Disclaimer - Fact and Myth Often Coincide in my Brain
Let me first say that I'm still practicing telling these stories. Since they're coming through me now, instead of others, their accuracy may or may not be spot-on, but I'll try to get as close as I can.
If something here is glaringly wrong, please let me know. Nicely. I'll fix, if it needs fixing, or I'll make a note that I'm human and not always right. Which is kind of what I'm doing right now as well.
In short, don't believe absolutely everything you read online. Just good commonsense advice.
I'm a second-generation Mormon, and happy with my choice. My parents joined in their early 20s, before they met each other.
My Dad's Conversion Story
My father's family was Presbyterian, officially, but they didn't seem particularly religious, especially as they grew older. When the children were young, they went to church schools. My father joined the military, and met someone who was LDS who influenced him in that direction. His aunt Kathryn Dilley had joined the Mormon Church many years earlier, and sent missionaries to teach her brother and his wife.
My grandparents decided not to join when they learned about our law of paying 10% of all our earnings (tithing), but my father joined after he became an adult.
My Mom's Conversion Story
My great-grandfather, Clinton Harvard Stockwell, and his family were members of the Church of No Name, and before that, his family were Methodists.
The Church of No Name is an interesting story - they're also called Two By Twos, a Protestant Church from Ireland originally. They don't seem to have a whole lotta doctrine on purpose, and they have a lot of meetings.
It's a home-based religion mostly, based on Bible teachings. My great-grandfather would come home from his work in the mill in Tacoma, where he lived, make himself a cup of hot chocolate, and sit down at night to read the Bible. My grandmother would sit with him sometimes.
There were some indications he had some doubts about his faith, because he would tell my grandmother at times like this that the Lord's true church was out there somewhere, and she should look for it.
She did, for many years. She drove more than a few Baptist missionaries crazy with her 'devil's questions' about prophets, priesthood, and other items of interest. Still, she kept asking.
My mother joined the Catholic Church in her teens, as most of her Hispanic friends in Arizona were Catholic. Meanwhile, my mother's older sister Carol married a young Navy man with a teensy alcohol problem.
One night he wrecked his car after a bender, and spent a long time in the hospital. His near-death experience propelled him towards religion, and he and Carol took the LDS missionary discussions. My mother sat in with them. While they didn't continue on toward baptism (Wink decided he didn't want to join if he couldn't be in charge, and my aunt didn't want to give up smoking), my mother finished the discussions and decided to get baptized.
His Catholic priest heard she was taking the missionary discussions, and reprimanded her for it. She told me she might have returned to Catholicism if he'd been nicer about it, but there it goes. She moved on and didn't look back. My grandmother (the one with the devil's questions) had all her questions answered by the LDS missionaries, and joined the church after her daughter did.
M grandmother's husband, my stepfather Loring Fowler - his father was a Methodist minister, and he wouldn't join the LDS faith out of respect for his father's beliefs, but after he passed away, my grandmother had him sealed to her in the temple.
Did They Accept? Didn't They?
It's LDS doctrine that, while temple work can be done in proxy for those who have passed away in this life, it's still their choice as to whether or not they can accept that work, so we can't know for sure if they've accepted it or not.
My grandmother also had temple work done for her father - the one who told her to keep looking for the Lord's church at night, while reading the Bible.
A short time later, she was sick, and called for a blessing. While the two priesthood holders laid their hands on her head to bless her, she later reported the sensation of three sets of hands instead of two, and she strongly suspected that her father had accepted the temple work done on his behalf, and had joined the prayer circle from the other side to try and help her.
Further Back
Beyond that point, we can only guess what religion our family members were, based on historical patterns.
Most of my family members were from the Northeast part of the United States (New Jersey, Connecticut), so it's likely they were largely Protestant. I have one family member who was tried as a witch in Connecticut during the time of the Salem Witch trials, so perhaps she was at least wishing she was Protestant, or even Puritan, if she wasn't.
Back beyond that, they were perhaps Catholic or Protestant, since most of them lived in England, Ireland and Scotland, and perhaps fighting each other.
