Every now and again, life throws you a curve-ball. Sometimes, we react badly...pout, whine, cry, get mad...you name it. Other times we take things calmly with grace. Then, there are those times we simply don't care--so much so that it makes us wonder if we're really okay, knowing that in general we'd be very disappointed as our expectations crumble about our ears. 

Okay, so maybe you don't react in some of those said ways, but I do. I'm rather in the throes of the third option there.

I've been looking forward to going to the Perryville Civil War reenactment for months. I kind of intended it as my birthday fling and nobody needed to feel obliged to give me anything. I was going to go have fun for my birthday.

Well. Lord has other plans I think. 

Ever since getting back from Tennessee, I've not felt too "hep". I had about two good days last week and Sunday was alright, but I've been an absolute drag the rest of the time. Indeed, if you were to see me as I wrote this blog post, you would notice that my eyes are almost half-closed, I'm sitting (er, lounging) sideways in my chair with my head laid on the back and my laptop on the chair's arm. I feel like my face is swollen and I probably look kind of pouty because I'm not making any effort to tighten up my face muscles. 

Anyway, the long and the short of it is--unless I get a wild swing of energy tomorrow (since I would need tomorrow to cobble things together in time to leave on Thursday) and then feel decent on Thursday morning, myself and faithful sidekick Katherine will be staying home. I've pretty much resigned myself to not going and I don't even hardly feel disappointed. Just vaguely. Katherine herself isn't feeling much better and as I sit here, I can see her two unfinished dresses. I pretty much made one of them (though she fix an issue that needed fixing when I took a nose-dive) and the other one has been all her. 

In other, more thrilling news, I have managed to puddle around some today and I'm pleased, in a subdued kind of way, to silently point you to the fact that you can actually see the floor in the front room/sewing room. I even sat on the floor with the vacuum hose and got the majority of the thread up off the carpet. The disheveled wads of material are at least in neater stacks and I got the lid on one of the doll-dress material boxes and reorganized another of them so that their isn't fabric spilling out in all directions. I fixed up my own personal stacks and even threw out some things. 

​Life marches on. And I think I'm going to go get a snack. 

Apparently, from a young age I aspired to keep a hand-written journal and have always had trouble with it. My old green treasure box (actually a diaper wipe box) was brought in from the truck a few days ago and I'm going through it. Inside, I found this green book with gold lettering diagonally across the front proclaiming: Memoranda.

I've been laughing til I cried looking at the entries. My handwriting was awful (I think I may have written a hunk of it in a vehicle, so that didn't help) but my spelling was atrocious!! All original spelling, punctuation, and grammar.

The very first entry was written in by my mother for me:

It appears from that, and many of the subsequent scrawls that this was not only my first attempt at journaling, but also my very first bird-book. Apparently, I was a bird-watcher before we moved to Louisiana and began attending birding club...

I kind of like this entry...it's clear I was somewhat agitated, for my lettering is a little big and bolder than most of the other entries:

I even spelled everything correctly!

Looking at this thing, I find that at age 7, I spelled "saw" correctly part of the time and the other part of the time I spelled it "saol". 

*Nods head wisely*
See, I spelled with a Southern accent!

How about the spelling and capitalization in these? See if you don't laugh. ;)

This next one I actually remember! It was really kinda cool...

I'll NEVER forget this day:

Take a minute and let that one sink in. A month shy of ten, I had an inarticulated fear--of the unknown--but more than that, that my Daddy would be going to War. I didn't write it down, but I remember.

Probably my first attempt at poetry here is next:

Right. I never could write poetry. That poor little thing doesn't even rhyme! (And 'never missed'? I must have had a successful day at the range. Other than that, it was just wishful thinking! :D)

By this point, I was writing some of my entries in cursive...but my spelling was still terrible:

Well, I guess I was on the right track there! I'm going to guess we probably had started catechising by this point...

