Love hurts

Despite my seeming silence, there have been things going on in my head and heart which have led me to the above conclusion.

The main event was the birth of my second granddaughter early in February. As we stood outside the nursery window and watched that new little soul just a few minutes into her mortal experience, I realized that I was hurting—physically in pain. I wanted them to wrap her up; I wanted them to stop sticking her and putting chemicals in her eyes; I wanted to hold her but realized that that was not yet my place. And all along, something inside me was aching.

I don’t remember feeling that when my own children were born. But, of course, that was back in the days of Lamaze, so perhaps the other pain was so intense that I didn’t have time or opportunity to notice anything else.

Of course, I do remember all the of incidents of our own children suffering. This was brought back in a flood when my oldest granddaughter fell and hit her head while playing at our house. The outcome was OK; the interim, full of anxiety.

Then, as we tried to calm jangled nerves, all the other remembrances stood in line and waited for their proper acknowledgment: the fall this little girl’s mother took off the lawn tractor straight onto a concrete garage floor, the time she spilled very hot soup on her older sister’s leg, her brother’s glance toward us in the stands after he got hit with a particularly hard ball during a game, her second brother’s pain after a surgical procedure which my oldest daughter (who had had a similar procedure) forgot her own discomfort to try to soothe, our youngest daughter’s fall against a table which opened a gash through her eyebrow which required plastic surgery attention while she cried herself voiceless in a restraining cocoon. There they all were—and more—and the pain was only slightly diminished due to the passage of time.

Although I mourned the loss of children who never got born, I have so far been spared the loss of any whom I have birthed. And yet, for earlier generations, the death of a child was almost to be expected. It is still a sadly common occurrence in our modern world. Quite frankly, I don’t know how anyone survives that experience. Of all the pains, I think that one must be the most piercing.

My mother is among that number. I suspect her remembrance doesn’t occur only on my youngest sister’s birthday, as it often does for me.

And a friend once told me about one of her ancestors whose daughter died as the result of being thirsty on a very hot southern day and coming in to find some water in a vase that was holding some flowers...unfortunately, stems of oleander. As this mother lay on her death bed many years later, she was calling the name of that long-lost child.

So, on this Monday after Easter, as the everyday routine takes precedence, may I take just a moment to honor all those who have launched their fragile boats on the seas of parenthood, endured all the agonies of the journey, and reached the safe harbor of death with a positive balance of fortitude. We know the buffeting of the waves must have been daunting at times. Thank you for risking it.

And humble gratitude to One who made it possible to recover all losses through His unimaginable suffering on our behalf. May we never forget that sacrifice in one garden and the ultimate triumph in another. Happy Easter (never really late, I guess!).

Gratitude . . . and it isn't even Thanksgiving!

For the past few days, I’ve been pursuing some family lines, most of which are of dubious connection to my own main focus of research.

But I have become more and more impressed with the tremendous amount of information that has been posted to the Internet in various ways. What a delight to put a name in a search engine and have something relevant pop up in response! It wouldn’t have happened without the efforts of multitudes of very nice, giving people and organizations.

One interesting experience just has to be shared. When I first got online late in the summer of 1997, I thought, “Hey, I’ll just serialize some of my notes collection and post it to the SCOTT List.”

I felt a little embarrassed later when I realized that such a practice was somewhat “out of the ordinary” (to put the best possible light on it). I should have gotten the clue when several people wrote to the List asking just what all of this material was.

Earlier this week, I got to the point where I needed to look for the maiden name of Henry Monroe SCOTT’s wife, Emma J. So I typed the essentials into the Google search field and sent out my request.

Looking through the resulting list, I was very excited to see a direct hit. Then I started laughing when I realized that what I had found almost 13 years after the fact was an entry from that original group of postings. Kind of an “I’m my own grandpa” type of feeling! I’d had Henry Monroe and Emma J. in my old, retired notes all along. Just hadn’t thought to look there.

Perhaps the general message might be that no effort at recording data online is really wasted. Somewhere, somehow it will be of some use to someone!

Many thanks to all the contributors!

Ambivalence illustrated

Shoveling snow off the driveway (which meant that we actually got our car out late yesterday) and piling it right under my clotheslines (which means that I probably won’t be able to hang laundry outside until mid-May).

Sigh!

P.S. More snow due in tomorrow.

Double sigh!!!

Snow days!

The world is white, almost all white. There are enough colored accents to mark where houses and trees and vehicles still exist. However, they are only punctuation to the long snowfall sentences we’ve been hearing the past couple of days.

