I was downtown, so I stopped by one of my favorite cemeteries.



 
( Many more under the cut. . . )

I just went to the neighborhood dumpster with my trash.

There's a sign up next to the dumpster that informs folks, Dumpster for residents' use only - violators will be prosecuted.

Every time I see the sign I wonder, "Prosecuted for what?"

I mean, if someone who doesn't live in our little hamlet throws their bag of trash in the dumpster, they can't be guilty of littering.

And they aren't taking anything out of there, they are putting it in.

So what crime have they committed?

I posted the other day about getting a package in the mail from the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) with the Civil War pension application records for the other Orange Martin. I'm not going to say he was the wrong Orange Martin - a person's existence isn't right or wrong. . . it just is.

But he's not the one I was seeking. Still, I am now intrigued. Since he is the elder of the two men, I'm going to refer to them as Orange #1 and Orange #2, chronologically.

I've searched the net far and wide for someone who is looking for Orange #1. Some descendant, somewhere, seeking their roots.

I've found no one.

And I am so, so tempted to find what factual historic information I can find on Orange #1, and do at least a two generation tree on Rootsweb for him. The records I've got on him are full of very good information.

Because the wild wisdom inside tells me that at some point, someone will be looking for him.

And everyone has a story.

---

It seems I have a SNAFU, courtesy of NARA. I thought they, too, had figured out there were two Orange Martins, three to five years apart in age, who served during the Civil War in the United States Colored Troops, fighting on the Union side.

They charged my card twice. I thought that meant another envelope was on the way.

What the hell am I saying?

This is the government.

And typically, when I called to talk to a real live person about where was my other envelope (since they'd had my money for two weeks already), I had to go through mega-layers of automated options to get to that real live person.

You know, they make the fucking options menu so deep so that whatever percent* of people will get frustrated and hang up, and they don't have to deal with John Q Public.

Yes, they do. It's intentional.

And then, when you get to the point that you are only one step away from talking to a real live person, the mechnical voice announces your approximate wait-on-hold time.

In the number of minutes. And seconds, thank you.

S'ok, guys. I have a couple of thousand or so roll-over minutes and a speakerphone.

And other stuff to do while I am waiting. My daddy didn't raise no fool - or a quitter.

There are two Orange Martins? No ma'am, we didn't know that and if your card was charged twice, please send me the documentation and I'll get you a refund.

He gave me his e-mail address, so I could scan the information he needed.

And how long will it take to get my money back?

I don't know ma'am, I don't work in that department, but I will make sure they get the information if you send it to me. They are right across the hall.

**headdesk****headdesk****headdesk**

---

So, I am sending them some more money. We might as well make this as complicated as possible. Hey, if you are going to fuck up, let's just go for the gold here.

Besides, I get excellent on-the-job training in that kind of shit every day. Might as well put my skill set to work.

Because I still want the Civil War pension file on Orange Martin #2. So I just ordered his stuff online. Before I submitted the request, I did a little more research on him to make sure I was ordering stuff for the right guy. What I found is wonderful fodder for the storyteller.

Orange and Lizzie Martin were in Desha County, Arkansas prior to their appearance on the 1870 census. Two of their children were born in Desha County in the 1860s. On the 1870 census, and in every census after that, Orange consistently said he was born in Alabama. And that was all I had for his birthplace - the state.

Until about an hour ago.

From his service record summary I found online, I knew that he served in the 17th US Colored Infantry, Company I. He went in as a private - he was a company musician - and later, through Order of the Secretary of Defense, he served in the 42nd US Colored Infantry. He mustered out on 31 Jan 1866, and his rank then was corporal.

But I thought he joined up at Little Rock or Memphis, both of which were fairly accessible in terms of travel from Desha County. He didn't.

His enlistment form says he enlisted on 21 Nov 1863 at Stevenson, Alabama. It also says he was born in Johnson County, Alabama. His occupation is listed as "farmer."

