Category: family

Bowie and Mona Exploit Mommy’s Shower Time

It cannot be said that the few minutes I stand beneath the shower head and feel the warm water cascading over my body are a sublime escape from the ordinary stresses of daily life. With two dogs lounging on my bed, too much can go wrong. And they know it. Although, from their perspective, so much can go right.

I heard the thump and knew precisely what was going on. Bowie had obviously not been thwarted in his quest for a good read by the framed picture I placed in front of the stack of books on my nightstand. It’s a teetering tower, and my boy intuits how much I like those things. The way I cuddle them, and calmly sigh with satisfaction when I arrange myself every night for a few minutes of pleasurable, pre-sleep distraction. How can she like those things? They don’t even do anything, he must think.

At the same time that I shrieked, “Leave it,” I stemmed the delightful aquatic cascade and stepped out of the tub, simultaneously reaching for a towel. Before I had even toweled off, I tugged the door open and squinted toward my bed, where Bowie appeared to be lying innocently. Mona looked up from her position next to the bed, innocent as well. My eyes without glasses in front of them are pretty useless, but I could just make out the small, blurry, rectangular shape next to Bowie.

Seeing that neither dog was engaging in criminal behavior in that particular moment, I took the time to towel myself off and put my glasses on. Still naked, I examined my teetering tower of books, trying to assess if any others had been tampered with. I suspected that there was one missing. You should be forgiven for daring to vividly imagine my body next contorting to see — and then reach — beneath my bed for my latest literary victim, which was lying just out of reach. It struck me how much it resembled a sunken shipwreck, its back broken and with parts of its cover surrounding it like spilled treasure.

Using the softball bat that I keep under my bed (for defense against home invaders*), I was able to sweep the book toward me. I then stood and held up the victim of this most recent misdemeanor. Bowie looked straight ahead, avoiding my gaze, while Mona looked up at me with angelic eyes. Both waited to see what stern words Mommy was going to say.

It was one of those moments where I favored the high road. I had no choice but to give both Bowie and Mona the “BOD”. As exculpatory evidence, the book lying next to Bowie was still intact — no chew marks, no sheared off pieces. The book I had retrieved from under the bed — the real casualty — was closer to Mona. But, how could I not place greater weight on a suspect’s reputational cache?

After a silent few seconds, I concluded the matter with a simple, You guys get a pass this time. At the sound of “you guys” both pairs of ears perked up. They only ever hear it followed by things that are wonderful, such as, You guys want to go for a walk? or, You guys hungry? The crime was already in the past, as far as they were concerned. With a renewed bounce in their step, both headed with great anticipation for my bedroom door. I decided I should probably return my weapon beneath the bed. . . and get dressed before taking them for a walk.

* * *

*I don’t have plans to ever keep a gun in my nightstand or under the mattress, but considering all the scary TV series I watch, I often am anxious when I head up to bed at night. Hence, I logically keep a softball bat beneath my bed. In a conversation once with my younger daughter, she asked, “Do you even know how you would use it in the moment?” I demonstrated my flawless batting stance and swing, a holdover from my early days of softball play. “Nope, that won’t work,” she offered with great certainty and finality. Apparently, for my weapon to have even the most remote chance of inflicting harm on a home invader (on the order of a “slight bruise” most likely), I’d have to choke up, really choke up, much more than I ever did when I played softball. It would feel so unnatural; could I even do it?

Kitchen Counter — Smooth As a Baby’s Bottom

Do you ever have those kitchen frenzies, when all you want to do is find a purpose for every small appliance and tool you own? Make it worth the ongoing expenditure for a “well-equipped” kitchen? I just emerged from the rubble of one of those two-day frenzies. My kitchen is once again sparkling from all the granite polish I applied.

As I ran my hand over the surface of one of my counters, I was reminded of a conversation I had decades ago with a fellow teacher. Donna and I were assigned the same study hall in the cafeteria. After having taken attendance, which daily required nothing less than a seasoned teacher’s lusty bellowing to get everyone’s attention in an enormous space with the worst kind of acoustics, we would settle comfortably into casual conversation. One day, I described to Donna the kitchen plans for our new home. I was excited to be able to dream about all the counter space, something we lacked abysmally in our tiny first home. Donna pointed out how satisfying she found it whenever her counters had just been polished, “Oooh, there’s nothing compares. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.” Ever since, that’s exactly what I say, too, whenever I’ve polished my counters and run my hand over them.

