When Garden Gnomes Ruled The Earth - Port Ludlow, Washington

Wordless Wednesday.

What's Really Wrong With Education (International Edition)

Sometimes it feels like the United States is severely behind the rest of the world in its education standards. At least, that's what the newspapers tell us, so it must be true, right?

Maybe.

I've been completely engrossed in researching the history of my paternal grandparents, who emigrated to South Africa from Latvia in the early 1930s. It occurred to me that there are probably some immigration records for them in some South African archive ... somewhere. I haven't dealt with the South Africans yet, but having had such good luck with the Latvian State Archive, I thought, why not? I mean, I even speak their language.

The South African National archives website states that immigration and other records are available at the Department of Home Affairs, whose website doesn't seem to have a place to request a records search, but does have a helpful webform you can use to request information.

My request went out last night:

I am trying to locate immigration records for my grandparents and members of their families from the 1930s. Can you please direct me to the appropriate department? I live in Seattle, WA, USA.

Since I believe in trying to focus on the positive, I would like to note that the following reply came back within hours - lightning speed for any government agency, anywhere:

Kindly be advised that you need to visit your nearest department of home affairs regional office where an immigration officer will be able to assist you. Please have as much supporting documents as you can get in order to be assisted further.

Not to belabor the obvious, but traveling to my nearest Department of Home Affairs regional office involves two airplane flights lasting, at a minimum, 24 hours. Not that I mind, what with the free WiFi airlines now provide to compensate passengers for the leg cramps and lack of edible food.

But, I digress.

Ever the optimist, I replied:

I cannot "visit" my local office - I live in Seattle. I am trying to locate historical documents. Please advise - is there an archive where these documents are located? thank you.

Again, to their credit, the reply came back speedily:

Please accept our sincerest apologies for the miscommunication. Please be advised that you will need to visit the South African embassy and request to speak to an immigrations officer.

Washington DC is, in fact, a shorter plane flight from here, and one that probably will have free WiFi, too. But before I hop on that plane, I'm thinking I might explore a few alternatives.

All Conch Shells Must ... Belize Airport, Belize City

Wordless Wednesday.

What's Really Wrong With Education in America (History Edition)

On Saturday, I attended a board meeting for my local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Afterward, I met up with my family for a bite to eat and a walk around the Redmond Saturday Market, an open air market that houses assorted purveyors of farm-fresh, occasionally mysterious produce, as well as unbearably clever handicrafts that could never be referred to as "necessities" in any sense of the word.

While I was checking out some dangly handcrafted earrings made from sparkly handcrafted beads, the seller took note of the D.A.R. pin on the collar of my raincoat* and asked: "Is your name Dar?"

I replied, "No, that's for the D.A.R."

Dangly Earring Seller: "What's that?"

Me: "That's the Daughters of the American Revolution."

Dangly Earring Seller: "What's that?"

Me: "It's a service organization. To join it, you have to prove you are descended from someone who served in the Revolution."

Dangly Earring Seller: "What do you mean, Revolution?"

Me: "The War of the American Revolution."

Dangly Earring Seller: "Oh, you mean like the Civil War?"

Me: "No, the American Revolutionary War. The Civil War was a little later."

Dangly Earring Seller: "When was it?"

Me: "The revolution? It started in 1776."

Dangly Earring Seller: "Wow. That was a long time ago."

*Because it's June and has been raining nonstop since last November. I reserve the right to whine incessantly about it, unless you can suggest someone I can successfully sue.

When You Least Expect It: Father's Day Edition

Today, I wished my father a Happy Father's Day.

You probably did too.

Or maybe you sent your father a card. I might have sent a card, too, except Hallmark doesn't actually make a card that expresses just the right sentiment for me. In fairness to Hallmark, I didn't actually look; rather, I made an assumption that they don't make a card that says, "Happy Father's Day, it's kind of fun getting to know you after four decades." 

I sent my father an email, because, not having much practice with it, I pretty much suck at Father's Day. I knew enough not to get a tie, but since I live in the Pacific Northwest, where a typical male fashion statement involves socks worn with Birkenstocks*, ties aren't really part of the whole gift-giving culture. Although I might possibly have missed the tie counter at REI - which, as a purveyor of things like tents and backpacks, terrifies me.

