tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60559762418231569582024-02-20T20:48:34.939-06:00The Checkered ChickenThe Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.comBlogger641125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-46709601390112293252019-11-27T10:00:00.000-06:002019-11-27T10:00:25.954-06:00We'll Return in 2020!Life has gotten in the way of our podcast for the time being. However, we'll be kicking off a new round of eggless omelette conversation in the new year.<br />
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For now, follow my history blog on the regular people who have helped make Madison, Wisconsin a great city.<br />
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<a href="https://buriedmadison.wordpress.com/">https://buriedmadison.wordpress.com/</a><br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-45461358048603246712019-08-16T09:39:00.000-05:002019-08-16T09:40:46.631-05:00When Things Go Wrong<br />
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Listen to our latest podcast here:</div>
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<a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">Baking, Sewing, Surviving the Political Climate, oh my</a></div>
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Help me understand what is going wrong here...I know I'm not showing them in order, I'm just showing you their random uniqueness. :(</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And yet, Christian Siriano gets another good night's sleep.</td></tr>
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-38682704556067060572019-07-23T08:33:00.001-05:002019-07-23T08:33:14.495-05:00Taste Test Kitchen Listen to our latest podcast <a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">here</a> !<br />
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Whatever happened to...<br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-50679954072610123482019-07-04T12:52:00.000-05:002019-07-04T12:52:25.361-05:00Midwest CamouflageThey never saw me coming. Listen to our latest amusement<a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix"> here</a>. <br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-72645167361424376192019-05-31T11:38:00.000-05:002019-05-31T11:38:05.479-05:00Plizza Dough Not Edit Me The latest <a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">Checkered Chicken Podcast </a>"Plizza Dough Not Edit Me"<br />
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That means you, Grammarly. Wishing you all a great day!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winston the whiner </td></tr>
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<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Tamsin doing her part to stop human trafficking </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel's hopeful pizza dough</td></tr>
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-87390184727157361482019-05-23T20:27:00.001-05:002019-05-23T20:27:33.932-05:00Accessorizing with Kindness The latest <a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">Checkered Chicken Podcast</a> "Accessorizing with Kindness" is now available! <br />
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Accessorizing, tattoos, Road Hag, Summer Reading: Georgette Heyer and Dodie Smith, National Civil Rights Museum, Mind mapping, bloodwork, recognizing you're happy in the moment, and kindness</div>
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image found <a href="https://www.azquotes.com/author/6655-Georgette_Heyer">here</a>The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-90747782479434164532019-05-13T08:24:00.002-05:002019-05-13T08:27:23.574-05:00What Does Peace Smell Like?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With little surprise, it smells a bit like patchouli. Catch up with Rachel and Tamsin as they return to their podcast after Tamsin finished her semester this week with straight A's! <br />
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-12392361688943824592019-04-09T14:47:00.000-05:002019-04-09T14:47:09.925-05:00Movies with Dad (Extra)<br />
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Podcast <a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">here</a>!</h2>
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Our most recent podcast episode was sailing on choppy waters from the get-go. We knew we were pressed for time and tried to fit it in our day anyway. We like to think we're keeping it real. We don't script...Surprise! And, podcasting on the fly is not always podcasting at its best, but we don't intend to change our ways for now.<br />
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As we did last time, we have follow-ups to add this time here on the blog.<br />
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1. HOLY TOLEDO, <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theme_from_New_York,_New_York">Liza Minelli</a> sang <i>New York, New York</i>, first! How does Tamsin know that nonsense? Maybe you knew it too. I sure didn't. Liza's not half bad <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgusCINe260">here. </a><br />
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I always thought the song was much older. Regardless, it will always be Frank's song. And, I'm shocked, shocked to find <i>New York, NY</i> is a Scorcese film.<br />
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2. Gene Hackman and Burt Reynolds played opposite Liza in <i>Lucky Lady</i> which leads me to think the casting agent might have been going through some sort of existential crisis.<br />
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3. We saw every Clint Eastwood movie and every Bond movie with Dad the 1970s. What I remember about Dad in <i>Saturday Night Fever</i> is him saying out loud in the theater, "Jaysus Christ what the hell kind of movie have I taken my daughters to?"The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-10280128216813459792019-03-30T13:09:00.001-05:002019-03-30T13:09:57.106-05:00Saving Donkeys; Shunning Monkeys <a href="http://messy.fm/checkeredchix">Find out our feelings about Monkey Rooms here </a>and many other topics including OA online, silent retreats, donkey sanctuaries, Type 2 Diabetes and Million dollar properties. Spoiler Alert! The entire plot of the short story "The Monkey's Paw" is revealed so read it first if you're reading it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.thedonkeysanctuary.org.uk/">Donkey in Devon (Not Cornwall)</a></td></tr>
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Enjoy!<br />
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-42028576993405823852019-03-20T19:46:00.001-05:002019-03-21T09:09:46.472-05:00Once We Were Cowgirls<br />
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The latest podcast covers Mike Mulligan, his steam shovel, We are stardust, Tulip update, Just another day at the UN, Michelle Bachman, They're not "that" loose, writing memoirs, and a nearly correct quote from an e.e. cummings' poem. Happy Spring!<br />
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<a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">https: //www.messy.fm/checkeredchix</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OvV2T9UT-ndGTwPNP89cItRvSOTc7MDvpUVY4FpFLQIlbwJYocxJFWbhaXxmMczoWmrHTkc4-5EmFtCGIpUBFkNfdsOX_ZZ8_8GBByr1UUprFXsvi108dO5D8Vi6OznrZ2iRQ7zro9Rw/s1600/IMG_9273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OvV2T9UT-ndGTwPNP89cItRvSOTc7MDvpUVY4FpFLQIlbwJYocxJFWbhaXxmMczoWmrHTkc4-5EmFtCGIpUBFkNfdsOX_ZZ8_8GBByr1UUprFXsvi108dO5D8Vi6OznrZ2iRQ7zro9Rw/s320/IMG_9273.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-49092058801175666112019-03-16T15:19:00.000-05:002019-03-16T15:21:06.821-05:00Happy St. Patrick's Day!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Condon has her bases covered. </td></tr>
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In this special St. Patrick's day edition of the Checkered Chicken podcast, we discuss <br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCueMl54FdQ">Ruby Murray</a>, Guinness Clear, a skit—not a movie, where Rachel Green went to college, and Tipperary Hill's famous traffic light with the green on top. Enjoy!<br />