To update you on my last entry, the baby (a healthy and beautiful little girl) was delivered safely and was enthusiastically welcomed before the roads became impassible.

A revised offer was accepted by the current homeowner of the home which our son is now closer to purchasing.

Two children are still residing comfortably away from home during the storm.

And one is here with us, having survived a harrowing trip down the notorious hill on her way home after visiting her sister, brother-in-law, and newborn niece in the hospital. Her heroic papa came to her rescue (which he gladly attributes to many years of driving experience and a lot of outside assistance).

But here we are, firmly and emphatically enclosed in our home for probably another couple of days. We are still fortunate to have power, a benefit many are currently lacking. And we have hours upon hours of empty time.

The power did go out last night for a while. We scurried around and got the oil lamps lit. And then we sat in the semi-light and wondered what to do. No television. No books. Barely enough visibility to continue my knitting. And scarcely any topics of discussion, especially after we determined all the ways in which we were not prepared for emergencies!

Perhaps we all need this type of downtime periodically. I do remember a similar two-week period while I was in France. A bad case of bronchitis had required that my companion and I remain inside. Winter had taken its toll on me, both physically and emotionally. Those two weeks were a good opportunity to review and regroup. The rest of my time in France was different because of those two weeks.

I keep thinking that a huge block of totally free time when I could work non-stop on my family history would be so-o-o-o desirable. Several years ago, I had about three months of such freedom. And, believe it or not, I didn’t get tired of working consistent eight- to ten-hour days while computerizing my notes.

So what would you do if you were housebound for two or three days? Then what would you do if the power went out? Even more serious, what would we all do if the power outage lasted for weeks...or forever. As dependent as we have become on electronic files, is it possible that we would one day be very grateful for a paper printout of our research?

Something to think about........when you have time.

All the winds that blow

Today the sun is shining. The temperatures are moderate. At least the heat pump isn’t overheating trying to strain a few warm molecules out of the frigid air, as has been the case during the past few weeks. One would think that all was well.

However, the weather forecasters are tentatively telling us that all is not well. We are right in the line of fire of another significant snowstorm. It is due to arrive in the early hours of tomorrow (Friday) morning and continue until late Saturday night. By the time it stops snowing, they are saying that we could have an accumulation of 12 to 18 inches.

Now, for some of you in other areas of the country, this is not an unusual situation. But for those of us in the Central Atlantic region (where we have been known go a whole year without seeing a single snowflake), this is not typical.

And it’s not as if we don’t know what we’re in for. Just a few days before Christmas, we had a knee-deep snowfall. I’m sure the merchants were devastated as everything ground to an absolute halt for several very critical shopping days. There are still mounds of scooped snow from that storm piled up in parking lots all over town.

School and church have been canceled in the interim as subsequent smaller storms have rolled through. There is no doubt that this weekend’s event will repeat that pattern for yet another week.

But today the sun is shining. The air is relatively warm. The already-present snow is conveniently not on the roads throughout town. I’ll be able to get out today to run a couple of errands.

Tomorrow, though, early in the morning, probably about the same time as the snow starts falling, one of our daughters will journey to the hospital to deliver her second child. Their almost 20-month-old daughter will be traveling with her other grandparents to a town about 45 minutes to the north.

Meanwhile, one of our sons will be awaiting word on whether or not his offer on a house was accepted. The answer is due by 5:00 tomorrow night.

Another son will probably wind up being stranded at his security guard job until the effects of the storm are cleared. An older daughter will be trying to cover her sister’s employment duties during her hospitalization. Our youngest daughter will have to see if she can get to the airport whenever it is functioning.

As I contemplate the impact the next 48 hours will have on our family, I take comfort in the fact that generations before have faced other momentous circumstances. Wave after wave of challenge swept over them too. Still, they did whatever was necessary to preserve and protect the critical elements of their lives.

We will survive this storm, despite its predicted severity. We will be eager to welcome a new granddaughter and see what unique character she will contribute to our growing family. We will be concerned about the status of her older sister who is very attached to her mother. We will be anxious about our son’s imminent next step into adulthood. We will be praying for the safety of the others as they strive to meet their responsibilities.

Still, today the sun is still shining. Tomorrow it will go into hiding while Mother Nature tests our mettle. And then it will ultimately return and shed its warming rays on the multi-layered blanket of white. But, just like our predecessors, we will get through this and add several new experiences to our scrapbook of eternal memories.

May we brace ourselves and stand firm, even in the midst of the heaviest adversities that blow. The sun will always shine again.

Who's in charge here?