Hubby's Family
My hubby's family came largely through Mexico, Ireland, and Europe, so chances are most of them were Catholic. The Catholic Church historically had a significant influence in these areas. It was politically correct to be Catholic, and sometimes dangerous not to be, so at this point, we suspect Catholic on his side.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Personal History - The Story of my LDS Baptism
When was I baptized, and what was my religion?
My parents converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS or Mormon, for short) faith before they met each other. Some church members set them up on a blind date, they liked each other, got married in the St. George temple, and then my older brother and I were born. There was no question about where I would get baptized.
In my LDS faith, those of us born in the Church are usually baptized around age eight (as I was - many more brothers by then), and we uses full immersion as our form of baptism.
However, there was some question (at least in my mind) as to whether or not I could pull off the immersion part. I'd had a couple of near-drowning experiences as a young child, and I felt very fearful in deep water. Couldn't swim at all. Hated that underwater sound of bubbles and water rushing and the burning smell of chlorine.
A Little Dicey...
The font I was baptized in was in a building on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. My father and mother made extra sure that we'd only have to do it once. My long hair was pulled back, and I wore a white jumper like the boys and bare feet (I think about eight of us were baptized on the same day from our local area). It wasn't as pretty as the white dress the little girl who also got baptized the same day as me wore, but I wasn't taking any chances.
My father performed the ordinance. He said the prayer, and my fingers readied themselves to clamp down on my nose. When it was time for immersion, he pushed me down so far that I lost my footing in the font, and a moment of panic bubbled up inside me. I kicked my feet, but only for a second, and suddenly he lifted me back into the open air, and I had done it!
The baptism is supposed to represent death and resurrection into a new life, and in my case, it felt almost physically like that, having to push past that fear of drowning in what amounted to something like a very large bathtub in front of lots of people. No aspect of that came easy to me. It was another four years before I learned to swim, but at least I made it past that hurdle.
I remember celebrating with my friend Justin afterwards on the grounds of Temple Square. Justin was an African-American boy my age, whose mother was friends with my mom as well. I believe Justin might also have been baptized that day, although I'm not sure on that point.
My mother told me later that his mother really struggled with the thought of having to tell him that he wouldn't be allowed to hold the priesthood, as other boys in our congregation did, when he turned 12. African-American men and boys weren't allowed to back then. But just a few months later, that restriction lifted, and my mother and I both wept with happiness when it did, for Justin's sake.
Confirmation
The second part of our ritual of baptism involves a blessing from priesthood holders that takes place either that day, or on the coming Sunday. For me, I had to wait until Sunday.
The bishopric (one of the three leaders of our local congregation - there are usually three) called me up to the stand in front of the church. I looked as the huge stained glass window depicting the First Vision grew larger in my view - Joseph Smith in a grove of trees, looking up at Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, who had both appeared to him. I loved that window so much, and I didn't get a lot of chance to get this close to it.
My father and some other priesthood holders from the 17th North Ward (the name of our congregation) stood in a circle around me while I sat on a folding chair. They each placed one hand on my head, and another hand on the shoulder of the person next to them. My father voiced the prayer.
The first part of the prayer is the same for every person baptized, and ends with the words 'Receive the Holy Ghost'.
When my father said those words with his hand on my head in that circle, a strange sensation, like tingling, entered from the top of my head and flowed like water all the way down to my toes. I still remember that, years later.
I don't remember the rest of the blessing my father gave me that day, nor was it recorded...except in heaven, I guess. We don't record those blessings, because they're pretty sacred, although some might write highlights of them down if they can write fast. But from that day, my church considered me a member in full fellowship with the adults, so it's a pretty important rite of passage in some respects, as well as an important covenant we make with the Lord.
And After That, Another Historic Moment...
My family incorporated an additional family tradition for every child that got baptized. Mom and Dad would take that child (only that child, mind you) out to dinner at the Sizzler.
This made such a huge impact on me, and at age eight, the most exciting part of the whole day. We were so broke that eating out at a restaurant was on the same level as a visit to the Taj Mahal. Plus my brothers had to stay home with the babysitter - just me! Whoo-hoo!