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Irish Scorecard:<br />
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Tamsin 24%<br />
Rachel 19 %<br />
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Listen here:<br />
<a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">https: //www.messy.fm/checkeredchix</a> <br />
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-10563509846304027612019-03-12T13:29:00.002-05:002019-03-12T13:37:53.187-05:00The Checkered Chicken's Second Podcast is Live!<div style="text-align: center;">
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I wanted to say the podcast "just dropped," but I'm hardly cool enough for that.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance Hall floor of London's Museum of Natural History—I just like the photo</td></tr>
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Once again it can be found at <a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix">https: //www.messy.fm/checkeredchix </a><br />
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This week's episode entitled "Take Your Sister to Work" includes a discussion on Googling Ethics, changes in the weather, and good books.<br />
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The Checkered Chicken's theme song Astro Chicken Dance comes from<a href="https://www.blogger.com/Music%20by%20https://www.free-stock-music.com"> Free-stock-music.com</a>The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-29075947973471365742019-03-05T11:31:00.000-06:002019-03-05T11:41:25.031-06:00The Checkered Chicken Podcast!HUZZAH!<br />
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Our friends Rachel Wright and Tamsin Parson have just made their first podcast. Find it here:<a href="https://www.messy.fm/checkeredchix"> https: //www.messy.fm/checkeredchix</a><br />
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The weekly show will be short, casual conversations between two sisters about whatever is on their minds. Can't wait until Rachel learns how to edit the broadcast.<br />
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Hildegardis wondering what the fuss in the yard is all about.</div>
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-83200573216546059272019-01-18T12:39:00.002-06:002019-01-18T12:39:37.809-06:00This Blog is Not Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCYbLrojqQrjNuX-r3zvXggPpX04Uvu7wKzLm4A8J1LnOu2BMeogNeMkV6aQRIVk_uzzUyO_g6Y1vcAwO8KVO-_yd_K-dTZkSGNtNrGUsgmyrg95jfMqkWRIGEa3pPmS_16i-m93U5La4/s1600/FallForestHilljpeg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCYbLrojqQrjNuX-r3zvXggPpX04Uvu7wKzLm4A8J1LnOu2BMeogNeMkV6aQRIVk_uzzUyO_g6Y1vcAwO8KVO-_yd_K-dTZkSGNtNrGUsgmyrg95jfMqkWRIGEa3pPmS_16i-m93U5La4/s640/FallForestHilljpeg.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-19624671291442409032015-08-21T14:36:00.000-05:002018-09-04T14:44:41.135-05:00We are the Weavers; We are the WebCoincidence, fate or Italy? One of my favorite scenes from the movie of E.M. Forster's "A Room With a View" is between Simon Callow and Julian Sands—not the skinny dipping scene which does rock but the one that leads into it when the Reverend Mr. Beebe and young George Emerson are discussing their contrary views on how people connect and cross through their lives. This is the film dialogue followed by a link to the author's actual words.<br />
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<b>The Reverend Mr. Beebe</b>: Coincidence is much rarer than we suppose. For example, it's not
coincidental that you're here now, when one comes to reflect on it.<br />
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<b>George Emerson</b>: I have reflected. It's fate. Everything is fate.<br />
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<b>The Reverend Mr. Beebe</b>: You have not reflected at all! Let me cross examine you. Where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who will marry Miss Honeychurch?<br />
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<b>George Emerson:</b> The National Gallery.<br />
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<b>The Reverend Mr. Beebe</b>: Looking at Italian art! You see, and you talk of coincidence
and fate! You're naturally drawn to things Italian, as are we and all
our friends, aren't we, Freddie? That narrows the field immeasurably!<br />
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<b>George Emerson</b>: It is fate, but call it Italy if it pleases you, Vicar.<br />
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<b>Purists Click Here </b></div>
<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2641/2641-h/2641-h.htm">"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect."</a><br />
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<b> ********************</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvuuNk8GqgHjcgLcHOuv_036iKXEpnGelKFhhniNmaf3VZgDm_9sqIaCfkwiUiAUxzABM3cWXTwcsBh3Qk4w0pucBdkayVc4NE9onPjc2GBfN1TkYUOHW7ShNWFdLFtyyjfotQUqvBAjo/s1600/IMG_9501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvuuNk8GqgHjcgLcHOuv_036iKXEpnGelKFhhniNmaf3VZgDm_9sqIaCfkwiUiAUxzABM3cWXTwcsBh3Qk4w0pucBdkayVc4NE9onPjc2GBfN1TkYUOHW7ShNWFdLFtyyjfotQUqvBAjo/s320/IMG_9501.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">47-year-old Exeter memorabilia</td></tr>
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Honestly, coincidence is everywhere you look for it if you are the kind of person who looks for it. I even think Mr. Beebe is unwittingly describing coincidence rendered more likely by a circumstantial narrowing of the field. Fate is more a belief or a blind faith that things are preordained and we can just sail along on our river and what was meant to be will be. But I digress. This post is about a coincidence rendered more likely by Anglophilia and the well-established formula of foreign exchange students. <br />
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In 1968, I was two years old living in Spring Valley, New York. Polly Leavengood was a 17 year-old high school graduate—maybe even finishing her first year of college. It had already been a turbulent year in the United States. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in April and Senator Robert Kennedy in June. Yet, these fresh-faced young American students were off on an exciting trip abroad to England. Polly and her fellow students would be studying at the University of Exeter for a few weeks from late July to early August.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't be an "Ugly American," now go have fun!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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To sort of semi quote another line from a great movie, "Of all the universities in all the world Polly had to visit Exeter." What are the chances? Probably better than one would think but I'm not into the mathematical probability, just the fact that it is a funny coincidence that 47 years later I'm walking the same ground Polly did. If it were London that would be one thing but it's not. It is the capital city of Devon where no one would likely go on their first trip to England.<br />
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Polly never mentioned Exeter to me nor having spent any time in England. Even my sister didn't know and Diana was Polly's sister-in-law. Diana only knows Polly was here because Polly saved everything and Diana recently found the itineraries from that summer in a box of Polly's papers. The fact that Diana found them just a few weeks into my stay here in Exeter is very odd. How do these things sift up through the sand in our lives and reveal themselves in timely ways?<br />
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Diana put everything in the mail to me right away. I have to say, I got a kick out of them—especially the directions on how the students were to behave. I so wish Polly was still alive so that I could talk to her about her experience here because I KNOW the rules were broken and not just with the wearing of bermudas in the dining room.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rise and shine</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<b>Some of my absolute favorite rules:</b></div>