There’s great usefulness for gadgets such as — and these are all items I currently own — the Instant Pot, the air fryer, the bread maker, the waffle maker, two sizes of choppers, the food processor, the ice cream maker, crockpot, and the Kitchen Aid mixer. I could part with just about all of them with the exception of the KA mixer, whose value I’ve only come to know and appreciate in recent years. Reflecting on this vast array of helpful kitchen tools, I’m struck with a sense of embarrassment — what would Mom think of all of it?

Mom was the most amazing cook. (Who doesn’t think their mother was “the most amazing cook”? Probably no one. Wait, that’s not true. My late husband George withheld praise where it concerned his own mother’s cooking, which, come to think of it, was probably the key reason why he married me. He was completely blown away by the meals Mom made for her brood.) She learned her trade in the dietary sciences program at Framingham State College when she attended from 1939 to 1943. She was one of those people who can skillfully crack an egg with one hand or swish ingredients around a skillet and then toss them expertly in the air to flip them all over at once. At the time, it escaped us entirely that she had a genuine understanding of the science behind cooking. (Alton Brown gets that, and who doesn’t love Alton Brown?)

In those years of living on Titicut Hill, I only ever learned how to make tapioca pudding and hot milk sponge cake. . . because I loved to eat those two confections more than just about anything. . . except Chocolate Town Special Cake (which I left to Nana Morrissey to present me with each year on my birthday).

My sister Margaret became the better cook. . . much better cook. Mom loved that she had a real protege to whom she could bequeath her store of knowledge, but that doesn’t mean that she, oh, let’s say, “enjoyed” when Margaret was in charge of the stove. My daughter Megan has a similar approach. “How is it possible,” I often wonder, “that there is whipped cream speckling the refrigerator door?” Or, “Egg yolk inside the gadget drawer?” It must be a culinary phenomenon, this combination of “good cook/creator of kitchen messes”.

One year, as a teacher at Triton Regional High School, I mentored a new “foods program” teacher. You can imagine the perks of that assignment. Oh, Nadine, don’t trouble yourself to come to my room — I’ll come to YOU! As often as I was on the tummy tantalizing receiving end of class exercises, I never tired of watching Nadine conduct her demos for the students. All the movements were well-practiced, and I saw Mom in every one. How she would tilt a bowl slightly — a cold, metal one, of course — and grab the whisk in the middle of the handle — not the end — before whipping, and not round and round, but rather across and back, how she broke up ground beef in the skillet with a fork, lickety split and with all the ferocity of a professional hurler, how she folded in a dob of egg whites before delicately folding in the rest. I’m quite sure that other structured food science programs all teach in the same way and have done so for generations, but I learned that Nadine, too, had completed the same program at Framingham State College. The familiarity of the scene always warmed my heart.

Now having recovered from my two-day frenzy, and having run my hand across the glassy surface of my counters — once again “smooth as a baby’s bottom” — I can’t help but ponder my need for all the kitchen gadgets. Mom likely would have challenged, “Other than a stove, you only need a skillet, a dutch oven, a mixer, a casserole dish, and maybe a good set of mixing bowls, one metal spatula, one rubber spatula, a wooden spoon, . . . and a wire whisk, of course.

You Know You’re in Portland

It has taken me too long, I realize, but I’m beginning to get a feel for Portland, Oregon and just generally the Pacific Northwest. There’s much still to be learned about the region, but I embrace the challenge. I had the use of my daughter and son-in-law’s car during my most recent week-long visit to Portland, which — among other things — allowed me to immerse myself more fully in the experience, make me feel (almost) like a Portlander. I thrilled, for example, that I was able to conduct a highly nuanced, scientific comparison; grocery stores and bakeries were my test subjects. The comparisons with New England are inevitable.

Example of a Portland truck “in fine fettle”

Each day found me, as well, doing daily strolls around the University Park neighborhood where I was staying, presenting me with delightful opportunities for discovery (despite invariably drizzly weather conditions). Keep in mind, my friends, I’m a country girl, so part of the challenge is learning how to navigate (comfortably) in a major city.

Observation #1: Once you understand that homeowners have the responsibility for the upkeep of the space directly in front of their houses in between the sidewalk and the street, you can’t help but observe how those intervals are tended. It becomes readily obvious which homeowners chafe at the responsibility and which ones view their assigned space as an artist’s canvas.