When I was in elementary school, the other kids all made Father's Day gifts and cards. I know this because I could hear them whisper about it as the teacher sent me to another classroom to be a "helper" or some equally flimsy pretext. I could sense somehow that they were hiding their handmade cards in their backpacks like they had been told to do by the teacher, so that I wouldn't know and feel left out.

Also, my best friend told me this right after school.

My mother once tried to persuade me that as she was a single parent, she was both parents to me, and thus I should buy her a Father's Day gift. I admit there's a certain logic to it, but since it a) wasn't my own idea and b) struck me as vaguely mercenary, I declined. 

I wished my ex-husband a Happy Father's Day once, on behalf of our daughter, who was just a few months old at the time. I bought him a gift and took him out for brunch and within a year, we were talking only through our attorneys. I'm not sure the events are connected, but I'm also not sure they aren't: Being Dutch, he was endlessly baffled by and somewhat fearful of American holidays**.

Mostly, I have just ignored Father's Day, like I ignore Administrative Professionals Day and Left-Handers Day and International Tuba Day*** and a whole host of other holidays that, for one reason or another, simply Do Not Apply.

But today, I got to wish my own father a Happy Father's Day, my own way: An awkward but heartfelt message.

Maybe next year, I'll work my way up to a handmade card.


*hemp necklace optional.
**Halloween in particular scared the crap out of him: "Why do people dress their children up like zoo animals and send them begging for candy?"
***May 3. Look it up.

Adventures in Genealogy: The Missing Grave Markers of Frank & Anna Smith

My amazing maternal grandmother, Agnes (Smith) Herrman, originally sparked my interest in genealogy. I used to visit her over the holidays and we'd spend a lot of time talking - well, I listened and asked questions and then listened some more. Mostly, she talked about family, and when I was in my Someday I'm Going to Marry Prince Andrew* phase, I started asking about family trees, because when you read about royalty, there seem to be lots of them (generally with branches intertwining in a less-than-wholesome fashion).

She knew a lot about our family tree, and could recite it from memory. I have pages and pages of handwritten diagrams from that time, all my notes taken from her extraordinary memory.

When I discovered that my line - her line - traces back up to a revolutionary war patriot, and I was thus eligible to join the Daughters of the American Revolution, I knew I had to. I met with the local chapter registrar, Pat, and walked her through the lineage, and she told me what sorts of additional documentation would be needed for each generation from me back to Lieut. William Woodworth. One of the requests was for pictures of gravemarkers for my great-grandparents, Frank and Anna Smith.

Here's the thing: the grave markers have been removed. I know this because I once asked my grandmother if we could go to her parents' graves, and she told me about how she had gone to the cemetery, and they were no longer there. She became very angry that the markers had been removed not even fifty years after her parents' deaths, and launched into a diatribe about the evils of the Catholic Church that they would do something like that, and she was sure somehow there was a monetary reason for the removal.

Pat suggested I call the cemetery anyway, as "they may still have the cemetery plot card or other records; you'd be amazed what falls out of those files. Call them."

She was very insistent, and once I discovered the letter that fell out of Clara Herman's cemetery file, I thought maybe Pat was on to something, so I called.

A fellow by the name of Dick answered the phone at the Catholic cemetery in Antigo, Wisconsin, and I inquired if he had any records for Frank and Anna Smith. The gravemarkers had been removed, I told him, but might they have other records?

Dick became rather indignant. "We would not have done that."

"Well," I told him, "My grandmother was there maybe 20 years ago and the headstones had been removed."

"No," Dick insisted, "We would not have done that. I'm going to go take a look, I'll call you back in five minutes."

So I waited for Dick to call me and sheepishly admit what the evil Catholic empire had done for fun and profit.

He did call back, within the hour. "I think I know why your grandmother thought what she did."

Apparently the markers, which were originally placed in the 1930s, were of the flat variety: they lie flush to the ground. These markers had sunk over time, and Frank's in particular was barely visible. It is entirely possible that the day my grandmother went to her parents' graves, they were overgrown, and she thought that since she could not see them, they were no longer there (and from there, obviously, it's a short leap to a vast Catholic headstone-removal-for-profit conspiracy**).

Dick offered to mail some photos of markers, so I could see what had happened, and so he did, about a week later. He also included cemetery records that showed four of my grandmother's brothers buried in the same plot, two of whom died as infants and had no markers.