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"Horse play" will not be tolerated at any time.<br />
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<u>Money:</u> This can be a real problem if you do not budget.<br />
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Smoking is permitted in all campus areas except the dining room and in class.<br />
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<u>All bars and pubs in Exeter are out of bounds to AIFS students. </u><br />
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<u>Beds:</u> Students must make their beds.<br />
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Class: Attendance at class is compulsory. If one is too sick to go to class he should be in the infirmary.<br />
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The summer schedule is demanding, and a sleepy student in class is wasting his and the teacher's time.<br />
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<u>Visiting:</u> Gentlemen are not allowed to enter ladies' dormitories and vice versa. There are plenty of lounges for social activities.<br />
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Slacks, bermudas, and jeans are not regarded as proper class or dining room dress for young ladies, nor are shorts, sweat shirts or T-shirts for gentlemen. <br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-71655700411090178592015-08-18T14:04:00.003-05:002015-08-18T16:11:35.831-05:00The Religious TouristAfter a very deliberate circumnavigation of the quire and high altar of Exeter Cathedral, I decided it was safe to declare to the welcoming gentleman "I'm here for Evensong." I said this with a nearly imperceptible raise in pitch on my final syllable. If noticed, the questioning tone would protect my ignorance and give me an out should I be completely wrong in my reconnoiter. I was right and so I entered.<br />
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First I sat in the front row, but I had no idea where the show was going to be. I saw a woman enter on the aisle across from me and go way up to the top row. Hell yeah. I turned to survey my side of the quire and saw a beckoning vacant row and made a move. I sat by myself, top row, in a high-backed, built-in chair. My left-hand armrest was the carved head of an archaic, religious gentleman with a hooded head that I never touched. However, my right-hand armrest was a gorgeous little dragon and I did not hesitate to give a loving stroke to his head.<br />
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A group of Italian visitors sat the row in front of me until they were gently removed by a native who let them know that is where they choir sits. Shit.<br />
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"Excuse me, am I okay up here?" I asked worriedly.<br />
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"Of course, you are the last row." The native comforted but to no true sense of consolation.<br />
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So for a few neurotic minutes I was concerned that I would be behind the stage, looking at the performers' backs for the entire show.<br />
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The entire show. I used that word again.<br />
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That's right, I was looking at this religious ceremony as a show. And that is when it hit me. I am a religious tourist. I take the highlights from everyone's religion and cherry pick to my heart's content. I love Evensong because who can make out the words? I can enjoy the music and the voices in the beauty of an ancient structure because the words and their intended message and indoctrination is obscured.<br />
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Nearly 20 years ago, living in New York City, every Friday a group of goy girls would go to temple in a church with a Jewish friend for Shabbat. The temple did not have its own space and, being reformed, used the church's space on Fridays and Saturdays. Naturally, Sunday belonged to the Christians. Shabbat was the most beautiful and peaceful way to transition from the work week to the weekend. There we'd sing in phonetic Hebrew having no idea what our words meant and not worrying either. Even before that time, I fixed a mezuzah to my apartment door and touched it with kissed fingers for a while coming and going. My friend said it was to protect you on your journeys. Eventually, I realized the mezuzah and Shabbat didn't really belong to me.<br />
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I was not faithful to any religion I dabbled in. Just before my Judaism sampler, I was introduced to Wicca out in California. It came at the right time for me. My mother had just died and I realized once and for all I was not a Christian. That is not to say I threw myself unreservedly onto the coven because I really didn't want to go to this event that I perceived to be a freak show. But it was through attending a Samhain festival that I realized that I lacked rituals and meaningful words to be spoken, traditions to be kept. I got to honor my mother's life there with many others celebrating the lives of their newly lost, too. We got to share our pain and turn it into celebration. We helped the wheel of the year crick forward and it felt joyful. I was given a "handbook" or two on paganism and styled myself a Wittan--an Irish witch and that lasted for a few years.<br />
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I see no reason to change the habit of a lifetime. I will always be a religious tourist picking and choosing my itinerary and the proper accommodations for my traditions. I guess I just never had a term for it before now. As long as I'm not an Ugly American, I figure all is fair.The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-48221573363302533752015-08-03T12:04:00.000-05:002015-08-03T12:04:26.536-05:00Coming Home to the Queen<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVdEIo8ecG1NHLYQTm32ES59BQU6-75DlCs6Z2paN2pylHDHY8CqHdO19Abrxetn4Hwp8KOnqPMz8bDyIZAbQlObtw0S9YE3ryFTBFH_82XJYjufLI2WXSoUTBsRLHTQVEptC5s5Gklyg/s1600/IMG_8581.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVdEIo8ecG1NHLYQTm32ES59BQU6-75DlCs6Z2paN2pylHDHY8CqHdO19Abrxetn4Hwp8KOnqPMz8bDyIZAbQlObtw0S9YE3ryFTBFH_82XJYjufLI2WXSoUTBsRLHTQVEptC5s5Gklyg/s200/IMG_8581.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exeter Cathedral</td></tr>
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It has been 12 years since I last lived in England and I liken our return to riding a bicycle if the bike was a Penny Farthing. What I mean is we've needed assistance to get set in motion but once pedaling it is a familiar ride. Would we ever live here again full-time? Right now I just feel really privileged that England is such an intricate part of my life. <br />
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We haven't been to London so far and oddly, aside from not seeing our friends yet, I haven't really minded. Exeter suits me well as does Devon. Even when the council didn't give me my first choice for E's school, I found the second choice is probably even better for her. Don't get me wrong, England still confounds me on how long it took to get Internet and our cellphones up and working (a week and three connection boxes later and a purchased and returned phone) but R's replacement passport came via courier 4 working days after the application was mailed. MAILED! What works works...including the food. This archaic idea the English food is bad must date back to the War when there were rations because some of the best food I've ever eaten was here. And, I'm a seriously picky vegetarian. <br />