Alright, I just about couldn't talk laughing over this one:

Too bad you can't see the decoration of the exclamation points...(we had a four foot deep above ground pool in Louisiana. I'll bet this is when we first got it. :D)

Look, more nature observations!

June/July 2002 we visited Grandma and Grandpa in Indiana, taking the Natchez trace up. I have several rather illegible entries from the trip...I'll spare you those. However, this one shows what even grown men will do when faced with a bunch of insects with stingers....

This is varied...

Missy, I feel for you. Your handwriting and spelling was always better than mine. I wonder that you could read those old letters!

Skipping along, this next one is from after we moved to Arizona...

Jimney! I always had a knack for spitting my beverages all over the place!

Anyway, back to birding--my grandparent's came out to see us in early 2004 and that's why Grandpa is mentioned.

I can't remember what the Mexican Jay looked like--but I do remember the Scrub Jays. Bigger, duller, and nosier than our eastern Blue Jay.

In between the previous entry and the following one, my grandmother passed away and we made one trip to Florida in April for her funeral--which we missed. This is several months later...

Looking back, I can see there was actually a LOT of damage in our little town, but our places were blessed to not have any serious structural damage--just a lot of trees down. In fact, you can still see Hurricane Charlie damage 12 years later.

​The next one cracked me up...

Oh really? Anyway...I think this was probably the day that Daddy fell and sprained his ankle really bad and Mom and Savannah hiked back up the trail at top speed to go get the truck--and Katherine and I wandered in the ruins by ourselves pretending and talking about the Apaches...(I don't know about you, but I kinda made my own hair stand on end a little bit).

There are only two more entries: One in 2007 and one in 2009. Neither are amusing, so I won't share them. 

I wonder, should I start carrying this little green book about again in one of the vehicles to scribble in, or should I just put it back?

Either way, I think I had better finish this job I started (cleaning my desk again)...

Or "Why I cannot engage in Civil War debates".

After a VERY long hiatus, in which I had completely forgotten the existence of the forums, I returned this week to CivilWarTalk.com. There is so much information for both historical research and reenactor improvement on there that it is well worth the time spent poking around. BUT. Enter my problem--I cannot engage in the secessionist/slavery debates. Thankfully, there are plenty of other topics I can join in on, but these two--very important issues, I cannot. Why, you ask?

Well, I made two separate comments on two separate threads--one concerning secession and the other concerning Northern slavery. (The secesh thread also had plenty of slavery discussion, too.) I knew better at the time. And I there after, essentially slunk coward-like out of the picture. Why? Because I'm not sure where I stand? No...but for the following reasons.

First, and probably the most glaringly obvious, is that I am #1 probably one of the youngest members of the forums and I hate to come across as an antagonist twit. Well, that actually wasn't what I was going to say, but it's applicable. #2 I am quite obviously not as well read...and therefore less prepared. In addition, when I DO have a "quote" I can never remember where I read it, or where to find it again, etc. In other words, I can't source myself (which I've seen multiple demands of in my short time back in the forums.) It really is a good idea, being able to source oneself. (I just so happen to have the same issue with recalling Bible texts. I can't chapter and verse it even if I can paraphrase accurately.)

To add to this obvious set of problems, I have this one--I have acres of trouble being articulate. Some days it's worse than others (and I'm actually managing okay with this post), but other days I simply cannot for the life of me say exactly what I mean in a way that makes sense. I have leaps and gaps in my logic, of which I am glaringly aware, but I cannot see how to bridge them or articulate the bridge. 

This in and of itself is enough motivation for me to keep my trap shut in conversations that have a tendency to turn ugly. (Besides which, they are just exercises in rhetoric unless you really do have uncertain persons engaged or reading them. But once you've reached your conclusions--it's a waste of time to ARGUE the point. Not that I think it's really a waste of time to read them and thereby understand the other opinions thinking.)

But, my second point is really the one that propels me to stay out--and really makes me wonder how much of a coward I am. I'm a fool for getting into something unprepared, but am I a coward because I stay out due to my second issue? Tell me honestly what you think.

