… my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, George Hodgson, to confirm the pirate attack in crossing to America and learn the details, including the names of his parents and siblings and his relationship with Moses Harland, whom I presume to be his uncle.
Tag: Family
Hot, fresh cinnamon rolls
With winter fast approaching, what could be more comforting than these, especially on a lazy weekend morning?
Perhaps, even, waking up to the aroma of them still in the oven?
Oh, lucky me!
When a vision takes shape
Our home renovation project work continues, but for long stretches it seems like nothing’s happening. Those unseen details are important, all the same.
And then, seemingly in a flash, developments become obvious.
The latest example is on the front upstairs, now that the roof is raised, the top’s covered in standing-seam metal roofing, and the windows are finally obvious.
I must admit being a little nervous about the planning, inside and out, but now that they’re in place, I’m feeling excited and even confirmed. Whew!
Now, for some cedar-shake siding!
How do they come up with so much to talk about?
Not just when they call each other first thing in the morning for a half-hour chat, but also when they get together face-to-face just hours later.
We guys just don’t understand, as far as I can tell.
The picture really can change in a day
It was one of those stretches where nothing seemed to be happening. For me, that translates into stuck, or more accurately, an emotional funk.
And then, in a single day, the dumpster arrived, opening way for the big front of the upstairs demo to begin.
The plumber showed up, after a few months on a big project in the Midwest. He made necessary moves preparing the upstairs bathroom and laundry room for walling, lighting, and flooring to be finished before the toilet, bathtub, shower, sinks, and washer and dryer go in.
He also removed our one outdoor faucet, with its leaking pipe in the wall and no indoor shutoff valve, with three new spigots and lines, all of them closer to our gardens. This was a huge quality of life improvement we do enjoy right now.
Three cords of firewood were delivered, about a month after being ordered. It was our first time dealing with them, and while I wasn’t worried that they wouldn’t show up before the first snow fell, this was reassuring and I’m satisfied with the quality of their product. Now I’m spending an hour or so most days stacking it. (Let’s not overdo it, not at my age.)
We heard from the mason, who was slotting us in with other projects around town. He and a helper were on the scene a few days later to repair the top of the chimney. Added to his work were repairs to the facing on the foundation – something noted in the building inspection when we bid on the property – and several future tasks, including moving the wood stove and metal chimney to another part of the front parlor. This was our first time dealing with him, and I can say he takes pride in good work.
Our contractor installed the flooring on the deck, restoring use of the back door to us. The railing is next.
Each of these lifted another obstacle from the horizon. Each one felt quite invigorating. The deck even has us in amazement.
She calls this brunch
After such a spread, there will be no need for dinner later.
Homemade bagels
I get to sample the results of many experiments around here.
Homemade turkey potpie
One of my favorite comfort foods, especially the way my wife creates it.
In memoriam
Last year, a spate of deaths altered my position in a greater hierarchy.
First, a cousin born a few months before my dad, passed, having reached 100. Shortly after his death in 2009, we had a fruitful exchange of correspondence answering many of my questions about my grandparents, which now appear as Dayton’s Leading Republican Plumber on my Orphan George blog.
Also participating in that exchange was my dad’s youngest sister, who was halfway between him and me in age, as it turned out. She, too, died this year, shortly after her husband. They were the last of the generation in my close linage. So I’m now the eldest male in my grandfather’s descendants.
The year also had a series of deaths in Dover Friends Meeting, including a former clerk, a cherished elder (bishop), a fine minister, a very dedicated longtime treasurer, and a prominent social activist. That leaves me as the oldest surviving clerk of the congregation but living a distance away. The collective memory shrinks, in effect.
What I’m left facing is the reality that there’s no longer that umbrella of older, wiser figures over me, sheltering or guiding me. Instead, that’s now my role in reverse. Frankly, I feel inadequate.
It’s a responsibility, all the same. And a debt.
What is ‘home’?
The definition, like that of “family,” can be complex and elusive.
I’m looking at home as someplace much more than where I sleep at night or eat the majority of my meals. It’s more than a house or an apartment or even a tent, for that matter, even though for much of my life, my address has felt more like an encampment before I arrive, well, at what’s truly home.
The Biblical sense of sojourning matches much of what I’ve experienced, pro and con.
Think of a sense of comfort, for one thing, and belonging, for another. Not everyplace I’ve dwelled has measured up there. Rental units have always had limitations on how much you can personalize the space, even to the exclusions on painting the walls. And who knows what happens when the rents or lease go up.
As much as my native geography and its character are imprinted on my soul, the house I grew up in isn’t. How curious. As for family? I’ve now spent the majority of my life on the Eastern Seaboard, mostly New England. Four years in the Pacific Northwest were especially transformative. Yet deep down, I’m still a Midwesterner, though one now amazed almost daily by the movements of an ocean close at hand.
The place I’ve lived longest is Dover, New Hampshire, in an 1890s’ house that’s appeared often in this blog. As “home,” it had shortcomings, but it was where I built my own family, did some very serious writing and revising, ate marvelous food we had raised in our garden, delighted in some extraordinary neighbors (especially Tim and Maggie), delighted in the parties and guests we hosted, and thought I would spend my final moments within. Well, I almost did – but that’s another post or two. As I told the kids when we moved in, I would be in a pine box when I left.
Not that my plotline wound up following that course. It might have, actually, if my elder beloved daughter-slash-stepdaughter hadn’t whisked me off to the emergency room in time for a cardio-stent.
Back to the bigger story. As I retired from the office, it became clear we needed to downsize. I won’t go into details, but my elder daughter/stepdaughter (those distinctions blend for me but not everyone – room for many future blog posts) fell in love with a remote fishing village at the other end of Maine. And then, so did her mother. My introductions to the place were positive, but even though I had begun some intense decollecting and downsizing, and was well ahead of the others on that front, there was still a long way to go. Besides, I was in the midst of a major writing project and knew how long it would take to get back in gear if I packed up in the midst.
Even so, after a few furtive efforts, we bid on a property that had been for sale forever and were accepted. I was promptly dispatched to keep an eye on the place – essentially, as a writer’s retreat.
It needed, to put things succinctly, tons of work. But somehow, it’s felt more like home than anyplace else I’ve dwelled. As you’ll see.
Jnana's Red Barn 