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You can never be sure about the weather but as long as you know to layer, you're fine. We went to four different beaches this week and, at the first, I was amused at how the natives dressed like they were on a South Florida beach while I had long pants and sleeves on. Ha, they call this summer? But I was the fool. Because it was actually extremely comfortable, I never felt too hot so I never thought to use sun block. All good though.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sidmouth</td></tr>
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Sidmouth was our first ocean view and a lovely town. We walked up the coast path only this far where a local couple told us for a real Jurassic Coast experience go to Charmouth.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charmouth with first Will-o-Wisp boy</td></tr>
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We hopped right to it and were directed up the crumbling slope by two boys who wanted to show E where to find the best fossils. This stone was called wet stone and it pulled away very easily. Too easily. I felt criminal though this beach is open to fossil hunting but also I felt like I was playing a really dumb and dangerous Jenga game. So did beach patrol who showed us where to safely look. The boys who brought us there in the first place had vanished before we were scolded hence we called them will-o-wisps.<br />
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Some of what we found--turns out is won't last due to the nature of the stone. When it dries it will crumble but we sure were excited in the moment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7b-p-HgZ4HJ17B9kTeUTKkDw1RHuPLoN3uH5RcxhW4R3sgAUF0lwvmRxA0lcQszpV_1NiFeOSUljpjwaK0wl_ci1TUWkeklh6NtgzAcpDKxPmXsZQbGvcjL890wrMc2A-RQoFft3nRSTG/s1600/IMG_9084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7b-p-HgZ4HJ17B9kTeUTKkDw1RHuPLoN3uH5RcxhW4R3sgAUF0lwvmRxA0lcQszpV_1NiFeOSUljpjwaK0wl_ci1TUWkeklh6NtgzAcpDKxPmXsZQbGvcjL890wrMc2A-RQoFft3nRSTG/s320/IMG_9084.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7b-p-HgZ4HJ17B9kTeUTKkDw1RHuPLoN3uH5RcxhW4R3sgAUF0lwvmRxA0lcQszpV_1NiFeOSUljpjwaK0wl_ci1TUWkeklh6NtgzAcpDKxPmXsZQbGvcjL890wrMc2A-RQoFft3nRSTG/s1600/IMG_9084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7b-p-HgZ4HJ17B9kTeUTKkDw1RHuPLoN3uH5RcxhW4R3sgAUF0lwvmRxA0lcQszpV_1NiFeOSUljpjwaK0wl_ci1TUWkeklh6NtgzAcpDKxPmXsZQbGvcjL890wrMc2A-RQoFft3nRSTG/s1600/IMG_9084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCRgCdRBs1PL3Uxc7XS1H9aSMW6pvOz2cRJgIyzpdOXUXhlVvhU2Qfu9dzo2c3IK3F287BCUFFSgN3YxIVmcgo5s_2fmpxmMjZuPPBrhtt2-yKnpdv4FiXSzZ02OH5RvGiOHdHUNLLpQS/s1600/IMG_8945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCRgCdRBs1PL3Uxc7XS1H9aSMW6pvOz2cRJgIyzpdOXUXhlVvhU2Qfu9dzo2c3IK3F287BCUFFSgN3YxIVmcgo5s_2fmpxmMjZuPPBrhtt2-yKnpdv4FiXSzZ02OH5RvGiOHdHUNLLpQS/s320/IMG_8945.jpg" width="257" /></a><br />
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E and a second Will-o-Wisp boy showing her the fossils he found in the huge rocks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82S6FSMnCP9-X6ktSnlZsgU_D7GiwSZGQHI2CqbbKoVqAB8YGz5tnaEsCCVrLn_XeJ_Bcj7wS2yUP5emUY74bTHpamHLI5JAGICOPTVSmDSJQ5hwvzC7FheKabI4-qYY8ksoniWqIrOGc/s1600/IMG_8947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82S6FSMnCP9-X6ktSnlZsgU_D7GiwSZGQHI2CqbbKoVqAB8YGz5tnaEsCCVrLn_XeJ_Bcj7wS2yUP5emUY74bTHpamHLI5JAGICOPTVSmDSJQ5hwvzC7FheKabI4-qYY8ksoniWqIrOGc/s320/IMG_8947.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charmouth Beach--Jurassic Coast</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUImhVNjZyLrAKOz4_DhAMk_Y9WgB15sOf4qMTYhoo7JvSJ8Xgom0kHqd7WjDRDyRimmMHkqR33XNPxrYvGMcf-xCjVdAsIdmcifxEF6afIMYrcepmJpEOi5FK5Ug8meTycM88cNNiwvP/s1600/IMG_8970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUImhVNjZyLrAKOz4_DhAMk_Y9WgB15sOf4qMTYhoo7JvSJ8Xgom0kHqd7WjDRDyRimmMHkqR33XNPxrYvGMcf-xCjVdAsIdmcifxEF6afIMYrcepmJpEOi5FK5Ug8meTycM88cNNiwvP/s320/IMG_8970.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the sea wall in Lyme Regis where Jane Austen set a scene from "Persuasion" </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQozUWawhGXGWMo8SYECnmF0XD1GDeV4x846SCMYikYwJv2T5T5hVG6WyNwWD1OpGSFK2KXAHArV808uXoDBkos93aEdixsz0dwqsznWwe6lfchyphenhyphen3WZAiphDUzIrOJIUKhgQoRdJkWL9F/s1600/IMG_9025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQozUWawhGXGWMo8SYECnmF0XD1GDeV4x846SCMYikYwJv2T5T5hVG6WyNwWD1OpGSFK2KXAHArV808uXoDBkos93aEdixsz0dwqsznWwe6lfchyphenhyphen3WZAiphDUzIrOJIUKhgQoRdJkWL9F/s320/IMG_9025.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mothecombe Beach--privately owned opened 3 days a week to the public</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgdBZd0iEivRjaiyo0fzCbNnzGV2q4iPKIjOY2kK0bh9HZGEBVOSO6fHV1V9TdJ7cGsHnDvkmZHhnE2bkgiNTBOHdN55NHm_cCLNGrVLA6mGCtkrMnbeNsTwsneB4xpkzZ06U_Q6teZnv/s1600/IMG_9062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgdBZd0iEivRjaiyo0fzCbNnzGV2q4iPKIjOY2kK0bh9HZGEBVOSO6fHV1V9TdJ7cGsHnDvkmZHhnE2bkgiNTBOHdN55NHm_cCLNGrVLA6mGCtkrMnbeNsTwsneB4xpkzZ06U_Q6teZnv/s320/IMG_9062.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSE0jMkYOvPPGmnGL8ojVbKm4w9cG7c93tRMSpESX-9RxNQ9jZmVSORCswdax7eXP9x-PrZccg1PEkfkHyd-b3XD6wmuEe9PWwFV7Jb1IhB_AQr1oy4m02oFWWI-RK1Z4u24LG9Hwxd1V8/s1600/IMG_9044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSE0jMkYOvPPGmnGL8ojVbKm4w9cG7c93tRMSpESX-9RxNQ9jZmVSORCswdax7eXP9x-PrZccg1PEkfkHyd-b3XD6wmuEe9PWwFV7Jb1IhB_AQr1oy4m02oFWWI-RK1Z4u24LG9Hwxd1V8/s320/IMG_9044.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-13791932850571243232015-02-17T14:27:00.000-06:002015-03-31T22:50:49.532-05:00Connecting the Dots<style>
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We all have a little part of us that wants to shake the
family tree and have a royal fall out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just for laughs of course since it’s clear we’re not in a line of
succession much less heir to a crumbling estate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d know by now thus making any royal of ours
either low in the birth order, or not power-hungry enough to have made a grab
for the throne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Therefore, it is a dubious boast if you really think about
it and when you’re talking about 10 or more generations back, are those laurels
one should be resting on today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a
boast is really only of personal value since most people’s eyes glaze over when
we start spouting our genealogical discoveries anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly our audience hears our enthusiasm and
appreciates that rather than our words. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve done it and so have you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacfOKbsbeUIDVBPyVgju_Elre8RNQ0aTgERDF8hoXLphjmYFrgFY35XXINMVqf5m6ahsadexqLjlQI9J-ygjO68vdAOcc_iKcX0eQBEZW-aVqy7PZ_bvefBcqdCDaLfaweO3SV9RlKhoB/s1600/fig214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjacfOKbsbeUIDVBPyVgju_Elre8RNQ0aTgERDF8hoXLphjmYFrgFY35XXINMVqf5m6ahsadexqLjlQI9J-ygjO68vdAOcc_iKcX0eQBEZW-aVqy7PZ_bvefBcqdCDaLfaweO3SV9RlKhoB/s1600/fig214.jpg" height="200" width="125" /></a>The first time I went to Westminster Abbey, in the North
Transept I found a monument to William Cavendish, 1 <sup>st</sup> Duke of
Newcastle and his wife <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_Cavendish,_Duchess_of_Newcastle-upon-Tyne">Margaret</a> the daughter of Sir Thomas Lucas of
Colchester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, the name Lucas
jumped out at me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a note as this
was long before iPhones and kept the scrap of paper for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The likelihood that Margaret and I were
related was remote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I first read some of
Margaret’s writing in college in a class on Women in Literature and wanted a
connection all the more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP0Gx7-LATXUjzoNUk_druG7pq0tzO_DHszpzfPxanCVfxnS-Nik7515NvAc4Z-NhCXYxanEQaFmu0VokINNmXmQalERMsp-z__W3LNiKGt0anntqmtDNSvALDPtic0_Vt99jpu5mrhUx/s1600/Margbig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBP0Gx7-LATXUjzoNUk_druG7pq0tzO_DHszpzfPxanCVfxnS-Nik7515NvAc4Z-NhCXYxanEQaFmu0VokINNmXmQalERMsp-z__W3LNiKGt0anntqmtDNSvALDPtic0_Vt99jpu5mrhUx/s1600/Margbig.jpg" /></a>However, as these things often do, it took until last