My second issue is as follows: I come to history, as with any other area of life, with a self-consciously Christian perspective. I want to look at everything through the lens of Scripture...and this includes history and those "sticky" issues--like slavery. 

I understand that at least part of the cause behind the War Between the States was theological--but once again, I cannot speak of it because I lack the depth of understanding I hope to someday have. But because I come to it from a "what does the Bible have to say about this" point of view, it makes it awkward at the very least to address a bunch of probably non-Christian, or at least minimal Christians. I am fairly sure that I would be attacked by a particular member who shows all signs of being socialistic. 

So, am I a coward because I won't go into a discussion, on slavery for example, and say, "According to the Bible, slavery, in and off itself is not a moral wrong. There are specification for proper treatment of slaves and whenever those are broken then it becomes morally wrong, but the simple act of owning a slave does not make you a sinner." Like I said in a previous post, I have not yet determined how much of Southern slavery was down-right wrong. 

*EXPLOSIONS*

And what could I do? Sit there and take it and feel smug because I think I have the Bible on my side? (Not that I would feel smug; I'm not built that way.) Perhaps in a one-on-one conversation...but not in a group setting. I don't see HOW getting myself in on something like that would be a good witness--no matter if I'm right (which I could be wrong) for very, very, VERY few people would think that I was and would thereby think they had excuses to lambast Christians. Plain and simply, I think picking other hills to die on is a whole lot more, well, wise--and useful. So, I will read. I will watch. I will listen. I will learn.

And by the way, I've noticed that the seceshes, like me, drop out of the conversations sooner. Maybe it's because we know we can't force people into our way of thinking and that we are a minority (THANK-YOU Government Education!) and it's really not worth our time banging away at a wall of abolitionist thinking.

Anyway...there is my explanation of why I solemnly resolve to keep my nose clean. I won't promise, because I may slip up....but I resolve to stay out of these kinds of explosive conversations, from here on out. Well, at least until I'm a bit more learned.... ;)  

I was setting the table for lunch when I noticed a sheet of paper on my desk that hadn't been there earlier. You might ask me how I knew it wasn't there earlier when my desk is covered in a variety of papers...but that's doesn't really go with this story. Anyway, the headline caught my eye.

No arrests made in triple murder near Lakeport

Shamefully, I don't really know exactly where Lakeport is located, but I've done enough poking around in Florida history for the past five years that I immediately recognized the name. I picked up the paper and suddenly realized that it was a newspaper article from 1933.  I wondered why Daddy (for it was he) had put the article on my desk, so I sat down and read it. 

The first two paragraphs tell of three men, all between the ages of 27 and 28, one of whom was named Lincoln Widden (the Widden's were Confederate, so his  parent's obviously had a little Yankee brainwashing or it was a family name--'scuse the commentary), who were murdered...probably by more than one person since the weapons used in the murder were clearly identified as a shotgun, pistol, and high powered rifle. All things those Florida cattlemen would have been carrying for protection against wild animals--of all sorts. (Florida was still a rough place.)

So I kept reading...and the third paragraph suddenly blared my great-grandfather's name in my face. Oh. 

The elder brother of one of the murdered men had been similarly ambushed and wounded three years prior...and had accused my great-grandfather of the deed. Senior was arrested but later released after he put forth a perfect alibi and was not indicted.

I had heard of the murder accusation before, but I'd never seen it in print. Which brings up the following  thoughts.

My great-granddad died when Granddaddy was only three, so he never really knew him. It's kind of hard to access what kind of a man he really was, but there are two opinions on the man--two very stark contrasts. People either loved him--or hated his guts...decades after his death.

Daddy tells a story of when he was a teenager, a little old lady came across the street while he was mowing, and gave him a piece of her mind about his granddaddy.

Savannah met a man a couple years ago who told her a tale of how great-granddaddy saved his granddaddy's life during the depression. That family loves the memory of a man who remains a mystery to me.