I got the steak and lobster platter because that was the one that was in all the commercials.
Then my parents did something that literally changed the trajectory of my life forever.
They gave me a present.
And it wasn't even my birthday! Well, it was sort of my birthday...my faith birth-day, I suppose...
It was a book of poems, and a red book that said 'Journal' on the front of it.
Over the next few weeks, I read all the poems. Kept that poetry book until just recently, in fact. For decades.
I still have the journal, as well as the others I bought and wrote in since. That day officially began my life as a writer.
My parents converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS or Mormon, for short) faith before they met each other. Some church members set them up on a blind date, they liked each other, got married in the St. George temple, and then my older brother and I were born. There was no question about where I would get baptized.
In my LDS faith, those of us born in the Church are usually baptized around age eight (as I was - many more brothers by then), and we uses full immersion as our form of baptism.
However, there was some question (at least in my mind) as to whether or not I could pull off the immersion part. I'd had a couple of near-drowning experiences as a young child, and I felt very fearful in deep water. Couldn't swim at all. Hated that underwater sound of bubbles and water rushing and the burning smell of chlorine.
A Little Dicey...
The font I was baptized in was in a building on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. My father and mother made extra sure that we'd only have to do it once. My long hair was pulled back, and I wore a white jumper like the boys and bare feet (I think about eight of us were baptized on the same day from our local area). It wasn't as pretty as the white dress the little girl who also got baptized the same day as me wore, but I wasn't taking any chances.
My father performed the ordinance. He said the prayer, and my fingers readied themselves to clamp down on my nose. When it was time for immersion, he pushed me down so far that I lost my footing in the font, and a moment of panic bubbled up inside me. I kicked my feet, but only for a second, and suddenly he lifted me back into the open air, and I had done it!
The baptism is supposed to represent death and resurrection into a new life, and in my case, it felt almost physically like that, having to push past that fear of drowning in what amounted to something like a very large bathtub in front of lots of people. No aspect of that came easy to me. It was another four years before I learned to swim, but at least I made it past that hurdle.
I remember celebrating with my friend Justin afterwards on the grounds of Temple Square. Justin was an African-American boy my age, whose mother was friends with my mom as well. I believe Justin might also have been baptized that day, although I'm not sure on that point.
My mother told me later that his mother really struggled with the thought of having to tell him that he wouldn't be allowed to hold the priesthood, as other boys in our congregation did, when he turned 12. African-American men and boys weren't allowed to back then. But just a few months later, that restriction lifted, and my mother and I both wept with happiness when it did, for Justin's sake.
Confirmation
The second part of our ritual of baptism involves a blessing from priesthood holders that takes place either that day, or on the coming Sunday. For me, I had to wait until Sunday.
The bishopric (one of the three leaders of our local congregation - there are usually three) called me up to the stand in front of the church. I looked as the huge stained glass window depicting the First Vision grew larger in my view - Joseph Smith in a grove of trees, looking up at Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, who had both appeared to him. I loved that window so much, and I didn't get a lot of chance to get this close to it.
My father and some other priesthood holders from the 17th North Ward (the name of our congregation) stood in a circle around me while I sat on a folding chair. They each placed one hand on my head, and another hand on the shoulder of the person next to them. My father voiced the prayer.
The first part of the prayer is the same for every person baptized, and ends with the words 'Receive the Holy Ghost'.
When my father said those words with his hand on my head in that circle, a strange sensation, like tingling, entered from the top of my head and flowed like water all the way down to my toes. I still remember that, years later.
I don't remember the rest of the blessing my father gave me that day, nor was it recorded...except in heaven, I guess. We don't record those blessings, because they're pretty sacred, although some might write highlights of them down if they can write fast. But from that day, my church considered me a member in full fellowship with the adults, so it's a pretty important rite of passage in some respects, as well as an important covenant we make with the Lord.
And After That, Another Historic Moment...
My family incorporated an additional family tradition for every child that got baptized. Mom and Dad would take that child (only that child, mind you) out to dinner at the Sizzler.
