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Vol. IX, No. 27 July 5, 2003 IN THIS ISSUE:
 Margaret Manning shares SOME FACTS OF LIFE One weird fact of life is that when researching ancestors, the further you go back, the more ancestors there are. A set of two parents quickly becomes eight great grandparents in four generations. As most couples had large families, surely it's reasonable to think that family names would rarely die out. But they do. The effects of devastating illnesses such as Black Death wiped out large numbers of people and possibly whole families. A study of a village in England following the Black Death outbreak in 1546/47 revealed that nearly half the deaths from the illness came from only eight percent of the families. Add to this males who never married, families with girls and no boys, early deaths of children, and the occasional childless couple and you have the perfect recipe for names disappearing altogether. On that basis, how few descendants will people have? Using my own situation as an example, it is likely that my family name - Barrell - will die out in my direct line. On Eric's side, his branch of Manning will definitely cease, as already there are no males to carry on that name. Although Eric's father was one of seven children, five were girls. They all married but only one had a child, a male who died young. Eric's uncle on his dad's side died aged about 21, soon after he reached Canada. He was single at the time. Eric's dad fathered five children. The three girls all married and had children. Of the boys, brother Ken and wife Joan produced a daughter, who married and produced a daughter. Eric married me and we are childless. End of that Manning line. On my side, my father was an only child. He and Mum had two children. My brother (also an Eric) married my husband's twin sister. This is where it gets interesting. My brother Eric and his wife (who is my sister-in-law twice) had two sons. The eldest son is nearly 41 and has no children. As he is single I feel it is unlikely he will become a father now. Our other nephew, now nearly 40, has a son aged 14. But the problem here is that the boy's mother, having divorced our nephew, changed the boy's name to her own birth surname. So if and when that lad fathers a son, that child will probably also carry his great grandfather's surname. And that's how names can die out.
Terry Miller Shannon finds new joy in a HAMMOCK If we buy this, are we actually going to use it? Of course, Craig said. Of course we will. And so the hammock depicted in the catalog full of lounging tanned young people sipping big frosty glasses of lemonade came to stay at our house (without the people and their drinks). The half-wistful thought crossed my mind that we might be purchasing with our Visa card the dream of becoming tan, young, and particularly - lounging. When the hammock arrived, we hung it immediately, to stretch out and gawk upward at cedar branches, point out birds, and sigh, This is so relaxing. The next day, as we reclined, Craig even went so far as to declare, Every Sunday at three o'clock, we're going to quit what we're doing and hang out in the hammock. Every Sunday? Are you sure? This is a guy who kept lists plotting every second of his upcoming weekends - lists that sometimes cross-referenced other lists: #8. See list A. He encouraged me to jot down honey do tasks. The lists allowed him to accomplish more in two days than most teams of workers finished in a week. And let me add, I was proud of what Mr. Workaholic could do on his time off, but I yearned to occasionally spend a relaxing, meandering, dreaming weekend with him without hearing something on the order of, It's ten oclock! Time for me to rip the roof off the house! So I was a wee bit skeptical. But he yawned and stared up at the sky. Positive. And that was the last time we used the hammock for at least five years. However, I can't lay all the blame at Craig's work boots. Every once in a while, one of us would mention the hammock, only to be quelled by the other. Part of the problem was that we became ardent gardeners. Gardeners do not sit in their gardens, ignoring blueberries that must be caged, salvia that need deadheading, or a phlox that should be transplanted immediately. So we shared in keeping our hammock folded and empty while we remained untanned, unyoung and definitely unlounging. In due course, we hung a toddler's swing in the old cedar. Every time Liam came to visit, he beelined for the swing. We'd push him for hours. But inevitably our grandson grew too large for the little swing, and for the branch supporting it. One day, Craig had a brilliant idea: We'll swing Liam in the hammock! Since the young swingee didn't take immediately to the hammock, Craig and I climbed in with him. Because it was chilly, we wrapped up in a blanket, like an enormous fleece burrito. The hammock, rocked by an occasional tug on a rope tied to a nearby branch, swayed us gently. We sang The Grandfather Clock, I've Been Working on the Railroad, and Liam's in the Kitchen with Gran Shan (to the tune of Someone's in the Kitchen with Dinah.) I told the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears a time or twenty. We pointed out woodpeckers and blue jays, and identified a frog chorus. And sometimes we were silent, thinking our own thoughts. We lingered for an hour, or maybe three - time stretching like sweet bubble gum. Each day of Liam's visit, the three of us put in some major hammock time. When he left, we folded the hammock and put it back in the garage. At least we got some use out of it, we told each other. And then we headed out to cage, deadhead, and transplant. The day before Liam was due for another visit, I said to Craig, I couldn't find your weekend list. Where is it? I dont have one. Huh? Are you a clone? Have the aliens snatched Craig? Give me back my husband! Okay. Craig grinned. I do have a list for this weekend. Let me read it to you: Hammock, hammock, hammock. So a tradition was born. Liam arrives and we become the incredible swinging fleece burrito. And sometimes, cuddled between the warm weight of Liam and Craig, and singing or talking or thinking, I remember those young, tanned hammock-loungers from the catalog. And I smile. Because I know that fantasy is nowhere near as good as my reality. *** Terry's rhyming picture book, TUB TOYS (Tricycle Press, 2002), was written with her son. CHILDREN'S LITERATURE calls it "a must-have book for families." Check it out at: http://tinyurl.com/9wxz