Naturally, as he is my ancestor, I like to think the better of him. I know that the Methodist church down there has my granddad and his sister's names in the windows--paid for my their father. He is said to be one of the deputized men who took down the Ashley Gang (I forget what they were guilty of). 

On the one hand you hear stories of his compassion...on the other of his cattle baron orneriness of running his cattle through town purposefully after they told him to circuit them around to the rail-head.

Now, I know that the truth probably lays somewhere's down the middle. He was a man. Probably for the most part a good man--but likely with a streak of alligator. 

Was he an actual believer? I have no idea. I'd like to believe that I'll someday meet my great-granddad in heaven. But anyway, the rough, tumultuous history of my dad's side of the family just stands to prove that God can pull any kind of family out of the blackness and bring them into the light of the Gospel.

Uncle Hooker is said to have hung a man from a wagon tongue for killing a beef during the depression. The man was hungry. 

There is at least one woodscolt in the family tree and I suspect that the rumor that a certain member up the line died of an botched abortion is true. So, I guess the question remains--was my great-grandfather a murderer? Or at least, an attempted-murderer?

It's humbling, one's beginnings...for without the flawed people before us we would never exist. It's also very fascinating. Someday I may decide to write a semi-biographical tale concerning several generations of pioneers, soldiers, and cattlemen...I don't know if I'm big enough for the task, but it sure would be an intriguing research project if nothing else........

Because a man did not live I am writing this today. Because this man had a friend who told his granddaughter a story I am writing this today. Because this man's friend's granddaughter was raised to respect and honour those who went before her and had, over the years, developed a keen interest in the history of her grandfather's generation, I am writing this today.

My grandpa told me a story. A story about an old high school friend of his who did not live to see victory over the Axis during WWII. The story went something along these lines:

Shorty's real name was Walter M. Clevenger. Rank Technical Sergeant. But there is more.

Grandpa's story is not the real story. It isn't overly surprising really, because at the time Shorty died, Grandpa was quite likely in basic himself and as things get passed along a grapevine, the story often morphs. 

Last night, I found the truth. Accidentally. I cannot remember the course of events that led me to revisit Shorty, but in doing so, I stumbled upon the truth.

Shorty was in the 359th Bomb Squadron, 303rd Bomb Group, 8th Air Force, stationed in England. He was one of ten crewmen on a B-17F, the "Yahoodi"--AAF serial #41-24608. He wasn't the ball turret gunner--that was a fellow by the name of S/Sgt. Leif H. Hoklin who did survive. Rather, Shorty was the radio operator. 

Two days before, on January 1, 1943, Shorty had turned 21. On January 3rd, while on a bombing run (the target of which was St. Nazaire, France), whether to or from I do not know, the Yahoodi took enemy fire and was hit. Using the coordinates found in the records, I discovered that they went down in the sea south of Brittany. The records aren't overly profuse or informative, but enough to paint a picture of an ack-ack attack, engines knocked out, and a crew of ten headed straight into the ocean, the wind whistling through the fuselage. I wonder how many of them were already dead. Or how terrified they were. 

I know the picture isn't very big...or very clear, but thanks to someone else's research I know the identity of a couple of the men. Shorty I guessed correctly before I found proof. He's second from left in the front. The rest of the crew are as follows: 1st Lt. Frank A. Saunders (Pilot; POW), 2nd Lt. Leonard W. Kirk (Co-Pilot; KIA; second from left, back row); 2nd Lt. Oscar F. Forester (Navigator; POW); 2nd Lt. Norman Kossis (Bombardier; KIA; far right, back row); S/Sgt. Llyod E. Wagner (Engineer/Top Turret Gunner; KIA; third from right, front row); Sgt. Rufus C. Litton (Left Waist Gunner; KIA); S/Sgt. Russell O. Chitwood (Right Waist Gunner; KIA); S/Sgt. Leif H. Hoklin (Ball Turret Gunner; POW), and Sgt. Howard A. High (Tail Gunner; KIA).