This made such a huge impact on me, and at age eight, the most exciting part of the whole day. We were so broke that eating out at a restaurant was on the same level as a visit to the Taj Mahal. Plus my brothers had to stay home with the babysitter - just me! Whoo-hoo!
I got the steak and lobster platter because that was the one that was in all the commercials.
Then my parents did something that literally changed the trajectory of my life forever.
They gave me a present.
And it wasn't even my birthday! Well, it was sort of my birthday...my faith birth-day, I suppose...
It was a book of poems, and a red book that said 'Journal' on the front of it.
Over the next few weeks, I read all the poems. Kept that poetry book until just recently, in fact. For decades.
I still have the journal, as well as the others I bought and wrote in since. That day officially began my life as a writer.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Personal History - Birth Date (Or, How to Make an Entrance)
When and where was I born?
The easy answer is - in early March, Mercy Hospital in Miami, Dade County, Florida.
But that's no kind of answer for a blog...so here's the mythic answer...
My parents had a little boy already, and their quiet little lives were forever about to be changed.
First, there was the eclipse...
If any of you remember your literary history, you might remember the story of Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain). When he was born, Halley's Comet happened to pass by the earth on the same day. He would ever after say that he rode in on the comet, and he would ride out on it, which he did. The day Halley's Comet returned to the earth, 75 years later, Mark Twain died.
The day before I presented as human, the heavens expressed their loss and sorrow with a solar eclipse in Florida.
My mother saved the newspaper from my birth-day, and the story's in the paper. So there ya go - I rode in on the eclipse, and by gum, I'll ride out on one.
The nice thing is, I have lots of eclipses to choose from. Poor Mark Twain only had the one comet, but I've got tons of eclipses between now and then. So, somewhere around age 100, I'll pick one and go home on it.
Natural childbirth
Back in those enlightened days of the late 60s and early 70s, women gave birth to their babies while totally unconscious - which my brother was. My mom missed the whole thing, and vowed for something different the second time.
When she discovered Lamaze, she converted, and breathed me out instead at my birth, as well as the rest of my brothers and sister, for the most part. To her credit, she breathed out a total of seven babies, which is a lot.
Beautiful baby (switched at birth)
Rumor has it that I won an unofficial 'beautiful baby' contest the hospital staff ran that day.
Another story my mother told was about how, when it was time for the baby to be brought in for feeding, the nurses brought her the wrong baby, but she felt so tired from labor that she didn't immediately notice.
I didn't notice either - must have wore us both out. But here I was! Ready to take on...well, maybe not the world, but whatever fingers were handy, for sure! :-)
The easy answer is - in early March, Mercy Hospital in Miami, Dade County, Florida.
But that's no kind of answer for a blog...so here's the mythic answer...
My parents had a little boy already, and their quiet little lives were forever about to be changed.
First, there was the eclipse...
If any of you remember your literary history, you might remember the story of Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain). When he was born, Halley's Comet happened to pass by the earth on the same day. He would ever after say that he rode in on the comet, and he would ride out on it, which he did. The day Halley's Comet returned to the earth, 75 years later, Mark Twain died.
The day before I presented as human, the heavens expressed their loss and sorrow with a solar eclipse in Florida.
My mother saved the newspaper from my birth-day, and the story's in the paper. So there ya go - I rode in on the eclipse, and by gum, I'll ride out on one.
The nice thing is, I have lots of eclipses to choose from. Poor Mark Twain only had the one comet, but I've got tons of eclipses between now and then. So, somewhere around age 100, I'll pick one and go home on it.
Natural childbirth
Back in those enlightened days of the late 60s and early 70s, women gave birth to their babies while totally unconscious - which my brother was. My mom missed the whole thing, and vowed for something different the second time.
When she discovered Lamaze, she converted, and breathed me out instead at my birth, as well as the rest of my brothers and sister, for the most part. To her credit, she breathed out a total of seven babies, which is a lot.
Beautiful baby (switched at birth)
Rumor has it that I won an unofficial 'beautiful baby' contest the hospital staff ran that day.