Observation #2: Skill in parallel parking is essential, as is threading the needle to manage the gap between the street and one’s driveway (if there is one), inevitably crowded by at least half a dozen cars parked impossibly close. Every night when I left my daughter and son-in-law’s house to head back to my rented apartment, I recited an impassioned dear Lord, please let me get out of here safely without hitting one of those cars. (Truth is, my appeal to the Good Lord sounded more like: The fuck’s wrong with people?! Why can’t they give you some fuckin’ room?! Fuckin’ dickheads!) By the end of my visit, however, I had learned the calculation well enough so that I didn’t have to apply the brakes countless times, and my exit took fewer than ten minutes. The memory makes me smile.

Observation #3: You can buy avocados and actually have faith that they’ll be perfectly ripe, and taste as one would hope an avocado should taste, not like cardboard or wallpaper paste, which is how avocados purchased in New England generally taste. (I’m only imagining what cardboard and wallpaper paste taste like. At least I think I am. There may have been a period in my childhood when I “experimented” with things not customarily earmarked for human consumption.) When I was unable to find nectarines, I asked one of the stockers at New Seasons if they had any. He replied, “No, they’re not in season; we won’t have them for a couple months.” Not in season! When has that ever stopped our Market Baskets and Stop & Shops from making attractive arrangements of imported, tasteless, out-of-season fruits and vegetables?

Observation #4: Through either peer pressure or inheritance, Portlanders eventually own an old truck. Said truck must be installed permanently on the street or as a yard ornament. They run the gamut of eras (70’s through 90’s, mostly) and can be found in various conditions, from the worst state of decrepitude to the most pristine. Walking through the neighborhood, I could easily distinguish between “proud truck owner” and “embarrassed owner of an albatross”.

So ubiquitous are these trucks, that over time they lose their sense of novelty. Through transmogrification they become part of the urban landscape. Until recently, for example, a little red Toyota truck sat mute and motionless in front of my daughter and son-in-law’s house. No one could say when it first appeared, and no one knew who owned it — everyone imagined that it belonged to some one else. Only when it became the casualty in a hit-and-run accident by an RV “behaving in a suspicious manner”, was one of the neighbors moved to call the city’s traffic division. The city promptly arrived to tow it away. The uncharacteristic speed and alacrity with which the city responded led all the neighbors to conclude that the little red Toyota truck must have been a victim of some high jinks and ultimate abandonment. Accounts such as these produce only desultory shrugs of the shoulder. It’s a Portland thing.

I’ll be back in Portland in May. At that time, just as we in New England will think to cheerily recite, “Mother’s Day, plant away”; bursts of color will already be everywhere. The spaces between the sidewalk and the street will once again be showcasing the creative talents of spade-wielding Portland homeowners, (or vexing the more reluctant stewards of the inter-spaces).

I’m very much looking forward to more opportunities to expand my understanding of the region.

A Special Valentine

I’ve known since 1976 that Hallmark’s most corny greeting cards were tailor-made for the man who would become my husband. Even before I said, “I do”, George was flattering me with the lamest commercially-made messages that have ever been created. I learned early on that if there was an occasion for it, he would send me one, the bigger the better. He especially loved to surprise me with cards that did more than supply thoughtful phrases. Pop-up cards were his favorite.

George never needed an excuse to remind me how much he loved me. It meant that over the course of forty years I accrued a trove of sentimental heartfelt messages of love. I’ve saved a lot of them, and this one I’ve had for at least two decades.

the classic Hallmark pop-up, a favorite style

William Clark Did Not Reward York with Freedom. . . at Least Not for Several Years

sculpture base at U. of Portland

Yes, it’s a pile of rocks. I came upon it while walking around the University of Portland campus one day this past week. Each day of my week-long Portland stay began with a walk around my University Park neighborhood before I headed over to my daughter’s house to hang with my new grandson. Anomalies always inspire curiosity.

To the uninitiated (such as myself), one of the first things you notice when you visit Portland is the abundance of memorials to Merriwether Lewis and William Clark and other reminders of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and the Corps of Discovery. Until my daughter moved to the Pacific Northwest ten years ago, there was really little substance to my understanding of that stage of what many of us call “American history”. (And of course, that understanding had been shaped by a K-12 Eurocentric curriculum.) If you asked me to explain what I recalled about the whole Lewis and Clark thing, I’d probably say something like, “One of them was Merriwether, and they wore buckskin outfits and traversed wide swathes of wilderness in our country’s vast interior, forded wrathful rivers, came upon hostile Indians — whom they either subdued or befriended if there was something to be gained through such exploitation — and they eventually arrived at the Pacific Ocean, whereupon they exclaimed, ‘We have thus succeeded in manifesting destiny.'” (My lack of genuine understanding is shameful.)

