My father has been dead now for...what? Almost two months now?
So much has happened in those two months.
The entire trajectory of my life changed. Everything I knew about myself and my history has been altered or accentuated.
Who knew something I thought would have little to no impact could hit with the force of a neutron bomb in my life? Everything looks the same, but inside feels very different.
My hubby's super-intense summer class is over, and I'm thinking of returning to school myself.
To study history.
About five years ago, I took a course that was supposed to tell me my strengths. My four greatest strengths turned out to be connection, input, learning, and intellection. All introverted strengths - no extrovert strengths at all.
At the time, I felt very depressed about that. Living as a massive introvert in a world made for extroverts makes me feel like I should get a special parking space or something.
But still, over time, I've come to appreciate these strengths more and more...my love for learning, my search for connections, my appreciation for a good discussion of concepts, and I can't get enough of any of these things.
And it all circles back to my family.
Tolkien made up his universe - I have one ready-made in my own family, and so many missing stories to research and investigate.
The gay uncle who ran a parking garage in New Jersey - what was gay life in 1950s New Jersey like?
The great-great-grandfather who died mysteriously - were there a lot of missing persons in Illinois?
The aunt who was strangled to death by her husband - what happened to him?
Was my great-grandfather actually related to the founder of Harvard somehow - even peripherally?
The great-great-grandmother who, as a widow, traveled to Wyoming from a privileged upbringing to live out the rest of her life in the wilderness? What other stories of women alone in the West are out there?
The albums from a certain torch singer left behind by my grandmother after she died - who was this lady, and why did my grandmother like her so much? Where were the similarities?
The indentured servant who somehow escaped most of the terrible things that happened to indentured servants - how did he do it?
I could literally spend the rest of my life chasing down these stories - and what better way to do it than on the government's dime?
If I get my Ph.D. and get grants to write historical books, or teach online classes about history in college (remember, I'm super-introverted!) or learn languages and prowl libraries and databases for more information...wearing books on my head like a maniac...til I've got a Silmarillion of my own...
Bliss!
Now there's a project worth undertaking - I have it! I have my special purpose!
Now...to figure out this college application...
Monday, June 26, 2017
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Procrastination and Priorities
I still have not recorded my story yet.
I suppose it could be a technical issue - my kids have far surpassed me in the mastery of this mysterious box with the glowing screen. And that's even AFTER having taken college classes in networking (which I barely survived) and A+.
I'm lucky to remember my password from day to day, really.
So it's time to tune up the pressure and git 'er done!
There's a time when procrastination is good - when the story needs more time to 'cook' in the brain, so it comes out in the best way.
Other times, procrastination makes the writer a little crazy, accomplishing everything BUT what you're supposed to be writing. The dishes are done - the garden is weeded - the family is happy - and you are miserable because what you really want to work on isn't getting done.
Crazy, I know. But that's how it goes.
So here's a video as a personal reminder...
I suppose it could be a technical issue - my kids have far surpassed me in the mastery of this mysterious box with the glowing screen. And that's even AFTER having taken college classes in networking (which I barely survived) and A+.
I'm lucky to remember my password from day to day, really.
So it's time to tune up the pressure and git 'er done!
There's a time when procrastination is good - when the story needs more time to 'cook' in the brain, so it comes out in the best way.
Other times, procrastination makes the writer a little crazy, accomplishing everything BUT what you're supposed to be writing. The dishes are done - the garden is weeded - the family is happy - and you are miserable because what you really want to work on isn't getting done.
Crazy, I know. But that's how it goes.
So here's a video as a personal reminder...
Monday, June 12, 2017
Back to the Scottish Gypsies with Me! :-)
As a gift to myself when I graduated from high school, I brazenly took a week off work at my new job, with my new credit card, and traveled to England and Scotland.
In my heart, I had a feeling it might be the only travelling I would get to do, so I wanted to make sure it happened.
I was totally alone, riding trains and going from town to town, not even sure how I would feed myself. It was great good fortune that I survived and made it home, really.
One morning I woke up in a hostel in Kyle of Loch Alsh in Scotland, and wandered out early to sit on a pebbly beach and watch the clouds roll over the mountains and across the water as the sun came up. A moment I've revisited often in my mind over the years.