Another story my mother told was about how, when it was time for the baby to be brought in for feeding, the nurses brought her the wrong baby, but she felt so tired from labor that she didn't immediately notice.
I didn't notice either - must have wore us both out. But here I was! Ready to take on...well, maybe not the world, but whatever fingers were handy, for sure! :-)
Monday, March 26, 2018
Personal History - Nicknames That Should 'Di'
I had the great good fortune to enter this world behind a big brother, and my first nickname that I remember came from him.
"Frou-frou Head"
Yeah.
It might have come about a couple of ways. First of all, I thought very differently from everyone else in the family. My father was so strait-laced and conservative. My mother was sedate and calm, or tried to be. My brother was...well, a boy. And I was a greased-up hippie-chick old soul dropped by the stork into the middle of all this calmness and sedated-ness. Which meant that I came off maybe a little spaced-out to the others.
It might also have come about because, as a child, I insisted on growing my hair very long. At one point, it cascaded down to my waist.
And even though it looked glorious, after awhile it just grew cumbersome. Gum stuck in my hair meant loads of untangling or just flat-out cutting, and in those pre-Internet days, if we didn't have access to 'Helpful Hints from Heloise', we didn't know to use peanut butter to remove those pesky gum balls.
Yes, that's how old I am.
At one point in time, my mother forbid gum-chewing entirely at our house...probably because her hair was as long as mine, and sleeping children over her shoulder with gum in their mouths...you get the idea.
Sitting down in a chair grew difficult, since I would sit back against the back of the chair, only to yank my head backward when my hair got pinned between my back and the chair.
When I was baptized into my faith, the rule that every hair had to stay underwater meant that I needed about a hundred bobby pins in my hair, because my water-phobic self could only stand immersion once.
Always and forever I lifted my hair away from purse-straps, once I wanted to have a purse.
So around age eight or nine, the romantic bubble burst, and I insisted on getting a haircut to my shoulders. Such a relief!
Still, the strange nickname stuck around, emerging here and there when my brothers needed ammunition.
"Nana"
Again, another brother-inspired nickname. Often this one immediately led to 'Banana', both in the user's and the receiver's mind, and I never quite knew why, but this one stuck more with all my brothers, and my mom.
"Di" or "Princess Di"
When the 80s rolled around, this nickname grew popular due to Princess Diana's wedding and influence in society, and the more-than-passing resemblance I happened to share with her. I didn't object to this one so much.
"Hon"
My first married nickname.
"Mama"
Undoubtedly my hands-down favorite. :-)
"Memaw"
The only nickname I will ever refuse to answer to - and all my kids know it. A common moniker for a grandmother down in the South, but it grates on my ears. Sounds like a donkey braying. I won't have it.
When I do get blessed with grandchildren, I will be the "Bube". Because I want to be the very first golden word that drops from my grandchildren's lips, and it doesn't get easier than "Bube". They might even say it by mistake, and that's okay by me.
"Frou-frou Head"
Yeah.
It might have come about a couple of ways. First of all, I thought very differently from everyone else in the family. My father was so strait-laced and conservative. My mother was sedate and calm, or tried to be. My brother was...well, a boy. And I was a greased-up hippie-chick old soul dropped by the stork into the middle of all this calmness and sedated-ness. Which meant that I came off maybe a little spaced-out to the others.
It might also have come about because, as a child, I insisted on growing my hair very long. At one point, it cascaded down to my waist.
And even though it looked glorious, after awhile it just grew cumbersome. Gum stuck in my hair meant loads of untangling or just flat-out cutting, and in those pre-Internet days, if we didn't have access to 'Helpful Hints from Heloise', we didn't know to use peanut butter to remove those pesky gum balls.
Yes, that's how old I am.
At one point in time, my mother forbid gum-chewing entirely at our house...probably because her hair was as long as mine, and sleeping children over her shoulder with gum in their mouths...you get the idea.
Sitting down in a chair grew difficult, since I would sit back against the back of the chair, only to yank my head backward when my hair got pinned between my back and the chair.