In his letter, Dick offered to dig up, raise, and restore the gravemarkers, and quoted a price I thought was reasonable, so I mailed off a check and requested he begin the work. When he dug up Frank's marker, the cement "collar" was broken into several pieces, so he mailed me photos of that and suggested replacing it.

And earlier this week, I received photos of the completed work:

This is Frank and Anna on their wedding day in 1886:

Is it weird to go around replacing gravemarkers of people who died even before my mother was born? Probably. But if you look closely at the wedding photo, you can see Anna is wearing a pin at her collar. That pin was given to my grandmother Agnes (the ninth of Anna's eleven children), who later gave it to me - the youngest of her four grandchildren. A gift from Anna, passing through time. The least I can do, I think, is return the favor.


*This was, obviously, long before he married that interesting red-headed lady.
**For the record (in all seriousness), I have nothing against the Catholic church.

Pizza Isn't Flat Anymore!!! Pizzacone - New York City

Wordless Wednesday.

I Was Lost But Now Am Found. Thanks, BlogFrog

Some days, it frightens me that people are allowed on the information superhighway without a written test and some sort of skills assessment.

For the past year, I've been reading and blogging and trying to promote my blog various ways, and although my Google Followers count has increased, it still isn't very high, and, oddly, whenever I check my Feedburner stats, it appears that no one is reading my feed.

No one.

According to Feedburner, I have seven subscribers most days, never more, although some days the number drops lower, as low as two or three. And of those "subscribers," no one is actually reading a thing. When you've been blogging (off and on) for the better part of a year and the best number you can manage is a seven, and no more, suddenly, it doesn't feel like a terribly lucky number.

Truth be known, it feels more like a taunt, especially since right under the number, every day, is a little exhortation from Google to Monetize All That Traffic Up There!

Um, why? So I can buy a cup of coffee ... someday? Because even that modest goal seems overly ambitious given that growth in the price of a cup of coffee is probably going to be greater than my readership growth, despite my best efforts.

I'd create a spreadsheet to document that, but nobody would read it and I'd end up even more depressed.

So the other evening, I was poking around over on BlogFrog and trying to figure out why other people appear on my widget but I never appear on theirs*, I discovered a help board post inquiring why someone's Blog Feed on BlogFrog doesn't update properly. And a very helpful person replied explaining that if you use Feedburner to process your blog feed, then you have to enter your feed URL into the "Post Feed Redirect" settings in Blogger. This incredibly helpful person included pictures showing exactly what needed to go where, for bloggers like me, who are capable of writing, but not reading.

I followed the instructions, and Lo! My blog started updating on BlogFrog. I am guessing everyone who clicked the little "Subscribe" button on my blog suddenly got a feed, too, because the next morning, I broke into the double-digits on my "subscribers" and not only that, they actually read stuff.

Lots and lots of stuff was read!

For those of you who found me and kept coming back, somehow**, in spite of my technological epic fail, thank you for coming - if it wasn't for you I would actually have been talking to myself in a public place. Allow me to express my gratitude by buying you a cup of organic, free trade, shade grown, artisanally roasted genuine Seattle coffee next time you are in my area.

Hopefully soon, the little exhortation to "Monetize all that traffic up there!" will feel less like a taunt and more like a temptation.


*My computer doesn't like cookies, but I've now explained that it's OK to eat them after a well-balanced meal.
**how?

Life Skills: Shopping

Once upon a time I was young and thin and lived in Manhattan. I lived like a princess, except my palace was a really small apartment and my footmen looked like ... well, mostly I just stepped on them, so they didn't look like much. But I had piles of clothes and since I walked everywhere, I was so magically petite that one of my bosses used to appear at my desk and hand me a Hershey's Big Block and demand that I eat it was it was going to be windy and I might blow away.


I moved to the suburbs, had a baby, and ten years later - voila! No longer am I thin, and I can actually find empty hangers in my closet, just desperate for something - anything - to be hung on them. My palace is a lot bigger these days, and instead of footmen, I now have a bi-weekly cleaning service. 


But oh, how I do miss my princess days.

So it's exciting to me to get called to Manhattan on business, because if there's anything in this world that resembles being a princess, it's being in a hotel in New York without a husband or a child at my side, for several days. 