week—so many years after my first thought of it—to see if indeed there was a
link. As one can, I piggy-backed on others’ research making an unsourced but
clear line of descent between me and Margaret’s eldest brother making her
grandfather Sir Thomas Lucas, the High Sheriff of Essex, my 10<sup>th</sup>
g-grandfather and Margaret my 8 great-grand aunt. See, no crumbling estate for
me to inherit but a fun connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Out of interest, today I decided to continue going as far back as people
had collected information and found the name Blanche Plantagenet!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh holy Toledo, this is it, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a dizzying moment or two I had myself
connected to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_of_Gaunt,_1st_Duke_of_Lancaster">John of Gaunt</a> through his illegitimate daughter Blanche born when
he was just 19 and not yet married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Blanche Plantagenet married Thomas Morieux and had a daughter Elizabeth
Morieux who it appeared married a Lucas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OMG I’m
related to my crush The Black Prince.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hell, I’m related to the Beauforts ergo the Windsors! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>This is so cool, this is amazing, this is… a lie.</div>
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Piggy backing is a lovely way to get somewhere fast but make
damn sure the back you're on is strong enough to take the weight of
scrutiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many Lucas trees joyfully
connect our family to John of Gaunt through Blanche however, sometimes it’s his
daughter, sometimes it’s through his wife Blanche of Lancaster, and sometimes it’s
through Blanche Plantagenet of unknown origins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I couldn’t sort it no matter how I came at it but I finally had to
conclude that my Elizabeth Morieux could not be Blanche’s because my Elizabeth
Morieux would have to have been born before her mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>People wanted the bragging to rights to John of Gaunt so badly that they
claimed him again and again without actually seeing math and logic prevented it
from being so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do we want such
connections anyway? I clearly wanted it when I thought I had it but I never
liked John of Gaunt from what I’ve read so I don’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good miss, if you ask me. </div>
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The upshot is I’m as far back as I’m going for now becasuse
I won’t claim that which is not mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
lying to yourself. Even if the knighthoods stopped rolling in and our innate commonness
eventually swamped the titled connections and sons and daughters emigrated to change their fortunes, I’m still standing on the shoulders
of giants.</div>
The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-7569277938260947772015-01-14T16:12:00.000-06:002015-01-14T16:12:09.169-06:00Now You're Just Making Stuff UpHello 2015! <br />
<br />
This is the year I begin to divest myself from the role of family treasures curator and share the wealth. Well, not completely and I don't know how wealthy any of this stuff would make anyone. But, saying that, I am frequently found on e-bay nowadays as we get our house ready for sabbatical and whomever will be watching our kittehs. Nothing of sentimental value is going but EVERYTHING can't be important and most things CAN BE SOLD or BETTER YET, GIVEN AWAY<br />
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Which brings me to my point. My grandmother had such a lovely china cabinet I wrote the poem about it that I'm sure I published here at some point. I was 14 when I wrote it and she has just been diagnosed with cancer. She lived another 4 years cancer free. But at the time we learned she was ill I became so sentimental and nostalgic for all things I loved about her and the home she made I was compelled to take pen to paper. Flash forward almost 20 years and nearly everything in that cabinet came into my possession. Of course, Diana has a bit too but I have the bulk of it right down the Checkered Chicken (nee The Lucas Chicken). I have paid to have it all cross the ocean two ways and move across states North to South, South to North and East to West but now I'm finally addressing and assessing it. <br />
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In amongst these glazed treasures are two tea cups that go with nothing else, not a saucer, not a plate, not even each other. They are just two random tea cups that have traveled the Atlantic Ocean and never been used while in my possession. As being on e-bay makes you do, partially out of fear of undervaluing your crap, I began to investigate their humble beginnings. The white one obviously hails from my neck of the woods--Shelledge by Syracuse China. The second one is also domestic--Walker China from Bedford, Ohio. So why do we have them when there is no set? They are both mid-last century from what I can tell.<br />
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What to think, what to think? The puzzle solver within awakens, what do I know? I know both of these companies made restaurant china, so of course that information instantly transforms my orphan teacups into bottomless diner coffee cups, albeit the Shelledge looks like it might not have had as greasy a spoon in it as the other solid Fiesta-ware-esque Walker cup. But that is clearly what they are--restaurant or catering china. Why would Grandma Lucas have these? She worked in Howard Johnson's one summer after Dad drank away his academic scholarship. But HoJo's little silhouette was on every piece of china so that's not it.<br />
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Of course, my mind jumps to the only person in that house who would have stolen a cup from a diner--Dad. It's not like Dad was a thief, but he did drink too much in his youth and middle years and what does a drunk like? Coffee! It begins to make sense. I picture my young, erstwhile father making off with a Cornell catering cup of piping hot coffee in an attempt to undo a weekend's worth of damage. In fact, both my scenerios involve my father stumbling off with the china unknowingly in his hand. I knew him to drink I never knew him to steal. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2u2NbtC94FAKp55r1eX5lTVqK2jllm3CIhpVZlPvS_V-WaR18h9bFUwQ1O8p-zA57bxGnrtdmBfGtLTp2BZFQFigCSsUxnXgDzGoBmCGJLoilvJz1fQD8JdKG-vvn2kGuuaTAt7GS5fTF/s1600/61980_10150091583425760_1385240_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2u2NbtC94FAKp55r1eX5lTVqK2jllm3CIhpVZlPvS_V-WaR18h9bFUwQ1O8p-zA57bxGnrtdmBfGtLTp2BZFQFigCSsUxnXgDzGoBmCGJLoilvJz1fQD8JdKG-vvn2kGuuaTAt7GS5fTF/s1600/61980_10150091583425760_1385240_n-1.jpg" height="506" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad front and center <3</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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And that is my myth of origin for these two delightful cups that are worth no more than a few bucks each and have no emotional value to me though I foolishly sponsored their UK-US tour without taking the time to get to know them. <br />
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However, if you have a diner cup collection and would like them let me know immediately otherwise I'm releasing them into the wilds of the thrift store and my load will be that teensy bit lighter.The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-58064619952488801702014-11-18T13:22:00.001-06:002014-11-18T13:22:43.251-06:00Just Fine in the AbstractDeath is absolutely fine in the abstract--when it is distant and can tell a story of a life interestingly led. It is when it comes close and is tangible that my chest tightens and panic surges through me. I am more afraid of the grieving than anything else. I don't want any of us to have to feel that sad.<br />