When I was baptized into my faith, the rule that every hair had to stay underwater meant that I needed about a hundred bobby pins in my hair, because my water-phobic self could only stand immersion once.
Always and forever I lifted my hair away from purse-straps, once I wanted to have a purse.
So around age eight or nine, the romantic bubble burst, and I insisted on getting a haircut to my shoulders. Such a relief!
Still, the strange nickname stuck around, emerging here and there when my brothers needed ammunition.
"Nana"
Again, another brother-inspired nickname. Often this one immediately led to 'Banana', both in the user's and the receiver's mind, and I never quite knew why, but this one stuck more with all my brothers, and my mom.
"Di" or "Princess Di"
When the 80s rolled around, this nickname grew popular due to Princess Diana's wedding and influence in society, and the more-than-passing resemblance I happened to share with her. I didn't object to this one so much.
"Hon"
My first married nickname.
"Mama"
Undoubtedly my hands-down favorite. :-)
"Memaw"
The only nickname I will ever refuse to answer to - and all my kids know it. A common moniker for a grandmother down in the South, but it grates on my ears. Sounds like a donkey braying. I won't have it.
When I do get blessed with grandchildren, I will be the "Bube". Because I want to be the very first golden word that drops from my grandchildren's lips, and it doesn't get easier than "Bube". They might even say it by mistake, and that's okay by me.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Personal History - More on Names, and Wonder Woman
Just when you thought there wasn't any more I could say about my name, the stories go on...
Was I named after someone else?
I mentioned yesterday that my first name comes from the Roman goddess Diana, which really stands all by itself in coolness...
But later on, as a child, I discovered the most wonderful TV show that gave me hope like nothing else...Wonder Woman!
I first saw her in black and white, of course, and later in color, but she captivated me. Not only because of her magic lasso and her bulletproof bracelets and really nifty skimpy bathing-suit outfit, but...
Because...her name when she hid her Diana Prince! Wow!
Obviously, in my young-girl mind, because her name and my name (almost) matched, if I too spun around enough, I would turn into Wonder Woman and go away to Paradise Island and not have to be stuck in a tiny tenement house in Salt Lake City surrounded by four stupid brothers in my family and too many scary home and neighborhood pets. I could shoot arrows and take down bad guys and be the goddess I knew I had to be.
So at night, in bed, I spun around. And around and around.
And nothing happened. Super-disappointing!
But thus began my lifelong love-affair with superheroes, and Wonder Woman still holds a tiny edge above them all for me, because of her alter-ego name.
But then, Another Diana...Who Was a Princess this Time...
Around the mid-80s, suddenly everyone talked about Princess Diana and the wedding.
I didn't pay much attention, but some pointed out that we held a slight resemblance - crooked nose, strong facial features. She had better hair (of course - she had hairstylists and I barely had a hairbrush), but I appreciated her a little bit at the time.
I didn't try to emulate her - was more into Madonna's style than hers - but I appreciated how kind she seemed, and how she tried to help people. Sad when she died.
Even today, I still hear comparisons between myself and her, because of my name, and I welcome them.
The Missing 'N' is Not Missed
My only real problem, then and now with my name, was how often it was misspelled. I have two 'n's in my name, but no one seems to remember that.
I clung to that second 'n', though.
In some cases, it became a test of how much a person truly cared.
The ones that did, remembered the 'n'. The ones that didn't, well...I didn't always bother to correct them unless it was important, but I noticed it.
Always.
Was I named after someone else?
I mentioned yesterday that my first name comes from the Roman goddess Diana, which really stands all by itself in coolness...
But later on, as a child, I discovered the most wonderful TV show that gave me hope like nothing else...Wonder Woman!
I first saw her in black and white, of course, and later in color, but she captivated me. Not only because of her magic lasso and her bulletproof bracelets and really nifty skimpy bathing-suit outfit, but...
Because...her name when she hid her Diana Prince! Wow!
Obviously, in my young-girl mind, because her name and my name (almost) matched, if I too spun around enough, I would turn into Wonder Woman and go away to Paradise Island and not have to be stuck in a tiny tenement house in Salt Lake City surrounded by four stupid brothers in my family and too many scary home and neighborhood pets. I could shoot arrows and take down bad guys and be the goddess I knew I had to be.
