room scanning merchandise into bins or preparing carts to be stocked for the salesfloor. We'd trade jibes and I'd pretend to be someone to fear if she got in my way, which was, on the face of it, ridiculous.
In the break room at lunchtime, she would have people laughing with her direct, no nonsense opinions. She called things as they were. We all liked her.
I would occasionally see her coughing, though. Sometimes her face would turn red. She had asthma and would use an inhaler. During the recent remodel of our store she was troubled by the dust and chemicals and about a month ago she quit her job to go home and take care herself. Yesterday, one of my coworkers met me upon my arrival at work. She told me Karen died. "Her son found her," she said.
There were few details throughout the day, while awaiting my ride home I learned that Karen had multiple health problems and was on medications for different conditions. Her last moments were came from a phone call to a manager. Karen apparently told her son she was tired and was going to bed, and when he went to check on her later in the night, she had passed away.
I cannot imagine what it's like for a son to find his mother dead. I can only guess it must have been excruciating and my compassion is with him.
We have all suffered a loss. The management of my store awaits information on the funeral, and there is talk they'll allow us to go if we wish. Out of respect, I plan to be there.
It's not that I need closure. I'll still see her, walking up and down the aisles or looking over the shoulder of one of her co-workers making sure they do it right. She would still come in to the store even though she wasn't working anymore. So I guess she'll visit us. And she'll be welcome.