Shorty, age 21, died during that bombing run on January 3rd, 1943. He wasn't married. I don't even know if he had a girlfriend. He died and I never knew him--but he is not forgotten. He may have never had any children...but I'll stand in for those unborn children and grandchildren and claim him as one of my own. This is for Shorty.

Because T/Sgt. Walter M. Clevenger did not live I write this. I will someday tell my own children about him so that he will not be forgotten.

In Memoriam, 

No, not this Icepick:

Mr. Icepick is an euphemism for the pain I get in my stomach when my Lyme flares up. 
I have been pretty useless the last two days. I spent yesterday afternoon with my headphones clamped on, writing...and writing...and writing. I made progress on one of my stories, so I guess I did not exactly waste the day. In the morning, I had worked on audio editing...but by lunch time I knew I couldn't take any more.

Today I spent largely in bed reading. In between I washed dishes. I folded a load of laundry. I put clean sheets on my bed. I fed chickens. Wonder of wonders, I got my bedroom floor vacuumed. Yes, I did!

Along with Mr. Icepick gleefully jabbing the lining of my stomach I have had Mr. Blah visiting. Also, an element of stiffness in my joints. I'm surprised I only dropped one egg today. Then of course, let's not neglect Mr. Odd-man Cramps (don't want to hurt his feelings, you know). He kept pinching me in various odd places. That left bicep though--that hurt. I had a sensation of being feverish at some point today, but I didn't take my temperature because I had just had something in my mouth--which throws the temperature read off either up or down, depending. 

So yes, sometimes one's visitors are not always of the pleasant sort--unlike the "real" Icepick who lived in the story realm of Magnum P.I. 

If my state of well-being today was to be compared to an egg, it would probably look something like this neat-looking speckled thing.

Instead of being a smooth, un-freckled surface, it was filled with moments (the spots) where a voice would pass heedlessly through my head (I heard the voice, but the words did not register at all)...when I would get up to do something and then turn around three times like a cat fixing to bed down--because I forgot what I was doing. 

Other spots over here would be the times when I simply could not stand up straight. 

Over here is an attempt to speak and my words came out a jumble of incoherent syllables. Or again, whatever I said, while coherent, was down-right stupid. 

Glance over at this patch of speckles...this would be when I stood with my hands in the dishwater, my chin quivering for no real logical reason other than I felt like crying. (I didn't actually break down and cry today...but I sure felt like it a few times.)

On another section of the egg, these dark spots just might represent the knees and ankle joints that ached. I did take pause to wonder if the wet weather was a factor...but it just as possibly was not. 

Over here is that strange itch on my back...naturally in that spot that I cannot reach. I am thankful for the back-scratching technique I learned from watching my departed grandfather arch his back along the corner of the kitchen. 

Glance again...this is a senseless giggle over who knows what. 

Or here. The mind is blank, the eyes glazed over staring into nothingness.

I joke, in this area, that my coffee will be cold by the time I finish it the rate I'm drinking it. My hands are stiff and my movements slow and ponderous. 

My eyelids droop and I feel fatigued and worn. 

This section over here might represent my wheezing inability to breath deeply (otherwise known as 'air hunger') and my TB-sounding cough that is almost always more pronounced in a chill wind.

So...if life were an egg, it would not be one of those pristine, perfectly shaped and colored ones with nary a flaw...but it would be like one that is more interesting to look at...speckled and spotted. 

I may not always be thankful as I ought to be, but in the long run, I do believe I shall be grateful for this experience...and already it helps me to understand particular aspects about particular persons that I would not have.

I cannot claim to have had an overly exciting-to-tell week this week...sure I've had enough excitement working on AfterEffect compositions, but that kind of work hardly makes for thrilling reading... ;D 

It took ALL DAY to render 33 compositions--which I did yesterday. In the meanwhile I ironed my stack of ironing and did sundry other piddly little jobs...none of which I seem to be capable of recalling at this moment. At any rate...I do remember thinking at some point yesterday that I was having a fairly productive day, so whatever it was that I did must have had some sort of significance. 