Multnomah River (aka Willamette R.) from bluff at U. of Portland

For a little over thirty years (from 1988 to June of 2020), the north campus of the U. of Portland held a bronze sculpture of William Clark, his black slave York*, and an unidentified Native American who had served as Clark’s guide. The sculpture showed a reverential Clark peering into the distance and pointing, with York and the Native American following his gaze. No matter that “Seekseekqua” (the object of Clark’s interest) was well-known to the Native bands who populated the area — and had been for thousands of years, Clark had “discovered” Oregon Country’s second highest mountain, which he pronounced should henceforth be called Mt. Jefferson.

In the wake of the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the Minneapolis police, social media got busy by providing lists of potential “targets” for those wishing to express their frustration through acts of protest. When the University of Portland’s sculpture appeared on one of the protest lists, authorities removed first York’s figure, and then a day later, the Clark and Native American figures. What remains now is a pile of rocks, a list of original donors for the funding of the 1988 sculpture, and a very interesting interpretation of events. Read it yourself here:

In my mind, what is lost by the removal of the sculpture is the opportunity to supply a more accurate depiction and analysis of events and a more authentic statement about its symbolism. The sculpture should be returned. The plaque that accompanies it, however, should be refashioned to echo the historical truth.

*Like most sons of plantation owners, as a boy, William had been given a black slave — similar in age — who would serve as a companion and valet. Because York was not only trustworthy, but showed exceptional promise as a wilderness “survivalist”, he was deemed a creditable candidate for the cross-country Corps of Discovery. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and powerfully built, a reassuring presence in the expedition’s camp. Despite York’s contributions to the enterprise, he was not rewarded with manumission (release from slavery) for several years. (The record is unclear as to precisely when it happened, just that it is likely to have occurred before 1832, nearly two decades after the expedition.)

Read about York here.

Source:

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/york-explored-west-lewis-and-clark-his-freedom-wouldnt-come-until-decades-later-180968427/

The Alden Graveyard

High on a hill above the Taunton River in the south section of Bridgewater, Massachusetts sits the tiny, 19th century Alden Graveyard. It also goes by the name of Great Woods Graveyard, which I suspect was a name given in later times, although the name pays homage to the tall, straight white pine trees that were harvested over time for use in the region’s boat-building industry. (The graveyard’s earliest identification on Plymouth County deed transfers had it simply as a “burial lot”.) The graveyard is surrounded by a low, lichen-textured, New England-style stone wall, the kind that was constructed with “two-handers” (boulders that required two hands to carry.) The graveyard had a single, u-shaped carriage drive that would deposit “attendees” at the door of the centrally located Alden tomb. 

The high perch where the graveyard sits is surrounded on three sides by rolling, terraced fields. We knew it as “Titicut Hill”, but there was also a brief and casual reference to another name — “Hill of Sorrow” — because a sachem’s daughter was murdered there, so Mom once claimed. I grew up next to the Alden Graveyard. The lot of land upon which our little home sat was owned in the early 1800’s by the Deacon Asael and his wife Sarah (Alden) Shaw. It was either Sarah’s two brothers — Solomon and Amasa — or, more likely, her father, Solomon, who — along with his son, Amasa — donated one acre of bordering land in the late 1700s for use as a “burying lot”. 

It pains me to admit how much time my siblings and I spent playing among the headstones and upon the central tomb (and — as a fitting punishment — knee-deep in poison ivy that naturally loved the stone walls). If you stood on top of the earth-covered tomb, which in appearance resembled a hobbit home, and faced southwest, you had a sweeping view of rolling, terraced fields.* Beyond the fields, you could see the silvery thread of the Taunton River. Ok, so I want to believe that, but it’s a lie that I had so thoroughly convinced myself of. Bob — and my four other brothers — assure me that you couldn’t see the Taunton.**  It suggests that the forest was working at its own regeneration, spreading outward from the banks to reclaim what it had lost in the prior centuries. 

It can be expected that colonial era graveyards — with their utter lack of adornment — don’t excite interest beyond the occasional visitor. Visitors who, like me, enjoy musing about the somber and strenuous lives of 18th and 19thcentury New Englanders. They’re quiet, reflective places. That is, unless you’re a young girl who allows herself to be talked into entering the tomb. I will never forget the day I foolishly stepped into that dark, dank, silent space. There had to have been an insanely attractive reward offered by one of my brothers. Most likely Chris. I do recall descending at least one or two of the granite steps. (That must have been one of the conditions for my reward.) The heavy metal door was pulled shut and I was alone in the tomb, or “alone” only in the sense that I was the sole breathing person in a room that also housed dead bodies. I pounded and screamed for hours. Once again, that part is untrue. I think I pounded and screamed for five seconds. . . which seemed an interminably long time.