So at night, in bed, I spun around. And around and around.
And nothing happened. Super-disappointing!
But thus began my lifelong love-affair with superheroes, and Wonder Woman still holds a tiny edge above them all for me, because of her alter-ego name.
But then, Another Diana...Who Was a Princess this Time...
I didn't pay much attention, but some pointed out that we held a slight resemblance - crooked nose, strong facial features. She had better hair (of course - she had hairstylists and I barely had a hairbrush), but I appreciated her a little bit at the time.
Even today, I still hear comparisons between myself and her, because of my name, and I welcome them.
The Missing 'N' is Not Missed
My only real problem, then and now with my name, was how often it was misspelled. I have two 'n's in my name, but no one seems to remember that.
I clung to that second 'n', though.
In some cases, it became a test of how much a person truly cared.
The ones that did, remembered the 'n'. The ones that didn't, well...I didn't always bother to correct them unless it was important, but I noticed it.
Always.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
My 'Dull' Family Stories, Starting With My Name
I'm restarting this blog, after a big of an epiphany over last week's Pioneer Trek.
What? Why?
Pioneer Trek, for those gentle readers who aren't aware of Mormon culture, is a trip we take about every four years with our teenagers, where we pretend to be LDS pioneers crossing the plains with handcarts and living like they did for a few days. Like walking in our ancestor's footsteps.
Never went on one before myself. Twenty minutes in on the first day, I felt like I would truly die, and counted myself lucky to escape with only the loss of my boots and a toenail at the end of three days. Those pioneers, boy - tough people!
I thought a lot about them while I was out there though - not much on them left behind. When I got back, the fiction writing I was doing got pushed aside in a great need to get through my own family's stories instead.
So I'll collect family stories and throw them here - for my children, my grandchildren, nieces and nephews and great-grandchildren, and heck, whoever else feels like reading them.
I called this blog 'DuLl Family Stories' for an obscure, artsy reason - because my first names are Dianna and Lorraine (hence the capital D and L in the title, which, when sounded together sound appropriately, 'dull'), and also, because I couldn't think of anything better, but I couldn't wait to start!
So here we go. Starting with my own story.
What's my full name, and where did it come from?
My full name is Dianna Lorraine (Eden) Zaragoza. I dropped my maiden name when I married. Thinking back on it, I should probably have kept Eden, instead of my middle name, but I've always loved the name Lorraine. A derivative of the name 'Lora', the amazing woman who is my grandmother, after whom several people in my family were named.
My first name comes from the Roman goddess Diana (of course - very appropriate). I developed an early interest in Greek and Roman mythology because of this, as well as a deep and abiding interest in the moon. Diana was the goddess of the moon. Also the goddess of hunting, but I couldn't bring myself to get into that as much. Still, she was strong and a female warrior archetype, which has also fascinated me over the years - the female warrior.
Lorraine, after my grandmother Lora. Very proud.
Eden was my family's last name, which I got from my dad - the noble line of Eden heritage, hailing from the historic New Brunswick, New Jersey. Meh.
I also enjoyed the Genesis story in the Bible much more as a child, because of that particular garden association. And I do garden myself.
Zaragoza is my married name, but one my husband only loosely enjoys, to be honest. I loved it when I dated him. Tried it on regularly, and it just smacked of pizazz. However, once I wore it, I found myself forever spelling it for people, which was something of a drag. And there's a family legend I learned from my mother-in-law that Zaragoza wasn't actually our family's name, if you can believe that.
According to her, our oldest ancestor on that side, a man named Gabriel Schultz, came to Mexico from Zaragoza, Spain, for whatever reason, and took up residence in the Zacatecas area. Married Eva Alvarez and started a family. He was in the Mexican militia, and got leave to come home to see a child born, but somehow the paperwork was lost, and he was declared MIA.