Now I have to wonder. . .did he go home to see his folks before he signed up? Just in case. . .

And if he did, how did he do that? In 1863, unless the US Army provided the transportation (which is something I'll start researching), for Orange Martin to just walk off the planation in Desha County and head out for Alabama would likely have made him a runaway slave.

Enslaved black men who agreed to serve with the Union Troops were guaranteed their freedom. From what I've heard, that might have been their pay. Lincoln was not keen on the idea. From the time his generals started discussing it, he refused to grant permission to encourage enslaved men to subject themselves to possibility of death. But in the end, the Union needed the manpower. So Lincoln reluctantly agreed.

A lot of the black troops were kept behind the line of fire (apparently there were more than enough non-combat jobs to go around), but certainly not all of them. Some were wounded, and some paid the ultimate price.

They were all literally fighting for their freedom.

Think of it. . . not some vague, amorphous ideal here. It was the real thing.

The waiting for the next month is going to be excruciating.

I want to tell his story.

---

I think of it frequently now. . . how I hated history in school. So dry, and so boring. Oh, I aced it. Memorizing dates, times and names was always easy for me. But I never got enthralled with it, as I did other subjects.

Especially American History. At least the ancient Greeks, Romans and Egyptians had interesting mythology. (I believe I was a closet pagan then. Or at least, very un-self actualized.)

Ironically, I find myself routinely immersed - for hours at a stretch - in American history now. To tell the story accurately, you have know the context of the time.

So, I've come full circle.

You can't stop the cycles.

---

*Data obtained via statistical analysis that I am quite sure we could get a copy of if we had the patience to wade through the red tape of a federal freedom of information act request.

I was talking with a client today. During the course of the conversation, he asked me if I liked fish. I said sure, and he said he figured I liked my fish baked.

I told him that was okay for some fish, but if it's catfish, it's got to be fried.

Afterward, I got to remembering another conversation about catfish. The one I had when I first moved to southeast Louisiana in 1978. Cajun country. . .

Several of us had gone to a restaurant, and I was incredulous that catfish was not on the menu.

The others in my party, all natives of the area, were equally incredulous that I would eat catfish. They considered them bottom feeders, "trash" fish.

And yet, they would willingly eat pound after pound of crawfish - what we in Arkansas during my childhood called "crawdads." We used to play with them with a stick in the mudholes close to the swampy areas, giggling uproariously when they opened their claws to grab the stick.

But we never ate them.

It took me a couple of years in Cajun country to start eating crawfish - and even then, I only ate the tails.

They don't taste a bit like chicken either.

Three little baby cardinals. . .

They've been talking about it for two months around here.

VERY important. Critical even.

An all day long meeting on Friday. Out of state trainer, flying in just for us. Attendance mandatory.

So two weeks ago, in another meeting of managers, I asked what time it started.

Not sure.

What would the topic of the training be?

Don't know, but it will be very important to us.

How long will it last?

Not sure.

Is there an agenda?

Don't know. Probably so.

Ok, so let me see if I have this straight. My team and I should be somewhere on Friday, at some time until some other time, being trained on something VERY IMPORTANT.

And this isn't even government work.

My neighbor just came over so I could help her with a highly technological venture. Her cell phone inbox was full of text messages. She needed to delete them and didn't know how. She didn't even know how to get to her inbox.

I shit you not.

---

I went to Starbucks this afternoon and went inside to see about getting one of those strawberry banana vivianno smoothies they are always trying to sell me in the morning drive-thru when what I need is caffeine, thankyewverymuch. I thought maybe the afternoon might warrant something without caffeine.

They told me what was in it, and it sounded healthier than my customary fare. I asked what sizes were available.

One. That little one.

I said, well, I'm looking for a bigger drink than that.

The barista and her manager looked ruefully at me, and said, Sorry.