So after spending two days bonding with co-workers at meetings, a conference, and some allegedly top-shelf grappa, you can imagine my thrill when I found myself in SoHo with absolutely no commitments and a Visa card in my wallet. I wandered from store to store up and down Prince Street, Spring Street, Mercer Street, admiring beautiful skirts and dresses and outfits I would never need in real life, but would invent occasions and throw parties just to have a reason to wear them.

I searched in vain for tags with the magical phrase "Size 10." Apparently, SoHo has been transformed into some sort of fashion-forward Lilliput, as no one who shops there is larger than a size 6. Possibly it has always been this way, and I just never noticed before. In my last visit to SoHo, the magic phrase was "50% Off," which is almost as hard to find - so this is a distinct possibility.


But as in all fairy tales, the heroine is courageous and resourceful, and I rapidly realized there was only one solution: Accessorize.


I came to this realization outside a huge loft with emblazoned with the Siren lure: Sample Sale. Among the treasures I discovered two cropped sweaters and a hand-embroidered scarf with a fantastic bird design that I adore, even though, as you know, I am not a bird-watcher in any sense of the word. The scarf fit me now, but it will also continue to fit me should I ever be a size 6 again - or a size 16, for that matter: that's the beauty of accessories.  Across the street, there was a tiny shop with an Italian name, so my coworker and I headed there next, and discovered the most fantastic leather goods: A purse shaped like a gingerbread house. A doggy bag complete with schnauzer applique. A wallet with a safari scene.

So many fantastic designs, in fact, that I could not decide, and rather than ask my colleague to wait further, I thought, well, this can only mean one thing: I don't really want any of it. So we had a fine dinner, and went back to our palace, and I went to sleep and dreamed of handbags.

And schnauzers.

Clearly, I needed to go back to the store, but my New York time was limited. I had one more evening, Friday, during which I planned to have dinner with an old friend, and then Saturday another coworker had invited me to the Belmont Stakes, an all-day affair outside of Manhattan. I checked the store hours on my blackberry and realized there was very little chance I would be able to go back before I had to leave the city.

Friday evening I headed down to the same general part of town to meet my old friend at a disturbingly trendy restaurant, where I was eyed suspiciously and seated at the bar to wait.

And wait.

And ... wait.

And a half hour later, with no signs of her and an assurance that there was no reservation in the system and thus, no hope of being seated in said restaurant in this lifetime*, I called my husband and inquired if abandoning the wait and going off shopping for accessories made me a jerk, or if I should attempt to track down my friend and have the previously-planned (or so I thought) dinner.

Don't you just love it when your husband says just the right thing?

"You waited a half hour for a no-show - go buy yourself something, you earned it."

So I walked in the direction of the lovely little doggie bags, but slowly, as another thing I've forgotten about the big city is how to wear shoes meant for walking, and lots of it, and I now have giant blisters on the back of each foot. Size 10 blisters.

But I'm courageous and I'm resourceful and I make my way out of Nolita and through SoHo and over to West Broadway, where I'm about ten minutes too late. I sadly hail a cab and return to my palace, and console myself with some cannoli I've acquired on my fruitless journey.

I wake up the next morning in excruciating pain. One, I have size ten blisters, and two, I have no purse to show for them. This will never do.

I realize that my train to Belmont Track leaves at noon, and the little Italian handbag store opens at eleven. I have just enough time to get there when the store opens, buy a purse, hop a cab, and make the train, and if I stick to that plan, I can spend the day hobbling around Belmont Track carrying a giant shopping bag and a sense of profound satisfaction.

This thought makes me happy. Indeed, it sustains me as I sit on the stoop next to the store at 11:00, then 11:05, then 11:10, and realize that the owner is, in fact, Italian, and thus regular business hours may not be on eastern standard time. I am becoming vaguely disheartened as I realize that in only another ten minutes, I will have to hail a cab for Penn Station, purse or no purse.

And then my fairy godmother appeared, in all her Italian splendor. She's upset that I have been waiting for her, and ushers me around the store, showing me all the purses, and, because I have been waiting for her, offering me a full 60% off, tax included. She holds up one bag of the softest leather embossed with little Italian cars all over, shows me all the different ways you can attach the straps to carry the bag (practical? be serious. it's Italian, that's not the point). She explains that it is the last one ... and I'm looking at this vision in orange and thinking: My current purse will fit right inside that and I can just carry them both today.