When the fields on the far side of the graveyard were covered with snow, the whole Alden Square neighborhood took to toboggans and skis and saucers and Flexible Flyers for hours of outdoor sledding. Alternatively, and when we needed a more immediate rush, we’d dash over to the graveyard; from the tomb’s summit, we’d either roll our bodies down (doable at any time of year) or — when snow cover allowed — steer our sleds along a twisting path, avoiding (as best we could) the headstones, much as skiers do on alpine courses. Like, very short courses. . . maybe 15-meter. (For those readers who are at this moment cringing, I promise that, as an adult, I’m much more respectful. . . and not as idiotic where it concerns personal safety, but I doubt your thought process ventured so far as to reflect on the hazards to personal well-being.)

For me, it wasn’t all about play, however. I came to know the families who slept quietly there, and would read and re-read the inscriptions and epitaphs. The earliest known owners of our home made that graveyard their final resting place. The Deacon Asael Shaw is truly “rest[ing] from his labors”, having lived to the surprising age of 92. And “resting place” really does have fulsome meaning, for 18th and 19th century folk believed that admission through the pearly gates could only be secured by presentation of a notarized form vouching for a life of hard work, sacrifice, misery, and really plain and uncomfortable “waring appearill”. (I love to insert that expression whenever possible.) 

My fascination with graveyards, as you can imagine, has been a natural outgrowth from having been next-door neighbor to the bones and spirits of colonial era yeomen and the like. I intend to continue cultivating my interest when opportunity permits — if you’ve ever driven with me, you’ll no doubt have seen my head pivot when I spot a tiny graveyard. I only occasionally, however, will respond to the tug to stop and walk around. Maybe it’s because of the residual sense of terror it inspires — what if someone were to shut me in another tomb? Or, maybe it’s because I am too fearful of the day that my own flesh will mingle with the dust. I don’t want to rush things.

~

*By the way, it didn’t pay to take in the north view from Titicut Hill. All those red-brick buildings with bars covering the windows were a disturbing reminder that ours was generally known to the rest of the town as the “prison neighborhood”.

** Bob, bless his little heart, allows me to save face by qualifying his statement; it was possible that one could see the flood waters that would occasionally breach the banks and travel as far as the pigeon coops.

Attaching Value to Objects

On a shelf in my garage sit a clunky set of headphones and a 1980’s era Sony Walkman that no longer serve any purpose. I can’t bring myself to part with them, though. They belonged to my husband, and he wore them (for over three decades) every time he cut our acre of lawn. His Sony Walkman would be holstered on his belt, and each week of the cutting season, a different cassette would whirl reel to reel, pleasantly mixing with the muffled engine sound outside his head. When he exhausted the playlist options — it wouldn’t have taken long — the cycle would repeat. Long after cassette tapes fell from favor, George stuck to his habit. I look at his headphones and the memories mushroom up and fill me with nostalgia.

In my retirement, I begin most days with some type of inspirational or thought-provoking article. This morning I ended up on the Smithsonian Magazine website, as I often do when I want to explore topics that are historical or scientific in nature. In January I posted about NFT’s (“non-fungible tokens”), so it was natural that I would be interested in a bizarre stunt pulled by a self-styled philanthropist who has hitched his star to the potential profitability of NFT’s.

Martin Mobarak is the founder and CEO of Frida.nft who, in July, had high hopes of blazing new trails in the world of priceless art collection. . . in the virtual sense. Attired in a sequined blazer festooned on the back with the face of Frida, he made a showy display involving martini glass, blue rubbing alcohol, and lit match. He thus irrevocably “transformed” an authentic (and irreplaceable) drawing done by Frida Kahlo in the 1940’s, a sketch entitled “Fantasmones Siniestros”. Its estimated value is. . . was. . . ten million dollars. But was it real? And what if it wasn’t? While the extravagant spectacle received little attention at the time, Mobarak’s impulsivity has now landed him in a heap of trouble.

On the one hand, if the drawing was indeed authentic, Mobarak faces criminal charges. (According to a statement made by the Mexican government in September, “The deliberate destruction of an artistic monument constitutes a crime in terms of the federal law on archaeological, artistic and historical monuments and zones.”) If the drawing that was permanently “transformed” was a reproduction, he is in violation of copyright laws. Lastly, he may be guilty of deception and fraud. No bueno, in any scenario.