Now, I know Starbucks is this big, honking corporate entity with rules, but I think if I had been in charge of that store in this economy, I'd have looked my customer square in the eye, and said, "Ok, we'll make it a double, put it in a venti cup and you can pay for a double."

And I'd have done that.

Just sayin. . .

---

Several weeks ago, I found the USCT service record for Orange Martin, whose roots I have been seeking for a few months now. I got online at NARA's website and gave them the information I had about his two tours of service in the Civil War, with the service record file numbers. I asked for copies of his pension applications, one for each service record.

Last week, I saw that NARA had debited my checking account for the records, which meant they were on their way. I started a little impatient dance at the mailbox.

Today, an envelope was in the mailbox when I got home from work. I brought it in, and put it on the counter. I looked at it. I called C to see if he wanted to come over after work and open it with me. . .this is his great-grandfather we're talking about here.

He wasn't sure how late he'd be working and if he'd be able to get by. So I told him I wouldn't be able to wait beyond this evening. He laughed.

I got a few chores out of the way, saving the envelope as my reward. That way, I could sit down with the letter opener and make a little ceremony out of the whole thing.

There were more pages than I thought there would be. And lots of excellent information, including the maiden names of both of his wives, as well as his street address in 1899 and 1905. There was even death information, including an exact date and place.

In Oklahoma.

There were two Orange Martins - C's, and one who was born three years earlier than C's in Van Buren, AR. They both served in the US Colored Troops during the Civil War.

Who knew?

So, the dance continues. . .

It's rained off and on all day long today. Just like they said it would. Turns out they are right sometimes.

So I made a pot of coffee, cleared off my grandma's kitchen table, and decided to close some of the gaps on my family tree. Extended family. . . into the however-many-times-removed you get with far-flung cousins.

So why is it that when I go in to the tree to clean up some details, I always discover random, extraneous bits of information that make me sit here and mutter wtf?

(You know, you can't stop the cycles. They are going to happen whether you have an accepting spirit or not.)

What impressed me about the research I did today was the number of people listed in household censuses whose relationship to the head of the household is described as something other than a direct relationship.

When you look at the actual form, you see all sorts of occupations for these people, for they almost always were employed. Except for their minor children - and I am talking about seeing 13 and 14 year old boys working as "farm laborers" and kids go to school four months a year.

Boarder, hired hand, hired man, servant, schoolteacher, physician, merchant, miliner, clerk in store. . . Those are just some of the occupations I've seen.

Grandchildren are usually listed that way. Step children also show up, although sometimes you can tell that when Joe Smith married Susan Jones and each had kids from a previous marriage (totaling oh I don't know. . .eight?), they looked at each other and said, Oh hell no. . .everyone is Smith, got it?

Some families were very careful to make sure (or the census taker took the time to ask) that stepchildren carried their surnames forward. People were sometimes specific about whether a child was a niece or nephew. Overall though, I'd have to say that degree of detail is the exception rather than the rule in documents I've reviewed.

But, I digress. . .

Anyhow, those other people had families at one time, too. Even if they were kicked out or left under other crappy circumstances, there may be descendants wondering, "Now what the hell happened to Joseph? He's the only one of eleven kids I can't account for. . ."

So, that's gonna be another page on my website. (Eventually, I will get to the point where I'll put a Google search field on the page. Slow and steady here.)

Because they have stories, too.

A storm rolled through late last night. No hail this time, but there were clouds around the moon about 11 p.m.




They say we have a good chance of more storms today.

Makes me wonder if Todd S Purdom, writing for Vanity Fair, guessed correctly?

But all in all, probably a good thing for Alaskans on this Independence Day.

For all the Americans on my f-list, happy Independence Day tomorrow. I know some of us are able to have an extended weekend to prepare for our observances of the holiday.

For any Brits on the f-list, I'll just have to say that I really do believe that it works out best when people govern themselves on their own landmass. And I am real glad we're still friends.