So I spend my day at the racetrack, losing money on horses that look awfully pretty crossing the finish line in last place, watching the spectacle from the most glorious seats, cooling myself with the tastiest lemonade in the world, and gently caressing the soft Italian bright orange car-embossed Braccialini handbag - 60% off, one size fits all, fit for a princess.

*I think the chairs only seat iPhone-toting size 4's, but that's just a guess.

Life Skills: Leaving On A Jet Plane

Last week, I went to New York City on business - a five-and-a-half hour flight from here. Since I was traveling all by my fearful-flying self, I had lots of time to observe and consider the details that might make air travel easier for other like-minded*  flyers.

Getting to and from the airport:

• Although it's cheaper to park your car at a lot a short distance from the airport and ride the lot's shuttle bus, this presents another problem: Your shuttle driver may have his own fear of flying, which he might describe to you in great detail as you approach the terminal. One possible solution is to turn on your iPod, but as this might cause you to miss your stop, you might wish to just pony up and park at the airport. Or just ride a pony across country.
• You may be surprised to discover that NYC taxi cabs are now clean and new**, and accept debit cards, and think, "Wow, things have come a long way." Yes and no. You won't have an easier time finding a functional seatbelt than you did in, say, 1977, and the driving hasn't improved even if the driver's English has - a fact you will note when he explains to you that the overpowering odor you smell isn't him but the river. Seriously: don't forget your iPod, the new travel essential.

Entertaining yourself during the flight:

• Bring lots of books, particularly hardcovers. The extra weight in your carry-on will give you quite the workout as you navigate the airport, and who can't use more exercise? You won't need them for the flight, though, as others will generously share their own entertainment with you. For example, the couple in front of you may have brought only a laptop, an action movie, and no headphones, to entertain their two young children for the nearly six-hour flight. Enjoy the explosions and gunfire, and remember it could actually be worse: those two children might have had no entertainment at all. Turn the volume on your iPod to eleven and enjoy the flight.

Arriving at the airport:

• Sometimes, life gives you happy little surprises, like a tailwind that brings your plane (safely) to the airport a full half hour ahead of schedule. Your fellow passengers may immediately all turn on their cellphones to notify their friends that they have arrived early. Save your minutes! Just because your plane has arrived doesn't mean there's a gate available. And although it might be tempting to make a second call when a gate does free up 15 minutes later, remember, you still need a gangway operator if you are to actually get off the plane and into the airport, and it could take as long as a half hour for one to arrive. Of course you might want to call your friends to keep them updated, but keep in mind that all the other passengers do too, and so it may be difficult to hear the person you are calling over the din. 

When you finally get to your hotel room, it may be later than you anticipated, so help yourself to the minibar. Gummi Bears and Diet Coke: The midnight snack of champions. Enjoy! You earned it.

*terrified.
**Which is to say, your feet don't stick to the floor.

Bridge of the Gods, Cascade Locks, Oregon

Wordless Wednesday.

When you least expect it, Part 2

In the course of doing my genealogy research, I have sent letters and emails and made phone calls to any number of relatives. In some cases, I have tracked down quite distant relatives, using information in obituaries and other records, requesting information and photographs - whatever they have. I'm sure it's a little odd to them, to receive this unexpected letter in the mail from a stranger claiming to be a distant relative.

So, in the grand scheme of things, it's only fair that I should also receive a similarly unexpected letter as well.

Shortly after my surprising discovery while researching my father's family, I got an email from someone I have not seen or heard from in 41 years: my father. 

I don't think I need to divulge my exact age for you to get your arms around that one.

So, what do you say to someone you haven't spoken to in 41 years?

We started with Hello.

Since I was uncertain how to proceed (someone really should write a manual for this, I'd buy it), I decided to apply advice that has served me well in another area.  In genealogy, the experts recommend you start with the present and work your way back. Since it was genealogy that sparked the conversation with my cousin that sparked his email, that seemed to me like the way to go. When I suggested that to him, he agreed.

Progress.

Llama Ranch Bed and Breakfast - For Sale, Trout Lake, WA

Wordless Wednesday.