I’m straining not to react with pure disgust. Who in their right mind burns a Frida Kahlo work? It seemed important that I venture down the rabbit hole, in this case by mining the annals of Martin Mobarak, flashy businessman from Mexico, currently home-based in Miami. The quick and dirty synopsis looks like this: fisherman in the Bering Sea, prospector (silver mine), developer of an internet service in Alaska, food service provider as well as aviation services in Florida, a B&B in Mexico. One has to admire his enterprising nature and sheer pluck. And I do. . . admire that.

After I sifted through the layer of news about the current Mobarak-Kahlo controversy, I was able to temper my feelings about the permanent loss of priceless art. Built into the scheme is a charitable offshoot. Inasmuch as the endeavor was to enrich Mobarak (in his wildest, non fungible dreams), 30% of proceeds are — or were — intended to benefit charity. The causes about which he feels most passionate are rare childhood diseases and abuse of women. On the surface it would seem that careful and deliberate thought went into his charitable choices, more so than the hastily-planned “transformation” event, which was likened to “the ice bucket challenge, but with fire” (according to Gabrielle Pelicci, who helped him plan the risky stunt).

In the end, the Kahlo NFT’s have not been selling — the intent had been to fractionalize the ten million dollar iconic work into 10,000 NFT’s. That didn’t even come close to happening. Apparently, the “Fantasmones Siniestros” sketch is nothing more than a few unrecognizable flakes of ashy residue, reducing Mobarak’s speculative move to a tragedy, one that — but for his ego (and a sense of desperation) — was completely avoidable.

Perhaps my sense of alarm is so great because I haven’t bought into the idea that we now fully exist in a sphere where things of value can be digitally “memorialized”. When I recently digitalized several hundred family photos (including daguerrotypes, tintypes, cartes de visite, cabinet cards, and — additionally — all manner of photographs from the 20th century) and made them available for family to view on Flickr, it very much occurred to me that the digital images will ever fail to evoke the same emotion that the physical ones do. When I hold in my hand the ambrotype of my great-grandfather, I’m better able to imagine the moment in which the photo was taken. I imagine, even, the thought process behind my great-great-grandmother’s decision to have the picture taken in the first place. The high school portrait of my dad, still sitting in its frame, presents an opportunity to reflect on, not just his life, but his parents’ as well, even the society into which he was born. The portrait would have hung on one of the walls in their home on Warner Street, Medford (“on the Somerville line”), later in their home at Wolcott Park; it would have kept the wallpaper underneath it bright and light as all around it faded and became dingy. Of course I only knew my father as an adult, a parent, never as a seventeen year old. At seventeen he had yet to confront the real obstacles that life predictably serves up. And he had yet to be judged harshly — or, in fact, be coaxed himself to judge, for example, the sobering calculus that would result in 7.5 million American service men and women being sent overseas to safeguard democracy in the 1940s. Dad’s face is smooth and unlined; he looks serious, but innocence and vulnerability can be read in his dark eyes.

We have a habit of needing to attach a monetary value to all that we own. I can’t do that with some of my possessions. In many cases, to do so would miss the essential point. Value so often resides in the stories that objects hold and the historical moments they beseech us to preserve.

Is it unwise of me to think that NFT’s are a fad, that their popularity will eventually fade? Are we too deep into a world that is virtual that we’ve lost reverence for all things tangible? George may have defied the march of technological advancement, but even he was alert enough to know that his headphones and Sony Walkman had passed from being “cutting edge” to being quaint, outdated. And an 8″ x 10″ grayscale, monochromatic high school portrait in a simple 1930’s frame will only ever hold sentimental value. What, then, will NFT’s be replaced by? I wonder.

It would grieve me to think that any of us are okay with destroying an original, as Martin Mobarak did, in order to inflate the value of its representative equivalent. Moreover, let’s never lose sight of why we strive to preserve objects of value (such as a Sony Walkman or a family portrait), or — of greater consequence — why we place our treasured artifacts (important documents such as the Declaration of Independence, priceless works of art, etc) in museums. They trumpet our achievements and our trials — in short, our story. As authentic artifacts, they evoke curiosity and emotion, and sustain interest much more effectively than any cryptographic asset can possibly do.

Maybe that’s why Mobarak’s scheme failed.