---

Thanks to the_wildhunt and dandelion_diva for some interesting reading via links in their entries. Since it is a holiday for me, I got to read at leisure about the discovery of a 6,000 year old ceremonial complex under what were previously thought to be crop circles in the British countryside. Turns out that according to English Heritage, the U.K. government's historic-preservation agency, "the 'crop circles' are the results of buried archaeological structures interfering with plant growth. True crop circles are vast designs created by flattening crops."

It seems that the proposed carving of a 400 yard Green Goddess is a bit controversial. Some folks, like a member of the Northumberland County Council, can't get real enthused about it. "If we wanted something like this why didn't we just ask Jordan to open a theme park. . .It really is ridiculous to think that something like a naked woman, who is only there as a result of all of the slag and the coal from the mine, is a good way of attracting people to Cramlington."

Over at the_wildhunt, an interesting question is raised about the idea of carving new idols and how they would interface with the old ones. Would the neo-pagan movement adopt a new image as sacred?

---

It's kind of overcast right now, which is okay. I have several little "getting ready" chores to do for the July 4 celebration at my son's house. Right now, I am sitting on the front porch of the cottage, grinning because today can be a laid back day if that's what I want.

Our temperatures moderated over the past week and my garden is delightful. Being in the midst of nature always grounds and centers me, and refreshes my soul. It's a constant reminder of our interconnectedness with the never ending cycles, and we should take time to be fully present in each moment.

The journey is good.

Some days, it's easier to piss me off than others. Although I hadn't really realized it myself, this must be one of those days.

After I got off work, I stopped at the grocery store to do my regular shopping, in addition to getting the stuff we'll cook at my son's house on Saturday.

I always save the frozen food and produce aisles for last, and they are handy to the checkout. As I sniffed peaches for ripeness, I heard him.

Fuck.
Fuck this.
Just. Fuck. This.

I looked around the peach display. There stood Porter. He was cussin' the sweet potatoes.

Porter looks much older than his years. I understand Nam could do that to you, especially if you re-upped for a second tour, like Porter did.

I see him in the grocery most times I am there, and always when I am there in the summertime. The grocery store is air conditioned, and the produce guys just ask him to pipe down when he gets loud.

Porter is one of some 300,000 American veterans who is homeless and/or spending one or more nights of any given week in a homeless shelter.

I suspect Porter may have sustained a traumatic brain injury in Nam - when you combine his alternating personalities with his gait problem, it kind of tips the scales in that direction. I've talked with Porter from time to time when I've been in the store and had the time to do it. I've asked him if he wants me to get him a ride to the VA. Most times, he turns me down. Sometimes, they won't go look under the right bridge for him when I've called.

So when I saw him cussin' the yams, I asked, "Yams no good today?" as I wheeled my buggy toward the onions. (I don't eat yams myself, and wouldn't know whether those were good or not.)

"Fuck no. These fuckers wouldn't know a good yam if it up and kicked them in the ass."

"Well, the peaches are fine. And they are Arkansas peaches. If you want some, I'll get you some."

He looked at me, tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders. "No thanks. I wanted fucking yams."

I went and finished my shopping. Porter was still staring accusingly at the yams when I left the produce section and went to check out.

A young woman got in line behind me. People got in line behind her. The lines were incredibly long. I had visions of my ice cream melting. Even the newest issue of People seemed irritating.

The young woman behind me decided to while away the time by calling three different people on her cell phone to tell them all about what a wonderful social worker she was because she had called security on an old African American man in the produce section who obviously was seriously mentally ill, and off his meds. Since she is a social worker, she knew he was dangerous and had told the store security people about what a liability he was to their store, since he obviously was poised to attack someone at any given moment.

The entire time she kept up her stream of chatter, she continued to edge her buggy into the back of my legs. I turned and glared at her. She did it again. I pushed back slightly. I was waiting for her to get off the phone to give her a piece of my mind. She chattered on, obviously impressed with her act of professional heroism.