However, looking around, I can see the things that I did not get done this week...for instance, there is an unassembled skirt on the corner of the dining room table (yes, don't all sane persons keep sewing projects in their dining room!?). In the living room, there sit my bee hives--still unpainted. I was going to paint them this week, but the weather got too cold again...and quite honestly, I did have my nose glued to the computer screen for the majority of the week getting things done. There is always next week, right? ;) (I told my Mama I would seriously try to have the hives OUT of the living room before they get back...)

I received a book in the mail (don't worry, Daddy, I'm reimbursing you for my latest shopping spree... :D):

Handsome man, that...ahem....

Anyway, I haven't started reading it yet, but I have started reading Christ in the Camp while I wait for my coffee in the morning. You see, I really AM serious about reading more.

Speaking of WBtS's reading...I am quite aware that my day-by-day has fallen by the wayside again. I'll try to get it back up and running, but I'm not promising anything. Sometimes some stuff has to be let go of in order to get more important things done. And...if you haven't guess, I'm more or less CRAMMING to get The Cow Cavalry done. Me and it are ready to breath a sigh of relief... ;)

Don't worry, I have plans for the next thing I am going to tackle!! However, I'm keeping that mainly under my hat for now. I have definitely learned A LOT from The Cow Cavalry and one of the main things is "be more organized" and SET YOURSELF DEADLINES. (Literally, I see that in all caps in my head.) Also, I think that next time, I will be ready to start the editing before I start to cast voice overs and the like. (By the by, I'm sticking to documentaries for the present...) 

However, I think when The Cow Cav gets done, I will mainly focus on really nailing my impersonation for the upcoming conference. I confess myself slightly nervous (though giddily excited about it as well). I have moments where I give myself a mental shaking and demand, "Racheal, what have you gotten yourself into??" Then I shrug it off and grin like a goof-ball and murmur to myself, "It'll be okay...I just hope I don't come off like an idiot." Well...anyway. You get the idea. This is going to be fun!!

Ah...well. Now that I have relieved my 'writing itch', I'll go figure something else out to do. I really want a snack, but I can't eat anything yet since I just took my Bart killer... :P

This morning as I sat in bed, I was looking at my hands. Why, I don't remember. But as I was sitting there, looking at my hands, I had a few thoughts cross them. 

I have been playing the guitar for roughly eleven years, but I doubt that anyone listening to me play would be able to tell that. 

It made me blue for a few minutes...that I'm not as "good" as some other folks are--some of whom have not played nearly as long as I have. But, I have never had any aspirations to really be a professional. Oh sure, I've had those far out dreams of 'someday' having a family band, but I never really expected it.

I have a difficult time with music memorization. It is something I work on--sometimes.

But then, I got to thinking. 

I love music. I love the guitar. These are the reasons I play. Not to awe people with my talent (do I have any?) and my skill. There have been times when I felt like crawling into a corner and bawling and I have gone and picked up my guitar and started playing--and in a relatively short amount of time, have been restored to a more joyful outlook.

So yes; I have been playing 11 years and no, I don't sound as awe-inspiring as I could...but in the long run, so long as I continue to learn (which I do) and enjoy the music I make, it really doesn't matter that I cannot match up to other people. And you know what? Those other musicians don't sneer at me for my lack of gorgeous tone. :) 

I also took the following into consideration: I have had stretches of time were I did not play regularly (summertimes, frequently; or when I was in Florida--for various reasons) and then, with my Lyme, my hands got stiff. I did not realize it at first, but once I did, it helped me see why my playing had seemed to reverse instead of improve. I lost agility and therefore speed, accuracy, and clarity. Thankfully, I have had some improvement on that front. 

I printed off a whole new stack of music last night and I look forward to easing into it. But for now, I have stuff to do that does not have to do with sitting down to essay that.