My dad was a horseman—not professionally, but as a result of being a farm kid who was lucky enough to have a horse. I went through the typical teenage girl stage of being infatuated with horses. As a result, I did a little riding as well.

One of the things Daddy taught me was that the horse has to know you’re the boss. And you let him know that by the way you sit in the saddle and hold the reins.

Well, the past couple of days, I’ve been trying to install a new, complicated, multi-function printer. It occurred to me several times that there’s no way to sit in your chair or hold your hand on the mouse that will let the printer know you’re in charge here.

Obviously, where technology is concerned, I AM NOT IN CONTROL. I am totally at the mercy of the install software and customer support and any friend I can cajole into holding my hand through the process. Heck, I’d even welcome an enemy under these circumstances!

There are some who relish this kind of a challenge. They thrive on learning new procedures. They love new technology. They can’t wait to get their hands on a new piece of equipment so they can see what it will do.

Me? My favorite printer so far is my old faithful HP4! I would give up a lot before I let that one go. It is simple and straightforward. Plug in the cords and let it run. And run it does, with no drama. It doesn’t require constant attention and coddling like all the inkjet printers I’ve owned so far. Now, if you want to talk about prima donnas! YIKES!

And most of the time, I’ll do anything to maintain the equipment status quo. Am I usually happy with the end results of an upgrade? Reluctantly, I must admit that I am. However, it’s the process of arriving at a new equilibrium that gets me every time!

So I would guess we’re 80% there. A few more tweaks and tests that need to be done. But so far, we’re still standing...or sitting, more accurately. At least, I’m not curled up in the middle of the office floor, retreating mentally into a non-electronic paradise (although I confess that doesn’t sound halfway bad right now!).

Blogging about blogging

My friend Susan suggested I write a blog about how to write a blog. Me! The lady “of a certain age” who in the past has either had to ask her children how to get to her own blog or get there through a link on her ancestor’s Web site!!! Therefore, assuming that my friend was more interested in content than technology, let me see what comes to mind.

Actually, isn’t that the answer? A blog is supposed to be a record of our thoughts—written down and published for all the world to see. (Does that make anyone else just a wee bit uncomfortable?)

Maybe it was the process of coming up with a thought to begin with which Susan was requesting. And there I have to stop and ponder.

I am apparently at least the third generation of aspiring writers. One of the earlier memories I can dredge up is having to tone down children noises because Daddy was writing. And indeed, we could hear the old manual typewriter clacking away behind the closed door.

And then my father’s mother wrote in her history that Grandpa Indermuehle (which he later changed to Indermill) also tried his hand at writing: "He liked to write. I have several short stories that he wrote and tried to get published but had no luck at that." (8 Feb 1970)

But since neither Indermill nor Indermuehle is remembered along with Steinbach and Salinger (their contemporaries in their respective generations), I think we can safely assume that their dreams of literary success were never realized. I’m not even sure if any of their writings survived them. (And suddenly I’m extremely curious about the subjects these two progenitors might have chosen—better start asking!)

Having recently had my first “creative” manuscript returned, I guess I now join the ranks of struggling artists. The prospect of multiple rejections may be more than I am willing to suffer. And I understand that experience is not unusual for the novice.

So fame and fortune may elude this generation of Indermills as well. Does that mean we [see Note 1] stop writing? Absolutely not! I sometimes feel like if I don’t get the ideas down on paper, they’ll eventually accumulate to the point of spontaneous combustion.

For those not quite that driven, the process may begin on a more mechanical level. How does one go about “trapping” a subject? I think the key is simply to 1) increase our powers of focused observation, and then (2) become more aware of our mental meanderings.

Let’s see how that plays out in reality. As I write, I am sitting in a relatively new church building early (way too early) on a Sunday morning. Looking around, I see the results of a long construction campaign, the details of which will hopefully be recorded for those who come after. The sun is starting to come up on a cold (almost to the point of freezing) rainy (thus almost to the point of icy) day.

Because I belong to an organization directed by a lay ministry, the leaders of the two congregations who meet here have been arriving steadily. Only one out of the dozen who passed by my chair failed to look at, smile toward, or cheerily (way too cheerily) wish me a good morning.

Since we’ve recently had snow, there is both a snow shovel and a broom standing against the wall in the vestibule. (Ah, the same “non-greeter” just exited and entered again—still no response, even though I intentionally watched him the entirety of his route.)

If I were to write a blog (only a small degree of irony intended!), I have several subjects available from my upholstered perch in the foyer:

1) A history of how this building came to be, including the fact that 33 years ago when I first moved here, there was only one congregation in town. Now there are four, and those four are large enough to divide into at least five if not six.