That moment came with a feeling of recognition I never could explain - a strong feeling of deja vu and comfort in my surroundings that seemed strange at the time.
So I've always felt that my ancestry came from Scotland, even though I never knew for sure.
Yesterday, I knew for sure.
One of the items I retrieved from my mother's house after the death of my father was a book of genealogy, about my Grandmother Lora Stockwell's line.
And in very dense, historical and factual terms, it laid out how William Stockwell Sr. travelled to Massachusetts as a teenager (probably) to become an indentured servant in America. His grandfather was born somewhere in Scotland around 1603.
It must have been some kind of poverty that made him want to leave. I know, that morning I watched Scottish clouds roll over Scottish mountainsides, that it would have taken threat of death for me to leave that beautiful place.
So the roots are firmly there, and now I'm looking up Scottish songs from that era, which turn out to be largely Gypsy songs. (which explains my preference of Halloween costumes for the past 40 years)...
Wish I knew where in Scotland they were from, but that's another mystery to solve in later days.
In my heart, I had a feeling it might be the only travelling I would get to do, so I wanted to make sure it happened.
I was totally alone, riding trains and going from town to town, not even sure how I would feed myself. It was great good fortune that I survived and made it home, really.
One morning I woke up in a hostel in Kyle of Loch Alsh in Scotland, and wandered out early to sit on a pebbly beach and watch the clouds roll over the mountains and across the water as the sun came up. A moment I've revisited often in my mind over the years.
That moment came with a feeling of recognition I never could explain - a strong feeling of deja vu and comfort in my surroundings that seemed strange at the time.
So I've always felt that my ancestry came from Scotland, even though I never knew for sure.
Yesterday, I knew for sure.
One of the items I retrieved from my mother's house after the death of my father was a book of genealogy, about my Grandmother Lora Stockwell's line.
And in very dense, historical and factual terms, it laid out how William Stockwell Sr. travelled to Massachusetts as a teenager (probably) to become an indentured servant in America. His grandfather was born somewhere in Scotland around 1603.
It must have been some kind of poverty that made him want to leave. I know, that morning I watched Scottish clouds roll over Scottish mountainsides, that it would have taken threat of death for me to leave that beautiful place.
So the roots are firmly there, and now I'm looking up Scottish songs from that era, which turn out to be largely Gypsy songs. (which explains my preference of Halloween costumes for the past 40 years)...
Wish I knew where in Scotland they were from, but that's another mystery to solve in later days.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Happy Death-Day to my Father, and to Poppa Ray
My father died almost a month ago at this point, and in my rational mind I'm fine.
But my subconscious squeezed memories out of my eyes at random moments, and I still can't figure out why.
Ray Bradbury died five years ago today. Ray Bradbury was my Poppa...one of many. Someone who was always there, and suddenly not.
It was one of those moments I remember, like 9/11 or Kennedy's assassination (and I remember the former, but I'm not so old that I remember the latter).
I was sitting in my silent office, when my co-worker Alex broke the silence with the awful announcement. "Oh look - Ray Bradbury died."
My own silence broke as well. "What?"
I found the obituary in the newspaper. Then I went back to one of my favorite videos on YouTube, because I already missed the sound of his voice.
I took on his challenge, and I'm still in the middle of it today. Not as prolific a writer as he.
This blog at BrainPickings is like a posthumous birthday party to my Poppa Bradbury, and is not to be missed.
Particularly the poem Neil Gaiman wrote to him for his 91st birthday.
But my subconscious squeezed memories out of my eyes at random moments, and I still can't figure out why.
Ray Bradbury died five years ago today. Ray Bradbury was my Poppa...one of many. Someone who was always there, and suddenly not.
It was one of those moments I remember, like 9/11 or Kennedy's assassination (and I remember the former, but I'm not so old that I remember the latter).
I was sitting in my silent office, when my co-worker Alex broke the silence with the awful announcement. "Oh look - Ray Bradbury died."
My own silence broke as well. "What?"
I found the obituary in the newspaper. Then I went back to one of my favorite videos on YouTube, because I already missed the sound of his voice.
I took on his challenge, and I'm still in the middle of it today. Not as prolific a writer as he.
This blog at BrainPickings is like a posthumous birthday party to my Poppa Bradbury, and is not to be missed.
Particularly the poem Neil Gaiman wrote to him for his 91st birthday.
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