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Obviously, I enjoy the peace and beauty of a well-appointed cemetery with soft, rolling slopes and grand, ancient and protective trees. But it is really only the older, established cemeteries that make me feel this way. Newer cemeteries or, more to the point, new graves cause immediate discomfort, sadness, even a little shock. Oh wait, I'm not on the private grounds of my estate reading stony biographies of new-old friends? No, I'm also walking through the shaded roads of human sorrow and loss.<br />
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It is a terrible day when death in the abstract takes on a clean line of definition and finality.<br />
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I wrote the above over two years ago and never saw an end to the post much less the point of my words. Where was I heading with my thoughts? They were first written in response to the futility I felt about Polly dying and were put in storage after the shock of losing Luke soon after. Dying is an abhorrent state of affairs and death is only acceptable when ground is gained and time has passed. But it's the no-man's land between death and the beginning to heal that is the most vile, netless, sense of falling from a high place one can ever experience. <br />
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You would think people who have known loss would be adept in consoling those who it is less known to. But, despite my in-depth knowledge into the loss of parents and a sibling, I have no words when people I care about lose loved ones--loved ones I have known and cared about, too. I feel like a fraud erroneously catapulted to professional mourner status. I have the experience but not the know-how. I have sat mute when I should have condoled. I have pretended there was no elephant in the room despite the stinking 20 lb pile of poop we were all warming our hands over. <br />
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I'm not conventionally religious. I can't say I'll pray for you, I can't offer you the hope of God's blessings. But, albeit very simplistically, here's what I can hope for all our loved ones who die:<br />
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>>>They are having a helluva reunion<br />
>>>They are beyond all the emotions known to humankind but love. May we always know love.<br />
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Almost more than anything else, I hope they now know the answers to all the secrets. It would only be fair. <br />
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***********************************The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-14828914388233541672014-11-06T11:25:00.002-06:002014-11-06T11:41:07.496-06:00What is Seen Cannot Be Unseen <div style="text-align: center;">
Damn the Victorians and the Information Age</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Victoria and Family</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Yesterday, I fell prey to the oldest trick on the internet when I chose to "click here to view gallery." So the promising headline in this case was something about the odd things Victorians did with their dead. The gist of this gallery was final photos of the deceased posed as they were in life. Quips like "One of these things is not like the other" introduced family portraits of mixed here and hereafter siblings. One photo had a Conga line of five or six siblings leading down from the oldest to the wee dead toddler whom I think even had her/his hand resting on the shoulder of the next child up. Imagine the Von Trapp Children all in a line and a stiff little Gretl bringing up the rear. What would they have had to bribe Marta with to let Gretl's cold, rigid hand be rested on her shoulder. There's not enough bon bons in the world, my friend. Obviously, I'm mixing eras and sensibilities here but it is a fair comparison for the most part.<br />
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I didn't finish looking through the photos as they degenerated pretty rapidly but also because, of course, I'd known of this practice, and looking at only a few photos was enough to turn an abstract idea into a revolting truth quite handily. However, before I was completely out of this macabre sidetrack to my day, I saw diagrams of the wooden frames photographers attached corpses to in order to pose them. I also saw that this death as life tableau was best supported by a standing corpse "leaning" on a piece of furniture. It was that information right there that hardened into another ghastly thought and likely the truth about a family photograph I never understood why we had.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Vic and daughter</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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As you may remember, there were three surviving Cass children born to Diantha and Judd. Frank, whom I descend from, and Frank's two sisters Mary who married Gib Eccles and Adaline (Addie) who married Gib's older brother Josiah. Aunt Addie makes next to no appearance in Allen's transcribed journals. Though she and her sister were married to brothers, it is clear Mary and Gib were Frank and Nora's closest kin in friendship and shared lives. Mary had a daughter Luella from a first, dissolved marriage and a brood of boys with Gib. Allen loved his cousins very much and they are all mentioned throughout. <br />
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I have often wondered if Addie's life was steeped in a sadness so strong it kept her from sharing in the bustle of homes filled with her extended family. Addie and Josiah had a daughter Myrta in 1874. She died in childhood and while I have absolutely no photos of Addie and don't know what she looked like, Diana does have this one photo of Myrta who never made it out of the 1880s. So why, I asked myself. Why do I know what the dead daughter looks like but no one else from that branch, not even the daughter Bernice born in 1887 who survived to have her own family--The Lees? Why indeed.<br />
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And that is why yesterday when I was peeking at the methods of the Victorian photographers through half closed eyes, the image of Myrta standing so perfectly, her hands resting on a chair back began to superimpose itself onto the diagram. I pushed the thought out but it kept coming back. She's dead in the photo. She's dead. I always knew the photo had to have been taken at the end of her life because she is so frail. There is more weight to the fabric of her dress than to her entire body. Her wrist bone is so delicate and exposed. She is dressed like a little adult and very nicely, I think. Her clothes and earrings suggest money I didn't expect to be available. I had always thought with deep sorrow that Addie and Josiah saw the end coming and decided to hurry and have this photograph of Myrta taken. They would not have known they would have another child so much time was between Myrta and her future sister. I fear there must have been many lost babies or pregnancies. Now, however, the eeriness of the photograph suggests their bereavement was deeper than imagined. It was so intense they likely paid to have this final photograph of Myrta made posthumously.<br />
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Since we have no other artifacts directly linked to Addie, I think this photograph was given to Diantha as a reminder of her first grandchild. We have possessions of Diantha's so that seems the most likely path this photograph took to Diana and me. Earlier this year, I put the photograph on Find-A-Grave. It is also posted elsewhere on this blog but in lieu of posting the photo again directly because what is seen cannot be unseen I put the <a href="http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=pv&GRid=20647386&PIpi=39291692">F-A-G link here</a> . You may think she is still very much alive in the photo but I no longer buy into that. I think they knew the end was near and they were ready to roll with the photographer (who would want that job btw?) as soon as she crossed over. So I'd rather give you the choice. Also, I lost sleep last night thinking about this and I don't want that to happen to anyone else. <br />