She shoved her way in front of the debit machine when my order was totalled. (I had been putting my groceries back in my cart as they were bagged.) The cashier, who had been watching her out of the corner of her eye, looked at me questioningly, as she read my total. The young social worker was still on the phone, accepting congratulations on the "save" she had pulled off.

I stood at the end of the checkout, looked her directly in the face, and said loud enough for her to hear, Oh, I'm going to let my new social worker friend pay for my order.

Faster than she could say, "I gotta go," she snapped that phone shut, looked at me and said, "Were you talking about me?"

In as saccharine a tone as I could muster, I said, "Why yes. You spent the entire time you were bragging about getting Porter kicked out of the store ramming your shopping cart into the back of my legs. And now, I cannot get through you to pay, so naturally, I figured since today is your day for 'saves,' I'd just let you pay for my groceries."

She was all slack-jawed, so I forged ahead. I told her about Porter, melting ice cream be damned. I also told her that I figured she must not be long out of social work school, because she has lousy personal space boundaries.

She started stammering. I-I- didn't know.

Exactly my point, dear. You didn't know. You didn't bother to know. And that makes you a helluva lot more dangerous than Porter will ever be.

That 20 second newbie social worker grocery store assessment is worth exactly what Porter paid for it.

Robert Seldon Lady says he was just following orders, but Italy is prosecuting him and 25 others for kidnapping Egyptian cleric Osama Moustafa Hassan Nasr under the United States' policy of "extraordinary rendition."

Nasr was released from the place he was held in Egypt without charge. As have other individuals swept up in the rendition dragnet of the United States, he alleges he was tortured with full and complete knowledge of the United States of America.

This is the first trial in any country involving the CIA program.

Until the marble-sized hail.



After the storm is over, I'll go survey the damage.

I was not surprised at the number one dog for 2009, according to the American Kennel Club.

But you might be.

I've felt a little under the weather for nearly a week - the result, I'm sure, of allergies that seem to be morphing into more than the customary seasonal stuff I've always had.

So I let papers stack up throughout the week - bills and other legal stuff that needs to be filed, coupons that should be cut from the paper, photographs to scan and file, even the junk mail that is scattered among all that stuff. There were several other very small chores I have on a list. . . things that would not take more than 20 or 30 minutes to do individually, but that I keep back-burnering because they won't make or break anything. Kind of a Category C sort of thing.

To make weekend chores more palatable, I decided yesterday would be the heavy lifting day, and today I would tackle the little shit.

I made good progress yesterday. I was kicked back, surfing the net, when my landlord called.*

He wanted to know if the cops were across the street at my elderly neighbor's house (I'll call her "P"). I had no idea.

I looked out the window and dutifully reported that if they had been, they were gone now. I had not heard sirens or anything loud and rowdy.

He sighed. He hadn't expected that I would, because it sounded as if P was on one of her rants.

P and I share the same birthday. My year is 1958, and hers is 1936. Three years ago, P's husband had to go into a nursing facility not far from here, because his medical needs and physical dependence on her had become much too complex and physically demanding.

P and her husband are devout members of a fundamentalist Christian denomination. P's husband frankly considers me a Jezebel and makes no bones about it. It also really hacks him that I continue to do things for P and other neighbors that anyone would do for any other human being. That conflicts sharply with the image of me that he would like to project to others.

He learned in the 10 years he lived across the street from me to hold his tongue around me with his judmental opinions of me and others, couched in the hell-fire and damnation semantics of a fundie of any stripe. One of my most Jezebel-ish behaviors is to rise to meet any bigoted challenge.

P had always watched our intereactions curiously. She was the devoted and submissive wife required of a woman of her faith and generation, and demanded by her husband. She also tolerated a lot of verbally and psychologically abusive behavior from him - some of it dished out publicly - in the spirit of being a good wife.

Apparently, in the eyes of this god fearing couple, dissection and discussion of the character and activities of one's neighbors is a fine way to start the day. Conclusions can be reached by the second cup of coffee, and offenders reproached before it's even time for Dialing for Dollars at noon.

