The day is lovely. Sometimes the outer and inner atmospheres are not as one. Today is such a day. I am in a funk. My brain wants to wallow in miserable, defeatist thoughts. My heart is sore. Thank goodness for the sun and the yellow leaves. I am reminded that these thoughts are not the only reality and that these feelings are minute in scale and temporary in nature.
"The Teenager" is having a rather severe bought of "independentcitis". If we are lucky it will not prove to be terminal, it seldom does. I know this.
Attila will get a day off next weekend. In fact, he might even get to spend the whole weekend at home. However, this is unlikely. A few weeks from now he will be well rested and a participating member of the family once more. His company will be most welcome, to say the least.
The second picture I seek is that of a dear friend, Pat, who died several years ago at the age of thirty-nine. He was a wonderful musician and was much loved by many people. My friend Rob played and composed with Pat and is compiling his music and a story about his life. I will contribute some pictures, copies of my tapes, and design a web page for the project. This work heals the soul.
I had a fortunate find in the library last week. My GGG Grandmother was alive and well in 1891. At that time and at the age of ninety-five years, she is easily the oldest member of her community by a few decades. I found her living on a farm with her twenty-two year old Grandson Samuel and his Aunt and Uncle. An odd household they must have been, a single man running a farm with the assistance of two blind people and a 95 year old woman. He must have been a very decent sort of young man, this Samuel. His Grandmother lived for another four years after the Census. Samuel would live to the ripe old age of 92 years, working the same farm until his death. He died when I was a young girl; I may even have met him.
The idea of having interacted with a living relative who had a meaningful relationship with someone born in 1796 holds a certain fascination. The past is tangible; history is meaningful. My ghosts have names.
|RECIPES :: Cast
The View From Here
By the Easy Chair
Census of Canada
On My Desk
Bills, bills, bills!
Page by Page: A Woman's Journal