When his regiment found him at his home, he was tried and sentenced and executed on the spot, hung by the neck in front of his wife and family. This was roughly around the time of the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
Eva escaped to Arizona with her children, and took the surname of Zaragoza to protect the rest of the family, presumably because the European name of Schultz was dangerous for them at the time. And ever since, they were the Zaragoza family, from Arizona to East LA to the Bay Area where most of the family resides today.
Anyway, that's a myth, and myths are always fun. I could be flat-out lying on that one, for all I know. I'm hoping to bust through some of these family mysteries as I go, even though I know I can't kill them all...neither would I want to, really. What's a good family story without a little mystery in it?
And if we ever do follow my hubby's wishes, and change our last name to Schultz, there goes my pizazz (sigh)...
What? Why?
Pioneer Trek, for those gentle readers who aren't aware of Mormon culture, is a trip we take about every four years with our teenagers, where we pretend to be LDS pioneers crossing the plains with handcarts and living like they did for a few days. Like walking in our ancestor's footsteps.
Never went on one before myself. Twenty minutes in on the first day, I felt like I would truly die, and counted myself lucky to escape with only the loss of my boots and a toenail at the end of three days. Those pioneers, boy - tough people!
I thought a lot about them while I was out there though - not much on them left behind. When I got back, the fiction writing I was doing got pushed aside in a great need to get through my own family's stories instead.
So I'll collect family stories and throw them here - for my children, my grandchildren, nieces and nephews and great-grandchildren, and heck, whoever else feels like reading them.
I called this blog 'DuLl Family Stories' for an obscure, artsy reason - because my first names are Dianna and Lorraine (hence the capital D and L in the title, which, when sounded together sound appropriately, 'dull'), and also, because I couldn't think of anything better, but I couldn't wait to start!
So here we go. Starting with my own story.
What's my full name, and where did it come from?
My full name is Dianna Lorraine (Eden) Zaragoza. I dropped my maiden name when I married. Thinking back on it, I should probably have kept Eden, instead of my middle name, but I've always loved the name Lorraine. A derivative of the name 'Lora', the amazing woman who is my grandmother, after whom several people in my family were named.
My first name comes from the Roman goddess Diana (of course - very appropriate). I developed an early interest in Greek and Roman mythology because of this, as well as a deep and abiding interest in the moon. Diana was the goddess of the moon. Also the goddess of hunting, but I couldn't bring myself to get into that as much. Still, she was strong and a female warrior archetype, which has also fascinated me over the years - the female warrior.
Lorraine, after my grandmother Lora. Very proud.
Eden was my family's last name, which I got from my dad - the noble line of Eden heritage, hailing from the historic New Brunswick, New Jersey. Meh.
I also enjoyed the Genesis story in the Bible much more as a child, because of that particular garden association. And I do garden myself.
Zaragoza is my married name, but one my husband only loosely enjoys, to be honest. I loved it when I dated him. Tried it on regularly, and it just smacked of pizazz. However, once I wore it, I found myself forever spelling it for people, which was something of a drag. And there's a family legend I learned from my mother-in-law that Zaragoza wasn't actually our family's name, if you can believe that.
According to her, our oldest ancestor on that side, a man named Gabriel Schultz, came to Mexico from Zaragoza, Spain, for whatever reason, and took up residence in the Zacatecas area. Married Eva Alvarez and started a family. He was in the Mexican militia, and got leave to come home to see a child born, but somehow the paperwork was lost, and he was declared MIA.
When his regiment found him at his home, he was tried and sentenced and executed on the spot, hung by the neck in front of his wife and family. This was roughly around the time of the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
Eva escaped to Arizona with her children, and took the surname of Zaragoza to protect the rest of the family, presumably because the European name of Schultz was dangerous for them at the time. And ever since, they were the Zaragoza family, from Arizona to East LA to the Bay Area where most of the family resides today.
Anyway, that's a myth, and myths are always fun. I could be flat-out lying on that one, for all I know. I'm hoping to bust through some of these family mysteries as I go, even though I know I can't kill them all...neither would I want to, really. What's a good family story without a little mystery in it?
And if we ever do follow my hubby's wishes, and change our last name to Schultz, there goes my pizazz (sigh)...
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