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I know everyone mourns differently, or at least that's what I was told in kindness by someone after my mother died and my world imploded and everyone seemed strange to me in their own reactions. But we all react to death on a socially acceptable spectrum for the most part, it's just good some traditions peter out. Frankly, I'm very glad we didn't prop Sandie up to get one last snap, she's better in my heart and on Kodachrome where "<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6055976241823156958#editor/target=post;postID=1594236316531266620;onPublishedMenu=posts;onClosedMenu=posts;postNum=12;src=postname">all the world's a sunny day</a>."<br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-71335745865895213162014-10-27T10:49:00.001-05:002014-10-27T11:06:15.610-05:00Who Do You Think You Are?The Family History business is a funny old one. Very scientifically or rather based completely on personal experience and riddled with anecdotal evidence, I have found that on the whole, people interested in their genealogy can be divided into two very distinct groups; <b>The Missionary </b>and <b>The Elitist</b>.<b> </b><br />
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The first group are the <b>Missionaries</b> and they want the world to know who they are, who they come from and are always willing to find their connection to you no matter how tenuous. They prefer their cake completely frosted sides and all. Their trees have many branches and all leaves are of value and interest.<br />
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The second group are the <b>Elitists</b> who want to know where they came from, even revel in it at times, yet disregard all branches but their own as unworthy. They would rather pretend their family tree had no offshoots other than the one on which they are smugly perched. Basically, do not deign to call yourself kin if you have not grown up with them in their inner circle. They prefer frosting only on the very top of their perfectly baked cake.<br />
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I am sure you can tell where I see myself on this spectrum. A cake without frosting is an abomination and a person with a genetic relationship with you that is as close as a great or great-great who is unwilling to share their knowledge of said relative is right up there with the naked cake. Who the hell do you think you are? <br />
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Maybe I'm too emotional to discuss this today and will come off crazier than I really am so, in my defense, I confess that I am writing from the dizzying position of my seasonal <span class="st">Ménière's </span>compounded by the loss of a particularly important research binder this week. However, disclaimer now given, I have had this pet peeve about near-relations who blank you for a very long time.<br />
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I am forever grateful to my Missionary cousins Patsy (Cass side), Susan (Nye side) and the late Alfred (Lucas side) for generously sharing theories, photos and research with me on our relatives and for being genuinely happy to have found our connection. But I have come across far more Elitists in this line of work which begs the question why they put an open tree on Ancestry.com in the first place? It could be they just aren't savvy enough to make it private but, sadly I think it is more likely to wield power over others. "Of course we know the full story but we wouldn't share it with you...if you don't know it already than there must be a reason...these are my relatives, not yours." I have felt real proprietorial push back on more than one occasion and new acquaintances have dropped undeveloped after an initial, dutiful acknowledgement of my enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: "I have been searching this line for 20 years, I can't believe I found you! You must know... etc." <br />
<b>Them:</b> "Yes, nice to meet you, I'll check with the person who did the original research when I can."<br />
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Six months pass and I drop them a note to jog their memory. A year passes and I drop them another short email reminder that I am still waiting and still hopeful. I hold back the full tsunami force of what has now grown in me from the joy of finding a strong lead to my conviction that these silent cousins hold the only sledgehammer capable of shattering my research wall. They must talk to me, they must tell me what they know. Why won't they tell me what they know? What could possibly be difficult in answering a simple question? " What does it mean they haven't logged into their account for 3 months. Well it means they've been there within the past year and still not answered me! ANSWER ME DAMN IT!<br />
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But I digress. I think there should be a family research code. And I think it should begin:<br />
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<b> As an amateur genealogist I (state your name) promise to share with all my cousins either known or unknown the family history I have collected on our mutual relatives deceased for over 50 years. </b><br />
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And because right now my hope is diminishing daily on one particularly strong lead I was following, I think there should be a binding parameter of time in which to share.<br />
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<b>I (state your name) promise to share said research within one month of any request for it. </b><br />
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I think I only ask for what is reasonable: Frosted Cake for Everyone!<b> </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM3aopFBY468APR1nkn0RDUA3oYUerFJNu1_txrqJeL30EjPGHkxiclQ2tbmM-oZN5XUHmNUMPnugH2Klp8zGSMFUpxSosHsQ75l0EK-Nux9lNnIjDxImhjb2VN0ubOWJZfs3nqOB0gCK/s1600/The+Missionary's+Tree.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM3aopFBY468APR1nkn0RDUA3oYUerFJNu1_txrqJeL30EjPGHkxiclQ2tbmM-oZN5XUHmNUMPnugH2Klp8zGSMFUpxSosHsQ75l0EK-Nux9lNnIjDxImhjb2VN0ubOWJZfs3nqOB0gCK/s1600/The+Missionary's%2BTree.jpeg" height="247" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-29768712003826362622014-01-02T22:44:00.000-06:002014-01-02T22:44:08.961-06:00Was Telling Someone Not to be Nervous Ever Helpful?<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Alice Warn Cass (1880-1936)</b></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b><b>JANUARY 2</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>Thursday 1913</b><br />
Allen and I went to Jamestown to see the doctor. We got some nerve pills.<br />
Paid Aunt and Mort $5.75<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojrXAryJvH7wEwEeFfd1dTavOguwv6UipJ7ddGdHkAPhynHh1SrfGOTCLEpADyWroe9ygU9I_Ds1iaO6D5LXF9Rn-oQZm6wkx-FXJbWjHCNnF4_iFvWlQcBe8hTW1aEMlgDhDLhQsDJ5T/s1600/013-454-F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojrXAryJvH7wEwEeFfd1dTavOguwv6UipJ7ddGdHkAPhynHh1SrfGOTCLEpADyWroe9ygU9I_Ds1iaO6D5LXF9Rn-oQZm6wkx-FXJbWjHCNnF4_iFvWlQcBe8hTW1aEMlgDhDLhQsDJ5T/s320/013-454-F.jpg" width="219" /></a>Paid Dr. $5.00<br />
Spent $7.50<br />
for dry goods<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday 1934</b><br />
It is fair out but very cold. I got up quite early. Fell went back to Albany. Mab & Eleanor began their school again. Carl fixed the chimney. Mattie came. <b><br /></b><br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday 1935</b><br />
Herman and Mildred called. The sun is shinning. Mab went back to (?) school.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Thursday 1936</b><br />
We took the Christmas tree out.<b> </b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Nora Babcock Cass (1856-1932)</b></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b><b>JANUARY 2</b></div>