2) The miracle of similar voluntary service that is occurring at this very moment all over the world. In fact, my husband’s second oldest son is probably directing a leadership meeting in western Pennsylvania as I write—no doubt a much colder (maybe even completely past the frozen level) morning. And I’ll bet the grand majority are ultimately happy to be there.

3) Why the one dropout on the cheerfulness team? What hidden burdens are some of our fellow travelers carrying?

[Now fully light...the no-response count is up to three. But one was a wife on her way to a meeting talking to her husband on a cell phone and telling him that she loved him—excused!]

4) The faithful member (a convert of relatively few years) who arrives consistently each Sabbath morning, sets up the chairs (usually all by himself and, operating with a prosthetic leg) when the easiest way to unfold the new style of folding chair is to kick the seat outward. I’m not sure, now that I think about it, how he manages. But the process is remarkably quiet! Then he stands at the door and hands out the programs before sitting down for the meeting, a contrasting punctuation in a sea of mostly pale faces.

5) The woman who just passed by with a huge pair of loppers to finalize her floral arrangement. A highly trained professional, she voluntarily provides artistic creations that would undoubtedly fetch a handsome sum were she to be doing it commercially.

6) Here comes the group providing this morning’s special musical number—three teenagers: one of a family newly moved in, the son of a split family, and the daughter of a whole family baptized about three years ago. At least two known stories; one, as yet unclear, indubitably exists.

All these things have passed through my mind this morning. But the place where my mind stopped to graze a while was with the shovel and the broom. Let’s try that one.

* * *

The broom and the snow shovel were standing side by side in the church vestibule. Two very different tools, despite their shared handledness.

The shovel—rigid, powerful, capable of pushing and lifting; the broom—flexible, spreadable, capable of coaxing and gathering [see Note 2].

Both helpful in the appropriate circumstances, they would be totally useless in the opposite conditions. Can we imagine attacking a huge snowdrift with a broom? Or how about pursuing a dust bunny hiding under the bed with a snow shovel? Rather amusing scenarios, right?

[And here we can go whichever way we want in developing our “parable.” We will choose a genealogical application since that is the milieu in which we find ourselves.]

But don’t we sometimes find ourselves in similar situations as we search for clues about our ancestors? So often we assume that we can wade in and clear away huge piles of mystery in a series of quick blows—scoop, scoop, scoop. When the first shovelful releases relatively quickly, we think to ourselves, “Ah, this is going to be a piece of cake! No problem! Wonder why so many people exclaim over the difficulties they encounter.”

And then we hit the hard-packed bank. If it’s ice, there is nothing much to do besides leave and wait for it to thaw. We go back every once in a while to see if anything has loosened up that can be pulled away from the main body. If not, we wait a while longer.

Then as the months (maybe years) go by, we find that we’re gathering little tiny pieces of information—one detail here and another one there. A shovel would serve absolutely no purpose now. But a broom would help...each straw potentially grabbing one of those minuscule facts, drawing it closer so we can see where it might fit into the whole picture.

Two tools; multiple processes; all melded together in a flowing stream of discovery. Whenever we get discouraged and feel like we’re getting nowhere in our efforts, may we keep in mind the massive glaciers that remolded the earth’s surface as they lumbered over the landscape, the melted water that carves countless ditches (including the Grand Canyon), and the wind-blown sand which has created unbelievable shapes out of solid rock.

Whatever the stage at which we find ourselves, let’s keep our tools available and use them in the most appropriate manner. Rejoice in the big finds, persistently pursue the small ones, and be patient while the huge barriers melt. They really will if we’re determined to work away at them.

_____________
NOTES:

1. My sister has written poetry in the past, receiving some recognition. Recently, I was also privileged to read a cousin’s life reflections which were very interesting. (Same generation, parents from the same family, but quite a different growing up.) There may be others in the family about whom I know nothing, and that ignorance is kind of sad.

2. In fact, every time I sweep with a broom, I remember an excerpt from one of my favorite books of all time, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew. A kindly neighbor lady is explaining to her exuberant guest, “‘Goodness, child! what a dust you’ve kicked up! that ain’t the way to sweep,’ and she took the broom out of Polly’s hand, who stood stock still in mortification. ‘There,’ she said, drawing it mildly over the few bits she could scrape together, and gently coaxing them into a little heap; ‘that’s the way; and then they don’t go all over the room.’” [p. 31 in the 1909 edition I have]