Sources of Information:

Pantry Thief

I want to say I’m ten or eleven years old, but, no, it’s 1969 and I’m thirteen years old. I should know better, but I give in to temptation nevertheless. I’ve hopped onto our washing machine, careful not to let my bare toes “clunk” into its frontside. Crouching-standing on top of the washing machine, I reach with my right hand to push aside the line of forward-facing common dwellers, solid-feeling containers of flour and neglected items long past their ”use by” date. They stand sentry on the top shelf, alert now, positioned to conceal the treasure sitting somewhere behind. Unseeing, my expectant fingers caper across one or two unfamiliar shapes before encountering the familiar smooth surface — my brain’s pleasure center lights up. With both hands now cradling my prize, I sit back down on the washing machine and quietly lift the cover on the bakery box. I’m smug in the knowledge that I have found it before anyone else. I’m sure others have already searched. 

Aunt Ginny’s wedding was yesterday, thus bringing to conclusion a well-seasoned (decades-long) engagement. Jimmy’s a sweetheart, and we don’t mind adding “Uncle” to his name. My three older brothers and I stood stiff and awkward in our “best attire”, clothing that hung on us as uncomfortably as hair shirts. It wasn’t just the clothing — we don’t do formal very well. Give us rolling fields, ponds to swim in or skate on, sunshine, and fresh air. Especially, give Kevin hard-packed lanes across those fields so he can race a car — better still, if pursued by patrol cars supplied by the nearby prison. Let us brawl. But dressy and solemn are not our jam. 

We spectated in silence through the church ceremony, standing when others stood, kneeling, too, genuflecting just a beat late, yet casual enough to suggest we do it all the time. I cried in the church. I was thinking about my younger (and only) sister, Margaret, who should have been there — she had a new dress, too, but she was in a hospital (trying to remember who she was and who she belonged to, after a really bad car accident). We maintained our silent observation throughout the reception, bewildered by the tender father-daughter dance. Our grandfather, whom we all call “Gama” (rhymeswithllama), is still in deep grief, adrift alone. His Anastasia, our Nana, died last year. 

We all noticed the white bakery box that came home with us. No discussion. We are all in silent competition. Bakery boxes never come into our house. With no thought to dignify the act with fork or plate, I dip my fingers into the delicious cake. Inches of creamy and smooth white frosting give way to moist cake. My fingers — rapacious little grubbers — clutch mounds of cake and frosting. I shove the sweet, spongy confection in my mouth in helpless desperation. It’s as good as I had hoped. And well worth any punishment by Dad — or expressions of disappointment by Mom — when I’m found out. Wary of being discovered, I replace the cover and return the bakery box to the high shelf, arranging for its concealment once more. I will see you later, I promise, as I leap to the pantry floor.

Grandparents

Some might call it morbid, but I’ve always been fascinated by dead people. . . and nearly dead people, which is how I viewed my dad’s parents when I was growing up. In truth, they weren’t (much) older than my mom’s parents, but where there was liveliness and humor and tenderness on the one side — all obvious signs that Papa Joe and Nana May (my mom’s parents) were of this world, Nana Morrissey and her perpetually scowling partner Gama were stern, dull, and disapproving. I grew up believing that Nana May and Papa Joe were the kinds of grandparents that one could more easily love and want to be around, to nestle (maybe) in their laps, and that Nana M and Gama were unhappy people who were born old and whose only concern was that we children not touch any of the fragile furnishings (and they were ALL fragile) in their tiny, old-fashioned home that perched — cramped and awkward — on a rocky ledge uphill from the Mystic Valley Parkway in Medford. As a child, how freely one could run around and get dirty, maybe even break things (and each other) were immensely important activities, and our degree of freedom to do so defined how we adjudged the character of our four grandparents. It was unfair and shortsighted, but that’s how children are.

Recently I acquired (from that same tiny house on the rocky ledge) a cache of archival collections and loose photos that belonged to my ancient Aunt Ginny, my dad’s only sibling. She lived to 103 years old and displayed an enduring reverence for “the family record”, maybe a by-product of her long career as an attorney. Taken together, the photos tell a story that I never knew, one that upends (in a most meaningful way) my conclusions about my Medford grandparents.

“Circus Day” (May 3, 1959)

“Circus Day” in May 1959 was one of those occasions for which there are several photos of Kevin, Tom, Chris, and me. We’re all spit-polish, scrubby-clean top to bottom, ready for Aunt Ginny to widen our country-dwelling horizons by treating us to The Greatest Show on Earth, an annual extravaganza held at Boston Garden. Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus was 88 years old in 1959. I was a little over three years old, the baby of the family. (For nearly five years I was able to enjoy that vaunted status until the second half of the family began to arrive.)  In at least three of the snapshots, I’m leaning cozily into my Nana M and she’s got a protective (one might say “loving”) arm around me. To me, the gesture looks natural. As an adult with a lifetime of opportunity to reshape the narrative, could I really have had it all wrong? Were Nana M. and Gama just a typical couple of a certain age and time period, grandparents whose lives ran parallel to but distant from our other set? 