<b>Thursday 1879</b><br />
Today finds me well. Taught school. It is an awful, cold, stormy day boarding at O.E. Thayer's. Little Flora is very sick. I find my mind somewhat unsettled tonight. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Frank Smith Cass (1851-1932)</b></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b>JANUARY 2</b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Tuesday 1917</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b>Victor Long paid up his mortgage and I gave Allen $100 toward paying Alice's Dr. bill at the hospital.<b> </b></div>
</div>
<b><br />Tuesday 1923 </b><br />
<br />
Rollie went up to Ivory to a Farmer’s Institute. Willard started back to Ann Arbor College. Gilbert Eccles died aged 81 years.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday 1924</b><br />
<br />
Made a reach for Rollie’s Sleds. Rollie drew manure.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>Friday 1925</b><br />
<br />
Rollie
+ Morris drew wood + manure in the forenoon. Willard was here in the
afternoon. Rollie paid Erie Comstock + Mearle Cowan $40.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 1926</b><br />
<br />
Got 1350 soft coal. Drew up deed sent a contract to John A Wheeler for a Village Lot.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday 1927</b><br />
<br />
Rollie + Ester were here part of the day. Morris went to church + Sunday school.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday 1928 </b><br />
<br />
Stormy day. Rollie and Ester, Hugh and his wife called a while. Rollie + Esther stayed all night.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday 1929</b><br />
<br />
Stayed at home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Thursday 1930</b><br />
<br />
Ward Abbey was here and offered me $45 for the 5 stacks of Hay on the hill farm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Friday 1931</b><br />
<br />
Allen A. and Ruthie (Rustic’s?)came. Allen stayed with me most of the afternoon.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 1932</b><br />
<br />
Stayed at home Allen A. called. He is starting back to Ann Arbor. (very shakey hand)<br />
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The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-30674702296472571112014-01-01T16:49:00.003-06:002014-01-01T16:49:41.051-06:00The Wheel of the Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Different Voices: Different Years</span></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Frank m. Nora</div>
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I </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I_________________________________________________I</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> Allen </b>m. Alice <b>Rollin</b> m. Esther </div>
1. Willard (m. Florence) 1. Phyllis<br />
2. Dorothy<br />
3. Morris & (twin died in infancy, Marvin)<br />
4. Mabel (m. Stuart)<br />
5. Ruth (m. Jack)<br />
6. Allen (aka Fell) dated Eleanor<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Alice Warn Cass (1880-1936)</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, January 1, 1913</b><br />
<br />
Ground
buckwheat and took washing down to Mrs. Haley. Frank and Morris came
over in the morning. Allen came in with the New Year after being gone
for four days.<br />
<br />
Paid Gene Odell $1.00 for cutting wood<br />
<br />
<b>Monday January 1, 1934</b><br />
<br />
Mild in the morning but cold at night. Stayed home all day. Rollie & Esther called. in the evening we all visited. Fell & Eleanor were here.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Tuesday, January 1, 1935</b><br />
<br />
It has snowed all day. Last night Earnest Bennett's house burned up in Fentonville. We laid around all day and rested.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, January 1, 1936</b><br />
<br />
The sun shone all day. Fell got home abut one o'clock. Rollie & Phyllis came over. Dot came over and swept for me. Fell wen to the Nordus Club dinner and dance with Florence & Willard.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Nora Babcock Cass (1856-1932)</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday January 1, 1879</b><br />
<br />
"Happy New Year" I spent the day at sister Emma's . Frank came after me. Had a fine ride back to school. Stayed at his house all night . My resolution is to do just as nearly right as possible with Jesus as my helper. N.B.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Frank Smith Cass (1851-1932)</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Sunday December 31, 1916</b><br />
<br />
Ed Harrington lost his best horse, it got kicked and had to kill it. <br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Monday January 1, 1917</b><br />
<br />
Nora and I went up to Joel Harrington's and visited with them and Mr. Maret's (?) folks.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Monday January 1, 1923 </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Allen's folks were all here. Carl Anderson and Dorothy, and Mary Dalrymple.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday January 1, 1924</b><br />
<br />
A very stormy day did not do much. Mrs. Ella Bingham was buried. <b><br /></b><br />
<br />
<b>Thursday January 1, 1925</b><br />
<br />
I was sick most all night. Rollie went to a party below Fentonville.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>Friday January 1, 1926</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Willard was here a while in the morning. Rollie came and stayed all night. He is working at Dunkirk.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Saturday January 1, 1927</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Rollie, Esther, Frank & Gunner & the Doctor were here.<b><br /></b><br />
<br />
<b>Sunday January 1, 1928</b><br />
<br />
We all went to church. Rollie came and stayed with us in the afternoon.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>Tuesday January 1, 1929</b><br />
<br />
We all stayed at home. Ruth Nora came and stayed a little while towards evening.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>Wednesday January 1, 1930</b><br />
<br />
We all stayed at home. Allen, Alice, Rollie, Esther, Phyllis and Ruth Nora were here a while. Allen & Alice are thinking of going to Florida.<br />
<br />
<b>Thursday January 1, 1931</b><br />
<br />
It snowed some. I have a hard cold. Rollie & Esther & Phyllis called a little while.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>Friday January 1, 1932</b><br />
<br />
Rollie & I went up to Mr. Davis's to see his cattle.<br />
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<br />
Meanwhile, up the road a piece in <a href="http://mcclurgmuseum.org/blog/2011/01/18/edward-work-bicentennial-biography-no-7/">Worksburg</a> (Falconer) another side of the family...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Alice Phetteplace Lucas (1846-1913)</span><br />
<br />
<b>Monday January 1, 1866</b><br />
<br />
Cloudy day and cold. Emma went to town. Finished our dresses. Went to Sinclairville in the afternoon at 4 o'clock. Got home at past ? in the morning. Had a very good time. <br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6055976241823156958.post-56213379454772240922013-11-08T16:50:00.002-06:002013-11-08T16:50:30.041-06:00War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It has been nearly 100 years since the start of World War I-- the war to end all wars. To mark this anniversary we will be writing about this era over the next few months and sharing our family history as it relates.<br />
<br />
For now here are two classic songs from the War:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbggEGUaE28"> Over There</a><br />
<br />
or our Grandma Kate's favorite:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzb7yMOW5OA">Hinky Dinky Parlez Vous</a><br />
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<br />The Checkered Chickenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11862213204312810794noreply@blogger.com0