CORRESPONDENCE Dixie Augusteijn brings us up to date on her life: I am beginning to feel like someone who came to the party and didn't bring a present. I have been reading your letters, but not contributing, but I have not felt that well all winter. I picked up a virus early on - not SARS - and could not shake it. Now that summer is definitely here - or is it? - I hope I shall feel better. I have given up the apartment [in Toronto] and that was the big job of this past week, although I did little except supervise. But now there is the problem of what to do with all the extra bedding, furniture, etc. Two car loads have already gone to Goodwill, and you cannot see the difference. I have also - almost - decided to move into a retirement home before winter. I find the responsibility of having a house is more than I want. There is always something needing fixing or renewing. Right now I am waiting for someone to fix a humidifier installed a couple of weeks ago and already leaking. And the dryer is sending out too much lint and needs investigating! And so it goes. But I shall hate leaving the area as they are such friendly people. I have investigated a home not too far from here, which has everything I would need, and think seriously of going there, and then perhaps I will also have more time to write more to the Spinner. The retirement home I am thinking of is a very cheerful place, lots of activity, interesting people, and when I went there for lunch several people came up, introduced themselves, and said how much they liked it there. I have been in retirement homes where you get the feeling they are just sitting there, waiting to die, no interest in anything. This place is different, good location, well supervised, and lots going on. I must make up my mind before vacancies vanish, but oh! all the work involved! My daughter has her mother-in-law coming from England for the summer, so I hate to depend on her for too much help, but we shall see. I have fallen down on all my writing this past while, but look forward each week to your letter, and seeing how Margaret Manning is coming along with her project in New Zealand. What a great crowd we do have! And now this is just to let you know I am still on the planet and all the best.
Gerrit de Leeuw (gerrit.deleeuw@3web.net) forwarded these quotes from WILL ROGERS Will Rogers, who died in a plane crash with Wylie Post in 1935, was probably the greatest political sage the US has ever known. 1. Never slap a man who's chewing tobacco. 2. Never kick a cow chip on a hot day. 3. There are two theories to arguing with a woman...neither works. 4. Never miss a good chance to shut up. 5. Always drink upstream from the herd. 6. If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging. 7. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it and put it back in your pocket. 8. There are three kinds of men - The ones who learn by reading; the few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence. 9. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment. 10. If you're riding ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there. 11. Letting the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier'n putting it back. 12. AND FINALLY: After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring. He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him... The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.
TRUE STORY WITH A MORAL Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it.
The question: Just two+ generations ago, in 1923, who was: These men were considered some of the world's most successful of their day. Now, 80 years later, the history book asks us if we know what ultimately became of them. The answer:
1. The president of the largest steel company, Charles Schwab, died a pauper. However, in that same year, 1923, the PGA Champion and the winner of the most important golf tournament, the US Open, was Gene Sarazen. What became of him? He played golf until he was 92, died in 1999 at the age of 95. He was financially secure at the time of his death. The moral: Screw work. Play golf. You'll live longer and be better off in the end.
A SISTER NEWSLETTER Ericka Hardy continually updates her website newsletter, Canadian Senior Years. She has many interesting columnists, including Margaret Manning and Terry Shannon, and when he gets around to it, Dick Monaghan. For a look at the website, go to http://www.senioryears.com. To subscribe to her e-mail letter, write to her. Lively and interesting, well worth reading.
Taken from a post by Stan French, here is advice on HOW TO ACHIEVE INNER PEACE I am passing this on to you because it has definitely worked for me. By following the simple advice I read in an article, I have finally found inner peace.... It read: "The way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you've started." So I looked around to see all the things I started and hadn't finished. Today I have finished off a batch of Margaritas, a bottle of white wine, the last of the brandy, my Prozac, a box of chocolates, and licked the Cool Whip container clean. You have no idea how good I feel....
Burke Dykes tells about MY PILLS
A row of bottles on my shelf
A little white one that I take,
The purple goes to my brain,
The red ones, smallest of them all,
Such an array of brilliant pills,
MUSIC LOVERS A married couple trying to live up to a snobbish life-style went to a party. The conversation turned to Mozart. "Absolutely brilliant, magnificent, a genius!" The woman, wanting to join in the conversation, remarked casually, "Ah, Mozart. You're so right. I love him. Only this morning I saw him getting on the No. 5 bus going to Coney Island." There was a sudden hush, and everyone looked at her. Her husband was mortified. He pulled her away and whispered, "We're leaving right now. Get your coat and let's get out of here." As they drove home, he kept muttering to himself. Finally his wife turned to him. "You're angry about something." "Oh really? You noticed?" he sneered. "I've never been so embarrassed in my life! You saw Mozart take the No. 5 bus to Coney Island? Don't you know the No. 5 bus doesn't go to Coney Island?"
No one is fool enough to choose war instead of peace. For in peace sons bury fathers, but war violates the order of nature, and fathers bury sons. - Herodotus (485-425 B.C.) |