After her husband entered the nursing home, P continued the ritual, alienating damned near everyone in the neighborhood. She was more shy about approaching offenders directly, preferring instead to simply pass on her truths, divined from sincere prayer, to other neighbors.

After some initial titillation, most folks recovered their senses, and said, Now wait, I've known him/her for years, and I've never seen/heard. . .

The drama carried on into this morning. More calls from the landlord, and calls and visits from two neighbors. The feud was with P's daughter and son-in-law who had moved in with her months ago, after she tearfully pleaded for their help, per her doctor's order. At least, that's how it was told at the time.

They are ousted. P "prayed about it" last night, and is trying desperately to crank up the rumor mill. No one is having any of it. I referred her back to that book she says is the guidepost for life. I told her I've got several copies of it, all very well read and highlighted, and none of mine say anything about divine counsel to lie about people.

And I went back to my mundane little chores. I am pleased to report that they are complete. I'm sure the venti Mocha Frappucino I got from Starbucks helped.

Célébrer la caféine!





* For the two of you who know me IRL and are possibly reading this, we have already cussed and discussed why I am renting, rather than buying, the lot upon which the cottage rests, albeit counter to your better judgment. And it is still my money, as well as my - thoughtful and considered - decision. So, you will not find me sitting on three quarters of an acre somewhere in this heat, cussing when my Lawn Boy breaks down, or the septic tank backs up. I already did that 30 years ago, and it was enough. We ain't going there in this entry. Got it?)

It's all around me.



This little guy (or girl) finally posed for a shot.

I'm sitting in the garden early this morning and then will take my little show indoors. This is supposed to be the hottest day so far this month - air temperature of 101, and heat index between 110-115 (F). It's 87 right now.

---

Hummingbirds are either here in record numbers, or they are feeling the heat, too. For most of this month, I've been putting out between two and a half and three quarts of nectar per week.

---

I sat out last night for a short time after sundown with a glass of wine, contemplating my new garden room. As I was musing about the simplicity of it - and that I probably will leave it largely "undecorated" - three masked faces appeared at the top of the privacy fence.

Raccoon siblings (?) - juveniles at any rate - had come to visit. They didn't seem to notice me as they perched atop the fence. All three looked down into the garden, which is much changed from what they must have been used to seeing. They looked at each other, as if to say, WTF? and simultaneously turned around on top of the fence, displaying little raccoon behinds and tails. Then they left.

I had always figured they entered the garden from the east. I guess they are not into a Zen sort of feeling. . .

---

Another genealogy cousin e-mailed me last week. She is related to me through the Parrishes in my tree, and lives in Mesa, AZ. She gave me some information about a child who died young - one I had not even known about. I gave her links to the graves of several of our Parrish ancestors on Find a Grave. She had not known about that website, and was quite excited to be able to search for others in her tree there.

I e-mailed her some old family photos, and she sent some to me by surface mail. I now have a photo of my maternal great grandmother when she was in her teens, as well as a photo of her mother. My new found cousin is older than I am, and explained she would have to print the photos from her computer and send them to me by surface mail, because she hasn't mastered the knack of attaching them to e-mails yet. Her daughter does that for her when she visits, and she wasn't due to visit for a while. I assured her I could wait for her daughter to help her, and there was no need to go to the expense of printing and using postage.

She wanted me to have them now, and they arrived in yesterday's mail. As I opened the envelope and looked through them, I thought about the contacts I've made through the years of researching my family history. I've met a lot of people who, like I, are willing to share freely of time and information with others to whom they feel a kinship, even those kinships that are quite distant.

We are celebrating our interconnectedness, these cousins and I. It serves as a reminder that despite the daily headlines of gloom, doom, despair and atrocities played out by human beings against others, there is still so much more good than bad, if we are just willing to see it.

The spirit is strong, and the journey is good.

Namaste.