And so I begin to remember things. 

My favorite birthday cake is — and always has been — “Hershey’s Chocolate Town Special Cake” with “7-Minute (Boiled) Frosting”. Although I can’t remember how established it was as a tradition, Nana M. began making it for me for my birthday when I was very young. Each year when she presented it, I was dazzled by its exquisite, snow-white beauty and, of course, would be nearly insensible with joy as I shoveled it into my mouth. Whenever I make the same cake, I use Nana M’s magnificent creation as my benchmark, striving to achieve a rich, moist cake texture and swirly snowdrift frosting perfection that I recall her cakes having. And I can’t help but conclude that she made that cake. . . for me. . .  with love and pride. 

It seems that I never knew my Medford grandparents at all. 

Family Research — The Stories That Really Matter

It’s a simple truth that anyone doing serious family research will — at some point — hit a brick wall. The more obdurate that wall, the more determined we are to surmount it. Given the ease with which we can obtain contemporary information about people, it vexes us that with a little earnest effort we can’t find out all we’d like to know about our ancestors. Since we Morrisseys descend nearly entirely from Irish forbears who left the Isle in the period extending from the Famine (latter half of the 1840’s) up through the 1880’s, with few exceptions our ability to confirm lineage beyond the ancestors who immigrated is hampered by several factors, such as:

  • Vague references by those who settled here as to their home of origin. In most cases, we have the county name only (if that).
  • Inconsistency in the self-reporting as to year of birth, especially on census records and death records, but also marriage records. Rather than assume that the variance was born of suspicion and distrust, the inconsistencies are most likely attributable to their own uncertainty about their birth — bear in mind that in the 19th century and earlier, knowing precise dates was unimportant (unless you were Irish and neglected to register a birth within a required time period, in which case you would simply alter the authentic date to comply with the law.) Family bibles have been perhaps the most reliable records of births (or more importantly, baptisms). . . if the researcher has access to them.
  • Early census records (19th century) for Ireland were destroyed in the fire of 1922 at the Public Records Office. As a “census substitute”, Griffith’s Valuations is the go-to, but despite its voluminous listings of tenancies, teased out by townland, barony, parish, and county; it has severe limitations. (A more thorough examination would be better suited in a separate essay.)
  • Civil registration for births, marriages, and deaths in Ireland did not begin until 1864. Wouldn’t you know that most of the ancestors for whom the trail runs cold is right before that year — it inevitably seems that the 1850’s is the period of time that we most need to examine? For Roman Catholics (as nearly all our ancestors seem to have been), having the name of the diocese (as well as a fair idea of year) is crucial if we want to do a work-around and establish dates and confirm family connections. (Even here, the records are incomplete, especially regarding burial information — fewer than half the parishes kept burial information prior to 1900.)

When we pause to consider the driving force behind our research, it seems we are most motivated by our curiosity about our own part in the ongoing narrative — why am I dreamer, for example? Do I get that from my dad? And, in turn, where did he get it from? Is Margaret’s (or Michaela’s) widow’s peak a genetic trait inherited from Gama’s family? Is Tom’s intensity something passed down from the Morrissey side of the family? (They were, it seemed, a very competitive and intense lot.) Surrounded as we are by blue or green-eyed siblings, Bobby and I have brown eyes — are they a Murphy characteristic? And, let us not overlook shortness — is that from the Gildeas or the Morrisseys? (The Murphys — at least the women — were on the tall side, but Annie Mulhern — Papa Joe’s mother — was purportedly a “very tiny lady”.) Following are some of the questions to which we are always seeking answers in our researching of ancestors:

  • What did they look like?
  • What types of personalities did they have?
  • Did they get along with each other? And with others?
  • Did they have any health issues?
  • What types of livelihood did they have? (And how much of that was by choice or through coercion?)
  • What was their academic life like? (Achievers? Underachievers? Smart? Lazy? The educator part of me would want, furthermore, to tease out multiple intelligences.)
  • What did they do in their spare time? What were they passionate about? (Sports, social or political causes, travel, The Church, etc.)
  • What should each one be remembered for? (I always am most moved by the ones who would otherwise be forgotten over time — the ones who strayed or disappeared. . . or were institutionalized, and the ones who never had their own children. Who can assure their legacies? Who will perpetuate their memory?)